human
Can you write a poem for me in the style of Procopius?
assistant
Sure, here's a poem in the style of Procopius:
  Scotland, and an eager desire arose to gather up old snatches and
Indeed, song in these days does exactly what the Greeks rarely
composition. They thus contribute our most pathetic songs--wails
"His very foot has music in 't,
As he comes up the stair."
What man has an ear so delicate as to hear such music?
(Lockhart's are almost the only), sailors, or of any other class.
"Joy sparkles to us from the bowl!
Behold the juice, whose golden colour
To meekness melts the savage soul,
And gives despair a hero's valour!
"Up, brothers! Lo, we crown the cup!
Lo, the wine flashes to the brim!
Let the bright foam spring heavenward! 'Up!'
TO THE GOOD SPIRIT--this glass to HIM!
"Praised by the ever-whirling ring
Of stars and tuneful seraphim--
TO THE GOOD SPIRIT--the Father-king
In heaven!--this glass to Him!"
We meet with the contrast in the Reformers of the respective
nations--Knox and Luther. Knox, ever stern, frowning on all the
amusements of the palace and the people, and indifferent to every
"He who loves not women, wine, and song,
Will be a fool his whole life long."
Scotsman are one in this respect. Perhaps we should state it most
enunciated the principle, that poetry is not the art suited for
"She 's backet like a peacock;
She 's breasted like a swan;
She 's jimp about the middle,
Her waist you weel may span--
Her waist you weel may span;
And she has a rolling e'e,
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I 'd lay down my head and die."
 There is a curious instance of this in the song, "The Blithesome
 Sibbald's "Chronicle of Scottish Poetry," vol. iii., p. 193.
She 's gane to dwall in heaven,
The lovely lass of Preston mill,
Gane were but the winter cauld,
It's hame, and it's hame,
The lovely lass of Inverness,
A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
The bonnie bark,
Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie,
Lovely woman,
Peggie wi' the glancin' e'e,
Woo me again,
Lanark mills,
O'er the muir,
The bonnie lass o' Levenside,
How blest were the days,
Culloden; or, Lochiel's Farewell,
Her blue rollin' e'e,
Charlie is my darling,
The black-e'ed lassie,
Grim winter was howlin',
O! come with me,
'Tis not the rose upon the cheek,
I heard the evening linnet's voice,
Oh! dear were the joys,
The braes of Galloway,
The hills of the Highlands,
The banks of Tarf,
O! will ye go to yon burn-side?
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Lovely maiden,
The peasant's fireside,
Ah, no! I cannot say "Farewell,"
Mary Gray's song,
The three seasons of love,
Tak it, man; tak it,
Oh, sweet were the hours,
The patriot's song,
Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale,
The exile's lament,
Love and solitude,
Come awa', come awa',
Dearest love, believe me,
The dear Land o' Cakes,
The lament,
Jeanie's grave,
They speak o' wiles,
The mitherless bairn,
The lass o' Kintore,
My hameless ha',
Mary of sweet Aberfoyle,
The battle-song,
The maid of Oronsey,
How eerily, how drearily,
The battle of Vittoria,
Blink over the burn, sweet Betty,
Jeanie's welcome hame,
I neither got promise of siller,
There is a pang for every heart,
The first of May,
Song of the Scottish exile,
The tempest is raging,
The temple of nature,
Thou gloomy Feberwar,
The breaking heart,
The auld emigrant's fareweel to Scotland,
O'er mountain and valley,
Captain Paton's lament,
Canadian boat-song,
Early love,
My Peggy's far away,
Love brought me a bough,
How 's a' wi' ye,
Oh! sair I feel the witching power,
See the moon,
Love is timid,
Raven's stream,
Oh! our childhood's once delightful hours,
Could we but look beyond our sphere,
In the morning of life,
On the death of a promising child,
The dying hour,
The midnight wind,
On visiting the scenes of early days,
To wander lang in foreign lands,
The music of the night,
The sea,
There 's a thrill of emotion,
The braes of Auchinblae,
Fare thee weel,
Nae mair we 'll meet,
Now, Mary, now the struggle 's o'er,
Wearie's Well,
Wae be to the orders,
The midnight wind,
He is gone! he is gone!
Farewell, our fathers' land,
Oh, I lo'ed my lassie weel,
The Cameronian's dream,
How sweet the dewy bell is spread,
Manor braes,
Fare thee well,
The first rose of summer,
The exile's song,
The happy days o' youth,
'Tis sair to dream,
The Celt and the stranger,
Cormac's cure,
The last lay of love,
The exile of Cluny,
Song of the royal Highland regiment,
talent. Receiving an ordinary elementary education at a school,
Cunninghams at Dalswinton, and was forcibly struck with Allan's
On the publication of the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," in 1805,
withdrew.
Encyclopædia;" an introduction, and a few additional lives, for
literature.
"Of the old elm his harp was made,
That bent o'er Cluden's loneliest shade;
No gilded sculpture round her flamed,
For his own hand that harp had framed,
In stolen hours, when, labour done,
He stray'd to view the parting sun.
That harp could make the matron stare,
Bristle the peasant's hoary hair,
Make patriot breasts with ardour glow,
And warrior pant to meet the foe;
And long by Nith the maidens young
Shall chant the strains their minstrel sung.
At ewe-bught, or at evening fold,
When resting on the daisied wold,
Combing their locks of waving gold,
Oft the fair group, enrapt, shall name
Their lost, their darling Cunninghame;
His was a song beloved in youth,
A tale of weir, a tale of truth."
She 's gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie,
She 's gane to dwall in heaven:
"Ye 're owre pure," quo' the voice o' God,
"For dwalling out o' heaven!"
Oh, what 'll she do in heaven, my lassie?
Oh, what 'll she do in heaven?
She 'll mix her ain thoughts wi' angels' sangs,
And make them mair meet for heaven.
She was beloved by a', my lassie,
She was beloved by a';
But an angel fell in love wi' her,
An' took her frae us a'.
Lowly there thou lies, my lassie,
Lowly there thou lies;
A bonnier form ne'er went to the yird,
Nor frae it will arise!
Fu' soon I 'll follow thee, my lassie,
Fu' soon I 'll follow thee;
Thou left me naught to covet ahin',
But took gudeness sel' wi' thee.
I look'd on thy death-cold face, my lassie,
I look'd on thy death-cold face;
Thou seem'd a lily new cut i' the bud,
An' fading in its place.
I look'd on thy death-shut eye, my lassie,
I look'd on thy death-shut eye;
An' a lovelier light in the brow of Heaven
Fell Time shall ne'er destroy.
Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie,
Thy lips were ruddy and calm;
But gane was the holy breath o' Heaven,
That sang the evening psalm.
There 's naught but dust now mine, lassie,
There 's naught but dust now mine;
My soul 's wi' thee i' the cauld grave,
An' why should I stay behin'?
The lark had left the evening cloud,
The dew was soft, the wind was lowne,
The gentle breath amang the flowers
Scarce stirr'd the thistle's tap o' down;
The dappled swallow left the pool,
The stars were blinking owre the hill,
As I met amang the hawthorns green
The lovely lass of Preston Mill.
Her naked feet, amang the grass,
Seem'd like twa dew-gemm'd lilies fair;
Her brow shone comely 'mang her locks,
Dark curling owre her shoulders bare;
Her cheeks were rich wi' bloomy youth;
Her lips had words and wit at will,
And heaven seem'd looking through her een,
The lovely lass of Preston Mill.
Quo' I, "Sweet lass, will ye gang wi' me,
Where blackcocks crow, and plovers cry?
Six hills are woolly wi' my sheep,
Six vales are lowing wi' my kye:
I have look'd lang for a weel-favour'd lass,
By Nithsdale's holmes an' mony a hill;"
She hung her head like a dew-bent rose,
The lovely lass of Preston Mill.
Quo' I, "Sweet maiden, look nae down,
But gie 's a kiss, and gang wi' me:"
A lovelier face, oh! never look'd up,
And the tears were drapping frae her e'e:
"I hae a lad, wha 's far awa',
That weel could win a woman's will;
My heart 's already fu' o' love,"
Quo' the lovely lass of Preston Mill.
"Now wha is he wha could leave sic a lass,
To seek for love in a far countrie?"
Her tears drapp'd down like simmer dew:
I fain wad kiss'd them frae her e'e.
I took but ane o' her comely cheek;
"For pity's sake, kind sir, be still!
My heart is fu' o' ither love,"
Quo' the lovely lass of Preston Mill.
She stretch'd to heaven her twa white hands,
And lifted up her watery e'e--
"Sae lang 's my heart kens aught o' God,
Or light is gladsome to my e'e;
While woods grow green, and burns rin clear,
Till my last drap o' blood be still,
My heart shall haud nae other love,"
Quo' the lovely lass of Preston Mill.
There 's comely maids on Dee's wild banks,
And Nith's romantic vale is fu';
By lanely Cluden's hermit stream
Dwells mony a gentle dame, I trow.
Oh, they are lights of a gladsome kind,
As ever shone on vale or hill;
But there 's a light puts them a' out,
The lovely lass of Preston Mill.
Gane were but the winter cauld,
And gane were but the snaw,
I could sleep in the wild woods,
Where primroses blaw.
Cauld 's the snaw at my head,
And cauld at my feet,
And the finger o' death 's at my een,
Closing them to sleep.
Let nane tell my father,
Or my mither dear:
I 'll meet them baith in heaven,
At the spring o' the year.
It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
When the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf is on the tree,
The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countrie;
It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
The green leaf o' loyalty 's beginning for to fa',
The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a':
But I 'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie,
An' green it will grow in my ain countrie.
It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
There 's naught now frae ruin my country to save,
But the keys o' kind Heaven to open the grave,
That a' the noble martyrs who died for loyaltie,
May rise again and fight for their ain countrie.
It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,
And it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
The great now are gane, a' who ventured to save,
The new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave;
But the sun through the mirk blinks blithe in my e'e:
"I 'll shine on ye yet in your ain countrie."
It 's hame, an' it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
There lived a lass in Inverness,
She was the pride of a' the town;
Blithe as the lark on gowan-tap,
When frae the nest but newly flown.
At kirk she won the auld folks' love,
At dance she was the young men's een;
She was the blithest aye o' the blithe,
At wooster-trystes or Hallowe'en.
As I came in by Inverness,
The simmer-sun was sinking down;
Oh, there I saw the weel-faur'd lass,
And she was greeting through the town:
The gray-hair'd men were a' i' the streets,
And auld dames crying, (sad to see!)
"The flower o' the lads of Inverness
Lie dead upon Culloden-lee!"
She tore her haffet-links of gowd,
And dighted aye her comely e'e;
"My father's head 's on Carlisle wall,
At Preston sleep my brethren three!
I thought my heart could haud nae mair,
Mae tears could ever blin' my e'e;
But the fa' o' ane has burst my heart,
A dearer ane there couldna be!
"He trysted me o' love yestreen,
Of love-tokens he gave me three;
But he 's faulded i' the arms o' weir,
Oh, ne'er again to think o' me!
The forest flowers shall be my bed,
My food shall be the wild berrie,
The fa' o' the leaf shall co'er me cauld,
And wauken'd again I winna be."
Oh weep, oh weep, ye Scottish dames,
Weep till ye blin' a mither's e'e;
Nae reeking ha' in fifty miles,
But naked corses, sad to see.
Oh spring is blithesome to the year,
Trees sprout, flowers spring, and birds sing hie;
But oh! what spring can raise them up,
That lie on dread Culloden-lee?
The hand o' God hung heavy here,
And lightly touch'd foul tyrannie;
It struck the righteous to the ground,
And lifted the destroyer hie.
"But there 's a day," quo' my God in prayer,
"When righteousness shall bear the gree;
I 'll rake the wicked low i' the dust,
And wauken, in bliss, the gude man's e'e!"
A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
A wind that follows fast,
And fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast;
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While, like the eagle free,
Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.
Oh for a soft and gentle wind!
I hear a fair one cry;
But give to me the snoring breeze,
And white waves heaving high;
And white waves heaving high, my boys,
The good ship tight and free--
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.
There 's tempest in yon hornèd moon,
And lightning in yon cloud;
And hark the music, mariners!
The wind is piping loud;
The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashing free--
While the hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.
O come, my bonnie bark!
O'er the waves let us go,
With thy neck like the swan,
And thy wings like the snow.
Spread thy plumes to the wind,
For a gentle one soon
Must welcome us home,
Ere the wane of the moon.
The proud oak that built thee
Was nursed in the dew,
Where my gentle one dwells,
And stately it grew.
I hew'd its beauty down;
Now it swims on the sea,
And wafts spice and perfume,
My fair one, to thee.
Oh, sweet, sweet 's her voice,
As a low warbled tune;
And sweet, sweet her lips,
Like the rose-bud of June.
She looks to sea, and sighs,
As the foamy wave flows,
And treads on men's strength,
As in glory she goes.
Oh haste, my bonnie bark,
O'er the waves let us bound,
As the deer from the horn,
Or the hare from the hound.
Pluck down thy white plumes,
Sink thy keel in the sand,
Whene'er ye see my love,
And the wave of her hand.
Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie,
By that pretty white hand o' thine,
And by a' the lowing stars in heaven,
That thou would aye be mine;
And I hae sworn by my God, my Jeanie,
And by that kind heart o' thine,
By a' the stars sown thick owre heaven,
That thou would aye be mine.
Then foul fa' the hands that loose sic bands,
And the heart that would part sic love;
But there 's nae hand can loose my band
But the finger o' God above.
Though the wee, wee cot maun be my bield,
And my claithing e'er sae mean,
I wad lap me up rich i' the faulds o' luve,
Heaven's armfu' o' my Jean.
Her white arm wad be a pillow for me,
Fu' safter than the down;
And luve wad winnow owre us his kind, kind wings,
And sweetly I 'll sleep, an' soun'.
Come here to me, thou lass o' my love,
Come here and kneel wi' me;
The morn is fu' o' the presence o' God,
And I canna pray without thee.
The morn-wind is sweet 'mang the beds o' new flowers,
The wee birds sing kindlie an' hie;
And a blithe auld bodie is he.
The Beuk maun be ta'en when the carle comes hame,
Wi' the holie psalmodie,
And thou maun speak o' me to thy God,
And I will speak o' thee.
Come, maid, upon yon mountain brow,
This day of rest I 'll give to you,
And clasp thy waist with many a vow,
My loved, my young Eliza.
'Tis not that cheek, that bosom bare,
That high arch'd eye, that long brown hair,
That fair form'd foot, thine angel air,--
But 'tis thy mind, Eliza.
Think not to charm me with thine eye,
Those smiling lips, that heaving sigh,
My heart 's charm'd with a nobler tie,--
It is thy mind, Eliza.
This heart, which every love could warm,
Which every pretty face could charm,
No more will beat the sweet alarm,
But to my young Eliza.
The peasant lad unyokes his car,
The star of even shines bright and far,
And lights me to the flood-torn scaur,
To meet my young Eliza.
There is the smile to please, where truth
And soft persuasion fills her mouth,
While warm with all the fire of youth,
She clasps me, young Eliza.
My heart's blood warms in stronger flow,
My cheeks are tinged with redder glow,
When sober matron, Evening slow,
Bids me to meet Eliza.
The bard can kindle his soul to flame,
The patriot hunts a deathless name;
Give me the peasant's humble fame,
And give me young Eliza.
The warlock glen has tint its gloom,
The fairie burn the witching broom,
All wear a lovelier, sweeter bloom,
For there I meet Eliza.
Then come that mind, so finely form'd,
By native truth and virtue warm'd,
With love's soft simplest lay is charm'd,
Come to my breast, Eliza.
 This song, which is a juvenile production of the poet, has been
I 've rock'd me on the giddy mast,
Through seas tempestuous foamin',
I 've braved the toil of mountain storm,
From dawning to the gloamin';
Round the green bosom'd earth, sea-swept,
In search of pleasure roamin',
And found the world a wilderness,
Without thee, lovely woman!
The farmer reaps his golden fields,
The merchant sweeps the ocean;
The soldier's steed, gore-fetlock'd, snorts
Through war-field's wild commotion;
All combat in eternal toil,
Mirk midnight, day, and gloamin',
To pleasure Heaven's divinest gift,
Thee, lovely, conquering woman!
The savage in the desert dark,
The monster's den exploring;
The sceptre-swaying prince, who rules
The nations round adoring;
Nay, even the laurell'd-templed bard
Dew-footed at the gloamin',
Melodious wooes the world's ear,
To please thee, lovely woman!
afterwards on his own account commenced business as a draper.
Unsuccessful in this branch of business, he subsequently sought a
 Andrew Picken, the only son of Ebenezer, a person of somewhat
Walkin' out ae mornin' early,
Ken ye wha I chanced to see?
But my lassie, gay and frisky,
Peggie wi' the glancin' e'e.
Phoebus, left the lap o' Thetis,
Fast was lickin' up the dew,
Whan, ayont a risin' hilloc,
First my Peggie came in view.
Hark ye, I gaed up to meet her;
But whane'er my face she saw,
Up her plaidin' coat she kiltit,
And in daffin' scour'd awa'.
Weel kent I that though my Peggie
Ran sae fast out owre the mead,
She was wantin' me to follow--
Yes, ye swains, an' sae I did.
At yon burnie I o'ertook her,
Whare the shinin' pebbles lie;
Whare the flowers, that fringe the border,
Soup the stream, that wimples by.
While wi' her I sat reclinin',
Frae her lips I staw a kiss;
While she blush'd, I took anither,--
Shepherds, was there ill in this?
Could a lass, sae sweet an' comely,
Ever bless a lover's arms?
Could the bonnie wife o' Vulcan
Ever boast o' hauf the charms?
While the zephyrs fan the meadows,
While the flow'rets crown the lea,
While they paint the gowden simmer,
Wha sae blest as her an' me?
TUNE--_"On a Primrosy Bank."_
Whan Jamie first woo'd me, he was but a youth:
Frae his lips flow'd the strains o' persuasion and truth;
His suit I rejected wi' pride an' disdain,
But, oh! wad he offer to woo me again!
He aft wad hae tauld me his love was sincere,
And e'en wad hae ventured to ca' me his dear:
My heart to his tale was as hard as a stane;
But, oh! wad he offer to woo me again!
He said that he hoped I would yield an' be kind,
But I counted his proffers as light as the wind;
I laugh'd at his grief, whan I heard him complain;
But, oh! wad he offer to woo me again!
He flatter'd my locks, that war black as a slae,
And praised my fine shape, frae the tap to the tae;
I flate, an' desired he wad let me alane;
But, oh! wad he offer to woo me again!
Repulsed, he forsook me, an' left me to grieve,
An' mourn the sad hour that my swain took his leave;
Now, since I despised, an' was deaf to his maen,
I fear he 'll ne'er offer to woo me again!
Oh! wad he but now to his Jean be inclined,
My heart in a moment wad yield to his mind;
But I fear wi' some ither my laddie is taen,
An' sae he 'll ne'er offer to woo me again.
Ye bonnie young lasses, be warn'd by my fate,
Despise not the heart you may value too late;
Improve the sweet sunshine that now gilds the plain;
With you it may never be sunshine again.
The simmer o' life, ah! it soon flits awa',
An' the bloom on your cheek will soon dow in the snaw;
Oh! think, ere you treat a fond youth wi' disdain,
That, in age, the sweet flower never blossoms again.
AIR--_"Miss Forbes' Farewell to Banff."_
Adieu! romantic banks of Clyde,
Where oft I 've spent the joyful day;
Now, weary wand'ring on thy side,
I pour the plaintive, joyless lay.
To other lands I 'm doom'd to rove,
The thought with grief my bosom fills;
Why am I forced to leave my love,
And wander far from Lanark Mills?
Can I forget th' ecstatic hours,
When ('scaped the village evening din)
I met my lass 'midst Braxfield bowers,
Or near the falls of Corhouse Linn!
While close I clasp'd her to my breast,
(Th' idea still with rapture thrills!)
I thought myself completely blest,
By all the lads of Lanark Mills.
Deceitful, dear, delusive dream,
Thou 'rt fled--alas! I know not where,
And vanish'd is each blissful gleam,
And left behind a load of care.
Adieu! dear winding banks of Clyde,
A long farewell, ye rising hills;
No more I 'll wander on your side,
Though still my heart 's at Lanark Mills.
While Tintock stands the pride of hills,
While Clyde's dark stream rolls to the sea,
So long, my dear-loved Lanark Mills,
May Heaven's best blessings smile on thee.
A last adieu! my Mary dear,
The briny tear my eye distils;
While reason's powers continue clear,
I 'll think of thee, and Lanark Mills.
Ae morn of May, when fields were gay,
Serene and charming was the weather,
I chanced to roam some miles frae home,
Far o'er yon muir, amang the heather.
O'er the muir amang the heather,
O'er the muir amang the heather,
How healthsome 'tis to range the muirs,
And brush the dew from vernal heather.
I walk'd along, and humm'd a song,
My heart was light as ony feather,
And soon did pass a lovely lass,
Was wading barefoot through the heather.
O'er the muir amang the heather,
O'er the muir amang the heather;
The bonniest lass that e'er I saw
I met ae morn amang the heather.
Her eyes divine, mair bright did shine,
Than the most clear unclouded ether;
A fairer form did ne'er adorn
A brighter scene than blooming heather.
O'er the muir amang the heather,
O'er the muir amang the heather;
There 's ne'er a lass in Scotia's isle,
Can vie with her amang the heather.
I said, "Dear maid, be not afraid;
Pray sit you down, let 's talk together;
For, oh! my fair, I vow and swear,
You 've stole my heart amang the heather."
O'er the muir amang the heather,
O'er the muir amang the heather;
Ye swains, beware of yonder muir,
You 'll lose your hearts amang the heather.
She answer'd me, right modestly,
"I go, kind sir, to seek my father,
Whose fleecy charge he tends at large,
On yon green hills beyond the heather."
O'er the muir amang the heather,
O'er the muir amang the heather;
Were I a king, thou shou'dst be mine,
Dear blooming maid, amang the heather.
