"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.



WITHER'D FLOWERS.

Adieu! ye wither'd flow'rets! Your day of glory's past; But your latest smile was loveliest, For we knew it was your last. No more the sweet aroma Of your golden cups shall rise, To scent the morning's stilly breath, Or gloaming's zephyr-sighs.

Ye were the sweetest offerings Which Friendship could bestow— A token of devoted love In pleasure or in woe! Ye graced the head of infancy, By soft affection twined Into a fairy coronal Its sunny brows to bind.

* * * * *

But ah! a dreary blast hath blown Athwart you in your bloom, And, pale and sickly, now your leaves The hues of death assume. We mourn your vanish'd loveliness, Ye sweet departed flowers; For ah! the fate which blighted you An emblem is of ours.

* * * * * And though, like you, sweet flowers of earth, We wither and depart, And leave behind, to mourn our loss, Full many an aching heart; Yet when the winter of the grave Is past, we hope to rise, Warm'd by the Sun of Righteousness, To blossom in the skies.



A SPRING SONG.

There is a concert in the trees, There is a concert on the hill, There 's melody in every breeze, And music in the murmuring rill. The shower is past, the winds are still, The fields are green, the flow'rets spring, The birds, and bees, and beetles fill The air with harmony, and fling The rosied moisture of the leaves In frolic flight from wing to wing, Fretting the spider as he weaves His airy web from bough to bough; In vain the little artist grieves Their joy in his destruction now.

Alas! that, in a scene so fair, The meanest being e'er should feel The gloomy shadow of despair Or sorrow o'er his bosom steal. But in a world where woe is real, Each rank in life, and every day, Must pain and suffering reveal, And wretched mourners in decay— When nations smile o'er battles won, When banners wave and streamers play, The lonely mother mourns her son Left lifeless on the bloody clay; And the poor widow, all undone, Sees the wild revel with dismay.

Even in the happiest scenes of earth, When swell'd the bridal-song on high, When every voice was tuned to mirth, And joy was shot from eye to eye, I 've heard a sadly-stifled sigh; And, 'mid the garlands rich and fair, I 've seen a cheek, which once could vie In beauty with the fairest there, Grown deadly pale, although a smile Was worn above to cloak despair. Poor maid! it was a hapless wile Of long-conceal'd and hopeless love To hide a heart, which broke the while With pangs no lighter heart could prove.

The joyous spring and summer gay With perfumed gifts together meet, And from the rosy lips of May Breathe music soft and odours sweet; And still my eyes delay my feet To gaze upon the earth and heaven, And hear the happy birds repeat Their anthems to the coming even; Yet is my pleasure incomplete; I grieve to think how few are given To feel the pleasures I possess, While thousand hearts, by sorrow riven, Must pine in utter loneliness, Or be to desperation driven.

Oh! could we find some happy land, Some Eden of the deep blue sea, By gentle breezes only fann'd, Upon whose soil, from sorrow free, Grew only pure felicity! Who would not brave the stormiest main Within that blissful isle to be, Exempt from sight or sense of pain? There is a land we cannot see, Whose joys no pen can e'er portray; And yet, so narrow is the road, From it our spirits ever stray— Shed light upon that path, O God! And lead us in the appointed way.

There only joy shall be complete, More high than mortal thoughts can reach, For there the just and good shall meet, Pure in affection, thought, and speech; No jealousy shall make a breach, Nor pain their pleasure e'er alloy; There sunny streams of gladness stretch, And there the very air is joy. There shall the faithful, who relied On faithless love till life would cloy, And those who sorrow'd till they died O'er earthly pain and earthly woe, See Pleasure, like a whelming tide, From an unbounded ocean flow.



ALLAN STEWART.

Allan Stewart, a short-lived poet of no inconsiderable merit, was born in the village of Houston, Renfrewshire, on the 30th January 1812. His father prosecuted the humble vocation of a sawyer. Deprived of his mother in early life, the loss was in some degree repaired by the kind attentions of his maternal aunt, Martha Muir, whose letters on religious subjects have been published. Receiving an ordinary education at school, he followed the trade of a weaver in Paisley. His leisure hours were employed in reading, and in the composition of verses. He died of typhus fever, at Paisley, on the 12th November 1837, in his twenty-sixth year. His "Poetical Remains" were published in 1838, in a thin duodecimo volume, with a well-written biographical sketch from the pen of his friend, Mr Charles Fleming.

Stewart was a person of modest demeanour, and of a thoughtful and somewhat melancholy cast. His verses are generally of a superior order; his songs abound in sweetness of expression and elegance of sentiment.



THE SEA-BOY.

AIR—"The Soldier's Tear."

The storm grew faint as daylight tinged The lofty billows' crest; And love-lit hopes, with fears yet fringed, Danced in the sea-boy's breast. And perch'd aloft, he cheer'ly sung To the billows' less'ning roar— "O Ellen, so fair, so free, and young, I 'll see thee yet once more!"

And O what joy beam'd in his eye, When, o'er the dusky foam, He saw, beneath the northern sky, The hills that mark'd his home! His heart with double ardour strung, He sung this ditty o'er— "O Ellen, so fair, so free, and young, I 'll see thee yet once more!"

Now towers and trees rise on his sight, And many a dear-loved spot; And, smiling o'er the blue waves bright, He saw young Ellen's cot. The scenes on which his memory hung A cheerful aspect wore; He then, with joyous feeling, sung, "I 'll see her yet once more!"

The land they near'd, and on the beach Stood many a female form; But ah! his eye it could not reach His hope in many a storm. He through the spray impatient sprung, And gain'd the wish'd-for shore; But Ellen, so fair, so sweet, and young, Was gone for evermore!



MENIE LORN.

While beaus and belles parade the streets On summer gloamings gay, And barter'd smiles and borrow'd sweets, And all such vain display; My walks are where the bean-field's breath On evening's breeze is borne, With her, the angel of my heart— My lovely Menie Lorn.

Love's ambuscades her auburn hair, Love's throne her azure eye, Where peerless charms and virtues rare In blended beauty lie. The rose is fair at break of day, And sweet the blushing thorn, But sweeter, fairer far than they, The smile of Menie Lorn.

O tell me not of olive groves, Where gold and gems abound; Of deep blue eyes and maiden loves, With every virtue crown'd. I ask no other ray of joy Life's desert to adorn, Than that sweet bliss, which ne'er can cloy— The love of Menie Lorn.



THE YOUNG SOLDIER.

AIR—"The Banks of the Devon."

O say not o' war the young soldier is weary, Ye wha in battle ha'e witness'd his flame; Remember his daring when danger was near ye, Forgive ye the sigh that he heaves for his hame. Past perils he heeds not, nor dangers yet coming, Frae dark-brooding terror his young heart is free; But it pants for the place whar in youth he was roaming; He turns to the north wi' the tear in his e'e.

'Tis remembrance that saftens what war never daunted, 'Tis the hame o' his birth that gives birth to the tear; The warm fondled hopes his first love had implanted, He langs now to reap in his Jeanie sae dear. An' aften he thinks on the bonnie clear burnie, Whar oft in love's fondness they daff'd their young day; Nae tear then was shedded, for short was the journey 'Tween Jeanie's broom bower and the blaeberry brae.

An' weel does he mind o' that morning, when dressing, In green Highland garb, to cross the wide sea; His auld mither grat when she gi'ed him her blessing— 'Twas a' that the puir body then had to gi'e. The black downy plume on his bonnie cheek babbit, As he stood at the door an' shook hands wi' them a'; But sair was his heart, an' sair Jeanie sabbit, Whan down the burn-side she convoy'd him awa'.

Now high-headed Alps an' dark seas divide them, Wilds ne'er imagined in love's early dream; Their Alps then the knowes, whare the lambs lay beside them, Their seas then the hazel an' saugh-shaded stream. An' wha couldna sigh when memory 's revealing The scenes that surrounded our life's early hame? The hero whose heart is cauld to that feeling His nature is harsh, and not worthy the name.



THE LAND I LOVE.

The land I lo'e, the land I lo'e, Is the land of the plaid and bonnet blue, Of the gallant heart, the firm and true, The land of the hardy thistle.

Isle of the freeborn, honour'd and blest, Isle of beauty, in innocence dress'd, The loveliest star on ocean's breast Is the land of the hardy thistle.

Fair are those isles of Indian bloom, Whose flowers perpetual breathe perfume; But dearer far are the braes o' broom Where blooms the hardy thistle.

No luscious fig-tree blossoms there, No slaves the scented shrubb'ry rear; Her sons are free as the mountain air That shakes the hardy thistle.

Lovely 's the tint o' an eastern sky, And lovely the lands that 'neath it lie; But I wish to live, and I wish to die In the land of the hardy thistle!



ROBERT L. MALONE.

Robert L. Malone was a native of Anstruther, in Fife, where he was born in 1812. His father was a captain in the navy, and afterwards was employed in the Coast Guard. He ultimately settled at Rothesay, in Bute. Receiving a common school education, Robert entered the navy in his fourteenth year. He served on board the gun-brig Marshall, which attended the Fisheries department in the west; next in the Mediterranean ocean; and latterly in South America. Compelled, from impaired health, to renounce the seafaring life, after a service of ten years, he returned to his family at Rothesay, but afterwards settled in the town of Greenock. In 1845, he became a clerk in the Long-room of the Customs at Greenock, an appointment which he retained till nigh the period of his death. A lover of poetry from his youth, he solaced the hours of sickness by the composition of verses. He published, in 1845, a duodecimo volume of poetry, entitled, "The Sailor's Dream, and other Poems," a work which was well received. His death took place at Greenock on the 6th of July 1850, in his thirty-eighth year. Of modest and retiring dispositions, Malone was unambitious of distinction as a poet. His style is bold and animated, and some of his pieces evince considerable power.



