She cam' wi' the spring, just like ane o' its flowers, And the blue-bell and Mary baith blossom'd thegither; The bloom o' the mountain again will be ours, But the rose o' the valley nae mair will come hither. Their sweet breath is fled— Her kind looks still endear her; For the heart maun be dead That forgets Mary Shearer!

Than her brow ne'er a fairer wi' jewels was hung; An e'e that was brighter ne'er glanced on a lover; Sounds safter ne'er dropt frae an aye-saying tongue, Nor mair pure is the white o' her bridal-bed cover. Oh! he maun be bless'd Wha's allow'd to be near her; For the fairest and best O' her kind 's Mary Shearer!

But farewell Glenlin, and Dunoon, and Loch Striven, My country and kin,—since I 've sae lov'd the stranger; Whare she 's been maun be either a pine or a heaven— Sae across the braid warld for a while I'm a ranger. Though I try to forget, In my heart still I 'll wear her, For mine may be yet— Name and a'—Mary Shearer!



WILLIAM GARDINER.

William Gardiner, the author of "Scotland's Hills," was born at Perth about the year 1800. He established himself as a bookseller in Cupar-Fife. During a period of residence in Dundee, in acquiring a knowledge of his trade, he formed the acquaintance of the poet Vedder. With the assistance of this gifted individual, he composed his popular song of "Scotland's Hills." Introduced at a theatre in Dundee, it was received with marked approbation. It was first printed, in January 1829, in the Fife Herald newspaper, with a humorous preface by Vedder, and was afterwards copied into the Edinburgh Literary Gazette. It has since found a place in many of the collections of Scottish song, and has three different times been set to music.

Gardiner was unfortunate as a bookseller, and ultimately obtained employment in the publishing office of the Fife Herald. He died at Perth on the 4th July 1845. Some years before his death, he published a volume of original and selected compositions, under the title of "Gardiner's Miscellany." He was a person of amiable dispositions; and to other good qualities of a personal character, added considerable skill in music.



O SCOTLAND'S HILLS FOR ME![15]

O these are not my country's hills, Though they seem bright and fair; Though flow'rets deck their verdant sides, The heather blooms not there. Let me behold the mountain steep, And wild deer roaming free— The heathy glen, the ravine deep— O Scotland's hills for me!

The rose, through all this garden-land, May shed its rich perfume, But I would rather wander 'mong My country's bonnie broom. There sings the shepherd on the hill, The ploughman on the lea; There lives my blithesome mountain maid, O Scotland's hills for me!

The throstle and the nightingale May warble sweeter strains Than thrills at lovely gloaming hour O'er Scotland's daisied plains; Give me the merle's mellow note, The linnet's liquid lay; The laverocks on the roseate cloud— O Scotland's hills for me!

And I would rather roam beneath Thy scowling winter skies, Than listlessly attune my lyre Where sun-bright flowers arise. The baron's hall, the peasant's cot Protect alike the free; The tyrant dies who breathes thine air; O Scotland's hills for me!

FOOTNOTES:

[15] At the request of one Roger, a music-master in Edinburgh, who had obtained a copy of the first two stanzas, a third was added by Mr Robert Chambers, and in this form the song appears in some of the collections. Mr Chambers's stanza proceeds thus:—

In southern climes the radiant sun A brighter light displays; But I love best his milder beams That shine on Scotland's braes. Then dear, romantic native land If e'er I roam from thee, I'll ne'er forget the cheering lay; O Scotland's hills for me!



ROBERT HOGG.

Robert Hogg was born in the parish of Stobo, about the close of the century. His father was William Hogg, eldest brother of the Ettrick Shepherd. William Hogg was also a shepherd, a sensible, well-conducted man, and possessed of considerable literary talent. Receiving a classical education at the grammar-school of Peebles, Robert proceeded to the University of Edinburgh, with the intention of studying for the Church. Abandoning his original views, he became corrector of the press, or reader in the printing-office of Messrs Ballantyne. John Wilson, the future vocalist, was his yoke-fellow in office. His official duties were arduous, but he contrived to find leisure for contributing, both in prose and verse, to the periodicals. His literary talents attracted the favourable notice of Mr J. G. Lockhart, who, on being appointed, in 1825, to conduct the Quarterly Review, secured his services as secretary or literary assistant. He therefore proceeded to London, but as it was found there was not sufficient occasion for his services in his new appointment, he returned in a few months to the duties of his former situation. For a short period he acted as amanuensis to Sir Walter Scott, while the "Life of Napoleon" was in progress. According to his own account,[16] this must have been no relief from his ordinary toils, for Sir Walter was at his task from early morning till almost evening, excepting only two short spaces for meals. When Chambers's Edinburgh Journal was commenced, Hogg was asked by his former schoolfellow, Mr Robert Chambers, to undertake the duties of assistant editor, on a salary superior to that which he then received; but this office, from a conscientious scruple about his ability to give satisfaction, he was led to decline. He was an extensive contributor, both in prose and verse, to the two first volumes of this popular periodical; but before the work had gone further, his health began to give way, and he retired to his father's house in Peeblesshire, where he died in 1834. He left a young wife and one child.

Robert Hogg was of low stature and of retiring manners. He was fond of humour, but was possessed of the strictest integrity and purity of heart. His compositions are chiefly scattered among the contemporary periodical literature. He contributed songs to the "Scottish and Irish Minstrels" and "Select Melodies" of R. A. Smith; and a ballad, entitled "The Tweeddale Raide," composed in his youth, was inserted by his uncle in the "Mountain Bard." Those which appear in the present work are transcribed from a small periodical, entitled "The Rainbow," published at Edinburgh, in 1821, by R. Ireland; and from the Author's Album, in the possession of Mr Henry Scott Riddell, to whom it was presented by his parents after his decease. In the "Rainbow," several of Hogg's poetical pieces are translations from the German, and from the Latin of Buchanan. All his compositions evince taste and felicity of expression, but they are defective in startling originality and power.[17]

FOOTNOTES:

[16] See Lockhart's "Life of Sir Walter Scott."

[17] We have to acknowledge our obligations to Mr Robert Chambers for many of the particulars contained in this memoir.



QUEEN OF FAIRIE'S SONG.

Haste, all ye fairy elves, hither to me, Over the holme so green, over the lea, Over the corrie, and down by the lake, Cross ye the mountain-burn, thread ye the brake, Stop not at muirland, wide river, nor sea: Hasten, ye fairy elves, hither to me!

Come when the moonbeam bright sleeps on the hill; Come at the dead of night when all is still; Come over mountain steep, come over brae, Through holt and valley deep, through glen-head gray; Come from the forest glade and greenwood tree; Hasten, ye fairy elves, hither to me!

Were ye by woodland or cleugh of the brae, Were ye by ocean rock dash'd by the spray, Were ye by sunny dell up in the ben, Or by the braken howe far down the glen, Or by the river side; where'er ye be, Hasten, ye fairy elves, hither to me!

Hasten, ye fairy elves, hither to-night, Haste to your revel sports gleesome and light, To bathe in the dew-drops, and bask in the Leven, And dance on the moonbeams far up the heaven, Then sleep on the rosebuds that bloom on the lea; Hasten, ye fairy elves, hither to me!



WHEN AUTUMN COMES.

When autumn comes an' heather bells Bloom bonnie owre yon moorland fells, An' corn that waves on lowland dales Is yellow ripe appearing;

Bonnie lassie will ye gang Shear wi' me the hale day lang; An' love will mak' us eithly bang The weary toil o' shearing?

An' if the lasses should envy, Or say we love, then you an' I Will pass ilk ither slyly by, As if we werena caring.

But aye I wi' my heuk will whang The thistles, if in prickles strang Your bonnie milk-white hands they wrang, When we gang to the shearing.

An' aye we'll haud our rig afore, An' ply to hae the shearing o'er, Syne you will soon forget you bore Your neighbours' jibes and jeering.

For then, my lassie, we'll be wed, When we hae proof o' ither had, An' nae mair need to mind what's said When we're thegither shearing.



BONNIE PEGGIE, O!

Gang wi' me to yonder howe, bonnie Peggie, O! Down ayont the gowan knowe, bonnie Peggie, O! When the siller burn rins clear, When the rose blooms on the brier, An' where there is none to hear, bonnie Peggie, O!

I hae lo'ed you e'en an' morn, bonnie Peggie, O! You hae laugh'd my love to scorn, bonnie Peggie, O! My heart's been sick and sair, But it shall be sae nae mair, I've now gotten a' my care, bonnie Peggie, O!

You hae said you love me too, bonnie Peggie, O! An' you've sworn you will be true, bonnie Peggie, O! Let the world gae as it will, Be it weel or be it ill, Nae hap our joy shall spill, bonnie Peggie, O!

Gang wi' me to yonder howe, bonnie Peggie, O! Where the flowers o' simmer grow, bonnie Peggie, O! Nae mair my love is cross'd, Sorrow's sairest pang is past, I am happy at the last, bonnie Peggie, O!



A WISH BURST.

Oh, to bound o'er the bonnie blue sea, With the winds and waves for guides, From all the wants of Nature free And all her ties besides. Beyond where footstep ever trode Would I hold my onward way, As wild as the waves on which I rode, And fearless too as they.

The angry winds with lengthen'd sweep Were music to mine ear; I'd mark the gulfs of the yawning deep Close round me without fear. When winter storms burst from the cloud And trouble the ocean's breast, I'd joy me in their roaring loud, And mid their war find rest.

By islands fair in the ocean placed, With waves all murmuring round, My wayward course should still be traced, And still no home be found. When calm and peaceful sleeps the tide, And men look out to sea, My bark in silence by should glide, Their wonder and awe to be.

When sultry summer suns prevail, And rest on the parching land, The cool sea breeze would I inhale, O'er the ocean breathing bland. A restless sprite, that likes delight, In calm and tempest found, 'Twere joy to me o'er the bonnie blue sea For ever and aye to bound.



I LOVE THE MERRY MOONLIGHT.[18]

I love the merry moonlight, So wooingly it dances, At midnight hours, round leaves and flowers, On which the fresh dew glances.

I love the merry moonlight, On lake and pool so brightly It pours its beams, and in the stream's Rough current leaps so lightly.

I love the merry moonlight, It ever shines so cheerily When night clouds flit, that, but for it, Would cast a shade so drearily.