Away she flew out of my view,
Her home or name I ne'er could gather,
But aye sin' syne I sigh and pine
For that sweet lass amang the heather.
O'er the muir amang the heather,
O'er the muir amang the heather,
While vital heat glows in my heart,
I 'll love the lass amang the heather.
 The more popular words to the same tune and chorus, beginning,
David Drummond, author of "The Bonnie Lass o' Levenside," a song
formerly of no inconsiderable popularity, was a native of Crieff,
rhymster of the capital.
AIR--_"Up amang the Cliffy Rocks."_
How sweet are Leven's silver streams,
Around her banks the wild flowers blooming;
On every bush the warblers vie,
In strains of bosom-soothing joy.
But Leven's banks that bloom sae bra,
And Leven's streams that glide sae saucy,
Sic joy an' beauty couldna shaw,
An 't were not for my darling lassie;
Her presence fills them a' wi' pride,
The bonnie lass o' Levenside.
When sober eve begins her reign,
The little birds to cease their singing,
The flowers their beauty to renew,
Their bosoms bathe in diamond dew;
When far behind the Lomonds high,
The wheels of day are downwards rowing,
And a' the western closing sky
Wi' varied tints of glory lowing,
'Tis then my eager steps I guide,
To meet the lass o' Levenside.
The solemn sweetness nature spreads,
The kindly hour to bliss inviting,
Within our happy bosoms move,
The softest sigh o' purest love;
Reclined upon the velvet grass,
Beneath the balmy, birken blossom,
What words could a' my joy express,
When clasped to her beating bosom;
How swells my heart with rapture's tide,
When wi' the lass o' Levenside.
She never saw the splendid ball,
She never blazed in courtly grandeur,
But like her native lily's bloom,
She cheerfu' gilds her humble home;
The pert reply, the modish air,
To soothe the soul were never granted,
When modest sense and love are there,
The guise o' art may well be wanted;
O Fate! gi'e me to be my bride
The bonnie lass o' Levenside.
How blest were the days o' langsyne when a laddie!
Alane by a bush wi' my dog and my plaidie;
Nae fop was sae happy, though dress'd e'er sae gaudy,
Sae sweet were the days o' langsyne when a laddie.
Whiles croonin' my sonnet amang the whin bushes,
Whiles whistling wi' glee as I pou'd the green rashes;
The whim o' the moment kept me aye frae sorrow,
What I wanted at night was in prospect to-morrow.
The nest o' a lintie I fondly explored,
And plundering bykes was the game I adored;
My pleasures did vary, as I was unsteady,
Yet I always found something that pleased when a laddie.
The boy with great pleasure the butterfly chases;
When manhood approaches, the maid he embraces;
But view him at once baith the husband and daddie,
He fondly looks back to the joys o' a laddie.
When childhood was over my prospects were greater,
I tried to be happy, but, alas, foolish creature!
The sports of my youth were my sweetest employment--
Much sweetness in prospect embitters enjoyment.
But now I 'm grown auld, and wi' cares I 'm perplex'd,
How numerous the woes are by which I am vex'd!
I 'm tentin' the kye wi' my dog, staff, and plaidie;
How changed are the days since langsyne when a laddie!
AIR--_"Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch."_
Can my dearest Henry leave me?
Why, ah! why would he deceive me?
Whence this cold and cruel change,
That bids him thus forsake and grieve me?
Can he the hours of love forget,
The stolen hours I 'll mind for ever,
When down the burn we fondly met,
And aften vow'd we ne'er should sever?
Will my Henry then deceive me,
Faithless laddie, can he leave me?
Ne'er till now did fancy dream,
My dearest laddie sae would grieve me.
And will he then me aye forsake?
Must I for ever, ever lose him?
And can he leave this heart to break,
That swells and bursts within my bosom?
Never, Henry, could I leave thee,
Never could this heart deceive thee,
Why then, laddie, me forsake,
And sae wi' cruel absence grieve me?
 This song and that following are printed from the original MSS.
"In life's gay morn," when hopes beat high,
And youthfu' love's endearing tie
Gave rapture to the mutual sigh,
Within the arms of Mary,
My ain dear Mary;
Nae joys beneath the vaulted sky,
Could equal mine wi' Mary.
The sacred hours like moments flew,
Soft transports thrill'd my bosom through,
The warl' evanish'd frae my view
Within the arms of Mary,
My ain dear Mary;
Nae gloomy cares my soul e'er knew
Within the arms of Mary.
Young fancy spread her visions gay,
Love fondly view'd the fair display,
Hope shew'd the blissfu' nuptial day,
And I was rapt with Mary,
My ain dear Mary;
The flowers of Eden strew'd the way
But life is now a dreary waste,
I lanely wander sair depress'd,
For cold and lifeless is that breast
Where throbb'd the heart of Mary,
My ain dear Mary;
She 's gane to seats o' blissfu' rest,
And I hae lost my Mary.
 This song was set to music by R. A. Smith.
Edinburgh to enter into copartnership with Mr Chalmers Izzet,
"The bard that night who foremost came
Was not enroll'd, nor known his name;
A youth he was of manly mould,
Gentle as lamb, as lion bold;
But his fair face, and forehead high,
Glow'd with intrusive modesty.
'Twas said by bank of southland stream
Glided his youth in soothing dream;
The harp he loved, and wont to stray
Far to the wilds and woods away,
And sing to brooks that gurgled by
Of maiden's form and maiden's eye;
That when this dream of youth was past,
Deep in the shade his harp he cast;
In busy life his cares beguiled,
His heart was true, and fortune smiled."
aspirations he had promoted.
Culloden, on thy swarthy brow
Spring no wild flowers nor verdure fair;
Thou feel'st not summer's genial glow,
More than the freezing wintry air.
For once thou drank'st the hero's blood,
And war's unhallow'd footsteps bore;
Thy deeds unholy, nature view'd,
Then fled, and cursed thee evermore.
From Beauly's wild and woodland glens,
How proudly Lovat's banners soar!
How fierce the plaided Highland clans
Rush onward with the broad claymore!
Those hearts that high with honour heave,
The volleying thunder there laid low;
Or scatter'd like the forest leaves,
When wintry winds begin to blow!
Where now thy honours, brave Lochiel?
The braided plumes torn from thy brow,
What must thy haughty spirit feel,
When skulking like the mountain roe!
While wild birds chant from Locky's bowers,
On April eve, their loves and joys,
The Lord of Locky's loftiest towers
To foreign lands an exile flies.
To his blue hills that rose in view,
As o'er the deep his galley bore,
He often look'd and cried, "Adieu!
I 'll never see Lochaber more!
Though now thy wounds I cannot feel,
My dear, my injured native land,
In other climes thy foe shall feel
The weight of Cameron's deadly brand.
"Land of proud hearts and mountains gray,
Where Fingal fought, and Ossian sung!
Mourn dark Culloden's fateful day,
That from thy chiefs the laurel wrung.
Where once they ruled and roam'd at will,
Free as their own dark mountain game,
Their sons are slaves, yet keenly feel
A longing for their father's fame.
"Shades of the mighty and the brave,
Who, faithful to your Stuart, fell!
No trophies mark your common grave,
Nor dirges to your memory swell.
But generous hearts will weep your fate,
When far has roll'd the tide of time;
And bards unborn shall renovate
Your fading fame in loftiest rhyme."
I 've seen the lily of the wold,
I 've seen the opening marigold,
Their fairest hues at morn unfold,
But fairer is my Mary.
How sweet the fringe of mountain burn,
With opening flowers at spring's return!
How sweet the scent of flowery thorn!
But sweeter is my Mary.
Her heart is gentle, warm, and kind;
Her form 's not fairer than her mind;
Two sister beauties rarely join'd,
But join'd in lovely Mary.
As music from the distant steep,
As starlight on the silent deep,
So are my passions lull'd asleep
By love for bonnie Mary.
My lassie is lovely, as May day adorning
Wi' gowans an' primroses ilka green lee;
Though sweet is the violet, new blown i' the morning,
As tender an' sweet is her blue rollin' e'e.
O, say what is whiter than snaw on the mountain?
Or what wi' the red rose in beauty can vie?
Yes, whiter her bosom than snaw on the mountain,
An' bonnie her face as the red rose can be.
See yon lowly cottage that stands by the wild-wood,
Hedged round wi' the sweetbriar and green willow-tree,
'Twas yonder I spent the sweet hours of my childhood,
An' first felt the power of a love-rollin' e'e.
Though soon frae my hame an' my lassie I wander'd;
Though lang I 've been tossing on fortune's rough sea;
Aye dear was the valley where Ettrick meander'd;
Aye dear was the blink o' her blue-rollin' e'e.
Oh! for the evening, and oh! for the hour,
When down by yon greenwood she promised to be;
When quick as the summer-dew dries on the flower,
A' earthly affections and wishes wad flee.
Let Art and let Nature display their proud treasures;
Let Paradise boast o' what ance it could gie;
As high is my bliss, an' as sweet are my pleasures,
In the heart-melting blink o' my lassie's blue e'e.
cultivated the society of lovers of Scottish song. In 1841, in
birthplace. In the _Glasgow Citizen_ newspaper, he subsequently
 This volume of the merry Anstruther rhymers is entitled
Good-Fellowship throughout the British Empire."
The cantie Spring scarce rear'd her head,
And Winter yet did blaud her,
When the Ranter came to Anster fair,
And speir'd for Maggie Lauder;
A snug wee house in the East Green,
Its shelter kindly lent her;
Wi' canty ingle, clean hearth-stane,
Meg welcomed Rob the Ranter!
Then Rob made bonnie Meg his bride,
And to the kirk they ranted;
He play'd the auld "East Nook o' Fife;"
And merry Maggie vaunted,
That Hab himsel' ne'er play'd a spring,
Nor blew sae weel his chanter,
For he made Anster town to ring--
And wha 's like Rob the Ranter?
For a' the talk and loud reports,
That ever gaed against her,
Meg proves a true and carefu' wife,
As ever was in Anster;
And since the marriage-knot was tied,
Rob swears he coudna want her;
For he loves Maggie as his life,
And Meg loves Rob the Ranter.
O Charlie is my darling,
My darling, my darling;
O Charlie is my darling,
The young Chevalier!
When first his standard caught the eye,
His pibroch met the ear,
Our hearts were light, our hopes were high
For the young Chevalier.
O Charlie is my darling, &c.
The plaided chiefs cam frae afar,
Nae doubts their bosoms steir;
They nobly drew the sword for war
And the young Chevalier!
O Charlie is my darling, &c.
But he wha trusts to fortune's smile
Has meikle cause to fear;
She blinket blithe but to beguile
The young Chevalier!
O Charlie is my darling, &c.
O dark Culloden--fatal field!
Fell source o' mony a tear;
There Albyn tint her sword and shield,
And the young Chevalier!
O Charlie is my darling, &c.
Now Scotland's "flowers are wede away;"
Her forest trees are sere;
Her Royal Oak is gane for aye,
The young Chevalier!
O Charlie is my darling,
My darling, my darling;
O Charlie is my darling,
The young Chevalier.
AIR--_"My only Jo and Dearie O!"_
Wi' heart sincere I love thee, Bell,
But dinna ye be saucy, O!
Or a' my love I winna tell
To thee, my black-e'ed lassie, O!
It 's no thy cheek o' rosy hue,
It 's no thy little cherrie mou';
Its a' because thy heart 's sae true,
My bonnie black-e'ed lassie, O!
It 's no the witch-glance o' thy e'e,
Though few for that surpass ye, O!
That maks ye aye sae dear to me,
My bonnie black-e'ed lassie, O!
It 's no the whiteness o' thy skin,
It 's no love's dimple on thy chin;
Its a' thy modest worth within,
My bonnie black-e'ed lassie, O!
Ye smile sae sweet, ye look sae kind,
That a' wish to caress ye, O!
But O! how I admire thy mind,
My bonnie black-e'ed lassie, O!
I 've seen thine e'en like crystal clear,
Shine dimly through soft pity's tear;
These are the charms that mak thee dear,
To me, my black-e'ed lassie, O!
 The heroine of this song subsequently became the author's wife.
Grim winter was howlin' owre muir and owre mountain,
And bleak blew the wind on the wild stormy sea;
The cauld frost had lock'd up each riv'let and fountain,
As I took the dreich road that leads north to Dundee.
Though a' round was dreary, my heart was fu' cheerie,
And cantie I sung as the bird on the tree;
For when the heart 's light, the feet winna soon weary,
Though ane should gang further than bonnie Dundee!
Arrived at the banks o' sweet Tay's flowin' river,
I look'd, as it rapidly row'd to the sea;
And fancy, whose fond dream still pleases me ever,
Beguiled the lone passage to bonnie Dundee.
There, glowrin' about, I saw in his station
Ilk bodie as eydent as midsummer bee;
When fair stood a mark, on the face o' creation,
The lovely young Peggy, the pride o' Dundee!
O! aye since the time I first saw this sweet lassie,
I 'm listless, I 'm restless, wherever I be;
I 'm dowie, and donnart, and aften ca'd saucy;
They kenna its a' for the lass o' Dundee!
O! lang may her guardians be virtue and honour;
Though anither may wed her, yet well may she be;
And blessin's in plenty be shower'd down upon her--
The lovely young Peggie, the pride o' Dundee!
O! come with me, for the queen of night
Is throned on high in her beauty bright:
'Tis now the silent hour of even,
When all is still in earth an' heaven;
The cold flowers which the valleys strew
Are sparking bright wi' pearly dew,
And hush'd is e'en the bee's soft hum,
Then come with me, sweet Mary, come.
The opening blue-bell--Scotland's pride--
In heaven's pure azure deeply dyed;
The daisy meek frae the dewy dale,
The wild thyme, and the primrose pale,
Wi' the lily frae the glassy lake,
Of these a fragrant wreath I 'll make,
And bind them 'mid the locks that flow
In rich luxuriance from thy brow.
O, love, without thee, what were life?
A bustling scene of care and strife;
A waste, where no green flowery glade
Is found for shelter or for shade.
But cheer'd by thee, the griefs we share
We can with calm composure bear;
For the darkest nicht o' care and toil.
Is bricht when blest by woman's smile.
'Tis not the rose upon the cheek,
Nor eyes in langour soft that roll,
That fix the lover's timid glance,
And fire his wilder'd soul.
But 'tis the eye that swims in tears,
Diffusing soft a joy all holy;
So soothing to the heart of love,
And yet so melancholy.
The note that falters on the tongue,
Sweet as the dying voice of eve,
That calms the throbbing breast of pain,
Yet makes it love to grieve!
The hand, alternate fiery warm
And icy cold, the bursting sigh,
The look that hopes, yet seems to fear,
Pale cheek and burning eye.
These, these the magic circle twine,
The lover's thoughts and feelings seize;
'Till scarce a son of earth he seems,
But lives in what he sees.
I heard the evening linnet's voice the woodland tufts among,
Yet sweeter were the tender woes of Isabella's song;
So soft into the ear they steal, so soft into the soul,
I look'd upon the pure brook that murmur'd through the glade,
And mingled in the melody that Isabella made;
Yet purer was the residence of Isabella's heart,
Above the reach of pride and guile, above the reach of art.
I look'd upon the azure of the deep unclouded sky,
Yet clearer was the blue serene of Isabella's eye;
Ne'er softer fell the rain-drop of the first relenting year,
Than falls from Isabella's eye the pity-melted tear.
All this my fancy prompted, ere a sigh of sorrow proved,
How hopelessly, yet faithfully, and tenderly I loved!
Yet though bereft of hope I love, still will I love the more,
As distance binds the exile's heart to his dear native shore.
AIR--_"Here 's a health to ane I love dear."_
Oh! dear were the joys that are past!
Oh! dear were the joys that are past!
Inconstant thou art, as the dew of the morn,
Or a cloud of the night on the blast!
How dear was the breath of the eve,
When bearing thy fond faithless sigh!
And the moonbeam how dear that betray'd
The love that illumined thine eye!
Thou vow'dst in my arms to be mine,
Thou swar'st by the moon's sacred light;
But dark roll'd a cloud o'er the sky,
It hid the pale queen of the night.
Thou hast broken thy plighted faith,
And broken a fond lover's heart;
Yes! in winter the moon's fleeting ray
I would trust more than thee and thy art!
I am wretched to think on the past--
Even hope now my peace cannot save;
Thou hast given to my rival thy hand,
But me thou hast doom'd to my grave.
O lassie, wilt thou gang wi' me,
And leave thy friens i' th' south countrie--
Thy former friens and sweethearts a',
And gang wi' me to Gallowa'?
O Gallowa' braes they wave wi' broom,
And heather-bells in bonnie bloom;
There 's lordly seats, and livins braw,
Amang the braes o' Gallowa'!
There 's stately woods on mony a brae,
Where burns and birds in concert play;
The waukrife echo answers a',
Amang the braes o' Gallowa'.
O Gallowa' braes, &c.
The simmer shiel I 'll build for thee
Alang the bonnie banks o' Dee,
Half circlin' roun' my father's ha',
Amang the braes o' Gallowa'.
O Gallowa' braes, &c.
When autumn waves her flowin' horn,
And fields o' gowden grain are shorn,
I 'll busk thee fine, in pearlins braw,
To join the dance in Gallowa'.
O Gallowa' braes, &c.
At e'en, whan darkness shrouds the sight,
And lanely, langsome is the night,
Wi' tentie care my pipes I 'll thraw,
O Gallowa' braes, &c.
Should fickle fortune on us frown,
Nae lack o' gear our love should drown;
Content should shield our haddin' sma',
Amang the braes o' Gallowa'.
Come while the blossom 's on the broom,
And heather bells sae bonnie bloom;
Come let us be the happiest twa
On a' the braes o' Gallowa'!
Will ye go to the Highlan's, my Mary,
And visit our haughs and our glens?
There 's beauty 'mang hills o' the Highlan's,
That lassie i' th' Lowlands ne'er kens.
'Tis true we 've few cowslips or roses,
Nae lilies grow wild on the lea;
But the heather its sweet scent discloses,
And the daisy 's as sweet to the e'e.
See yon far heathy hills, whare they 're risin',
Whose summits are shaded wi' blue;
There the fleet mountain roes they are lyin',
Or feedin' their fawns, love, for you.
Right sweet are our scenes i' the gloamin',
Whan shepherds return frae the hill,
Aroun' by the banks o' Loch Lomon',
While bagpipes are soundin' sae shrill.
Right sweet is the low-setting sunbeams,
That points owre the quivering stream;
But sweeter the smiles o' my Mary,
And kinder the blinks o' her een.
Where windin' Tarf, by broomy knowes
Wi' siller waves to saut sea rows;
And mony a greenwood cluster grows,
And harebells bloomin' bonnie, O!
Below a spreadin' hazle lea,
Fu' snugly hid whare nane could see,
While blinkin' love beam'd frae her e'e,
I met my bonnie Annie, O!
Her neck was o' the snaw-drap hue,
Her lips like roses wet wi' dew;
But O! her e'e, o' azure blue,
Was past expression bonnie, O!
Like threads o' gowd her flowin' hair,
That lightly wanton'd wi' the air;
But vain were a' my rhymin' ware
To tell the charms o' Annie, O!
While smilin' in my arms she lay,
She whisperin' in my ear did say,
"Oh, how could I survive the day,
Should you prove fause, my Tammie, O?"
"While spangled fish glide to the main,
While Scotlan's braes shall wave wi' grain,
Till this fond heart shall break wi' pain,
I 'll aye be true to Annie, O!"
The Beltan winds blew loud and lang,
And ripplin' raised the spray alang;
We cheerfu' sat, and cheerfu' sang,
The banks of Tarf are bonnie, O!
Though sweet is spring, whan young and gay,
And blithe the blinks o' summer day;
I fear nae winter cauld and blae,
If blest wi' love and Annie, O!
TUNE--_"Will ye walk the woods with me?"_
O! will ye go to yon burn side,
Amang the new-made hay;
And sport upon the flowery swaird,
My ain dear May?
The sun blinks blithe on yon burn side,
Whar lambkins lightly play,
The wild bird whistles to his mate,
My ain dear May.
The waving woods, wi' mantle green,
Shall shield us in the bower,
Whare I 'll pu' a posy for my May,
O' mony a bonnie flower.
My father maws ayont the burn,
My mammy spins at hame;
And should they see thee here wi' me,
I 'd better been my lane.
The lightsome lammie little kens
What troubles it await--
Whan ance the flush o' spring is o'er,
The fause bird lea'es its mate.
The flowers will fade, the woods decay,
And lose their bonnie green;
The sun wi' clouds may be o'ercast,
Before that it be e'en.
Ilk thing is in its season sweet;
So love is in its noon:
But cankering time may soil the flower,
And spoil its bonnie bloom.
Oh, come then, while the summer shines,
And love is young and gay;
Ere age his withering, wintry blast
Blaws o'er me and my May.
For thee I 'll tend the fleecy flocks,
Or haud the halesome plough;
And nightly clasp thee to my breast,
And prove aye leal and true.
The blush o'erspread her bonnie face,
She had nae mair to say,
But gae her hand and walk'd alang,
The youthfu', bloomin' May.
Alexander Rodger was born on the 16th July 1784, at East Calder,
How brightly beams the bonnie moon,
Frae out the azure sky;
While ilka little star aboon
Seems sparkling bright wi' joy.
How calm the eve, how blest the hour!
How soft the silvan scene!
How fit to meet thee, lovely flower,
Now let us wander through the broom,
And o'er the flowery lea;
While simmer wafts her rich perfume,
Frae yonder hawthorn tree:
There, on yon mossy bank we 'll rest,
Where we 've sae aften been;
Clasp'd to each other's throbbing breast--
How sweet to view that face so meek--
That dark expressive eye--
To kiss that lovely blushing cheek--
Those lips of coral dye!
But O! to hear thy seraph strains,
Thy maiden sighs between,
Makes rapture thrill through all my veins--
O! what to us is wealth or rank?
Or what is pomp or power?
