human
Can you write me a poem about bagpipe in the style of Ruth McEnery Stuart?
assistant
Sure, here's a poem about bagpipe in the style of Ruth McEnery Stuart:
  "Placed far amid the melancholy main,"
"Rough bur-thistle spreadin' wide
Amang the bearded bear."
"I saw thee seek the sounding shore,
Delighted with the dashing roar."
"And when the North his fleecy store
Drove through the sky,
I saw grim Nature's visage hoar
Struck thy young eye;"
"I like this rocking of the battlements.
Rage on, ye winds; burst clouds, and waters roar!
You bear a just resemblance of my fortune,
And suit the gloomy habit of my soul."
"Speak of passion, but of passion past."
thunderstorms; in short, of all objects where unrest--the leading
Sometimes even by a single word he proclaimed the presence of the
"She lay like some unkenned-of isle
Ferrier, Scott's poems and novels, Galt's, Lockhart's, Wilson's,
Delta's, and Aird's tales and poetry, and much of the poetry of
"Men met each other with erected look,
The steps were higher that they took;
Each to congratulate his friends made haste,
And long inveterate foes saluted as they pass'd."
The wild glen sae green,
Scotia's thistle,
The land of gallant hearts,
The yellow locks o' Charlie,
We 'll meet yet again,
Our ain native land,
The Grecian war-song,
Flora's lament,
When the glen all is still,
Scotland yet,
The minstrel's grave,
My own land and loved one,
The bower of the wild,
The crook and plaid,
The minstrel's bower,
When the star of the morning,
Though all fair was that bosom,
Would that I were where wild-woods wave,
O tell me what sound,
Sweet bard of Ettrick's Glen,
Charlie's bonnet's down, laddie,
Heard ye the bagpipe?
Bruce's address,
Removed from vain fashion,
When shall we meet again?
The lake is at rest,
Life 's like the dew,
Ca' the yowes to the knowes,
To the evening star,
O waft me to the fairy clime,
The love-sick maid,
The maid who wove,
A sigh and a smile,
And can thy bosom,
Sweet 's the dew,
The African maid,
Oh! Dermot, dear loved one,
Hielan' heather,
The rose of Seaton Vale,
Guid nicht, and joy be wi' you a',
The gathering,
Oh! gin I were where Gadie rins,
Oh! Scotland's hills for me,
Queen of fairy's song,
When autumn comes,
A wish burst,
I love the merry moonlight,
Oh, what are the chains of love made of?
An autumnal cloud,
The maiden fair,
The old blighted thorn,
The wrecked mariner,
The blackbird's hymn is sweet,
Love's adieu,
Rise, my love,
Lucy's grave,
The forgotten brave,
The first ship,
Weep not,
The Araby maid,
The maiden's vow,
I love the sea,
Is your war-pipe asleep?
I will think of thee yet,
Lassie, dear lassie,
When I look far down on the valley below me,
I will wake my harp when the shades of even,
All lovely and bright,
She died in beauty,
The Scottish blue bells,
Where are they?
Lay of the hopeless,
My wee, wee wife,
O, poverty!
I 've wander'd on the sunny hill,
Oh! years hae come,
My mountain hame,
The Scottish widow's lament,
The hero of St. John D'Acre,
Oh! bonnie are the howes,
Oh! say na you maun gang awa,
Withered flowers,
A spring song,
The sea boy,
The young soldier,
The land I love,
The thistle of Scotland,
Hame is aye hamely,
Jeanie's lament,
Ye needna be courtin' at me,
The bucket for me,
The bonnie Hieland hills,
The bonnie rowan bush,
The wild rose blooms,
Ae happy hour,
Lass gin ye wad lo'e me,
My ain wife,
The maid o' Montrose,
The hopeless exile,
Wha 's at the window,
My brothers are the stately trees,
The emigrant's love-letter,
The trysting hour,
Harvest song,
Oh, hast thou forgotten?
The maid of my heart,
Song of the emigrant,
This lassie o' mine,
Oh, will ye walk the wood wi' me?
I maun gae over the sea,
A melody of love,
The mavis of the clan,
The sisters of Dunolly,
Luineag--a love carol,
The lassie of the glen,
spelling-book.
associations.
"'Prompting the heart to pour the impassion'd strain
Afar 'mid solitude's eternal reign,
In numbers fearless all as unconfined,
And wild as wailings of the desert wind.'
"'My early years were pass'd far on
The hills of Ettrick wild and lone;
Through summer sheen and winter shade
Tending the flocks that o'er them stray'd.
In bold enthusiastic glee
I sung rude strains of minstrelsy,
Which mingling with died o'er the dale,
Unheeded as the plover's wail.
Oft where the waving rushes shed
A shelter frail around my head,
Weening, though not through hopes of fame,
To fix on these more lasting claim,
I'd there secure in rustic scroll
The wayward fancies of the soul.
Even where yon lofty rocks arise,
Hoar as the clouds on wintry skies,
Wrapp'd in the plaid, and dern'd beneath
The colder cone of drifted wreath,
I noted them afar from ken,
Till ink would freeze within the pen;
So deep the spell which bound the heart
Unto the bard's undying art--
So rapt the charm that still beguiled
The minstrel of the mountains wild.'
"'The swell and fall of these wild tones
Were worth the pomp of a thousand thrones.'
"'The feeling is nameless that makes us unglad,
And a strange, wild dismayment it brings;
Which yet hath no match in the solemn and sad
Desolation of men and of things.
"'The hill-foxes howl'd round the wanderer's way,
When his aim and his pathway were lost;
And effort has then oft too much of dismay
To pay well the toil it may cost.
If fate has its privilege, death has its power,
And is fearful where'er it may fall,
But worse it may seem 'mong the blasts of the moor,
Where all that approaches portends to devour,
Nor fixes till first it appal.
"'No mercy obtains in the tempests that rave,
By the sky-frozen elements fed,
And there comes no hand that is willing to save,
And soothe, till the spirit be fled;
But the storms round the thrones of the wilderness break
O'er the frail in the solitude cast,
And howl in their strength and impatience to take
Their course to commix with the roar of the lake
Where it flings forth its foam on the blast.
"'Lo! 'neath where the heath hangs so dark o'er yon peak,
Another of Adam lay lone,
Where the bield could not shelter the weary and weak,
By the strife of the tempest o'erthrown.
No raven had fed, and the hill-fox had fled,
If there he had yet come abroad,
And the stillness reign'd deep o'er his cold moorland bed,
Which came down in the power of the sleep of the dead
When the spirit return'd to its God.'
admiration of the elegant strains of his friend, young Knox.
"Discontented and uncheery,
Of this noise and learning weary,
Half my mind, to madness driven,
Woos the lore by nature given;
'Mong fair fields and flowing fountains,
Lonely glens and lofty mountains,
Charm'd with nature's wildest grandeur,
Lately wont was I to wander,
Wheresoever fancy led me,
Came no barrier to impede me;
Still from early morn till even,
In the light of earth and heaven,
Musing on whatever graces,
Livelier scenes or lonelier places,
Till a nameless pleasure found me
Living, like a dream, around me,--
How, then, may I be contented,
Thus confined and thus tormented!
"'Still, oh! still 'twere lovelier rather
To be roaming through the heather;
And where flow'd the stream so glassy,
'Mong its flowers and margins mossy,
Where the flocks at noon their path on
Came to feed by birk and hawthorn;
Or upon the mountain lofty,
Seated where the wind blew softly,
With my faithful friend beside me,
And my plaid from sun to hide me,
And the volume oped before me,
I would trace the minstrel's story,
Or mine own wild harp awaken,
'Mid the deep green glens of braken,
Free and fearlessly revealing
All the soul of native feeling.
"''Stead of that eternal humming,
To the ear for ever coming--
Humming of these thoughtless beings,
In their restless pranks and pleaings;
And the sore-provoked preceptor
Roaring, "Silence!"--O'er each quarter
Silence comes, as o'er the valley,
Where all rioted so gaily,
When the sudden bursting thunder
Overpowers with awe and wonder--
Till again begins the fuss--
'Master, Jock's aye nippin' us!'
I could hear the fountains flowing,
Where the light hill-breeze was blowing,
And the wild-wing'd plover wailing,
Round the brow of heaven sailing;
Bleating flocks and skylarks singing,
Echo still to echo ringing--
Sounds still, still so wont to waken
That no note of them is taken,
Yet which seem to lend assistance
To the blessing of existence.
"'Who shall trow thee wise or witty,
Lore of "the Eternal City,"
Or derive delight and pleasure
From the blood-stain'd deeds of Cæsar,
Thus bewildering his senses
'Mong these cases, moods, and tenses?