I love the merry moonlight, For when it gleams so mildly The passions rest that rule the breast At other times so wildly.

I love the merry moonlight, For 'neath it I can borrow Such blissful dreams, that this world seems Without a sin or sorrow.

FOOTNOTES:

[18] Printed from the author's MS., in the possession of Mr H. S. Riddell.



OH, WHAT ARE THE CHAINS OF LOVE MADE OF?[19]

Oh, what are the chains of Love made of, The only bonds that can, As iron gyves the body, thrall The free-born soul of man?

Can you twist a rope of beams of the sun, Or have you power to seize, And round your hand, like threads of silk, Wind up the wandering breeze?

Can you collect the morning dew And, with the greatest pains, Beat every drop into a link, And of these links make chains?

More fleeting in their nature still, And less substantial are Than sunbeam, breeze, and drop of dew, Smile, sigh, and tear—by far.

And yet of these Love's chains are made, The only bonds that can, As iron gyves the body, thrall The free-born soul of man.

FOOTNOTES:

[19] Printed for the first time from the original MS.



JOHN WRIGHT.

A son of genius and of misfortune, John Wright was born on the 1st September 1805, at the farm-house of Auchincloigh, in the parish of Sorn, Ayrshire. From his mother, a woman of much originality and shrewdness, he inherited a strong inclination towards intellectual culture. His school education was circumscribed, but he experienced delight in improving his mind, by solitary musings amidst the amenities of the vicinity of Galston, a village to which his father had removed. At the age of seven, he began to assist his father in his occupation of a coal driver; and in his thirteenth year he was apprenticed to the loom. His master supplied him with books, which he perused with avidity, and he took an active part in the weekly meetings of apprentices for mutual literary improvement; but his chief happiness was still experienced in lonely rambles amidst the interesting scenes of the neighbourhood, which, often celebrated by the poets, were especially calculated to foment his own rapidly developing fancy. He fell in love, was accepted, and ultimately cast off—incidents which afforded him opportunities of celebrating the charms, and deploring the inconstancy of the fair. He composed a poem, of fifteen hundred lines, entitled "Mahomet, or the Hegira," and performed the extraordinary mental effort of retaining the whole on his memory, at the period being unable to write. "The Retrospect," a poem of more matured power, was announced in 1824. At the recommendation of friends, having proceeded to Edinburgh to seek the counsel of men of letters, he submitted the MS. of his poem to Professor Wilson, Dr M'Crie, Mr Glassford Bell, and others, who severally expressed their approval, and commended a publication. "The Retrospect," accordingly, appeared with a numerous list of subscribers, and was well received by the press. The poet now removed to Cambuslang, near Glasgow, where he continued to prosecute his occupation of weaving. He entered into the married state by espousing Margaret Chalmers, a young woman of respectable connexions and considerable literary tastes. The desire of obtaining funds to afford change of climate to his wife, who was suffering from impaired health, induced him to propose a second edition of his poems, to be published by subscription. During the course of his canvass, he unfortunately contracted those habits of intemperance which have proved the bane of so many of the sons of genius. Returning to the loom at Cambuslang, he began to exchange the pleasures of the family hearth for the boisterous excitement of the tavern. He separated from his wife and children, and became the victim of dissipation. In 1853, some of his literary friends published the whole of his poetical works in a duodecimo volume, in the hope of procuring the means of extricating him from his painful condition. The attempt did not succeed. He died in an hospital in Glasgow, of fever, contracted by intemperance. As a poet, he was possessed of a rich fancy, with strong descriptive powers. His "Retrospect" abounds with beautiful passages; and some of his shorter poems and songs are destined to survive.



AN AUTUMNAL CLOUD.

Oh! would I were throned on yon glossy golden cloud, Soaring to heaven with the eagle so proud, Floating o'er the sky Like a spirit, to descry Each bright realm,—and, when I die, May it be my shroud!

I would skim afar o'er ocean, and drink of bliss my fill, O'er the thunders of Ni'gara and cataracts of Nile,— With rising rainbows wreathed, In mist and darkness sheathed, Where nought but spirits breathed Around me the while.

Above the mighty Alps (o'er the tempest's angry god Careering on the avalanche) should be my bless'd abode. There, where Nature lowers more wild Than her most uncultured child, Revels beauty—as one smiled O'er life's darkest mood.

Our aerial flight should be where eye hath never been, O'er the stormy Polar deep, where the icy Alps are seen, Where Death sits, crested high, As he would invade the sky, Whilst the living valleys lie In their beautiful green!

Spirit of the peaceful autumnal eve! Child of enchantment! behind thee leave Thy semblance mantled o'er me; Too full thy tide of glory For Fancy to restore thee, Or Memory give!



THE MAIDEN FAIR.

The moon hung o'er the gay greenwood, The greenwood o'er the mossy stream, That roll'd in rapture's wildest mood, And flutter'd in the fairy beam. Through light clouds flash'd the fitful gleam O'er hill and dell,—all Nature lay Wrapp'd in enchantment, like the dream Of her that charm'd my homeward way!

Long had I mark'd thee, maiden fair! And drunk of bliss from thy dark eye, And still, to feed my fond despair, Bless'd thy approach, and, passing by, I turn'd me round to gaze and sigh, In worship wild, and wish'd thee mine, On that fair breast to live and die, O'er-power'd with transport so divine!

Still sacred be that hour to love, And dear the season of its birth, And fair the glade, and green the grove, Its bowers ne'er droop in wintry dearth Of melody and woodland mirth!— The hour, the spot, so dear to me! That wean'd my soul from all on earth, To be for ever bless'd in thee.



THE OLD BLIGHTED THORN.

All night, by the pathway that crosses the moor, I waited on Mary, I linger'd till morn, Yet thought her not false—she had ever been true To her tryst by the old blighted thorn.

I had heard of Love lighting to darken the heart, Fickle, fleeting as wind and the dews of the morn; Such were not my fears, though I sigh'd all night long, And wept 'neath the old blighted thorn.

The snows, that were deep, had awaken'd my dread, I mark'd as footprints far below by the burn; I sped to the valley—I found her deep sunk, On her way to the old blighted thorn!

I whisper'd, "My Mary!"—she spoke not: I caught Her hand, press'd her pale cheek—'twas icy and cold; Then sunk on her bosom—its throbbings were o'er— Nor knew how I quitted my hold.



THE WRECKED MARINER.

Stay, proud bird of the shore! Carry my last breath with thee to the cliff, Where waits our shatter'd skiff— One that shall mark nor it nor lover more.

Fan with thy plumage bright Her heaving heart to rest, as thou dost mine; And, gently to divine The tearful tale, flap out her beacon-light.

Again swoop out to sea, With lone and lingering wail—then lay thy head, As thou thyself wert dead, Upon her breast, that she may weep for me.

Now let her bid false Hope For ever hide her beam, nor trust again The peace-bereaving strain— Life has, but still far hence, choice flowers to crop.

Oh! bid not her repine, And deem my loss too bitter to be borne, Yet all of passion scorn But the mild, deep'ning memory of mine.

Thou art away, sweet wind! Bear the last trickling tear-drop on thy wing, And o'er her bosom fling The love-fraught pearly shower till rest it find!



JOSEPH GRANT.

Joseph Grant, a short-lived poet and prose writer, was born on the farm of Affrusk, parish of Banchory-Ternan, Kincardineshire, on the 26th of May 1805. He was instructed in the ordinary branches at the parish school, and employed as a youth in desultory labour about his father's farm. From boyhood he cherished a passionate love for reading, and was no less ardent in his admiration of the picturesque and beautiful in nature. So early as his fourteenth year he composed verses of some merit. In 1828, he published "Juvenile Lays," a collection of poems and songs; and in 1830, "Kincardineshire Traditions"—a small volume of ballads—both of which obtained a favourable reception. Desirous of emanating from the retirement of his native parish, he accepted, in 1831, the situation of assistant to a shop-keeper in Stonehaven, and soon afterwards proceeded to Dundee, where he was employed in the office of the Dundee Guardian newspaper, and subsequently as clerk to a respectable writer.

Grant furnished a series of tales and sketches for Chambers's Edinburgh Journal. In 1834, he published a second small volume of "Poems and Songs;" and subsequently, in the same year, committed to the press a prose work, entitled "Tales of the Glens," which he did not, however, survive to publish. After an illness of fifteen weeks, of a pulmonary complaint, he died on the 14th April 1835, in his thirtieth year. His remains were interred in the churchyard of Strachan, Kincardineshire, where a tombstone, inscribed with some elegiac verses, has been erected to his memory. The "Tales of the Glens" were published shortly after his decease, under the editorial care of the late Mr James M'Cosh, of Dundee, editor of the Northern Warder newspaper; and, in 1836, an edition of his collected works was published at Edinburgh, with a biographical preface by the poet Nicol.

Of a fine genius, a gentle and amiable nature, and pure Christian sentiments, Grant afforded eminent promise, with a prolonged career, of becoming an ornament to literature. Cut down in the bloom of youth, his elegy has been recorded by the Brechin poet, Alexander Laing—

"A kinder, warmer heart than his Was ne'er to minstrel given; And kinder, holier sympathies Ne'er sought their native heaven."



THE BLACKBIRD'S HYMN IS SWEET.

The blackbird's hymn is sweet At fall of gloaming, When slow, o'er grove and hill, Night's shades are coming; But there is a sound that far More deeply moves us— The low sweet voice of her Who truly loves us.

Fair is the evening star Rising in glory, O'er the dark hill's brow, Where mists are hoary; But the star whose rays The heart falls nearest, Is the love-speaking eye Of our heart's dearest.

Oh, lonely, lonely is The human bosom, That ne'er has nursed the sweets Of young Love's blossom! The loveliest breast is like A starless morning, When clouds frown dark and cold, And storms are forming.



LOVE'S ADIEU.

The e'e o' the dawn, Eliza, Blinks over the dark green sea, An' the moon 's creepin' down to the hill-tap, Richt dim and drowsilie. An' the music o' the mornin' Is murmurin' alang the air; Yet still my dowie heart lingers To catch one sweet throb mair.

We've been as blest, Eliza, As children o' earth can be, Though my fondest wish has been knit by The bonds of povertie; An' through life's misty sojourn, That still may be our fa', But hearts that are link'd for ever Ha'e strength to bear it a'.