More dear this velvet mossy bank--
This blest ecstatic hour!
I 'd covet not the monarch's throne,
Nor diamond-studded Queen,
While blest wi' thee, and thee alone,
AIR--_"Good-morrow to your night-cap."_
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk;
And dinna be sae rude to me,
As kiss me sae before folk.
It wad na gie me meikle pain,
'Gin we were seen and heard by nane
To tak' a kiss, or grant you ane,
But, guid sake! no before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk;
Whate'er you do when out o' view,
Be cautious aye before folk.
Consider, lad, how folk will crack,
And what a great affair they 'll mak
O' naething but a simple smack
That 's gi'en or ta'en before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Nor gie the tongue o' auld or young
Occasion to come o'er folk.
It 's no through hatred o' a kiss
That I sae plainly tell you this;
But, losh! I tak it sair amiss
To be sae teased before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk;
When we 're our lane ye may tak ane,
But fient a ane before folk.
I 'm sure wi' you I 've been as free
As ony modest lass should be;
But yet it doesna do to see
Sic freedom used before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk;
I 'll ne'er submit again to it--
So mind you that--before folk.
Ye tell me that my face is fair;
It may be sae--I dinna care--
But ne'er again gar 't blush sae sair
As ye hae done before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk;
Nor heat my cheeks wi' your mad freaks,
But aye be douce before folk.
Ye tell me that my lips are sweet,
Sic tales, I doubt, are a' deceit;
At ony rate, it 's hardly meet,
To pree their sweets before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk;
Gin that 's the case, there 's time and place,
But surely no before folk.
But, gin you really do insist
That I should suffer to be kiss'd,
Gae get a licence frae the priest,
And mak me yours before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk,
And when were ane, bluid, flesh, and bane,
Ye may tak ten before folk.
Lovely maiden, art thou sleeping?
Wake, and fly with me, my love,
While the moon is proudly sweeping,
Through the ether fields above;
While her mellow'd light is streaming
Full on mountain, moon, and lake.
Dearest maiden, art thou dreaming?
'Tis thy true-love calls awake.
All is hush'd around thy dwelling,
Even the watch-dog 's lull'd asleep;
Hark! the clock the hour is knelling,
Wilt thou then thy promise keep?
Yes, I hear her softly coming,
Now her window 's gently raised;
There she stands, an angel blooming,
Come, my Mary, haste thee, haste!
Fear not, love, thy rigid father
Soundly sleeps bedrench'd with wine;
'Tis thy true-love holds the ladder,
To his care thyself resign!
Now my arms enfold a treasure,
Which for worlds I 'd not forego;
Now our bosoms feel that pleasure,
Faithful bosoms only know.
Long have our true-loves been thwarted,
By the stern decrees of pride,
Which would doom us to be parted,
And make thee another's bride;
But behold, my steeds are ready,
Soon they 'll post us far away;
Thou wilt be Glen Alva's lady,
Long before the dawn of day.
How happy lives the peasant, by his ain fireside,
Wha weel employs the present, by his ain fireside;
Wi' his wifie blithe and free, and his bairnie on his knee,
Smiling fu' o' sportive glee, by his ain fireside!
Nae cares o' state disturb him, by his ain fireside;
Nae foolish fashions curb him, by his ain fireside;
In his elbow-chair reclined, he can freely speak his mind,
To his bosom-mate sae kind, by his ain fireside.
When his bonnie bairns increase, around his ain fireside,
What health, content, and peace surround his ain fireside,
A' day he gladly toils, and at night delighted smiles
At their harmless pranks and wiles, about his ain fireside;
And while they grow apace, about his ain fireside,
In beauty, strength, and grace, about his ain fireside,
Wi' virtuous precepts kind, by a sage example join'd,
He informs ilk youthfu' mind, about his ain fireside.
When the shivering orphan poor draws near his ain fireside,
And seeks the friendly door, that guards his ain fireside,
She 's welcomed to a seat, bidden warm her little feet,
While she 's kindly made to eat, by his ain fireside.
When youthfu' vigour fails him, by his ain fireside,
And hoary age assails him, by his ain fireside,
With joy he back surveys all his scenes of bygone days,
As he trod in wisdom's ways, by his ain fireside.
And when grim death draws near him, by his ain fireside,
What cause has he to fear him, by his ain fireside?
With a bosom-cheering hope, he takes heaven for his prop,
Then calmly down does drop, by his ain fireside.
Oh! may that lot be ours, by our ain fireside;
Then glad will fly the hours, by our ain fireside;
May virtue guard our path, till we draw our latest breath,
Then we 'll smile and welcome death, by our ain fireside.
Ah, no! I cannot say "Farewell,"
'T would pierce my bosom through;
And to this heart 't were death's dread knell,
To hear thee sigh "Adieu."
Though soul and body both must part,
Yet ne'er from thee I 'll sever,
For more to me than soul thou art,
And oh! I 'll quit thee never.
Whate'er through life may be thy fate,
That fate with thee I 'll share,
If prosperous, be moderate;
If adverse, meekly bear;
This bosom shall thy pillow be,
In every change whatever,
And tear for tear I 'll shed with thee,
But oh! forsake thee, never.
One home, one hearth, shall ours be still,
And one our daily fare;
One altar, too, where we may kneel,
And breathe our humble prayer;
And one our praise, that shall ascend,
To one all-bounteous Giver;
And one our will, our aim, our end,
For oh! we 'll sunder never.
And when that solemn hour shall come,
That sees thee breathe thy last,
That hour shall also fix my doom,
And seal my eyelids fast.
One grave shall hold us, side by side,
One shroud our clay shall cover;
And one then may we mount and glide,
Through realms of love, for ever.
literature the vigour of a master intellect, he riveted public
attention by the force of his declamation, the catholicity of his
_nom-de-guerre_, became a monthly treasure of interest and
I walk'd by mysel' owre the sweet braes o' Yarrow,
When the earth wi' the gowans o' July was dress'd;
But the sang o' the bonnie burn sounded like sorrow,
Round ilka house cauld as a last-simmer's nest.
I look'd through the lift o' the blue smiling morning,
But never a wee cloud o' mist could I see,
On its way up to heaven, the cottage adorning,
Hanging white owre the green o' its sheltering tree.
By the outside I kenn'd that the inn was forsaken,
That nae tread o' footsteps was heard on the floor;
Oh, loud craw'd the cock whare was nane to awaken,
And the wild raven croak'd on the seat by the door!
Sic silence--sic lonesomeness, oh, were bewildering!
I heard nae lass singing when herding her sheep;
I met nae bright garlands o' wee rosy children,
Dancing onto the school-house, just waken'd frae sleep.
I pass'd by the school-house, when strangers were coming,
Whose windows with glad faces seem'd all alive;
Ae moment I hearken'd, but heard nae sweet humming,
For a night o' dark vapour can silence the hive.
I pass'd by the pool where the lasses at daw'ing,
Used to bleach their white garments wi' daffin and din;
But the foam in the silence o' nature was fa'ing,
And nae laughing rose loud through the roar of the linn.
I gaed into a small town, when sick o' my roaming,
Whare ance play'd the viol, the tabor, and flute;
'Twas the hour loved by labour, the saft smiling gloaming,
Yet the green round the cross-stane was empty and mute.
To the yellow-flower'd meadow, and scant rigs o' tillage,
The sheep a' neglected had come frae the glen;
The cushat-dow coo'd in the midst o' the village,
And the swallow had flown to the dwellings o' men!
Sweet Denholm! not thus when I lived in thy bosom
Thy heart lay so still the last night o' the week;
Then nane was sae weary that love would nae rouse him,
And grief gaed to dance with a laugh on his cheek.
Sic thoughts wet my een, as the moonshine was beaming
On the kirk-tower that rose up sae silent and white;
The wan ghastly light on the dial was streaming,
But the still finger tauld not the hour of the night.
The mirk-time pass'd slowly in siching and weeping,
I waken'd, and nature lay silent in mirth;
Owre a' holy Scotland the Sabbath was sleeping,
And heaven in beauty came down on the earth.
The morning smiled on--but nae kirk-bell was ringing,
Nae plaid or blue bonnet came down frae the hill;
The kirk-door was shut, but nae psalm tune was singing,
And I miss'd the wee voices sae sweet and sae shrill.
I look'd owre the quiet o' death's empty dwelling,
The laverock walk'd mute 'mid the sorrowful scene,
And fifty brown hillocks wi' fresh mould were swelling
Owre the kirkyard o' Denholm, last simmer sae green.
The infant had died at the breast o' its mither;
The cradle stood still at the mitherless bed;
At play the bairn sunk in the hand o' its brither;
At the fauld on the mountain the shepherd lay dead.
Oh! in spring-time 'tis eerie, when winter is over,
And birds should be glinting owre forest and lea,
When the lint-white and mavis the yellow leaves cover,
And nae blackbird sings loud frae the tap o' his tree.
But eerier far, when the spring-land rejoices,
And laughs back to heaven with gratitude bright,
To hearken, and naewhere hear sweet human voices
When man's soul is dark in the season o' light!
With laughter swimming in thine eye,
That told youth's heart-felt revelry;
And motion changeful as the wing
Of swallow waken'd by the spring;
With accents blithe as voice of May,
Chanting glad Nature's roundelay;
Circled by joy like planet bright
That smiles 'mid wreaths of dewy light,
Thy image such, in former time,
When thou, just entering on thy prime,
And woman's sense in thee combined
Gently with childhood's simplest mind,
First taught'st my sighing soul to move
With hope towards the heaven of love!
Now years have given my Mary's face
A thoughtful and a quiet grace:
Though happy still, yet chance distress
Hath left a pensive loveliness;
Fancy hath tamed her fairy gleams,
And thy heart broods o'er home-born dreams!
Thy smiles, slow-kindling now and mild,
Shower blessings on a darling child;
Thy motion slow and soft thy tread,
As if round thy hush'd infant's bed!
And when thou speak'st, thy melting tone,
That tells thy heart is all my own,
Sounds sweeter from the lapse of years,
With the wife's love, the mother's fears!
By thy glad youth and tranquil prime
Assured, I smile at hoary Time;
For thou art doom'd in age to know
The calm that wisdom steals from woe;
The holy pride of high intent,
The glory of a life well spent.
When, earth's affections nearly o'er,
With Peace behind and Faith before,
Thou render'st up again to God,
Untarnish'd by its frail abode,
Thy lustrous soul, then harp and hymn
From bands of sister seraphim,
Asleep will lay thee, till thine eye
Open in immortality.
O gentle Sleep! wilt thou lay thy head
For one little hour on thy lover's bed,
And none but the silent stars of night
Shall witness be to our delight?
Alas! 'tis said that the couch must be
Of the eider-down that is spread for thee,
So I in my sorrow must lie alone,
For mine, sweet Sleep! is a couch of stone.
Music to thee I know is dear;
Then the saddest of music is ever here,
For Grief sits with me in my cell,
And she is a syren who singeth well.
But thou, glad Sleep! lov'st gladsome airs,
And wilt only come to thy lover's prayers,
When the bells of merriment are ringing,
And bliss with liquid voice is singing.
Fair Sleep! so long in thy beauty woo'd,
No rival hast thou in my solitude,
Be mine, my love! and we two will lie
Embraced for ever, or awake to die!
Dear Sleep, farewell! hour, hour, hour, hour,
Will slowly bring on the gleam of morrow;
But thou art Joy's faithful paramour,
And lie wilt thou not in the arms of Sorrow.
 The present memoir is condensed from a well written biographical
When I was a miller in Fife,
Losh! I thought that the sound o' the happer
Said, Tak hame a wee flow to your wife,
To help to be brose to your supper.
Then my conscience was narrow and pure,
But someway by random it racket;
For I lifted twa neivefu' or mair,
While the happer said, Tak it, man, tak it.
Hey for the mill and the kill,
The garland and gear for my cogie,
Hey for the whisky and yill,
That washes the dust frae my craigie.
Although it 's been lang in repute
For rogues to mak rich by deceiving,
Yet I see that it does not weel suit
Honest men to begin to the thieving;
For my heart it gaed dunt upon dunt,
Oh! I thought ilka dunt it would crack it;
Sae I flang frae my neive what was in 't,
Still the happer said, Tak it, man, tak it.
Hey for the mill, &c.
A man that 's been bred to the plough,
Might be deaved wi' its clamorous clapper;
Yet there 's few but would suffer the sough
After kenning what 's said by the happer.
I whiles thought it scoff'd me to scorn,
Saying, Shame, is your conscience no checkit?
But when I grew dry for a horn,
It changed aye to Tak it, man, tak it.
Hey for the mill, &c.
The smugglers whiles cam wi' their pocks,
Cause they kent that I liked a bicker;
Sae I bartered whiles wi' the gowks,
Gaed them grain for a soup o' their liquor.
I had lang been accustom'd to drink,
And aye when I purposed to quat it,
That thing wi' its clappertie clink
Said aye to me, Tak it, man, tak it.
Hey for the mill, &c.
But the warst thing I did in my life,
Nae doubt but ye 'll think I was wrang o 't,
Od! I tauld a bit bodie in Fife
A' my tale, and he made a bit sang o 't;
I have aye had a voice a' my days,
But for singing I ne'er got the knack o 't;
Yet I tried whiles, just thinking to please
The greedy wi' Tak it, man, tak it.
Hey the mill, &c.
Now, miller and a' as I am,
This far I can see through the matter,
There 's men mair notorious to fame,
Mair greedy than me or the muter;
For 'twad seem that the hale race o' men,
Or wi' safety the half we may mak it,
Had some speaking happer within,
That said to them, Tak it, man, tak it.
Hey for the mill, &c.
Oh, sweet were the hours
That I spent wi' my Flora,
In yon gay shady bowers,
Roun' the linn o' the Cora!
Her breath was the zephyrs
That waft frae the roses,
And skim o'er the heath
As the summer day closes.
I told her my love-tale,
Which seem'd to her cheering;
Then she breathed on the soft gale
Her song so endearing.
The rock echoes ringing
Seem'd charm'd wi' my story;
And the birds, sweetly singing,
The sweet zephyr her breath
As it wafts frae the roses,
And skims o'er the heath
As the summer day closes.
Our minstrels a', frae south to north,
To Edin cam to try their worth,
And ane cam frae the banks o' Forth,
Whase name was Patie Birnie.
This Patie, wi' superior art,
Made notes to ring through head and heart,
Till citizens a' set apart
Their praise to Patie Birnie.
Tell auld Kinghorn, o' Picish birth,
Where, noddin', she looks o'er the Firth,
Aye when she would enhance her worth,
To sing o' Patie Birnie.
His merits mak _Auld Reekie_ ring,
Mak rustic poets o' him sing;
For nane can touch the fiddle-string
Sae weel as Patie Birnie.
He cheers the sage, the sour, the sad,
Maks youngsters a rin louping mad,
Heads grow giddy, hearts grow glad,
The witching tones o' Patie's therm,
Mak farmer chiels forget their farm,
Sailors forget the howling storm,
When dancing to Pate Birnie.
Pate maks the fool forget his freaks,
Maks baxter bodies burn their bakes,
And gowkies gie their hame the glaiks,
And follow Patie Birnie.
When Patie taks his strolling rounds,
To feasts or fairs in ither towns,
Wark bodies fling their trantlooms doun,
To hear the famous Birnie.
The crabbit carles forget to snarl,
The canker'd cuiffs forget to quarrel,
And gilphies forget the stock and horle,
And dance to Patie Birnie.
 Pate Birnie was a celebrated fiddler or violinist who resided in
 An old designation for the city of Edinburgh, often used by the
Scottish poets.
Shall I leave thee, thou land to my infancy dear,
Ere I know aught of toil or of woe,
For the clime of the stranger, the solitude drear,
And a thousand endearments forego?
Shall I give my lone bosom a prey to its strife?
Must I friendship's just claims disallow?
No; her breathings can cool the hot fever of life,
As the breeze fans the sea-beaten brow.
'Tis said that the comforts of plenty abound
In the wide-spreading plains of the west;
That there an asylum of peace shall be found
Where the care-stricken wanderer may rest.
That nature uncheck'd there displays all her pride
In the forest unfading and deep;
That the river rolls onward its ocean-like tide,
Encircling broad realms in its sweep.
But is there a spot in that far distant land
Where fancy or feeling may dwell?
Or how shall the heart of the exile expand,
Untouch'd by Society's spell?
Though thy children, old Albyn! adversity bear,
As forlorn o'er thy mountains they roam,
Yet I 've found, what in vain I should seek for elsewhere--
I have found 'mong these mountains a home.
How lovely the beam on thy moorland appears,
As it streams from the eye of the morn!
And how comely the garment that evening wears
When the day of its glories is shorn!
Ah! strong are the ties that the patriot bind,
Fair isle of the sea! to thy shore;
The turf that he treads, by the best of their kind,
By the bravest, was trodden before.
Nor is there a field--not a foot of thy soil,
In dale or in mountain-land dun,
Unmark'd in the annals of chivalrous toil,
Ere concord its conquest had won.
The rill hath a voice from the rock as it pours,
It comes from the glen on the gale,
For the life-blood of martyrs hath hallow'd thy muirs,
And their names are revered in the vale.
How sacred the stone that, remote on the heath,
O'er the bones of the righteous was laid,
Who triumph'd in death o'er the foes of their faith,
When the banner of truth was display'd!
And sweet are the songs of the land of my love,
And soothing their tones to the soul,
Or lofty and loud, like the thunder above,
Or the storm-cloud of passion, they roll.
While summer, beyond the Atlantic's wide waste,
A gaudier garb may assume,
My country! thou boastest the verdure of taste,
And thy glories immortally bloom.
No! I will not forsake thee, thou land of my lay!
The scorn of the stranger to brave;
O'er thy lea I have revell'd in youth's sunny ray,
And thy wild-flowers shall spangle my grave.
cancelled.
Besides conducting Constable's magazine, Pringle undertook the
Our native land--our native vale--
A long, a last adieu;
Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale,
And Cheviot's mountains blue!
Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds,
Ye streams renown'd in song;
Farewell, ye braes and blossom'd meads,
Our hearts have loved so long!
Farewell, the blithsome broomy knowes,
Where thyme and harebells grow;
Farewell, the hoary, haunted howes,
O'erhung with birk and sloe!
The mossy cave and mouldering tower,
That skirt our native dells;
The martyr's grave and lover's bower,
We bid a sad farewell!
Home of our love--our fathers' home--
Land of the brave and free--
The sail is flapping on the foam
That bears us far from thee!
We seek a wild and distant shore,
Beyond the western main;
We leave thee to return no more,
Nor view thy cliffs again!
Our native land--our native vale--
A long, a last adieu!
Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale,
And Scotland's mountains blue!
By the lone Mankayana's margin gray
A Scottish maiden sung;
And mournfully pour'd her melting lay
In Teviot's border-tongue:
O bonnie grows the broom on Blaiklaw knowes,
And the birk in Clifton dale;
And green are the hills o' the milk-white ewes,
By the briery banks o' Cayle!
Here bright are the skies; and these valleys of bloom
May enchant the traveller's eye;
But all seems dress'd in death-like gloom,
To the exile who comes to die!
O bonnie grows the broom, &c.
Far round and round spreads the howling waste,
Where the wild beast roams at will;
And yawning cleughs, by woods embraced,
Where the savage lurks to kill!
O bonnie grows the broom, &c.
Full oft over Cheviot's uplands green
My dreaming fancy strays;
But I wake to weep 'mid the desolate scene
That scowls on my aching gaze!
O bonnie grows the broom, &c.
Oh light, light is poverty's lowliest state,
On Scotland's peaceful strand,
Compared with the heart-sick exile's fate,
In this wild and weary land!
O bonnie grows the broom, &c.
I love the free ridge of the mountain,
When dawn lifts her fresh dewy eye;
I love the old ash by the fountain,
When noon's summer fervours are high:
And dearly I love when the gray-mantled gloaming
Adown the dim valley glides slowly along,
And finds me afar by the pine-forest roaming,
A-list'ning the close of the gray linnet's song.
When the moon from her fleecy cloud scatters
Over ocean her silvery light,
And the whisper of woodlands and waters
Comes soft through the silence of night--
I love by the ruin'd tower lonely to linger,
A-dreaming to fancy's wild witchery given,
And hear, as if swept by some seraph's pure finger,
The harp of the winds breathing accents of heaven.
Yet still, 'mid sweet fancies o'erflowing,
Oft bursts from my lone breast the sigh--
I yearn for the sympathies glowing,
When hearts to each other reply!
Come, friend of my bosom! with kindred devotion,
To worship with me by wild mountain and grove;
O come, my Eliza, with dearer emotion,
With rapture to hallow the chaste home of love!
Come awa', come awa',
An' o'er the march wi' me, lassie;
Leave your southren wooers a',
My winsome bride to be, lassie!
Lands nor gear I proffer you,
Nor gauds to busk ye fine, lassie;
But I 've a heart that 's leal and true,
And a' that heart is thine, lassie!
Come awa', come awa',
And see the kindly north, lassie,
Out o'er the peaks o' Lammerlair,
And by the Links o' Forth, lassie!
And when we tread the heather-bell,
Aboon Demayat lea, lassie,
You 'll view the land o' flood and fell,
The noble north countrie, lassie!
Come awa', come awa',
And leave your southland hame, lassie;
The kirk is near, the ring is here,
And I 'm your Donald Græme, lassie!
Rock and reel and spinning-wheel,
And English cottage trig, lassie;
Haste, leave them a', wi' me to speel
The braes 'yont Stirling brig, lassie!
Come awa', come awa',
I ken your heart is mine, lassie,
And true love shall make up for a'
For whilk ye might repine, lassie!
Your father he has gi'en consent,
Your step-dame looks na kind, lassie;
O that our feet were on the bent,
An' the lowlands far behind, lassie!
Come awa', come awa',
Ye 'll ne'er hae cause to rue, lassie;
My cot blinks blithe beneath the shaw,
By bonnie Avondhu, lassie!
