WEEP AWAY.

Weep away, heart, weep away! Let no muleteer Be afraid To weep; for a brave heart may Lament for a dear, Fickle maid.

The lofty sky weeps in cloud, The earth weeps in dews From its core; The diamond brooks weep aloud, The flowers change the hues Which they wore.

The grass mourns in the sunbeam, In gums weep the trees And in dye; And if mourn meadow and stream— Inanimate these— May not I?

The wood-pigeon mourns his mate, The caged birds bewail Freedom gone; Shall not man mourn over fate? Dumb sorrow assail Him alone?

Then weep on, heart, weep away! Let no muleteer Be afraid To weep; for a brave heart may Lament for a dear, Fickle maid.



JAMES MANSON.

James Manson, one of the conductors of the Glasgow Herald, has composed a number of lyrics, some of which have been set to music. Mr Manson was born in the parish of Kilwinning, Ayrshire, about the year 1812. He was bred to a laborious handicraft occupation, at which he wrought industriously during a course of years.



OCEAN.

Set to Music by H. Lambeth.

ON SHORE—CALM.

Summer Ocean, Placid Ocean, Soft and sweet thy lullaby; Shadows lightly, Sunbeams brightly, Flicker o'er thee noiselessly.

Resting gently on thy bosom, Snowy sea-gulls preen thy wings, While perfumed sighs, from many a blossom, Float around the strain the skylark sings.

Love's emotion, Summer Ocean, Like thy self, 'neath cloudless skies, Glances brightly, Dances lightly Till the fond illusion flies.

AT SEA—STORM.

Winter Ocean, Furious Ocean, Fierce and loud thy choral lay: Storm-clouds soaring, Whirlwinds roaring O'er thy breast in madness play.

Homeless petrels shriek their omen Harshly 'mid thy billows' roar; Fleshless bones of shipwreck'd seamen Dash against thy rock-ribb'd shore.

War's commotion, Winter Ocean, Like thyself, when tempest driven, By passion hurl'd, Would wreck the world, And mock the wrath-scowling heaven.



THE HUNTER'S DAUGHTER.

Set to Music by Herr Kuecken.

When loud the horn is sounding Along the distant hills, Then would I rove, ne'er weary, The Hunter's Daughter near me, By flowery margin'd rills.

'Mid stately pines embosom'd There stands the Hunter's cot, From which this maiden daily At morning peeps so gaily, Contented with her lot.

This Hunter and his Daughter Make everything their prey; He slays the wild roe bounding, Her eyes young hearts are wounding— No shafts so sure as they!



AN INVITATION.

Music arranged by Julius Siligmann.

The skylark sings his matin lay, The waking flowers at dawning day, With perfumed breath, sigh, Come! come! come! Oh, haste, Love, come with me, To the wild wood come with me. Hark, the wing'd warblers singing, Come with me; Beauteous flowers, their perfume flinging, Wait for thee!

The sunlight sleeps upon the lea, And sparkles o'er the murmuring sea, The wanton wind sighs, Come! come! come! Oh, haste, Love, come with me, To the wild wood come with me— Come and gather luscious berries, Come with me; Clustering grapes and melting cherries Wait for thee!

My bird of love, my beauteous flower, Come, reign the queen of yonder bower, 'Tis True-love whispers, Come! come! come! Oh, haste, then, come with me, To the wild wood come with me. Life's first fairest hours are fleeting— Come with me; Hope, and Joy, and Love's fond greeting Wait for thee!



CUPID AND THE ROSE-BUD.

Set to Music by H. Lambeth.

Young Love once woo'd a budding Rose, (Sing hey down ho, the bleak winds blow.) With fond delight his bosom glows, (How softly fall the flakes of snow.) Love watch'd the flower whose ruby tips Peep'd coyly forth, like pouting lips, Then nearer to the Rose he trips; (The stately oak will soon lie low.)

Young Love was fond and bashful too, (Sing hey down ho, the sea rolls aye.) He sigh'd and knew not what to do; (Life like an arrow flies away.) Then whispering low his cherish'd wish, The Rose-bud trembled on her bush, While redder grew her maiden blush; (Ruddy eve forecasts the brightest day.)

To pull this Rose young Love then tried; ('Tis sweet to hear the skylark sing.) Her blush of hope she strove to hide; (Joy soars aloft on painted wing.) Love press'd the Rose-bud to his breast, He felt the thorn, but well he guess'd Such "Nay" meant "Yea," 'twas fond Love's jest; ('Tis honey soothes the bee's fell sting.)



ROBIN GOODHEART'S CAROL.

TUNE—"The Brave Old Oak."

'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! all eyes are bright, And joyous songs abound; Our log burns high, but it glows less bright Than the eyes which sparkle round. The merry laugh, and the jocund tale, And the kiss 'neath the mistletoe, Make care fly as fast as the blustering gale That wreaths the new fallen snow. 'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! all eyes are bright, And joyous thoughts abound; The log burns high, but it glows less bright Than the eyes which sparkle round.

'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! see the old grandsire Forgets his weight of years; He laughs with the young, and a fitful fire Beams through his unbidden tears. With tremulous tenor he joins the strain— The song of his manhood's prime; For his thoughts grow young, and he laughs again, While his aged head nods time. 'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! &c.

'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! and the infant's heart Beats high with a new delight, And youths and maidens, with guileless art, Make merry the livelong night. The time flies on with gladsome cheer, And welcomes pass around— 'Tis the warmest night of all the year, Though winter hath chain'd the ground. 'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! &c.



JAMES HEDDERWICK.

James Hedderwick, proprietor and editor of the Glasgow Citizen, was born at Glasgow on the 18th January 1814. His father, who bore the same Christian name, was latterly Queen's printer in that city. At an early age the subject of this sketch was put to the printing business in his father's office. His tastes, however, being more literary than mechanical, he gradually became dissatisfied with his position, and occupied his leisure hours by contributing, in prose and verse, to sundry periodicals. In his sixteenth year he spent some time in London, in the course of which he attended the Rhetoric class of the London University, and carried off the first prize. When little more than twenty years of age, he obtained the situation of sub-editor of the Scotsman newspaper. He now applied himself assiduously to political writing, but continued, at the same time, to seek recreation in those lighter departments of literature which were more in accordance with his personal tastes. Several of his poetical pieces, contributed to the Scotsman, were copied into Chambers' Edinburgh Journal, and have since frequently appeared in different periodicals. One of these, entitled "First Grief," was lately quoted in terms of approbation by a writer in Fraser's Magazine. Others have found their way, in an anonymous shape, into a London publication entitled "Beautiful Poetry." In 1842 Mr Hedderwick returned to his native city, and started the Glasgow Citizen—a weekly newspaper which continues to maintain an honourable position. Previous to leaving Edinburgh he was entertained at a public dinner, attended by men of letters and other leading individuals. The drudgery of newspaper life has left Mr Hedderwick little leisure for contributions to polite literature. While in Edinburgh, however, he wrote one number of "Wilson's Tales of the Border," and has since contributed occasionally to other works. In 1844 he published a small collection of poems, but in too costly a form for general circulation.



MY BARK AT SEA.

Away, away, like a child at play, Like a living ocean-child, Through the feathery spray she cleaves her way To the billows' music wild; The sea is her wide-spread pleasure ground, And the waves around her leap, As with joyous bound, to their mystic sound, She dances o'er the deep!

Sometimes at rest, on the water's breast, She lies with folded wing, But now, wind-chased and wave-caress'd, She moves a joyous thing! And away she flies all gleaming bright, While a wave in lofty pride, Like a gallant knight, in plumage white, Is bounding by her side!

For her glorious path the sea she hath, And she wanders bold and free, And the tempest's breath and the billows' wrath Are her mighty minstrelsy! A queen the crested waves among, A light and graceful form, She sweeps along, to the wild-winds' song, Like the genius of the storm!



SORROW AND SONG.

Weep not over poet's wrong, Mourn not his mischances; Sorrow is the source of song, And of gentle fancies.

Rills o'er rocky beds are borne Ere they gush in whiteness; Pebbles are wave-chafed and worn Ere they shew their brightness.

Sweetest gleam the morning flowers When in tears they waken; Earth enjoys refreshing showers When the boughs are shaken.

Ceylon's glistening pearls are sought In its deepest waters; From the darkest mines are brought Gems for beauty's daughters.

Through the rent and shiver'd rock Limpid water breaketh; 'Tis but when the chords are struck That their music waketh.

Flowers, by heedless footstep press'd, All their sweets surrender; Gold must brook the fiery test Ere it shew its splendour.

When the twilight, cold and damp, Gloom and silence bringeth, Then the glow-worm lights its lamp, And the night-bird singeth.

Stars come forth when Night her shroud Draws as Daylight fainteth; Only on the tearful cloud God his rainbow painteth.

Weep not, then, o'er poet's wrong, Mourn not his mischances; Sorrow is the source of song And of gentle fancies.



THE LAND FOR ME.

I 've been upon the moonlit deep When the wind had died away, And like an Ocean-god asleep The bark majestic lay; But lovelier is the varied scene, The hill, the lake, the tree, When bathed in light of Midnight's Queen; The land! the land! for me.

The glancing waves I 've glided o'er When gently blew the breeze; But sweeter was the distant shore, The zephyr 'mong the trees. The murmur of the mountain rill, The blossoms waving free, The song of birds on every hill; The land! the land! for me.

The billows I have been among When they roll'd in mountains dark, And Night her blackest curtain hung Around our heaving bark; But give me, when the storm is fierce, My home and fireside glee, Where winds may howl, but dare not pierce; The land! the land! for me.