THE THISTLE OF SCOTLAND.

AIR—"Humours o' Glen."

Though fair blooms the rose in gay Anglia's bowers, And green be thy emblem, thou gem of the sea, The greenest, the sweetest, the fairest of flowers, Is the thistle—the thistle of Scotland, for me!

Far lovelier flowers glow, the woodlands adorning, And breathing perfume over moorland and lea, But there breathes not a bud on the freshness of morning Like the thistle—the thistle of Scotland, for me!

What scenes o' langsyne even thy name can awaken, Thou badge of the fearless, the fair, and the free, And the tenderest chords of the spirit are shaken; The thistle—the thistle of Scotland, for thee!

Still'd be my harp, and forgotten its numbers, And cold as the grave my affections must be, Ere thy name fail to waken my soul from her slumbers; The thistle—the thistle of Scotland, for me!

On the fields of their fame, while proud laurels she gathers, Caledonia plants, wi' the tear in her e'e, Thy soft downy seeds on the graves of our fathers; The thistle—the thistle of Scotland, for me!



HAME IS AYE HAMELY.

AIR—"Love's Young Dream."

Oh! hame is aye hamely still, though poor at times it be, An' ye winna find a place like hame in lands beyond the sea; Though ye may wander east an' west, in quest o' wealth or fame, There 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame, Oh! there 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame.

There 's gowd in gowpens got, they say, on India's sunny strand, Then wha would bear to linger here in this bleak, barren land? I 'll hie me ower the heaving wave, and win myself a name, And in a palace or a grave forget my Hieland hame.

'Twas thus resolved the peasant boy, and left his native stream, And Fortune crown'd his every wish, beyond his fondest dream; His good sword won him wealth and power and long and loud acclaim, But could not banish from his thoughts his dear-loved mountain hame.

No! The peasant's heart within the peer beat true to nature still, For on his vision oft would rise the cottage on the hill; And young companions, long forgot, would join him in the game, As erst in life's young morning, around his Hieland hame.

Oh! in the Brahmin, mild and gray, his father's face he saw; He thought upon his mother's tears the day he gaed awa'; And her he loved—his Hieland girl—there 's magic in the name— They a' combine to wile him back to his far Hieland hame.

He sigh'd for kindred hearts again, and left the sunny lands, And where his father's cottage stood a stately palace stands; And with his grandchild on his knee—the old man's heart on flame— 'Tis thus he trains his darling boy to cherish thoughts of hame.

Oh! hame is aye hamely, dear, though poor at times it be, Ye winna find a spot like hame in lands beyond the sea; Oh! ye may wander east or west, in quest o' wealth or fame, But there 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame, Oh! there 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame.



PETER STILL.

Peter Still was born in the parish of Fraserburgh, Aberdeenshire, on the 1st day of January 1814. At the time of his birth his father rented a farm, but, being unfortunate, he was compelled to seek the support of his family by manual labour. With a limited education at the parish-school of Longside, whither his parents had removed, the subject of this memoir was sent, in his eleventh year, to tend cattle. When somewhat older, he found employment as a farm-servant; but having married in his twentieth year, he afterwards followed the more precarious occupation of a day-labourer. Of a delicate constitution, he suffered much from impaired health, being frequently, for months together, confined to the sick-chamber. During the periods of convalescence from illness, he composed verses, which he gave to the world in three separate publications. His last work—"The Cottar's Sunday, and other Poems"—appeared in 1845, in a handsome duodecimo volume. He closed a life of much privation and suffering at Peterhead, on the 21st March 1848.

Of sound religious principles and devoted Christian feeling, Still meekly submitted to the bitterness of his lot in life. He was fortunate in arresting the attention of some, who occasionally administered to his wants, and contributed, by their patronage, to the increase of his reputation. His verses are largely pervaded with poetical fervour and religious sentiment, while his songs are generally true to nature. In person he was tall and slender, of a long thin countenance, large dark blue eyes, and curling black hair.



JEANIE'S LAMENT.

AIR—"Lord Gregory."

I never thocht to thole the waes It 's been my lot to dree; I never thocht to sigh sae sad Whan first I sigh'd for thee. I thocht your heart was like mine ain, As true as true could be; I couldna think there was a stain In ane sae dear to me.

Whan first amang the dewy flowers, Aside yon siller stream, My lowin' heart was press'd to yours, Nae purer did they seem; Nae purer seem'd the draps o' dew, The flowers on whilk they hung, Than seem'd the heart I felt in you As to that heart I clung.

But I was young an' thochtless then, An' easy to beguile; My mither's warnin's had nae weight 'Bout man's deceitfu' smile. But noo, alas! whan she is dead, I 've shed the sad, saut tear, And hung my heavy, heavy head Aboon my father's bier!

They saw their earthly hope betray'd, They saw their Jeanie fade; They couldna thole the heavy stroke, An' baith are lowly laid! Oh, Jamie! but thy name again Shall ne'er be breathed by me, For, speechless through yon gow'ny glen, I 'll wander till I die.



YE NEEDNA' BE COURTIN' AT ME.

AIR—"John Todd."

"Ye needna' be courtin' at me, auld man, Ye needna' be courtin' at me; Ye 're threescore an' three, an' ye 're blin' o' an e'e, Sae ye needna' be courtin' at me, auld man, Ye needna' be courtin' at me.

"Stan' aff, noo, an' just lat me be, auld man, Stan' aff, noo, an' just lat me be; Ye 're auld an' ye 're cauld, an' ye 're blin' an' ye 're bald, An' ye 're nae for a lassie like me, auld man, Ye 're nae for a lassie like me."

"Ha'e patience, an' hear me a wee, sweet lass, Ha'e patience, an' hear me a wee; I 've gowpens o' gowd, an' an aumry weel stow'd, An' a heart that lo'es nane but thee, sweet lass, A heart that lo'es nane but thee.

"I 'll busk you as braw as a queen, sweet lass, I 'll busk you as braw as a queen; I 've guineas to spare, an', hark ye, what 's mair, I 'm only twa score an' fifteen, sweet lass, Only twa score an' fifteen."

"Gae hame to your gowd an' your gear, auld man, Gae hame to your gowd an' your gear; There 's a laddie I ken has a heart like mine ain, An' to me he shall ever be dear, auld man, To me he shall ever be dear.

"Get aff, noo, an' fash me nae mair, auld man, Get aff, noo, an' fash me nae mair; There 's a something in love that your gowd canna move— I 'll be Johnie's although I gang bare, auld man, I 'll be Johnie's although I gang bare."



THE BUCKET FOR ME.

The bucket, the bucket, the bucket for me! Awa' wi' your bickers o' barley bree; Though good ye may think it, I 'll never mair drink it— The bucket, the bucket, the bucket for me! There 's health in the bucket, there 's wealth in the bucket, There 's mair i' the bucket than mony can see; An' aye whan I leuk in 't, I find there 's a beuk in 't That teaches the essence o' wisdom to me.

Whan whisky I swiggit, my wifie aye beggit, An' aft did she sit wi' the tear in her e'e; But noo—wad you think it?—whan water I drink it Right blithesome she smiles on the bucket an' me. The bucket 's a treasure nae mortal can measure, It 's happit my wee bits o' bairnies an' me; An' noo roun' my ingle, whare sorrows did mingle, I 've pleasure, an' plenty, an' glances o' glee.

The bucket 's the bicker that keeps a man sicker, The bucket 's a shield an' a buckler to me; In pool or in gutter nae langer I 'll splutter, But walk like a freeman wha feels he is free.

Ye drunkards, be wise noo, an' alter your choice noo— Come cling to the bucket, an' prosper like me; Ye 'll find it is better to swig "caller water," Than groan in a gutter without a bawbee!



ROBERT NICOLL.

One of the most gifted and hopeful of modern Scottish song writers, Robert Nicoll, was born at Little Tulliebeltane, in the parish of Auchtergaven, Perthshire, on the 7th January 1814. Of a family of nine children, he was the second son. His father, who bore the same Christian name, rented a farm at the period of his birth and for five years afterwards, when, involved in an affair of cautionary, he was reduced to the condition of an agricultural labourer. Young Nicoll received the rudiments of his education from his mother, a woman of superior shrewdness and information; subsequently to his seventh year he tended cattle in the summer months, to procure the means of attending the parish school during the other portion of the year. From his childhood fond of reading, books were his constant companions—in the field, on the highway, and during the intervals of leisure in his father's cottage. In his thirteenth year, he wrote verses and became the correspondent of a newspaper. Apprenticed to a grocer and wine-merchant in Perth, and occupied in business from seven o'clock morning till nine o'clock evening, he prosecuted mental culture by abridging the usual hours of rest. At the age of nineteen he communicated a tale to Johnstone's Magazine, an Edinburgh periodical, which was inserted, and attracted towards him the notice of Mr Johnstone, the ingenious proprietor. By this gentleman he was introduced, during a visit he made to the capital, to some men of letters, who subsequently evinced a warm interest in his career.