There 's birk and slae on ilka brae,
And brackens waving fair, lassie,
And gleaming lochs and mountains gray--
Can aught wi' them compare, lassie?
Come awa', come awa', &c.
Dearest love, believe me,
Though all else depart,
Nought shall e'er deceive thee
In this faithful heart.
Beauty may be blighted--
Youth must pass away;
But the vows we plighted
Ne'er shall know decay.
Tempests may assail us
From affliction's coast,
Fortune's breeze may fail us
When we need it most;
Fairest hopes may perish,
Firmest friends may change,
But the love we cherish
Nothing shall estrange.
Dreams of fame and grandeur
End in bitter tears;
Love grows only fonder
With the lapse of years;
Time, and change, and trouble,
Weaker ties unbind,
But the bands redouble
True affection twined.
O brave Caledonians! my brothers, my friends,
Now sorrow is borne on the wings of the winds;
Care sleeps with the sun in the seas of the west,
And courage is lull'd in the warrior's breast.
Here social pleasure enlivens each heart,
And friendship is ready its warmth to impart;
The goblet is fill'd, and each worn one partakes,
To drink plenty and peace to the dear land of cakes.
Though the Bourbon may boast of his vine-cover'd hills,
Through each bosom the tide of depravity thrills;
Though the Indian may sit in his green orange bowers,
There slavery's wail counts the wearisome hours.
Though our island is beat by the storms of the north,
There blaze the bright meteors of valour and worth;
There the loveliest rose-bud of beauty awakes
From that cradle of virtue, the dear land of cakes.
O valour! thou guardian of freedom and truth,
Thou stay of old age, and thou guidance of youth!
Still, still thy enthusiast transports pervade
The breast that is wrapt in the green tartan plaid.
And ours are the shoulders that never shall bend
To the rod of a tyrant, that scourge of a land;
Ours the bosoms no terror of death ever shakes,
When call'd in defence of the dear land of cakes.
Shall the ghosts of our fathers, aloft on each cloud,
When the rage of the battle is dreadful and loud,
See us shrink from our standard with fear and dismay,
And leave to our foemen the pride of the day?
No, by heavens we will stand to our honour and trust!
Till our heart's blood be shed on our ancestors' dust,
Till we sink to the slumber no war-trumpet breaks,
Beneath the brown heath of the dear land of cakes.
O, peace to the ashes of those that have bled
For the land where the proud thistle raises its head!
O, peace to the ashes of those gave us birth,
In a land freedom renders the boast of the earth!
Though their lives are extinguish'd, their spirit remains,
And swells in their blood that still runs in our veins;
Still their deathless achievements our ardour awakes,
For the honour and weal of the dear land of cakes.
Ye sons of old Scotia, ye friends of my heart,
From our word, from our trust, let us never depart;
Nor e'er from our foe till with victory crown'd,
And the balm of compassion is pour'd in his wound;
And still to our bosom be honesty dear,
And still to our loves and our friendships sincere;
And, till heaven's last thunder the firmament shakes,
May happiness beam on the dear land of cakes.
She was mine when the leaves of the forest were green,
When the rose-blossoms hung on the tree;
And dear, dear to me were the joys that had been,
And I dreamt of enjoyments to be.
But she faded more fast than the blossoms could fade,
No human attention could save;
And when the green leaves of the forest decay'd,
The winds strew'd them over her grave.
Farewell! and though my steps depart
From scenes for ever dear,
O Mary! I must leave my heart
And all my pleasures here;
And I must cherish in my mind,
Where'er my lot shall be,
A thought of her I leave behind--
A hopeless thought of thee.
O Mary! I can ne'er forget
The charm thy presence brought;
No hour has pass'd since first we met,
But thou hast shared my thought.
At early morn, at sultry noon,
Beneath the spreading tree,
And, wandering by the evening moon,
Still, still I think of thee.
Yea, thou hast come to cheer my dream,
And bid me grieve no more,
But at the morn's returning gleam,
I sorrow'd as before;
Yet thou shalt still partake my care,
And when I bend the knee,
And pour to Heaven a fervent prayer,
I will remember thee.
Farewell! and when my steps depart,
Though many a grief be mine,
And though I may conceal my own,
I 'll weep to hear of thine.
Though from thy memory soon depart
Each little trace of me,
'Tis only in the grave this heart
Can cease to think of thee.
I saw my true-love first on the banks of queenly Tay,
Nor did I deem it yielding my trembling heart away;
I feasted on her deep, dark eye, and loved it more and more,
For, oh! I thought I ne'er had seen a look so kind before!
I heard my true-love sing, and she taught me many a strain,
But a voice so sweet, oh! never shall my cold ear hear again.
In all our friendless wanderings--in homeless penury--
Her gentle song and jetty eye were all unchanged to me.
I saw my true-love fade--I heard her latest sigh;
I wept no friv'lous weeping when I closed her lightless eye:
Far from her native Tay she sleeps, and other waters lave
The markless spot where Ury creeps around my Jeanie's grave.
Move noiseless, gentle Ury! around my Jeanie's bed,
And I 'll love thee, gentle Ury! where'er my footsteps tread;
For sooner shall thy fairy wave return from yonder sea,
Than I forget yon lowly grave, and all it hides from me.
AIR--_"Gin a bodie meet a bodie."_
They speak o' wiles in woman's smiles,
An' ruin in her e'e;
I ken they bring a pang at whiles
That 's unco sair to dree;
But mind ye this, the half-ta'en kiss,
The first fond fa'in' tear,
Is, heaven kens, fu' sweet amends,
An' tints o' heaven here.
When two leal hearts in fondness meet,
Life's tempests howl in vain;
The very tears o' love are sweet
When paid with tears again.
Shall hapless prudence shake its pow,
Shall cauldrife caution fear,
Oh, dinna, dinna droun the lowe,
That lichts a heaven here!
What though we 're ca'd a wee before
The stale "three score an' ten,"
When Joy keeks kindly at your door,
Aye bid her welcome ben.
About yon blissfu' bowers above
Let doubtfu' mortals speir;
Sae weel ken we that "heaven is love,"
Since love makes heaven here.
When a' ither bairnies are hush'd to their hame
By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame,
Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin'?
'Tis the puir doited loonie--the mitherless bairn!
The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed,
Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head;
His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn,
An' litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn.
Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover there,
O' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair;
But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern,
That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn!
Yon sister that sang o'er his saftly-rock'd bed
Now rests in the mools whare her mammie is laid;
The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn,
An' kens na' the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn.
Her spirit that pass'd in yon hour o' his birth,
Still watches his wearisome wanderings on earth;
Recording in heaven the blessings they earn,
Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn!
Oh! speak him na' harshly--he trembles the while,
He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile;
In their dark hour o' anguish, the heartless shall learn
That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn!
 An Inverury correspondent writes: "Thom gave me the following
AIR--_"Oh, as I was kiss'd yestreen."_
At hame or afield I am cheerless an' lone,
I 'm dull on the Ury, an' droop by the Don;
Their murmur is noisy, and fashious to hear,
An' the lay o' the lintie fa's dead on my ear.
I hide frae the morn, and whaur naebody sees;
I greet to the burnie, an' sich to the breeze;
Though I sich till I 'm silly, an' greet till I dee,
Kintore is the spot in this world for me.
But the lass o' Kintore, oh! the lass o' Kintore,
Be warned awa' frae the lass o' Kintore;
There 's a love-luring look that I ne'er kent afore
Steals cannily hame to the heart at Kintore.
They bid me forget her, oh! how can it be?
In kindness or scorn she 's ever wi' me;
I feel her fell frown in the lift's frosty blue,
An' I weel ken her smile in the lily's saft hue.
I try to forget her, but canna forget,
I 've liked her lang, an' I aye like her yet;
My poor heart may wither, may waste to its core,
But forget her, oh never! the lass o' Kintore!
Oh the wood o' Kintore, the holmes o' Kintore!
The love-lichtin' e'e that I ken at Kintore;
I 'll wander afar, an' I 'll never look more
On the gray glance o' Peggy, or bonnie Kintore!
Oh! how can I be cheerie in this hameless ha'?
The very sun glints eerie on the gilded wa';
An' aye the nicht sae drearie,
Ere the dowie morn daw,
Whan I canna win to see you,
My Jamie, ava'.
Though mony miles between us, an' far, far frae me,
The bush that wont to screen us frae the cauld warl's e'e,
Its leaves may waste and wither,
But its branches winna fa';
An' hearts may haud thegither,
Though frien's drap awa'.
Ye promised to speak o' me to the lanesome moon,
An' weird kind wishes to me, in the lark's saft soun';
I doat upon that moon
Till my very heart fills fu',
An' aye yon birdie's tune
Gars me greet for you.
Then how can I be cheerie in the stranger's ha'?
A gowden prison drearie, my luckless fa'!
'Tween leavin' o' you, Jamie,
An' ills that sorrow me,
I 'm wearie o' the warl',
An' carena though I dee.
William Glen was about six feet in height; his person, which was
originally slender, afterwards became portly. He was of a fair
 To Mr James C. Roger, of Glasgow, we have to acknowledge our
A wee bird cam to our ha' door,
He warbled sweet an' clearly,
An' aye the owercome o' his sang
Oh! whan I heard the bonnie soun',
The tears cam drappin' rarely;
I took my bannet aff my head,
For weel I lo'ed Prince Charlie.
Quoth I, "My bird, my bonnie, bonnie bird,
Is that a sang ye borrow?
Are thae some words ye 've learnt by heart,
Or a lilt o' dule an' sorrow?"
"Oh, no, no, no!" the wee bird sang,
"I 've flown sin' mornin' early,
But sic' a day o' wind and rain!--
Oh! waes me for Prince Charlie.
"On hills that are by right his ain,
He roves a lanely stranger;
On every side he 's press'd by want,
On every side is danger.
Yestreen I saw him in a glen,
My heart maist burstit fairly,
For sadly changed indeed was he--
Oh! waes me for Prince Charlie.
"Dark night cam on, the tempest roar'd
Loud o'er the hills an' valleys;
An' whare wast that your Prince lay down,
Whase hame should been a palace?
He row'd him in a Highland plaid,
Which cover'd him but sparely,
An' slept beneath a bush o' broom--
Oh! waes me for Prince Charlie."
But now the bird saw some red-coats,
An' he shook his wings wi' anger:
"Oh! this is no a land for me,
I 'll tarry here nae langer."
He hover'd on the wing a while,
Ere he departed fairly;
But weel I mind the farewell strain
The sun hadna peep'd frae behint the dark billow,
The slow sinking moon half illumined the scene;
As I lifted my head frae my care-haunted pillow,
An' wander'd to muse on the days that were gane.
Sweet hope seem'd to smile o'er ideas romantic,
An' gay were the dreams that my soul would beguile;
But my eyes fill'd wi' tears as I view'd the Atlantic,
An' thought on my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.
Though far frae my hame in a tropical wildwood,
Yet the fields o' my forefathers rose on my view;
An' I wept when I thought on the days of my childhood,
An' the vision was painful the brighter it grew.
Sweet days! when my bosom with rapture was swelling,
Though I knew it not then, it was love made me smile;
Oh! the snaw wreath is pure where the moonbeams are dwelling,
Yet as pure is my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.
Now far in the east the sun slowly rising,
Brightly gilded the top of the tall cabbage tree;
And sweet was the scene such wild beauties comprising,
As might have fill'd the sad mourner with rapture and glee.
But my heart felt nae rapture, nae pleasant emotion,
The saft springs o' pleasure had lang, lang been seal'd;
I thought on my home 'cross a wide stormy ocean,
And wept for my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.
The orange was bathed in the dews o' the morning,
An' the bright draps bespangled the clustering vine;
White were the blossoms the lime-tree adorning,
An' brown was the apple that grew on the pine.
Were I as free as an Indian chieftain,
Sic beautiful scenes might give pleasure the while;
But the joy o' a slave is aye waverin' an' shiftin',
An' a slave I 'm to Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.
When the mirk cloud o' fortune aboon my head gathers,
An' the golden shower fa's whare it ne'er fell before;
Oh! then I 'll revisit the land of my fathers,
An' clasp to this bosom the lass I adore.
Hear me, ye angels, who watch o'er my maiden,
(Like ane o' yoursels she is free frae a' guile),
Pure as was love in the garden o' Eden,
Sae pure is my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.
Raise high the battle-song
To the heroes of our land;
Strike the bold notes loud and long
To Great Britain's warlike band.
Burst away like a whirlwind of flame,
Wild as the lightning's wing;
Strike the boldest, sweetest string,
And deathless glory sing--
To their fame.
See Corunna's bloody bed!
'Tis a sad, yet glorious scene;
There the imperial eagle fled,
And there our chief was slain.
Green be the turf upon the warrior's breast,
High honour seal'd his doom,
And eternal laurels bloom
Round the poor and lowly tomb
Of his rest.
Strong was his arm of might,
When the war-flag was unfurl'd;
But his soul when peace shone bright,
Beam'd love to all the world.
And his name, through endless ages shall endure;
High deeds are written fair,
In that scroll, which time must spare,
And thy fame 's recorded there--
Yonder 's Barossa's height
Rising full upon my view,
Where was fought the bloodiest fight
That Iberia ever knew,
Where Albion's bold sons to victory were led.
With bay'nets levell'd low,
They rush'd upon the foe,
Like an avalanche of snow
From its bed.
Your native courage rose,
When surrounded for a while
By the thousands of your foes.
But dauntless was your chief, that meteor of war,
He resistless led ye on,
Till the bloody field was won,
And the dying battle-groan
Sunk afar.
Our song Balgowan share,
Home of the chieftain's rest;
For thou art a lily fair
In Caledonia's breast.
Breathe, sweetly breathe, a soft love-soothing strain,
For beauty there doth dwell,
In the mountain, flood, or fell,
And throws her witching spell
O'er the scene.
But not Balgowan's charms
Could hire the chief to stay;
For the foe were up in arms,
In a country far away.
He rush'd to battle, and he won his fame;
Ages may pass by,
Fleet as the summer's sigh,
But thy name shall never die--
Strike again the boldest strings,
To our great commander's praise;
Who to our memory brings
"The deeds of other days."
Peal for a lofty spirit-stirring strain;
The blaze of hope illumes
Iberia's deepest glooms,
And the eagle shakes his plumes
There in vain.
High is the foemen's pride,
For they are sons of war;
But our chieftain rolls the tide,
Of battle back afar.
A braver hero in the field ne'er shone;
Let bards with loud acclaim,
Heap laurels on his fame,
"Singing glory" to the name
Could I with soul of fire
Guide my wild unsteady hand,
I would strike the quivering wire,
Till it rung throughout the land.
Of all its warlike heroes would I sing;
Were powers to soar thus given,
By the blast of genius driven,
I would sweep the highest heaven
With my wing.
Yet still this trembling flight
May point a bolder way,
Ere the lonely beam of night
Steals on my setting day.
Till then, sweet harp, hang on the willow tree;
And when I come again,
Thou wilt not sound in vain,
For I 'll strike thy highest strain--
Bold and free.
 Printed for the first time, from the author's MS. volume.
 The "gallant Græme," Lord Lynedoch, on hearing this song at a
Oh! stopna, bonnie bird, that strain,
Frae hopeless love itsel' it flows;
Sweet bird, oh! warble it again,
Thou'st touch'd the string o' a' my woes;
Oh! lull me with it to repose,
I 'll dream of her who 's far away,
And fancy, as my eyelids close,
Will meet the maid of Oronsey.
Couldst thou but learn frae me my grief,
Sweet bird, thou 'dst leave thy native grove,
And fly to bring my soul relief,
To where my warmest wishes rove;
Soft as the cooings of the dove,
Thou 'dst sing thy sweetest, saddest lay,
And melt to pity and to love
The bonnie maid of Oronsey.
Well may I sigh and sairly weep,
The song sad recollections bring;
Oh! fly across the roaring deep,
And to my maiden sweetly sing;
'Twill to her faithless bosom fling
Remembrance of a sacred day;
But feeble is thy wee bit wing,
And far 's the isle of Oronsey.
Then, bonnie bird, wi' mony a tear,
I 'll mourn beside this hoary thorn,
And thou wilt find me sitting here,
Ere thou canst hail the dawn o' morn;
Then high on airy pinions borne,
Thou 'lt chant a sang o' love an' wae,
An' soothe me, weeping at the scorn,
Of the sweet maid of Oronsey.
And when around my weary head,
Soft pillow'd where my fathers lie,
Death shall eternal poppies spread,
An' close for aye my tearfu' eye;
Perch'd on some bonnie branch on high,
Thou 'lt sing thy sweetest roundelay,
And soothe my "spirit, passing by"
To meet the maid of Oronsey.
 Printed for the first time.
Her eyes were red with weeping,
Her lover was no more,
Beneath the billows sleeping,
Near Ireland's rocky shore;
She oft pray'd for her Willy,
But it was all in vain,
And pale as any lily
Grew lovely Jess M'Lean.
She sat beside some willows
That overhung the sea,
And as she view'd the billows,
She moan'd most piteously;
The storm in all its rigour
Swept the bosom of the main,
And shook the sylph-like figure
Of lovely Jess M'Lean.
Her auburn hair was waving
In ringlets on the gale,
And the tempest join'd its raving,
To the hapless maiden's wail;
Wild was the storm's commotion,
Yet careless of the scene,
Like the spirit of the ocean
Sat lovely Jess M'Lean.
She look'd upon her bosom
Where Willy's picture hung,
'Twas like a rosy blossom
On a bed of lilies flung;
She kiss'd the red cheeks over,
And look'd, and kiss'd again;
Then told the winds her lover
Was true to Jess M'Lean.
But a blast like bursting thunder
Bent down each willow tree,
Snapp'd the picture clasp asunder,
And flung it in the sea;
She started from the willows
The image to regain,
And low beneath the billows
Lies lovely Jess M'Lean.
Her bones are changed to coral
Of the purest virgin white,
Her teeth are finest pearl,
And her eyes are diamonds bright;
The breeze oft sweeps the willows
In a sad and mournful strain,
And moaning o'er the billows
Sings the dirge of Jess M'Lean.
 Printed for the first time.
How eerily, how drearily, how wearily to pine,
When my love 's in a foreign land, far frae thae arms o' mine;
Three years hae come an' gane, sin' first he said to me,
That he wad stay at hame wi' Jean, wi' her to live an' dee;
The day comes in wi' sorrow now, the night is wild an' drear,
An' every hour that passes by I water wi' a tear.
I kiss my bonnie baby, I clasp it to my breast,
Ah! aft wi' sic a warm embrace, it's father hath me press'd!
An' whan I gaze upon its face, as it lies on my knee,
The crystal draps upon its cheeks will fa' frae ilka ee;
Oh! mony a, mony a burning tear upon its cheeks will fa',
For oh! its like my bonnie love, and he is far awa'.
Whan the spring time had gane by, an' the rose began to blaw,
An' the harebell an' the violet adorn'd ilk bonnie shaw;
'Twas then my love cam courtin' me, and wan my youthfu' heart,
An' mony a tear it cost my love ere he could frae me part;
But though he 's in a foreign land far, far across the sea,
I ken my Jamie's guileless heart is faithfu' unto me.
Ye wastlin win's upon the main blaw wi' a steady breeze,
And waft my Jamie hame again across the roaring seas;
Oh! whan he clasps me in his arms in a' his manly pride,
I 'll ne'er exchange that ae embrace for a' the warl' beside;
Then blaw a steady gale, ye win's, waft him across the sea,
And bring my Jamie hame again to his wee bairn an' me.
Sing a' ye bards, wi' loud acclaim,
High glory gie to gallant Graham,
Heap laurels on our marshal's fame
Wha conquer'd at Vittoria.
Triumphant freedom smiled on Spain,
An' raised her stately form again,
Whan the British lion shook his mane
On the mountains of Vittoria.
Let blustering Suchet crousely crack,
Let Joseph rin the coward's track,
An' Jourdan wish his baton back
He left upon Vittoria.
If e'er they meet their worthy king,
Let them dance roun' him in a ring,
An' some Scots piper play the spring
He blew them at Vittoria.
Gie truth and honour to the Dane,
Gie German's monarch heart and brain,
But aye in sic a cause as Spain
The English rose was ne'er sae red,
The shamrock waved whare glory led,
An' the Scottish thistle rear'd its head
In joy upon Vittoria.
Loud was the battle's stormy swell,
Whare thousands fought an' many fell,
But the Glasgow heroes bore the bell
At the battle of Vittoria.
The Paris maids may ban them a',
Their lads are maistly wede awa',
An' cauld an' pale as wreathes o' snaw
They lie upon Vittoria.
Peace to the souls, then, o' the brave,
Let all their trophies for them wave,
And green be our Cadogan's grave
Upon thy fields, Vittoria.
Shout on, my boys, your glasses drain,
And fill a bumper up again,
Pledge to the leading star o' Spain,
The hero of Vittoria.
 At the battle of Vittoria, the 71st, or Glasgow Regiment, bore a
applause; it was nightly called for during the season.
AIR--_"Blink over the burn, sweet Betty."_
Blink over the burn, sweet Betty,
Blink over the burn to me;
Blink over the burn, sweet Betty,
An' I 'll gang alang wi' thee;
Though father and mither forbade it,
Forbidden I wadna be;
Blink over the burn, sweet Betty,
An' I 'll gang alang wi' thee.
The cheek o' my love 's like the rose-bud,
Blushing red wi' the mornin' dew,
Her hair 's o' the loveliest auburn,
Her ee 's o' the bonniest blue;
Her lips are like threads o' the scarlet,
Disclosing a pearly row;
Her high-swelling, love-heaving bosom
Is white as the mountain snow.
But it isna her beauty that hauds me,
A glitterin' chain winna lang bind;
'Tis her heavenly seraph-like sweetness,
An' the graces adornin' her mind;
She 's dear to my soul as the sunbeam
Is dear to the summer's morn,
An' she says, though her father forbade it,
She 'll ne'er break the vows she has sworn.