And when around the lightning flash'd I 've been upon the deep, And to the gulf beneath I 've dash'd Adown the liquid steep; But now that I am safe on shore, There let me ever be; The sea let others wander o'er; The land! the land! for me.



THE EMIGRANTS.

The daylight was dying, the twilight was dreary, And eerie the face of the fast-falling night, But closing the shutters, we made ourselves cheery With gas-light and fire-light, and young faces bright.

When, hark! came a chorus of wailing and anguish! We ran to the door and look'd out through the dark; Till gazing, at length we began to distinguish The slow-moving masts of an ocean-bound bark.

Alas! 'twas the emigrants leaving the river, Their homes in the city, their haunts in the dell; From kindred and friends they had parted for ever, But their voices still blended in cries of farewell.

We saw not the eyes that their last looks were taking; We heard but the shouts that were meant to be cheers, But which told of the aching of hearts that were breaking, A past of delight and a future of tears.

And long as we listen'd, in lulls of the night breeze, On our ears the sad shouting in faint music fell, Till methought it seem'd lost in the roll of the white seas, And the rocks and the winds only echoed farewell.

More bright was our home-hearth, more bright and more cosy, As we shut out the night and its darkness once more; But pale were the cheeks, that so radiant and rosy, Were flush'd with delight a few moments before.

So I told how the morning, all lovely and tender, Sweet dew on the hills, and soft light on the sea, Would follow the exiles and float with its splendour, To gild the far land where their homes were to be.

In the eyes of my children were gladness and gleaming, Their little prayer utter'd, how calm was their sleep! But I in my dreaming could hear the wind screaming, And fancy I heard hoarse replies from the deep.

And often, when slumber had cool'd my brow's fever, A dream-utter'd shriek of despair broke the spell; 'Twas the voice of the emigrants leaving the river, And startling the night with their cries of farewell.



FIRST GRIEF.

They tell me first and early love Outlives all after dreams; But the memory of a first great grief To me more lasting seems; The grief that marks our dawning youth To memory ever clings, And o'er the path of future years A lengthen'd shadow flings.

Oh, oft my mind recalls the hour When to my father's home Death came—an uninvited guest— From his dwelling in the tomb! I had not seen his face before, I shudder'd at the sight, And I shudder still to think upon The anguish of that night!

A youthful brow and ruddy cheek Became all cold and wan; An eye grew dim in which the light Of radiant fancy shone. Cold was the cheek, and cold the brow, The eye was fix'd and dim; And one there mourn'd a brother dead Who would have died for him!

I know not if 'twas summer then, I know not if 'twas spring, But if the birds sang on the trees I did not hear them sing! If flowers came forth to deck the earth Their bloom I did not see; I look'd upon one wither'd flower, And none else bloom'd for me!

A sad and silent time it was Within that house of woe, All eyes were dull and overcast, And every voice was low! And from each cheek at intervals The blood appear'd to start, As if recall'd in sudden haste To aid the sinking heart!

Softly we trod, as if afraid To mar the sleeper's sleep, And stole last looks of his pale face For memory to keep! With him the agony was o'er, And now the pain was ours, As thoughts of his sweet childhood rose Like odour from dead flowers!

And when at last he was borne afar From the world's weary strife, How oft in thought did we again Live o'er his little life! His every look—his every word— His very voice's tone— Came back to us like things whose worth Is only prized when gone!

The grief has pass'd with years away And joy has been my lot; But the one is oft remember'd, And the other soon forgot. The gayest hours trip lightest by, And leave the faintest trace; But the deep, deep track that sorrow wears Time never can efface!



THE LINNET.

Tuck, tuck, feer—from the green and growing leaves; Ic, ic, ic—from the little song-bird's throat; How the silver chorus weaves in the sun and 'neath the eaves, While from dewy clover fields comes the lowing of the beeves, And the summer in the heavens is afloat!

Wye, wye, chir—'tis the little linnet sings; Weet, weet, weet—how his pipy treble trills! In his bill and on his wings what a joy the linnet brings, As over all the sunny earth his merry lay he flings, Giving gladness to the music of the rills!

Ic, ic, ir—from a happy heart unbound; Lug, lug, jee—from the dawn till close of day! There is rapture in the sound as it fills the sunshine round, Till the ploughman's careless whistle, and the shepherd's pipe are drown'd, And the mower sings unheeded 'mong the hay!

Jug, jug, joey—oh, how sweet the linnet's theme! Peu, peu, poy—is he wooing all the while? Does he dream he is in heaven, and is telling now his dream, To soothe the heart of pretty girl basking by the stream, Or waiting for her lover at the stile?

Pipe, pipe, chow—will the linnet never weary? Bel bel, tyr—is he pouring forth his vows? The maiden lone and dreary may feel her heart grow cheery, Yet none may know the linnet's bliss except his own sweet dearie, With her little household nestled 'mong the boughs!



WILLIAM BROCKIE.

William Brockie was born in the parish of Smailholm, Roxburghshire. He entered on the world of letters by the publication of a small periodical, entitled The Galashiels Weekly Journal. He subsequently edited The Border Watch, a newspaper originated at Kelso on behalf of the Free Church. This concern proving unfortunate, he obtained, after a short residence at Prestonkirk, East Lothian, the editorship of the Shields Gazette. Compelled to relinquish editorial labour from impaired health, Mr Brockie has latterly established a private academy at South Shields, and has qualified himself to impart instruction in fourteen different languages. Besides a number of pamphlets on a variety of subjects, he has published a "History of South Shields," and a poem, entitled, "The Dusk and the Dawn."



YE 'LL NEVER GANG BACK TO YER MITHER NAE MAIR.

What ails ye, my lassie, my dawtie, my ain? I 've gien ye my word, and I 'll gie ye 't again. There 's naething to fear ye—be lichtsome and cheerie; I 'll never forsake ye, nor leave ye yer lane. We 're sune to be married—I needna say mair; Our love will be leal, though our livin' be bare; In a house o' our ain we 'll be cantie and fain, An' ye 'll never gang back to yer mither nae mair.

We needna be troubled ere trouble be sprung; The warld 's afore us—we 're puir, but we 're young; An' fate will be kind if we 're willint in mind— Sae keep up yer heart, lass, and dinna be dung. Folk a' hae their troubles, and we 'll get our share, But we 'll warsle out through them, and scorn to despair; Sae cheer up yer heart, for we never shall part, An' ye 'll never gang back to yer mither nae mair.

While we live for each other, our lot will be blest; An' though freens sud forget us, they 'll never be miss'd; We 'll sit down at e'en by the ingle sae bien, An' the cares o' the world 'ill a' be dismiss'd. A couple that strive to be honest and fair May be rich without siller, and guid without lear; Be gentle and true, an' yese never need rue, Nor sigh to win back to yer mither nae mair.



ALEXANDER M'LACHLAN.

Alexander M'Lachlan, author of the following song was born at Pinshall, in the parish of St Ninians, Stirlingshire. He has resided, since 1825, at Muirside in the vicinity of his native place.



THE LANG WINTER E'EN.

Sweet summer 's awa, wi' her verdure sae fair; The ance bonny woodlands are leafless an' bare; To the cot wee robin returns for a screen Frae the cauld stormy blast o' the lang winter e'en.

But charms there are still, though nature has nane, When the hard rackin' toils o' the day by are gane, Then round the fireside social hearts do convene, And pleasantly pass the lang winter e'en.

O' warldly wealth I hae got little share, Yet riches and wealth breed but sorrow and care; Just gi'e me an hour wi' some auld honest frien', To crack o'er youth's joys in the lang winter e'en.

The thochts o' our youth are lichtsome and dear, Like the strains o' the lute they fa' saft on the ear, But chiefly the bliss I ha'e shared wi' my Jean In some love-screenin' shade on a lang winter e'en.



THOMAS YOUNG.

The author of "The Four Pilgrims, or, Life's Mission; and other Poems," a volume of respectable poetry, published at Dundee in 1849, Thomas Young, was born at Tulliebeltane, in the parish of Auchtergaven, Perthshire, in 1815. Receiving an ordinary school education, he accepted, in his twentieth year, a situation in the office of the Dundee Advertiser, where he continued till 1851, when a change occurred in the proprietorship. He now proceeded to New York, where he remained about eighteen months. Disappointed in obtaining a suitable appointment, he sailed for Australia; but the vessel being unable to proceed further than Rio de Janeiro, he there procured a situation, with an annual salary of L300. The climate of Rio proving unfavourable, he afterwards sailed to Australia, where he readily found occupation at Mount Alexander. He has been successful at the gold diggings.



ANTOINETTE; OR, THE FALLS.

By Niagara's flood Antoinette stood, And watch'd the wild waves rush on, As they leapt below Into vapoury snow, Or fell into flakes of foam.

The sun's last beams Fell in golden gleams On water and wave-girt isle, And in tinge all fair Dipp'd the girl's bright hair And heighten'd her happy smile.

Away—away! In wild ecstasy She threads the abyss's brink, Where waters—black— Of the cataract Into drifted snow-waves sink.

A father's eye Looketh anxiously On the freaks of his favour'd child, Till her spirit appals His soul, and he calls "Antoinette" in accents wild.

A bolder heart Loves the girl's free sport, And he grasps her by the gown, Then tosseth her high In the twilight sky— But, heavens! she falleth down!

She sinks in the wave; He swimmeth to save! Oh, never was mortal arm More manfully braced, As it grasps her slim waist, And struggles in frantic alarm!

In vain does he strike— The fresh waves break, And the doom'd ones are downward borne! Yet the swimmer's eye Seemeth still to defy The might of the merciless storm.