In 1834, Nicoll opened a small circulating library in Dundee, occupying his spare time in reading and composition, and likewise taking part in public meetings convened for the support of Radical or extreme liberal opinions. To the liberal journals of the town he became a frequent contributor both in prose and verse, and in 1835 appeared as the author of a volume of "Poems and Lyrics." This publication was highly esteemed by his friends, and most favourably received by the press. Abandoning business in Dundee, which had never been prosperous, he meditated proceeding as a literary adventurer to London, but was induced by Mr Tait, his friendly publisher, and some other well-wishers, to remain in Edinburgh till a suitable opening should occur. In the summer of 1836 he was appointed editor of the Leeds Times newspaper, with a salary of L100. The politics of this journal were Radical, and to the exposition and advocacy of these opinions he devoted himself with equal ardour and success. But the unremitting labour of conducting a public journal soon began materially to undermine the energies of a constitution which, never robust, had been already impaired by a course of untiring literary occupation. The excitement of a political contest at Leeds, during a general parliamentary election, completed the physical prostration of the poet; he removed from Leeds to Knaresborough, and from thence to Laverock Bank, near Edinburgh, the residence of his friend Mr Johnstone. His case was hopeless; after lingering a short period in a state of entire prostration, he departed this life in December 1837, in his twenty-fourth year. His remains, attended by a numerous assemblage, were consigned to the churchyard of North Leith.

Possessed of strong poetical genius, Robert Nicoll has attained a conspicuous and honoured niche in the temple of the national minstrelsy. Several of his songs, especially "Bonnie Bessie Lee" and "Orde Braes," have obtained an equal popularity with the best songs of Burns. Since the period of his death, four different editions of his "Poems" have been called for. The work has latterly been published by the Messrs Blackie of Glasgow in a handsome form, prefaced by an interesting memoir. Nicoll's strain is eminently smooth and simple; and, though many of his lyrics published after his decease had not the benefit of his revision, he never falls into mediocrity. Of extensive sympathies, he portrays the loves, hopes, and fears of the human heart; while he depicts nature only in her loveliness. His sentiments breathe a devoted and simple piety, the index of an unblemished life. In person Nicoll was rather above the middle height, with a slight stoop. His countenance, which was of a sanguine complexion, was thoughtful and pleasing; his eyes were of a deep blue, and his hair dark brown. In society he was modest and unobtrusive, but was firm and uncompromising in the maintenance of his opinions. His political views were founded on the belief that the industrial classes had suffered oppression from the aristocracy. The solace of his hours of leisure were the songs and music of his country. He married shortly prior to his decease, but was not long survived by his widow. A monument to his memory, towards which nearly L100 has lately been subscribed, is about to be erected on the Orde Braes, in his native parish.



ORDE BRAES.

There 's nae hame like the hame o' youth, Nae ither spot sae fair; Nae ither faces look sae kind As the smilin' faces there. An' I ha'e sat by mony streams, Ha'e travell'd mony ways; But the fairest spot on the earth to me Is on bonnie Orde Braes.

An ell-lang wee thing then I ran Wi' the ither neeber bairns, To pu' the hazel's shining nuts, An' to wander 'mang the ferns; An' to feast on the bramble-berries brown, An' gather the glossy slaes, By the burnie's side, an' aye sinsyne I ha'e loved sweet Orde Braes.

The memories o' my father's hame, An' its kindly dwellers a', O' the friends I loved wi' a young heart's love Ere care that heart could thraw, Are twined wi' the stanes o' the silver burn, An' its fairy crooks an' bays, That onward sang 'neath the gowden broom Upon bonnie Orde Braes.

Aince in a day there were happy hames By the bonnie Orde's side: Nane ken how meikle peace an' love In a straw-roof'd cot can bide. But thae hames are gane, an' the hand o' time The roofless wa's doth raze; Laneness an' sweetness hand in hand Gang ower the Orde Braes.

Oh! an' the sun were shinin' now, An', oh! an' I were there, Wi' twa three friends o' auld langsyne, My wanderin' joy to share. For though on the hearth o' my bairnhood's hame The flock o' the hills doth graze, Some kind hearts live to love me yet Upon bonnie Orde Braes.



THE MUIR O' GORSE AND BROOM.

I winna bide in your castle ha's, Nor yet in your lofty towers; My heart is sick o' your gloomy hame, An' sick o' your darksome bowers; An' oh! I wish I were far awa' Frae their grandeur an' their gloom, Where the freeborn lintie sings its sang On the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom.

Sae weel as I like the healthfu' gale, That blaws fu' kindly there, An' the heather brown, an' the wild blue-bell That wave on the muirland bare; An' the singing birds, an' the humming bees, An' the little lochs that toom Their gushing burns to the distant sea O'er the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom.

Oh! if I had a dwallin' there, Biggit laigh by a burnie's side, Where ae aik tree, in the summer time, Wi' its leaves that hame might hide; Oh! I wad rejoice frae day to day, As blithe as a young bridegroom; For dearer than palaces to me Is the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom!

In a lanely cot on a muirland wild, My mither nurtured me; O' the meek wild-flowers I playmates made, An' my hame wi' the wandering bee. An', oh! if I were far awa' Frae your grandeur an' your gloom, Wi' them again, an' the bladden gale, On the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom.



THE BONNIE HIELAND HILLS.

Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills, Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills, The bonnie hills o' Scotland O! The bonnie Hieland hills.

There are lands on the earth where the vine ever blooms, Where the air that is breathed the sweet orange perfumes; But mair dear is the blast the lane shepherd that chills As it wantons along o'er our ain Hieland hills. Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills.

There are rich garden lands wi' their skies ever fair; But o' riches or beauty we mak na our care; Wherever we wander ae vision aye fills Our hearts to the burstin'—our ain Hieland hills. Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills.

In our lone and deep valleys fair maidens there are, Though born in the midst o' the elements' war; O sweet are the damsels that sing by our rills, As they dash to the sea frae our ain Hieland hills. Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills.

On the moss-cover'd rock wi' their broadswords in hand, To fight for fair freedom, their sons ever stand; A storm-nursed bold spirit each warm bosom fills, That guards frae a' danger our ain Hieland hills. Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills, Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills; The bonnie hills o' Scotland O! The bonnie Hieland hills.



THE BONNIE ROWAN BUSH.

The bonnie rowan bush In yon lane glen, Where the burnie clear doth gush In yon lane glen; My head is white and auld, An' my bluid is thin an' cauld; But I lo'e the bonnie rowan bush In yon lane glen.

My Jeanie first I met In yon lane glen, When the grass wi' dew was wet In yon lane glen; The moon was shining sweet, An' our hearts wi' love did beat, By the bonnie, bonnie rowan bush In yon lane glen.

Oh! she promised to be mine, In yon lane glen; Her heart she did resign, In yon lane glen; An' mony a happy day Did o'er us pass away, Beside the bonnie rowan bush In yon lane glen.

Sax bonnie bairns had we In yon lane glen— Lads an' lassies young an' spree, In yon lane glen; An' a blither family Than ours there cou'dna be, Beside the bonnie rowan bush In yon lane glen.

Now my auld wife's gane awa' Frae yon lane glen, An' though summer sweet doth fa' On yon lane glen— To me its beauty's gane, For, alake! I sit alane Beside the bonnie rowan bush In yon lane glen.



BONNIE BESSIE LEE.

Bonnie Bessie Lee had a face fu' o' smiles, And mirth round her ripe lip was aye dancing slee; And light was the footfa', and winsome the wiles, O' the flower o' the parochin, our ain Bessie Lee! Wi' the bairns she would rin, and the school laddies paik, And o'er the broomy braes like a fairy would flee, Till auld hearts grew young again wi' love for her sake— There was life in the blithe blink o' bonnie Bessie Lee!

She grat wi' the waefu', and laughed wi' the glad, And light as the wind 'mang the dancers was she; And a tongue that could jeer, too, the little limmer had, Whilk keepit aye her ain side for bonnie Bessie Lee! She could sing like the lintwhite that sports 'mang the whins, An' sweet was her note as the bloom to the bee— It has aft thrilled my heart whaur our wee burnie rins, Where a' thing grew fairer wi' bonnie Bessie Lee.[27]

And she whiles had a sweetheart, and sometimes had twa, A limmer o' a lassie; but atween you and me, Her warm wee bit heartie she ne'er threw awa', Though mony a ane had sought it frae bonnie Bessie Lee. But ten years had gane since I gazed on her last— For ten years had parted my auld hame and me— And I said to mysel', as her mither's door I passed, Will I ever get anither kiss frae bonnie Bessie Lee?

But Time changes a' thing—the ill-natured loon! Were it ever sae rightly, he 'll no let it be; And I rubbit at my e'en, and I thought I would swoon, How the carle had come roun' about our ain Bessie Lee! The wee laughing lassie was a gudewife grown auld, Twa weans at her apron, and ane on her knee, She was douce too, and wise-like—and wisdom's sae cauld; I would rather hae the ither ane than this Bessie Lee.

