CLYDE BOAT SONG.

Music by A. Hume.

Leave the city's busy throng— Dip the oar, and wake the song, While on Cathkin Braes the moon Rises with a star aboon: Hark! the boom of evening bells Trembles through the dewy dells. Row, lads, row; row, lads, row, While the golden eventide Lingers o'er the vale of Clyde, Row, lads, row; row, lads, row, O'er the tide, up the Clyde, Row, lads, row.

Life 's a river, deep and old, Stemm'd by rowers, brave and bold; Now in shadow, then in light, Onward aye, a thing of might; Sons of Albyn's ancient land, Row with strong and steady hand, Row, lads, row; row, lads, row; Gaily row, and cheery sing, Till the woodland echoes ring; Row, lads, row; row lads, row, O'er the tide, up the Clyde, Row, lads, row.

Hammers on the anvil rest, Dews upon the gowan's breast; Young hearts heave with tender thought, Low winds sigh, with odours fraught, Stars bedeck the blue above, Earth is full of joy and love; Row, lads, row; row, lads, row; Let your oars in concert beat Merry time, like dancers' feet; Row, lads, row; row, lads, row, With the tide, down the Clyde, Row, lads, row.



DIMPLES AND A'.

I love a sweet lassie, mair gentle and true Than ony young, wood-loving, wild cushie doo; Her cheeks they are dimpled, her jimp waist is sma', She says she 's my ain lassie, dimples and a'— Dimples and a', dimples and a'— That bonnie wee lass wi' her dimples and a'.

Her brown wavy hair has a dark gowden tinge, Her bonnie black e'e has a long jetty fringe, Her footstep is light as the thistle doun's fa', Her wee hand is lily-white, dimpled and a'— Dimpled and a', dimpled and a'— And I ken it 's my ain hand, dimples and a'.

I 'll wed my dear lassie, and gie her my name, I 'll get a bit housie, and bring my love hame; When winter is eerie, and stormy winds blaw, She 'll mak' me fu' cheerie wi' dimples and a'— Dimples and a', dimples and a'— My ain bonnie wifie, wi' her dimples and a'.

When the day's wark is done, and stars blink above, I 'll rest in her smile, and be bless'd wi' her love; She 'll sing a' the cares o' this world awa' Frae our cosie ingle, wi' dimples and a'. Dimples and a', dimples and a'— Our ain cosie ingle, wi' dimples and a'.



BUBBLES ON THE BLAST.

A wee bit laddie sits wi' a bowl upon his knees, And from a cutty pipe 's puffing bubbles on the breeze; Oh, meikle is the mirth of the weans on our stair, To see the bubbles sail like balloons alang the air. Some burst before they rise, others mount the gentle wind, And leave the little band in their dizzy joy behind; And such are human pomp and ambition at the last— The wonder of an hour, like thae bubbles on the blast.

How breathless is the watch of that merry little throng, To mark the shining globes as they float in pride along! 'Tis thus life's bubbles come, ever flashing from afar— Now a revolution, and again a woeful war; A hero or a bard, in their glory or their might; A bonnie bird of song, or a nightingale of light; Or yellow golden age, with its speculations vast— All wonders of an hour, like the bubbles on the blast.

Shout on, ye little folk, for your sport is quite as sage As that of older men, e'en the leaders of the age; This world 's a sapple bowl, and our life a pipe of clay— Its brightest dreams and hopes are but bubbles blown away. We 've had our bubbles too; some were dear and tender things, That left us sad and lone as they fled on rapid wings; And others yet may rise from the future, like the past, The wonder of an hour, as the bubbles on the blast.



A SERENADE.

The shadows of evening fall silent around, The rose with a cor'net of dewdrops is crown'd; While weary I wander in sorrow's eclipse, With your love at my heart, your name on my lips; Your name on my lips, like a melody rare— Then come, for I 'm lonely in shady Kenmair.

The birds by the river sing plaintive and low, They seem to be breathing a burden of woe; They seem to be asking, why am I alone? And why do you tarry, or where are you gone? The flowers are sighing sweet breath on the air, And stars watch thy coming to shady Kenmair.

The gush of the fountain, the roll of the tide, Recall your sweet image again to my side— Your low mellow voice, like the tones of a flute; Your slight yielding form, and small fairy foot; Your neck like the marble, dark flowing your hair, And brow like the snowdrop of shady Kenmair.

Come love, to the bank where the violets blow, Beside the calm waters that slumber below, While the brier and beech, the hazel and broom, Fling down from their branches a flood of perfume; Oh! what is the world, with its splendours or care, When you are beside me in shady Kenmair!



A SONG OF LITTLE THINGS.

I 'm a very little man, And I earn a little wage, And I have a little wife, In a little hermitage, Up a quiet little stair, Where the creeping ivy clings; In a mansion near the stars Is my home of little things.

I 've two bonnie little bairns, Full of prattle and of glee, And our little dwelling rings With their laughter, wild and free. Of the greenwoods, all the day, I 've a little bird that sings; It reminds me of my youth, And the age of little things.

I 've no money in the funds, And no steamers on the sea; But my busy little hands Are a treasure unto me. I can work, and I can sing, With a joy unknown to kings; While peace and plenty smile On my bonnie little things.

And when my work is done, In my cosie ingle nook, With my little ones around, I can read a little book. And I thank my lucky stars For whatever fortune brings; I 'm richer than a lord— I 'm content with little things.



MY AIN MOUNTAIN LAND.

Oh! wae 's me on gowd, wi' its glamour and fame, It tint me my love, and it wiled me frae hame, Syne dwindled awa' like a neivefu' o' sand, And left me to mourn for my ain mountain land.

I long for the glens, and the brown heather fells, The green birken shades, where the wild lintie dwells, The dash o' the deep, on the gray rocky strand, That gird the blue hills o' my ain mountain land.

I dream o' the dells where the clear burnies flow, The bonnie green knowes where the wee gowans grow; But I wake frae my sleep like a being that 's bann'd, And shed a saut tear for my ain mountain land.

I ken there 's a lass that looks out on the sea, Wi' tears in the een that are watchin' for me; Lang, lang she may wait for the clasp o' my hand, Or the fa' o' my foot in my ain mountain land.



WHEN I COME HAME AT E'EN.

Give me the hour when bells are rung, And dinsome wheels are still, When engines rest, and toilers leave The workshop, forge, and mill; With smiling lip, and gladsome e'e, My gudewife welcomes me; Our bairnies clap their wee white hands, And speel upon my knee. When I come hame at e'en, When I come hame at e'en, How dear to me the bairnies' glee, When I come hame at e'en.

Our lowly bield is neat and clean, And bright the ingle's glow, The table 's spread with halesome fare, The teapot simmers low. How sweet to toil for joys like these With strong and eydent hand, To nurture noble hearts to love, And guard our fatherland. When I come hame at e'en, &c.

Let revellers sing of wassail bowls, Their wines and barley bree; My ain wee house and winsome wife Are dearer far to me. To crack with her of joys to come, Of days departed long, When she was like a wee wild rose, And I a bird of song. When I come hame at e'en, When I come hame at e'en, How dear to me these memories When I come hame at e'en.



WILLIAM LOGAN.

William Logan, author of the song "Jeanie Gow," was born on the 18th February 1821, in the village of Kilbirnie, and county of Ayr. Intended by his parents for one of the liberal professions, he had the benefit of a superior school education. For a number of years he has held a respectable appointment in connexion with a linen-thread manufactory in his native place.



JEANIE GOW.

Ye hameless glens and waving woods, Where Garnock winds alang, How aft, in youth's unclouded morn, Your wilds I 've roved amang. There ha'e I heard the wanton birds Sing blythe on every bough, There first I met, and woo'd the heart O' bonnie Jeanie Gow.

Dear Jeanie then was fair and young, And bloom'd as sweet a flower As ever deck'd the garden gay Or lonely wild wood bower. The warbling lark at early dawn, The lamb on mountain brow, Had ne'er a purer, lighter heart Than bonnie Jeanie Gow.

Her faither's lowly, clay-built cot Rose by Glengarnock side, And Jeanie was his only stay, His darling and his pride. Aft ha'e I left the dinsome town, To which I ne'er could bow, And stray'd amang the ferny knowes Wi' bonnie Jeanie Gow.

But, ah! these fondly treasured joys Were soon wi' gloom o'ercast, For Jeanie dear was torn awa' By death's untimely blast. Ye woods, ye wilds, and warbling birds, Ye canna cheer me now, Sin' a' my glee and cherish'd hopes Ha'e gane wi' Jeanie Gow.



JAMES LITTLE.

James Little was born at Glasgow, on the 24th May 1821. His father, a respectable shoemaker, was a claimant, through his maternal grandmother, of the title and estates of the last Marquis of Annandale. With a very limited elementary education, the subject of this notice, at an early age, was called on to work with his father; but soon afterwards he enlisted as a private soldier. After eight years of military life, chiefly passed in North America and the West Indies, he purchased his discharge, and resumed shoemaking in his native city. In 1852 he proceeded to the United States, but subsequently returned to Glasgow. In 1856 he published a small duodecimo volume of meritorious verses, with the title, "Sparks from Nature's Fire." Several songs from his pen have been published, with music, in the "Lyric Gems of Scotland."



OUR NATIVE HILLS AGAIN.

Oh, swiftly bounds our gallant bark Across the ocean drear, While manly cheeks are pale wi' grief, And wet wi' sorrow's tear. The flowers that spring upon the Clyde Will bloom for us in vain; Nae mair wi' lightsome step we 'll climb Our native hills again.

Amang their glens our fathers sleep, Where mony a thistle waves; And roses fair and gowans meek Bloom owre their lowly graves. But we maun dree a sadder fate Far owre the stormy main; We lang may look, but never see Our native hills again.

Yet, 'mid the forests o' the west, When starnies light the sky, We'll gather round the ingle's side, And sing o' days gane by; And sunny blinks o' joy will come To soothe us when alane, And aft, in nightly dreams, we'll climb Our native hills again.



HERE 'S A HEALTH TO SCOTIA'S SHORE.