More loud than before Is the cataract's roar, And the furrow'd wave is bright With many a pearl From the shining swirl Of the water's lucid light.

And down below Is the woolly snow Of Niagara's wrathful bed, But the lip of the bold Hath never told The secrets that there lie hid.

A strong arm, press'd Round a maiden's waist On the doleful morrow is seen, And her oozy hair Laves his forehead bare With the waft of the wavy stream.



ROBERT WILSON.

Robert Wilson was born in the parish of Carnbee, and county of Fife. He practised for some time as a surgeon in St Andrews. He has contributed many pieces of descriptive verse to the periodicals. In 1856, a duodecimo volume of "Poems" from his pen was published at Boston, U.S. His other publications are a small volume on "The Social Condition of France," "Lectures on the Game Laws," and several brochures on subjects of a socio-political nature. He has latterly resided at Aberdour, Fifeshire.



AWAY, AWAY, MY GALLANT BARK.

Away, away, my gallant bark! The waves are white and high; And fast the long becalmed clouds Are sailing in the sky. The merry breeze which wafts them on, And chafes the billow's spray, Will urge thee in thy watery flight: My gallant bark, away!

Now, like the sea-bird's snowy plumes, Are spread thy winged sails, To soar above the mountain waves, And scoop their glassy vales; And, like the bird, thou 'lt calmly rest, Thy azure journey o'er, The shadow of thy folded wings Upon the sunny shore.

Away, away, my gallant bark! Across the billow's foam; I leave awhile, for ocean's strife, The quiet haunts of home; The green fields of my fatherland For many a stormy bay; The blazing hearth for beacon-light: My gallant bark, away!



LOVE.

What fond, delicious ecstasy does early love impart! Resistless, as a spring-tide sea, it flows into the heart, Pervading with its living wave the bosom's inmost core, That thrills with many a gentle hope it never felt before.

And o'er the stripling's glowing heart, extending far and wide, Through passion's troubled realm does Love with angel sway preside; And smiles are shed that cast a light o'er many a future year, And whispers soft are conjured up of lips that are not near.

With promises of fairyland this daylight world teems, And sleep comes with forgetfulness or fraught with lovely dreams; And there is magic in the touch, and music in the sigh, And, far more eloquent than speech, a language in the eye.

And hope the constant bosom cheers with prospects ever new; But if the favour'd one prove false, oh! who can then be true? Our fond illusions disappear, like slumber's shadowy train, And we ne'er recall those vanish'd hopes, nor feel that love again.



EDWARD POLIN.

A writer of prose and poetry, Edward Polin was born at Paisley on the 29th December 1816. He originally followed the business of a pattern-setter in his native town. Fond of literary pursuits, he extensively contributed to the local journals. He subsequently became sub-editor of the Edinburgh Weekly Chronicle. In 1843 he accepted the editorship of the Newcastle Courant—a situation which, proving unsuitable, he retained only a few months. Resolved to adventure on the literary field of London, he sailed from Newcastle in August 1843. The vessel being at anchor off Yarmouth, he obtained leave from the captain to bathe. He had left the vessel only a few yards, when his hands were observed to fall into the water. One of the seamen promptly descended with a rope, and he was speedily raised upon the deck. Every effort to restore animation however proved fruitless. This closing event of a hopeful career took place on the 22d August 1843, when the poet had attained only his 27th year. His remains were interred in St George's churchyard, Cripplegate, London.

A young man of no inconsiderable genius, Polin afforded indication of speedily attaining a literary reputation. By those to whom he was intimately known his premature death was deeply lamented. Many of his MS. compositions are in the hands of friends, who may yet give them to the world.



A GOOD OLD SONG.

I have wander'd afar, 'neath stranger skies, And have revell'd amid their flowers; I have lived in the light of Italian eyes, And dream'd in Italian bowers, While the wondrous strains of their sunny clime Have been trill'd to enchant mine ears, But, oh, how I longed for the song and the time When my heart could respond with its tears. Then sing me a song, a good old song— Not the foreign, the learn'd, the grand— But a simple song, a good old song Of my own dear fatherland.

I have heard, with the great, and the proud, and the gay All, all they would have me adore Of that music divine that, enraptured, they say Can be equall'd on earth never more. And it may be their numbers indeed are divine, Though they move not my heart through mine ears, But a ballad old of the dear "langsyne" Can alone claim my tribute of tears.

I have come from a far and a foreign clime To mine own loved haunts once more, With a yearning for all of my childhood's time And the dear home-sounds of yore; And here, if there yet be love for me, Oh, away with those stranger lays, And now let my only welcome be An old song of my boyhood's days.



ALEXANDER BUCHANAN.

Alexander Buchanan was the son of a maltster at Bucklyvie, Stirlingshire, where he was born in 1817. He attended a school in Glasgow, but was chiefly self-taught. In his youth he composed verses, and continued to produce respectable poetry. For a period he carried on business as a draper in Cowcaddens, Glasgow. Retiring from merchandise, he fixed his residence in the village of Govan. His death took place on the 8th February 1852, in his thirty-fifth year. Buchanan has been celebrated, with other local bards, in a small Glasgow publication, entitled, "Lays of St Mungo." Numerous poems from his pen remain in MS. in the possession of his widow, who continues to reside at Govan.



I WANDER'D ALANE.

AIR—"Lucy's Flittin'."

I wander'd alane at the break o' the mornin', The dun clouds o' nicht were a' wearin' awa'; The sun rose in glory, the gray hills adornin', A' glintin like gowd were their tappits o' snaw; Adown by my side row'd the rock-bedded Kelvin, While nature aroun' was beginnin' to green, An' auld cottar bodies their yardies were delvin', Kennin' thrift in the morn brocht pleasure at e'en.

I leant me against an auld mossy-clad palin', An' noo an' then dichted a tear frae my e'e, I look'd on the bodies, an' envied their toilin'— Though lowly their lot, they seem'd happy by me; I thought on my riches, yet feckless the treasure, I tried to forget, but the labour was vain; My wifie an' bairn were a' my life's pleasure, An' they to the grave baith thegither had gane.

The thochts o' her love had awaken'd my sorrow, The laugh o' my bairnie cam' back on mine ears, An', piercing my heart wi' the force o' an arrow, It open'd anew the saft channel o' tears. I grat an' I sabb'd till I thocht life wad lea' me, An' happy I then could hae parted wi' life— For naething on earth sic enjoyment could gie me As the glee o' my bairn an' smile o' my wife.

Oh, weary the day was when they were ta'en frae me, Leavin' me lane, the last leaf on the tree; Nae comfort the cauld look o' strangers can gie me— I 'm wae, and they a' look as waefu' on me. I wander me aften to break melancholy, On ilk thing that 's leevin' the maxim I see, Not walth to the weary 's like peace to the lowly; Sae, burden'd wi' grief, I maun gang till I die.



KATIE BLAIR.[8]

I 've met wi' mony maidens fair In kintras far awa, I 've met wi' mony here at hame, Baith bonny dames an' braw; But nane e'er had the power to charm My love into a snare Till ance I saw the witchin' e'e An' smile o' Katie Blair.

She wons by Kelvin's bonnie banks, Whar' thick the greenwoods grow, Whar' waters loupin' drouk the leaves While merrily they row. They drouk the lily an' the rose, An' mony flowerets fair, Yet they ne'er kiss a flower sae sweet As winsome Katie Blair.

She is a queen owre a' the flowers O' garden an' o' lea— Her ae sweet smile mair cheering is Than a' their balms to me. As licht to morn she's a' to me, My bosom's only care; An' worthy o' the truest love Is winsome Katie Blair.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] Printed from the Author's MS.



DAVID TAYLOR.

David Taylor was born, in April 1817, in the parish of Dollar, and county of Clackmannan. In early life his parents, having removed to the village of St Ninians, near Stirling, he was there apprenticed to a tartan manufacturer. He has continued to reside at St Ninians, and has been chiefly employed as a tartan weaver. He has written numerous poems and lyrics, and composed music to some of the more popular songs. Latterly he has occupied himself as a teacher of vocal music.



MY AIN GUDEMAN.

O dear, dear to me Is my ain gudeman, For kindly, frank, an' free Is my ain gudeman. An' though thretty years ha'e fled, An' five sin' we were wed, Nae bitter words I 've had Wi' my ain gudeman.

I 've had seven bonnie bairns To my ain gudeman, An' I 've nursed them i' their turns For my ain gudeman; An' ane did early dee, But the lave frae skaith are free, An' a blessin' they 're to me An' my ain gudeman.

I cheerie clamb the hill Wi' my ain gudeman; An', if it 's Heaven's will, Wi' my ain gudeman, In life's calm afternoon, I wad toddle cannie doun, Syne at the foot sleep soun' Wi' my ain gudeman.



ROBERT CATHCART.

Robert Cathcart was born in 1817, and follows the occupation of a weaver in Paisley. Besides a number of fugitive pieces of some merit, he published, in 1842, a small collection of verses entitled, "The Early Blossom."



MARY

Sweet 's the gloamin's dusky gloom, Spreadin' owre the lea, Mary; Sweeter far thy love in bloom, Whilk blaws alane for me, Mary. When the woods in silence sleep, And is hid in dusk the steep, When the flowers in sorrow weep I 'll sigh and smile wi' thee, Mary.

When love plays in rosy beams Roun' the hawthorn-tree, Mary, Then thine e'e a language gleams Whilk tells o' love for me, Mary. When thy sigh blends wi' my smile, Silence reigns o'er us the while, Then my heart, 'mid flutt'ring toil, Tells thy love's bloom'd for me, Mary.