FOOTNOTES:

[27] The last four lines of this stanza are not the production of Nicoll, but have been contributed for the present work by Mr Alexander Wilson, of Perth. The insertion of the lines prevents the occurrence of a half stanza, which has hitherto interfered with the singing of this popular song.



ARCHIBALD STIRLING IRVING.

Archibald Stirling Irving was born in Edinburgh on the 18th of December 1816. His father, John Irving, Writer to the Signet, was the intimate early friend of Sir Walter Scott, and is "the prosperous gentleman" referred to in the general Introduction to the Waverley Novels. Having a delicate constitution, young Irving was unable to follow any regular profession, but devoted himself, when health permitted, to the concerns of literature. He made himself abundantly familiar with the Latin classics, and became intimately conversant with the more distinguished British poets. Possessed of a remarkably retentive memory, he could repeat some of the longest poems in the language. Receiving a handsome annuity from his father, he resided in various of the more interesting localities of Scottish scenery, some of which he celebrated in verse. He published anonymously, in 1841, a small volume of "Original Songs," of which the song selected for the present work may be regarded as a favourable specimen. He died at Newmills, near Ardrossan, on the 20th September 1851, in his thirty-fifth year. Some time before his death, he exclusively devoted himself to serious reflection and Scriptural reading. He married in October 1850, and his widow still survives.



THE WILD-ROSE BLOOMS.

TUNE—"Caledonia."

The wild-rose blooms in Drummond woods, The trees are blossom'd fair, The lake is smiling to the sun, And Mary wand'ring there. The powers that watch'd o'er Mary's birth Did nature's charms despoil; They stole for her the rose's blush, The sweet lake's dimpled smile.

The lily for her breast they took, Nut-brown her locks appear; But when they came to make her eyes, They robb'd the starry sphere. But cruel sure was their design, Or mad-like their device— For while they filled her eyes with fire, They made her heart of ice.



ALEXANDER A. RITCHIE.[28]

Alexander Abernethy Ritchie, author of "The Wells o' Wearie," was born in the Canongate, Edinburgh, in 1816. In early youth he evinced a lively appreciation of the humorous and the pathetic, and exhibited remarkable artistic talent, sketching from nature with fidelity and ease. His parents being in humble circumstances, he was apprenticed as a house-painter, and soon became distinguished for his skill in the decorative branch of his profession. On the expiry of his apprenticeship, he cultivated painting in a higher department of the art, and his pictures held a highly respectable place at the annual exhibitions of the Scottish Academy. Among his pictures which became favourites may be mentioned the "Wee Raggit Laddie," "The Old Church Road," "The Gaberlunzie," "Tak' your Auld Cloak about ye," and "The Captive Truant." His illustrations of his friend, Mr James Ballantine's works, "The Gaberlunzie's Wallet" and "The Miller of Deanhaugh," and of some other popular works, evince a lively fancy and keen appreciation of character. He executed a number of water-colour sketches of the more picturesque and interesting lanes and alleys of Edinburgh; and contributed to the Illustrated London News representations of remarkable events as they occurred in the Scottish capital. He died suddenly at St John's Hill, Canongate, Edinburgh, in 1850, in the thirty-fourth year of his age. Ritchie was possessed of a vast fund of humour, and was especially esteemed for the simplicity of his manners and his kindly dispositions. He excelled in reading poetry, whether dramatic or descriptive, and sung his own songs with intense feeling. He lived with his aged mother, whom he regarded with dutiful affection, and who survives to lament his loss. Shortly before his death he composed the following hymn, which has been set to appropriate music:—

Father of blissfulness, Grant me a resting-place Now my sad spirit is longing for rest. Lord, I beseech Thee, Deign Thou to teach me Which path to heaven is surest and best: Lonely and dreary, Laden and weary, Oh! for a home in the land of the blest!

Father of holiness, Look on my lowliness; From this sad bondage, O Lord, set me free; Grant that, 'mid love and peace, Sorrow and sin may cease, While in the Saviour my trust it shall be. When Death's sleep comes o'er me, On waking—before me The portals of glory all open I 'll see.

FOOTNOTES:

[28] We are indebted to Mr James Ballantine, of Edinburgh, for the particulars contained in this memoir.



THE WELLS O' WEARIE.

AIR—"Bonnie House o' Airlie."

Sweetly shines the sun on auld Edinbro' toun, And mak's her look young and cheerie; Yet I maun awa' to spend the afternoon At the lanesome Wells o' Wearie.

And you maun gang wi' me, my winsome Mary Grieve, There 's nought in the world to fear ye; For I ha'e ask'd your minnie, and she has gi'en ye leave To gang to the Wells o' Wearie.

Oh, the sun winna blink in thy bonnie blue e'en, Nor tinge the white brow o' my dearie, For I 'll shade a bower wi' rashes lang and green By the lanesome Wells o' Wearie.

But, Mary, my love, beware ye dinna glower At your form in the water sae clearly, Or the fairy will change you into a wee, wee flower, And you 'll grow by the Wells o' Wearie.

Yestreen as I wander'd there a' alane, I felt unco douf and drearie, For wanting my Mary, a' around me was but pain At the lanesome Wells o' Wearie.

Let fortune or fame their minions deceive, Let fate look gruesome and eerie; True glory and wealth are mine wi' Mary Grieve, When we meet by the Wells o' Wearie.

Then gang wi' me, my bonnie Mary Grieve, Nae danger will daur to come near ye; For I ha'e ask'd your minnie, and she has gi'en ye leave, To gang to the Wells o' Wearie.



ALEXANDER LAING.

One of the simplest and most popular of the living national song-writers, Alexander Laing, was born at Brechin on the 14th May 1787. His father, James Laing, was an agricultural labourer. With the exception of two winters' schooling, he was wholly self-taught. Sent to tend cattle so early as his eighth year, he regularly carried books and writing-materials with him to the fields. His books were procured by the careful accumulation of the halfpence bestowed on him by the admirers of his juvenile tastes. In his sixteenth year, he entered on the business of a flax-dresser, in his native town—an occupation in which he was employed for a period of fourteen years. He afterwards engaged in mercantile concerns, and has latterly retired from business. He now resides at Upper Tenements, Brechin, in the enjoyment of a well-earned competency.

Mr Laing early wrote verses. In 1819, several songs from his pen appeared in the "Harp of Caledonia"—a respectable collection of minstrelsy, edited by John Struthers. He subsequently became a contributor to the "Harp of Renfrewshire" and the "Scottish Minstrel," edited by R. A. Smith. His lyrics likewise adorn the pages of Robertson's "Whistle Binkie" and the "Book of Scottish Song." He published, in 1846, a collected edition of his poems and songs, in a duodecimo volume, under the designation of "Wayside Flowers." A second edition appeared in 1850. He has been an occasional contributor to the local journals; furnished a number of anecdotes for the "Laird of Logan," a humorous publication of the west of Scotland; and has compiled some useful elementary works for the use of Sabbath-schools. His lyrics are uniformly pervaded by graceful simplicity, and the chief themes of his inspiration are love and patriotism. Than his song entitled "My Ain Wife," we do not know a lay more beautifully simple. His "Hopeless Exile" is the perfection of tenderness.



AE HAPPY HOUR.

AIR—"The Cock Laird."

The dark gray o' gloamin', The lone leafy shaw, The coo o' the cushat, The scent o' the haw; The brae o' the burnie, A' bloomin' in flower, An' twa' faithfu' lovers, Make ae happy hour.

A kind winsome wifie, A clean canty hame, An' smilin' sweet babies To lisp the dear name; Wi' plenty o' labour, An' health to endure, Make time to row round aye The ae happy hour.

Ye lost to affection, Whom avarice can move To woo an' to marry For a' thing but love; Awa' wi' your sorrows, Awa' wi' your store, Ye ken na the pleasure O' ae happy hour.



LASS, GIN YE WAD LO'E ME.

AIR—"Lass, gin I come near you."

"Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me, Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me, Ye'se be ladye o' my ha', Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me. A canty but, a cosie ben, Weel plenish'd ye may trow me; A brisk, a blithe, a kind gudeman— Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me!"

"Walth, there 's little doubt ye ha'e, An' bidin' bein an' easy; But brisk an' blithe ye canna be, An' you sae auld an' crazy. Wad marriage mak' you young again? Wad woman's love renew you? Awa', ye silly doitet man, I canna, winna lo'e you!"

"Witless hizzie, e'en 's you like, The ne'er a doit I 'm carin'; But men maun be the first to speak, An' wanters maun be speerin'. Yet, lassie, I ha'e lo'ed you lang, An' now I'm come to woo you; I 'm no sae auld as clashes gang, I think you 'd better lo'e me."

"Doitet bodie! auld or young, Ye needna langer tarry, Gin ane be loutin' o'er a rung, He 's no for me to marry. Gae hame an' ance bethink yoursel' How ye wad come to woo me, An' mind me i' your latter-will, Bodie, gin ye lo'e me!"



LASS OF LOGIE.

AIR—"Lass of Arranteenie."

I 've seen the smiling summer flower Amang the braes of Yarrow; I 've heard the raving winter wind Amang the hills of Barra; I 've wander'd Scotland o'er and o'er, Frae Teviot to Strathbogie; But the bonniest lass that I ha'e seen Is bonnie Jean of Logie.