Still the wrong-placed words arranging,
Ever in their finals changing;
Out and in with hic and hockings,
Like a loom for working stockings.
Latin lords and Grecian heroes--
Oh, ye gods, in mercy spare us!
How may mortals be contented,
Thus confined and thus tormented!'
profession, free from pedantry. He was kind-hearted and somewhat
anonymously, and it was sold about Clydesdale.
"My intention had been to qualify myself for the University, and,
introduced to him. But he came to me one day on the hill of
alleviate.
attributes. In a week or two, however, my friend A. F. Harrower,
transactions, or fraught with more interesting associations. In
attending the Natural Philosophy Class, not being proficient in
publication in palpable shape. Some years previously I published
stanzas, or a monody, on the death of Lord Byron. I had all along
"The summer vacations of college years I passed in the country,
pretended at any time, his broad bright eye and bluff face,
magnificently lifted up, like the sun on frost-work, melted down
"'What boots this turmoil
Of uproar and folly--
That renders the smile
Of creation unholy?
If that which we love
Is life's best assistant,
The thought still must rove
To the dear and the distant.
Would, then, that I were
'Mid nature's wild grandeur--
From this folly afar,
As I wont was to wander;
Where the pale cloudlets fly,
By the soft breezes driven,
And the mountains on high
Kiss the azure of heaven.
Where down the deep glen
The rivulet is rolling,
And few, few of men
Through the solitudes strolling.
Oh! bliss I could reap,
When day was returning;
O'er the wild-flowers asleep,
'Mong the dews of the morning;
And there were it joy,
When the shades of the gloaming,
With the night's lullaby,
O'er the world were coming--
To roam through the brake,
In the paths long forsaken;
My hill-harp retake,
And its warblings awaken.
The heart is in pain,
And the mind is in sadness--
And when comes, oh! when,
The return of its gladness?
The forest shall fade
At the winter's returning,
And the voice of the shade
Shall be sorrow and mourning.
Man's vigour shall fail
As his locks shall grow hoary,
And where is the tale
Of his youth and his glory?
My life is a dream--
My fate darkly furl'd;
I a hermit would seem
'Mid the crowd of the world.
Oh! let me be free
Of these scenes that encumber,
And enjoy what may be
Of my days yet to number!'
"Shortly after becoming a probationer, I came to reside in this
district, and, not long after, the preacher who officiated in the
"'Oh, poortith cauld and restless love,
Ye wreck my peace between ye.'
"'O who may love with warm true heart,
And then from love refrain?
Who say 'tis fit we now should part
And never meet again?
"'The heart once broken bleeds no more,
And a deep sound sleep it hath,
Where the stir of pain ne'er travels o'er
The solitude of death.
"'The moon is set, and the star is gone,
And the cure, though cruel, cures,
But the heart left lone must sorrow on,
While the tie of life endures.
"'He had nor gold nor land, and trow'd
Himself unworthy all,
And sternly in his soul had vow'd
His fond love to recall.
"'For her he loved he would not wrong,
Since fate would ne'er agree,
And went to part with a sore, sore heart,
In the bower of the greenwood tree.
"'The dews were deep, and the leaves were green,
And the eve was soft and still;
But strife may reach the vale I ween,
Though no blasts be on the hill.
"'The leaves were green, and the dews were deep,
And the foot was light upon
The grass and flowers, round the bower asleep;
But parting there could be none.
"'He spoke the word with a struggle hard,
And the fair one forward sprung,
Nor ever wist, till like one too blest,
Her arms were round him flung.
"'For the fair one whom he'd woo'd before,
While the chill night breezes sigh'd,
Could wot not why she loved him more
Than ere she thus was tried.
"'A red--not weak--came o'er her cheek,
And she turn'd away anon;
But since nor he nor she could speak,
Still parting there could be none.
"'I could have lived alone for thee,'
He said; 'So lived could I,'
She answer'd, while it seem'd as she
Had wish'd even then to die.
"'For pale, pale grew her cheek I ween,
While his arms, around her thrown,
Left space no plea to come between,
So parting there could be none.
"'She cool'd his brow with the heart's own drop,
While the brain seem'd burning there,
And her whisper reach'd the realm of hope
Through the darkness of despair.
"'She bade his soul be still and free,
In the light of love to live,
And soothed it with the sympathy
Which a woman's heart can give.
"'And it seem'd more than all before
E'er given to mortal man,
The radiance came, and with it bore
The angel of the dawn.
"'For ever since Eve her love-bower would weave,
As the first of all her line,
No one on earth had had more of worth
Than the lovely Lanazine.
"'And if Fortune's frown would o'er him come down,
Less marvel it may be,
Since he woo'd all while to make his own
A lovelier far than she.'
"Notwithstanding the ever-living solicitude and sad suffering
"'The Christian Politician' was published during the time of my
 A flock of sheep.
 "Songs of the Ark, with other Poems." Edin. 1831. 8vo.
 "Poems, Songs, and Miscellaneous Pieces." Edinburgh, 1847, 12mo.
AIR--_"The Posy, or Roslin Castle."_
When my flocks upon the heathy hill are lying a' at rest,
And meet my bonnie lassie in the wild glen sae green.
I'll meet her by the trysting-tree, that's stannin' a' alane,
Where I hae carved her name upon yon little moss gray stane,
There I will fauld her to my breast, and be mair bless'd I ween
Than a' that are aneath the sky, in the wild glen sae green.
Her head reclined upon this heart, in simple bliss I'll share
The pure, pure kiss o' tender love that owns nae earthly care,
And spirits hovering o'er us shall bless the heartfelt scene,
While I woo my bonnie lassie in the wild glen sae green.
To my bonnie, bonnie lassie, in the wild glen sae green.
It may be sweet at morning hour, or at the noon o' day,
To meet wi' those that we lo'e weel in grove or garden gay;
But the sweetest bliss o' mortal life is at the hour o' e'en,
Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie, in the wild glen sae green.
O! I could wander earth a' o'er, nor care for aught o' bliss,
If I might share, at my return, a joy sae pure as this;
And I could spurn a' earthly wealth--a palace and a queen,
For my bonnie, bonnie lassie, in the wild glen sae green!
Scotia's thistle guards the grave,
Where repose her dauntless brave;
Never yet the foot of slave
Has trode the wilds of Scotia.
Free from tyrant's dark control--
Free as waves of ocean roll--
Free as thoughts of minstrel's soul,
Still roam the sons of Scotia.
Scotia's hills of hoary hue,
Heaven wraps in wreathes of blue,
Watering with its dearest dew
The heathy locks of Scotia.
Down each green-wood skirted vale,
Guardian spirits, lingering, hail
Many a minstrel's melting tale,
As told of ancient Scotia.
When the shades of eve invest
Nature's dew-bespangled breast,
How supremely man is blest
In the glens of Scotia!
There no dark alarms convey
Aught to chase life's charms away;
There they live, and live for aye,
Round the homes of Scotia.
Wake, my hill harp! wildly wake!
Sound by lee and lonely lake,
Never shall this heart forsake
The bonnie wilds of Scotia.
Others o'er the ocean's foam
Far to other lands may roam,
But for ever be my home
Ours is the land of gallant hearts,
The land of lovely forms,
The island of the mountain-harp,
The torrents and the storms;
The land that blooms with freeman's tread,
And withers with the slave's,
Where far and deep the green woods spread,
And wild the thistle waves.
Ere ever Ossian's lofty voice
Had told of Fingal's fame,
Ere ever from their native clime
The Roman eagles came,
Our land had given heroes birth,
That durst the boldest brave,
And taught above tyrannic dust,
The thistle tufts to wave.
What need we say how Wallace fought,
And how his foemen fell?
Or how on glorious Bannockburn
The work went wild and well?
Ours is the land of gallant hearts,
The land of honour'd graves,
Whose wreath of fame shall ne'er depart
While yet the thistle waves.
The gathering clans, 'mong Scotia's glens,
Wi' martial steps are bounding,
And loud and lang, the wilds amang,
The war pipe's strains are sounding;
The sky and stream reflect the gleam
Of broadswords glancing rarely,
To guard till death the hills of heath
Against the foes o' Charlie.
Then let on high the banners fly,
And hearts and hands rise prouder,
And wake amain the warlike strain
Still louder, and still louder;
For we ha'e sworn, ere dawn the morn
O'er Appin's mountains early,
Auld Scotland's crown shall nod aboon
The yellow locks o' Charlie.
While banners wave aboon the brave
Our foemen vainly gather,
And swear to claim, by deeds o' fame,
Our hills and glens o' heather.