When our hands are join'd in love, Ne'er to part again, Mary, Till death ance mair his arrows prove And tak us for his ain, Mary; Then our joys are crown'd wi' bliss! In a hallow'd hour like this, We in rapture join to kiss And taste o' heaven again, Mary.



WILLIAM JAMIE.

William Jamie was born on the 25th December 1818, in the parish of Marykirk, Kincardineshire. He received his education at the parish school of Maryculter, Aberdeenshire, whither his father removed during his boyhood. After working for some time with his father as a blacksmith, he engaged for several years in the work of tuition. From early manhood a writer of verses, he published, in 1844, at Laurencekirk, a small volume of poems, entitled, "The Muse of the Mearns," which passed through two editions. Of his various subsequent publications may be enumerated, "The Emigrant's Family, and other Poems;" "The Musings of a Wanderer," and a prose tale, entitled, "The Jacobite's Son." Since 1851 he has resided at Pollockshaws, in the vicinity of Glasgow. On the sale of his poetical works he is wholly dependent for subsistence.



AULD SCOTIA'S SANGS.

Although the lays o' ither lands Ha'e mony an artfu' air, They want the stirrin' melody An auld man lo'es to hear. Auld Scotia's sangs hae winnin' charms Which maks the bosom fain; And to her sons, that 's far awa', Wi' thochts o' hame again.

Sweet bygane scenes, and native charms, They fondly bring to min' The trystin'-tree and bonny lass, Wi a' love's dreams langsyne. Oh! lilt me owre some tender strain, For weel I lo'e to hear— Be 't bonny "Broom o' Cowdenknowes," And "Bush aboon Traquair."

Or "Banks and braes o' bonny Doon," Whaur Robin tuned his lyre; And "Roslin Castle's" ruined wa's— Oh! sing, and I'll admire! For I hae heard auld Scotia's sangs Sung owre and owre wi' glee; And the mair I hear their artless strains They dearer grow to me.

Enchanting strains again they bring, Fond memory glints alang To humble bards wha woke the lyre, And wove the patriot's sang. Oh! leeze me on our ain auld sangs, The sangs o' youth and glee; They tell o' Bruce and glorious deeds, Which made our country free.



JOHN CRAWFORD.

A poet possessing, in an eminent degree, the lyrical simplicity and power of the Bard of Coila, John Crawford was, in the year 1816, born at Greenock, in the same apartment which, thirty years before, had witnessed the death of Burns' "Highland Mary," his mother's cousin. With only a few months' attendance at school, he was, in boyhood, thrown on his own resources for support. Selecting the profession of a house-painter, he left Greenock in his eighteenth year, and has since prosecuted his vocation in the town of Alloa. Of strong native genius, he early made himself acquainted with general literature, while he has sought recreation in the composition of verses. In 1850 he published a small duodecimo volume of lyrics, entitled, "Doric Lays; being snatches of Song and Ballad." This little work was much commended by Lord Jeffrey, and received the strong approbation of the late amiable Miss Mitford. "There is," wrote the latter to a correspondent, "an originality in his writings very rare in a follower of Burns.... This is the true thing—a flower springing from the soil, not merely cut and stuck into the earth. Will you tell Mr Crawford how much pleasure he has given to a poor invalid?"

Crawford is an occasional contributor to the public journals. He is at present preparing an historical and descriptive work, to be entitled, "Memorials of the Town and Parish of Alloa." The following poetical epistle in tribute to his genius is from the pen of Mr Scott Riddell.

The days, when write wad minstrel men To ane anither thus, are gone, And days ha'e come upon us when Bards praise nae anthems but their own: But I will love the fashion old While breath frae heaven this breast can draw, And joy when I my tale have told Anent the Bard of Alloa.

Thou, Crawford, sung hast mony a lay. Far mair through nature's power than art's, Pouring them frae thine ain, that they Might reach and gladden other hearts; Therefore our hearts shall honour thee, And say't alike in cot and ha'— Sublime thro' pure simplicity Is he—the Bard of Alloa.

Though far o'er earth these lays shall roam, And make to mankind their appeal; 'Tis not because they 'll lack a home, While Scottish hearts, as wont, can feel: The swains shall sing them on the hill, The maidens in the greenwood-shaw, And mothers bless, wi' warm guid-will, The gifted Bard of Alloa.

E'en weans, wi' their shauchled shoon, And clouted hose, and pinafores, Will lilt, methinks, these lays, sae soon As they can staucher 'boot the doors: Sae shall they sing anent themsells To nature true, as its ain law; For minstrel nane on earth excels In this the Bard of Alloa.

Fresh as the moorland's early dews, And glowing as the woodland rose, Of hearts, his thought gives forth the hues, As richly bright as heaven's ain bow 's— With me, my native land, rejoice, And let the bard thy bosom thaw, As Spring's sweet breathing comes the voice Of him wha sings frae Alloa.

Then rest thee, Crawford, on the lawn, And thus, if song thy soul shall sway, I'll bless thee, while thy toil-worn han' Pu's for itsel' a flower or twa; 'Tis idle—gowd-gear hearts will say— But maist for whilk will tear-drops fa' When death has come, and flowers shall bloom Aboon the Bard of Alloa?

Oh, sing, ye bards, to nature true, And glory shall your brows adorn, And else than this, by none or few, The poet's wreath will long be worn. Cauld fa' the notes o' him wha sings O' scenes whilk man yet never saw— Pour then, frae nature's ain heart-strings, Your strains like him of Alloa.

Possess maun he a poet's heart, And he maun ha'e a poet's mind Wha deftly plays the generous part That warms the cauld, and charms the kind. Nor scorn, ye frozen anes, the powers Whilk hinder other hearts to fa' Into a sordid sink—like yours— But bless the Bard of Alloa.

Ah! little ye may trow or ken The mony cares, and waes, and toils, 'Mang hearts and hames o' lowly men Whilk nought save poetry beguiles; It lifts fu' mony fortune 'boon, When she begins her face to thraw, That ne'er sae sweet a harp could tune As his that sounds frae Alloa.

And as for me, ere this I'd lain Where mark'd my head a mossy stane, Had it not made the joys my ain When a' life's other joys were gane. If 'mang the mountains lone and gray, Unknown, my early joys I sung, When cares and woes wad life belay, How could my harp away be flung?

The dearest power in life below, Is life's ain native power of song, As he alone can truly know, To whom it truly may belong. Lighten'd hath it fu' mony a step, And lessen'd hath it mony a hill, And lighted up the rays o' hope, Ay, and it up shall light them still.

Lo! avarice cauld can gowd secure, Ambition win the wreath o' fame, Wealth gies reputed wit and power, And crowns wi' joy the owner's aim. But be my meed the generous heart, For nought can charm this heart o' mine, Like those who own the undying art That gies a claim to Ossian's line.

Hale be thy heart, dear Crawford—hale Be every heart belonging thee,— The day whan fortune gies ye kale Out through the reek, may ye ne'er see. Ilk son o' song is dear to me; And though thy face I never saw, I'll honour till the day I dee The gifted Bard o' Alloa.



MY AULD WIFIE JEAN.

AIR—"There 'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame."

My couthie auld wifie, aye blythsome to see, As years slip awa' aye the dearer to me; For ferlies o' fashion I carena ae preen When I cleek to the kirk wi' my auld wifie Jean.

The thoughts o' the past are aye pleasin' to me, And mair sae when love lights my auld wifie's e'e; For then I can speak o' the days I ha'e seen When care found nae hame i' the heart o' my Jean.

A hantle we've borne since that moment o' bliss, Frae thy lips, breathin' balm, when I stole the first kiss, When I read a response to my vows in thy e'en. An, blushin', I prest to my bosom my Jean.

Like a rose set in snaw was the bloom on thy cheek, Thy hair, wi' its silken snood, glossy and sleek, When the Laird o' Drumlochie, sae lithless and lean, Wad ha'e gane a lang mile for ae glisk o' my Jean.

Thy mither was dead, and thy faither was fain That the lang-luggit lairdie wad ca' thee his ain; But auld age and frailty could ne'er gang atween The vows I had niffer'd wi' bonnie young Jean.

I canna weel work, an' ye 're weary an' worn, The gudes and the ills lang o' life we ha'e borne; But we ha'e a hame, an' we 're cozie and bein, And the thrift I've to thank o' my auld wifie Jean.

Baith beddin' an' cleadin' o' a' kind ha'e we, A sowp for the needy we 've aye had to gie, A bite and a drap for baith fremit an' frien', Was aye the warst wish o' my auld wifie Jean.

The puir beildless body has scugg'd the cauld blast, 'Yont our hallan he 's houft till the gurl gaed past, An' a bite aff our board, aye sae tidy an' clean, He 's gat wi' gudewill frae my auld wifie Jean.

Our hopes we ha'e set where our bairnies ha'e gaen; Though lyart we've grown since they frae us were ta'en; The thoughts o' them yet brings the tears to our e'en, And aft I 've to comfort my auld wifie Jean.

The paughty and proud ha'e been laid i' the dust, Since the first hairst I shore, since the first clod I cuist; And soon we'll lie laigh; but aboon we 've a Frien', And bright days are comin' for me an' my Jean.



THE LAND O' THE BONNET AND PLAID.

Hurra! for the land o' the broom-cover'd brae, The land o' the rowan, the haw, and the slae; Where waves the blue harebell in dingle and glade— The land o' the pibroch, the bonnet, and plaid.

Hurra! for the hills o' the cromlech and cairn, Where blossoms the thistle by hillocks o' fern; There Freedom in triumph an altar has made For holiest rites in the land o' the plaid.