Her father's a canker'd auld carle,
He swears he will ne'er gie consent;
Such carles should never get daughters,
Unless they can mak them content;
But she says, though her father forbade it,
Forbidden she winna be;
Blink over the burn, sweet Betty,
An' I 'll gang alang wi' thee.
My tortured bosom long shall feel
The pangs o' this last sad fareweel;
Far, far to foreign lands I stray,
To spend my hours in deepest wae;
Fareweel, my dear, my native soil,
Fareweel, the braes o' Aberfoyle!
An' fare-ye-weel, my winsome love,
Into whatever lands I rove,
Thou 'lt claim the deepest, dearest sigh,
The warmest tear ere wet my eye;
An' when I 'm wan'rin' mony a mile,
I 'll mourn for Kate o' Aberfoyle.
When far upon the raging sea,
As thunders roar, and lightnings flee,
When sweepin' storms the ship assail,
I 'll bless the music o' the gale,
An' think, while listenin' a' the while,
I hear the storms o' Aberfoyle.
Kitty, my only love, fareweel;
What pangs my faithfu' heart will feel,
While straying through the Indian groves,
Weepin' our woes or early loves;
I 'll ne'er mair see my native soil,
Fareweel, fareweel, sweet Aberfoyle!
A writer of verses from his boyhood, Vedder experienced agreeable
Let wrapt musicians strike the lyre,
While plaudits shake the vaulted fane;
Let warriors rush through flood and fire,
A never-dying name to gain;
Let bards, on fancy's fervid wing,
Pursue some high or holy theme:
Be 't mine, in simple strains, to sing
My darling Jeanie 's welcome hame!
Sweet is the morn of flowery May,
When incense breathes from heath and wold--
When laverocks hymn the matin lay,
And mountain peaks are bathed in gold--
And swallows, frae some foreign strand,
Are wheeling o'er the winding stream;
But sweeter to extend my hand,
And bid my Jeanie welcome hame!
Poor collie, our auld-farrant dog,
Will bark wi' joy whene'er she comes;
And baudrons, on the ingle rug,
Will blithely churm at "auld gray-thrums."
The mavis, frae our apple-tree,
Shall warble forth a joyous strain;
The blackbird's mellow minstrelsy
Shall welcome Jeanie hame again!
Like dew-drops on a fading rose,
Maternal tears shall start for thee,
And low-breathed blessings rise like those
Which soothed thy slumb'ring infancy.
Come to my arms, my timid dove!
I 'll kiss thy beauteous brow once more;
The fountain of thy father's love
Is welling all its banks out o'er!
I neither got promise of siller nor land
With the bonnie wee darling who gave me her hand;
But I got a kind heart with my sweet blushing bride,
And that 's proved the bliss of my ain fireside.
My ain fireside, my dear fireside,
There 's happiness aye at my ain fireside!
Ambition once pointed my view towards rank,
To meadows and manors, and gold in the bank:
'Twas but for an hour; and I cherish with pride
My sweet lovely flower at my ain fireside.
My ain fireside, my happy fireside,
My Jeanie 's the charm of my ain fireside!
Her accents are music; there 's grace in her air;
And purity reigns in her bosom so fair;
She 's lovelier now than in maidenly pride,
Though she 's long been the joy of my ain fireside.
My ain fireside, my happy fireside,
There 's harmony still at my ain fireside!
Let the minions of fortune and fashion go roam,
I 'm content with the sweet, simple pleasures of home;
Though their wine, wit, and humour flow like a spring-tide,
What are these to the bliss of my dear fireside?
My ain fireside, my cheerie fireside,
There are pleasures untold at my ain fireside!
There is a pang for every heart,
A tear for every eye;
There is a knell for every ear,
For every breast a sigh.
There 's anguish in the happiest state,
Humanity can prove;
But oh! the torture of the soul
Is unrequited love!
The reptile haunts the sweetest bower,
The rose blooms on the thorn;
There 's poison in the fairest flower
That greets the opening morn.
The hemlock and the night-shade spring
In garden and in grove;
But oh! the upas of the soul
Is unrequited love!
Ah! lady, thine inconstancy
Hath made my peace depart;
The unwonted coldness of thine eye
Hath froze thy lover's heart.
Yet with the fibres of that heart
Thine image dear is wove;
Nor can they sever till I die
Of unrequited love!
AIR--_"The Braes of Balquhidder."_
Now the beams of May morn
On the mountains are streaming,
And the dews on the corn
Are like diamond-drops gleaming;
And the birds from the bowers
Are in gladness ascending;
And the breath of sweet flowers
With the zephyrs is blending.
And the rose-linnet's thrill,
Overflowing with gladness,
And the wood-pigeon's bill,
Though their notes seem of sadness;
And the jessamine rich
Its soft tendrils is shooting,
From pear and from peach
The bright blossoms are sprouting.
And the lambs on the lea
Are in playfulness bounding,
And the voice of the sea
Is in harmony sounding;
And the streamlet on high
In the morning beam dances,
As sweet summer advances.
Then, my Mary, let 's stray
Where the wild-flowers are glowing,
By the banks of the Tay
In its melody flowing;
Thou shalt bathe in May-dew,
Like a sweet mountain blossom,
For 'tis bright like thy brow,
And 'tis pure as thy bosom!
Oh! the sunny peaches glow,
And the grapes in clusters blush;
And the cooling silver streams
From their sylvan fountains rush;
There is music in the grove,
And there 's fragrance on the gale;
But there 's nought so dear to me
As my own Highland vale.
Oh! the queen-like virgin rose,
Of the dew and sunlight born,
And the azure violet,
Spread their beauties to the morn;
So does the hyacinth,
And the lily pure and pale;
But I love the daisy best
In my own Highland vale.
Hark! hark! those thrilling notes!
'Tis the nightingale complains;
Oh! the soul of music breathes
In those more than plaintive strains;
But they 're not so dear to me
As the murmur of the rill,
And the bleating of the lambs
On my own Highland hill.
Oh! the flow'rets fair may glow,
And the juicy fruits may blush,
And the beauteous birds may sing,
And the crystal streamlets rush;
And the verdant meads may smile,
And the cloudless sun may beam,
But there 's nought beneath the skies
Like my own Highland home.
AIR--_"He 's dear to me, though far frae me."_
The tempest is raging
And rending the shrouds;
The ocean is waging
A war with the clouds;
The cordage is breaking,
The canvas is torn,
The timbers are creaking--
The seamen forlorn.
The water is gushing
Through hatches and seams;
'Tis roaring and rushing
O'er keelson and beams;
And nought save the lightning
On mainmast or boom,
At intervals brightening
The palpable gloom.
Though horrors beset me,
And hurricanes howl,
I may not forget thee,
Beloved of my soul!
Though soon I must perish
In ocean beneath,
Thine image I 'll cherish,
Adored one! in death.
Talk not of temples--there is one
Built without hands, to mankind given;
Its lamps are the meridian sun,
And all the stars of heaven;
Its walls are the cerulean sky,
Its floor the earth so green and fair;
The dome is vast immensity--
All nature worships there!
The Alps array'd in stainless snow,
The Andean ranges yet untrod,
At sunrise and at sunset glow
Like altar-fires to God.
A thousand fierce volcanoes blaze,
As if with hallow'd victims rare;
And thunder lifts its voice in praise--
All nature worships there!
The ocean heaves resistlessly,
And pours his glittering treasure forth;
His waves--the priesthood of the sea--
Kneel on the shell-gemm'd earth,
And there emit a hollow sound,
As if they murmur'd praise and prayer;
On every side 'tis holy ground--
All nature worships there!
The grateful earth her odours yield
In homage, Mighty One! to thee;
From herbs and flowers in every field,
From fruit on every tree,
The balmy dew at morn and even
Seems like the penitential tear,
Shed only in the sight of heaven--
All nature worships there!
The cedar and the mountain pine,
The willow on the fountain's brim,
The tulip and the eglantine,
In reverence bend to Him;
The song-birds pour their sweetest lays,
From tower, and tree, and middle air;
The rushing river murmurs praise--
All nature worships there!
Then talk not of a fane, save one
Built without hands, to mankind given;
Its lamps are the meridian sun,
And all the stars of heaven.
Its walls are the cerulean sky,
Its floor the earth so green and fair,
The dome is vast immensity--
All nature worships there!
AIR--_"There 's a bonnie brier bush in our kail-yard."_
When the lark is in the air, the leaf upon the tree,
The butterfly disporting beside the hummel bee;
The scented hedges white, the fragrant meadows pied,
How sweet it is to wander by bonnie Nithside!
When the blackbird piping loud the mavis strives to drown,
And schoolboys seeking nests find each nursling fledged or flown,
How sweet at dewy morn to roam by bonnie Nithside!
When the flies are on the stream, 'neath a sky of azure hue,
And anglers take their stand by the waters bright and blue;
While the coble circles pools, where the monarch salmon glide,
Surpassing sweet on summer days is bonnie Nithside!
When the corncraik's voice is mute, as her young begin to flee,
And seek with swifts and martins some home beyond the sea;
And reapers crowd the harvest-field, in man and maiden pride,
How exquisite the golden hours on bonnie Nithside!
When stubbles yield to tilth, and woodlands brown and sear,
The falling leaf and crispy pool proclaim the waning year;
And sounds of sylvan pastime ring through our valley wide,
Vicissitude itself is sweet by bonnie Nithside!
And when winter comes at last, capping every hill with snow,
And freezing into icy plains the struggling streams below,
You still may share the curler's joys, and find at even-tide,
Maids sweet and fair, in spence and ha', at bonnie Nithside!
Hush, ye songsters! day is done,
See how sweet the setting sun
Gilds the welkin's boundless breast,
Smiling as he sinks to rest;
Now the swallow down the dell,
Issuing from her noontide cell,
Mocks the deftest marksman's aim
Jumbling in fantastic game:
Sweet inhabitant of air,
Sure thy bosom holds no care;
Not the fowler full of wrath,
Skilful in the deeds of death--
Not the darting hawk on high
(Ruthless tyrant of the sky!)
Owns one art of cruelty
Fit to fell or fetter thee,
Gayest, freest of the free!
Ruling, whistling shrill on high,
Where yon turrets kiss the sky,
Teasing with thy idle din
Drowsy daws at rest within;
Long thou lov'st to sport and spring
On thy never-wearying wing.
Lower now 'midst foliage cool
Swift thou skimm'st the peaceful pool,
Where the speckled trout at play,
Rising, shares thy dancing prey,
While the treach'rous circles swell
Wide and wider where it fell,
Guiding sure the angler's arm
Where to find the puny swarm;
And with artificial fly,
Best to lure the victim's eye,
Till, emerging from the brook,
Brisk it bites the barbed hook;
Struggling in the unequal strife,
With its death, disguised as life,
Till it breathless beats the shore
Ne'er to cleave the current more!
Peace! creation's gloomy queen,
Darkest Night, invests the scene!
Silence, Evening's handmaid mild,
Leaves her home amid the wild,
Tripping soft with dewy feet,
Summer's flowery carpet sweet,
Morpheus--drowsy power--to meet.
Ruler of the midnight hour,
In thy plenitude of power,
From this burthen'd bosom throw
Half its leaden load of woe.
Since thy envied art supplies
What reality denies,
Let thy cheerless suppliant see
Dreams of bliss inspired by thee--
Let before his wond'ring eyes
Fancy's brightest visions rise--
Long lost happiness restore,
None can need thy bounty more.
commendation of Sir Walter Scott, and he was a frequent guest at
unpublished volumes of his "Ballad Collections" are now in the
Thou cauld gloomy Feberwar,
Oh! gin thou wert awa'!
I 'm wae to hear thy soughin' winds,
I 'm wae to see thy snaw;
For my bonnie, braw, young Hielandman,
The lad I lo'e sae dear,
Has vow'd to come and see me
In the spring o' the year.
A silken ban' he gae me,
To bin' my gowden hair;
A siller brooch and tartan plaid,
A' for his sake to wear;
And oh! my heart was like to break,
(For partin' sorrow 's sair)
As he vow'd to come and see me
In the spring o' the year.
Aft, aft as gloamin' dims the sky,
I wander out alane,
Whare bud the bonnie yellow whins,
Around the trystin' stane;
'Twas there he press'd me to his heart,
And kiss'd awa' the tear,
As he vow'd to come and see me
In the spring o' the year.
Ye gentle breezes, saftly blaw,
And cleed anew the wuds;
Ye laverocks lilt your cheerie sangs,
Amang the fleecy cluds;
Till Feberwar and a' his train,
Affrighted disappear,
I 'll hail wi' you the blithesome change,
The spring-time o' the year.
 The first stanza of this song is the composition of Robert
William Finlay was the son of an operative shawl manufacturer in
I mark'd her look of agony,
I heard her broken sigh,
I saw the colour leave her cheek,
The lustre leave her eye;
I saw the radiant ray of hope
Her sadden'd soul forsaking;
And, by these tokens, well I knew
The maiden's heart was breaking.
It is not from the hand of Heaven
Her bitter grief proceeds;
'Tis not for sins that she hath done,
Her bosom inly bleeds;
'Tis not death's terrors wrap her soul
In shades of dark despair,
But man--deceitful man--whose hand
A thorn hath planted there.
Land of my fathers! night's dark gloom
Now shades thee from my view--
Land of my birth! my hearth, my home,
A long, a last adieu!
Thy sparkling streams, thy plantin's green,
That ring with melodie,
Thy flowery vales, thy hills and dales,
Again I 'll never see.
How aft have I thy heathy hills
Climb'd in life's early day!
Or pierced the dark depths of thy woods
To pu' the nit or slae;
Or lain beneath the spreading thorn,
Hid frae the sun's bright beams,
While on my raptured ear was borne
The music of thy streams!
And aft, when frae the schule set free,
I 've join'd a merry ban',
Whase hearts were loupin' licht wi' glee,
Fresh as the morning's dawn,
And waunert, Cruikston, by thy tower,
Or through thy leafy shaw,
The livelang day, nor thocht o' hame
Till nicht began to fa'.
But now the buoyancy o' youth,
And a' its joys are gane--
My children scatter'd far and wide,
And I am left alane;
For she who was my hope and stay,
And soothed me when distress'd,
Within the narrow house of death
Has lang been laid at rest.
And puirtith's cloud doth me enshroud;
Sae, after a' my toil,
I 'm gaun to lay my puir auld clay
Within a foreign soil.
Fareweel, fareweel, auld Scotia dear!
A last fareweel to thee!
Thy tinkling rills, thy heath-clad hills,
Again I 'll never see!
O'er mountain and valley
Morn gladly did gleam;
The streamlets danced gaily
Beneath its bright beam;
The daisies were springing
To life at my feet;
The woodlands were ringing
With melody sweet.
But the sky became low'ring,
And clouds big with rain,
Their treasures outpouring,
Soon deluged the plain.
The late merry woodlands
Grew silent and lone;
And red from the muirlands
The river rush'd down.
Thus life, too, is chequer'd
With sunshine and gloom;
Of change 'tis the record--
Now blight and now bloom.
Oft morn rises brightly,
With promise to last,
But long, long ere noontide
The sky is o'ercast.
Yet much of the trouble
'Neath which mortals groan,
They contrive to make double
By whims of their own.
Oh! it makes the heart tingle
With anguish to think,
That our own hands oft mingle
The bitters we drink.
John Gibson Lockhart, the distinguished editor of the _Quarterly
Lockhart was translated from Cambusnethan to the College church,
pulmonary consumption. After a period of physical prostration, he
_Blackwood's Magazine_; and by his learned and ingenious articles
publication of his translations from the "Spanish Ballads." He
Abbotsford entail, have assumed the name of Scott. Their infant
Possessed of a vigorous intellect, varied talents, and accurate
TUNE--_"Oh, the roast beef of Old England."_
Now there 's peace on the shore, now there 's calm on the sea,
Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us free,
Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and Dundee.
Oh, the broadswords of old Scotland!
And oh! the old Scottish broadswords.
Old Sir Ralph Abercromby, the good and the brave--
Let him flee from our board, let him sleep with the slave,
Whose libation comes slow while we honour his grave.
Oh, the broadswords, &c.
Though he died not like him amid victory's roar,
Though disaster and gloom wove his shroud on the shore;
Not the less we remember the spirit of Moore.
Oh, the broadswords, &c.
Yea a place with the fallen, the living shall claim,
We 'll entwine in one wreath every glorious name,
All the broadswords, &c.
Count the rocks of the Spey, count the groves of the Forth--
Count the stars in the clear cloudless heaven of the north;
Then go blazon their numbers, their names and their worth.
All the broadswords, &c.
The highest in splendour, the humblest in place,
Stand united in glory, as kindred in race;
For the private is brother in blood to his Grace.
Oh, the broadswords, &c.
Then sacred to each and to all let it be,
Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us free,
Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and Dundee.
Oh, the broadswords of old Scotland!
And oh! the old Scottish broadswords.
Touch once more a sober measure,
And let punch and tears be shed,
For a prince of good old fellows,
That, alack-a-day! is dead;
For a prince of worthy fellows,
And a pretty man also,
That has left the Saltmarket,
In sorrow, grief, and woe.
Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
His waistcoat, coat, and breeches
Were all cut off the same web,
Of a beautiful snuff-colour,
Of a modest genty drab;
The blue stripe in his stocking,
Round his neat slim leg did go,
And his ruffles of the cambric fine,
They were whiter than the snow.
Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
His hair was curled in order,
At the rising of the sun,
In comely rows and buckles smart,
That about his ears did run;
And before there was a toupee,
That some inches up did grow,
And behind there was a long queue,
That did o'er his shoulders flow.
Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
And whenever we forgather'd,
He took off his wee three-cockit;
And he proffer'd you his snuff-box,
Which he drew from his side-pocket;
He would make a remark or so,
And then along the plainstones
Like a provost he would go.
Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
In dirty days he picked well
His footsteps with his rattan;
Oh! you ne'er could see the least speck
On the shoes of Captain Paton.
And on entering the coffee-room
About two, all men did know
They would see him with his _Courier_
In the middle of the row.
Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
Now and then, upon a Sunday,
He invited me to dine
On a herring and a mutton chop,
Which his maid dress'd very fine.
There was also a little Malmsay,
And a bottle of Bordeaux,
Which, between me and the captain,
Pass'd nimbly to and fro!
Oh! I ne'er shall take potluck with Captain Paton no mo'e!
Or, if a bowl was mentioned,
The captain he would ring,
And a stoup of water bring.
Then would he mix the genuine stuff,
As they made it long ago,
With limes that on his property
In Trinidad did grow!
And then all the time he would discourse
So sensible and courteous,
Perhaps talking of last sermon
He had heard from Dr Porteous;
Of some little bit of scandal
About Mrs So-and-So,
Which he scarce could credit, having heard
The _con._ but not the _pro._!
Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
Or when the candles were brought forth,
And the night was fairly setting in,
He would tell some fine old stories
About Minden-field or Dettingen;
How he fought with a French major,
And dispatch'd him at a blow,
While his blood ran out like water
On the soft grass below!
Oh! we ne'er shall hear the like from Captain Paton no mo'e!
But at last the captain sickened,
And grew worse from day to day,
And all miss'd him in the coffee-room,
From which now he staid away;
On Sabbaths, too, the Wynd kirk
Made a melancholy show,
All for wanting of the presence
Of our venerable beau!
Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
And in spite of all that Cleghorn
And Corkindale could do,
It was plain, from twenty symptoms,
That death was in his view;
So the captain made his test'ment,
And submitted to his foe,
And we laid him by the Ram's-horn kirk--
'Tis the way we all must go!
Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
Join all in chorus, jolly boys,
And let punch and tears be shed,
For this prince of good old fellows
That, alack-a-day! is dead;
For this prince of worthy fellows--
And a pretty man also--
That has left the Saltmarket
In sorrow, grief, and woe!
For it ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
Listen to me, as when ye heard our father
Sing, long ago, the song of other shores;
Listen to me, and then in chorus gather
All your deep voices, as ye pull your oars:
Fair these broad meads--these hoary woods are grand;
But we are exiles from our fathers' land!
From the lone shieling of the misty island
Mountains divide us, and the waste of seas;
Yet still the blood is strong, the heart is Highland,
And we in dreams behold the Hebrides.
We ne'er shall tread the fancy-haunted valley,
Where, 'tween the dark hills, creeps the small clear stream,
In arms around the patriach-banner rally,
Nor see the moon on royal tombstones gleam.
Come, foreign rage!--let discord burst in slaughter!
Oh then for clansman true, and stern claymore!
The hearts that would have given their blood like water
Beat heavily beyond the Atlantic roar!
Fair these broad meads--these hoary woods are grand;
But we are exiles from our fathers' land!
 This simple and interesting lyric appears in No. XLVI. of the
There 's nae love like early love,
Sae lasting an' sae leal;
It wins upon the youthfu' heart,
An' sets its magic seal.
The die that 's cast in early life,
Is nae vain airy dream;
But makes thee still in after years
The subject of my theme.
But years o' shade an' sunshine
Have flung alternately
Their fleeting shadows as they pass'd
Athwart life's changing sky.
Like troubled waters, too, the mind
'S been ruffled an' distress'd;
But with the placid calm return'd
Thine image to my breast.
Still I hae seen a fairer face,
Though fairer anes are few,
An' I hae marked kinder smiles
Than e'er I gat frae you.
But smiles, like blinks o' simmer sheen,
Leave not a trace behind;
While early love has forged chains
The freest heart to bind.
The mind from tyrant fetters
Is free as air to rove;
But powerful are the links that chain
The heart to early love.
Affections, like the ivy
In nature's leafy screen,
Entwine the boughs o' early love
Wi' foliage "ever green."
James Brown was born at Libberton, a village in the upper ward of
Yestreen as I stray'd on the banks o' the Clyde,
A laddie beneath the gay greenwood I spied,
Who sang o' his Peggy, and oh! he seem'd wae,
For Peggy, sweet Peggy, was far, far away.
Though fair burns the taper in yon lofty ha',
Yet nought now shines bright where her shade doesna fa';
My Peggy was pure as the dew-drops o' May,
But Peggy, sweet Peggy, is far, far away.