Her lips were like the heather bloom, In meekest dewy morning; Her cheeks were like the ruddy leaf, The bloomy brier adorning; Her brow was like the milky flower That blossoms in the bogie; And love was laughing in her een— The bonnie lass of Logie.

I said, "My lassie, come wi' me, My hand, my hame are ready; I ha'e a lairdship of my ain, And ye shall be my ladye. I 've ilka thing baith out and in, To make you blithe and vogie;" She hung her head and sweetly smiled— The bonnie lass of Logie!

But she has smiled, and fate has frown'd, And wrung my heart with sorrow; The bonnie lass sae dear to me Can never be my marrow. For, ah! she loves another lad— The ploughman wi' his cogie; Yet happy, happy may she be, The bonnie lass of Logie!



MY AIN WIFE.

AIR—"John Anderson, my Jo."

I wadna gi'e my ain wife For ony wife I see; For, Oh! my dainty ain wife, She 's aye sae dear to me. A bonnier yet I 've never seen, A better canna be; I wadna gi'e my ain wife For ony wife I see.

Though beauty is a fadin' flower, As fadin' as it 's fair, It looks fu' well in ony wife, An' mine has a' her share. She ance was ca'd a bonnie lass— She 's bonnie aye to me; I wadna gi'e my ain wife For ony wife I see.

Oh, couthy is my ingle-cheek, An' cheery is my Jean; I never see her angry look, Nor hear her word on ane. She 's gude wi' a' the neebours roun', An' aye gude wi' me; I wadna gi'e my ain wife For ony wife I see.

But Oh, her looks sae kindly, They melt my heart outright, When ower the baby at her breast She hangs wi' fond delight. She looks intill its bonnie face, An' syne looks to me; I wadna gi'e my ain wife For ony wife I see.



THE MAID O' MONTROSE.

AIR—"O tell me the Way for to Woo."

O sweet is the calm dewy gloaming, When saftly by Rossie-wood brae, The merle an' mavis are hymning The e'en o' the lang summer's day! An' sweet are the moments when o'er the blue ocean, The full moon arising in majesty glows; An' I, breathing o'er ilka tender emotion, Wi' my lovely Mary, the Maid o' Montrose.

The fopling sae fine an' sae airy, Sae fondly in love wi' himsel', Is proud wi' his ilka new dearie, To shine at the fair an' the ball; But gie me the grove where the broom's yellow blossom Waves o'er the white lily an' red smiling rose, An' ae bonnie lassie to lean on my bosom— My ain lovely Mary, the Maid o' Montrose.

O what is the haill warld's treasure, Gane nane o' its pleasures we prove? An' where can we taste o' true pleasure, Gin no wi' the lassie we love? O sweet are the smiles an' the dimples o' beauty, Where lurking the loves an' the graces repose; An' sweet is the form an' the air o' the pretty, But sweeter is Mary, the Maid o' Montrose.

O Mary, 'tis no for thy beauty, Though few are sae bonnie as thee; O Mary, 'tis no for thy beauty, Though handsome as woman can be. The rose bloom is gane when the chill autumn's low'ring; The aik's stately form when the wild winter blows; But the charms o' the mind are the ties mair enduring— These bind me to Mary, the Maid o' Montrose.



JEAN OF ABERDEEN.

AIR—"Miss Forbes's Farewell to Banff."

Ye 've seen the blooming rosy brier, On stately Dee's wild woody knowes; Ye 've seen the op'ning lily fair, In streamy Don's gay broomy howes: An' ilka bonnie flower that grows, Amang their banks and braes sae green— These borrow a' their finest hues Frae lovely Jean of Aberdeen.

Ye 've seen the dew-ey'd bloomy haw, When morning gilds the welkin high; Ye 've heard the breeze o' summer blaw, When e'ening steals alang the sky. But brighter far is Jeanie's eye, When we 're amang the braes alane, An' softer is the bosom-sigh Of lovely Jean of Aberdeen.

Though I had a' the valleys gay, Around the airy Bennochie; An' a' the fleecy flocks that stray Amang the lofty hills o' Dee; While Mem'ry lifts her melting ee, An' Hope unfolds her fairy scene, My heart wi' them I'd freely gie To lovely Jean of Aberdeen.



THE HOPELESS EXILE.

AIR—"Alas! for Poor Teddy Macshane."

Oh! where has the exile his home? Oh! where has the exile his home? Where the mountain is steep, Where the valley is deep, Where the waves of the Ohio foam; Where no cheering smile His woes may beguile— Oh! there has the exile his home.

Oh! when will the exile return? Oh! when will the exile return? When our hearts heave no sigh, When our tears shall be dry, When Erin no longer shall mourn; When his name we disown, When his mem'ry is gone— Oh! then will the exile return!



GLEN-NA-H'ALBYN.[29]

AIR—"O rest thee, my Darling."

On the airy Ben-Nevis the wind is awake, The boat 's on the shallow, the ship on the lake; Ah! now in a moment my country I leave; The next I am far away—far on the wave! Oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, Glen-na-h'Albyn! Oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, Glen-na-h'Albyn!

I was proud of the power and the fame of my chief, And to build up his House was the aim of my life; And now in his greatness he turns me away, When my strength is decay'd and my locks worn gray. Oh! fare thee well!

Farewell the gray stones of my ancestors' graves, I go to my place 'neath the foam of the waves; Or to die unlamented on Canada's shore, Where none of my fathers were gathered before! Oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, Glen-na-h'Albyn! Oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, Glen-na-h'Albyn!

FOOTNOTES:

[29] "Glen-na-h'Albyn, or Glen-more-na-h'Albyn, the great Glen of Caledonia, is a name applied to the valley which runs in a direction from north-east to south-west, the whole breadth of the kingdom, from the Moray Firth at Inverness to the Sound of Mull below Fort-William, and is almost filled with lakes."



ALEXANDER CARLILE.

Alexander Carlile was born at Paisley in the year 1788. His progenitors are said to have been remarkable for their acquaintance with the arts, and relish for elegant literature. His eldest brother, the late Dr Carlile of Dublin attained much eminence as a profound thinker and an accomplished theologian. Having received a liberal education, first at the grammar-school of Paisley, and afterwards in the University of Glasgow, the subject of this sketch settled as a manufacturer in his native town. Apart from the avocations of business, much of his time has been devoted to the concerns of literature; he has contributed to the more esteemed periodicals, and composed verses for several works on the national minstrelsy. At an early period he composed the spirited and popular song, beginning "Oh, wha's at the window, wha, wha?" which has since obtained a place in all the collections. His only separate publication, a duodecimo volume of "Poems," appeared in 1855, and has been favourably received. Mr Carlile is much devoted to the interests of his native town, and has sedulously endeavoured to promote the moral and social welfare of his fellow-townsmen. His unobtrusive worth and elegant accomplishments have endeared him to a wide circle of friends. His latter poetical compositions have been largely pervaded by religious sentiment.



WHA'S AT THE WINDOW?[30]

Oh, wha's at the window, wha, wha? Oh, wha's at the window, wha, wha? Wha but blithe Jamie Glen, He 's come sax miles and ten, To tak' bonnie Jeannie awa, awa, To tak' bonnie Jeannie awa.

He has plighted his troth, and a', and a', Leal love to gi'e, and a', and a', And sae has she dune, By a' that 's abune, For he lo'es her, she lo'es him, 'bune a', 'bune a', He lo'es her, she lo'es him, 'bune a'.

Bridal-maidens are braw, braw, Bridal-maidens are braw, braw, But the bride's modest e'e, And warm cheek are to me 'Bune pearlins, and brooches, and a', and a', 'Bune pearlins, and brooches, and a'.

It 's mirth on the green, in the ha', the ha', It 's mirth on the green, in the ha', the ha'; There 's quaffing and laughing, There 's dancing and daffing, And the bride's father 's blithest of a', of a', The bride's father 's blithest of a'.

It 's no that she 's Jamie's ava, ava, It 's no that she 's Jamie's ava, ava, That my heart is sae eerie When a' the lave 's cheerie, But it 's just that she 'll aye be awa, awa, It 's just that she 'll aye be awa.

FOOTNOTES:

[30] The title of this song seems to have been suggested by that of a ballad recovered by Cromek, and published in his "Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song," p. 219. The first line of the old ballad runs thus: "Oh, who is this under my window."—ED.



MY BROTHERS ARE THE STATELY TREES.

My brothers are the stately trees That in the forests grow; The simple flowers my sisters are, That on the green bank blow. With them, with them, I am a child Whose heart with mirth is dancing wild.

The daisy, with its tear of joy, Gay greets me as I stray; How sweet a voice of welcome comes From every trembling spray! How light, how bright, the golden-wing'd hours I spend among those songs and flowers!

I love the Spirit of the Wind, His varied tones I know; His voice of soothing majesty, Of love and sobbing woe; Whate'er his varied theme may be, With his my spirit mingles free.

I love to tread the grass-green path, Far up the winding stream; For there in nature's loneliness, The day is one bright dream. And still the pilgrim waters tell Of wanderings wild by wood and dell.

Or up the mountain's brow I toil Beneath a wid'ning sky, Seas, forests, lakes, and rivers wide, Crowding the wondering eye. Then, then, my soul on eagle's wings, To cloudless regions upwards springs!

The stars—the stars! I know each one, With all its soul of love, They beckon me to come and live In their tearless homes above; And then I spurn earth's songs and flowers, And pant to breathe in heaven's own bowers.