A coronal wreath, where the wild flowers bloom, To garnish the martyr and patriot's tomb: Shall their names ever perish—their fame ever fade Who ennobled the land o' the bonnet and plaid?

Oh, hame o' my bairnhood, ye hills o' my love! The haunt o' the freeman for aye may ye prove; And honour'd forever be matron and maid In the land o' the heather, the bonnet, and plaid.

Hurra! for the land o' the deer and the rae, O' the gowany glen and the bracken-clad brae, Where blooms our ain thistle, in sunshine and shade— Dear badge o' the land o' the bonnet and plaid.



SING ON, FAIRY DEVON.[9]

Sing on, fairy Devon, 'Mong gardens and bowers, Where love's feast lies spread In an Eden o' flowers. What visions o' beauty My mind has possess'd, In thy gowany dell Where a seraph might rest.

Sing on, lovely river, To hillock and tree A lay o' the loves O' my Jessie and me; For nae angel lightin', A posie to pu', Can match the fair form O' the lassie I lo'e.

Sweet river, dear river, Sing on in your glee, In thy pure breast the mind O' my Jessie I see. How aft ha'e I wander'd, As gray gloamin' fell, Rare dreamin's o' heaven My lassie to tell.

Sing on, lovely Devon, The sang that ye sung When earth in her beauty Frae night's bosom sprung, For lanesome and eerie This warld aye would be Did clouds ever fa' Atween Jessie and me.

FOOTNOTES:

[9] Written for the present work.



ANN O' CORNYLEE.

GAELIC AIR—"Soraiadh slan do'un Ailleagan."

I 'll twine a gowany garland Wi' lilies frae the spring; The fairest flowers by Clutha's side In a' their bloom I 'll bring. I 'll wreath a flowery wreath to shade My lassie's scornfu' e'e— For oh, I canna bide the frown O' Ann o' Cornylee.

Nae gilded ha', nae downie bed My lowly lot maun cheer, A sheilin' on the banks o' Gryfe Is a' my worldly gear; A lanely cot, wi' moss o'ergrown, Is a' I ha'e to gie; A leal heart, sinking 'neath the scorn O' Ann o' Cornylee.

The linty 'mang the yellow broom, The laverock in the lift Ha'e never sang the waes o' love O' hope and joy bereft; Nor has the mavis ever sang The ills I ha'e to dree, For lovin' o' a paughty maid, Fair Ann o' Cornylee.



MY MARY DEAR.[10]

TUNE—"Annie Laurie."

The gloamin' star was showerin' Its siller glories doun, And nestled in its mossy lair The lintie sleepit soun'; The lintie sleepit soun', And the starnies sparklet clear, When on a gowany bank I sat Aside my Mary dear.

The burnie wanders eerie Roun' rock and ruin'd tower, By mony a fairy hillock And mony a lanely bower; Roun' mony a lanely bower, Love's tender tale to hear, Where I in whisper'd vows ha'e woo'd And won my Mary dear.

Oh, hallow'd hours o' happiness Frae me for ever ta'en! Wi' summer's flowery loveliness Ye come na back again! Ye come na back again, The waefu' heart to cheer, For lang the greedy grave has closed Aboon my Mary dear.

FOOTNOTES:

[10] Written for the present work.



THE WAES O' EILD.

(For an old Gaelic air.)

The cranreuch 's on my heid, The mist 's now on my een, A lanesome life I lead, I'm no what I ha'e been. Ther 're runkles on my broo, Ther 're furrows on my cheek, My wither'd heart fills fu' Whan o' bygane days I speak. For I 'm weary, I 'm weary, I 'm weary o' care— Whare my bairnies ha'e gane, Oh, let me gang there.

I ance was fu' o' glee, And wha was then sae gay, Whan dreamin' life wad be But ae lang simmer day? My feet, like lichtnin', flew Roun' pleasure's dizzy ring, They gimply staucher noo Aneath a feckless thing. For I 'm weary, I 'm weary, I 'm weary o' care— Whare my first luve lies cauld, Oh, let me lie there.

The ourie breath o' eild Has blown ilk frien' frae me; They comena near my beild I ha'e dauted on my knee; They hand awa their heids, My frailties no to see; My blessing on them, ane and a'— I 've naething else to gie. For I 'm weary, I 'm weary, I 'm weary and worn— To the friens o' my youth I maun soon, soon return.



JOHN STUART BLACKIE.[11]

John Stuart Blackie, Professor of Greek in the University of Edinburgh, was born at Glasgow in the year 1809. His father, who had originally come from Kelso, removed from Glasgow to Aberdeen, as agent for the Commercial Bank in that city, while his son was still very young. At the grammar school of Aberdeen, then under the rectorship of Dr Melvin, the boy began his classical education, and subsequently, according to the ridiculous Scottish custom, the folly of which he has done his best to expose, he became, in his twelfth year, a student in Marischal College. He was a student of arts for five years in Aberdeen and Edinburgh—and then he attended theological classes for three years. In 1829 he proceeded to the Continent, and studied at Gottingen and Berlin, where he mastered the German language, and dived deep into the treasures of German literature. From Germany he went to Rome, where he spent fifteen months, devoting himself to the Italian language and literature, and to the study of archaeology. His first publication testifies to his success in both studies. It is entitled, "Osservazioni sopra un antico sarcophago." It was written in Italian, and published in the Annali del Instituto Archaeologico, Roma, 1831.

Mr Blackie had given up the idea of entering the Church, and on his return to Scotland he studied law, and passed advocate in 1834. The study of law was never very congenial to him, and the practice of the profession was still less so. Accordingly, at this period he occupied himself with literary work, principally writing for Reviews. It was at this time that his translation of "Faust" appeared. It is entitled, "Faust: a Tragedy, by J. W. Goethe. Translated into English Verse, with Notes, and Preliminary Remarks, by John S. Blackie, Fellow of the Society for Archaeological Correspondence, Rome." Mr Blackie had taken upon him a very difficult task in attempting to translate the great work of the great German, and we need not wonder that he did not succeed entirely. We believe, with Mr Lewes, that the perfect accomplishment of this task is impossible, and that Goethe's work is fully intelligible only to the German scholar. But, at the same time, Mr Blackie fully succeeded in the aim which he set before him. He says in the preface, "The great principle on which the excellence of a poetical translation depends, seems to be, that it should not be a mere transposing, but a re-casting, of the original. On this principle, it has been my first and chief endeavour to make my translation spirited—to seize, if possible, the very soul and living power of the German, rather than to give a careful and anxious transcription of every individual line, or every minute expression." If this is what a translator should do, there can be no question that the "Faust" of Blackie is all that can be desired—full of spirit and life, harmonious from beginning to end, and reading exactly like an original. The best proof of its success is that Mr Lewes, in his biography of Goethe, prefers it, as a whole, to any of the other poetical translations of Goethe. The preliminary remarks are very characteristic, written with that intense enthusiasm which still animates all his writings. The notes at the end are full of curious information regarding the witchcraft and astrology of the Middle Ages, gathered with assiduous labour from the stores of the Advocates' Library.

The translation of "Faust" established Mr Blackie's reputation as a German scholar; and, for some time after this, he was chiefly occupied in reviewing German books for the Foreign Quarterly Review. He was also a contributor to Blackwood, Tait, and the Westminster Review. The subjects on which he principally wrote were poetry, history or religion; and among his articles may be mentioned a genial one on Uhland, a deeply earnest article on Jung Stillung, whose life he seems to have studied very thoroughly, and several on the later campaigns of Napoleon. To this last subject he then gave very great attention, as almost every German and English book on the subject that appeared is reviewed by him; and the article which describes Napoleon's Leipzig campaign is one of the clearest military monographs that has been written. During this time, Mr Blackie was still pursuing his Latin and Greek studies; and one article, on a classical subject, deserves especial notice. It is a thorough criticism of all the dramas of Euripides, in which he takes a view of the dramatist exactly the reverse of that maintained by Walter Savage Landor—asserting that he was a bungler in the tragic art, and far too much addicted to foisting his stupid moralisings into his plays. Another article in the Westminster, on the Prussian Constitution, is worthy of remark for its thoroughness. The whole machinery of the Prussian bureaucracy is explained in a way very satisfactory to an English reader.

In 1841, Mr Blackie was appointed Professor of Humanity in Marischal College, Aberdeen—a post which he held for eleven years. To this new labour he gave himself with all his heart, and was eminently successful. The Aberdeen students were remarkable for their accurate knowledge of the grammatical forms and syntax of Latin, acquired under the careful training of Dr Melvin; but their reading, both classical and general, was restricted, and they were wanting in literary impulses. Professor Blackie strove to supply both deficiencies. He took his students over a great deal of ground, opening up to them the beauties of the authors read, and laying the foundation of higher criticism. Then he formed a class-library, delivered lectures on Roman literature in all its stages, and introduced the study of general history. From this period dates the incessant activity which he has displayed in educational, and especially University reform. At the time he commenced his work, the subject was a very disagreeable one to Scottish ears, and he had to bear the apathy not only of his fellow-countrymen, but also of his fellow-professors. He has never, however, bated a jot of heart, and he is now beginning to reap his reward. Several of the reforms which he advocated at the commencement of his agitation, and which were at first met with something approaching to contempt, have been adopted, and he has lived to see entrance examinations introduced into several Universities, and the test abolished. Many of the other reforms which he then proposed are on a fair way to accomplishment, and the subject is no longer treated with that indifference which met his early appeals. His principal publications on this subject are: 1. An appeal to the Scottish people on the improvement of their scholastic and academical institutions; 2. A plea for the liberties of the Scottish Universities; 3. University reform; with a letter to Professor Pillans.