Ye breezes that curve the blue waves o' the Clyde,
And sigh 'mang the dark firs on yon mountain side,
How dreary your murmurs throughout the lang day,
Since Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.
The sable-wing'd blackbird yon birk-trees amang,
And mavis sing notes that accord wi' my sang,
A' nature is dowie, by bank and by brae,
Since Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.
Ye dew-dripping daisies that bloom by the burn,
Though scathed by rude winter in spring ye return;
I mark'd, but I minded no whit your decay,
Ere Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.
I mourn'd not the absence o' summer or spring,
Nor aught o' the beauties the seasons may bring,
E'en 'mid the dark winter this heart still was gay,
Ere Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.
The bleak blawing winter, wi' a' its alarms,
Might add to, but tak not away from her charms,
The snaws seem'd as welcome as summer-won hay,
Ere Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.
Our Henry lo'es Mary, Jock dotes upon Jean,
And Willie ca's Nancy o' beauty the queen,
But Peggy was mine, and far lovelier than they,
Ere Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.
Oh, when will the days o' this sadness be o'er,
And Heaven, in pity, my Peggie restore?
It kens she 's the loveliest it ere made o' clay,
And ill I may thole that she 's far, far away.
Love brought me a bough o' the willow sae green
That waves by yon brook where the wild-flowers grow sheen;
And braiding my harp wi' the sweet budding rue,
It mellow'd its tones 'mang the saft falling dew;
It whisper'd a strain that I wist na to hear,
That false was the lassie my bosom held dear;
Pride stirr'd me to sing, as I tore off the rue--
If she 's got ae sweetheart, sure I can get two!
Yet aft when reflection brings back to my mind
The days that are gane, when my lassie was kind,
A sigh says I felt then as ne'er I feel now,
My soul was enraptured--I canna tell how.
Yet what need I sing o' the joys that hae been,
And why should I start at the glance o' her een,
Or think o' the dark locks that wave o'er her brow?--
If she 's got ae sweetheart, sure I can get two!
Yestreen when the sun glinted blithe on the hill,
I met her alane by the flower-border'd rill,
I speer'd for her weelfare, but cauld was her air,
And I soughtna' to change it by foul words or fair;
She says I deceived her, how can it be sae?
The heart, ere deceived some affection maun hae,
And that hers had nane, I the sairer may rue,
Though she 's got ae sweetheart, an' I can get two.
She left me for ane wha o' mailins could sing,
Sae gie her the pleasures that riches can bring.
And me the enjoyment that 's prized by the few;
A friend o' warm feeling, and frank and refined,
And a lassie that 's modest, true hearted, and kind,
I 'll woo her, I 'll lo'e her, and best it will do,
For love brings nae bliss when it tampers wi' two.
Ere foreign fashions cross'd the Tweed,
A bannet happ'd my daddie's head,
Our daintiest fare was milk-and-bread,
Folk scunner'd a' at tea;
When cronies met they didna stand,
To rule their words by manners grand,
But warmly clasping hand in hand,
But now there 's nought but shy finesse,
And mim and prim 'bout mess and dress,
That scarce a hand a hand will press
Wi' ought o' feeling free;
A cauldrife pride aside has laid
The hodden gray, and hame-spun plaid,
And a' is changed since neebors said
Our auld guidwife wore cloak and hood,
The maiden's gown was worset guid,
And kept her ringlets in a snood
Aboon her pawkie e'e;
Now set wi' gaudy gumflowers roun',
She flaunts it in her silken gown,
That scarce ane dare by glen or town
I watna how they manage now
Their brides in lighted ha's to woo,
But it is caulder wark, I trow,
Than e'er it was wi' me;
Aye true unto the trysts we set,
When we among the hawthorns met,
Love-warm, true love wad scarce us let
Wae-worth their haughty state and style,
That drive true feeling frae our isle!
In saxty years o' care and toil,
What ferlies do we see!
The lowliest heart a pride displays,
Unkent in our ain early days,
Ilk kind and canty thing decays,
When back we look on bygane years,
Weel may the cheek be wet wi' tears,
The cauld mool mony a bosom bears,
Ance dear to you and me;
Yet I will neither chafe nor chide,
While ane comes to my ingle side,
Whose bosom glows wi' honest pride
At, How 's a' wi' ye.
Newfangled guffs may things arrange
For further and still further change,
But strange things shall to me be strange,
While I can hear and see.
And when I gang, as I 'll do soon,
To join the leal in hames aboon,
I 'll greet them just as aye I 've doon,
TUNE--_"Miller of Dron," improved set._
Oh, sair I feel the witching power
O' that sweet pawkie e'e,
And sair I 'll rue the luckless hour
That e'er it shone on me;
Unless sic love as wounds this heart
Come frae that heart again,
And teach for aye the kindly ray
To blink on me alane.
Thy modest cheek aye mantling glows
Whene'er I talk o' love,
As rainbow rays upon the rose
Its native sweets improve;
Yet when the sunbeams leave yon tower,
And gloamin' vails the glen,
Will ye gang to the birken bower
When nane on earth can ken?
Oh, scenes delighting, smiles inviting,
Heartfelt pleasures len',
And oh! how fain to meet alane,
When nane on earth can ken!
Amang the lave I manna speak,
And when I look the while,
The mair I 'm seen, the mair I seek
Their watching to beguile;
But leave, dear lassie, leave them a',
And frae this heart sae leal
Thou 'lt hear the love, by glen and shaw,
It canna mair conceal.
My plaid shall shield thy peerless charms
Frae evening's fanning gale,
And saft shall be my circling arms,
And true my simple tale;
And seated by the murmuring brook,
Within the flowery den,
If love 's reveal'd in word or look,
There 's nane on earth can ken.
Oh! scenes delighting, smiles inviting,
Heartfelt pleasures len',
And oh! how fain to meet alane,
When nane on earth can ken.
There 's music in the lighted ha',
And looks in laughing een,
That seem affection forth to show,
That less is felt than seen.
But silent in the faithfu' heart
The charm o' love shall reign,
Or words shall but its power impart
To make it mair our ain.
Let worldlings doat upon their wealth,
And spendthrifts hae their glee,
Not a' the state o' a' the great,
Shall draw a wish frae me;
Away wi' thee by glen an' bower,
Far frae the haunts o' men,
Oh! a' the bliss o' hour like this,
The world can never ken.
Oh! scenes delighting, smiles inviting,
Heartfelt pleasures len',
And aye how fain we 'll meet again,
When nane on earth can ken.
See the moon o'er cloudless Jura
Shining in the lake below;
See the distant mountain tow'ring
Like a pyramid of snow.
Scenes of grandeur--scenes of childhood--
Scenes so dear to love and me!
Let us roam by bower and wildwood--
All is lovelier when with thee.
On Leman's breast the winds are sighing;
All is silent in the grove;
And the flow'rs, with dew-drops glist'ning,
Sparkle like the eye of love.
Night so calm, so clear, so cloudless;
Blessed night to love and me!
Let us roam by bower and fountain--
All is lovelier when with thee.
Love is timid, love is shy,
Can you tell me, tell me why?
Ah! tell me why true love should be
Afraid to meet the kindly smile
Of him she loves, from him would flee,
Yet thinks upon him all the while?
Can you tell me, tell me why
Love is timid, love is shy?
Love is timid, love is shy,
Can you tell me, tell me why?
True love, they say, delights to dwell
In some sequester'd, lonely bow'r,
With him she loves, where none can tell
Her tender look in passion's hour.
Can you tell me, tell me why
Love is timid, love is shy?
Love is timid, love is shy,
Can you tell me, tell me why?
Love, like the lonely nightingale,
Will pour her heart, when all is lone;
Nor will repeat, amidst the vale,
Her notes to any, but to one.
Can you tell me, tell me why
Love is timid, love is shy?
My love, come let us wander
Where Raven's streams meander,
And where, in simple grandeur,
The daisy decks the plain.
Peace and joy our hours shall measure;
Come, oh! come, my soul's best treasure!
Then how sweet, and then how cheerie,
Raven's braes will be, my dearie.
The silver moon is beaming,
On Clyde her light is streaming;
And, while the world is dreaming,
We 'll talk of love, my dear.
None, my Jean, will share this bosom,
Where thine image loves to blossom;
And no storm will ever sever
That dear flow'r, or part us ever.
AIR--_"Oh! the days are past when beauty bright."_
Oh! our childhood's once delightful hours
Ne'er come again--
Their sunny glens, their blooming bowers,
And primrose plain!
With other days,
Ambitious rays
May flash upon our mind;
But give me back the morn of life,
With fond thoughts twined;
As it sweetly broke on bower and hill,
And youth's gay mind!
Oh! our childhood's days are ne'er forgot
On life's dark sea,
And memory hails that sacred spot
Where'er we be;
It leaves all joys,
And fondly sighs
As youth comes on the mind,
And looks upon the morn of life
With fond thoughts, &c.
When age will come, with locks of gray,
To quench youth's spark,
And its stream runs cold along the way
Where all seems dark,
'Twill smiling gaze,
As memory's blaze
Breaks on its wavering mind;
But 'twill never bring the morn of life,
With fond thoughts, &c.
Could we but look beyond our sphere,
And trace, along the azure sky,
The myriads that were inmates here
Since Abel's spirit soar'd on high--
Then might we tell of those who see
Our wand'rings from eternity!
But human frailty cannot gaze
On such a cloud of splendid light
As heaven's sacred court displays,
Of blessed spirits clothed in white,
Who from the fears of death are free,
And look from an eternity.
They look, but ne'er return again
To tell the secrets of their home;
And kindliest tears for them are vain--
For never, never shall they come,
Till Time's pale light begin to flee
Before a bright eternity!
Could we but gaze beyond our sphere,
Within the golden porch of heaven,
And see those spirits which appear
Like stars upon the robe of even!
But no! unseen to us they see
Our wanderings from eternity!
The crimes of men which Heaven saw,
And pitied with a parent's eye,
Could ne'er a kindred spirit draw
In mercy from its home on high;
They look, but all they know or see
Is silent as eternity!
At noonday hour, or midnight deep,
No bright inhabitant draws nigh;
And though a parent's offspring weep,
No whisper echoes from the sky;
Though friends may gaze, yet all they see
Is known but in eternity!
Yet we may look beyond our sphere
On One who shines among the throng;
And we by faith may also hear
The triumphs of a glorious song;
And while we gaze on Him, we see
The path to this eternity!
In the morning of life, when its sweet sunny smile
Shines bright on our path, we may dream we are blest;
We may look on the world as a gay fairy isle,
Where sorrow 's unknown, and the weary have rest!
But the brightness that shone, and the hopes we enjoy'd,
Are clouded ere noon, and soon vanish away;
While the dark beating tempest, on life's stormy tide,
Obscures all the sweets of the morning's bright ray!
Then where are those bowers, in some gay, happy plain,
Where hope ne'er deceives, and where love is aye true;
Where the brightness of morning shines on but to gain
A sunshine as bright and as promising too?
Oh! ask for it not in this valley of sighs,
Where we smile but to weep, and we ne'er can find rest;
For the world we would wish shines afar in the skies,
Where sorrow 's unknown--'tis the home of the blest!
Oh! weep not thus, though the child thou hast loved,
Still, still as the grave, in silence sleeps on;
'Midst the tears that are shed, his eye is unmoved,
And the beat of that bosom for ever is gone:
Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!
The world to him, with its sorrows and sighs,
Has fled like a dream when the morn appears;
While the spirit awakes in the light of the skies,
No more to revisit this valley of tears:
Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!
Few, few were his years; but, had they been more,
The sunshine which smiled might have vanish'd away,
And he might have fallen on some far friendless shore,
Or been wreck'd amidst storms in some desolate bay:
Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!
Like a rosebud of promise, when fresh in the morn,
Was the child of thy heart while he lingered here;
But now from thy love, from thine arms he is torn,
Yet to bloom in a lovelier, happier sphere:
Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!
How happy the pilgrim whose journey is o'er,
Who, musing, looks back on its dangers and woes;
Then rejoice at his rest, for sorrow no more
Can start on his dreams, or disturb his repose:
Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!
Who would not recline on the breast of a friend,
When the night-cloud has lower'd o'er a sorrowful day?
Who would not rejoice at his journey's end,
When perils and toils encompass'd his way?
Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!
Why does the day, whose date is brief,
Smile sadly o'er the western sea?
Why does the brown autumnal leaf
Hang restless on its parent tree?
Why does the rose, with drooping head,
Send richer fragrance from the bow'r?
Their golden time of life had fled--
It was their dying hour!
Why does the swan's melodious song
Come thrilling on the gentle gale?
Why does the lamb, which stray'd along,
Lie down to tell its mournful tale?
Why does the deer, when wounded, fly
To the lone vale, where night-clouds low'r?
Their time was past--they lived to die--
It was their dying hour!
Why does the dolphin change its hues,
Like that aërial child of light?
Why does the cloud of night refuse
To meet the morn with beams so bright?
Why does the man we saw to-day,
To-morrow fade like some sweet flow'r?
All earth can give must pass away--
It was their dying hour!
I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,
Which seem'd, to fancy's ear,
The mournful music of the mind,
The echo of a tear;
And still methought the hollow sound
Which, melting, swept along,
The voice of other days had found,
With all the powers of song.
I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,
And thought of friends untrue--
Of hearts that seem'd so fondly twined,
That nought could e'er undo;
Of cherish'd hopes, once fondly bright--
Of joys which fancy gave--
Of youthful eyes, whose lovely light
Were darken'd in the grave.
I 've listen'd to the midnight wind
When all was still as death;
When nought was heard before, behind--
Not e'en the sleeper's breath.
And I have sat at such an hour
And heard the sick man's sigh;
Or seen the babe, like some sweet flow'r,
At that lone moment die.
I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,
And wept for others' woe;
Nor could the heart such music find
To bid its tear-drops flow.
The melting voice of one we loved,
Whose voice was heard no more,
Seem'd, when those fancied chords were moved,
Still breathing as before.
I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,
And sat beside the dead,
And felt those movings of the mind
Which own a secret dread.
The ticking clock, which told the hour,
Had then a sadder chime;
And these winds seem'd an unseen pow'r,
Which sung the dirge of time.
I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,
When, o'er the new-made grave
Of one whose heart was true and kind,
Its rudest blasts did rave.
Oh! there was something in the sound--
A mournful, melting tone--
Which led the thoughts to that dark ground
Where he was left alone.
I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,
And courted sleep in vain,
While thoughts like these have oft combined
To rack the wearied brain.
And even when slumber, soft and deep,
Has seen the eyelid close,
The restless soul, which cannot sleep,
Has stray'd till morning rose.
Adieu! a lang and last adieu,
My native Caledonia!
For while your shores were in my view,
I steadfast gazed upon ye, O!
Your shores sae lofty, steep, an' bold,
Fit emblem of your sons of old,
Whose valour, more than mines of gold,
Has honour'd Caledonia.
I think how happy I could be,
To live and die upon ye, O!
Though distant many miles from thee,
My heart still hovers o'er ye, O!
My fancy haunts your mountains steep,
Your forests fair, an' valleys deep,
Your plains, where rapid rivers sweep
To gladden Caledonia.
Still mem'ry turns to where I spent
Life's cheerfu' morn sae bonnie, O!
Though by misfortune from it rent,
It 's dearer still than ony, O!
In vain I 'm told our vessel hies
To fertile fields an' kindly skies;
But still they want the charm that ties
My heart to Caledonia.
My breast had early learn'd to glow
At name of Caledonia;
Though torn an' toss'd wi' many a foe,
She never bow'd to ony, O!
A land of heroes, famed an' brave--
A land our fathers bled to save,
Whom foreign foes could ne'er enslave--
Ye daisied glens and briery braes,
Haunts of my happy early days,
Where oft I 've pu'd the blossom'd slaes
And flow'rets fair,
Before my heart was scathed wi' waes
Or worldly care.
Now recollection's airy train
Shoots through my heart with pleasing pain,
And streamlet, mountain, rock, or plain,
Like friends appear,
That, lang, lang lost, now found again,
Are doubly dear.
But many a dauted object 's fled;
Low lies my once paternal shed;
Rank hemlocks wild, and weeds, o'erspread
The ruin'd heap;
Unstirr'd by cheerful tongue or tread,
The echoes sleep.
Yon bonnie burn, whose limpid streams,
When warm'd with summer's glowing beams,
Have often laved my tender limbs,
When my employ
Was chasing childhood's airy whims
From joy to joy.
Upon yon green, at gloamin' gray,
I 've often join'd in cheerful play,
Wi' comrades guileless, blithe, and gay,
Whose magic art,
Remember'd at this distant day,
Still warms the heart.
Ah, cronies dear! for ever lost!
Abroad on life's rough ocean toss'd,
By adverse winds and currents cross'd,
By watching worn,
Some landed on that silent coast,
Ne'er to return!
Howe'er the path of life may lie,
If poorly low, or proudly high,
When scenes of childhood meet our eye,
Their charms we own,
And yield the tribute of a sigh
To days long gone.
To wander lang in foreign lands,
It was my destinie;
I joyful was at my return,
My native hills to see.
My step grew light, my heart grew fain,
I thought my cares to tine,
Until I fand ilk weel-kenn'd spot
Sae alter'd sin' langsyne.
I sigh'd to see the flow'ry green
Skaith'd by the ruthless pleugh;
Likewise the bank aboon the burn,
Where broom and hawthorns grew.
A lonely tree, whose aged trunk
The ivy did entwine,
Still mark'd the spot where youngsters met,
In cheerful sports langsyne.
I mixèd with the village train,
Yet still I seem'd alane;
Nae kindly hand did welcome me,
For a' my friends were gane.
Those friends who oft in foreign lands
Did haunt this heart o' mine,
And brought to mind the happy days
I spent wi' them langsyne.
In youthfu' prime, at fortune's ca',
I braved the billows' roar;
I 've now seen thirty simmer suns
Blink on a distant shore;
And I have stood where honour call'd,
In the embattled line,
And there left many gallant lads,
The cronies o' langsyne.
I 've gather'd walth o' weel-won gear,
Yet still I fortune blame;
I lang wi' strangers pass'd my days,
And now I 'm ane at hame.
I have nae friend but what my gowd
Can draw to mammon's shrine;
But how unlike the guileless hearts
That wish'd me weel langsyne!
acquaintance, the Rev. James Murray, minister of Old Cumnock:--
"Roger was in many respects a very remarkable man....
He possessed, in an eminent degree, an exquisite
natural sympathy with all things beautiful and good. He
was an excellent botanist, well-skilled in music, and
passionately fond of poetry. His conversation was very
interesting; and his slight tendency to dogmatise in
the presence of a stranger, entirely disappeared in the
society of his friends. He might almost be said to
revere any one possessed of intellectual gifts and
accomplishments, whether natural or acquired; and as he
lived many years in a cottage situated on the way-side
between Peebles and Innerleithen, he was frequently
visited by those who passed by. Occasionally the
Ettrick Shepherd would stop his gig to have a few
minutes' _crack_ with his 'friend Peter,' as he called
him. At another time it would be his minister, the Rev.
Mr Leckie, or some other worthy pastor, or some surgeon
of the district upon his widely-extended rounds--Dr
Craig, for example; or Mr Thomas Smibert; or Mr Adam
appearance would be the welcome signal for the
'tinkling' of Peter's hammer to know a brief respite.
And I could mention others of his acquaintance, almost
self-taught like himself, whose intelligence might
enable them 'to stand before kings.'
"My own intimacy with Peter extends back to the time of
my boyhood; and I can honestly say, that an evening
spent under his roof, in company with him and his pious
and amiable sister Peggy, who survives him, was among
the greatest treats I ever experienced. There, at his
door, in paper cap and leather apron, his shirt sleeves
turned up, and his bare, brawny arms crossed upon his
chest, and 'his brow wet with honest sweat,' would the
hard-headed and warm-hearted blacksmith await the
coming of him whom he expected. And, first, whilst his
sister was attending to the preparation of some
creature-comforts--for he was a man of some substance,
and hospitable withal--you would be conducted into his
little garden, sloping down to the very brink of the
Tweed, and embosomed amid natural hazel wood, the
lingering remains of a once goodly forest, to see some
favourite flower, or to hear him trill, with a skill
and execution which would have done little dishonour to
_Picus_ himself, some simple native melody upon his
Scotch flute. The _in-door_ entertainment consisted of
varied conversation, embracing the subjects of
literature, politics, and theology, largely
interspersed with the reading of MS. poems by his
numerous poetical friends. But the best part of the
treat came last. Gradually you would notice a serious
shade, not gloomy but chastened, steal over his massive
features. His conversation would glide most naturally,
and without any intentional effort that was apparent,
into a serious strain; and then Peggy would bring down
the family Bible, and, after having selected a suitable
psalm, he would sing it to some plaintive air--and he
could sing well; and the prayer which closed the usual
exercises was such a manly, pathetic, and godly
outpouring of a spirit chastened with the simplest and
purest piety, as made the heart glad.
"Peter did nothing by halves, but everything with the
energy of a man working at a forge. He embraced the
temperance movement as soon as he heard of it, and
continued to the end of his days a most rigid total
abstainer from the use of all ardent spirits.
Altogether, he was one of those self-taught,
large-hearted, pious, and intellectual men of whom
Scotland may well be proud."
'Mang a' the lassies young an' braw,
An' fair as summer's rosy beam,
There 's ane the bonniest o' them a',
That dwells by Manor's mountain stream.
Oft hae I gazed on her sweet face,
An' ilka time new beauties seen;
For aye some new discover'd grace
Endears to me my lovely Jean.
An' oh! to list her ev'ning sang,
When a' alane she gently strays
The yellow waving broom amang,
That blooms on Manor's flow'ry braes--
Her voice sae saft, sae sweet and clear,
Afar in yonder bower sae green,
The mavis quits her lay to hear
A bonnier sang frae lovely Jean.