Music by Alexander Hume.

Sing not to me of sunny shores Or verdant climes where olives bloom, Where, still and calm, the river pours Its flood, 'mid groves of rich perfume; Give me the land where torrents flash, Where loud the angry cat'racts roar, As wildly on their course they dash— Then here's a health to Scotia's shore.

Sing not to me of sunny isles, Though there eternal summers reign, Where many a dark-eyed maiden smiles, And gaudy flow'rets deck the plain; Give me the land of mountains steep, Where wild and free the eagles soar, The dizzy crags, where tempests sweep— Then here's a health to Scotia's shore.

Sing not to me of sunny lands, For there full often tyrants sway Who climb to power with blood-stain'd hands, While crouching, trembling slaves obey; Give me the land unconquer'd still, Though often tried in days of yore, Where freedom reigns from plain to hill— Then here's a health to Scotia's shore.



THE DAYS WHEN WE WERE YOUNG.

The happy days of yore! Will they ever come again, To shed a gleam of joy on us, And win the heart from pain? Or will they only come in dreams, When nicht's black curtain 's hung? Yet even then 'tis sweet to mind The days when we were young.

Fond mem'ry, wi' its mystic power, Brings early scenes to view— Again we roam among the hills, Sae wat wi' morning dew— Again we climb the broomy knowes, And sing wi' prattlin' tongue, For we had nae cares to fash us In the days when we were young.

How aft, when we were callants, Hae we sought the ocean's shore, And launch'd wi' glee our tiny boats, And heard the billows roar? And aft amang the glancin' waves In daring sport we 've sprung, And swam till we were wearied, In the days when we were young.

In winter, round the ingle side, We 've read wi' kindling e'e, How Wallace Wight, and Bruce the Bold, Aft made the southrons flee; Or listen'd to some bonnie sang, By bonnie lassie sung: Oh! love and happiness were ours, In days when we were young.

Oh! his maun be a waefu' heart That has nae sunny gleams Of by-gane joys in early days, Though it be but in dreams: Wha thinks nae o' his mither's arms, Sae aft around him flung, To shield him safe frae earthly harms, In days when he was young:

Wha thinks nae o' his sisters fair, That toddled out and in, And ran about the braes wi' him, And play'd wi' meikle din; And his maun be a barren heart, Where love has never sprung, Wha thinks nae o' the days gane by The days when he was young.



LIZZIE FREW.

'Twas a balmy summer gloamin', When the sun had gane to rest, And his gowden beams were glintin' Owre the hills far in the west; And upon the snawy gowan Saftly fell the pearly dew, When I met my heart's best treasure, Gentle, winsome Lizzy Frew.

Light she tripp'd amang the bracken, While her glossy waving hair Play'd around her gentle bosom, Dancing in the summer air. Love laugh'd in her een sae paukie, Smiles play'd round her rosy mou', And my heart was led a captive By the charms o' Lizzie Frew.

Thochts o' her can mak' me cheerie, As I toil the lee-lang day; And at nicht, though e'er sae wearie, Gladly out wi' her I stray. I ask nae for a greater pleasure, Than to ken her heart is true— I ask nae for a greater treasure, Than my gentle Lizzie Frew.



COLIN RAE BROWN.

The son of a respectable shipowner and captain in the merchant service, Colin Rae Brown was born at Greenock on the 19th of December 1821. Having completed his education in Glasgow, whither the family removed in 1829, he entered a mercantile warehouse. In 1842, he formed a connexion with the publishing house of Messrs Murray and Sons, Glasgow, and undertook the management of a branch of the business at Greenock. On the establishment in Glasgow of the North British Daily Mail, he accepted an offer by the proprietor to become the publisher of that newspaper. When the Mail passed into the hands of other proprietors, Mr Brown established, in conjunction with a partner, the Fine Art Gallery in St Vincent Street, with which he continues to be connected. In 1848 he published a volume of lyrics, which was well received; a second poetical work from his pen, which appeared in 1855, with the title, "Lays and Lyrics," has met with similar success. A number of songs from both volumes have been published separately with music. On the abolition of the stamp-duty on newspapers in 1855, Mr Brown originated the Bulletin and Workman, a daily and a weekly newspaper, both published in Glasgow.



CHARLIE 'S COMIN'.

Charlie 's comin' o'er the sea, Soon, he 'll set the country free From those that bear the rule and gree In bonnie Caledonia!

Gentle breezes, softly blow, We burn until we meet the foe, And strike the bold decisive blow For king and Caledonia!

Noble hearts are beating high, All will fight, none basely fly, For if they conquer not, they 'll die For ancient Caledonia!

Oh, that Charlie were but here! The base usurper then might fear— As loud the din fell on his ear Of joy in Caledonia!

Heard ye not that distant hum? And now the pipe, and now the drum, Proclaim the news that Charlie 's come To gladden Caledonia!

Tyrants, tremble, Charlie 's here! Now, indeed, ye 've cause to fear; Hielan' hearts be of good cheer, And on for Caledonia!



THE WIDOW'S DAUGHTER.

Why gaze on that pale face, Childless one, childless one? Why seek this lonely place? She hath gone, she hath gone.

Thy daughter is not here, Widow'd one, widow'd one— Nay, wipe away that tear, She hath won, she hath won!

Her home is far away, She 's at rest, she 's at rest, In everlasting day, With the blest, with the blest.

No pains, no sorrows there, All are past, all are past; That sigh summ'd up her care, 'Twas her last, 'twas her last.

'Tis not her there you see, Sister dear, sister dear; That earth holds nought for thee, Draw not near, draw not near.

The place is cold and dark, Haste away, haste away; Corruption is at work— Soulless clay! soulless clay!

The lamp hath ceased to burn, Quench'd the flame, quench'd the flame; Let dust to dust return, Whence it came, whence it came.

To thy chamber, sister dear; There to God, there to God, Bend humble and sincere, 'Neath His rod, 'neath His rod.

Prayer heals the broken heart— He is kind, He is kind; Each bruised and bleeding part He will bind, He will bind.

Weep not for her that 's gone— Time will fly, time will fly— Thou 'lt meet thy cherish'd one 'Yond the sky! 'yond the sky!



ROBERT LEIGHTON.

Robert Leighton, author of "Rhymes and Poems by Robin," a duodecimo volume of verses, published in 1855, was born at Dundee in 1822. He has been chiefly employed in mercantile concerns. The following lyric, which has attained some popularity, was one of his earliest poetical efforts, being composed in his sixteenth year.



MY MUCKLE MEAL POCK.

There 's some can be happy and bide whar they are, There 's ithers ne'er happy unless they gang far; But aft do I think I 'm an easy auld stock, While I 'm joggin' about wi' my muckle meal pock.

Though noo I be auld, abune four score and aucht, Though my pow it be bauld and my craig be na straucht, Yet frae mornin' till e'en—aye as steady 's a rock— I gang joggin' about wi' my muckle meal pock.

Just our ain parish roond, and nae mair I gang through, And when at the end I begin it anew; There isna' a door but wad blythely unlock, To welcome me ben wi' my muckle meal pock.

There isna' a hoose but I micht mak' my hame, There isna' an auld wife wad think me to blame, Though I open'd the door without gieing a knock, And cam' ben to the fire wi' my muckle meal pock.

As ony newspaper they say I 'm as gweed, And better, say some, for they hinna to read; The lads and the lasses around me a' flock, And there 's no ane forgets that I hae a meal pock.

The gudeman he speaks about corn and lan', "Hoo 's the markets," says he, "are they risen or fa'en? Or is this snawie weather the roads like to chock?" But the gudewife aye spiers for my muckle meal pock.

To be usefu' to her I haud sticks on the fire, Or whan to the milkin' she gangs to the byre, She 'll gie me a hand o' the cradle to rock, And for that she 's aye gude to my muckle meal pock.

Though my friends a' be gane whar I yet hae to gang, And o' followin' them noo I canna be lang, Yet while I am here I will lauch and I 'll joke, For I 'll aye find a friend in my muckle meal pock.



JAMES HENDERSON.

A poet of much elegance and power, James Henderson was born on the 2d November 1824, on the banks of the river Carron, in the village of Denny and county of Stirling. In his tenth year, he proceeded to Glasgow, where he was employed in mercantile concerns. Strongly influenced by sentiments of patriotism, and deeply imbued with the love of nature in its ever varying aspects, he found relaxation from business in the composition of verses. In 1848 he published a thin octavo volume, entitled "Glimpses of the Beautiful, and other Poems," which was much commended by the periodical and newspaper press. Having proceeded to India in 1849, he became a commission agent in Calcutta. He visited Britain in 1852, but returned to India the same year. Having permanently returned from the East in 1855, he has since settled in Glasgow as an East India merchant.



THE WANDERER'S DEATHBED.

Afar from the home where his youthful prime And his happy hours were pass'd, On the distant shore of a foreign clime The wanderer breathed his last. And they dug his grave where the wild flowers wave, By the brooklet's glassy brim; And the song-bird there wakes its morning prayer, And the dirge of its evening hymn.

He left the land of his childhood fair, With hope in his glowing breast, With visions bright as the summer's light, And dreams by his fancy blest. But death look'd down with a chilling frown As he stood on that distant shore, And he leant his head on the stranger's bed, Till the last sad pang was o'er.

Strange faces, fill'd with a soulless look, O'er the wanderer's deathbed hung; And the words were cold as the wintry wold, That fell from each heedless tongue. Nor mournful sigh, nor tearful eye The solace of pity gave, While the moments pass'd till he breathed his last, To sleep in the silent grave.

Afar from the home where his youthful prime And his happy hours were pass'd, On the distant shore of a foreign clime The wanderer breathed his last. And they dug his grave where the wild flowers wave, By the brooklet's glassy brim; And the song-bird there wakes its morning prayer, And the dirge of its evening hymn.



THE SONG OF TIME.

I fleet along, and the empires fall, And the nations pass away, Like visions bright of the dreamy night, That die with the dawning day. The lordly tower, and the battled wall, The hall, and the holy fane, In ruin lie while I wander by, Nor rise from their wreck again.