For seas shall swell to wild and fell,
And crown green Appin fairly,
Ere hearts so steel'd to foemen yield
The rights o' royal Charlie.
Then wake mair loud the pibroch proud,
And let the mountains hoary
Re-echo round the warlike sound
That speaks of Highland glory.
For strains sublime, through future time,
Shall tell the tale unsparely,
How Scotland's crown was placed aboon
The yellow locks o' Charlie.
We'll meet yet again, my loved fair one, when o'er us
The sky shall be bright, and the bower shall be green,
And the visions of life shall be lovely before us
As the sunshine of summer that sleeps o'er the scene.
The woodlands are sad when the green leaves are fading,
And sorrow is deep when the dearest must part,
But for each darker woe that our spirit is shading
A joy yet more bright shall return to the heart.
We'll meet yet again, when the pain, disconcerting
The peace of our minds in a moment like this,
Shall melt into nought, like the tears of our parting,
Or live but in mem'ry to heighten our bliss.
We have loved in the hours when a hope scarce could find us;
We've loved when our hearts were the lightest of all,
And the same tender tie that has bound still shall bind us,
When the dark chain of fate shall have ceased to enthral.
We'll meet yet again, when the spirit of gladness
Shall breathe o'er the valley, and brighten its flowers,
And the lone hearts of those who have long been in sadness
Shall gather delight from the transport of ours;
Yes, thine are the charms, love, that never can perish,
And thine is the star that my guide still shall be,
Alluring the hope in this soul that shall cherish
Its life's dearest treasures, to share them with thee.
Our ain native land! our ain native land!
There's a charm in the words that we a' understand,
That flings o'er the bosom the power of a spell,
And makes us love mair what we a' love so well.
The heart may have feelings it canna conceal,
As the mind has the thoughts that nae words can reveal,
But alike he the feelings and thought can command
Who names but the name o' our ain native land.
Our ain native land! our ain native land!
Though bleak be its mountains and rugged its strand,
The waves aye seem bless'd, dancing wild o'er the sea,
When woke by the winds from the hills o' the free.
Our sky oft is dark, and our storms loud and cauld,
But where are the hearts that sic worth can unfauld
As those that unite, and uniting expand,
When they hear but the name o' our ain native land?
Our ain native land! our ain native land!
To hear of her famed ones let none e'er demand,
For the hours o' a' time far too little would prove
To name but the names that we honour and love.
The bard lives in light, though his heart it be still,
And the cairn of the warrior stands gray on the hill,
And songster and sage can alike still command
A garland of fame from our ain native land.
Our ain native land! our ain native land!
Her wild woods are glorious, her waterfalls grand,
And her songs still proclaim, as they ring through the glen,
The charms of her maids and the worth of her men.
Her thistle shall cease in the breezes to wave,
And the floweret to bloom on the patriot's grave,
Ere we cease to defend, with our heart and our hand,
The freedom and faith of our ain native land.
On! on to the fields, where of old
The laurels of freedom were won;
Let us think, as the banners of Greece we unfold,
Of the brave in the pages of glory enroll'd,
And the deeds by our forefathers done!
O yet, if there's aught that is dear,
Let bravery's arm be its shield;
Let love of our country give power to each spear,
And beauty's pale cheek dry its long-gather'd tear
In the light of the weapons we wield.
Awake then to glory, that Greece yet may be
The land--the proud land of the famed and the free!
Rear! rear the proud trophies once more,
Where Persia's hosts were o'erthrown;
Let the song of our triumph arise on our shore,
Till the mountains give back the far sounds, as of yore,
To the fields where our foemen lie strewn!
Oh ne'er shall our bold efforts cease
Till the garlands of freedom shall wave
In breezes, which, fraught with the tidings of peace,
Shall wander o'er all the fair islands of Greece,
And cool not the lip of a slave;
Awake then to glory! that Greece yet may be
The land--the proud land of the famed and the free!
More dark is my soul than the scenes of yon islands,
Dismantled of all the gay hues that they wore;
For lost is my hope since the Prince of the Highlands
'Mong these, his wild mountains, can meet me no more.
Ah! Charlie, how wrung was this heart when it found thee
Forlorn, and the die of thy destiny cast;
Thy Flora was firm 'mid the perils around thee,
But where were the brave of the land that had own'd thee,
That she--only she--should be true to the last?
The step's in the bark on the dark heaving waters,
That now should have been on the floor of a throne;
And, alas for auld Scotland, her sons and her daughters!
Thy wish was their welfare, thy cause was their own.
But 'lorn may we sigh where the hill-winds awaken,
And weep in the glen where the cataracts foam,
And sleep where the dew-drops are deep on the bracken;
Thy foot has the land of thy fathers forsaken,
And more--never more will it yield thee a home.
Oh! yet when afar, in the land of the stranger,
If e'er on thy spirit remembrance may be
Of her who was true in these moments of danger,
Reprove not the heart that still lives but for thee.
The night-shrouded flower from the dawning shall borrow
A ray, all the glow of its charms to renew,
Can dawn from thy coming to chase the dark sorrow
Which death, in thine absence, alone can subdue.
AIR--_"Cold Frosty Morning."_
When the glen all is still, save the stream of the fountain,
When the shepherd has ceased o'er the dark heath to roam,
And the wail of the plover awakes on the mountain,
Inviting her mate to return to his home--
Oh! meet me, Eliza, adown by the wild-wood,
Where the wild daisies sleep 'mong the low-lying dew,
And our bliss shall be sweet as the visions of childhood,
And pure as the fair star, in heaven's deep blue.
Thy locks shall be braided in drops of the gloaming,
And fann'd by the far-travell'd breeze of the lawn;
The spirits of heaven shall know of thy coming,
And watch o'er our joy till the hour of the dawn.
No woes shall we know of dark fortune's decreeing,
Of the past and the future my dreams may not be,
For the light of thine eye seems the home of my being,
And my soul's fondest thoughts shall be gather'd to thee.
Gae, bring my guid auld harp ance mair,--
Gae, bring it free and fast,--
For I maun sing another sang
Ere a' my glee be past;
And trow ye as I sing, my lads,
The burden o't shall be
Auld Scotland's howes, and Scotland's knowes,
And Scotland's hills for me--
I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet
Wi' a' the honours three.
The heath waves wild upon her hills,
And foaming frae the fells,
Her fountains sing o' freedom still,
As they dance down the dells;
And weel I lo'e the land, my lads,
That's girded by the sea;
Then Scotland's dales, and Scotland's vales,
And Scotland's hills for me--
I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet
Wi' a' the honours three.
The thistle wags upon the fields
Where Wallace bore his blade,
That gave her foemen's dearest bluid
To dye her auld gray plaid;
And looking to the lift, my lads,
He sang this doughty glee--
Auld Scotland's right, and Scotland's might,
And Scotland's hills for me--
I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet
Wi' a' the honours three.
They tell o' lands wi' brighter skies,
Where freedom's voice ne'er rang;
Gie me the hills where Ossian lies,
And Coila's minstrel sang;
For I've nae skill o' lands, my lads,
That ken nae to be free;
Then Scotland's right, and Scotland's might,
And Scotland's hills for me--
I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet
Wi' a' the honours three.
 This song, set to music by Mr Peter M'Leod, was published in a
I sat in the vale, 'neath the hawthorns so hoary,
And the gloom of my bosom seem'd deep as their shade,
For remembrance was fraught with the far-travell'd story,
That told where the dust of the minstrel was laid:
I saw not his harp on the wild boughs above me,
I heard not its anthems the mountains among;
But the flow'rets that bloom'd on his grave were more lovely
Than others would seem to the earth that belong.
"Sleep on," said my soul, "in the depths of thy slumber
Sleep on, gentle bard! till the shades pass away;
For the lips of the living the ages shall number
That steal o'er thy heart in its couch of decay:
Oh! thou wert beloved from the dawn of thy childhood,
Beloved till the last of thy suffering was seen,
Beloved now that o'er thee is waving the wild-wood,
And the worm only living where rapture hath been.
"Till the footsteps of time are their travel forsaking,
No form shall descend, and no dawning shall come,
To break the repose that thy ashes are taking,
And call them to life from their chamber of gloom:
Yet sleep, gentle bard! for, though silent for ever,
Thy harp in the hall of the chieftain is hung;
No time from the mem'ry of mankind shall sever
The tales that it told, and the strains that it sung."
AIR--_"Buccleuch Gathering."_
No sky shines so bright as the sky that is spread
O'er the land that gave birth to the first breath we drew--
Such radiance but lives in the eye of the maid
That is dear to our heart--to our heart ever true.