The cot by the mutterin' burnie, Its wee bit garden an' field, May ha'e mair o' the blessin's o' Heaven Than lichts o' the lordliest bield; There 's many a young brow braided Wi' jewels o' far-off isles, But woe may be drinkin' the heart-springs, While we see nought but smiles.

But adieu, my ain Eliza! Where'er my wanderin's be, Undyin' remembrance will make thee The star o' my destinie; An' well I ken, thou loved one, That aye, till I return, Thou 'lt treasure pure faith in thy bosom, Like a gem in a gowden urn.



DUGALD MOORE.

A poet of remarkable ingenuity and power, Dugald Moore was born in Stockwell Street, Glasgow, in 1805. His father, who was a private soldier in one of the Highland regiments, died early in life, leaving his mother in circumstances of poverty. From his mother's private tuition, he received the whole amount of his juvenile education. When a child he was sent to serve as a tobacco-boy for a small pittance of wages, and as a youth was received into the copper-printing branch of the establishment of Messrs James Lumsden and Son, booksellers, Queen Street. He very early began to write verses, and some of his compositions having attracted the notice of Mr Lumsden, senior, that benevolent gentleman afforded him every encouragement in the prosecution of his literary tastes. Through Mr Lumsden's personal exertions in procuring subscribers, he was enabled to lay before the public in 1829 a volume of poems entitled "The African, a Tale, and other Poems." Of this work a second edition was required in the following year, when he likewise gave to the world a second volume, with the title "Scenes from the Flood; the Tenth Plague, and other Poems." "The Bridal Night, and other Poems," a volume somewhat larger than its predecessors, appeared from his pen in 1831. The profits of these publications enabled him to commence on his own account as a bookseller and stationer in the city. His shop, No. 96 Queen Street, became the rendezvous of men of letters, and many of the influential families gave its occupant the benefit of their custom.

In 1833, Moore published "The Bard of the North, a series of Poetical Tales, illustrative of Highland Scenery and Character;" in 1835, "The Hour of Retribution, and other Poems;" and in 1839, "The Devoted One, and other Poems." He died unmarried, after a brief illness, on the 2d January 1841, in his thirty-sixth year, leaving a competency for the support of his aged mother. Buried in the Necropolis of the city, a massive monument, surmounted by a bust, has been raised by his personal friends in tribute to his memory. Though slightly known to fame, Moore is entitled to rank among the most gifted of the modern national poets. Possessed of a vigorous conception, a lofty fancy, intense energy of feeling, and remarkable powers of versification, his poetry is everywhere impressed with the most decided indications of genius. He has chosen the grandest subjects, which he has adorned with the richest illustration, and an imagery copious and sublime. Had he occupied his Muse with themes less exalted, he might have enjoyed a wider temporary popularity; as it is, his poems will find admirers in future times.



RISE, MY LOVE.

Rise, my love! the moon, unclouded, Wanders o'er the dark blue sea; Sleep the tyrant's eye has shrouded, Hynda comes to set thee free! Leave those vaults of pain and sorrow, On the long and dreaming deep; A bower will greet us ere to-morrow, Where our eyes may cease to weep.

Oh! some little isle of gladness, Smiling in the waters clear, Where the dreary tone of sadness Never smote the lonely ear— Soon will greet us, and deliver Souls so true, to freedom's plan; Death may sunder us, but never Tyrant's threats, nor fetters can.

Then our lute's exulting numbers, Unrestrain'd will wander on, While the night has seal'd in slumbers, Fair creation, all her own. And we'll wed, while music stealeth Through the starry fields above, While each bounding spirit feeleth All the luxury of love.

Then we'll scorn oppression's minions, All the despot's bolts and powers; While Time wreathes his heavy pinions With love's brightest passion-flowers. Rise, then! let us fly together, Now the moon laughs on the sea; East or west, I care not whither, When with love and liberty!



JULIA.

Born where the glorious star-lights trace In mountain snows their silver face, Where Nature, vast and rude, Looks as if by her God design'd To fill the bright eternal mind, With her fair magnitude.

Hers was a face, to which was given Less portion of the earth than heaven, As if each trait had stole Its hue from Nature's shapes of light; As if stars, flowers, and all things bright Had join'd to form her soul.

Her heart was young—she loved to breathe The air which spins the mountain's wreath, To wander o'er the wild, To list the music of the deep, To see the round stars on it sleep, For she was Nature's child!

Nursed where the soul imbibes the print Of freedom—where nought comes to taint, Or its warm feelings quell: She felt love o'er her spirit driven, Such as the angels felt in heaven, Before they sinn'd and fell.

Her mind was tutor'd from its birth, From all that's beautiful on earth— Lights which cannot expire— From all their glory, she had caught A lustre, till each sense seem'd fraught With heaven's celestial fire.

The desert streams familiar grown, The stars had language of their own, The hills contain'd a voice With which she could converse, and bring A charm from each insensate thing, Which bade her soul rejoice.

She had the feeling and the fire, That fortune's stormiest blast could tire, Though delicate and young; Her bosom was not formed to bend— Adversity, that firmest friend, Had all its fibres strung.

Such was my love—she scorn'd to hide A passion which she deem'd a pride! Oft have we sat and view'd The beauteous stars walk through the night, And Cynthia lift her sceptre bright, To curb old Ocean's mood.

She'd clasp me as if ne'er to part, That I might feel her beating heart— Might read her living eye; Then pause! I've felt the pure tide roll Through every vein, which to my soul, Said—Nature could not lie.



LUCY'S GRAVE.

My spirit could its vigil hold For ever at this silent spot; But, ah! the heart within is cold, The sleeper heeds me not: The fairy scenes of love and youth, The smiles of hope, the tales of truth, By her are all forgot: Her spirit with my bliss is fled— I only weep above the dead!

I need not view the grassy swell, Nor stone escutcheon'd fair; I need no monument to tell That thou art lying there: I feel within, a world like this, A fearful blank in all my bliss— An agonized despair, Which paints the earth in cheerful bloom, But tells me, thou art in the tomb!

I knew Death's fatal power, alas Could doom man's hopes to pine, But thought that many a year would pass Before he scatter'd mine! Too soon he quench'd our morning rays, Brief were our loves of early days— Brief as those bolts that shine With beautiful yet transient form, Round the dark fringes of the storm!

I little thought, when first we met, A few short months would see Thy sun, before its noontide, set In dark eternity! While love was beaming from thy face, A lover's eye but ill could trace Aught that obscured its ray; So calm its pain thy bosom bore, I thought not death was at its core!

The silver moon is shining now Upon thy lonely bed, Pale as thine own unblemish'd brow, Cold as thy virgin head; She seems to breathe of many a day Now shrouded with thee in the clay, Of visions that have fled, When we beneath her holy flame, Dream'd over hopes that never came!

Hark! 'tis the solemn midnight bell, It mars the hallow'd scene; And must we bid again—farewell! Must life still intervene? Its charms are vain! my heart is laid E'en with thine own, celestial maid! A few short days have been An age of pain—a few may be A welcome passport, love! to thee.



THE FORGOTTEN BRAVE.

'Tis finish'd, they 've died for their forefathers' land, As the patriot sons of the mountain should die, With the mail on each bosom, the sword in each hand, On the heath of the desert they lie. Like their own mountain eagles they rush'd to the fight, Like the oaks of their deserts they braved its rude blast; Their blades in the morning look'd dazzling and bright, But red when the battle was past.

They rush'd on, exulting in honour, and met The foes of their country in battle array; But the sun of their glory in darkness hath set, And the flowers of the forest are faded away! Oh! far from the scenes of their childhood they sleep, No friend of their bosom, no loved one is near, To add a gray stone to their cairns on the steep, Or drop o'er their ashes a tear.



THE FIRST SHIP.

The sky in beauty arch'd The wide and weltering flood, While the winds in triumph march'd Through their pathless solitude— Rousing up the plume on ocean's hoary crest, That like space in darkness slept, When his watch old Silence kept, Ere the earliest planet leapt From its breast.

A speck is on the deeps, Like a spirit in her flight; How beautiful she keeps Her stately path in light! She sweeps the shining wilderness in glee— The sun has on her smiled, And the waves, no longer wild, Sing in glory round that child Of the sea.

'Twas at the set of sun That she tilted o'er the flood, Moving like God alone O'er the glorious solitude— The billows crouch around her as her slaves. How exulting are her crew— Each sight to them is new, As they sweep along the blue Of the waves!

Fair herald of the fleets That yet shall cross the wave, Till the earth with ocean meets One universal grave, What armaments shall follow thee in joy! Linking each distant land With trade's harmonious band, Or bearing havoc's brand To destroy!



WEEP NOT.

Though this wild brain is aching, Spill not thy tears with mine; Come to my heart, though breaking, Its firmest half is thine. Thou wert not made for sorrow, Then do not weep with me; There is a lovely morrow, That yet will dawn on thee.

When I am all forgotten— When in the grave I lie— When the heart that loved thee 's broken, And closed the sparkling eye; Love's sunshine still will cheer thee, Unsullied, pure, and deep; For the God who 's ever near thee, Will never see thee weep.



TO THE CLYDE.

When cities of old days But meet the savage gaze, Stream of my early ways Thou wilt roll. Though fleets forsake thy breast, And millions sink to rest— Of the bright and glorious west Still the soul.

When the porch and stately arch, Which now so proudly perch O'er thy billows, on their march To the sea, Are but ashes in the shower; Still the jocund summer hour, From his cloud will weave a bower Over thee.

When the voice of human power Has ceased in mart and bower, Still the broom and mountain flower Will thee bless. And the mists that love to stray O'er the Highlands, far away, Will come down their deserts gray To thy kiss.

And the stranger, brown with toil, From the far Atlantic soil, Like the pilgrim of the Nile, Yet may come To search the solemn heaps That moulder by thy deeps, Where desolation sleeps, Ever dumb.

Though fetters yet should clank O'er the gay and princely rank Of cities on thy bank, All sublime; Still thou wilt wander on, Till eternity has gone, And broke the dial stone Of old Time.



REV. T. G. TORRY ANDERSON.