THE VALE OF KILLEAN.

O yes, there 's a valley as calm and as sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet; So bland in its beauty, so rich in its green, 'Mid Scotia's dark mountains—the Vale of Killean.

The flocks on its soft lap so peacefully roam, The stream seeks the deep lake as the child seeks its home, That has wander'd all day, to its lullaby close, Singing blithe 'mid the wild-flowers, and fain would repose.

How solemn the broad hills that curtain around This sanctuary of nature, 'mid a wilderness found, Whose echoes low whisper, "Bid the world farewell, And with lowly contentment here peacefully dwell!"

Then build me a cot by that lake's verdant shore, 'Mid the world's wild turmoil I 'll mingle no more, And the tidings evoking the sigh and the tear, Of man's crimes and his follies, no more shall I hear.

Young Morn, as on tiptoe he ushers the day, Will teach fading Hope to rekindle her ray; And pale Eve, with her rapture tear, soft will impart To the soul her own meekness—a rich glow to the heart.

The heavings of passion all rocked to sweet rest, As repose its still waters, so repose shall this breast; And 'mid brightness and calmness my spirit shall rise, Like the mist from the mountain to blend with the skies.



JOHN NEVAY.

John Nevay, the bard of Forfar, was born in that town on the 28th of January 1792. He was educated at the schools of his native place, and considerably improved himself in classical learning, at an early age, under the tuition of Mr James Clarke, sometime master of the Burgh School, and the friend and correspondent of Burns. Fond of solitary rambles in the country, he began, while a mere youth, to portray in verse his impressions of the scenery which he was in the habit of surveying. He celebrated the green fields, the lochs and mountains near the scene of his nativity, and was rewarded with the approving smiles of the family circle. Acquiring facility in the production of verses, he was at length induced to venture on a publication. In 1818 he gave to the world a "Pamphlet of Rhymes," which, obtaining a ready sale, induced him to publish a second small collection of verses in 1821. After an interval devoted to mental improvement, he appeared, in 1834, as the author of "The Peasant, a Poem in Nine Cantos, with other Poems," in one volume, 12mo. In the following year he published "The Child of Nature, and other Poems," in a thin duodecimo volume. In 1853 he printed, by subscription, a third volume, entitled "Rosaline's Dream, in Four Duans, and other Poems," which was accompanied with an introductory essay by the Rev. George Gilfillan. His latest production—"The Fountain of the Rock, a Poem"—appeared in a pamphlet form, in 1855. He has repeatedly written prose tales for the periodicals, and has contributed verses to Blackwood's Magazine and the Edinburgh Literary Journal.

From the labour of a long career of honourable industry, John Nevay is now enjoying the pleasures of retirement. He continues to compose verses with undiminished ardour, and has several MS. poems ready for the press. He has also prepared a lengthened autobiography. As a poet, his prevailing themes are the picturesque objects of nature. His lyrical pieces somewhat lack simplicity. His best production—"The Emigrant's Love-letter"—will maintain a place in the national minstrelsy. It was composed during the same week with Motherwell's "Jeanie Morrison," which it so peculiarly resembles both in expression and sentiment.



THE EMIGRANT'S LOVE-LETTER.

My young heart's luve! twal' years ha'e been A century to me; I ha'e na seen thy smile, nor heard Thy voice's melodie. The mony hardships I ha'e tholed Sin' I left Larocklea, I maun na tell, for it would bring The saut tear in thine e'e.

But I ha'e news, an' happy news, To tell unto my love— What I ha'e won, to me mair dear That it my heart can prove. Its thochts unchanged, still it is true, An' surely sae is thine; Thou never, never canst forget That twa waur ane langsyne.

The simmer sun blinks on the tarn, An' on the primrose brae, Where we, in days o' innocence, Waur wont to daff an' play; An' I amang the mossy springs Wade for the hinny blooms— To thee the rush tiara wove, Bedeck'd wi' lily plumes.

When on the ferny knowe we sat, A happy, happy pair— Thy comely cheek laid on my knee, I plaited thy gowden hair. Oh! then I felt the holiest thocht That e'er enter'd my mind— It, Mary, was to be to thee For ever true an' kind.

Though fair the flowers that bloom around My dwallin' owre the sea— Though bricht the streams, an' green the bowers, They are na sae to me. I hear the bulbul's mellow leed Upo' the gorgeous paum— The sweet cheep o' the feather'd bee Amang the fields o' baum.

But there are nae auld Scotland's burds, Sae dear to childhood's days— The laverock, lintie, shulf, an' yyoite, That taught us luve's sweet lays. Gin' thou e'er wauk'st alane to think On him that's owre the sea, Their cheerfu' saft luve-lilts will tell My heart's luve-thochts to thee.

Lat joy be in thy leal, true heart, An' bricht smile in thine e'e— The bonnie bark is in the bay, I 'm coming hame to thee; I 'm coming hame to thee, Mary, Wi' mony a pearl fine, An' I will lay them in thy lap, For the kiss o' sweet langsyne.



THOMAS LYLE.

Thomas Lyle, author of the highly popular song, "Kelvin Grove," is a native of Paisley. Attending the philosophical and medical classes in the University of Glasgow, he obtained the diploma of surgeon in the year 1816. He commenced medical practice in Glasgow, where he remained till 1826, when he removed to the parish of Airth in Stirlingshire. The latter locality afforded him abundant opportunities for prosecuting his favourite study of botany; and he frequently proceeded at early dawn to great distances in quest of curious or rare plants, so as to gratify his peculiar tastes without interfering with the duties of his profession, or the conveniences of his patients. At an earlier period of life, having cherished a love for the ancient national music, he was in the habit of collecting and noting such of the older airs as were rapidly passing into oblivion. He was particularly struck with one of these airs, which he deemed worthy of more suitable words than those to which it was commonly sung.[31] At this period he often resorted, in his botanical rambles, to the wooded and sequestered banks of the Kelvin, about two miles north-west of Glasgow;[32] and in consequence, he was led to compose for his favourite tune the words of his beautiful song, "Kelvin Grove." "The Harp of Renfrewshire" was now in the course of being published, in sixpence numbers, under the editorship of his college friend and professional brother, John Sim, and to this work he contributed his new song. In a future number of the work, the song appeared without his name, as was requested, but with some unauthorised alterations. Of these he complained to Mr Sim, who laid the blame on Mr John Murdoch, who had succeeded him in the editorship, and Mr Lyle did not further prosecute inquiry on the subject. On the retirement of Mr Murdoch, the editorship of "The Harp of Renfrewshire" was intrusted to the poet Motherwell, who incautiously ascribed the song to Mr Sim in the index of the work. Sim died in the West Indies before this period;[33] and, in the belief that the song had been composed by him, Mr Purdie, music-seller in Edinburgh, made purchase of the copyright from his representatives, and published the words, with music arranged for the piano by Robert Archibald Smith. Mr Lyle now asserted his title to the authorship, and on Mr Sim's letter regarding the alterations being submitted to Messrs Motherwell and Smith, a decision in favour of his claim was pronounced by these gentlemen. Mr Lyle was shortly after invited by Mr Smith to contribute songs for the "Irish Minstrel," one of his numerous musical publications.

In 1827 Mr Lyle published the results of his researches into the song literature of his country, in a duodecimo volume, entitled "Ancient Ballads and Songs, chiefly from Tradition, Manuscripts, and scarce Works, with Biographical and Illustrative Notices." Of this work, the more interesting portion consists of "Miscellaneous Poems, by Sir William Mure, Knight of Rowallan," together with several songs of various merit by the editor.

Having acted as medical practitioner at Airth during the period of twenty-eight years, Mr Lyle, in the close of 1853, returned to Glasgow, where he soon found himself actively employed by the medical boards of the city during the prevalence of the Asiatic Cholera. At the present time he is one of the city district surgeons. A man of the most retiring dispositions, he has hitherto avoided public reputation, and has written verses, as he has studied botany, solely for his amusement. He will, however, be remembered as the writer of some exquisitely sweet and simple lyrics.

FOOTNOTES:

[31] The former words to this air commenced, "Oh, the shearing's no for you, bonnie lassie, O!"

[32] The wooded scenery of the Kelvin will in a few years be included within the boundaries of the city, which has already extended within a very limited space of the "grove" celebrated in the song.

[33] See vol. iii., p. 226.



KELVIN GROVE.

Let us haste to Kelvin Grove, bonnie lassie, O! Through its mazes let us rove, bonnie lassie, O! Where the rose in all her pride, Paints the hollow dingle side, Where the midnight fairies glide, bonnie lassie, O!

Let us wander by the mill, bonnie lassie, O! To the cove beside the rill, bonnie lassie, O! Where the glens rebound the call Of the roaring water's fall, Through the mountains rocky hall, bonnie lassie, O!

O Kelvin banks are fair, bonnie lassie, O! When in summer we are there, bonnie lassie, O! There the May pink's crimson plume Throws a soft but sweet perfume Round the yellow banks of broom, bonnie lassie, O!

Though I dare not call thee mine, bonnie lassie, O! As the smile of fortune 's thine, bonnie lassie, O! Yet with fortune on my side, I could stay thy father's pride, And win thee for my bride, bonnie lassie, O!