With her--yes, with her that this spirit has bless'd,
'Neath my dear native sky let my home only be;
And the valley of flowers, and the heath-covered waste,
Shall alike have a spell of enchantment for me.
Let her eye pour its light o'er the joy of my heart,
Or mingle its beam with the gloom of my woe,
And each shadow of care from the soul shall depart,
Save of care that on her it is bliss to bestow.
My thought shall not travel to sun-lighted isles,
Nor my heart own a wish for the wealth they may claim,
But live and be bless'd in rewarding her smiles
With the song of the harp that shall hallow her name.
The anthems of music delightful may roll,
Or eloquence flow as the waves of the sea,
But the sounds that enchantment can shed o'er the soul
Are--the lass that we love, and the land that is free!
I form'd a green bower by the rill o' yon glen,
Afar from the din and the dwellings of men;
Where still I might linger in many a dream,
And mingle my strains wi' the voice o' the stream.
From the cave and the cliff, where the hill foxes roam,
Where the earn has his nest and the raven his home,
I brought the young flower-buds ere yet they had smiled,
And taught them to bloom round my bower of the wild.
But the fair maidens came, from yon vale far away,
And sought my lone grotto still day after day,
And soon were the stems of their fair blossoms shorn
That the flowers of the bard might their ringlets adorn.
Full fair were they all, but the maiden most fair
Would still have no flower till I pull'd it with care;
And gentle, and simple, and modest, and mild,
She stole my lone heart in the bower of the wild.
The summer is past, and the maidens are gone,
And this heart, like my grotto, is wither'd and lone,
And yet, with the winter, I'll cease not to mourn,
Unless, with the blossoms, these fair ones return.
Oh! had they ne'er come, or had ne'er gone away,
I sing in my sorrow still day after day.
The scene seems a desert--the charm is exiled,
And woe to my blooms and my bower of the wild!
I winna love the laddie that ca's the cart and pleugh,
Though he should own that tender love, that's only felt by few;
For he that has this bosom a' to fondest love betray'd,
Is the faithfu' shepherd laddie that wears the crook and plaid;
For he's aye true to his lassie--he's aye true to his lassie,
Who wears the crook and plaid.
At morn he climbs the mountains wild his fleecy flocks to view,
Sae blithe it is the laddie wi' that wears the crook and plaid;
And he's aye true, &c.
At noon he leans him down upon the high and heathy fell,
And views his flocks, beneath him a', fair feeding in the dell;
And there he sings the sangs o' love, the sweetest ever made;
O! how happy is the laddie that wears the crook and plaid;
And he's aye true, &c.
He pu's the bells o' heather red, and the lily-flowers sae meek,
Ca's the lily like my bosom, and the heath-bell like my cheek;
His words are sweet and tender, as the dews frae heaven shed;
And weel I love to list the lad who wears the crook and plaid;
For he's aye true, &c.
For he's aye true, &c.
Beneath the spreading hawthorn gray, that's growing in the glen,
He meets me in the gloamin' aye, when nane on earth can ken,
To woo and vow, and there I trow, whatever may be said,
He kens aye unco weel the way to row me in his plaid;
For he's aye true, &c.
The youth o' mony riches may to his fair one ride,
And woo across the table cauld his madam-titled bride;
But I'll gang to the hawthorn gray, where cheek to cheek is laid,
And he's aye true, &c.
To own the truth o' tender love what heart wad no comply,
Since love gives purer happiness than aught aneath the sky?
If love be in the bosom, then the heart is ne'er afraid;
Oh, lassie! if thou'lt gang to yonder glen wi' me,
I'll weave the wilds amang a bonnie bower for thee;
I'll weave a bonnie bower o' the birks and willows green,
And to my heart thou'lt be what nae other e'er has been.
When the dew is on the flower, and the starlight on the lea,
In the bonnie green-wood bower I'll wake my harp to thee;
I'll wake my hill-harp's strain, and the echoes o' the dell
Shall restore the tales again that its notes o' love shall tell.
Oh, lassie! thou art fair as the morning's early beam,
As the image of a flower reflected frae the stream;
There's kindness in thy heart, and there's language in thine e'e,
Oh, lassie! wert thou mine I wad love thee wi' such love
As the lips can ne'er define, and the cold can never prove;
In the bower by yonder stream our happy home should be,
And our life a blissful dream, while I lived alone for thee.
When I am far away my thoughts on thee shall rest,
Allured, as by a ray, frae the dwellings o' the blest;
For beneath the clouds o' dew, where'er my path may be,
Oh! a maiden fair as thou, I again shall never see!
When the star of the morning is set,
And the heavens are beauteous and blue,
And the bells of the heather are wet
With the drops of the deep-lying dew;
'Mong the flocks on the mountains that lie,
'Twas blithesome and blissful to be,
When these all my thoughts would employ;
But now I must think upon thee.
When noontide displays all its powers,
And the flocks to the valley return,
To lie and to feed 'mong the flowers
That bloom on the banks of the burn;
O sweet, sweet it was to recline
'Neath the shade of yon hoar hawthorn-tree,
And think on the charge that was mine;
But now I must think upon thee.
When Gloaming stole down from the rocks,
With her fingers of shadowy light,
And the dews of the eve in her locks,
To spread down a couch for the night;
'Twas sweet through yon green birks to stray,
That border the brook and the lea;
But now, 'tis a wearisome way,
Unless it were travell'd with thee.
All lovely and pure as thou art,
And generous of thought and of will,
Oh Mary! speak thou to this heart,
And bid its wild beating be still;
I'd give all the ewes in the fold--
I'd give all the lambs on the lea,
By night or by day to behold
One look of true kindness from thee.
Though all fair was that bosom, heaving white,
While hung this fond spirit o'er thee;
And though that eye, with beauty's light,
Still bedimm'd every eye before thee;
Oh! charms there were still more divine,
When woke that melting voice of thine,
The charms that caught this soul of mine,
And taught it to adore thee.
Then died the woes of the heart away
With the thoughts of joys departed;
For my soul seem'd but to live in thy lay,
While it told of the faithful-hearted.
Methought how sweet it were to be
Far in some wild green glen with thee;
From all of life and of longing free,
Save what pure love imparted.
Oh! I could stray where the drops of dew
Never fell on the desert round me,
And dwell where the fair flowers never grew
If the hymns of thy voice still found me.
Thy smile itself could the soul invest
With all that here makes mortals bless'd;
While every thought thy lips express'd
In deeper love still bound me.
Would that I were where wild woods wave
Aboon the beds where sleep the brave;
And where the streams o' Scotia lave
Her hills and glens o' grandeur!
Where freedom reigns, and friendship dwells,
Bright as the sun upon the fells,
When autumn brings the heather-bells
In all their native splendour.
The thistle wi' the hawthorn joins,
The birks mix wi' the mountain pines,
And heart with dauntless heart combines
For ever to defend her.
Then would I were, &c.
There roam the kind, and live the leal,
By lofty ha' and lowly shiel;
And she for whom the heart must feel
A kindness still mair tender.
Fair, where the light hill breezes blaw,
The wild-flowers bloom by glen and shaw;
But she is fairer than them a',
Wherever she may wander.
Then would I were, &c.
Still, far or near, by wild or wood,
I'll love the generous, wise, and good;
But she shall share the dearest mood
That Heaven to life may render.
What boots it then thus on to stir,
And still from love's enjoyment err,
Must all this heart surrender.
Then would I were, &c.
Oh! tell me what sound is the sweetest to hear--
The sound that can most o'er our being prevail?
'Tis the sweet melting voice of the maid we love dear,
When chanting the songs of her own native vale.
More thrilling is this than the tone of the gale,
Awakening the wind-harp's wild wandering lore;
More sweet than the songster that sings in the dale,
When the strains of the rest of the warblers are o'er.
Oh! tell me what light, of the earth or the sky,
Can the deepest delight to the spirit impart?
'Tis the bright beaming radiance that lives in the eye
Of the maid that affection has bound to the heart.
More charming is this than the glory of art,
More lovely than rays from yon heavens above;
It heightens each joy, as it soothes every smart,
Enchanting our souls with the magic of love.
Oh! tell me what drop is most melting and meek
That aught 'neath the azure of heaven can share?
'Tis the tear-drop that falls o'er the dear maiden's cheek
When she breathes o'er her lover her sigh and her prayer!
More tender is this--more celestial and fair--
Than the dew-drop that springs from the chamber of morn;
A balm that still softens the ranklings of care,
And heals every wound that the bosom hath borne.
Our Mary liket weel to stray
Where clear the burn was rowin',
And trouth she was, though I say sae,
As fair as ought ere made o' clay,
And pure as ony gowan.