I light the rays of the orient blaze, The glow of the radiant noon; I wing my flight with the sapphire night, And glide with the gentle moon. O'er earth I roam, and the bright expanse Where the proud bark bounds away; And I join the stars in their choral dance Round the golden orb of day.

I fleet along, and the empires fall, And the nations pass away, Like visions bright of the dreamy night, That die with the dawning day. The sceptre sinks in the regal hall, And still'd is the monarch's tread, The mighty stoop as the meanest droop, And sleep with the nameless dead.



THE HIGHLAND HILLS.

The Highland hills! there are songs of mirth, And joy, and love on the gladsome earth; For Spring, in her queenly robes, hath smiled In the forest glade and the woodland wild. Then come with me from the haunts of men To the glassy lake in the mountain glen, Where sunshine sleeps on the dancing rills That chainless leap from the Highland hills.

The Highland hills! when the sparkling rays Of the silver dews greet the orient blaze, When noon comes forth with her gorgeous glow, While the fountains leap and the rivers flow, Thou wilt roam with me where the waterfalls Bid echo wake in the rocky halls, Till the grandeur wild to thy heart instils A deep delight 'mid the Highland hills.

The Highland hills! when the noonday smiles On the slumbering lakes and their fairy isles, We 'll clamber high where the heather waves By the warrior's cairn and the foemen's graves; And I 'll sing to thee, in "the bright day's prime," Of the days of old and of ancient time, And thy heart, unknown to the care that chills, Shall gladly joy in the Highland hills.

The Highland hills! in the twilight dim To their heath-clad crests shall thy footsteps climb, And there shalt thou gaze o'er the ocean far, Till the beacon blaze of the evening star, And the lamp of night, with its virgin beams, Look down on the deep and the shining streams, Till beauty's spell on thy spirit thrills With joy and love in the Highland hills.



MY NATIVE LAND.

Sublime is Scotia's mountain land, And beautiful and wild; By tyranny's unhallow'd hand Unsullied, undefiled. The free and fearless are her sons, The good and brave her sires; And, oh! her every spirit glows With freedom's festal fires!

When dark oppression far and wide Its gory deluge spread, While nations, ere they pass'd away, For hope and vengeance bled, She from her rocky bulwarks high The banner'd eagle hurl'd, And trampled on triumphant Rome, The empress of the world.

She gave the Danish wolf a grave Deep in her darkest glens, And chased the vaunting Norman hound Back to his lowland dens; And though the craven Saxon strove Her regal lord to be, Her hills were homes to nurse the brave, The fetterless, and free.

Peace to the spirits of the dead, The noble, and the brave; Peace to the mighty who have bled Our Fatherland to save! We revel in the pure delight Of deeds achieved by them, To crown their worth and valour bright With glory's diadem.



JAMES MACLARDY.

The writer of several good songs, James Maclardy was born in Glasgow on the 22d August 1824. His father, who afterwards removed to Paisley, was a journeyman shoemaker in humble circumstances. With the scanty rudiments of education, young Maclardy was early cast upon the world. For a course of years he led a sort of rambling life, repeatedly betaking himself to the occupation of a pedlar, and sometimes being dependent for subsistence on his skill as a ballad singer. Adopting his father's profession, he became more fortunate, and now took delight in improving himself in learning, and especially in perusing the works of the poets. After practising his craft in various localities, he has latterly settled in Glasgow, where he holds a situation of respectable emolument.



THE SUNNY DAYS ARE COME, MY LOVE.

The sunny days are come, my love, The gowan 's on the lea, And fragrant flow'rs wi' hiney'd lips, Invite the early bee; The scented winds are whisp'ring by, The lav'rock 's on the wing, The lintie on the dewy spray Gars glen and woodland ring.

The sunny days are come, my love, The primrose decks the brae, The vi'let in its rainbow robe Bends to the noontide ray; The cuckoo in her trackless bower Has waken'd from her dream; The shadows o' the new-born leaves Are waving in the stream.

The sunny days are come, my love, The swallow skims the lake, As o'er its glassy bosom clear The insect cloudlets shake. The heart of nature throbs with joy At love and beauty's sway; The meanest creeping thing of earth Shares in her ecstasy.

Then come wi' me my bonny Bell, And rove Gleniffer o'er, And ye shall lend a brighter tint To sunshine and to flower; And ye shall tell the heart ye 've won A blessing or a wae— Awake a summer in my breast, Or bid hope's flowers decay.

For spring may spread her mantle green, O'er mountain, dell, and lea, And summer burst in every hue Wi' smiles and melody, To me the sun were beamless, love, And scentless ilka flower, Gin ye were no this heart's bright sun, Its music and its bower.



OH, MY LOVE WAS FAIR.

Oh, my love was fair as the siller clud That sleeps in the smile o' dawn; An' her een were bricht as the crystal bells That spangle the blossom'd lawn: An' warm as the sun was her kind, kind heart, That glow'd 'neath a faemy sea; But I fear'd, by the tones o' her sweet, sweet voice, That my love was nae for me.

Oh, my love was gay as the summer time, When the earth is bricht an' gled, An' fresh as the spring when the young buds blaw, In their sparkling pearl-draps cled: An' her hair was like chains o' the sunset sheen That hangs 'tween the lift an' sea; But I fear'd, by the licht that halo'd her face, That my love was nae for me.

Oh, my love was sweet as the violet flower That waves by the moss-grown stane, An' her lips were rich as the rowans red That hang in forest lane; An' her broo was a dreamy hill o' licht, That struck ane dumb to see; But I fear'd, by signs that canna be named, That my love was nae for me.

Oh, my love was mild as the autumn gale That fans the temples o' toil, An' the sweets o' a thousand summers cam' On her breath an' sunny smile: An' spotless she gaed on the tainted earth, O' a mortal blemish free, While my heart forgot, in its feast o' joy, That my love was nae for me.

Oh, my love was leal, an' my cup o' bliss Was reaming to the brim, When, ae gloaming chill, to her sacred bower Cam' a grisly carl fu' grim, Wha dash'd the cup frae my raptured lips Wi' a wild, unearthly glee; Sae the ghaistly thought was then confirm'd, That my love was nae for me.

Oh, my love was young, an' the grim auld carl Held her fast in his cauld embrace, An' suck'd the red frae her hiney'd mou', An' the blush frae her peachy face: He stifled the sound o' her charm'd throat, An' quench'd the fires o' her e'e; But fairer she blooms in her heavenly bower, For my love was nae for me.

Sae I tyned my love an' I tyned my heart, An' I tyned baith wealth an' fame; Syne I turn'd a sad, weary minstrel wicht, Wi' the cauld warld for my hame. Yet my minstrelsy 's but a lanely lay, My wealth my aumous fee; Oh, wad that I were wi' the grim auld carl, For this warld is nae for me.



ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON.

The author of "Harebell Chimes," a volume of interesting verses, Andrew James Symington, was born at Paisley, on the 27th of July 1825. His father was a scion of the noble house of Douglas, and his mother claimed descent from the old Highland family of Macalister. On the completion of his education at the grammar school, the subject of this sketch entered the warehouse of his father, who carried on business as a muslin manufacturer. By the death of his father in 1841, he succeeded, along with an elder brother, to the full management of the concern. In 1848 the establishment was removed from Paisley to Glasgow, where it continues to be prosperously carried on.

Eminently devoted to literary and artistic studies, Mr Symington has cultivated the personal intercourse of artists and men of letters. He has contributed to some of the leading periodicals. His volume of "Harebell Chimes," published in 1849, contains poetry of a high order; it was especially commended by the late Samuel Rogers, with whom the author had the privilege of corresponding. In 1855, a small volume entitled "Genivieve, and other Poems," was printed by Mr Symington for circulation among his friends.



DAY DREAM.

Close by the marge of Leman's lake, Upon a thymy plot, In blissful rev'rie, half awake, Earth's follies all forgot, I conjured up a faery isle Where sorrow enter'd not, Withouten shade of sin or guile— A lovely Eden spot.

With trellis'd vines, in cool arcade, And leaves of tender green, All trembling in the light and shade, As sunbeams glanced between: The mossy turf, bespangled gay With fragrant flowery sheen— Bell, primrose, pink, and showers of May— The fairest ever seen.

Near where a crystal river ran Into the rich, warm light, A domed palace fair began To rise in marble white. 'Twas fill'd, as if by amulet, With mirrors dazzling bright— With antique vase and statuette, A palace of delight.

And "Mignon" in a snow-white dress, With circlet on her hair, Appear'd in all her loveliness, Like angel standing there. She struck the cithern in her hand, And sang with 'witching air Her own sweet song, "Know'st thou the land?" To music wild and rare.

It died away—the palace changed, Dream-like, into a bower! Around, the soft-eyed dun-deer ranged, Secure from hunter's power. Wild thyme and eye-bright tinged the ground, With daisy, starry flower, While crimson flower-bells cluster'd round The rose-twined faery bower.

Therein "Undine," lovely sprite! Sat gazing on sunrise, And sang of "morning, clear and bright"— The tears came in her eyes: She look'd upon the lovely isle, And now up to the skies, Then in a silv'ry misty veil She vanish'd from mine eyes.

A music, as of forest trees Bent 'neath the storm-blast's sway, Rose swelling—dying in the breeze, A strange, wild lullaby. The islet with its flowery turf Then waxed dim and gray; I look'd—no islet gemm'd the surf— The dream had fled away.



FAIR AS A STAR OF LIGHT.

Fair as a star of light, Like diamond gleaming bright, Through darkness of the night, Is my love to me. As bell of lily white, In streamlet mirror'd bright, All quiv'ring with delight, Is my love to me— My love to me.

A flowing magic thrill Which floodeth heart and will With gushes musical, Is my love to me. Bright as the tranced dream, Which flitteth in a gleam, Before morn's golden beam, Is my love to me— My love to me.

Like living crystal well, In cool and shady dell, Unto the parch'd gazelle, Is my love to me. And dearer than things fair, However rich and rare, In earth, or sea, or air, Is my love to me— My love to me.



NATURE MUSICAL.