But the frowns of fortune lower, bonnie lassie, O! On thy lover at this hour, bonnie lassie, O! Ere yon golden orb of day Wake the warblers on the spray, From this land I must away, bonnie lassie, O!

Then farewell to Kelvin grove, bonnie lassie, O! And adieu to all I love, bonnie lassie, O! To the river winding clear, To the fragrant-scented breer, Even to thee of all most dear, bonnie lassie, O!

When upon a foreign shore, bonnie lassie, O! Should I fall midst battle's roar, bonnie lassie, O! Then, Helen! shouldst thou hear Of thy lover on his bier, To his memory shed a tear, bonnie lassie, O!



THE TRYSTING HOUR.

The night-wind's Eolian breezes, Chase melody over the grove, The fleecy clouds wreathing in tresses, Float rosy the woodlands above; Then tarry no longer, my true love, The stars hang their lamps in the sky, 'Tis lovely the landscape to view, love, When each bloom has a tear in its eye.

So stilly the evening is closing, Bright dew-drops are heard as they fall, Eolian whispers reposing Breathe softly, I hear my love call; Yes, the light fairy step of my true love The night breeze is wafting to me; Over heathbell and violet blue, love, Perfuming the shadowy lea.



HARVEST SONG.[34]

The harvest morning breaks Breathing balm, and the lawn Through the mist in rosy streaks Gilds the dawn, While fairy troops descend, With the rolling clouds that bend O'er the forest as they wend Fast away, when the day Chases cloudy wreaths away From the land.

The harvest breezes swell, And the song pours along, From the reapers in the dell, Joyous throng! The tiny gleaners come, Picking up their harvest home, As they o'er the stubble roam, Dancing here, sporting there, All the balmy sunny air Is full of song.

The harvest evening falls, While each flower round the bower, Breathing odour, now recalls The lover's hour. The moon enthroned in blue Lights the rippling lake anew, And the wailing owls' whoo! whoo! From the glen again, again, Wakes the stillness of the scene On my adieu.

FOOTNOTES:

[34] Contributed by Mr Lyle to the present work.



JAMES HOME.

James Home, the author of "Mary Steel," and other popular songs, was born, early in the century, on the farm of Hollybush, about a mile south of Galashiels. During a period of about thirty years, he has been engaged in the humble capacity of a dry-stone mason in Peeblesshire. He resides in the hamlet of Rachan Mill in that county, where, in addition to his ordinary employment, he holds the office of postmaster.

Home has not ventured on a publication, and latterly has abandoned the composition of verses. In youth he was, writes a correspondent, "an enthusiast in love, music, and poetry." A number of his songs and poetical pieces, which he had addressed to friends, have long been popular in the south of Scotland. His song entitled "This Lassie o' Mine" has enjoyed an uncommon measure of general favour. His compositions are replete with pathos; he has skilfully told the lover's tale; and has most truthfully depicted the joys and sorrows, hopes and fears of human life. Some of his best pieces appear in the "Unknown Poets" of Mr Alexander Campbell,—a work which only reached a single number. Of mild dispositions, modest manners, and industrious habits, Home is much respected in private life. Of a somewhat sanguine complexion, his countenance betokens superior intellectual power. He enjoys the comfort of a suitable partner in life, and is a respected office-bearer of the Free Church congregation at Broughton.



MARY STEEL.

I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel, When the lark begins to sing, And a thousan', thousan' joyfu' hearts Are welcoming the spring: When the merle and the blackbird build their nest In the bushy forest tree, And a' things under the sky seem blest, My thoughts shall be o' thee.

I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel, When the simmer spreads her flowers, And the lily blooms and the ivy twines In beauty round the bowers; When the cushat coos in the leafy wood, And the lambs sport o'er the lea, And every heart 's in its happiest mood, My thoughts shall be o' thee.

I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel, When har'st blithe days begin, And shearers ply, in the yellow ripe field, The foremost rig to win; When the shepherd brings his ewes to the fauld, Where light-hair'd lasses be, And mony a tale o' love is tauld, My thoughts shall be o' thee.

I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel, When the winter winds rave high, And the tempest wild is pourin' doun Frae the dark and troubled sky: When a hopeless wail is heard on land, And shrieks frae the roaring sea, And the wreck o' nature seems at hand, My thoughts shall be o' thee!



OH, HAST THOU FORGOTTEN?

Oh, hast thou forgotten the birk tree's shade, And this warm, true heart o' mine, Mary? Oh, hast thou forgotten the promise thou made, When so fondly 't was pressed to thine, Mary?

Oh, hast thou forgotten, what I ne'er can forget, The hours we have spent together? Those hours which, like stars in my memory, yet Shine on as brightly as ever!

Oh, hast thou forgotten that moment of bliss, So fraught with the heart's full feeling? As we clung to each other in the last embrace, The soul of love revealing!

Oh, hast thou forgotten that sacred spot, Where the farewell word was spoken? Is the sigh, and the tear, and all forgot, The vow and the promise broken?

Then for ever farewell, thou false fair one; Though other arms caress thee, Though a fairer youth thy heart should gain, And a smoother tongue should bless thee:—

Yet never again on thy warm young cheek Will breathe a soul more warm than mine, And never again will a lover speak Of love more pure to thine.



THE MAID OF MY HEART.

AIR—"The Last Rose of Summer."

When the maid of my heart, with the dark rolling eye, The only beloved of my bosom is nigh, I ask not of Heaven one bliss to impart, Save that which I feel with the maid of my heart.

When around and above us there 's nought to be seen, But the moon on the sky and the flower on the green, And all is at rest in the glen and the hill, Save the soul-stirring song of the breeze and the rill.

Then the maid of my heart to my bosom is press'd, Then all I hold dear in this world is possess'd; Then I ask not of Heaven one bliss to impart, Save that which I feel with the maid of my heart.



SONG OF THE EMIGRANT.

Oh! the land of hills is the land for me, Where the maiden's step is light and free; Where the shepherd's pipe, and the hunter's horn, Awake the joys of the rosy morn.

There 's a voice in the wind, when it comes from the lake, That tells how the foamy billows break; There 's a voice in the wind, when it comes from the wood, That tells of dreary solitude.

But, oh! when it comes from the mountain fells, Where the Spirit of Song and Freedom dwells, Where in youth's warm day I woke that strain I ne'er in this world can wake again.

The warm blood leaps in its wonted course, And fresh tears gush from their briny source, As if I had hail'd in the passing wind The all I have loved and left behind.



THIS LASSIE O' MINE.[35]

TUNE—"Wattie's Ramble."

O, saw ye this sweet bonnie lassie o' mine? Or saw ye the smile on her cheek sae divine? Or saw ye the kind love that speaks in her e'e? Sure naebody e'er was sae happy as me.

It 's no that she dances sae light on the green, It 's no the simplicity marked in her mien— But, O! it 's the kind love that speaks in her e'e That keeps me aye happy as happy can be.

To meet her alane 'mang the green leafy trees, When naebody kens, an' when naebody sees; To breathe out the soul in a saft melting kiss— On earth sure there 's naething is equal to this.

I have felt every bliss which the soul can enjoy, When friends circle round, and nought to annoy; I have felt every joy which illumines the breast When the full flowing bowl is most warmly caress'd.

But, O! there 's a sweet and a heavenly charm In life's early day, when the bosom is warm, When soul meets with soul in a saft melting kiss, On earth sure there 's naething is equal to this.

FOOTNOTES:

[35] This song was formerly introduced in this work (vol. ii. p. 70) as the composition of the Ettrick Shepherd. The error is not ours; we found the song in the latest or posthumous edition of the Shepherd's songs, p. 201 (Blackie, Glasgow), and we had no reason to suspect the authenticity. We have since ascertained that a copy of the song, having been handed to the Shepherd by the late Mr Peter Roger, of Peebles, Hogg, with the view of directing attention to the real author, introduced it shortly after in his Noctes Bengerianae, in the "Edinburgh Literary Journal" (vol. i. p. 258). Being included in this periodical paper, the editor of his posthumous works had assumed that the song was the Shepherd's own composition. So much for uncertainty as to the authorship of our best songs!



JAMES TELFER.

James Telfer, an ingenious prose writer and respectable poet, was born about the commencement of the century, near the source of the river Jed, in the parish of Southdean, and county of Roxburgh. Passionate in his admiration of Hogg's "Queen's Wake," he early essayed imitations of some of the more remarkable portions of that poem. In 1824 he published at Jedburgh a volume of "Border Ballads and Miscellaneous Poems," which he inscribed to the Bard of Ettrick. "Barbara Gray," an interesting prose tale, appeared from his pen in 1835, printed at Newcastle. A collected edition of his best productions in prose and verse was published at London in 1852, with the title of "Tales and Sketches." He has long been a contributor to the provincial journals.

Some of Mr Telfer's ballads are respectable specimens of this class of compositions; and his tales in prose are written with much vigour, the narrative of "Barbara Gray" being especially interesting. For many years he has taught an adventure school at Saughtree, Liddisdale; and with emoluments not much beyond twenty pounds a-year, he has contrived to support a family. He has long maintained a literary correspondence with his ingenious friend, Mr Robert White of Newcastle; and his letters, some of which we have seen, abound with curious and interesting speculations.



OH, WILL YE WALK THE WOOD WI' ME?[36]

"Oh, will ye walk the wood wi' me? Oh, will ye walk the green? Or will ye sit within mine arms, My ain kind Jean?"