And happy, too, as ony lark
The clud might ever carry;
She shunn'd the ill, and sought the good,
E'en mair than weel was understood;
And a' fouk liket Mary.
But she fell sick wi' some decay,
When she was but eleven;
And as she pined frae day to day,
We grudged to see her gaun away,
Though she was gaun to Heaven.
There's fears for them that's far awa',
And fykes for them are flitting,
But fears and cares, baith grit and sma',
We, by and by, o'er-pit them a';
But death there's nae o'er-pitting.
And nature's bands are hard to break,
When thus they maun be broken;
And e'en the form we loved to see,
We canna lang, dear though it be,
Preserve it as a token.
But Mary had a gentle heart--
Heaven did as gently free her;
Yet lang afore she reach'd that part,
Dear sir, it wad hae made ye start
Had ye been there to see her.
Sae changed, and yet sae sweet and fair,
And growing meek and meeker,
Wi' her lang locks o' yellow hair,
She wore a little angel's air,
Ere angels cam to seek her.
And when she couldna stray out by,
The wee wild-flowers to gather;
She oft her household plays wad try,
To hide her illness frae our eye,
Lest she should grieve us farther.
But ilka thing we said or did,
Aye pleased the sweet wee creature;
Indeed ye wad hae thought she had
A something in her made her glad
Ayont the course o' nature.
For though disease, beyont remeed,
Was in her frame indented,
Yet aye the mair as she grew ill,
She grew and grew the lovelier still,
And mair and mair contented.
But death's cauld hour cam' on at last,
As it to a' is comin';
And may it be, whene'er it fa's,
Nae waur to others than it was
To Mary, sweet wee woman!
estimation for the extent of her information and the unclouded
Sweet bard of Ettrick's glen!
Where art thou wandering?
Miss'd is thy foot on the mountain and lea.
Why round yon craggy rocks
Wander thy heedless flocks,
While lambies are list'ning and bleating for thee?
Cold as the mountain stream,
Pale as the moonlight beam,
Still is thy bosom, and closed is thine e'e.
Wild may the tempest's wave
Sweep o'er thy lonely grave;
Thou art deaf to the storm--it is harmless to thee.
Like a meteor's brief light,
Like the breath of the morning,
Thy life's dream hath pass'd as a shadow gone by;
Till thy soft numbers stealing
O'er mem'ry's warm feeling,
Each line is embalm'd with a tear or a sigh.
Sweet was thy melody,
Rich as the rose's dye,
Shedding its odours o'er sorrow or glee;
Love laugh'd on golden wing,
Pleasure's hand touch'd the string,
All taught the strain to sing, Shepherd, by thee.
Cold on Benlomond's brow
Flickers the drifted snow,
While down its sides the wild cataracts foam;
Winter's mad winds may sweep
Fierce o'er each glen and steep,
Thy rest is unbroken, and peaceful thy home.
And when on dewy wing
Comes the sweet bird of spring,
Chanting its notes on the bush or the tree;
Low in the waving grass,
Shall, cow'ring, sing sadly its farewell to thee.
 This song was composed by Mrs Inglis, in honour of the Ettrick
Shepherd, shortly after the period of his death.
Leafless and bare were the shrub and the flower,
Cauld was the drift that blew over yon mountain,
But caulder my heart at his last ling'ring hour,
Though warm was the tear-drap that fell frae my e'e.
O saft is the tint o' the gowan sae bonny,
The blue heather-bell and the rose sweet as ony,
But softer the blink o' his bonnie blue e'e,
And sweeter the smile o' young Jamie.
Dark lowers the cloud o'er yon mountain sae hie,
Faint gloams the sun through the mists o' the ocean,
Rough rows the wave on whose bosom I see
The wee bit frail bark that bears Jamie frae me.
Oh, lang may I look o'er yon wild waste sae dreary,
And lang count the hours, now so lonesome and weary,
And oft may I see the leaf fade frae the tree,
Ere I see the blithe blink o' his bonnie blue e'e.
Cheerless and wae, on yon snaw-cover'd thorn,
Mournfu' and lane is the chirp o' the Robin,
He looks through the storm, but nae shelter can see;
Come, Robin, and join the sad concert wi' me.
Oh, lang may I look o'er yon foam-crested billow,
And Hope dies away like a storm-broken willow;
Sweet Robin, the blossom again ye may see,
But I'll ne'er see the blink o' his bonnie blue e'e.
 Printed for the first time.
Let Highland lads, wi' belted plaids,
And bonnets blue and white cockades,
Put on their shields, unsheathe their blades,
And conquest fell begin;
And let the word be Scotland's heir:
And when their swords can do nae mair,
Lang bowstrings o' their yellow hair
Let Hieland lasses spin, laddie.
Charlie's bonnet's down, laddie,
Kilt yer plaid and scour the heather;
Charlie's bonnet's down, laddie,
Draw yer dirk and rin.
Mind Wallace wight, auld Scotland's light,
And Douglas bright, and Scrymgeour's might,
And Murray Bothwell's gallant knight,
And Ruthven light and trim--
Kirkpatrick black, wha in a crack
Laid Cressingham upon his back,
Garr'd Edward gather up his pack,
And ply his spurs and rin, laddie.
Charlie's bonnet's down, &c.
Heard ye the bagpipe, or saw ye the banners
That floated sae light o'er the fields o' Kildairlie;
Saw ye the broadswords, the shields and the tartan hose,
Heard ye the muster-roll sworn to Prince Charlie?
Saw ye brave Appin, wi' bonnet and belted plaid,
Plant the white rose in their bonnets for Charlie?
Saw ye the halls o' auld Holyrood lighted up,
Kenn'd ye the nobles that revell'd sae rarely;
Saw ye the chiefs of Lochiel and Clanronald,
Wha rush'd frae their mountains to follow Prince Charlie?
But saw ye the blood-streaming fields of Culloden,
Or kenn'd ye the banners were tatter'd sae sairly;
Heard ye the pibroch sae wild and sae wailing,
That mourn'd for the chieftains that fell for Prince Charlie.
Wha, in yon Highland glen, weary and shelterless,
Pillows his head on the heather sae barely;
Wha seeks the darkest night, wha maunna face the light,
Borne down by lawless might--gallant Prince Charlie?
Wha, like the stricken deer, chased by the hunter's spear,
Fled frae the hills o' his father sae scaredly;
But wha, by affection's chart, reigns in auld Scotland's heart--
Wha but the royal, the gallant Prince Charlie?
When the morning's first ray saw the mighty in arms,
And the tyrant's proud banners insultingly wave,
And the slogan of battle from beauty's fond arms
Roused the war-crested chieftain, his country to save;
The sunbeam that rose on our mountain-clad warriors,
And reflected their shields in the green rippling wave,
In its course saw the slain on the fields of their fathers,
And shed its last ray on their cold bloody graves.
O'er those green beds of honour our war-song prepare,
And the red sword of vengeance triumphantly wave,
While the ghosts of the slain cry aloud--Do not spare,
Lead to victory and freedom, or die with the brave;
For the high soul of freedom no tyrant can fetter,
Like the unshackled billows our proud shores that lave;
Though oppressed, he will watch o'er the home of his fathers,
And rest his wan cheek on the tomb of the brave.
To arms, then! to arms! Let the battle-cry rise,
Like the raven's hoarse croak, through their ranks let it sound;
Set their knell on the wing of each arrow that flies,
Till the shouts of the free shake the mountains around;
Let the cold-blooded, faint-hearted changeling now tremble,
For the war-shock shall reach to his dark-centered cave,
While the laurels that twine round the brows of the victors
Shall with rev'rence be strew'd o'er the tombs of the brave.
Removed from vain fashion,
From title's proud ken,
In a straw-cover'd cottage,
Deep hid in yon glen,
There dwells a sweet flow'ret,
Pure, lovely, and fair,
Though rear'd, like the snowdrop,
'Midst hardships' chill air.
No soft voice of kindred,
Or parent she knows--
In the desert she blooms,
Like the sweet mountain rose,
Like the little stray'd lammie
That bleats on the lea;
She's soft, kind, and gentle,
And dear, dear to me.
Though the rich dews of fortune
Ne'er water'd this stem,
Nor one fostering sunbeam
Matured the rich gem--
Oh! give me that pure bosom,
Her lot let me share,
I'll laugh at distinction,
And smile away care.
When shall we meet again,
Meet ne'er to sever?
When shall Peace wreath her chain
Round us for ever?
When shall our hearts repose,
Safe from each breath that blows,
In this dark world of woes?
Never! oh, never!
Fate's unrelenting hand
Long may divide us,
Yet in one holy land
One God shall guide us.