The author of the deservedly popular words and air of "The Araby Maid," Thomas Gordon Torry Anderson was the youngest son of Patrick Torry, D.D., titular bishop of St Andrews, Dunkeld, and Dunblane. His mother, Jane Young, was the daughter of Dr William Young, of Fawsyde, Kincardineshire. Born at Peterhead on the 9th July 1805, he received his elementary education at the parish school of that place. He subsequently prosecuted his studies in Marischal College, Aberdeen, and the University of Edinburgh. In 1827, he received holy orders, and was admitted to the incumbency of St John's Episcopal Church, Portobello. He subsequently became assistant in St George's Episcopal Church, Edinburgh, and was latterly promoted to the pastorate of St Paul's Episcopal Church, Dundee.

Devoted to the important duties of the clerical office, Mr Torry Anderson experienced congenial recreation in the cultivation of music and song, and in the occasional composition of both. He composed, in 1833, the words and air of "The Araby Maid," which speedily obtained a wide popularity. The music and words of the songs, entitled "The Maiden's Vow," and "I Love the Sea," were composed in 1837 and 1854, respectively. To a work, entitled "Poetical Illustrations of the Achievements of the Duke of Wellington and his Companions in Arms," published in 1852, he extensively contributed. During the summer of 1855, he fell into bad health, and was obliged to resign his incumbency. He afterwards resided on his estate of Fawsyde, to which he had succeeded, in 1850, on the death of his uncle, Dr Young. He died at Aberdeen on the 20th of June 1856, in his fifty-first year. He was three times married—first, in 1828, to Mrs Gaskin Anderson of Tushielaw, whose name he adopted to suit the requirements of an entail; secondly, he espoused, in 1838, Elizabeth Jane, daughter of Dr Thomas Sutter, R.N.; and lastly, Mrs Hill, widow of Mr William Hill, R.N., whom he married in 1854. He has left a widow and six children.



THE ARABY MAID.

Away on the wings of the wind she flies, Like a thing of life and light— And she bounds beneath the eastern skies, And the beauty of eastern night.

Why so fast flies the bark through the ocean's foam, Why wings it so speedy a flight? 'Tis an Araby maid who hath left her home, To fly with her Christian knight.

She hath left her sire and her native land, The land which from childhood she trode, And hath sworn, by the pledge of her beautiful hand, To worship the Christian's God.

Then away, away, oh swift be thy flight, It were death one moment's delay; For behind there is many a blade glancing bright— Then away—away—away!

They are safe in the land where love is divine, In the land of the free and the brave— They have knelt at the foot of the holy shrine, Nought can sever them now but the grave.



THE MAIDEN'S VOW.

The maid is at the altar kneeling, Hark the chant is loudly pealing— Now it dies away!

Her prayers are said at the holy shrine, No other thought but thought divine Doth her sad bosom fill.

The world to her is nothing now, For she hath ta'en a solemn vow To do her father's will.

But why hath one so fair, so young, The joys of life thus from her flung— Why hath she ta'en the veil?

Her lover fell where the brave should fall, Amidst the fight, when the trumpet's call Proclaim'd the victory.

He fought, he fell, a hero brave— And though he fill a lowly grave, His name can never die.

The victory's news to the maiden came— They loudly breathed her lover's name, Who for his country fell.

But vain the loudest trumpet tone Of fame to her, when he was gone To whom the praise was given!

Her sun of life had set in gloom— Its joys were withered in his tomb— She vow'd herself to Heaven.



I LOVE THE SEA.

I love the sea, I love the sea, My childhood's home, my manhood's rest, My cradle in my infancy— The only bosom I have press'd. I cannot breathe upon the land, Its manners are as bonds to me, Till on the deck again I stand, I cannot feel that I am free.

Then tell me not of stormy graves— Though winds be high, there let them roar; I 'd rather perish on the waves Than pine by inches on the shore. I ask no willow where I lie, My mourner let the mermaid be, My only knell the sea-bird's cry, My winding-sheet the boundless sea!



GEORGE ALLAN.

George Allan was the youngest son of John Allan, farmer at Paradykes, near Edinburgh, where he was born on the 2d February 1806. Ere he had completed his fourteenth year, he became an orphan by the death of both his parents. Intending to prosecute his studies as a lawyer, he served an apprenticeship in the office of a Writer to the Signet. He became a member of that honourable body, but almost immediately relinquished legal pursuits, and proceeded to London, resolved to commence the career of a man of letters. In the metropolis his literary aspirations were encouraged by Allan Cunningham and Mr and Mrs S. C. Hall. In 1829, he accepted an appointment in Jamaica; but, his health suffering from the climate of the West Indies, he returned in the following year. Shortly after his arrival in Britain, he was fortunate in obtaining the editorship of the Dumfries Journal, a respectable Conservative newspaper. This he conducted with distinguished ability and success for three years, when certain new arrangements, consequent on a change in the proprietary, rendered his services unnecessary. A letter of Allan Cunningham, congratulating him on his appointment as a newspaper editor, is worthy of quotation, from its shrewd and sagacious counsels:—

"Study to fill your paper," writes Cunningham, "with such agreeable and diversified matter as will allure readers; correct intelligence, sprightly and elegant paragraphs, remarks on men and manners at once free and generous; and local intelligence pertaining to the district, such as please men of the Nith in a far land. These are the staple commodity of a newspaper, and these you can easily have. A few literary paragraphs you can easily scatter about; these attract booksellers, and booksellers will give advertisements where they find their works are noticed. Above all things, write cautiously concerning all localities; if you praise much, a hundred will grumble; if you are severe, one only may complain, but twenty will shake the head. You will have friends on one side of the water desiring one thing, friends on the other side desiring the reverse, and in seeking to please one you vex ten. An honest heart, a clear head, and a good conscience, will enable you to get well through all."

On terminating his connexion with the Dumfries Journal, Allan proceeded to Edinburgh, where he was immediately employed by the Messrs Chambers as a literary assistant. In a letter addressed to a friend, about this period, he thus expresses himself regarding his enterprising employers:—

"They are never idle. Their very recreations are made conducive to their business, and they go through their labours with a spirit and cheerfulness, which shew how consonant these are with their dispositions." "Mr Robert Chambers," he adds, "is the most mild, unassuming, kind-hearted man I ever knew, and is perfectly uneasy if he thinks there is any one uncomfortable about him. The interest which he has shewn in my welfare has been beyond everything I ever experienced, and the friendly yet delicate way in which he is every other day asking me if I am all comfortable at home, and bidding me apply to him when I am in want of anything, equally puzzles me to understand or express due thanks for."

Besides contributing many interesting articles to Chambers's Edinburgh Journal, and furnishing numerous communications to the Scotsman newspaper, Allan wrote a "Life of Sir Walter Scott," in an octavo volume, which commanded a wide sale, and was much commended by the public press. In preparing that elegant work, the "Original National Melodies of Scotland," the ingenious editor, Mr Peter M'Leod, was favoured by him with several songs, which he set forth in that publication, with suitable music. In 1834, some of his relatives succeeded, by political influence, in obtaining for him a subordinate situation in the Stamp Office,—one which at once afforded him a certain subsistence, and did not necessarily preclude the exercise of his literary talents. But a constitutional weakness of the nervous system did not permit of his long enjoying the smiles of fortune. He died suddenly at Janefield, near Leith, on the 15th August 1835, in his thirtieth year. In October 1831, he had espoused Mrs Mary Hill, a widow, eldest daughter of Mr William Pagan, of Curriestanes, and niece of Allan Cunningham, who, with one of their two sons, still survives. Allan was a man of singularly gentle and amiable dispositions, a pleasant companion, and devoted friend. In person he was tall and rather thin, with a handsome, intelligent countenance. An enthusiast in the concerns of literature, it is to be feared that he cut short his career by overstrained application. His verses are animated and vigorous, and are largely imbued with the national spirit.[20]

FOOTNOTES:

[20] We are indebted to William Pagan, Esq. of Clayton, author of "Road Reform," for much of the information contained in this memoir. Mr Pagan kindly procured for our use the whole of Mr Allan's papers and MSS.



IS YOUR WAR-PIPE ASLEEP?[21]

Is your war-pipe asleep, and for ever, M'Crimman? Is your war-pipe asleep, and for ever? Shall the pibroch, that welcom'd the foe to Benaer, Be hush'd when we seek the dark wolf in his lair, To give back our wrongs to the giver? To the raid and the onslaught our chieftains have gone, Like the course of the fire-flaught the clansmen pass'd on, With the lance and the shield 'gainst the foe they have boon'd them, And have ta'en to the field with their vassals around them; Then raise your wild slogan-cry—on to the foray! Sons of the heather-hill, pinewood, and glen, Shout for M'Pherson, M'Leod, and the Moray, Till the Lomonds re-echo the challenge again!

II.—(M'CRIMMAN.)

Youth of the daring heart! bright be thy doom As the bodings which light up thy bold spirit now, But the fate of M'Crimman is closing in gloom, And the breath of the gray wraith hath pass'd o'er his brow; Victorious, in joy, thou'lt return to Benaer, And be clasp'd to the hearts of thy best beloved there, But M'Crimman, M'Crimman, M'Crimman, never— Never! Never! Never!

III.—(CLANSMEN.)

Wilt thou shrink from the doom thou canst shun not, M'Crimman? Wilt thou shrink from the doom thou canst shun not? If thy course must be brief, let the proud Saxon know That the soul of M'Crimman ne'er quail'd when a foe Bared his blade in the land he had won not! Where the light-footed roe leaves the wild breeze behind, And the red heather-bloom gives its sweets to the wind, There our broad pennon flies, and the keen steeds are prancing, 'Mid the startling war-cries, and the war-weapons glancing, Then raise your wild slogan-cry—on to the foray! Sons of the heather-hill, pinewood, and glen; Shout for M'Pherson, M'Leod, and the Moray, Till the Lomonds re-echo the challenge again!

FOOTNOTES:

[21] In Blackie's "Book of Scottish Song," this song is attributed to the Rev. George Allan, D.D. It is also inserted among the songs of the Ettrick Shepherd, published by the Messrs Blackie. The latter blunder is accounted for by the fact that a copy of the song, which was sent to the Shepherd by Mr H. S. Riddell, as a specimen of Mr Allan's poetical talents, had been found among his papers subsequent to his decease. This song, with the two immediately following, appeared in M'Leod's "National Melodies," but they are here transcribed from the author's MSS.



I WILL THINK OF THEE YET.

I will think of thee yet, though afar I may be, In the land of the stranger, deserted and lone, Though the flowers of this earth are all wither'd to me, And the hopes which once bloom'd in my bosom are gone, I will think of thee yet, and the vision of night Will oft bring thine image again to my sight, And the tokens will be, as the dream passes by, A sigh from the heart and a tear from the eye.