Mr Blackie delivered public lectures on education in Edinburgh, Glasgow, and Aberdeen, and wrote various articles on it in the newspapers. He gave himself also to the study of the philosophy of education. His most noteworthy contributions in this direction are, his review of Beneche's masterly work on education, in the Foreign Quarterly, and two lectures "On the Studying and Teaching of Languages."

During the whole of this period, his main strength was devoted to Latin and Greek philology. Some of the results of this labour were published in the Classical Museum. One of the contributions to that journal was published separately—"On the Rhythmical Declamation of the Ancients." It is a clear exposition of the principles of accentuation, drawing accurately the distinction between accent and quantity, and between the accents of common talk and the musical accents that occur in poetry. It is the best monograph on the subject, of which we know. Another article, "On Prometheus," clears AEschylus from the charge of impiety, because he appears to make Zeus act tyrannically towards Prometheus in the "Prometheus Vinctus." He also gave the results of some of his classical studies, in lectures in Edinburgh and Glasgow on Roman history and Greek literature. The principal works on which he was engaged at this time were translations of Horace and AEschylus. Translations of several odes of Horace have appeared in various publications. The translation of all the dramas of AEschylus appeared in 1850. It was dedicated to the Chevalier Bunsen and Edward Gerhard, Royal Archaeologist, "the friends of his youth, and the directors of his early studies." This work is now universally admitted to be the best complete translation of AEschylus in English.

In 1852 he was elected to the chair of Greek in Edinburgh University. In that position he has carried on the same agitation in behalf of educational and university reform, which characterised his stay in Aberdeen. His last brochure on the subject is a letter to the Town Council of Edinburgh "On the Advancement of Learning in Scotland." Having made this matter a work of his life, he takes every opportunity to urge it, and, notwithstanding that he has got many gratuitous rebuffs, continues on his way cheerily, now delivering a lecture or speech on the subject, now writing letters in reply to this or that assailant, and now giving a more complete exposition of his views in the North British Review.

His first publication after his election to the Greek professorship was "The Pronunciation of Greek; Accent and Quantity. A Philological Inquiry:" 1852. In this work he sought to shew what authority there is for the modern Greek pronunciation of Greek, advocating a return, in the reading of prose, to that pronunciation of Greek which was the only one known in Europe anterior to the time of Erasmus. This method is consistently carried out in the Greek classes. In 1853 he travelled in Greece, living in Athens for two months and a-half, and acquiring a fluent use of the living Greek language. On his return, he gave the results of his journey in various articles, especially in one in the North British on Modern Greek Literature, and in another in the Westminster on Greece. He also expressed some of them in an introductory lecture "On the Living Language of Greece." Since that time he has written principally in Blackwood and the North British, discussing subjects of general literature, and introducing any new German book which he considers of especial interest. Among his papers may be mentioned his reviews, in the North British, of his friend Bunsen's "Signs of the Times," and of Perthos' Life. His articles more especially relating to his own department are AEschylus and Homer, in the Encyclopaedia Britannica, an article on accents in the Cambridge Philological, and an essay on Plato in the "Edinburgh Essays."

In 1857 was published the work which brings him into the list of Scottish poets—"Lays and Legends of Ancient Greece, with other Poems." The Lays and Legends are the work of the scholar, who, believing verse to be the proper vehicle for an exposition of these beautiful myths, gives them that form, instead of writing learned dissertations about them. The miscellaneous poems shew more of the inner man than any of his other works—deep religious feeling, great simplicity, earnestness, and manliness, confidence in the goodness of men, and delight in everything that is pure, beautiful, and honest, with thorough detestation of all falsehood.

FOOTNOTES:

[11] The present Memoir has been contributed by James Donaldson, Esq., Edinburgh.



SONG OF BEN CRUACHAN.

Ben Cruachan is king of the mountains That gird in the lovely Loch Awe; Loch Etive is fed from his fountains, By the streams of the dark-rushing Awe. With his peak so high He cleaves the sky That smiles on his old gray crown, While the mantle green, On his shoulders seen, In many a fold flows down.

He looks to the north, and he renders A greeting to Nevis Ben; And Nevis, in white snowy splendours, Gives Cruachan greeting again. O'er dread Glencoe The greeting doth go And where Etive winds fair in the glen; And he hears the call In his steep north wall, "God bless thee, old Cruachan Ben."

When the north winds their forces muster, And ruin rides high on the storm, All calm, in the midst of their bluster, He stands with his forehead enorm. When block on block, With thundering shock, Comes hurtled confusedly down, No whit recks he, But laughs to shake free The dust from his old gray crown.

And while torrents on torrents are pouring Down his sides with a wild, savage glee, And when louder the loud Awe is roaring, And the soft lake swells to a sea, He smiles through the storm, And his heart grows warm As he thinks how his streams feed the plains And the brave old Ben Grows young again, And swells with his lusty veins.

For Cruachan is king of the mountains That gird in the lovely Loch Awe; Loch Etive is fed from his fountains, By the streams of the dark-rushing Awe. Ere Adam was made He rear'd his head Sublime o'er the green winding glen; And when flame wraps the sphere, O'er earth's ashes shall peer The peak of the old granite Ben.



THE BRAES OF MAR.

Farewell ye braes of broad Braemar, From you my feet must travel far, Thou high-peak'd steep-cliff'd Loch-na-Gar, Farewell, farewell for ever! Thou lone green glen where I was born, Where free I stray'd in life's bright morn. From thee my heart is rudely torn, And I shall see thee never!

The braes of Mar with heather glow, The healthful breezes o'er them blow, The gushing torrents from them flow, That swell the rolling river. Strong hills that nursed the brave and free, On banks of clear, swift-rushing Dee, My widow'd eyne no more shall see Your birchen bowers for ever!

Farewell thou broad and bare Muicdhui Ye stout old pines of lone Glen Lui, Thou forest wide of Ballochbuie, Farewell, farewell for ever! In you the rich may stalk the deer, Thou 'lt know the tread of prince and peer; But oh, the poor man's heart is drear To part from you for ever!

May God forgive our haughty lords, For whom our fathers drew their swords; No tear for us their pride affords, No bond of love they sever. Farewell ye braes of broad Braemar, From bleak Ben Aon to Loch-na-Gar— The friendless poor is banished far From your green glens for ever!



MY LOVES.

Name the leaves on all the trees, Name the waves on all the seas, Name the notes of all the groves— Thus thou namest all my loves.

I do love the dark, the fair, Golden ringlets, raven hair, Eye that swims in sunny light, Glance that shoots like lightning bright.

I do love the stately dame And the sportive girl the same; Every changeful phase between Blooming cheek and brow serene.

I do love the young, the old, Maiden modest, virgin bold, Tiny beauties, and the tall— Earth has room enough for all.

Which is better—who can say?— Lucy grave or Mary gay? She who half her charms conceals? She who sparkles while she feels?

Why should I confine my love? Nature bids us freely rove; God hath scatter'd wide the fair, Blooms and beauties everywhere.

Paris was a pedant fool, Meting beauty by a rule: Pallas? Juno? Venus?—he Should have chosen all the three.

I am wise, life's every bliss Thankful tasting; and a kiss Is a sweet thing, I declare, From a dark maid or a fair.



LIKING AND LOVING.

Liking is a little boy Dreaming of a sea employ, Sitting by the stream, with joy Paper frigates sailing: Love 's an earnest-hearted man, Champion of beauty's clan, Fighting bravely in the van, Pushing and prevailing.

Liking hovers round and round, Capers with a nimble bound, Plants his foot on easy ground, Through the glass to view it: Love shoots sudden glance for glance, Spurs the steed, and rests the lance, With a brisk and bold advance, Sworn to die or do it.

Liking 's ever on the wing, From new blooms new sweets to bring; Nibbling aye, the nimble thing From the hook is free still: Love 's a tar of British blue, Let mad winds their maddest do, To his haven carded true, As I am to thee still.



WILLIAM STIRLING, M.P.

William Stirling of Keir, parliamentary representative of the county of Perth, was born on the 8th March 1818, in the mansion of Kenmure, in the vicinity of Glasgow. The only son of the late Archibald Stirling of Keir, his paternal ancestors, for a course of centuries, have been extensive landowners in the counties of Lanark and Perth. The representative of the house, Sir George Stirling, was a conspicuous supporter of the famous Marquis of Montrose. On the side of his mother, who was a daughter of Sir John Maxwell, Bart., of Polloc, he is descended from a family who adhered to the Covenant and the Revolution of 1688.

Mr Stirling took the degrees of B.A. and M.A. at Trinity College, Cambridge. To literary pursuits ardently devoted from his youth, he afforded the first indication of his peculiar tastes in a small poetical brochure. "The Songs of the Holy Land," composed chiefly during a visit to Palestine, were printed for private circulation in 1846, but were published with considerable additions in a handsome octavo volume in 1848. Two specimens of these sacred lays are inserted in the present work with the author's permission.

During a residence in Spain, Mr Stirling was led to direct his attention to the state of the Fine Arts in that country; and in 1848 he produced a work of much research and learning, entitled "Annals of the Artists of Spain," in three volumes octavo. In 1852 appeared "The Cloister Life of the Emperor Charles V.," which has already passed through several editions, and has largely increased the reputation of the writer. His latest publication, "Velasquez and his Works" was published in 1855.

In 1852 Mr Stirling was elected, without opposition, member of Parliament for the county of Perth, and was again returned at the general election in April 1857. Recently he has evinced a deep interest in the literary improvement of the industrial population, by delivering lectures to the district Mechanics' Institutions.



RUTH.