Then, on that happy shore,
Care ne'er shall reach us more,
Earth's vain delusions o'er,
Angels beside us.
There, where no storms can chill,
False friends deceive us,
Where, with protracted thrill,
Hope cannot grieve us;
There with the pure in heart,
Far from fate's venom'd dart,
There shall we meet to part
Never! oh, never!
compositions are distinguished by earnestness of expression and
sentiment.
The lake is at rest, love,
The sun's on its breast, love,
How bright is its water, how pleasant to see;
Its verdant banks shewing
The richest flowers blowing,
A picture of bliss and an emblem of thee!
Then, O fairest maiden!
When earth is array'd in
The beauties of heaven o'er mountain and lea,
Let me still delight in
The glories that brighten,
For they are, dear Anna, sweet emblems of thee.
But, Anna, why redden?
I would not, fair maiden,
My tongue could pronounce what might tend to betray;
The traitor, the demon,
That could deceive woman,
His soul's all unfit for the glories of day.
Believe me then, fairest,
To me thou art dearest;
And though I in raptures view lake, stream, and tree,
With flower blooming mountains,
And crystalline fountains,
I view them, fair maid, but as emblems of thee.
No sound was heard o'er the broom-cover'd valley,
Save the lone stream o'er the rock as it fell,
Warm were the sunbeams, and glancing so gaily,
That gold seem'd to dazzle along the flower'd vale.
At length from the hill I heard,
Plaintively wild, a bard,
Yet pleasant to me was his soul's ardent flow;
"Remember what Morard says,
Morard of many days,
Life's like the dew on the hill of the roe.
"Son of the peaceful vale, keep from the battle plain,
Sad is the song that the bugle-horns sing;
Though lovely the standard it waves o'er the mangled slain,
Widows' sighs stretching its broad gilded wing.
Hard are the laws that bind
Poor foolish man and blind;
But free thou may'st walk as the breezes that blow,
Thy cheeks with health's roses spread,
Till time clothes with snow thy head,
Fairer than dew on the hill of the roe.
"Wouldst thou have peace in thy mind when thou'rt hoary,
Shun vice's paths in the days of thy bloom;
Innocence leads to the summit of glory,
Innocence gilds the dark shades of the tomb.
The tyrant, whose hands are red,
Trembles alone in bed;
But pure is the peasant's soul, pure as the snow,
No horror fiends haunt his rest,
Hope fills his placid breast,
Hope bright as dew on the hill of the roe."
Ceased the soft voice, for gray mist was descending,
Slow rose the bard and retired from the hill,
The blackbird's mild notes with the thrush's were blending,
Oft scream'd the plover her wild notes and shrill,
Yet still from the hoary bard,
Methought the sweet song I heard,
Mix'd with instruction and blended with woe;
And oft as I pass along,
Chimes in mine ear his song,
"Life's like the dew on the hill of the roe."
Ca' the yowes to the knowes,
Ca' them where the heather grows,
Ca' them where the burnie rows,
My bonnie dearie.
As I gaed down the water-side,
There I met my shepherd lad,
He row'd me sweetly in his plaid,
An' he ca'd me his dearie.
"Will ye gang down the water-side,
And see the waves sae sweetly glide
Beneath the hazels spreading wide?
The moon it shines fu' clearly.
"Ye shall get gowns and ribbons meet,
Cauf-leather shoon to thy white feet,
And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep,
And ye shall be my dearie."
"If ye'll but stand to what ye've said,
I'se gang wi' you, my shepherd lad,
And ye may row me in your plaid,
And I shall be your dearie."
"While water wimples to the sea,
While day blinks in the lift sae hie,
Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my e'e,
Ye shall be my dearie."
 Of this song a new version was composed by Burns, the original
chorus being retained. Burns' version commences--"Hark the mavis'
Mitchell employed himself latterly in forwarding the sale of his
What wakes the Poet's lyre?
What kindles his poetic fire?
What makes him seek, at evening's hour,
The lonely glen, the leafy bower,
When dew hangs on each little flower?
What melts the soldier's soul?
What can his love of fame control?
For oft, amid the battle's rage,
Some lovely vision will engage
His thoughts and war's rough ills assuage:
Such power has Beauty.
What tames the savage mood?
What gives a polish to the rude?
What gives the peasant's lowly state
A charm which wealth cannot create,
And on the good alone will wait?
'Tis faithful Beauty.
Then let our favourite toast
Is it not king and peasant's boast?
Then let us guard with tender care
The gentle, th' inspiring fair,
And Love will a diviner air
Star of descending Night!
Lovely and fair,
Robed in thy mellow light,
Subtle and rare;
Whence are thy silvery beams,
That o'er lone ocean gleams,
And in our crystal streams
Dip their bright hair?
Far in yon liquid sky,
Where streamers play
And the red lightnings fly,
Hold'st thou thy way;
Clouds may envelop thee,
Winds rave o'er land and sea,
O'er them thy march is free
As thine own ray.
Oh! waft me to the fairy clime
Where Fancy loves to roam,
Where Hope is ever in her prime,
And Friendship has a home;
There will I wander by the streams
Where Song and Dance combine,
Around my rosy waking dreams
Ecstatic joys to twine.
On Music's swell my thoughts will soar
Above created things,
And revel on the boundless shore
Of rapt imaginings.
The rolling spheres beyond earth's ken
My fancy will explore,
And seek, far from the haunts of men,
The Poet's mystic lore.
Love will add gladness to the scene,
And strew my path with flowers;
And Joy with Innocence will lean
Amid my rosy bowers.
Then waft me to the fairy clime
Where Fancy loves to roam,
Where Hope is ever in her prime,
And Friendship has a home.
The love-sick maid, the love-sick maid,
Ah! who will comfort bring to the love-sick maid?
Can the doctor cure her woe
When she will not let him know
Why the tears incessant flow
From the love-sick maid?
The flaunting day, the flaunting day,
She cannot bear the glare of the flaunting day!
For she sits and pines alone,
And will comfort take from none;
Nay, the very colour's gone
From the love-sick maid.
The secret 's out, the secret 's out,
A doctor has been found, and the secret 's out!
For she finds at e'ening's hour,
In a rosy woodland bower,
Charms worth a prince's dower
To a love-sick maid.
regretted by his friends. He left a widow, who died lately in
The maid who wove the rosy wreath
With every flower--hath wrought a spell,
And though her chaplets fragrance breathe
And balmy sweets--I know full well,
'Neath every bud, or blossom gay,
There lurks a chain--Love's tyranny.
Though round her ruby lips, enshrin'd,
Sits stillness, soft as evening skies--
Though crimson'd cheek you seldom find,
Or glances from her downcast eyes--
There lurks, unseen, a world of charms,
Which ne'er betray young Love's alarms.
O trust not to her silent tongue;
Her settled calm, or absent smile;
Nor dream that nymph, so fair and young,
May not enchain in Love's soft guile;
For where Love is--or what's Love's spell--
No mortal knows--no tongue can tell.
 This song was addressed by Mr Jamieson to Miss Jane Morrison of
WELSH AIR--_"Sir William Watkin Wynne."_
From Beauty's soft lip, like the balm of its roses,
Or breath of the morning, a sigh took its flight;
Nor far had it stray'd forth, when Pity proposes
The wanderer should lodge in this bosom a night.
But scarce had the guest, in that peaceful seclusion,
His lodging secured, when a conflict arose,
Each feeling was changed, every thought was delusion,
Nor longer my breast knew the calm of repose.
They say that young Love is a rosy-cheek'd bowyer,
At random the shafts from his silken string fly,
But surely the urchin of peace is destroyer,
Whose arrows are dipp'd in the balm of a sigh.
O yes! for he whisper'd, "To Beauty's shrine hie thee;
There worship to Cupid, and wait yet awhile;
A cure she can give, with the balm can supply thee,
The wound from a sigh can be cured by a smile."
countenance wore the aspect of intelligence.
AIR--_"Loudon's Bonnie Woods and Braes."_
And can thy bosom bear the thought
To part frae love and me, laddie?
Are all those plighted vows forgot,
Sae fondly pledged by thee, laddie?
Canst thou forget the midnight hour,
When in yon love-inspiring bower,
You vow'd by every heavenly power
You'd ne'er lo'e ane but me, laddie?
Wilt thou--wilt thou gang and leave me--
Win my heart and then deceive me?
Oh! that heart will break, believe me,
Gin' ye part wi' me, laddie.
Aft ha'e ye roos'd my rosy cheek,
Aft praised my sparkling e'e, laddie,
Aft said nae bliss on earth ye'd seek,
But love and live wi' me, laddie.