There is music in the storm, love, When the tempest rages high; It whispers in the summer breeze A soft, sweet lullaby. There is music in the night, When the joyous nightingale, Clear warbling, filleth with his song The hillside and the vale. Then sing, sing, sing, For music breathes in everything.

There is music by the shore, love, When foaming billows dash; It echoes in the thunder peal, When vivid lightnings flash. There is music by the shore, In the stilly noon of night, When the murmurs of the ocean fade In the clear moonlight.

There is music in the soul, love, When it hears the gushing swell, Which, like a dream intensely soft, Peals from the lily-bell. There is music—music deep In the soul that looks on high, When myriad sparkling stars sing out Their pure sphere harmony.

There is music in the glance, love, Which speaketh from the heart, Of a sympathy in souls That never more would part. There is music in the note Of the cooing turtle-dove; There is music in the voice Of dear ones whom we love.

There is music everywhere, love, To the pure of spirit given; And sweetest music heard on earth But whispers that of heaven. Oh, all is music there— 'Tis the language of the sky— Sweet hallelujahs there resound Eternal harmony. Then sing, sing, sing, For music breathes in everything.



ISABELLA CRAIG.

Isabella Craig is a native of Edinburgh, where she has continued to reside. Her educational advantages were limited. To the columns of the Scotsman newspaper she has for several years contributed verses. In 1856 she published a collection of her poetical compositions, in a duodecimo volume, with the title, "Poems by Isa." She contributes to the periodicals.



OUR HELEN.

Is our Helen very fair? If you only knew her You would doubt it not, howe'er Stranger eyes may view her. We who see her day by day Through our household moving, Whether she be fair or nay Cannot see for loving.

O'er our gentle Helen's face No rich hues are bright'ning, And no smiles of feigned grace From her lips are light'ning; She hath quiet, smiling eyes, Fair hair simply braided, All as mild as evening skies Ere sunlight hath faded.

Our kind, thoughtful Helen loves Our approving praises, But her eye that never roves Shrinks from other gazes. She, so late within her home But a child caressing, Now a woman hath become, Ministering, blessing.

All her duty, all her bliss, In her home she findeth, Nor too narrow deemeth this— Lowly things she mindeth; Yet when deeper cares distress, She is our adviser; Reason's rules she needeth less, For her heart is wiser.

For the sorrows of the poor Her kind spirit bleedeth, And, because so good and pure, For the erring pleadeth. Is our Helen very fair? If you only knew her You would doubt it not, howe'er Stranger eyes may view her.



GOING OUT AND COMING IN.

In that home was joy and sorrow Where an infant first drew breath, While an aged sire was drawing Near unto the gate of death. His feeble pulse was failing, And his eye was growing dim; He was standing on the threshold When they brought the babe to him.

While to murmur forth a blessing On the little one he tried, In his trembling arms he raised it, Press'd it to his lips and died. An awful darkness resteth On the path they both begin, Who thus met upon the threshold, Going out and coming in.

Going out unto the triumph, Coming in unto the fight— Coming in unto the darkness, Going out unto the light; Although the shadow deepen'd In the moment of eclipse, When he pass'd through the dread portal With the blessing on his lips.

And to him who bravely conquers, As he conquer'd in the strife, Life is but the way of dying— Death is but the gate of life; Yet awful darkness resteth On the path we all begin, Where we meet upon the threshold, Going out and coming in.



MY MARY AN' ME.

We were baith neebor bairns, thegither we play'd, We loved our first love, an' our hearts never stray'd; When I got my young lassie her first vow to gie, We promised to wait for each ither a wee.

My mother was widow'd when we should hae wed, An' the nicht when we stood roun' my father's death-bed, He charged me a husband and father to be, While my young orphan sisters clung weepin' to me.

I kent nae, my Mary, what high heart was thine, Nor how brightly thy love in a dark hour wad shine, Till in doubt and in sorrow, ye whisper'd to me, "Win the blessing o' Heaven for thy Mary and thee."

An' years hae flown by deeply laden wi' care, But Mary has help'd me their burden to bear, She gave me my shield in misfortune and wrong, 'Twas she that aye bade me be steadfast and strong.

Her meek an' quiet spirit is aye smooth as now, Her saft shinin' hair meekly shades her white brow, A few silver threads 'mang its dark faulds I see, They tell me how lang she has waited on me.

Her cheek has grown paler, for she too maun toil, Her sma' hands are thinner, less mirthfu' her smile; She aft speaks o' heaven, and if she should dee, She tells me that there she 'll be waitin' on me.



A SONG OF SUMMER.

I will sing a song of summer, Of bright summer as it dwells, Amid leaves and flowers and sunshine, In lone haunts and grassy dells. Lo! the hill encircled valley Is like an emerald cup, To its inmost depths all glowing, With sunlight brimming up. Here I 'd dream away the day time, And let happy thoughts have birth, And forget there 's aught but glory, Aught but beauty on the earth.

Not a speck of cloud is floating In the deep blue overhead, 'Neath the trees the daisied verdure Like a broider'd couch is spread. The rustling leaves are dancing With the light wind's music stirr'd, And in gushes through the stillness Comes the song of woodland bird. Here I 'd dream away the day-time, And let gentlest thoughts have birth, And forget there 's aught but gladness, Aught but peace upon the earth.



ROBERT DUTHIE.

The writer of some spirited lyrics, Robert Duthie was born in Stonehaven on the 2d of February 1826. Having obtained an ordinary elementary education, he was apprenticed, in his fourteenth year, to his father, who followed the baking business. He afterwards taught a private school in his native town; but, on the death of his father, in 1848, he resumed his original profession, with the view of supporting his mother and the younger members of the family. Devoting his leisure hours to literature and poetry, he is a frequent contributor to the provincial journals; and some of his lyrical productions promise to secure him a more extended reputation.



SONG OF THE OLD ROVER.

I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat on the wild sea waves, And the tempest around me is swelling; The winds have come forth from their ice-ribb'd caves, And the waves from their rocky dwelling; But my trim-built bark O'er the waters dark Bounds lightly along, And the mermaid lists to my echoing song. Hurrah! hurrah! how I love to lave In the briny spray of the wild sea wave!

I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat on the foaming deep, And the storm-bird above me is screaming; While forth from the cloud where the thunders sleep The lightning is fearfully gleaming; But onward I dash, For the fitful flash Illumes me along, And the thunders chorus my echoing song. Hurrah! hurrah! how I love to brave The dangers that frown on the wild sea wave!

I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat where my well-served shot Lays the war-dogs bleeding around me; But ne'er do I yield on the tentless field Till the wreath of the victor hath crown'd me; Then I, a true child Of the ocean wild, With a tuneful tongue Bear away with my prize and my conquering song. Hurrah! hurrah! shot and storm, let them rave— I 'm at home, dashing on through the wild sea wave!

I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat on my ocean home— The home of the hurrying billow; But the time is at hand when no longer I 'll roam, But in peace lay me down on its pillow: The petrel will scream My requiem hymn, And the thunders prolong The deep-chorus'd note of my last echo'd song, As I sink to repose in my rock-bound grave That is down in the depths of the wild sea wave.



BOATMAN'S SONG.

Hurrah! hurrah! for the boundless sea, The home of the rover, the bold and free; Land hath its charms, but those be mine, To row my boat through the sparkling brine— To lave in the pearls that kiss the prow Of the bounding thing as we onward go— To nerve the arm and bend the oar, Bearing away from the vacant shore. Pull away, pull away o'er the glassy sea— 'Tis the tempest's path, and the path for me; Land hath its charms, but no charms like thine: Hurrah! let us dash through the sparkling brine.

Gloomily creeping the mists appear In denser shade on the mountains drear; And the twilight steals o'er the stilly deep, By the zephyrs hush'd to its evening sleep; Nor a ripple uprears a whiten'd crest, To wrinkle the blue of its placid breast; But all is still, save the lisping waves Washing the shells in the distant caves. Pull away, pull away o'er the sleeping sea— 'Tis the tempest's path, and the path for me— 'Tis the home of my heart where I 'd ever rove! Hurrah! hurrah! for the home I love.

Oh, I love the sound of the tempest's roar, And I love the splash of the bending oar, Playing amid the phosphoric fire, Seen as the eddying sparks retire. 'Tis a fairy home, and I love to roam Through its sleeping calm or its lashing foam. The land hath its charms, but the sea hath more; Then away let us row from the vacant shore. Pull away, pull away o'er the mighty sea— 'Tis the tempest's path, and the path for me; 'Tis the home of the rover, the bold and free: Hurrah! hurrah! for the boundless sea.



LISETTE.

When we meet again, Lisette, Let the sun be sunk to rest Beneath the glowing wavelets Of the widely spreading west; Let half the world be hush'd In the drowsiness of sleep, And howlets scream the music Of the revels that they keep.

Let the gentle lady-moon, With her coldly drooping beams, Be dancing in the ripple Of the ever-laughing streams, Where the little elves disport In the stilly noon of night, And lave their limbs of ether In the mellow flood of light.

When we meet again, Lisette, Let it be in yonder pile, Beneath the massy fretting Of its darkly-shaded aisle, Where, through the crumbling arches The quaint old carvings loom, And saint and seraph keep their watch O'er many an ancient tomb.



ALEXANDER STEPHEN WILSON.

Alexander Stephen Wilson was born on the 4th April 1826, in the parish of Rayne, Aberdeenshire. His father, who rented a farm, having been killed by a fall from his horse, the subject of this sketch was brought up from infancy under the care of his maternal grandfather. In his boyhood he attended school during winter, and in summer was employed as a cow-herd. At the age of fifteen he was apprenticed to a land-surveyor, with whom he served five years. With a native turn for versifying, he early invoked the muse, and contributed poetry to the public journals. At the close of his apprenticeship, he established a debating club among the young men in the district of Rayne, and subsequently adventured on the publication of a monthly periodical. The latter, entitled The Rural Echo, was almost wholly occupied with the ingenious projector's own compositions, both in prose and poetry, and commanded a wide circulation. Devoted to metaphysical inquiries, Mr Wilson has latterly turned his attention to that department of study. He has likewise been ardent in the pursuit of physical science. An ingenious treatise from his pen on the nature of light, published in 1855, attracted no inconsiderable notice, and is strongly indicative of original power. He has latterly resided in Perth, holding the appointment of assistant civil engineer.