The golden smile of morning On the hills of Moab play'd, When at the city's western gate Their steps three women stay'd. One laden was with years and care, A gray and faded dame, Of Judah's ancient lineage, And Naomi her name; And two were daughters of the land, Fair Orpah and sweet Ruth, Their faces wearing still the bloom, Their eyes the light of youth; But all were childless widows, And garb'd in weeds of woe, And their hearts were full of sorrow, And fast their tears did flow.

For the Lord God from Naomi Her spouse and sons had taken, And she and these that were their wives, Are widow'd and forsaken; And wish or hope her bosom knows None other but to die, And lay her bones in Bethlehem, Where all her kindred lie. So gives she now upon the way To Jordan's western waters Her farewell kisses and her tears Unto her weeping daughters: "Sweet daughters mine, now turn again Unto your homes," she said, "And for the love ye bear to me, The love ye bear the dead, The Lord with you deal kindly, And give you joy and rest And send to each a faithful mate To cheer her widow'd breast."

Then long and loud their weeping was, And sore was their lament, And Orpah kiss'd sad Naomi, And back to Moab went; But gentle Ruth to Naomi Did cleave with close embrace, And earnest spoke, with loving eyes Up-gazing in her face— "Entreat me not to leave thee, Nor sever from thy side, For where thou goest I will go, Where thou bidest I will bide, Thy people still my people, And thy God my God shall be, And where thou diest I will die, And make my grave with thee."

So Naomi, not loath, was won Unto her gentle will; And thence, with faces westward set, They fared o'er plain and hill; The Lord their staff, till Bethlehem Rose fair upon their sight, A rock-built town with towery crown, In evening's purple light, Midst slopes in vine and olive clad, And spread along the brook, White fields, with barley waving, That woo'd the reaper's hook.

* * * * *

Now for the sunny harvest field Sweet Ruth her mother leaves, And goes a-gleaning after The maids that bind the sheaves. And the great lord of the harvest Is of her husband's race, And looks upon the lonely one With gentleness and grace; And he loves her for the brightness And freshness of her youth, And for her unforgetting love, Her firm enduring truth— The love and truth that guided Ruth The border mountains o'er, Where her people and her own land She left for evermore.

So he took her to his home and heart, And years of soft repose Did recompense her patient faith, Her meekly-suffer'd woes; And she became the noblest dame Of palmy Palestine, And the stranger was the mother Of that grand and glorious line Whence sprang our royal David, In the tide of generations, The anointed king of Israel, The terror of the nations: Of whose pure seed hath God decreed Messiah shall be born, When the day-spring from on high shall light The golden lands of morn; Then heathen tongues shall tell the tale Of tenderness and truth— Of the gentle deed of Boaz And the tender love of Ruth.



SHALLUM.

Oh, waste not thy woe on the dead, nor bemoan him Who finds with his fathers the grave of his rest; Sweet slumber is his, who at night-fall hath thrown him Near bosoms that waking did love him the best.

But sorely bewail him, the weary world-ranger, Shall ne'er to the home of his people return; His weeping worn eyes must be closed by the stranger, No tear of true sorrow shall hallow his urn.

And mourn for the monarch that went out of Zion, King Shallum, the son of Josiah the Just; For he the cold bed of the captive shall die on, Afar from his land, nor return to its dust.



THOMAS C. LATTO.

A song-writer of considerable popularity, Thomas C. Latto was born in 1818, in the parish of Kingsbarns, Fifeshire. Instructed in the elementary branches at the parochial seminary, he entered, in his fourteenth year, the United College of St Andrews. Having studied during five sessions at this University, he was in 1838 admitted into the writing-chambers of Mr John Hunter, W.S., Edinburgh, now Auditor of the Court of Session. He subsequently became advocate's clerk to Mr William E. Aytoun, Professor of Rhetoric in the University of Edinburgh. After a period of employment as a Parliament House clerk, he accepted the situation of managing clerk to a writer in Dundee. In 1852 he entered into business as a commission-agent in Glasgow. Subsequently emigrating to the United States, he has for some years been engaged in mercantile concerns at New York.

Latto first became known as a song-writer in the pages of "Whistle-binkie." In 1845 he edited a poem, entitled "The Minister's Kail-yard," which, with a number of lyrics of his own composition, appeared in a duodecimo volume. To the "Book of Scottish Song" he made several esteemed contributions. Verses from his pen have appeared in Blackwood's and Tait's Magazines.



THE KISS AHINT THE DOOR.

TUNE—"There 's nae Luck about the House."

There 's meikle bliss in ae fond kiss, Whiles mair than in a score; But wae betak' the stouin smack I took ahint the door.

O laddie, whisht! for sic a fricht I ne'er was in afore; Fou brawly did my mither hear The kiss ahint the door. The wa's are thick—ye needna fear; But, gin they jeer and mock, I 'll swear it was a startit cork, Or wyte the rusty lock. There 's meikle bliss, &c.

We stappit ben, while Maggie's face Was like a lowin' coal; An' as for me, I could hae crept Into a mouse's hole. The mither look't—saffs how she look't!— Thae mithers are a bore, An' gleg as ony cat to hear A kiss ahint the door. Their 's meikle bliss, &c.

The douce gudeman, tho' he was there, As weel micht been in Rome, For by the fire he puff'd his pipe, An' never fash'd his thumb; But, titterin' in a corner, stood The gawky sisters four— A winter's nicht for me they micht Hae stood ahint the door. There 's meikle bliss, &c.

"How daur ye tak' sic freedoms here?" The bauld gudewife began; Wi' that a foursome yell got up— I to my heels and ran. A besom whiskit by my lug, An' dishclouts half-a-score: Catch me again, tho' fidgin' fain, At kissin 'hint the door. There 's meikle bliss, &c.



THE WIDOW'S AE BIT LASSIE.

TUNE—"My only Jo and Dearie, O!"

Oh, guess ye wha I met yestreen On Kenly banks sae grassy, O! Wha cam' to bless my waitin' een?— The widow's ae bit lassie, O! She brak' my gloamin' dream sae sweet, Just whaur the wimplin' burnies meet; The smother'd laugh—I flew to greet The widow's ae bit lassie, O!

They glintit slee—the moon and she— The widow's ae bit lassie, O!— On tremblin' stream an' tremblin' me: She is a dear wee lassie, O! How rapture's pulse was beating fast As Mary to my heart I claspt! Oh, bliss divine—owre sweet to last— I 've kiss'd the dear bit lassie, O!

She nestled close, like croodlin' doo— The widow's ae bit lassie, O! My cheek to hers, syne mou' to mou'— The widow's ae bit lassie, O! Unto my breast again, again, I prest her guileless heart sae fain; Sae blest were baith—now she 's my ain, The widow's ae bit lassie, O!

Ye powers aboon, wha made her mine— The widow's ae bit lassie, O! My heart wad break gin I should tyne The widow's ae bit lassie, O! Our hearth shall glad the angels' sight; The lamp o' love shall lowe sae bright On me and her, my soul's delight, The widow's ae bit lassie, O!



THE YELLOW-HAIRED LADDIE.

The maidens are smiling in rocky Glencoe, The clansmen are arming to rush on the foe; Gay banners are streaming as forth pours the clan, The yellow-haired laddie is first in the van.

The pibroch is kindling each heart to the war, The Cameron's slogan is heard from afar; They close for the struggle where many shall fall, But the yellow-haired laddie is foremost of all.

He towers like a wave in the fierce rolling tide, No kinsman of Evan's may stand by his side; The Camerons gather around him alone— He heeds not the danger, and fear is unknown.

The plumes of his bonnet are seen through the fight— A beacon for valour, which fires at the sight; But he sees not yon claymore—ah! traitorous thrust! The plumes and the bonnet are laid in the dust.

The maidens are smiling in rocky Glencoe— The clansmen approach—they have vanquish'd the foe; But sudden the cheeks of the maidens are pale, For the sound of the coronach comes on the gale.

The maidens are weeping in rocky Glencoe, From warriors' eyelids the bitter drops flow; They come—but, oh! where is their chieftain so dear? The yellow-haired laddie is low on the bier.

The maidens are wailing in rocky Glencoe— There 's gloom in the valley, at sunrise 'twill go; But no sun can the gloom from their hearts chase away— The yellow-haired laddie lies cauld in the clay.



TELL ME, DEAR.

AIR—"Loudon's bonnie Woods and Braes."

Tell me dear! in mercy speak, Has Heaven heard my prayer, lassie? Faint the rose is on thy cheek, But still the rose is there, lassie! Away, away each dark foreboding, Heavy days with anguish clouding, Youthfu' love in sorrow shrouding, Heaven could ne'er allow, lassie! Day and night I've tended thee, Watching, love, thy changing e'e; Dearest gift that Heaven could gi'e, Say thou 'rt happy now, lassie!

Willie, lay thy cheek to mine— Kiss me, oh! my ain laddie! Never mair may lip o' thine Press where it hath lain, laddie! Hark! I hear the angels calling, Heavenly strains are round me falling, But the stroke—thy soul appalling— 'Tis my only pain, laddie! Yet the love I bear to thee Shall follow where I soon maun be; I 'll tell how gude thou wert to me— We part to meet again, laddie!

Lay thine arm beneath my head— Grieve na sae for me, laddie! I'll thole the doom that lays me dead, But no a tear frae thee, laddie! Aft where yon dark tree is spreading, When the sun's last beam is shedding, Where no earthly foot is treading, By my grave thou 'lt be, laddie! Though my sleep be wi' the dead, Frae on high my soul shall speed, And hover nightly round thy head, Although thou wilt na see, laddie.