I will think of thee yet, though misfortune fall chill O'er my path, as yon storm-cloud that lours on the lea, And I'll deem that this life is worth cherishing still, While I know that one heart still beats warmly for me. Yes! Grief and Despair may encompass me round, 'Till not e'en the shadow of peace can be found; But mine anguish will cease when my thoughts turn to you And the wild mountain land which my infancy knew.

I will think of thee; oh! if I e'er can forget The love that grew warm as all others grew cold, 'Twill but be when the sun of my reason hath set, Or memory fled from her care-haunted hold; But while life and its woes to bear on is my doom, Shall my love, like a flower in the wilderness, bloom; And thine still shall be, as so long it hath been, A light to my soul when no other is seen.



LASSIE, DEAR LASSIE.

Lassie, dear lassie, the dew 's on the gowan, And the brier-bush is sweet whar the burnie is rowin', But the best buds of Nature may blaw till they weary, Ere they match the sweet e'e or the cheek o' my dearie!

I wander alane, when the gray gloamin' closes, And the lift is spread out like a garden o' roses; But there 's nought which the earth or the sky can discover Sae fair as thysell to thy fond-hearted lover!

The snaw-flake is pure frae the clud when it 's shaken, And melts into dew ere it fa's on the bracken, Oh sae pure is the heart I hae won to my keepin'! But warm as the sun-blink that thaw'd it to weepin'!

Then come to my arms, and the bosom thou 'rt pressing Will tell by its throbs a' there's joy in confessing, For my lips could repeat it a thousand times over, And the tale still seem new to thy fond-hearted lover.



WHEN I LOOK FAR DOWN ON THE VALLEY BELOW ME.[22]

When I look far down on the valley below me, Where lowly the lot of the cottager's cast, While the hues of the evening seem ling'ring to shew me How calmly the sun of this life may be pass'd, How oft have I wish'd that kind Heaven had granted My hours in such spot to have peacefully run, Where, if pleasures were few, they were all that I wanted, And Contentment 's a blessing which wealth never won.

I have mingled with mankind, and far I have wander'd, Have shared all the joys youth so madly pursues; I have been where the bounties of Nature were squander'd Till man became thankless and learn'd to refuse! Yet there I still found that man's innocence perish'd, As the senses might sway or the passions command; That the scenes where alone the soul's treasures were cherish'd, Were the peaceful abodes of my own native land.

Then why should I leave this dear vale of my choice And the friends of my bosom, so faithful and true, To mix in the great world, whose jarring and noise Must make my soul cheerless though sorrows were few? Ah! too sweet would this life of probation be render'd, Our feelings ebb back from Eternity's strand, And the hopes of Elysium in vain would be tender'd, Could we have all we wish'd in our dear native land.

FOOTNOTES:

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



I WILL WAKE MY HARP WHEN THE SHADES OF EVEN.[23]

I will wake my harp when the shades of even Are closing around the dying day, When thoughts that wear the hues of Heaven Are weaning my heart from the world away; And my strain will tell of a land and home Which my wand'ring steps have left behind, Where the hearts that throb and the feet that roam Are free as the breath of their mountain wind.

I will wake my harp when the star of Vesper Hath open'd its eye on the peaceful earth, When not a leaf is heard to whisper That a dew-drop falls, or a breeze hath birth. And you, dear friends of my youthful years, Will oft be the theme of my lonely lay, And a smile for the past will gild the tears That tell how my heart is far away.

I will wake my harp when the moon is holding Her star-tent court in the midnight sky, When the spirits of love, their wings unfolding, Bring down sweet dreams to each fond one's eye. And well may I hail that blissful hour, For my spirit will then, from its thrall set free, Return to my own lov'd maiden's bower, And gather each sigh that she breathes for me.

Thus, still when those pensive hours are bringing The feelings and thoughts which no lips can tell, I will charm each cloud from my soul by singing Of all I have left and lov'd so well. Oh! Fate may smile, and Sorrow may cease, But the dearest hope we on earth can gain Is to come, after long sad years, in peace, And be join'd with the friends of our love, again.

FOOTNOTES:

[23] Printed for the first time.



THOMAS BRYDSON.

Thomas Brydson was born in Glasgow in 1806. On completing the usual course of study at the Universities of Glasgow and Edinburgh, he became a licentiate of the Established Church. He assisted in the Middle Church, Greenock, and in the parish of Kilmalcolm, Renfrewshire, and was, in 1839, ordained minister of Levern Chapel, near Paisley. In 1842, he was translated to the full charge of Kilmalcolm, where he continued to minister with much acceptance till his death, which took place suddenly on the 28th January 1855.

A man of fine fancy and correct taste, Mr Brydson was, in early life, much devoted to poetical composition. In 1829, he published a duodecimo volume of "Poems;" and a more matured collection of his poetical pieces in 1832, under the title of "Pictures of the Past." He contributed, in prose and verse, to the Edinburgh Literary Journal; the Republic of Letters, a Glasgow publication; and some of the London annuals. Though fond of correspondence with his literary friends, and abundantly hospitable, he latterly avoided general society, and, in a great measure, confined himself to his secluded parish of Kilmalcolm. Among his parishioners he was highly esteemed for the unction and fervour which distinguished his public ministrations, as well as for the gentleness of his manners and the generosity of his heart. Of domestic animals he was devotedly fond. He took delight in pastoral scenery, and in solitary musings among the hills. His poetry is pervaded by elegance of sentiment and no inconsiderable vigour of expression.



ALL LOVELY AND BRIGHT.

All lovely and bright, 'mid the desert of time, Seem the days when I wander'd with you, Like the green isles that swell in this far distant clime, On the deeps that are trackless and blue.

And now, while the torrent is loud on the hill, And the howl of the forest is drear, I think of the lapse of our own native rill— I think of thy voice with a tear.

The light of my taper is fading away, It hovers, and trembles, and dies; The far-coming morn on her sea-paths is gray, But sleep will not come to mine eyes.

Yet why should I ponder, or why should I grieve O'er the joys that my childhood has known? We may meet, when the dew-flowers are fragrant at eve, As we met in the days that are gone.



CHARLES DOYNE SILLERY.

Though a native of Ireland, Charles Doyne Sillery has some claim to enrolment among the minstrels of Caledonia. His mother was a Scotchwoman, and he was himself brought up and educated in Edinburgh. He was born at Athlone, in Ireland, on the 2d of March 1807. His father, who bore the same Christian and middle names, was a captain of the Royal Artillery.[24] He distinguished himself in the engagements of Talavera on the 27th and 28th of July 1809; but from his fatigues died soon after. His mother, Catherine Fyfe, was the youngest daughter of Mr Barclay Fyfe, merchant in Leith. She subsequently became the wife of James Watson, Esq., now of Tontley Hall, Berkshire.

Of lively and playful dispositions, Sillery did not derive much advantage from scholastic training. His favourite themes were poetry and music, and these he assiduously cultivated, much to the prejudice of other important studies. At a subsequent period he devoted himself with ardour to his improvement in general knowledge. He read extensively, and became conversant with the ancient and some of the modern languages. Disappointed in obtaining a commission in the Royal Artillery, on which he had calculated, he proceeded to India as midshipman in a merchant vessel. Conceiving a dislike to a seafaring life, after a single voyage, he entered on the study of medicine in the University of Edinburgh. From early youth he composed verses. In 1829, while only in his twenty-second year, he published, by subscription, a poem, in nine cantos, entitled "Vallery; or, the Citadel of the Lake." This production, which refers to the times of Chivalry, was well received; and, in the following year, the author ventured on the publication of a second poem, in two books, entitled "Eldred of Erin." In the latter composition, which is pervaded by devotional sentiment, the poet details some of his personal experiences. In 1834 he published, in a small duodecimo volume, "The Exiles of Chamouni; a Drama," a production which received only a limited circulation. About the same period, he became a contributor of verses to the Edinburgh Literary Journal. He ultimately undertook the editorial superintendence of a religious periodical.

Delicate in constitution, and of a highly nervous temperament, Sillery found the study of medicine somewhat uncongenial, and had formed the intention of qualifying himself for the Church. He calculated on early ecclesiastical preferment through the favour of Her Majesty Queen Adelaide, to whom he had been presented, and who had evinced some interest on his behalf. But his prospects were soon clouded by the slow but certain progress of an insidious malady. He was seized with pulmonary consumption, and died at Edinburgh on the 16th May 1836, in his twenty-ninth year.

Of sprightly and winning manners, Sillery was much cherished in the literary circles of the capital. He was of the ordinary height, and of an extremely slender figure; and his eye, remarkably keen and piercing, was singularly indicative of power. Poetry, in its every department, he cherished with the devotion of an enthusiast; and though sufficiently modest on the subject of his own poetical merits, he took delight in singing his own songs. Interested in the history of the Middle Ages, he had designed to publish an "Account of Ancient Chivalry." Latterly, his views were more concentrated on the subject of religion. Shortly before his death, he composed a "Discourse on the Sufferings of Christ," the proof-sheets of which he corrected on his deathbed. As a poet, with more advanced years, he would have obtained a distinguished place. With occasional defects, the poem of "Vallery" is possessed of much boldness of imagery, and force and elegance of expression.

FOOTNOTES:

[24] Captain Doyne Sillery was born in Drogheda, Ireland, of which place his father was mayor during the Rebellion of 1798, and where he possessed considerable property. He was descended from one of the most ancient and illustrious families in France, of which the representative took refuge in England during the infamous persecution of the Protestants in the sixteenth century. On the reduction of priestly power in Ireland by Cromwell, the family settled in that portion of the United Kingdom. The family name was originally Brulart. Nicolas Brulart, Marquis de Sillery, Lord de Pinsieux, de Marinis, and de Berny, acquired much reputation from the many commissions in which he served in France. (See "L'Histoire Genealogique et Chronologique des Chanceliers de France," tom. vi. p. 524). On the maternal side Captain Sillery was lineally descended from Edward Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, the famous chancellor.



SHE DIED IN BEAUTY.

She died in beauty! like a rose Blown from its parent stem; She died in beauty! like a pearl Dropp'd from some diadem.

She died in beauty! like a lay Along a moonlit lake; She died in beauty! like the song Of birds amid the brake.