THINGS MUST MEND.

The gloom of dark despondency At times will cloud the breast; Hope's eagle eye may shaded be, 'Mid fortune's fears oppress'd; But while we nurse an honest aim We shall not break nor bend, For when things are at the worst They must mend.

The gentle heart by hardship crush'd Will sing amid its tears, And though its voice awhile be hush'd, 'Tis tuned for coming years; A light from out the future shines With hope's tear-drops to blend, And when things are at the worst They must mend.

Amid life's danger and despair Still let our deeds be true, For nought but what is right and fair Can heal our hopeless view. The beautiful will soothe us, like The sunshine of a friend, And when things are at the worst They must mend.

Oh, never leave life's morning dream, 'Tis whisper'd down from heaven, But trace its maze, though sorrow seem The sole reward that 's given; The joy is there, or not on earth, Which with our souls may blend, And when things are at the worst They must mend.



THE WEE BLINK THAT SHINES IN A TEAR.

Life's pleasure seems sadness and care, When dark is the bosom that feels, Yet mingled wi' shades o' despair Is the ray which our sorrow reveals; Though darkly at times flows the stream, It rows till its waters are clear— And Hope shields a bud in our life's darkest dream Like the wee blink that shines in a tear.

Afar in the wilderness blooms The flower that spreads beauty around, And Nature smiles sweet on our tombs And softens with balm every wound. Oh, call not our life sad nor vain, Wi' its joys that can ever endear, There 's a sweet ray of pleasure star deep in each pain, Like the wee blink that shines in a tear.

Sweet smiles the last hope in our woe And fair is the lone desert isle; Young Flora peeps gay from the snow; And dearest in grief is a smile; The dew-drop is bright with a star; Age glows when young memories appear; But a symbol to hope that is sweeter by far Is the wee blink that shines in a tear.



FLOWERS OF MY OWN LOVED CLIME.

Ye have cross'd o'er the wave from the glades where I roved, When my wild heart was careless and free, But now far away from the zephyrs ye loved, Ye are bloomless and wither'd like me. Yet sweet is the perfume that 's breathed from your leaves, Like songs of the dear olden time; Ye come with the memory that glads while it grieves, Sweet flowers of my own loved clime!

Oh, strange are the dreams ye awake in my breast Of the home and the friends that were mine, In the days when I feel that my bosom was blest, Nor deem'd it should ever repine. I gaze on your leaves where loved eyes have been, And the spell brings the dear olden time When I roved where ye bloom'd in yon valley so green, Sweet flowers of my own loved clime!

Deep down in my heart, where the world cannot see, I treasure a life all my own, And that land, sweet flowers, shall ope for thee, For like thine half its beauty hath flown. I 'll live o'er the raptures of young years again, And snatch back the dear olden time, When I gaze on your blossoms, in pleasure or pain, Sweet flowers of my own loved clime!



JAMES MACFARLAN.

A poet of singular merit, under circumstances in the highest degree unfavourable to intellectual culture, James Macfarlan was born in Glasgow on the 9th April 1832. His father, who follows the occupation of a pedlar, caused him to become, from an early age, the companion of his wanderings. A few months' attendance at educational seminaries in Glasgow and Greenock constituted his entire scholastic education; but an intense ardour in the pursuit of letters supplied the lack of a more methodical training. At the age of twenty-two, he produced a volume of poems which attracted much attention, and called forth the warmest encomiums from the press. This was followed by two smaller publications of verses, with the titles, "City Songs, and other Poetical Pieces," and "The Lyrics of Life." A little poetical brochure, entitled, "The Wanderer of the West," is his latest production.

Macfarlan was for some time in the employment of the directors of the Glasgow Athenaeum. Latterly, he has held a situation in connexion with the Bulletin, a daily journal published in Glasgow.



ISABELLE.

Oh, beautiful and bright thou art! Oh, beautiful and bright! Thy voice is music of the heart— Thy looks are rarest light! What time the silver dawn of dreams Lights up the dark of sleep, As yon pale moon lights up the heaven With beauty clear and deep, I see thee in the ebbing stars, I hear quaint voices swell, And dim and phantom winds that come And whisper, Isabelle.

Oh, beautiful and bright thou art! Oh, beautiful and bright! Thy beauty hangeth o'er my heart, Like rich star-crowded night. As moonbeams silver on the wave Of some night-sadden'd river, So on my lonesome life thy love Would lie in light for ever. Yet wander on—oh, wander on, Cold river, to the sea, And, weary life, thy ocean gain— Undream'd eternity.

In vain the cruel curse of earth Hath torn our lives apart; The man-made barriers of gold Weigh down the humble heart. Oh, hadst thou been a village maid— A simple wayside flower— With nought to boast, save honest worth, And beauty all thy dower! Such might have been—such should have been, But other lot befell; I am the lowly son of toil, And thou proud Isabelle.

It ever seems to me that love Should level all degrees; Pure honour, and a stainless heart Are Nature's heraldries. No scutcheon needs a noble soul (Alas! how thinks the age?); He is not poor who freedom hath For his broad heritage. Then welcome sternest teacher, Toil; Vain dreams of youth, farewell; The future hath its duty's prize— The past, its Isabelle.



HOUSEHOLD GODS.

Built on Time's uneven sand, Hope's fair fabric soon is shatter'd; Bowers adorn'd by Fancy's hand Torn in wandering leaves are scatter'd. Perish'd, perish'd, lost and perish'd, Old affections fondly cherish'd.

All our blossoms wither soon, While we dream the flower will strengthen, And across life's summer noon Death's dark shadow seems to lengthen. In that mighty shadow perish'd All we liv'd for, all we cherish'd.

Dear ones loved are lost in night; O'er the world we wander lonely, And the heart of all youth's light Holds one fading sunbeam only. Old affections vainly cherish'd, All except the memory perish'd.



POOR COMPANIONS.

Look up, old friend! why hang thy head? The world is all before us. Earth's wealth of flowers is at our feet, Heaven's wealth of worlds is o'er us. Spring leans to us across the sea With affluent caressing, And autumn yet shall crown our toil With many a fruitful blessing. Then why should we despair in spring, Who braved out wintry weather? Let monarchs rule, but we shall sing And journey on together.

You mourn that we are born so poor— I would not change our treasure For all the thorn-concealing flowers That strew the path of pleasure. God only searches for the soul, Nor heeds the outward building; Believe me, friend, a noble heart Requires no aid of gilding. Then never let us pine in spring, We 've braved out wintry weather, We yet may touch a sweeter string When toiling on together.

What though our blood be tinged with mud, My lord's is simply purer; 'Twill scarce flow sixty years, nor make His seat in heaven surer. But should the noble deign to speak, We 'll hail him as a brother, And trace respective pedigrees To Eve, our common mother. Then why should we despair in spring, Who braved out wintry weather? Let monarchs rule, while we shall sing, And journey on together.



WILLIAM B. C. RIDDELL.

A youth of remarkable promise, William Brown Clark Riddell, was the youngest son of Mr Henry Scott Riddell.[12] He was born at Flexhouse, near Hawick, Roxburghshire, on the 16th December 1835. In his seventh year he was admitted a pupil in John Watson's Institution, Edinburgh, where he remained till 1850, when, procuring a bursary from the governors of Heriot's Hospital, he entered the University of Edinburgh. During three sessions he prosecuted his studies with extraordinary ardour and success. On the commencement of a fourth session he was seized with an illness which completely prostrated his physical, and occasionally enfeebled his mental, energies. After a period of suffering, patiently borne, he died in his father's cottage, Teviothead, on the 20th July 1856, in his twenty-first year.

Of an intellect singularly precocious, William Riddell, so early as the age of seven, composed in correct and interesting prose, and produced in his eighth year some vigorous poetry. With a highly retentive memory he retained the results of an extended course of reading, begun almost in childhood. Conversant with general history, he was familiar with the various systems of philosophy. To an accurate knowledge of the Latin and Greek classics, he added a correct acquaintance with many of the modern languages. He found consolation on his deathbed, by perusing the Scriptures in the original tongues. He died in fervent hope, and with Christian resignation.

FOOTNOTES:

[12] See "Minstrel," vol. iv. p. 1.



LAMENT OF WALLACE.[13]

No more by thy margin, dark Carron, Shall Wallace in solitude, wander, When tranquil the moon shines afar on Thy heart-stirring wildness and grandeur. For lost are to me Thy beauties for ever, Since fallen in thee Lie the faithful and free, To waken, ah, never!

And I, thus defeated, must suffer My country's reproach; yet, forsaken, A home to me nature may offer Among her green forests of braken. But home who can find For heart-rending sorrow? The wound who can bind When thus pierced is the mind By fate's ruthless arrow?

'Tis death that alone ever frees us Of woes too profound to be spoken, And nought but the grave ever eases The pangs of a heart that is broken. Then, oh! that my blood In Carron's dark water Had mix'd with the flood Of the warriors' shed 'Mid torrents of slaughter.

For woe to the day when desponding I read in thine aspect the story Of those that were slain when defending Their homes and their mountains of glory. And curst be the guile Of treacherous knavery That throws o'er our isle In its tyranny vile The mantle of slavery.

FOOTNOTES:

[13] Composed in the author's fourteenth year.



OH! WHAT IS IN THIS FLAUNTING TOWN?[14]

Oh! what is in this flaunting town That pleasure can impart, When native hills and native glens Are imaged on the heart, And fancy hears the ceaseless roar Of cataracts sublime, Where I have paused and ponder'd o'er The awful works of time?

What, what is all the city din? What all the bustling crowd That throngs these ways from morn to night Array'd in trappings proud? While fancy's eye still sees the scenes Around my mountain home, Oh! what 's to me yon turret high. And what yon splendid dome?

Ah! what except a mockery vain Of nature free as fair, That dazzles rather than delights The eye that meets its glare? Then bear me to the heathy hills Where I so loved to stray, There let me rove with footsteps free And sing the rural lay.