"It 's I 'll not walk the wood wi' thee, Nor yet will I the green; And as for sitting in your arms, It 's what I dinna mean."

"Oh! slighted love is ill to thole, And weel may I compleen; But since that better mayna be, I e'en maun thol 't for Jean."

"Gang up to May o' Mistycleugh, Ye saw her late yestreen; Ye'll find in her a lightsome love Ye winna find in Jean."

"Wi' bonny May o' Mistycleugh I carena to be seen; Her lightsome love I'd freely gie For half a blink frae Jean."

"Gang down to Madge o' Miryfaulds, I ken for her ye green; Wi' her ye 'll get a purse o' gowd— Ye 'll naething get wi' Jean."

"For doity Madge o' Miryfaulds I dinna care a preen; The purse o' gowd I weel could want, If I could hae my Jean."

"Oh, yes! I 'll walk the wood wi' thee; Oh, yes! I 'll walk the green; But first ye 'll meet me at the kirk, And mak' me aye your Jean."

FOOTNOTES:

[36] Portions of the first and second verses of this song are fragments of an older ditty.—Note by the Author.



I MAUN GAE OVER THE SEA.

"Sweet summer now is by, And cauld winter is nigh, The wan leaves they fa' frae the tree; The hills are white wi' snaw, And the frosty winds blaw, And I maun gie over the sea, Mary, And I maun gie over the sea.

"But winter will gang by, And summer come wi' joy, And Nature again will be free; And wooers you will find, And mair ye 'll never mind The laddie that 's over the sea, Mary, The laddie that 's over the sea."

"Oh, Willie, since it 's sae, My heart is very wae To leave a' my friends and countrie; But wi' thee I will gang, Though the way it be lang, And wi' thee I 'll cross the saut sea, Willie, And wi' thee I 'll cross the saut sea."

"The way is vera far, And terrible is war, And great are the hardships to dree; And if I should be slain, Or a prisoner ta'en, My jewel, what would come o' thee, Mary? My jewel, what would come o' thee?

"Sae at hame ye maun bide, And should it sae betide That a bride to another ye be, For ane that lo'ed ye dear Ye 'll whiles drap a tear; I 'll aften do the same for thee, Mary, I 'll aften do the same for thee."

The rowan tear down fell, Her bosom wasna well, For she sabbit most wofullie; "Oure the yirth I wad gang, And never count it lang, But I fear ye carena for me, Willie, But I fear ye carena for me."

Nae langer could he thole, She tore his vera soul, He dighted her bonnie blue e'e; "Oh, what was it you said, Oh my ain loving maid? I 'll never love a woman but thee, Mary, I 'll never love a woman but thee!"

The fae is forced to yield, And freedom has the field; "Away I will ne'er gang frae thee; Only death shall us part, Keep sic thoughts frae my heart, But never shall part us the sea, Mary, But never shall part us the sea."



METRICAL TRANSLATIONS

FROM

The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.



EVAN MACLACHLAN.

One of the most learned of the modern Gaelic song-writers, Evan Maclachlan, was born in 1775, in a small hut called Torracaltuin, in the district of Lochaber. After struggling with many difficulties in obtaining the means of education, he qualified himself for the duties of an itinerating tutor. In this capacity it was his good fortune to live in the families of the substantial tenantry of the district, two of whom, the farmers at Clunes and Glen Pean, were led to evince an especial interest in his welfare. The localities of those early patrons he has celebrated in his poetry. Another patron, the Chief of Glengarry, supplied funds to enable him to proceed to the university, and he was fortunate in gaining, by competition, a bursary or exhibition at King's College, Aberdeen. For a Greek ode, on the generation of light, he gained the prize granted for competition to the King's College by the celebrated Dr Claudius Buchanan. Having held, during a period of years, the office of librarian in King's College, he was in 1819 elected master of the grammar school of Old Aberdeen. His death took place on the 29th March 1822. To the preparation of a Gaelic dictionary he devoted the most important part of his life. Subsequent to his decease, the work was published in two quarto volumes, by the Highland Society, under the editorial care of Dr Mackay, formerly of Dunoon. The chief amusement of Maclachlan's leisure hours was executing translations of Homer into Gaelic. His translation of the third book of the Iliad has been printed. Of his powers as a Gaelic poet, an estimate may be formed from the following specimens in English verse.



A MELODY OF LOVE.

The first stanza of this song was the composition of a lady. Maclachlan completed the composition in Gaelic, and afterwards produced the following version of the whole in English.

Not the swan on the lake, or the foam on the shore, Can compare with the charms of the maid I adore: Not so white is the new milk that flows o'er the pail, Or the snow that is shower'd from the boughs of the vale.

As the cloud's yellow wreath on the mountain's high brow, The locks of my fair one redundantly flow; Her cheeks have the tint that the roses display When they glitter with dew on the morning of May.

As the planet of Venus that gleams o'er the grove, Her blue rolling eyes are the symbols of love: Her pearl-circled bosom diffuses bright rays, Like the moon when the stars are bedimm'd with her blaze.

The mavis and lark, when they welcome the dawn, Make a chorus of joy to resound through the lawn: But the mavis is tuneless, the lark strives in vain, When my beautiful charmer renews her sweet strain.

When summer bespangles the landscape with flowers, While the thrush and the cuckoo sing soft from the bowers, Through the wood-shaded windings with Bella I 'll rove, And feast unrestrained on the smiles of my love.



THE MAVIS OF THE CLAN.

These verses are allegorical. In the character of a song-bird the bard relates the circumstances of his nativity, the simple habits of his progenitors, and his own rural tastes and recreations from infancy, giving the first place to the delights of melody. He proceeds to give an account of his flight to a strange but hospitable region, where he continued to sing his songs among the birds, the flocks, the streams, and cultivated fields of the land of his sojourn. This piece is founded upon a common usage of the Gaelic bards, several of whom assume the allegorical character of the "Mavis" of their own clan. Thus we have the Mavis of Clan-ranald by Mac-Vaistir-Allister—of Macdonald (of Sleat) by Mac Codrum—of Macleod, and many others.

Clan Lachlan's tuneful mavis, I sing on the branches early, And such my love of song, I sleep but half the night-tide rarely; No raven I, of greedy maw, no kite of bloody beak, No bird of devastating claw, but a woodland songster meek. I love the apple's infant bloom; my ancestry have fared For ages on the nourishment the orchard hath prepared: Their hey-day was the summer, their joy the summer's dawn, And their dancing-floor it was the green leaf's velvet lawn; Their song was the carol that defiance bade to care, And their breath of life it was the summer's balmiest air.

When first my morn of life was born, the Pean's[37] silver stream Glanced in my eye, and then there lent my view their kinder gleam, The flowers that fringed its side, where, by the fragrant breezes lull'd, As in a cradle-bed I lay, and all my woes were still'd. But changes will come over us, and now a stranger I Among the glades of Cluaran[38] must imp my wings and fly; Yet gratitude forbid complaint, although in foreign grove, Since welcome to my haunt I come, and there in freedom rove.

By every song-bird charm'd, my ear is fed the livelong day, Now from the hollow's deepest dell, now from the top-most spray, The comrades of my lay, they tune their wild notes for my pleasure, And I, can I refrain to swell their diapason's measure? With its own clusters loaded, with its rich foliage dress'd, Each bough is hanging down, and each shapely stem depress'd, While nestle there inhabitants, a feather'd tuneful choir, That in the strife of song breathe forth a flame of minstrel fire. O happy tribe of choristers! no interruption mars The concert of your harmony, nor ever harshly jars A string of all your harping, nor of your voices trill Notes that are weak for tameness, that are for sharpness shrill.

The sun is on his flushing march, his golden hair abroad, It seems as on the mountain's side of beams a furnace glow'd, Now melts the honey from all flowers, and now a dew o'erspreads (A dew of fragrant blessedness) all the grasses of the meads. Nor least in my remembrance is my country's flowering heather, Whose russet crest, nor cold, nor sun, nor sweep of gale may wither; Dear to my eye the symbol wild, that loves like me the side Of my own Highland mountains that I climb in love and pride.

Dear tribes of nature! co-mates ye of nature's wandering son— I hail the lambs that on the floor of milky pastures run, I hail the mother flocks, that, wrapp'd in their mantle of the fleece, Defy the landward tempest's roar, and defy the seaward breeze. The streams they drink are waters of the ever-gushing well, Those streams, oh, how they wind around the swellings of the dell! The flowers they browze are mantles spread o'er pastures wide and far, As mantle o'er the firmament the stars, each flower a star! I will not name each sister beam, but clustering there I see The beauty of the purple-bell, the daisy of the lea.

Of every hue I mark them, the many-spotted kine, The dun, the brindled, and the dark, and blends the bright its shine; And, 'mid the Highlands rude, I see the frequent furrows swell, With the barley and the corn that Scotland loves so well.

* * * * *

And now I close my clannish lay with blessings on the shade That bids the mavis sing her song, well nurtured, undismay'd; The shade where bloom and cresses, and the ear-honey'd heather, Are smiling fair, and dwelling in their brotherhood together; For the sun is setting largely, and blinks my eye its ken; 'T is time to loose the strings, I ween, and close my wild-wood strain.