But it 's no her peerless face nor form,
It 's no her voice sae sweet and clear,
That keeps my love to her sae warm,
An' maks her every day mair dear;
It 's just the beauties o' her mind,
Her easy, winning, modest mien,
Her truth and constancy, which bind
My heart and soul to lovely Jean.
The music of the night,
Upon its lonely flight
Into the west, where sink its ebbing sands;
That muffled music seems
Like voices heard in dreams,
Sigh'd back from long-lost years and distant lands.
Amid the stillness round,
As 'twere the shade of sound,
Floats on the low sweet strain of lulling tones;
Such as from trembling wire
Of sweet Æolian lyre,
With winds awake in murmurs and in moans.
Oh! melting on the ear,
What solemn chords are there!
The torrent's thunder sunk into a sigh;
And thine, majestic main!
Great Nature's organ strain,
Deep pealing through the temple of the sky.
And songs unsung by day--
The nightingale's lone lay.
From lady's bower, the lover's serenade;
And dirge of hermit-bird
From haunts of ruin heard,
The only voice that wails above the dead.
To them that sail the deep,
When winds have sunk to sleep,
The dreamy murmurs of the night steal on;
Say, does their mystic hum,
So vague and varied, come
From distant shores unseen, and lands unknown?
In them might fancy's ear
Earth's dying echoes hear,
Our home's sweet voices swooning on the floods;
Or songs of festal halls,
Or sound of waterfalls,
Or Indian's dismal war-whoop through the woods.
Joy breathes in morning song,
And happy things among
Her choral bowers wake matins of delight;
But dearer unto me
The dirge-like harmony
Of vesper voices, and of wailing night.
The sea--the deep, deep sea--
That awful mystery!
Was there a time of old ere it was born,
Or e'er the dawn of light,
Coeval with the night--
Say, slept it on, for ever and forlorn?
Till the Great Spirit's word
Its sullen waters heard,
And their wild voices, through the void profound,
Gave deep responsive roar;
But silent never more
Shall be their solemn, drear, and dirge-like sound!
Earth's echoes faint and die;
Sunk down into a sigh,
Scamander's voice scarce whispers on its way;
And desert silence reigns
Upon the mighty plains
Where battles' thunders peal'd--and where are they?
But still from age to age
Upon its pilgrimage,
When many a glorious strain the world hath flown;
And while her echoes sleep
In darkness, the great deep,
Unwearied and unchanged, goes sounding on.
The last gleam o' sunset in ocean was sinkin',
Owre mountain an' meadowland glintin' fareweel;
An' thousands o' stars in the heavens were blinkin',
As bright as the een o' sweet Mary Macneil.
A' glowin' wi' gladness she lean'd on her lover,
Her een-tellin' secrets she thought to conceal;
And fondly they wander'd whar nane might discover
The tryst o' young Ronald an' Mary Macneil.
Oh! Mary was modest, an' pure as the lily,
That dew-draps o' mornin' in fragrance reveal;
Nae fresh bloomin' flow'ret in hill or in valley
Could rival the beauty of Mary Macneil.
She moved, and the graces play'd sportive around her;
She smiled, and the hearts o' the cauldest wad thrill;
She sang, and the mavis cam listenin' in wonder,
To claim a sweet sister in Mary Macneil.
But ae bitter blast on its fair promise blawin',
Frae spring a' its beauty an' blossoms will steal;
An' ae sudden blight on the gentle heart fa'in',
Inflicts the deep wound nothing earthly can heal.
The simmer saw Ronald on glory's path hiein';
The autumn, his corse on the red battle fiel';
The winter, the maiden found heartbroken, dyin';
An' spring spread the green turf owre Mary Macneil!
There 's a thrill of emotion, half-painful, half-sweet,
When the object of untold affection we meet,
But the pleasure remains, though the pang is as brief,
As the touch and recoil of the sensitive leaf.
There 's a thrill of distress, between anger and dread,
When a frown o'er the fair face of beauty is spread;
But she smiles, and away the disturber is borne,
Like sunbeams dispelling the vapours of morn.
There 's a thrill of endearment, all raptures above,
When the pure lip imprints the first fond kiss of love,
Which, like songs of our childhood, to memory clings,
The longest, the last of terrestrial things.
fifty-first year.
As clear is Luther's wave, I ween,
As gay the grove, the vale as green;
But, oh! the days that we have seen
Are fled, and fled for aye, Mary!
Oh! we have often fondly stray'd
In Fordoun's green embow'ring glade,
And mark'd the moonbeam as it play'd
On Luther's bonnie wave, Mary!
Since then, full many a year and day
With me have slowly pass'd away,
Far from the braes of Auchinblae,
And far from love and thee, Mary!
And we must part again, my dear,
It is not mine to linger here;
Yes, we must part--and, oh! I fear,
We meet not here again, Mary!
For on Culloden's bloody field,
Our hapless Prince's fate is seal'd--
Last night to me it was reveal'd
Sooth as the word of heaven, Mary!
And ere to-morrow's sun shall shine
Upon the heights of Galloquhine,
A thousand victims at the shrine
Of tyranny shall bleed, Mary!
Hark! hark! they come--the foemen come--
I go; but wheresoe'er I roam,
With thee my heart remains at home--
Adieu, adieu for aye, Mary!
Fare thee weel, my bonnie lassie;
Fare thee weel for ever, Jessie!
Though I ne'er again may meet thee,
Tell na me that I 'll forget thee.
By yon starry heavens I vow it!
By my love!--(I mayna rue it)--
By this hour in which we sever!
I will love but thee for ever.
Should the hand of death arrest me,
Think my latest prayer hath blest thee;
As the parting pang draws nearer,
I will love thee aye the dearer.
Still my bosom's love I 'll cherish--
'Tis a spark that winna perish;
Though I ne'er again may meet thee,
Tell na me that I 'll forget thee.
AIR--_"We 'll meet beside the dusky glen."_
Nae mair we 'll meet again, my love, by yon burn side--
Nae mair we 'll wander through the grove, by yon burn side--
Ne'er again the mavis lay will we hail at close o' day,
Nor ne'er again we 'll stray down by yon burn side.
Yet mem'ry oft will fondly brood on yon burn side,
O'er haunts which we sae saft hae trod, by yon burn side;
Now far removed from every care, 'boon yon burn side,
Thou bloom'st, my love, an angel fair, 'boon yon burn side;
And if angels pity know, sure the tear for me will flow,
Who must linger here below, down by yon burn side.
Oh, we aft hae met at e'en, bonnie Peggy, O!
On the banks of Cart sae green, bonnie Peggy, O!
Where the waters smoothly rin,
Far aneath the roarin' linn,
Far frae busy strife and din, bonnie Peggy, O!
When the lately crimson west, bonnie Peggy, O!
In her darker robe was dress'd, bonnie Peggy, O!
And a sky of azure blue,
Deck'd with stars of golden hue,
Rose majestic to the view, bonnie Peggy, O!
When the sound of flute or horn, bonnie Peggy, O!
On the gale of ev'ning borne, bonnie Peggy, O!
We have heard in echoes die,
While the wave that rippled by,
Sung a soft and sweet reply, bonnie Peggy, O!
Then how happy would we rove, bonnie Peggy, O!
Whilst thou, blushing, own'd thy love, bonnie Peggy, O!
Whilst thy quickly throbbing breast
To my beating heart I press'd,
Ne'er was mortal half so blest, bonnie Peggy, O!
Now, alas! these scenes are o'er, bonnie Peggy, O!
Now, alas! we meet no more, bonnie Peggy, O!
Oh! never again, I ween,
Will we meet at summer e'en
On the banks of Cart sae green, bonnie Peggy, O!
Yet had'st thou been true to me, bonnie Peggy, O!
As I still hae been to thee, bonnie Peggy, O!
Then with bosom, oh, how light,
Had I hail'd the coming night,
And yon evening star so bright, bonnie Peggy, O!
 This song is much in the strain of the popular song of "Kelvin
professional brother, Mr Thomas Lyle, surgeon, Glasgow, and was
Now, Mary, now the struggle 's o'er--
The war of pride and love;
And, Mary, now we meet no more,
Unless we meet above.
Too well thou know'st how much I loved!
Thou knew'st my hopes how fair!
But all these hopes are blighted now,
They point but to despair.
Thus doom'd to ceaseless, hopeless love,
I haste to India's shore;
For here how can I longer stay,
And call thee mine no more?
Now, Mary, now the struggle 's o'er;
And though I still must love,
Yet, Mary, here we meet no more,
Oh, may we meet above!
 This song was addressed to a young lady to whom the author was
I 've wander'd east, I 've wander'd west,
Through mony a weary way,
But never, never can forget
The luve o' life's young day!
The fire that 's blawn on Beltane e'en,
May weel be black gin Yule;
But blacker fa' awaits the heart
Where first fond luve grows cule.
O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
The thochts o' bygane years
Still fling their shadows owre my path,
And blind my een wi' tears;
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears;
And sair and sick I pine,
As memory idly summons up
The blithe blinks o' langsyne.
'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel,
'Twas then we twa did part;
Sweet time--sad time! twa bairns at schule,
Twa bairns, and but ae heart!
'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink,
To leir ilk ither lear;
And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed,
Remember'd evermair.
I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,
When sitting on that bink,
Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof,
What our wee heads could think.
When baith bent doun owre ae braid page,
Wi' ae buik on our knee,
Thy lips were on thy lesson--but
My lesson was in thee.
Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads,
How cheeks brent red wi' shame,
Whene'er the schule-weans, laughin', said
We cleek'd thegither hame?
And mind ye o' the Saturdays
(The schule then skailt at noon)
When we ran aff to speel the braes--
The broomy braes o' June?
My head rins round and round about,
My heart flows like a sea,
As ane by ane the thoughts rush back
O' schule-time and o' thee.
Oh, mornin' life! oh, mornin' luve!
Oh, lichtsome days and lang,
When hinnied hopes around our hearts,
Like simmer blossoms sprang!
Oh, mind ye, luve, how aft we left
The deavin', dinsome toun,
To wander by the green burnside,
And hear its waters croon?
The simmer leaves hung owre our heads,
The flowers burst round our feet,
And in the gloamin o' the wood,
The throssil whusslit sweet.
The throssil whusslit in the wood,
The burn sang to the trees,
And we, with nature's heart in tune,
Concerted harmonies;
And on the knowe abune the burn,
For hours thegither sat
In the silentness o' joy, till baith
Wi' very gladness grat.
Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Tears trickled doun your cheek,
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane
Had ony power to speak!
That was a time, a blessed time,
When hearts were fresh and young,
When freely gush'd all feelings forth,
Unsyllabled--unsung!
I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,
Gin I hae been to thee
As closely twined wi' earliest thochts,
As ye hae been to me!
Oh, tell me gin their music fills
Thine heart, as it does mine;
Oh, say gin e'er your heart grows grit
Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?
I 've wander'd east, I 've wander'd west,
I 've borne a weary lot;
But in my wanderings, far or near,
Ye never were forgot.
The fount that first burst frae this heart,
Still travels on its way;
And channels deeper as it rins,
The luve o' life's young day.
Oh, dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Since we were sinder'd young,
I 've never seen your face, nor heard
The music o' your tongue;
But I could hug all wretchedness,
And happy could I die,
Did I but ken your heart still dream'd
O' bygane days and me!
 The heroine of this song, Miss Jane Morrison, now Mrs Murdoch,
In a saft simmer gloamin',
In yon dowie dell,
It was there we twa first met,
By Wearie's cauld well.
We sat on the broom bank,
And look'd in the burn,
But sidelang we look'd on
Ilk ither in turn.
The corncraik was chirming
His sad eerie cry,
And the wee stars were dreaming
Their path through the sky;
The burn babbled freely
Its love to ilk flower,
But we heard and we saw nought
In that blessed hour.
We heard and we saw nought,
Above or around;
We felt that our luve lived,
And loathed idle sound.
I gazed on your sweet face
Till tears fill'd my e'e,
And they drapt on your wee loof--
A warld's wealth to me.
Now the winter snaw 's fa'ing
On bare holm and lea,
And the cauld wind is strippin'
Ilk leaf aff the tree.
But the snaw fa's not faster,
Nor leaf disna part
Sae sune frae the bough, as
Faith fades in your heart.
You 've waled out anither
Your bridegroom to be;
But can his heart luve sae
As mine luvit thee?
Ye 'll get biggings and mailins,
And mony braw claes;
But they a' winna buy back
The peace o' past days.
Fareweel, and for ever,
My first luve and last;
May thy joys be to come--
Mine live in the past.
In sorrow and sadness
This hour fa's on me;
But light, as thy luve, may
It fleet over thee!
Oh! wae be to the orders that march'd my luve awa',
And wae be to the cruel cause that gars my tears down fa',
Oh! wae be to the bluidy wars in Hie Germanie,
For they hae ta'en my luve, and left a broken heart to me.
The drums beat in the mornin', afore the screich o' day,
But waes me for my sodger lad that march'd to Germanie.
Oh! lang, lang is the travel to the bonnie Pier o' Leith,
Oh! dreich it is to gang on foot wi' the snaw drift in the teeth!
When I gaed there to see my luve embark for Germanie.
I look'd owre the braid blue sea, sae lang as could be seen
A wee bit sail upon the ship that my sodger lad was in;
I never think o' dancin', and I downa try to sing,
But a' the day I speir what news kind neibour bodies bring;
I sometimes knit a stocking, if knittin' it may be,
Syne for every loop that I cast on, I 'm sure to let doun three.
My father says I 'm in a pet, my mither jeers at me,
And bans me for a dautit wean, in dorts for aye to be;
But little weet they o' the cause that drumles sae my e'e,
Oh! they hae nae winsome love like mine, in the wars o' Germanie.
Mournfully, oh, mournfully
This midnight wind doth sigh,
Like some sweet plaintive melody
Of ages long gone by:
It speaks a tale of other years--
Of hopes that bloom'd to die--
Of sunny smiles that set in tears,
And loves that mouldering lie.
Mournfully, oh, mournfully
This midnight wind doth moan;
It stirs some chord of memory,
In each dull heavy tone:
The voices of the much-loved dead
Seem floating thereupon--
All, all my fond heart cherished,
Ere death hath made it lone.
Mournfully, oh, mournfully
This midnight wind doth swell,
With its quaint pensive minstrelsy,
Hope's passionate farewell.
To the dreamy joys of early years,
Ere yet grief's canker fell
On the heart's bloom--ay, well may tears
Start at that parting knell!
He is gone! he is gone!
Like the leaf from the tree,
Or the down that is blown
By the wind o'er the lea.
He is fled--the light-hearted!
Yet a tear must have started
To his eye when he parted
From love-stricken me!
He is fled! he is fled!
Like a gallant so free--
Plumed cap on his head,
And sharp sword by his knee;
While his gay feathers flutter'd,
Surely something he mutter'd--
He at least must have utter'd
A farewell to me!
He 's away! he 's away!
To far lands o'er the sea,
And long is the day
Ere home he can be;
But where'er his steed prances
Amid thronging lances,
Sure he 'll think of the glances
That love stole from me!
He is gone! he is gone!
Like the leaf from the tree,
But his heart is of stone
If it ne'er dream of me;
For I dream of him ever--
His buff-coat and beaver,
And long sword, oh! never
Are absent from me!
Grammar-school of that town. He subsequently attended the medical
Magazine_, a small periodical published in Haddington. In 1816 he
published in a separate form, much increased his reputation as an
And hast thou sought thy heavenly home,
Our fond, dear boy--
The realms where sorrow dare not come,
Where life is joy?
Pure at thy death as at thy birth,
Thy spirit caught no taint from earth,
Even by its bliss we mete our dearth,
Despair was in our last farewell,
As closed thine eye;
Tears of our anguish may not tell
When thou didst die;
Words may not paint our grief for thee,
Sighs are but bubbles on the sea
Of our unfathom'd agony,
Thou wert a vision of delight
To bless us given;
Beauty embodied to our sight,
A type of heaven.
So dear to us thou wert, thou art
Even less thine own self than a part
Of mine and of thy mother's heart,
Thy bright, brief day knew no decline--
'Twas cloudless joy;
Sunrise and night alone were thine,
Beloved boy!
This morn beheld thee blithe and gay;
That found thee prostrate in decay;
And ere a third shone, clay was clay,
Gem of our hearth, our household pride,
Earth's undefiled,
Could love have saved, thou hadst not died,
Our dear, sweet child!
Humbly we bow to fate's decree;
Yet had we hoped that time should see
Thee mourn for us, not us for thee,
Do what I may, go where I will,
Thou meet'st my sight;
There dost thou glide before me still,
A form of light.
I feel thy breath upon my cheek,
I see thee smile, I hear thee speak,
Till, oh! my heart is like to break,
The nursery shews thy pictured wall,
Thy bat, thy bow,
Thy cloak and bonnet, club and ball;
But where art thou?
A corner holds thine empty chair;
Thy playthings, idly scatter'd there,
But speak to us of our despair,
We mourn for thee when blind, blank night
The chamber fills;
We pine for thee when morn's first light
Reddens the hills;
The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea--
All--to the wallflower and wild pea--
Are changed--we saw the world through thee,
Snows muffled earth when thou didst go,
In life's spring-bloom,
Down to the appointed house below--
The silent tomb.
But now the green leaves of the tree,
The cuckoo, and "the busy bee,"
Return, but with them bring not thee,
'Tis so! but can it be--(while flowers
Revive again)--
Man's doom in death--that we and ours
For aye remain?
Oh! can it be that o'er the grave
The grass, renew'd, should yearly wave,
Yet God forget our child to save?
It cannot be; for were it so
Thus man could die,
Life were a mockery--thought were woe,
And truth a lie--
Heaven were a coinage of the brain--
Religion frenzy--virtue vain,
And all our hopes to meet again,
Then be to us, O dear, lost child!
With beam of love,
A star--death's uncongenial wild--
Smiling above!
Soon, soon thy little feet have trod
The skyward path, the seraph's road,
That led thee back from man to God,
Yet, 'tis sweet balm to our despair,
Fond, fairest boy,
That heaven is God's, and thou art there
With him in joy!
There past are death and all its woes,
There beauty's stream for ever flows,
And pleasure's day no sunset knows,
Farewell, then--for a while farewell,
Pride of my heart!
It cannot be that long we dwell
Thus torn apart--
Time's shadows like the shuttle flee;
And dark howe'er life's night may be,
Beyond the grave I 'll meet with thee,
Farewell, our fathers' land,
Valley and fountain!
Farewell, old Scotland's strand,
Forest and mountain!
Then hush the drum and hush the flute,
And be the stirring bagpipe mute--
Such sounds may not with sorrow suit--
And fare thee well, Lochaber!
This plume and plaid no more will see,
Nor philabeg, nor dirk at knee,
Nor even the broadswords which Dundee
Bade flash at Killiecrankie.
Farewell, our fathers' land, &c.
Now when of yore, on bank and brae,
Our loyal clansmen marshall'd gay;
Far downward scowls Bennevis gray,
On sheep-walks spreading lonely.
Farewell, our fathers' land, &c.
For now we cross the stormy sea,
Ah! never more to look on thee,
Nor on thy dun deer, bounding free,
From Etive glens to Morven.
Farewell, our fathers' land, &c.
Thy mountain air no more we 'll breathe;
The household sword shall eat the sheath,
While rave the wild winds o'er the heath
Where our gray sires are sleeping.
Then farewell, our fathers' land, &c.
A pretty young maiden sat on the grass--
Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!--
And by a blithe young shepherd did pass,
In the summer morning so early.
Said he, "My lass, will you go with me,
My cot to keep and my bride to be;
Sorrow and want shall never touch thee,
And I will love you rarely?"
"O! no, no, no!" the maiden said--
Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!--
And bashfully turn'd aside her head,
On that summer morning so early.
"My mother is old, my mother is frail,
Our cottage it lies in yon green dale;
I dare not list to any such tale,
For I love my kind mother rarely."
The shepherd took her lily-white hand--
Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!--
And on her beauty did gazing stand,
On that summer morning so early.
"Thy mother I ask thee not to leave
Alone in her frail old age to grieve;
But my home can hold us all, believe--
Will that not please thee fairly?"
"O! no, no, no! I am all too young"--
Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!--
"I dare not list to a young man's tongue,
On a summer morning so early."
But the shepherd to gain her heart was bent;
Oft she strove to go, but she never went;
And at length she fondly blush'd consent--
Heaven blesses true lovers so fairly.
Oh, I lo'ed my lassie weel,
How weel I canna tell;
Lang, lang ere ithers trow'd,
Lang ere I wist mysel'.
At the school amang the lave,
If I wrestled or I ran,
I cared na' for the prize,
If she saw me when I wan.
Oh, I lo'ed my lassie weel,
When thae gleesome days were gane;
'Mang a' the bonnie an' the gude,
To match her saw I nane.
Though the cauld warl' o'er me cam,
Wi' its cumber an' its toil,
My day-tide dool was a' forgot,
In her blithe e'enin' smile.
Oh, I lo'ed, nor lo'ed in vain;
An' though mony cam to woo,
Wha to won her wad been fain,
Yet to me she aye was true.
She grat wi' very joy
When our waddin' day was set;
An' though twal' gude years sinsyne hae fled,
She 's my darling lassie yet.
reading, he now followed a system of regular study; and ere his
twentieth year, was not only a respectable classical scholar, but
gentleman to Mr Jeffrey and the Rev. Mr Alison, who had both been
In a dream of the night, I was wafted away
To the muirlands of mist where the martyrs lay;
Where Cameron's sword and his Bible are seen
Engraved on the stone where the heather grows green.
'Twas a dream of those ages of darkness and blood,
When the minister's home was the mountain and wood,
And in Wellwood's dark valley the standard of Zion,
All bloody and torn, 'mong the heather was lying.
'Twas morning, and summer's young sun from the east
Lay in lovely repose on the green mountain's breast;
On Wardlaw and Cairntable, the clear shining dew
Glisten'd sheen 'mong the heath-bells and mountain-flowers blue.
And far up in heaven, in a white sunny cloud,
The song of the lark was melodious and loud;
And in Glenmuir's wild solitudes, lengthen'd and deep,
Were the whistling of plovers and bleating of sheep.