FOOTNOTES:

[14] Composed at the age of fifteen.



MARGARET CRAWFORD.

The author of "Rustic Lays," an interesting volume of lyric poetry, Margaret Crawford was born on the 4th February 1833, at Gilmerton, in the parish of Liberton, Mid-Lothian. With limited opportunities of attending school, she was chiefly indebted for her elementary training to occasional instructions communicated by her mother. Her father, an operative gardener, removed in 1842 to Torwoodlee, Roxburghshire. It was while living there, under her parents' roof, that, so early as her thirteenth year, she first essayed to write verses. Through the beneficence of Mrs Meiklam of Torwoodlee, whose husband her father served, she was taught dress-making. She subsequently accepted the situation of nurse-maid at Craignish Castle, Argyllshire. In 1852, her parents removed to the village of Stow, in the upper district of Mid-Lothian. An inmate of their humble cottage, she has for some years been employed as a dress-maker. Her "Rustic Lays" appeared in 1855, in an elegant little volume. Of its contents she thus remarks in the preface: "Many of these pieces were composed by the authoress on the banks of the Gala, whose sweet, soft music, mingling with the melodies of the woodland, has often charmed her into forgetfulness of the rough realities of life. Others were composed at the fireside, in her father's cottage, at the hours of the gloamin', when, after the bustle of the day had ceased, the clouds and cares of the present were chased away by the bright dreams of the past, and the happy hopes of the future, till she found that her musings had twined themselves into numbers, and assumed the form in which they now appear."



MY NATIVE LAND.

My native land! my native land! Where liberty shall firmly stand, Where men are brave in heart and hand, In ancient Caledonia! How dear to me those gurgling rills That wander free amang the hills! How sweet to me the sang that fills The groves o' Caledonia!

They tell me o' a distant isle Where summer suns for ever smile; But frae my heart they 'll never wile My love for Caledonia! And what are a' their flowery plains, If fill'd with weeping slav'ry's chains? Nae foot o' slavery ever stains My native Caledonia!

Though cauld 's the sun that shed's his rays O'er Scotland's bonnie woods and braes, Oh, let me spend my latest days In ancient Caledonia! My native land! my native land! Where liberty shall firmly stand, Where men are brave in heart and hand— True sons of Caledonia!



THE EMIGRANT'S FAREWELL.

Land of my fathers, I leave thee in sadness— Far from my dear native country I roam; Fondly I cling to the bright scenes of gladness That shone o'er my heart in my dear happy home.

Far from the home of my childhood I wander, Far from the friends I may never meet more; Oft on those visions of bliss I shall ponder— Visions that memory alone can restore.

Friends of my youth I shall love you for ever— Closer and firmer ye twine round my heart; Though now the wide sea our lot may dissever, Affection and friendship can never depart.

Land of my fathers, I leave thee in sadness— Dear to my heart thou shalt ever remain! Oh, when shall I gaze on those bright scenes of gladness? When shall I visit my country again?



THE STREAM OF LIFE.

Down by a crystal stream Musing I stray'd, As 'neath the summer beam Lightly it play'd, Winding by field and fen, Mountain and meadow, then Stealing through wood and glen, Soft'ning the shade.

Thus, then, methought, is life; Onward it flows— Now mingling peace with strife, Toil with repose— Now sparkling joyously Under the glare of day, Drinking each sunny ray, Purely it flows.

Now gliding peacefully, Calm and serene, Smoothly it takes its way, Softly I ween Murmur its waters past— Oh, will that stillness last? See, rocks are nearing fast, Changing the scene.

Wildly it dashes now, Loudly it roars, Over the craggy brow Fiercely it pours. All in commotion lost, Wave over wave is toss'd; Spray, white as winter's frost, Up from it soars.

Yet where the conflict 's worst Brightest it gleams; Rays long in silence nursed Shoot forth in streams: Beauties before unknown Out from its breast are thrown; Light, like a golden zone, Brilliantly beams.

Thus in the Christian's breast Pure faith may lie, Hid in the day of rest Deep from the eye; But when life's shadows lower Faith lights the darkest hour, Driving, by heavenly power, Gloom from the sky.



DAY-DREAMS OF OTHER YEARS.

There are moments when my spirit wanders back to other years, And time long, long departed, like the present still appears; And I revel in the sunshine of those happy, happy hours, When the sky of youth was cloudless, and its path was strewn with flowers.

O those days of dreamy sweetness! O those visions of delight! Weaving garlands for the future, making all of earth too bright; They come creeping through my memory like messengers of peace, Telling tales of bygone blessings, bidding present sorrows cease.

Long-lost friends are gath'ring round me, smiling faces, gentle forms, All unconscious of earth's struggles, all unmindful of its storms— Beaming radiantly and beautiful, as in the days of youth, When friendship was no mockery, when every thought was truth.

Joy, illuming every bosom, made fair nature fairer still— Mirth sported on each summer breeze, and sung in every rill; Beauty gleaming all around us, bright as dreams of fairy land— Oh, faded now that lustre, scatter'd far that happy band!

Now deeply traced with sorrow is the once unclouded brow, And eyes that sparkled joyously are dim with weeping now; We are tasting life in earnest—all its vain illusions gone— And the stars that glisten'd o'er our path are falling one by one.

Some are sleeping with their kindred—summer blossoms o'er them wave; Some, lonely and unfriended, with the stranger found a grave; While others now are wand'ring on a far and foreign shore, And that happy, loving company shall meet—ah! never more.

But afar in mem'ry's garden, like a consecrated spot, The heart's first hopes are hidden, and can never be forgot; And the light that cheer'd us onward, in our airy early days— Oft we linger in the distance to look back upon its rays.

Old Time, with hand relentless, may shed ruins o'er the earth, May strew our path with sorrow, make a desert of our hearth— Change may blight our fairest blossoms, shroud our clearest light in gloom; But the flow'ry fields of early years shall never lose their bloom.



AFFECTION'S FAITH.

Away on the breast of the ocean, Far away o'er the billowy brine, 'Mid the strife of the boiling commotion, Where the storm and the tempest combine, Roams my heart, of its wand'ring ne'er weary; While Hope, with her heavenly smile, Cheers the bosom that else would be dreary, And points me to blessings the while.

Of the far-hidden future still dreaming, On the wild wings of fancy I fly, And the star of affection, bright beaming, Is piercing the gloom of our sky; And my home is away o'er the ocean, Afar o'er the wide swelling sea, Where a heart, in its purest devotion, Is breathing fond blessings on me.



GEORGE DONALD, JUN.

George Donald the younger was born on the 1st of March 1826, at Thornliebank, near Glasgow. His father, George Donald the elder, is noticed in an earlier part of the present volume. Sent to labour in a calico print-work in his tenth year, his education was chiefly obtained at evening schools, and afterwards by self-application during the intervals of toil. In his seventeenth year he became apprenticed to a pattern-designer, and having fulfilled his indenture, he has since prosecuted this occupation. From his youth a writer of verses, he has contributed poetical compositions to the Glasgow Examiner and Citizen newspapers.



OUR AIN GREEN SHAW.

They tell me o' a land whar the sky is ever clear, Whar rivers row ower gowden sands, and flower unfading blaw, But, oh! nae joys o' nature to me are half sae dear As the flow'rets springing wild in our ain green shaw.

They speak o' gilded palaces, o' lords and leddies fair, And scenes that charm the weary heart in cities far awa'; But nane o' a' their gaudy shows and pleasures can compare Wi' the happiness that dwells in our ain green shaw.

Oh weel I lo'e when summer comes wi' sunny days an' glee, And brings to gladden ilka heart her rural pleasures a', When on the thorn the mavis sings and gowans deck the lea,— Oh, then nae spot 's sae bonnie as our ain green shaw.

While Heaven supplies each simple want and leaves me still my cot, I'll bear through life a cheerfu' heart whatever may befa', Nor envy ither's joys, but aye be happy wi' my lot When wand'ring in the e'enin' through our ain green shaw.



ELIZA.

In her chamber, vigil keeping, Fair Eliza sitteth weeping, Weeping for her lover slain: Fair Eliza, sorrow-laden, Once a joyous-hearted maiden Till her William cross'd the main.

Fatal day that saw them parted! For it left her lonely-hearted— Her so full of joy before— Brought to her the thought of sadness, Clouding her young spirit's gladness, That she ne'er might see him more!

Sad Eliza, no blest morrow Will dispel thy secret sorrow, Bring thine own true love again. Mournful is thy William's story: On the field of martial glory, Fighting bravely, he was slain!

Now the silent stars above her Seem to tell her of her lover, For each night, with pensive gaze On the blue vault shining o'er her, Sits Eliza, while before her Fleet the scenes of other days.

Thus her lonely vigil keeping, Fair Eliza sitteth weeping, Weeping for her lover slain: Fair Eliza, sorrow-laden, Once a joyous-hearted maiden Till her William cross'd the main.



JOHN JEFFREY.

The author of "Lays of the Revolutions," John Jeffrey, was born on the 29th March 1822, at the manse of Girthon, in the stewartry of Kirkcudbright. His maternal granduncle was the celebrated Dr Thomas Brown of Edinburgh. From his father, who was parish minister of Girthon, and a man of accomplished learning, he received an education sufficient to qualify him for entering, in 1836, the University of Edinburgh. In 1844 he became a licentiate of the Free Church, and after declining several calls, accepted, in 1846, the charge of the Free Church congregation at Douglas, Lanarkshire. Mr Jeffrey was early devoted to poetical studies. In his eighteenth year he printed, for private circulation, a small volume of poems, entitled "Hymns of a Neophyte." In 1849 appeared his "Lays of the Revolutions," a work which, vindicating in powerful verse the cause of oppressed European nationalities, was received with much favour by the public. To several of the leading periodicals Mr Jeffrey has contributed spirited articles in support of liberal politics. A pamphlet from his pen, on the decay of traditional influence in Parliament, entitled "The Fall of the Great Factions," has obtained considerable circulation. More recently he has devoted himself to the study of the modern languages, and to inquiries in ethnological science.