She died in beauty! like the snow On flowers dissolved away; She died in beauty! like a star Lost on the brow of day.

She lives in glory! like night's gems Set round the silver moon; She lives in glory! like the sun Amid the blue of June!



THE SCOTTISH BLUE BELLS.

Let the proud Indian boast of his jessamine bowers, His pastures of perfume, and rose-cover'd dells; While humbly I sing of those wild little flowers— The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue-bells.

Wave, wave your dark plumes, ye proud sons of the mountain, For brave is the chieftain your prowess who quells, And dreadful your wrath as the foam-flashing fountain, That calms its wild waves 'mid the Scottish blue-bells.

Then strike the loud harp to the land of the river, The mountain, the valley, with all their wild spells, And shout in the chorus for ever and ever— The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue-bells.

Sublime are your hills when the young day is beaming, And green are your groves with their cool crystal wells, And bright are your broadswords, like morning dews gleaming On blue-bells of Scotland, on Scottish blue-bells.

Awake! ye light fairies that trip o'er the heather, Ye mermaids, arise from your coralline cells— Come forth with your chorus, all chanting together— The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue-bells.

Then strike the loud harp to the land of the river, The mountain, the valley, with all their wild spells, And shout in the chorus for ever and ever— The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue-bells.



ROBERT MILLER.

Robert Miller, the author of the two following songs, was a native of Glasgow, and was educated for the legal profession. He contributed verses to the periodicals, but did not venture on any separate publication. He died at Glasgow, in September 1834, at the early age of twenty-four. His "Lay of the Hopeless" was written within a few days of his decease.



WHERE ARE THEY?

The loved of early days! Where are they?—where? Not on the shining braes, The mountains bare;— Not where the regal streams Their foam-bells cast— Where childhood's time of dreams And sunshine pass'd.

Some in the mart, and some In stately halls, With the ancestral gloom Of ancient walls; Some where the tempest sweeps The desert waves; Some where the myrtle weeps On Roman graves.

And pale young faces gleam With solemn eyes; Like a remember'd dream The dead arise; In the red track of war The restless sweep; In sunlit graves afar The loved ones sleep.

The braes are dight with flowers, The mountain streams Foam past me in the showers Of sunny gleams; But the light hearts that cast A glory there, In the rejoicing past, Where are they?—where?



LAY OF THE HOPELESS.

Oh! would that the wind that is sweeping now O'er the restless and weary wave, Were swaying the leaves of the cypress bough O'er the calm of my early grave— And my heart with its pulses of fire and life, Oh! would it were still as stone. I am weary, weary, of all the strife, And the selfish world I 've known.

I 've drunk up bliss from a mantling cup, When youth and joy were mine; But the cold black dregs are floating up, Instead of the laughing wine; And life hath lost its loveliness, And youth hath spent its hour, And pleasure palls like bitterness, And hope hath not a flower.

And love! was it not a glorious eye That smiled on my early dream? It is closed for aye, where the long weeds sigh, In the churchyard by the stream: And fame—oh! mine were gorgeous hopes Of a flashing and young renown: But early, early the flower-leaf drops From the withering seed-cup down.

And beauty! have I not worshipp'd all Her shining creations well? The rock—the wood—the waterfall, Where light or where love might dwell. But over all, and on my heart, The mildew hath fallen sadly, I have no spirit, I have no part In the earth that smiles so gladly!

I only sigh for a quiet bright spot In the churchyard by the stream, Whereon the morning sunbeams float, And the stars at midnight dream; Where only Nature's sounds may wake The sacred and silent air, And only her beautiful things may break Through the long grass gathering there.



ALEXANDER HUME.

Alexander Hume was born at Kelso on the 1st of February 1809. His father, Walter Hume, occupied a respectable position as a retail trader in that town. Of the early history of our author little has been ascertained. His first teacher was Mr Ballantyne of Kelso, a man somewhat celebrated in his vocation. To his early preceptor's kindness of heart, Hume frequently referred with tears. While under Mr Ballantyne's scholastic superintendence, his love of nature first became apparent. After school hours it was his delight to wander by the banks of the Tweed, or reclining on its brink, to listen to the music of its waters. From circumstances into which we need not inquire, his family was induced to remove from Kelso to London. The position they occupied we have not learned; but young Hume is remembered as being a quick, intelligent, and most affectionate boy, eager, industrious, self-reliant, and with an occasional dash of independence that made him both feared and loved. He might have been persuaded to adopt almost any view, but an attempt at coercion only excited a spirit of antagonism. To use an old and familiar phrase, "he might break, but he would not bend."

About this period (1822 or 1823), when irritated by those who had authority over him, he suddenly disappeared from home, and allied himself to a company of strolling players, with whom he associated for several months. He had an exquisite natural voice, and sung the melting melodies of Scotland in a manner seldom equalled. With the itinerant manager he was a favourite, because he was fit for anything—tragedy, comedy, farce, a hornpipe, and, if need be, a comic song, in which making faces at the audience was an indispensable accomplishment. His greatest hit, we are told, was in the absurdly extravagant song, "I am such a Beautiful Boy;" when he used to say that in singing one verse, he opened his mouth so wide that he had difficulty in closing it; but it appears he had neither difficulty nor reluctance in closing his engagement. Getting tired of his new profession, and disgusted with his associates, poorly clad and badly fed, he slipped away when his companions were fast asleep, and returned to London. Here, weary and footsore, he presented himself to a relative, who received him kindly, and placed him in a position where by industry he might provide for his necessities.

In 1827, he obtained a situation with Forbes & Co. of Mark Lane, the highly respectable agents for Berwick & Co. of Edinburgh, the celebrated brewers of Scotch ale. His position being one of considerable responsibility, he was obliged to find security in the sum of L500, which he obtained from the relative who had always stood his friend. But such was his probity and general good conduct, that his employers cancelled the security, and returned the bond as a mark of their appreciation of his integrity and worth.

About this period it was that he first gave utterance to his feelings in verse. Impulsive and impassioned naturally, his first strong attachment roused the deepest feelings of the man, and awoke the dormant passion of the poet. The non-success of his first wooing only made his song the more vehement for a while, but as no flame can burn intensely for ever, his love became more subdued, and his song gradually assumed that touching pathos which has ever characterised the best lyrics of Scotland.

Some time between the years 1830 and 1833, he became a member of the Literary and Scientific Institution, Aldersgate Street, where he made the acquaintance of many kindred spirits, young men of the same standing as himself, chiefly occupied in the banks, offices, and warehouses of the city of London. There they had classes established for the study of history, for the discussion of philosophical and literary subjects, and for the practice of elocution. The recitations of the several members awoke the embers that smouldered in his heart from the time he had left the stage. His early experience had made him acquainted with the manner in which the voice ought to be modulated to make the utterance effective; and although he seldom ventured to recite, he was always a fair critic and a deeply interested auditor. The young ambition of a few had led them to aspire to authorship, and they established a monthly magazine. Although the several articles were not of the highest order, they were, nevertheless, quite equal to the average periodical writings of the day. In this magazine it is believed that Hume published his first song. It had been sent in the ordinary way, signed Daft Wattie, and the editor, not appreciating the northern dialect in which it was written, had tossed it aside. Shortly afterwards, one of the managers on turning over the rejected papers was attracted by the verses, read them, and was charmed. He placed them back in the editor's box, certifying them as fit for publication by writing across them,

"Musical as is Apollo's lute,"

to which he signed his name, William Raine. This circumstance soon led to an intimate acquaintance with Mr Raine, who was a man of considerable original power, excellent education, and of a social and right manly nature. This new acquaintance coloured the whole of Hume's future life. They became fast friends, and were inseparable. The imagination of Hume was restrained by the acute judgment and critical ability of Mr Raine. When Hume published his first volume of "Songs," it would perhaps be difficult to determine whether their great success and general popularity resulted from the poet whose name they bore, or from the friend who weighed and suggested corrections in almost every song, until they finally came before the public in a collected form. The volume was dedicated to Allan Cunningham, and in the preface he says: "I composed them by no rules excepting those which my own observation and feelings formed; I knew no other. As I thought and felt, so have I written. Of all poetical compositions, songs, especially those of the affections, should be natural, warm gushes of feeling—brief, simple, and condensed. As soon as they have left the singer's lips, they should be fast around the hearer's heart."

In 1837, Hume married Miss Scott, a lady well calculated to attract the eye and win the heart of a poet. He remained connected with the house of Berwick & Co. until 1840, when, to recover his health, which had been failing for some time, he was advised to visit America, where he travelled for several months. On his return to England, he entered into an engagement with the Messrs Lane of Cork, then the most eminent brewers in the south of Ireland. To this work he devoted himself with great energy, and was duly rewarded for his labour by almost immediate success. The article he sold became exceedingly popular in the metropolis; nor was he disappointed in the hope of realising considerable pecuniary advantages.

For several years he had written very little. The necessity to make provision for a rapidly increasing family, and the ambition to take a high position in the business he had chosen, occupied his every hour, and became with him a passion as strong as had ever moved him in works of the imagination.

In 1847 there were slight indications of a return of the complaint from which he had suffered in 1840, and he again crossed the Atlantic. Although he returned considerably improved in health, he was by no means well. Fortunately he had secured the services of a Mr Macdonald as an assistant in his business, whose exertions in his interest were unremitting. Mr Hume's health gradually declined, and ultimately incapacitated him for the performance of any commercial duty. In May 1851 he died at Northampton, leaving a widow and six children.

As a song writer, Hume is entitled to an honourable place among those authors whose writings have been technically called "the Untutored Muse of Scotland." His style is eminently graceful, and a deep and genuine pathos pervades his compositions. We confidently predict that some of his lyrics are destined to obtain a lasting popularity. In 1845, a complete edition of his "Songs and Poems" was published at London in a thin octavo volume.



MY WEE, WEE WIFE.

AIR—"The Boatie Rows."

My wee wife dwells in yonder cot, My bonnie bairnies three; Oh! happy is the husband's lot, Wi' bairnies on his knee. My wee, wee wife, my wee, wee wife, My bonnie bairnies three; How bright is day how sweet is life! When love lights up the e'e.

The king o'er me may wear a crown, Have millions bow the knee, But lacks he love to share his throne, How poor a king is he! My wee, wee wife, my wee, wee wife, My bonnie bairnies three, Let kings ha'e thrones, 'mang warld's strife, Your hearts are thrones to me.