And Wellwood's sweet valley breathed music and gladness,
The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and redness;
Its daughters were happy to hail the returning,
And drink the delights of July's sweet morning.
But, ah! there were hearts cherish'd far other feelings--
Illumed by the light of prophetic revealings--
And drank from the scenery of beauty but sorrow,
For they knew that their blood would bedew it to-morrow.
'Twas the few faithful ones who with Cameron were lying,
Conceal'd 'mong the mist where the heath-fowl were crying;
For the horsemen of Earlshall around them were hovering,
And their bridle-reins rung through the thin misty covering.
Their faces grew pale, and their swords were unsheath'd,
But the vengeance that darken'd their brow was unbreathed;
With eyes raised to heaven, in calm resignation,
They sung their last song to the God of salvation.
The hills with the sweet mournful music were ringing,
The curlew and plover in concert were singing;
But the melody died 'midst derision and laughter,
As the host of ungodly rush'd on to the slaughter.
Though in mist and in darkness and fire they were shrouded,
Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and unclouded;
Their dark eyes flash'd lightning, as, proud and unbending,
They stood like the rock which the thunder was rending.
The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were gleaming,
The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was streaming,
The heavens grew black, and the thunder was rolling,
As in Wellwood's dark muirlands the mighty were falling.
When the righteous had fallen, and the combat was ended,
A chariot of fire through the dark cloud descended;
Its drivers were angels on horses of whiteness,
And its burning wheels turn'd upon axles of brightness.
A seraph unfolded its door, bright and shining,
All dazzling like gold of the seventh refining;
And the souls that came forth out of great tribulation,
Have mounted the chariot and steeds of salvation.
On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding;
Through the path of the thunder the horsemen are riding;
Glide swiftly, bright spirits! the prize is before ye--
A crown never fading, a kingdom of glory!
How sweet the dewy bell is spread
Where Spango's mossy streams are lavin'
The heathery locks o' deepenin' red,
Around the mountain brow aye wavin'!
Here, on the sunny mountain side,
Dear lassie, we 'll lie down thegither;
Where Nature spreads luve's crimson bed,
Among the bonnie bloomin' heather.
Lang hae I wish'd, my lovely maid,
Amang thae fragrant wilds to lead ye;
And now, aneath my tartan plaid,
How blest I lie wi' you aside me!
And art thou happy--dearest, speak--
Wi' me aneath the tartan plaidie?
Yes; that dear glance, sae saft and meek,
Resigns thee to thy shepherd laddie.
The saftness o' the gentle dove,
Its eyes in dying sweetness closin',
Is like thae languid eyes o' love,
Sae fondly on my heart reposin'.
When simmer suns the flowers expand,
In a' their silken beauties shinin',
They 're no sae saft as thy white hand,
Upon my love-warm cheek reclinin'.
While thus, aneath my tartan plaid,
Sae warmly to my lips I press ye;
That hinnied bloom o' dewy red
Is nocht like thy sweet lips, dear lassie!
Reclined on love's soft crimson bed,
Our hearts sae fondly lock'd thegither;
Thus o'er my cheek thy ringlets spread,
How happy, happy 'mang the heather!
Where Manor stream rins blithe an' clear,
And Castlehill's white wa's appear,
I spent ae day, aboon a' days,
By Manor stream, 'mang Manor braes.
The purple heath was just in bloom,
And bonnie waved the upland broom,
The flocks on flowery braes lay still,
Or, heedless, wander'd at their will.
'Twas there, 'mid Nature's calm repose,
Where Manor clearest, saftest flows,
I met a maiden fair to see,
Wi' modest look and bashfu' e'e;
Her beauty to the mind did bring
A morn where summer blends wi' spring,
So bright, so pure, so calm, so fair,
'Twas bliss to look--to linger there!
Ilk word cam frae her bosom warm,
Wi' love to win and sense to charm,
So much of nature, nought of art,
She 'll live enthroned within my heart!
Aboon her head the laverock sang,
And 'neath her feet the wild-flowers sprang;
Oh, let me dwell, where beauty strays,
By Manor stream an' Manor braes.
I speir'd gif ane sae young an' fair
Knew aught of love, wi' a' its care?
She said her heart frae love was free,
But aye she blush'd wi' downcast e'e.
The parting cam, as partings come,
Yet I 'll return, ere many days,
To live an' love 'mang Manor braes.
Fare thee well, for I must leave thee;
But, oh, let not our parting grieve thee;
Happier days may yet be mine,
At least I wish them thine--believe me!
We part--but by those dew-drops clear,
My love for thee will last for ever;
I leave thee--but thy image dear,
Thy tender smiles, will leave me never.
Fare thee well, &c.
Oh! dry those pearly tears that flow--
One farewell smile before we sever;
The only balm for parting woe
Is--fondly hope 'tis not for ever.
Fare thee well, &c.
Though dark and dreary lowers the night,
Calm and serene may be the morrow;
The cup of pleasure ne'er shone bright,
Without some mingling drops of sorrow!
Fare thee well, for I must leave thee,
But, oh, let not our parting grieve thee;
Happier days may yet be mine,
At least I wish them thine--believe me!
'Tis the first rose of summer that opes to my view,
With its bright crimson bosom all bathed in the dew;
It bows to its green leaves with pride from its throne--
'Tis the queen of the valley, and reigneth alone.
Oh! why, lovely stranger! thus early in bloom,
Art thou here to assure us that summer is come?
The primrose and harebell appear with the spring,
But tidings of summer the young roses bring.
Thou fair gift of nature (I welcome the boon),
Was 't the lark of the morning that 'woke thee so soon?
Yet I weep, thou sweet floweret! for soon, from the sky,
The lark shall repose where thy leaves wither'd lie.
Oh! if beauty could save thee, thou ne'er wouldst decay,
But, alas! soon thou 'lt perish and wither away;
And thy kindred may blossom, and blossom as fair--
Yet I 'll mourn, lonely rosebud! when thou art not there.
Oh! why left I my hame,
Why did I cross the deep?
Oh! why left I the land
Where my forefathers sleep?
I sigh for Scotia's shore,
And I gaze across the sea;
But I canna get a blink
O' my ain countrie!
The palm-tree waveth high,
And fair the myrtle springs,
And to the Indian maid
The bulbul sweetly sings;
But I dinna see the broom
Wi' its tassels on the lea,
Nor hear the lintie's sang
O' my ain countrie!
Oh! here no Sabbath bell
Awakes the Sabbath morn,
Nor song of reapers heard
Amang the yellow corn;
For the tyrant's voice is here,
And the wail of slaverie,
But the sun of freedom shines
In my ain countrie!
There 's a hope for every woe,
And a balm for every pain;
But the first joys o' our heart
Come never back again.
There 's a track upon the deep,
And a path across the sea,
But the weary ne'er return
To their ain countrie!
Oh! the happy days o' youth are fast gaun by,
And age is coming on, wi' its bleak winter sky;
An' whar shall we shelter frae its storms when they blaw,
When the gladsome days o' youth are flown awa'?
They said that wisdom cam wi' manhood's riper years,
But naething did they tell o' its sorrows an' tears;
Oh! I 'd gie a' the wit, gif ony wit be mine,
For ae sunny morning o' bonnie langsyne.
I canna dow but sigh, I canna dow but mourn,
For the blithe happy days that never can return;
When joy was in the heart, an' love was on the tongue,
An' mirth on ilka face, for ilka face was young.
Oh! the bonnie weaving broom, whaur aften we did meet,
Wi' its yellow flowers that fell like gowd 'mang our feet;
The bird would stop its sang, but only for a wee,
As we gaed by its nest, 'neath its ain birk-tree.
Oh! the sunny days o' youth, they couldna aye remain--
There was ower meikle joy and ower little pain;
Sae fareweel, happy days! an' fareweel, youthfu' glee!
The young may court your smiles, but ye 're gane frae me.
'Tis sair to dream o' them we like,
That waking we sall never see;
Yet oh! how kindly was the smile
My laddie in my sleep gave me!
I thought we sat beside the burn
That wimples down the flowery glen,
Where, in our early days o' love,
We met that ne'er sall meet again.
The simmer sun sank 'neath the wave,
And gladden'd wi' his parting ray
The woodland wild and valley green,
Fast fading into gloamin' gray.
He talk'd of days o' future joy,
And yet my heart was haflins sair;
For when his eye it beam'd on me,
A withering death-like glance was there!
I thought him dead, and then I thought
That life was young and love was free;
For o'er our heads the mavis sang,
And hameward hied the janty bee!
We pledged our love and plighted troth,
But cauld, cauld was the kiss he gave;
When, starting from my dream, I found
His troth was plighted to the grave!
I canna weep, for hope is fled,
And nought would do but silent mourn,
Were 't no for dreams that should na come,
To whisper back my love's return.
'Tis sair to dream o' them we like,
That waking we sall never see;
Yet, oh! how kindly was the smile
My laddie in my sleep gave me!
Let the maids of the Lowlands
Vaunt their silks and their Hollands,
In the garb of the Highlands
Oh give me my dear!
Such a figure for grace!
For the Loves such a face!
And for lightness the pace
That the grass shall not stir.
Lips of cherry confine
Teeth of ivory shine,
And with blushes combine
To keep us in thrall.
Thy converse exceeding
All eloquent pleading,
Thy voice never needing
To rival the fall
Of the music of art,--
Steal their way to the heart,
And resistless impart
Their enchantment to all.
When _Beltane_ is over,
And summer joys hover,
With thee a glad rover
I 'll wander along,
Where the harp-strings of nature
Are strung by each creature,
And the sleep shall be sweeter
That lulls to their song,
There, bounding together,
On the lawn of the heather,
And free from the tether,
The heifers shall throng.
There shall pasture the ewes,
There the spotted goats browse,
And the kids shall arouse
In their madness of play;
They shall butt, they shall fight,
They shall emulate flight,
They shall break with delight
O'er the mountains away.
And there shall my Mary
With her faithful one tarry,
And never be weary
In the hollows to stray.
While a concert shall cheer us,
For the bushes are near us;
And the birds shall not fear us,
We 'll harbour so still.
Strains the mavis his throat,
Lends the cuckoo her note,
And the world is forgot
By the side of the hill.
The dawn it is breaking; but lonesome and eerie
Is the hour of my waking, afar from the glen.
Alas! that I ever came a wanderer hither,
Where the tongue of the stranger is racking my brain!
Cleft in twain is my heart, all my pleasure betraying;
The half is behind, but the better is straying
The shade of the hills and the copses away in,
And the truant I call to the Lowlands in vain.
I know why it wanders,--it is to be treading
Where long I frequented the haunts of my dear,
The meadow so dewy, the glades so o'erspreading,
With the gowans to lean on, the mavis to cheer.
It is to be tending where heifers are wending,
And the birds, with the music of love, are contending;
And rapture, its passion to innocence lending,
Is a dance in my soul, and a song in my ear.
 This song was written in Edinburgh.
The following is a portion of the poet's "Lament for
his Lost Love," on her departure to England with her
husband. Cormac, an Irish harper, was long entertained
in his professional character by Macleod of Lewis; and
had the temerity to make love to the chief's daughter.
On the discovery, and its apprehended consequences to
his safety, he is said to have formed the desperate
resolution of slaying the father, and carrying away the
lady. His hand was stayed, as he raised the deadly
weapon, by the sudden appearance of Macleod's son; who,
with rare and commendable temper, advised him to look
for a love among the hundred maidens of his own degree
who were possessed of equal charms. With the same
uncommon self-command, poor Cormac formed the
resolution of drowning his love in the swell of his own
music. Ross applies the story to his own case.
Thus sung the minstrel Cormac, his anguish to beguile,
When Colin Cormac's guilty grasp was closing with the spear,
As rosy on the lip, is there--then, why so frantic thou?"
But aye he rung his harp, though now it knew another strain,
And loud arose its warblings as the sounding of the main.
Yes! 'twas an organ peal that soar'd the vocal lift along,
As chorus'd to the high-strung harp his words of mightier song,
But I, alas! no language find, of Sassenach or Gael,
Nor note of music in the land, my cureless woe to quail.
And art thou gone, without a word, without a kindly look
Of smiling comfort, on the bard whose life thy beauty shook?
Not so it fared with Cormac; for thus the tale is told,
That never, to the last, he brook'd desertion's bitter cold.
His comrades sorrow'd round him; his dear vouchsafed a kiss--
This was composed when Ross was dying, and probably
when he was aware of his approaching end. He died of
consumption, precipitated by the espousals of his
mistress to another lover.
Reft the charm of the social shell
By the touch of the sorrowful mood;
And already the worm, in her cell,
Is preparing the birth of her brood.
She blanches the hue of my cheek,
And exposes my desperate love;
Nor needs it that death should bespeak
The hurt no remeid can remove.
The step, 'twas a pleasure to trace,
Even that has withdrawn from the scene;
And, now, not a breeze can displace
A leaf from its summit of green
So prostrate and fallen to lie,
So far from the branch where it hung,
As, in dust and in helplessness, I,
From the hope to which passion had clung.
Yet, benison bide! where thy choice
Deems its bliss and its treasure secure,
May the months in thy blessings rejoice,
While their rise and their wane shall endure!
For me, a poor warrior, in blood
By thy arrow-shot steep'd, I am prone,
The glow of ambition subdued,
The weapons of rivalry gone.
Yet, cruel to mock me, the base
Who scoff at the name of the bard,
To scorn the degree of my race,
Their toil and their travail, is hard.
Since one, a bold yeoman ne'er drew
A furrow unstraight or unpaid;
And the other, to righteousness true,
Hung even the scales of his trade.
And I--ah! they should not compel
To waken the theme of my praise;
I can boast over hundreds, to tell
Of a chief in the conflict of lays.
And now it is over--the heart
That bounded, the hearing that thrill'd,
In the song-fight shall never take part,
And weakness gives warning to yield.
As the discord that raves 'neath the cloud
That is raised by the dash of the spray
When waters are battling aloud,
Bewilderment bears me away.
And to measure the song in its charm,
Or to handle the viol with skill,
Or beauty with carols to warm,
Gone for ever, the power and the will.
No never, no never, ascend
To the mountain-pass glories, shall I,
In the cheer of the chase to unbend;
Enough, it is left but to die.
And yet, shall I go to my rest,
Where the dead of my brothers repair--
To the hall of the bards, not unblest,
That their worthies before me are there?
The brave chief of Cluny, after lingering long on the
heights of Benalder, where he entertained his
unfortunate prince during some of the last days of the
adventurer's wandering, at length took shipping for
France, amidst the tears and regrets of a clan that
loved him with the fondest devotion. "Strathmassie"
seems to have caught, in the following verses, some
characteristic traits of his chief, in whom peaceful
dispositions were remarkably blended with the highest
courage in warfare.
Oh, many a true Highlander, many a liegeman,
Is blank on the roll of the brave in our land;
And bare as its heath is the dark mountain region,
Of its own and its prince's defenders unmann'd.
The hound's death abhorr'd, some have died by the cord,
And the axe with the best of our blood is defiled,
And e'en to the visions of hope unrestored,
Some have gone from among us, for ever exiled.
He is gone from among us, our chieftain of Cluny;
At the back of the steel, a more valiant ne'er stood;
Our father, our champion, bemoan we, bemoan we!
In battle, the brilliant; in friendship, the good.
When the sea shut him from us, then the cross of our trial
Was hung on the mast and was swung in the wind:
"Woe the worth we have sepulchred!" now is the cry all;
"Save the shade of a memory, is nothing behind."
What symbols may match our brave chief's animation?
When his wrath was awake, 'twas a furnace in glow;
As a surge on the rock struck his bold indignation,
As the breach to the wall was his arm to the foe.
So the tempest comes down, when it lends in its fury
To the frown of its darkness the rattling of hail;
So rushes the land-flood in turmoil and hurry,
So bickers the hill-flame when fed by the gale.
Yet gentle as Peace was the flower of his race,
Rare was shade on his face, as dismay in his heart;
The brawl and the scuffle he deem'd a disgrace,
But the hand to the brand was as ready to start.
Who could grapple with him in firmness of limb
And sureness of sinew? and--for the stout blow--
'Twas the scythe to the swathe in the meadows of death,
Where numbers were levell'd as fast and as low.
Ever loyal to reason, we 've seen him appeasing
With a wave of one hand the confusion of strife;
With the other unsheathing his sword, and, unbreathing,
Following on for the right in the havoc of life.
To the wants of the helpless, the wail of the weak,
His hand aye was open, his arm was aye strong;
And under yon sun, not a tongue can bespeak
His word or his deed that was blemish'd with wrong.
seventy-seventh year of his age.
M'Laggan, D.D., was successively minister of the parishes of
 Macpherson afterwards consulted Mr M'Laggan's "Collection of
Ossianic Remains" (see report on Ossian, App. 153).
For success, a prayer, with a farewell, bear
To the warriors dear of the muir and the valley--
The lads that convene in their plaiding of green,
With the curtal coat, and the sweeping _eil-e_.
In their belts array'd, where the dark blue blade
Is hung, with the dirk at the side;
When the sword is at large, and uplifted the targe,
Ha! not a foe the boys will abide.
The followers in peril of Ian the Earl,
The race of the wight of hand;
Sink the eyes of the foe, of the friend's mounts the glow,
When the Murdoch's high blood takes command.
With Loudon to lead ye, the wise and the steady,
The daring in fight and the glorious,
Like the lightning ye 'll rush, with the sword's bright flash,
And return to your mountains victorious.
Oh, sons of the Lion! your watch is the wild-lands,
The garb of the Highlands is mingled with blue,
Though the target and bosses are bright in the Highlands,
The axe in your hands might be blunted well, too.
Then forward--and see ye be huntsmen true,
And, as erst the red deer felling,
So fell ye the Gaul, and so strike ye all
The tribes in the backwoods dwelling.
Where ocean is roaring, let top-sails be towering,
And sails to the motion of helm be flying;
Though high as the mountain, or smooth as the fountain,
Or fierce as the boiling floods angrily crying,
Though the tide with a stroke be assailing the rock;
Oh, once let the pibroch's wild signal be heard,
Then the waves will come bending in dimples befriending,
And beckoning the friends of their country on board.
The ocean-tide 's swelling, its fury is quelling,
In salute of thunder proclaiming your due;
And, methinks, that the hum of a welcome is come,
And is warbling the Jorram to you.
When your levy is landed, oh, bright as the pearls
Shall the strangers who welcome you, gladly and greeting
Speak beautiful thoughts; aye, the beautiful girls
From their eyes shall the tears o'er the ruby be meeting,
And encounter ye, praying, from the storm and the slaying,
"From the stranger, the enemy, save us, oh save!
From rapine and plunder, oh tear us asunder,--
Our noble defenders are ever the brave!"
"If the fondest ye of true lovers be,"
So cries each trembling beauty,
"Be bold in the fight, and give transport's delight
To your friends and the fair, by your duty."
"Oh, yes!" shall the beautiful hastily cry;
"Oh, yes!" in a word, shall the valiant reply;
"By our womanly faith we pledge you for both,
For where'er we contract, and where'er we betroth,
We vow with the daring to die!"
Faithful to trust is the lion-like host
Whom the dawn of their youth doth inure
To hunger's worst ire, and to action's bold fire,
And to ranging the wastes of the moor.
Accustom'd so well to each enterprise snell,
Be the chase or the warfare their quarry;
Aye ever they fight the best, for the right
To the strike of the swords, when they hurry.
_Auld-farrant_, sagacious, cunning.
_Baudrons_, a cat.
_Bield_, shelter.
_Bink_, a bank of earth.
_Blaud_, a flat piece of anything, to slap.
_Blinket_, looked kindly.
_Bonnie_, beautiful.
_Burnie_, a small rivulet.
_Cannily_, gently, dexterously.
_Cauldrife_, coldish.
_Chanter_, the drone of a bagpipe.
_Cleugh_, a cliff.
_Coble_, a fishing-boat.
_Couthilie_, kindly.
_Crack_, to converse.
_Cuiff_, a blockhead.
_Daffin'_, diversion.
_Dautit_, fondled, caressed.
_Dighted_, wiped.
_Doited_, very stupid.
_Donnart_, stupified.
_Dowie_, sad, worn with grief.
_Dree_, suffer, endure.
_Dreich_, tedious.
_Eerie_, dreading things supernatural.
_Fashious_, troublesome.
_Ferlies_, wonders.
_Flate_, scolded.
_Flow_, a small quantity.
_Gauds_, trinkets.
_Gawkie_, a thoughtless person.
_Gilphie_, a half-grown person, a romping lad.
_Glaiks_, foolish talk.
_Haddin_, a farmer's stock.
_Haffit-links_, a necklace.
_Haflins_, nearly half, partly.
_Haps_, outer garments.
_Hinnied_, honied.
_Hodden_, a coarse kind of cloth.
_Hummel_, humble.
_Kilt_, to truss up the clothes.
_Lear_, learning.
_Litheless_, listless.
_Loonie_, a little fellow.
_Losh_, an exclamation of surprise.
_Maen_, moan, complain.
_Mailin_, a tax, a rent.
_Maw_, to mow, the stomach.
_Muter_, multure, ground corn.
_Neivefu'_, a handful.
_Newfangled_, newfashioned.
_Pree_, to taste, to kiss.
_Puirtith_, poverty.
_Racket_, stretched.
_Scaur_, to scare, a wound.
_Scoured_, burnished, ran.
_Scunner'd_, disgusted.
_Shiel_, a temporary cottage or hut.
_Siching_, sighing.
_Skailt_, emptied, scattered.
_Souch_, the sighing of the wind, the breathing of a tune.
_Tentie_, heedful, cautious.
_Trantlooms_, odds and ends.
_Wauken_, awaken.
_Waukrife_, watchful, sleepless.
_Waunert_, wandered.
_Weel-faur'd_, well-favoured.
_Weir_, war, to herd.
_Whusslit_, whistled.
_Wooster-trystes_, wool-markets.