But soon those cheeks will lose their red,
Those eyes in endless sleep be hid,
And 'neath the turf the heart be laid
That beats for love and thee, laddie.
Wilt thou--wilt thou gang and leave me--
Win my heart and then deceive me?
Oh! that heart will break, believe me,
Gin ye part frae me, laddie.
You'll meet a form mair sweet and fair,
Where rarer beauties shine, laddie,
But, oh! the heart can never bear
A love sae true as mine, laddie.
But when that heart is laid at rest--
That heart that lo'ed ye last and best--
Oh! then the pangs that rend thy breast
Will sharper be than mine, laddie.
Broken vows will vex and grieve me,
Till a broken heart relieve me--
Yet its latest thought, believe me,
Will be love an' thine, laddie.
Sweet's the dew-deck'd rose in June
And lily fair to see, Annie,
But there's ne'er a flower that blooms
Is half so fair as thee, Annie.
Beside those blooming cheeks o' thine
The opening rose its beauties tine,
Thy lips the rubies far outshine,
Love sparkles in thine e'e, Annie.
The snaw that decks yon mountain top
Nae purer is than thee, Annie;
The haughty mien and pridefu' look
Are banish'd far frae thee, Annie.
And in thy sweet angelic face
Triumphant beams each modest grace;
And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace
A form sae bright as thine, Annie.
Wha could behold thy rosy cheek
And no feel love's sharp pang, Annie;
What heart could view thy smiling looks,
And plot to do thee wrang, Annie?
Thy name in ilka sang I'll weave,
My heart, my soul, wi' thee I'll leave,
And never, till I cease to breathe,
I'll cease to think on thee, Annie.
On the fierce savage cliffs that look down on the flood,
Where to ocean the dark waves of Gabia haste,
All lonely, a maid of black Africa stood,
Gazing sad on the deep and the wide roaring waste.
A bark for Columbia hung far on the tide,
And still to that bark her dim wistful eye clave;
Ah! well might she gaze--in the ship's hollow side,
Moan'd her Zoopah in chains--in the chains of a slave.
Like the statue of Sorrow, forgetting to weep,
Long dimly she follow'd the vanishing sail,
Till it melted away where clouds mantle the deep;
Then thus o'er the billows she utter'd her wail:--
"O my Zoopah come back! wilt thou leave me to woe?
Come back, cruel ship, and take Monia too!
Ah ye winds, wicked winds! what fiend bids ye blow
To waft my dear Zoopah far, far from my view?
"Great Spirit! why slumber'd the wrath of thy clouds,
When the savage white men dragg'd my Zoopah away?
Why linger'd the panther far back in his woods?
Was the crocodile full of the flesh of his prey?
"Ah cruel white monsters! plague poison their breath,
And sleep never visit the place of their bed!
On their children and wives, on their life and their death,
Abide still the curse of an African maid!"
J. C. Denovan was born at Edinburgh in 1798. Early evincing a
Thou hast left me, dear Dermot! to cross the wide seas,
And thy Norah lives grieving in sadness forlorn,
She laments and looks back on the past happy days
When thy presence had left her no object to mourn
Those days that are past,
Too joyous to last,
A pang leaves behind them, 'tis Heaven's decree;
No joy now is mine,
In sadness I pine,
Till Dermot, dear Dermot, returns back to me.
O Dermot, dear Dermot! why, why didst thou leave
The girl who holds thee so dear in her heart?
Oh! couldst thou hold a thought that would cause her to grieve,
Or think for one moment from Norah to part?
Couldst thou reconcile
To leave this dear isle,
In a far unknown country, where dangers there be?
Oh! for thy dear sake
This poor heart will break,
If thou, dear beloved one, return not to me.
In silence I 'll weep till my Dermot doth come,
Alone will I wander by moon, noon, and night,
Still praying of Heaven to send him safe home
To her who 'll embrace him with joy and delight.
Then come, like a dove,
To thy faithful love,
Whose heart will entwine thee, fond, joyous, and free;
From danger's alarms
Speed to her open arms,
O Dermot, dear loved one! return back to me.
John Imlah, one of the sweetest and most patriotic of Scottish
AIR--_"The Humours of Glen."_
O distant but dear is that sweet island, wherein
My hopes with my Kathleen and kindred abide;
And far though I wander from thee, emerald Erin!
No space can the links of my love-chain divide.
Fairest spot of the earth! brightest gem of the ocean!
How oft have I waken'd my wild harp in thee!
While, with eye of expression, and heart of emotion,
Listen'd, Kathleen mavourneen, cuishlih ma chree!
The bloom of the moss-rose, the blush of the morning,
The soft cheek of Kathleen discloses their dye;
What ruby can rival the lip of mavourneen?
What sight-dazzling diamond can equal her eye?
Her silken hair vies with the sunbeam in brightness,
And white is her brow as the surf of the sea;
Thy footstep is like to the fairy's in lightness,
Of Kathleen mavourneen, cuishlih ma chree!
Fair muse of the minstrel! beloved of my bosom!
As the song of thy praise and my passion I breathed,
Thy fair fingers oft, with the triad leaf'd blossom,
Sweet Erin's green emblem, my wild harp have wreathed;
While with soft melting murmurs the bright river ran on,
That by thy bower follows the sun to the sea;
And oh! soon dawn the day I review the sweet Shannon
And Kathleen mavourneen, cuishlih ma chree!
AIR--_"O'er the Muir amang the Heather."_
Hey for the Hielan' heather!
Hey for the Hielan' heather!
Dear to me, an' aye shall be,
The bonnie braes o' Hielan' heather!
The moss-muir black an' mountain blue,
Whare mists at morn an' gloamin' gather;
The craigs an' cairns o' hoary hue,
Whare blooms the bonnie Hielan' heather!
Hey for the Hielan' heather!
Whare monie a wild bird wags its wing,
Baith sweet o' sang an' fair o' feather;
While cavern'd cliffs wi' echo ring,
Amang the hills o' Hielan' heather!
Hey for the Hielan' heather!
Whare, light o' heart an' light o' heel,
Young lads and lasses trip thegither;
The native Norlan rant and reel
Amang the halesome Hielan' heather!
Hey for the Hielan' heather!
The broom an' whin, by loch an' lin,
Are tipp'd wi' gowd in simmer weather;
How sweet an' fair! but meikle mair
The purple bells o' Hielan' heather!
Hey for the Hielan' heather!
Whare'er I rest, whare'er I range,
My fancy fondly travels thither;
Nae countrie charms, nae customs change
My feelings frae the Hielan' heather!
Hey, for the Hielan' heather!
Loved land of my kindred, farewell--and for ever!
Oh! what can relief to the bosom impart;
When fated with each fond endearment to sever,
And hope its sweet sunshine withholds from the heart!
Farewell, thou fair land! which, till life's pulse shall perish,
Though doom'd to forego, I shall never forget,
Wherever I wander, for thee will I cherish
The dearest regard and the deepest regret.
Farewell, ye great Grampians, cloud-robed and crested!
Like your mists in the sunbeam ye melt in my sight;
Your peaks are the king-eagle's thrones--where have rested
The snow-falls of ages--eternally white.
Ah! never again shall the falls of your fountains
Their wild murmur'd music awake on mine ear;
No more the lake's lustre, that mirrors your mountains,
I'll pore on with pleasure--deep, lonely, yet dear.
Yet--yet Caledonia! when slumber comes o'er me,
Oh! oft will I dream of thee, far, far, away;
But vain are the visions that rapture restore me,
To waken and weep at the dawn of the day.
Ere gone the last glimpse, faint and far o'er the ocean,
Where yet my heart dwells--where it ever shall dwell,
While tongue, sigh and tear, speak my spirit's emotion,
My country--my kindred--farewell, oh farewell!
A bonnie Rose bloom'd wild and fair,
As sweet a bud I trow
As ever breathed the morning air,
Or drank the evening dew.
A Zephyr loved the blushing flower,
With sigh and fond love tale;
It woo'd within its briery bower
The rose of Seaton Vale.
With wakening kiss the Zephyr press'd
This bud at morning light;
At noon it fann'd its glowing breast,
And nestled there at night.
But other flowers sprung up thereby,
And lured the roving gale;
The Zephyr left to droop and die
A matchless maiden dwelt by Don,
Loved by as fair a youth;
Long had their young hearts throbb'd as one
Wi' tenderness and truth.
Thy warmest tear, soft Pity, pour--
For Ellen's type and tale
Are in that sweet, ill-fated flower,
Young Donald dearer loved than life
The proud Dunallan's daughter;
But, barr'd by feudal hate and strife,
In vain he loved and sought her.