I 've felt oppression's galling chain, I 've shed the tear o' care, But feeling aye lost a' its pain, When my wee wife was near. My wee, wee wife, my wee, wee wife, My bonnie bairnies three, The chains we wear are sweet to bear, How sad could we go free!



O POVERTY!

AIR—"The Posie."

Eliza was a bonnie lass, and oh! she lo'ed me weel, Sic love as canna find a tongue, but only hearts can feel; But I was poor, her faither doure, he wadna look on me; O poverty! O poverty! that love should bow to thee.

I went unto her mother, and I argued and I fleech'd, I spak o' love and honesty, and mair and mair beseech'd; But she was deaf to a' my grief, she wadna look on me; O poverty! O poverty! that love should bow to thee.

I next went to her brother, and I painted a' my pain, I told him o' our plighted troth, but it was a' in vain; Though he was deep in love himsel', nae feeling he'd for me; O poverty! O poverty! that love should bow to thee.

Oh! wealth it makes the fool a sage, the knave an honest man, And canker'd gray locks young again, if he has gear and lan'; To age maun beauty ope her arms, though wi' a tearfu' e'e; O poverty! O poverty! that love should bow to thee.

But wait a wee, oh! love is slee, and winna be said nay, It breaks a' chains, except its ain, but it will ha'e its way; In spite o' fate we took the gate, now happy as can be; O poverty! O poverty! we're wed in spite o' thee.



NANNY.

AIR—"Fee him, Father."

There 's mony a flower beside the rose, And sweets beside the honey; But laws maun change ere life disclose A flower or sweet like Nanny. Her e'e is like the summer sun, When clouds can no conceal it, Ye 're blind if it ye look upon, Oh! mad if ere ye feel it.

I 've mony bonnie lassies seen, Baith blithesome, kind, an' canny; But oh! the day has never been I 've seen another Nanny! She 's like the mavis in her sang, Amang the brakens bloomin', Her lips ope to an angel's tongue, But kiss her, oh! she's woman.



MY BESSIE.

AIR—"The Posie."

My Bessie, oh! but look upon these bonnie budding flowers, Oh! do they no remember ye o' mony happy hours, When on this green and gentle hill we aften met to play, An' ye were like the morning sun, an' life a nightless day?

The gowans blossom'd bonnilie, I 'd pu' them from the stem, An' rin in noisy blithesomeness to thee, my Bess, wi' them, To place them in thy lily breast, for ae sweet smile on me, I saw nae mair the gowans then, then saw I only thee.

Like two fair roses on a tree, we flourish'd an' we grew, An' as we grew, sweet love grew too, an' strong 'tween me an' you; How aft ye 'd twine your gentle arms in love about my neck, An' breathe young vows that after-years o' sorrow has na brak!

We 'd raise our lisping voices in auld Coila's melting lays, An' sing that tearfu' tale about Doon's bonnie banks and braes; But thoughtna' we o' banks and braes, except those at our feet, Like yon wee birds we sang our sang, yet ken'd no that 'twas sweet.

Oh! is na this a joyous day, a' Nature's breathing forth, In gladness an' in loveliness owre a' the wide, wide earth? The linties they are lilting love, on ilka bush an' tree, Oh! may such joy be ever felt, my Bess, by thee and me!



MENIE HAY.

AIR—"Heigh-ho! for Somebody."

A wee bird sits upon a spray, And aye it sings o' Menie Hay, The burthen o' its cheery lay Is "Come away, dear Menie Hay! Sweet art thou, O Menie Hay! Fair I trow, O Menie Hay! There 's not a bonnie flower in May Shows a bloom wi' Menie Hay."

A light in yonder window 's seen, And wi' it seen is Menie Hay; Wha gazes on the dewy green, Where sits the bird upon the spray? "Sweet art thou, O Menie Hay! Fair I trow, O Menie Hay! At sic a time, in sic a way, What seek ye there, O Menie Hay?"

"What seek ye there, my daughter dear? What seek ye there, O Menie Hay?" "Dear mother, but the stars sae clear Around the bonnie Milky Way." "Sweet are thou, O Menie Hay! Slee I trow, O Menie Hay! Ye something see ye daurna say, Paukie, winsome Menie Hay!"

The window 's shut, the light is gane, And wi' it gane is Menie Hay; But wha is seen upon the green, Kissing sweetly Menie Hay? "Sweet art thou, O Menie Hay! Slee I trow, O Menie Hay! For ane sae young ye ken the way, And far from blate, O Menie Hay!"

"Gae scour the country, hill and dale; Oh! waes me, where is Menie Hay? Search ilka nook, in town or vale, For my daughter, Menie Hay." "Sweet art thou, O Menie Hay! Slee I trow, O Menie Hay! I wish you joy, young Johnie Fay, O' your bride, sweet Menie Hay."



I 'VE WANDER'D ON THE SUNNY HILL.

I 've wander'd on the sunny hill, I 've wander'd in the vale, Where sweet wee birds in fondness meet to breathe their am'rous tale; But hills or vales, or sweet wee birds, nae pleasures gae to me— The light that beam'd its ray on me was Love's sweet glance from thee.

The rising sun, in golden beams, dispels the night's dark gloom— The morning dew to rose's hue imparts a freshening bloom; But sunbeams ne'er so brightly play'd in dance o'er yon glad sea, Nor roses laved in dew sae sweet as Love's sweet glance from thee.

I love thee as the pilgrims love the water in the sand, When scorching rays or blue simoom sweep o'er their withering hand; The captive's heart nae gladlier beats when set from prison free, Than I when bound wi' Beauty's chain in Love's sweet glance from thee.

I loved thee, bonnie Bessie, as the earth adores the sun, I ask'd nae lands, I craved nae gear, I prized but thee alone; Ye smiled in look, but no in heart—your heart was no for me; Ye planted hope that never bloom'd in Love's sweet glance from thee.



OH! YEARS HAE COME.

Oh! years hae come, an' years hae gane, Sin' first I sought the warld alane, Sin' first I mused wi' heart sae fain On the hills o' Caledonia. But oh! behold the present gloom, My early friends are in the tomb, And nourish now the heather bloom On the hills o' Caledonia.

My father's name, my father's lot, Is now a tale that 's heeded not, Or sang unsung, if no forgot On the hills o' Caledonia. O' our great ha' there 's left nae stane— A' swept away, like snaw lang gane; Weeds flourish o'er the auld domain On the hills o' Caledonia.

The Ti'ot's banks are bare and high, The stream rins sma' an' mournfu' by, Like some sad heart maist grutten dry On the hills o' Caledonia. The wee birds sing no frae the tree, The wild-flowers bloom no on the lea, As if the kind things pitied me On the hills o' Caledonia.

But friends can live, though cold they lie, An' mock the mourner's tear an' sigh, When we forget them, then they die On the hills o' Caledonia. An' howsoever changed the scene, While mem'ry an' my feeling 's green, Still green to my auld heart an' e'en Are the hills o' Caledonia.



MY MOUNTAIN HAME.

AIR—"Gala Water."

My mountain hame, my mountain hame! My kind, my independent mother; While thought and feeling rule my frame, Can I forget the mountain heather? Scotland dear!

I love to hear your daughters dear The simple tale in song revealing, Whene'er your music greets my ear My bosom swells wi' joyous feeling— Scotland dear!

Though I to other lands may gae, Should Fortune's smile attend me thither, I 'll hameward come, whene'er I may, And look again on the mountain heather— Scotland dear!

When I maun die, oh! I would lie Where life and me first met together; That my cauld clay, through its decay, Might bloom again in the mountain heather— Scotland dear!



THOMAS SMIBERT.

A poet and indefatigable prose-writer, Thomas Smibert was born in Peebles on the 8th February 1810. Of his native town his father held for a period the office of chief magistrate. With a view of qualifying himself for the medical profession, he became apprentice to an apothecary, and afterwards attended the literary and medical classes in the University of Edinburgh. Obtaining licence as a surgeon, he commenced practice in the village of Inverleithen, situated within six miles of his native town. He was induced to adopt this sphere of professional labour from an affection which he had formed for a young lady in the vicinity, who, however, did not recompense his devotedness, but accepted the hand of a more prosperous rival. Disappointed in love, and with a practice scarcely yielding emolument sufficient to pay the annual rent of his apothecary's store, he left Inverleithen after the lapse of a year, and returned to Peebles. He now began to turn his attention to literature, and was fortunate in procuring congenial employment from the Messrs Chambers, as a contributor to their popular Journal. Of this periodical he soon attained the position of sub-editor; and in evidence of the indefatigable nature of his services in this literary connexion, it is worthy of record that, during the period intervening between 1837 and 1842, he contributed to the Journal no fewer than five hundred essays, one hundred tales, and about fifty biographical sketches. Within the same period he edited a new edition of Paley's "Natural Theology," with scientific notes, and wrote extensively for a work of the Messrs Chambers, entitled "Information for the People." In 1842, he was appointed to the sub-editorship of the Scotsman newspaper. The bequest of a relative afterwards enabled him to relinquish stated literary occupation, but he continued to exhibit to the world pleasing evidences of his learning and industry. He became a frequent contributor to Hogg's Instructor, an Edinburgh weekly periodical; produced a work on "Greek History;" and collated a "Rhyming Dictionary." A large, magnificently illustrated volume, the "Clans of the Highlands of Scotland," was his most ambitious and successful effort as a prose-writer. His poetical compositions, which were scattered among a number of the periodicals, he was induced to collect and publish in a volume, with the title, "Io Anche! Poems chiefly Lyrical;" Edinburgh, 1851, 12mo. An historical play from his pen, entitled "Conde's Wife," founded on the love of Henri Quatre for Marguerite de Montmorency, whom the young Prince of Conde had wedded, was produced in 1842 by Mr Murray in the Theatre Royal, Edinburgh, and during a run of nine nights was received with applause.

Smibert died at Edinburgh on the 16th January 1854, in his forty-fourth year. With pleasing manners, he was possessed of kindly dispositions, and was much cherished for his intelligent and interesting conversation. In person he was strong built, and his complexion was fair and ruddy. He was not undesirous of reputation both as a poet and prose-writer, and has recorded his regret that he had devoted so much time to evanescent periodical literature. His poetry is replete with patriotic sentiment, and his strain is forcible and occasionally brilliant. His songs indicate a fine fancy and deep pathos.