WILLIAM CADENHEAD.

William Cadenhead was born at Aberdeen on the 6th April 1819. With a limited education at school, he was put to employment in a factory in his ninth year. His leisure hours were devoted to mental culture, and ramblings in the country. The perusal of Beattie's Minstrel inspired him with the love of poetry, and at an early age his compositions in verse were admitted in the Poet's Corner of the Aberdeen Herald. In 1819 he published a small poetical work, entitled "The Prophecy," which, affording decided evidence of power, established his local reputation. Having contributed verses for some years to several periodicals and the local journals, he published a collection of these in 1853, with the title, "Flights of Fancy, and Lays of Bon-Accord." "The New Book of Bon-Accord," a guide-book to his native town on an original plan, appeared from his pen in 1856. For three years he has held a comfortable and congenial appointment as confidential clerk to a merchant in his native city. He continues to contribute verses to the periodicals.



DO YOU KNOW WHAT THE BIRDS ARE SINGING?

Do you know what the birds are singing? Can you tell their sweet refrains, When the green arch'd woods are ringing With a thousand swelling strains? To the sad they sing of sadness, To the blythe, of mirth and glee, And to me, in my fond love's gladness, They sing alone of thee! They sing alone of thee, love, Of thee, through the whole day long, And each its own dear charm extols, And each with its own sweet song!

Do you know what the soft winds whisper When they sigh through blooming trees— When each bough is a choral lisper Of the woodland melodies? To some they seem to be grieving For the summer's short-lived glee; But to me they are always weaving Sweet songs in praise of thee! Sweet songs in praise of thee, love, And telling the flowers below, How far thy charms outshine them all, Though brightly their soft leaves glow!

Do you know what the streamlet trilleth As it glides or leaps along, While the cool green nook it filleth With the gushes of its song? Do you think it sings its dreaming Of its distant home, the sea? Oh, no, but the voice of its streaming Is still of thee, of thee! Is still of thee, of thee, love, Till echoes and woodland fays— Yea, Nature all is eloquent And vocal in thy praise.



AN HOUR WITH AN OLD LOVE.

Lat me look into thy face, Jeanie, As I 've look'd in days gane by, When you gae me kiss for kiss, Jeanie, And answer'd sigh for sigh; When in our youth's first flame, Jeanie, Although poor and lane together, We had wealth in our ain love, Jeanie, And were a' to ane anither!

Oh, blessin's on thy lips, Jeanie, They ance were dear to me, As the honey-savour'd blossoms To the nectar-hunting bee! It kens whar dwalls the banquets O' the sweetest dewy wine— And as the chosen flower to it, Sae were thy lips to mine.

I see thy very thochts, Jeanie, Deep in thy clear blue e'e, As ye 'll see the silver fishes flash, When ye sail the midnicht sea; And ye needna close the lids, Jeanie, Though the thochts they are nae mine, For I see there 's nae repentant ane, That they ance were sae langsyne.

Oh, lat me hear thy voice, Jeanie— Ay, that 's the very chime, Whase silver echoes haunted me Through a' my youthfu' prime. Speak on! thy gentle words, Jeanie, Awake a blessed train Of memories that I thocht had slept To never wake again!

God's blessin's on your heart, Jeanie, And your face sae angel fair! May the ane be never pierced wi' grief, Nor the ither blanch'd wi' care; And he wha has your love, Jeanie, May he be dear to thee, As I may aiblins ance have been— And as thou 'rt still to me!



ALLAN GIBSON.

A poet of sentiment and moral feeling, Allan Gibson was removed from the scene at the threshold of a promising career. He was born at Paisley on the 2d October 1820. In his boyhood he devoted himself to the perusal of works of history and romance; and he acquired a familiarity with the more distinguished British poets. It was his delight to stray amidst rural scenes, and to imbibe inspiration among the solitudes of nature. His verses were composed at such periods. They are prefaced by prose reflections, and abound in delicate colouring and gentle pathos. Several detached specimens of his prose writing are elegant and masterly. He followed an industrial occupation, but was unfortunate in business. After an illness of two years, he died on the 9th August 1849, at the early age of twenty-nine. He was possessed of much general talent; was fond of society, fluent in conversation, and eloquent as a public speaker. His habits were sober and retiring. He left a widow and four children. A thin 8vo volume of his "Literary Remains" was published in 1850, for the benefit of his family.



THE LANE AULD MAN.

He sorrowfu' sat by the ingle cheek, Its hearth was cauld to his weary feet, For a' were gane, an' nae mair would meet By the side o' the lane auld man.

To the wreck o' his hopes fond memory clung When flowers o' his heart on his hearthstane sprung; But death's cauld hand had cruelly wrung The heart o' the lane auld man.

A leafless tree in life's wintry blast, He stood alane o' his kin the last, For ane by ane frae his side they pass'd, An' left him a lane auld man.

His bonnie bairns, o' his heart the prize, Wi' their bounding step and sunny eyes, Hae left his hearth for hame in the skies; Alack for the lane auld man!

The weel lo'ed form o' his ain auld wife, Wha sooth'd the cares o' a lang bleak life, Has gane to rest wi' her weans frae strife, An' heeds na her lane auld man.

Owre the turf on their breast he lo'ed to weep, And sair he lang'd wi' the lost to meet, Till death did close, in his ain calm sleep, The een o' the lane auld man.

Whar yew-trees bend owre the dark kirk-yard, An' gowans peep frae the lang green-sward, The moss-clad stanes o' the cauld grave guard The last o' the lane auld man.



THE WANDERER'S RETURN.

Shadows of glory the twilight is parting, The day-star is seeking its home in the west, The herd from the field to the fold is departing, As, Lochwinnoch, sad on thy summits I rest. And far o'er the scene, while the evening is veiling Thy waters that spread their still breast on the lea, On his broad truant wing the lone heron is sailing, To rest with his mate by the rock on the sea.

But, houseless and homeless, around thee I wander, The faces are gone I have panted to see, And cold is the hearth to the feet of the stranger, Which once had a seat in its circle for me. Here youth's golden hours of my being were number'd, When joy in my bosom was breathing its lay; If care on the light of my happiness linger'd, Hope hasted the heartless intruder away.

Then sweetly the brow of the beaming-eyed future Was smiling my welcome to life's rosy way, And fondly I sigh'd in her Eden to meet her, And bask in the bowers where her happiness lay. While fancy on light airy pinion was mounting, I strain'd my young vision in rapture to see The land of my dreams, with its love-mirror'd fountains, And breath'd in the balm of the south's sunny sea.

Then, far on the track of ambition, I follow'd The footsteps of fortune through perilous climes, And trod the bright scenes which my childhood had hallow'd But found not the charms which fond fancy enshrines. The gold I have won, can it purchase the treasure Of hearts' warm affections left bleeding behind, Restore me the ties which are parted for ever, And gild the dark gloom of my desolate mind?

The gold I have won! but, unblest and beguiling, It came like the sun when unclouded and gay; Its light on the cold face of winter is smiling, But cheers not the earth with the warmth of its ray. Again fare-thee-well, for the heart-broken rover Now bids thee a long and a lasting adieu; Yet o'er thee the dreams of my spirit will hover, And burn as it broods on life's dismal review.



THOMAS ELLIOTT.

The author of a small volume of very meritorious poems and lyrics, Thomas Elliott is descended from a branch of the old Border family of that name, which settled in the north of Ireland subsequent to the Revolution. His father was a shoemaker at Bally-ho-bridge, a hamlet in county Fermanagh, province of Ulster, where the poet was born on the 22d December 1820. Entering school at the age of five years, he was not removed till he had acquired a considerable acquaintance with the ordinary branches of popular education. In his fifteenth year he apprenticed himself to his father. The family removed to Belfast in 1836, and there he had opportunities of occupying his leisure hours in extensive and varied reading. After a few years of somewhat desultory employment, he visited Glasgow in 1847, and there, following his original trade, he has continued to reside.

Elliott assigns the commencement of his poetical efforts to the year 1842, when he was led to satirise a pedagogue teacher of music, who had given him offence. His poetical volume, entitled "Doric Lays and Attic Chimes," appeared in 1856, and has been well received. Several of his lyrics have been published with music in "The Lyric Gems of Scotland," a collection of songs published at Glasgow.



UP WITH THE DAWN.

Up with the dawn, ye sons of toil, And bare the brawny arm, To drive the harness'd team afield, And till the fruitful farm; To dig the mine for hidden wealth, Or make the woods to ring With swinging axe and sturdy stroke, To fell the forest king.

With ocean car and iron steed Traverse the land and sea, And spread our commerce round the globe As winds that wander free. Subdue the earth, and conquer fate, Outspeed the flight of time; Old earth is rich, and man is young, Nor near his jocund prime.

Work, and the clouds of care will fly, Pale want will pass away; Work, and the leprosy of crime And tyrants must decay. Leave the dead ages in their urns; The present time be ours, To grapple bravely with our lot, And strew our path with flowers.



CLYDE BOAT SONG.

Music by A. Hume.

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

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

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



DIMPLES AND A'.

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

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

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

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



BUBBLES ON THE BLAST.

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

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

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



A SERENADE.

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

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

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

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



A SONG OF LITTLE THINGS.

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

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

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

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



MY AIN MOUNTAIN LAND.

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

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

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

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



WHEN I COME HAME AT E'EN.

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

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

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



WILLIAM LOGAN.

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



JEANIE GOW.

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

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

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

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



JAMES LITTLE.

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



OUR NATIVE HILLS AGAIN.

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

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

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



HERE 'S A HEALTH TO SCOTIA'S SHORE.

Music by Alexander Hume.

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