WAR-CRY OF THE ROMAN INSURRECTIONISTS.

Rise, Romans, rise at last, Craft's kingdom now is past; Brook no delay! Lombard blades long ago, Swifter than whirlwinds blow, Swept from Milan the foe: Why should we stay?

Rise, then, for fatherland; In rock-like phalanx stand, Cowards no more. Rise in colossal might, Rise till the storm of fight Wrap us in lurid light Where cannons roar!

In this great dawn of time, In this great death of crime, Quit us like men; By our deeds, by our words, By our songs, by our swords— Use all against the hordes, Sabre or pen!

More than fame, duty calls, Trumpet-tongued from the walls Girding great Rome; Battle for truth and faith, Battle lest hostile scathe Crush us, or fetters swathe Free hearth and home!

Hark! how God's thunders roll, Booming from pole to pole Of the wide world! "Old lies are crush'd for aye, Now truths assume their sway, Bright shines the flag of day O'er night unfurl'd!"

Tower, then, the barricades! Flash forth the lightning blades! Romans, awake! Storm as the tempests burst, Down with the brood accursed! Sparks long in silence nursed Etna-like break; And that volcano's thirst Seas cannot slake!



PATRICK SCOTT.

The author of several meritorious poetical works, Patrick Scott was born at Macao in China, but is eminently of Scottish descent. His father, Helenus Scott, M.D., a cadet of the ducal house of Buccleuch, was a distinguished member of the Medical Board of Bombay, of which he was some time president. Receiving an elementary education at the Charterhouse, London, the subject of this notice entered, in his sixteenth year, the East India College at Haileybury. At the age of eighteen he proceeded to India, to occupy a civil appointment at Bombay. In 1845, after eleven years' service, he returned to Britain in impaired health, and he has since resided chiefly in London.

Mr Scott first appeared as an author in 1851, by the publication of "Lelio, and other Poems," a volume which was received with warm encomiums by the press. In 1853, he published "Love in the Moon: a Poem," which was followed in the same year by "Thomas a Becket, and other Poems." His latest poetical publication appeared in 1854, under the title of "A Poet's Children."



THE EXILE.

With drooping heart he turn'd away To seek a distant clime, Where friends were kind, and life was gay, In early boyhood's time. And still with years and seas between, To one fond hope he clung— To see once more, as he had seen, The home he loved when young.

His youthful brow was touch'd with thought, And life had lost its morn, When glad again the wanderer sought The soil where he was born. Alas! that long expected shore Denied the wonted joy, And the man felt not, as of yore Had felt the happier boy.

For formal friends scarce grasp'd his hand— The friends he knew of old; What cared he for a sunny land, If human hearts were cold? Again he cast his alter'd lot 'Mid alien tribes to roam; And fail'd to find another spot So foreign as his home.

His heavy grief no bosom shared, No eye would weep his fall; What matter if his life were spared, Who lived unloved by all! And when had ceased his earthly toil Upon that distant shore, His bones were gather'd to the soil— His heart had died before.



JOHN BATHURST DICKSON.

An able theologian and accomplished writer of verses, John Bathurst Dickson was born on the 25th December 1823, in the town of Kelso, Roxburghshire. His father was a respectable writer or attorney in that place. Having studied at the University of Edinburgh, and passed through a theological curriculum at the New College of that city, he became, in 1851, a licentiate of the Free Church. In June 1852, he was ordained to the ministerial charge of the Free High Church, Paisley.

During the period of his attendance at college, Mr Dickson was an extensive contributor to Tait's Magazine, and different religious periodicals. In 1855, he published "Theodoxia; or, Glory to God an Evidence for the Truth of Christianity;" and in 1857 appeared from his pen "The Temple Lamp," a periodical publication. He has written verses on a variety of topics. His song, "The American Flag," has been widely published in the United States.



THE AMERICAN FLAG.

Float forth, thou flag of the free; Flash far over land and sea, Proud ensign of Liberty— Hail, hail to thee!

The blue of the heavens is thine, The stars on thy canvas shine; Thy heraldry tells thee divine— Hail, hail to thee!

Thy white proclaims thee unstain'd, Thy crimson thy love unfeign'd To man, by despots enchain'd— Hail, hail to thee!

Under thy God-given light Our fathers went forth to fight 'Gainst sceptred wrong for the right— Hail, hail to thee!

The Lion of England no more 'Gainst thy proud Eagle shall roar: Peace strideth from shore to shore— Hail, hail to thee!

Float forth, thou flag of the free— Flash far over land and sea, Till the world shout, Liberty— Hail, hail to thee!



EVAN M'COLL.

A writer both of English and Gaelic songs, Evan M'Coll was born in 1808, at Kenmore, Lochfineside, Argyllshire. His father, Dugald M'Coll, followed an industrial occupation, but contrived to afford his son a somewhat liberal education. The leisure hours of the youthful poet were ardently devoted to literary culture. In 1837, he became a contributor of Gaelic poetry to a Glasgow periodical, and his compositions began to excite an interest in the Highlands. Two influential Highland gentlemen secured him an appointment in the Customs at Liverpool. He subsequently emigrated to America, and is now resident at Kingston.

Besides many fugitive pieces, Mr M'Coll has published a volume of lyrics, entitled "The Mountain Minstrel," and a volume of Gaelic poetry. A specimen of his Gaelic minstrelsy will be found among the translations at the end of the present volume.



THE HILLS OF THE HEATHER.

Give the swains of Italia 'Mong myrtles to rove, Give the proud, sullen Spaniard His bright orange grove; Give gold-sanded streams To the sons of Chili, But, oh! give the hills Of the heather to me.

The hills where the hunter Oft soundeth his horn, Where sweetest the skylark Awakens the morn; The gray cliff, the blue lake, The stream's dashing glee, Endear the red hills Of the heather to me.

There Health, rosy virgin, For ever doth dwell; There Love fondly whispers To Beauty his tale; There Freedom's own darling! The Gael, lives free, Then, oh! give the hills Of the heather to me.



JAMES D. BURNS.

One of the most interesting sacred poets of the present age, James D. Burns, was born at Edinburgh on the 18th February 1823. A pupil of Heriot's Hospital, he became a student in the University of Edinburgh, where he took the degree of Master of Arts, and completed, with marked distinction, a course of theology. Receiving license as a probationer of the Free Church, he was in 1845 ordained to the ministry at Dunblane. Having resigned his charge from bad health in 1848, he proceeded to Madeira, where he undertook the pastoral superintendence of a Presbyterian congregation. He subsequently travelled in Spain and Italy. In 1854 he published "The Vision of Prophecy, and other Poems," a collection of his poetical compositions, of which the greater number are of a scriptural or sacred character. Mr Burns is now minister of a Presbyterian church at Hampstead, Middlesex.



RISE, LITTLE STAR!

Rise, little star! O'er the dusky hill,— See the bright course open Thou hast to fulfil.

Climb, little star! Higher still and higher. With a silent swiftness And a pulse of fire.

Stand, little star! On the peak of heaven; But for one brief moment Is the triumph given.

Sink, little star! Yet make heaven bright, Even while thou art sinking, With thy gentle light.

Set, little star! Gladly fade and die, With the blush of morning Coming up the sky.

Each little star Crieth, Life, O man! Should have one clear purpose Shining round its span.



THOUGH LONG THE WANDERER MAY DEPART.

Though long the wanderer may depart, And far his footsteps roam, He clasps the closer to his heart The image of his home. To that loved land, where'er he goes, His tend'rest thoughts are cast, And dearer still through absence grows The memory of the past.

Though nature on another shore Her softest smile may wear, The vales, the hills, he loved before To him are far more fair. The heavens that met his childhood's eye, All clouded though they be, Seem brighter than the sunniest sky Of climes beyond the sea.

So Faith, a stranger on the earth, Still turns its eye above; The child of an immortal birth Seeks more than mortal love. The scenes of earth, though very fair, Want home's endearing spell; And all his heart and hope are where His God and Saviour dwell.

He may behold them dimly here, And see them as not nigh, But all he loves will yet appear Unclouded to his eye. To that fair city, now so far, Rejoicing he will come, A better light than Bethlehem's star Guides every wanderer home.



GEORGE HENDERSON.

George Henderson was born on the 5th May 1800, in the parish of Bunkle and county of Berwick. With a rudimentary education obtained at different schools, he entered, in his nineteenth year, the University of Edinburgh. After the close of his second session, he temporarily abandoned literary pursuits. Resolving to adopt the medical profession, he subsequently resumed attendance at the University. In 1829 he obtained his diploma from the Royal College of Surgeons. He has since engaged in medical practice in the village of Chirnside, Berwickshire.

By the cultivation of polite literature, Mr Henderson has experienced relaxation from the active duties of his profession. In 1856 he published a volume of curious researches, entitled "The Popular Rhymes, &c., of the County of Berwick." He is understood to be preparing for the press a volume of his poetical compositions, to be entitled "Lays and Legends of the Merse."



I CANNA LEAVE MY NATIVE LAND.

I canna leave my native land, I canna sail the sea; The trees around my cottage stand, The gowans deck the lea; The primrose blooms beside the burn, The wild flower on the brae; To leave them a' my heart wad mourn, I canna gang away.

The dew-draps gem the clover leaves, The laverock sings aboon, The blae-berry bush wi' spring revives, And it will blossom soon; I canna leave the bonnie brae Where waves the new-sprung fern, Where oft I 've pass'd the summer's day, And look'd upon the burn.

I canna leave the green-croft well, Its waters cool and clear, For oft its pleasant murmurs dwell Like music in mine ear; The elder bush, the garden bower, Where robin sings sae sweet, The auld gray dike, the bee-house tower, The cosie garden seat.



HORATIUS BONAR, D.D.