THE SCOTTISH WIDOW'S LAMENT.

Afore the Lammas tide Had dun'd the birken-tree, In a' our water side Nae wife was bless'd like me. A kind gudeman, and twa Sweet bairns were 'round me here, But they're a' ta'en awa' Sin' the fa' o' the year.

Sair trouble cam' our gate, And made me, when it cam', A bird without a mate, A ewe without a lamb. Our hay was yet to maw, And our corn was to shear, When they a' dwined awa' In the fa' o' the year.

I downa look a-field, For aye I trow I see The form that was a bield To my wee bairns and me; But wind, and weet, and snaw, They never mair can fear, Sin' they a' got the ca' In the fa' o' the year.

Aft on the hill at e'ens, I see him 'mang the ferns— The lover o' my teens, The faither o' my bairns; For there his plaid I saw, As gloamin' aye drew near, But my a's now awa' Sin' the fa' o' the year.

Our bonnie rigs theirsel', Reca' my waes to mind; Our puir dumb beasties tell O' a' that I hae tyned; For wha our wheat will saw, And wha our sheep will shear, Sin' my a' gaed awa' In the fa' o' the year?

My hearth is growing cauld, And will be caulder still, And sair, sair in the fauld Will be the winter's chill; For peats were yet to ca', Our sheep they were to smear, When my a' passed awa' In the fa' o' the year.

I ettle whiles to spin, But wee, wee patterin' feet Come rinnin' out and in, And then I just maun greet; I ken it 's fancy a', And faster rows the tear, That my a' dwined awa' In the fa' o' the year.

Be kind, O Heaven abune! To ane sae wae and lane, And tak' her hamewards sune In pity o' her maen. Lang ere the March winds blaw, May she, far far frae here, Meet them a' that's awa Sin' the fa' o' the year!



THE HERO OF ST JOHN D'ACRE.[25]

Once more on the broad-bosom'd ocean appearing The banner of England is spread to the breeze, And loud is the cheering that hails the uprearing Of glory's loved emblem, the pride of the seas. No tempest shall daunt her, No victor-foe taunt her, What manhood can do in her cause shall be done— Britannia's best seaman, The boast of her freemen, Will conquer or die by his colours and gun.

On Acre's proud turrets an ensign is flying, Which stout hearts are banded till death to uphold; And bold is their crying, and fierce their defying, When trench'd in their ramparts, unconquer'd of old. But lo! in the offing, To punish their scoffing, Brave Napier appears, and their triumph is done; No danger can stay him, No foeman dismay him, He conquers or dies by his colours and gun.

Now low in the dust is the Crescent flag humbled, Its warriors are vanquish'd, their freedom is gone; The strong walls have tumbled, the proud towers are crumbled, And England's flag waves over ruin'd St John. But Napier now tenders To Acre's defenders The aid of a friend when the combat is won; For mercy's sweet blossom Blooms fresh in his bosom, Who conquers or dies by his colours and gun.

"All hail to the hero!" his country is calling, And "hail to his comrades!" the faithful and brave, They fear'd not for falling, they knew no appalling, But fought like their fathers, the lords of the wave. And long may the ocean, In calm and commotion, Rejoicing convey them where fame may be won, And when foes would wound us May Napier be round us, To conquer or die by their colours and gun!

FOOTNOTES:

[25] Admiral Sir Charles Napier.



OH! BONNIE ARE THE HOWES.

Oh! bonnie are the howes And sunny are the knowes That feed the kye and yowes Where my life's morn dawn'd; And brightly glance the rills That spring amang the hills And ca' the merry mills In my ain dear land.

But now I canna see The lammies on the lea, Nor hear the heather bee On this far, far strand. I see nae father's ha', Nae burnie's waterfa', But wander far awa' Frae my ain dear land.

My heart was free and light, My ingle burning bright, When ruin cam' by night Through a foe's fell hand. I left my native air, I gaed to come nae mair; And now I sorrow sair For my ain dear land.

But blithely will I bide Whate'er may yet betide When ane is by my side On this far, far strand. My Jean will soon be here This waefu' heart to cheer, And dry the fa'ing tear For my ain dear land.



OH! SAY NA YOU MAUN GANG AWA'.

Oh! say na you maun gang awa', Oh! say na you maun leave me; The dreaded hour that parts us twa Of peace and hope will reave me.

When you to distant shores are gane How could I bear to tarry, Where ilka tree and ilka stane Would mind me o' my Mary?

I couldna wander near yon woods That saw us oft caressing, And on our heads let fa' their buds In earnest o' their blessing.

Ilk stane wad mind me how we press'd Its half-o'erspreading heather, And how we lo'ed the least the best That made us creep thegither.

I couldna bide, when you are gane, My ain, my winsome dearie, I couldna stay to pine my lane— I live but when I 'm near ye.

Then say na you maun gang awa', Oh! say na you maun leave me; For ah! the hour that parts us twa Of life itself will reave me.



JOHN BETHUNE.

The younger of two remarkable brothers, whose names are justly entitled to remembrance, John Bethune, was born at the Mount, in the parish of Monimail, Fifeshire, during the summer of 1810. The poverty of his parents did not permit his attendance at a public school; he was taught reading by his mother, and writing and arithmetic by his brother Alexander,[26] who was considerably his senior. After some years' employment as a cow-herd, he was necessitated, in his twelfth year, to break stones on the turnpike-road. At the recommendation of a comrade, he apprenticed himself, early in 1824, to a weaver in a neighbouring village. In his new profession he rapidly acquired dexterity, so that, at the end of one year, he could earn the respectable weekly wages of fifteen shillings. Desirous of assisting his aged parents, he now purchased a loom and settled as a weaver on his own account, with his elder brother as his apprentice. A period of mercantile embarrassments which followed, severely affecting the manufacturing classes, pressed heavily on the subject of this notice; his earnings became reduced to six shillings weekly, and he was obliged to exchange the labours of the shuttle for those of the implements of husbandry. During the period of his apprenticeship, his thoughts had been turned to poetical composition, but it was subsequent to the commercial disasters of 1825 that he began earnestly to direct his attention towards the concerns of literature. Successive periods of bad health unfitting him for continued labour in the fields, were improved by extensive reading and composition. Before he had completed his nineteenth year he had produced upwards of twenty poetical compositions, each of considerable length, and the whole replete with power, both of sentiment and expression. Till considerably afterwards, however, his literary productions were only known to his brother Alexander, or at furthest to his parents. "Up to the latter part of 1835," writes his brother in a biographical sketch, "the whole of his writing had been prosecuted as stealthily as if it had been a crime punishable by law. There being but one apartment in the house, it was his custom to write by the fire, with an old copy-book, upon which his paper lay, resting on his knee, and this, through life, was his only writing-desk. On the table, which was within reach, an old newspaper was kept constantly lying, and as soon as the footsteps of any one were heard approaching the door, copy-book, pens, and ink-stand were thrust under this covering, and before the visitor came in, he had, in general, a book in his hand, and appeared to have been reading."

For a number of years Bethune had wrought as a day-labourer in the grounds of Inchrye, in the vicinity of his birthplace. On the death of the overseer on that property he was appointed his successor, entering on the duties at the term of Martinmas 1835, his brother accompanying him as his assistant. The appointment yielded L26 yearly, with the right of a cow's pasturage—emoluments which considerably exceeded the average of his previous earnings. To the duties of his new situation he applied himself with his wonted industry, still continuing to dedicate only his evenings and the intervals of toil to literary occupation. But his comparative prosperity was of short duration. During the summer following his appointment at Inchrye the estate changed owners, and the new proprietor dispensed with his services at the next term. In another year the landlord required the little cottage at Lochend, occupied by his parents. Undaunted by these reverses, John Bethune and his brother summoned stout courage; they erected a cottage at Mount Pleasant, near Newburgh, the walls being mostly reared by their own hands. The future career of Bethune was chiefly occupied in literary composition. He became a contributor to the Scottish Christian Herald, Wilson's Tales of the Borders, and other serial publications. In 1838 appeared "Tales and Sketches of the Scottish Peasantry," the mutual production of the poet and his brother—a work which, published in Edinburgh, was well received. A work on "Practical Economy," on which the brothers had bestowed much pains, and which had received the favourable opinion of persons of literary eminence, was published in May 1839, but failed to attract general interest. This unhappy result deeply affected the health of the poet, whose constitution had already been much shattered by repeated attacks of illness. He was seized with a complaint which proved the harbinger of pulmonary consumption. He died at Mount Pleasant on the 1st September 1839, in his thirtieth year.

With a more lengthened career, John Bethune would have attained a high reputation, both as an interesting poet and an elegant prose-writer. His genius was versatile and brilliant; of human nature, in all its important aspects, he possessed an intuitive perception, and he was practically familiar with the character and habits of the sons of industry. His tales are touching and simple; his verses lofty and contemplative. In sentiment eminently devotional, his life was a model of genuine piety. His Poems, prefaced by an interesting Memoir, were published by his surviving brother in 1840; and from the profits of a second edition, published in the following year, a monument has been erected over his grave in the churchyard of Abdie.

FOOTNOTES:

[26] Alexander Bethune, the elder brother of the poet, and his constant companion and coadjutor in literary work, was born at Upper Rankeillor, in the parish of Monimail, in July 1804. His education was limited to a few months' attendance at a subscription school in his sixth year, with occasional lessons from his parents. Like his younger brother, he followed the occupation of a labourer, frequently working in the quarry or breaking stones on the public road. Early contracting a taste for literature, his leisure hours were devoted to reading and composition. In 1835, several of his productions appeared in Chambers' Edinburgh Journal. "Tales and Sketches of the Scottish Peasantry," a volume by the brothers, of which the greater portion was written by Alexander, was published in 1838; their joint-treatise on "Practical Economy" in the year following. In 1843, Alexander published a small volume of tales, entitled "The Scottish Peasant's Fireside," which was favourably received. During the same year he was offered the editorship of the Dumfries Standard newspaper, with a salary of L100 a-year, but he was unable to accept the appointment from impaired health. He died at Mount Pleasant, near Newburgh, on the 13th June 1843, and his remains were interred in his brother's grave in Abdie churchyard. An interesting volume of his Memoirs, "embracing Selections from his Correspondence and Literary Memoirs," was published in 1845 by Mr William M'Combie.