One of the most esteemed of living Scottish theological writers, Horatius Bonar, is likewise favourably known as a sacred lyric poet. He is a native of Edinburgh, where his father, the late James Bonar, Esq., a man of eminent piety and accomplished scholarship, held the office of a Solicitor of Excise. His ancestors for several successive generations were ministers of the Church of Scotland. He was educated at the High School and the University of his native city. After engaging for some time in missionary labour at Leith, he was ordained to the ministry at Kelso in November 1837, and has since prosecuted his pastoral duties in that place. His first literary efforts appeared in the shape of religious tracts, now published in a volume under the title of "The Kelso Tracts." He next published the work by which he has become most widely known, "The Night of Weeping," which was followed by other two works of the same series, "The Morning of Joy," and "The Eternal Day." Of his subsequent publications, the more conspicuous are, "Prophetical Landmarks," "The Coming and the Kingdom of the Lord Jesus," "A Stranger Here," "Man; his Religion and his World," "The Story of Grace," "The Blood of the Cross," and "The Desert of Sinai, or Notes of a Tour from Cairo to Beersheba." Dr Bonar was for many years editor of the Presbyterian Review; he now edits The Quarterly Journal of Prophecy. The following spiritual songs, well adapted for music, are from his volume entitled "Hymns of Faith and Hope."



THE MEETING PLACE.

Where the faded flower shall freshen, Freshen never more to fade; Where the shaded sky shall brighten, Brighten never more to shade: Where the sun-blaze never scorches, Where the star-beams cease to chill; Where no tempest stirs the echoes Of the wood, or wave, or hill: Where the morn shall wake in gladness, And the noon the joy prolong, Where the daylight dies in fragrance, 'Mid the burst of holy song: Brother, we shall meet and rest 'Mid the holy and the blest!

Where no shadow shall bewilder, Where life's vain parade is o'er, Where the sleep of sin is broken, And the dreamer dreams no more; Where the bond is never sever'd, Partings, claspings, sob and moan, Midnight waking, twilight weeping, Heavy noontide, all are done: Where the child has found its mother, Where the mother finds the child, Where dear families are gather'd That were scatter'd on the wild: Brother, we shall meet and rest 'Mid the holy and the blest!

Where the hidden wound is healed, Where the blighted life re-blooms, Where the smitten heart the freshness Of its buoyant youth resumes; Where the love that here we lavish On the withering leaves of time, Shall have fadeless flowers to fix on In an ever spring-bright clime: Where we find the joy of loving, As we never loved before, Loving on, unchill'd, unhinder'd, Loving once and evermore: Brother, we shall meet and rest 'Mid the holy and the blest!

Where a blasted world shall brighten Underneath a bluer sphere, And a softer, gentler sunshine, Shed its healing splendour here; Where earth's barren vales shall blossom, Putting on their robe of green, And a purer, fairer Eden, Be where only wastes have been: Where a king in kingly glory, Such as earth has never known, Shall assume the righteous sceptre, Claim and wear the holy crown: Brother, we shall meet and rest 'Mid the holy and the blest!



TRUST NOT THESE SEAS AGAIN.

Trust not these seas again, Though smooth and fair; Trust not these waves again, Shipwreck is there.

Trust not these stars again, Though bright and fair; Trust not these skies again, Tempest is there.

Trust not that breeze again, Gentle and fair; Trust not these clouds again, Lightning is there.

Trust not that isle again, Flower-crown'd and fair; Trust not its rocks again, Earthquake is there.

Trust not these flowers again, Fragrant and fair; Trust not that rose again, Blighting is there.

Trust not that earth again, Verdant and fair; Trust not its fields again, Winter is there.

Trust not these hopes again, Sunny and fair; Trust not that smile again, Peril is there.

Trust not this world again, Smiling and fair; Trust not its sweets again, Wormwood is there;

Trust not its love again, Sparkling and fair; Trust not its joy again, Sorrow is there.



JOHN HALLIDAY.

A song-writer of merit, John Halliday was born on the 18th July 1821, at Hawickshielsgate, near Hawick, Roxburghshire. His father was an agricultural labourer; and, with an ordinary education at school, he was, at an early age, engaged as an assistant shepherd to a tenant farmer in his native district. Inheriting from his mother a taste for the elder Scottish ballad, he devoted his leisure hours to reading such scraps of songs as he could manage to procure. In his thirteenth year he essayed to compose verses, and at the age of twenty became a contributor of poetical stanzas to the provincial journals. Encouraged by a numerous list of subscribers, he published, in 1847, "The Rustic Bard," a duodecimo volume of poems and songs. After being several years resident at Hopekirk, Roxburghshire, he removed in 1854 to Bridge of Allan, where he is well employed as a florist and landscape gardener.



THE AULD KIRK BELL.

In a howm, by a burn, where the brown birks grow, And the green ferns nod when the wild winds blow, Stands the roofless kirk in the auld kirkyard, Where the gowans earliest gem the swaird; And the gray, gray moss on ilk cauld through stane Shrouds in oblivion the lang, lang gane— Where the ance warm heart is a cauld, cauld clod, And the beauteous and brave give a green to the sod— On a time-worn tower, where the dim owls dwell, Tuneless and torn, hangs the auld kirk bell.

On the auld kirk floor is the damp night dew, Where warm words flow'd in a worship true; Is the sugh o' the breeze, and the hum o' the bee As it wings and sings in its taintless glee Through the nettles tall to the thistles red, Where they roughly wave o'er each deep, dark bed; And it plies its task on the wa'-flowers tall, Which bloom in the choir and wave on the wall; Then, soaring away with a sweep and a swell, It covers its combs in the auld kirk bell.

By the crumbling base of the auld kirk tower Is the broad-leaved dock and the bright brae flower; And the adders hiss o'er the lime-bound stones, And playfully writhe round mouldering bones: The bat clingeth close to the binewood's root, Where its gnarled boughs up the belfry shoot, As, hiding the handworks of ruthless time, It garlands in grandeur and green sublime The hoary height, where the rust sae fell Bends, as with a burden, the auld kirk bell.

Oh, red is the rust, and a ruin is come To the auld kirk bell—ance and ever it 's dumb; On the brink of the past 'tis awaiting a doom, For a wauf o' the wind may awaken its tomb, As, bearing its fragments, all dust-like, away, To blend with water, the wood and the clay, Till lost 'mid the changes of manners and men; Then ne'er ane will think, nor ere ane will ken, That a joyfu' jowl and a waefu' knell, As it swung, had been rung by the auld kirk bell.



THE AULD AIK-TREE.

Oh, we hae been amang the bowers that winter didna bare, And we hae daunder'd in the howes where flowers were ever fair, And lain aneath as lofty trees as eye did ever see, Yet ne'er could lo'e them as we lo'e the auld aik-tree.

It 's no because its boughs are busk'd in any byous green, For simmer sairs it little now—it's no what it has been, Sin' ilka wauf o' win' that blaws dings dauds o't on the lea, And bairnies bear their burdens frae the auld aik-tree.

It 's no because the gowans bright grow bonnie by its ruit, For we hae seen them blum as braw in mony a ither bit; Nor yet because the mavis sings his mellow morning glee Sae sweetly frae the branches o' the auld aik-tree.

But there 's a kindly feeling found and foster'd in the heart, Which bears the thought a backward stream to lifetime's early part, And ties us to ilk morning scene o' love and laughing glee We 've seen, and kenn'd, and join'd aneath the auld aik-tree.

For we hae play'd aneath its shade a chuffie-cheekit bairn, Unkennin' o', uncarin' for, cauld care or crosses stern, And ran around it at the ba' when we frae schule wan free; Then wha daur say we sudna lo'e the auld aik-tree?

We 've speel'd upon its foggie stem and dern'd amang its green, To catch the pyet in her nest amidst the grays o' e'en; And watch'd the gooldie bringin' doon to big her hame sae wee Atween the cosie forkings o' the auld aik-tree.

And we hae tint and ta'en a heart when gloamin's shadows threw Out o'er the glen her misty gray in kindly drippin' dew, And felt the tear o' anguish fa' in torrents frae our e'e, When pairting frae that loved ane 'neath the auld aik-tree.

Our hame we left wi' hopefu' heart and mony a warm fareweel, And gowd and gear we gain'd awa; but oh, the freen's sae leal! Where are they? where my childhood's hearth —those hearts sae kind and free,— When a' is unco groun save the auld aik-tree?



JAMES DODDS.

A man of elegant and varied accomplishments, and one of the most eloquent public-speakers of the age, James Dodds was born in 1815, in the county of Roxburgh. He was at first intended by some influential friends for the Church, and proceeded through part of the College curriculum, but some changes occurring, he ultimately devoted himself to the study of law. Probably his ambition was for the Bar; but overruling circumstances led him, about twelve years ago, to enter on the profession of parliamentary solicitor in London, in which he has met with much success.

From his youth a devoted student, he has, amidst the exigencies of business, sedulously kept up his literary pursuits. He has produced no independent work, but has largely contributed, both in prose and verse, to the periodicals. Among these contributions, a series of poems, chiefly ballads on incidents connected with the times of the Covenant, which appeared in several of the Edinburgh magazines, about thirteen years since, attracted much attention. One of these lays we have transferred to the present work. Mr Dodds has lately prepared a series of lectures on the fifty years' struggle of the Covenanters, which will probably be presented to the public. He has evinced a deep interest in the cause of raising a national monument to Sir William Wallace, and has, under the auspices of the Central Committee, addressed public meetings on the subject in many of the principal towns.



TRIAL AND DEATH OF ROBERT BAILLIE OF JERVIESWOODE.

'Twas when December's dark'ning scowl the face of heaven o'ercast, And vile men high in place were more unpitying than the blast, Before their grim tribunal's front, firm and undaunted stood That patriot chief of high renown, the noble Jervieswoode.

The hand of death is on him press'd—the seal of death is there! Oh, the savage of the wilderness those weak old limbs would spare! Frail, frail his step, and bent his frame, and ye may plainly trace The shadow of death's wing upon his pale and sunken face. These twenty long and dreary months in the dungeon he hath lain, Long days of sickness, weary nights of languishing and pain; For whom no gale hath breathed its balm, no sun hath bless'd the year, No friendly hand to smooth his couch, nor friendly voice to cheer; His lady in their lonely hall doth mournful vigils keep, And where he sat and where he walk'd his children watch and weep.