She loved the Lord of Garry's glen,
The chieftain of Clanronald;
A thousand plaided Highlandmen
Clasp'd the claymore for Donald.
On Scotland rush'd the Danish hordes,
Dunallan met his foemen;
Beneath him bared ten thousand swords
Of vassal, serf, and yeomen.
The fray was fierce--and at its height
Was seen a visor'd stranger,
With red lance foremost in the fight,
Unfearing Dane and danger.
"Be praised--brave knight! thy steel hath striven
The sharpest in the slaughter;
Crave what thou wilt of me--though even
My fair--my darling daughter!"
He lifts the visor from his face--
The chieftain of Clanronald!
And foes enclasp in friends' embrace,
Dunallan and young Donald.
Dunallan's halls ring loud with glee--
The feast-cup glads Glengarry;
The joy that should for ever be
When mutual lovers marry.
The shout and shell the revellers raise,
And minstrel measures pour to praise
Fair Kath'rine and brave Donald!
Guid night, and joy be wi' you a'!
Since it is sae that I maun gang;
Short seem'd the gate to come, but ah!
To gang again as wearie lang.
Sic joyous nights come nae sae thrang
That I sae sune sou'd haste awa';
But since it's sae that I maun gae,
Guid night, and joy be wi' ye a'!
This night I ween we've had the heart
To gar auld Time tak' to his feet;
That makes us a' fu' laith to part,
But aye mair fain again to meet!
To dree the winter's drift and weet
For sic a night is nocht ava,
For hours the sweetest o' the sweet;
Guid night, an' joy be wi' you a'!
Our bald-pow'd daddies here we've seen,
In younker revels fidgin' fain;
Our gray-hair'd grannies here hae been,
Like daffin hizzies, young again!
To mony a merrie auld Scot's strain
We've deftly danced the time awa':
We met in mirth--we part wi' pain,
Guid night, an' joy be wi' you a'!
My nimble gray neighs at the yett,
My shouthers roun' the plaid I throw;
I've clapt the spur upon my buit,
The guid braid bonnet on my brow!
Then night is wearing late I trow--
My hame lies mony a mile awa';
The mair's my need to mount and go,
Guid night, an' joy be wi' you a'!
Rise, rise! Lowland and Highlandman,
Bald sire to beardless son, each come and early;
Rise, rise! mainland and islandmen,
Belt on your broad claymores--fight for Prince Charlie;
Down from the mountain steep,
Up from the valley deep,
Out from the clachan, the bothie, and shieling,
Bugle and battle-drum
Bid chief and vassal come,
Bravely our bagpipes the pibroch is pealing.
Men of the mountains--descendants of heroes!
Heirs of the fame as the hills of your fathers;
Say, shall the Southern--the Sassenach fear us
When to the war-peal each plaided clan gathers?
Too long on the trophied walls
Of your ancestral halls,
Red rust hath blunted the armour of Albin;
Seize then, ye mountain Macs,
Buckler and battle-axe,
When hath the tartan plaid mantled a coward?
When did the blue bonnet crest the disloyal?
Up, then, and crowd to the standard of Stuart,
Follow your leader--the rightful--the royal!
Lovat! Lochiel! with the Grant and the Gordon!
Rouse every kilted clan,
Rouse every loyal man,
Gun on the shoulder, and thigh the good sword on!
There lives a young lassie
Far down yon lang glen,
How I lo'e that lassie
There's nae ane can ken!
Oh! a saint's faith may vary,
But faithfu' I'll be--
For weel I lo'e Mary,
And Mary lo'es me.
Red, red as the rowan
Her smiling wee mou,
An' white as the gowan
Her breast and her brow;
Wi' the foot o' a fairy
She links o'er the lea--
Oh! weel I lo'e Mary,
An' Mary lo'es me.
Where yon tall forest timmer,
An' lowly broom bower,
To the sunshine o' simmer,
Spread verdure an' flower;
There, when night clouds the cary,
Beside her I'll be--
For weel I lo'e Mary,
An' Mary lo'es me!
Oh! gin I were where Gadie rins,
Where Gadie rins, where Gadie rins--
Oh, gin I were where Gadie rins
By the foot o' Bennachie.
I've roam'd by Tweed, I've roam'd by Tay,
But dearer far to me than they
The braes o' Bennachie.
When blade and blossoms sprout in spring,
And bid the burdies wag the wing,
They blithely bob, and soar, and sing
By the foot o' Bennachie.
When simmer cleeds the varied scene
Wi' licht o' gowd and leaves o' green,
I fain would be where aft I've been
At the foot o' Bennachie.
When autumn's yellow sheaf is shorn,
And barn-yards stored wi' stooks o' corn,
'Tis blithe to toom the clyack horn
At the foot o' Bennachie.
When winter winds blaw sharp and shrill
O'er icy burn and sheeted hill,
The ingle neuk is gleesome still
At the foot o' Bennachie.
Though few to welcome me remain,
Though a' I loved be dead and gane,
I'll back, though I should live alane,
To the foot o' Bennachie.
Oh, gin I were where Gadie rins,
Where Gadie rins, where Gadie rins--
Oh, gin I were where Gadie rins
By the foot o' Bennachie.
 The chorus of this song, which is said to have been originally
Oh, an' I were where Gadie rins,
Where Gadie rins, where Gadie rins,
Oh, an' I were where Gadie rins,
At the back o' Bennachie!
I wish I were where Gadie rins,
'Mong fragrant heath and yellow whins,
Or, brawlin' doun the bosky lins
At the back o' Bennachie;
To hear ance mair the blackbird's sang,
To wander birks and braes amang,
Wi' friens and fav'rites, left sae lang,
At the back o' Bennachie.
How mony a day, in blithe spring-time,
How mony a day, in summer's prime,
I wil'd awa' my careless time
On the heights o' Bennachie.
Ah! Fortune's flowers wi' thorns are rife,
And walth is won wi' grief and strife--
Ae day gie me o' youthfu' life
At the back o' Bennachie.
Oh, Mary! there, on ilka nicht,
When baith our hearts were young and licht,
We've wander'd whan the moon was bricht
Wi' speeches fond and free.
Oh! ance, ance mair where Gadie rins,
Where Gadie rins, where Gadie rins--
Oh! micht I dee where Gadie rins
At the back o' Bennachie.
"The air," communicates the reverend author of this song, "is
considerable measure of popularity.
Wading 'mang the dew?
My Annie walks as light
As shadow in the night
Or downy cloudlet light
Alang the fields o' blue.
What like is your Annie,
What like is your Annie,
What like is your Annie,
She's fair as nature's flush,
Blithe as dawning's blush,
And gentle as the hush
When e'ening faulds her e'e.
Yonder comes my Annie,
Yonder comes my Annie,
Yonder comes my Annie,
Bounding o'er the lea.
Lammies play before her,
Birdies whistle o'er her,
I mysell adore her,
In heavenly ecstasy.
Come to my arms, my Annie,
Come to my arms, my Annie,
Come to my arms, my Annie,
Speed, speed, like winged day.
My Annie's rosy cheek
Smiled fair as morning's streak,
We felt, but couldna speak,
'Neath love's enraptured sway.
I could not, as I gazed my last--there was on me a spell,
In all its simple agony--breathe that lone word--"Farewell,"
Which hath no hope that clings to it, the closer as it dies,
In song alone 'twould pass the lips that loved the dear disguise.
I go across a bluer wave than now girds round my bark,
As forth the dove went trembling--but to my Father's ark
Shall I return? I may not ask my doubting heart, but yet
To hope and wish in one--how hard the lesson to forget.
But drooping head and feeble limbs--and, oh! a beating heart,
Remind the vow'd to sing no more of all his weary part;
Yet, with a voice that trembles as the sounds unloose the spell,
In this, his last and rudest lay, he now can breathe--"Farewell."
She's aff and awa', like the lang summer-day,
And our hearts and our hills are now lanesome and dreary;
The sun-blinks o' June will come back ower the brae,
But lang for blithe Mary fu' mony may weary.
For mair hearts than mine
Kenn'd o' nane that were dearer;
But nane mair will pine
For the sweet Mary Shearer!
She cam' wi' the spring, just like ane o' its flowers,
And the blue-bell and Mary baith blossom'd thegither;
The bloom o' the mountain again will be ours,
But the rose o' the valley nae mair will come hither.
Their sweet breath is fled--
Her kind looks still endear her;
For the heart maun be dead
That forgets Mary Shearer!
An e'e that was brighter ne'er glanced on a lover;
Sounds safter ne'er dropt frae an aye-saying tongue,
Nor mair pure is the white o' her bridal-bed cover.
Oh! he maun be bless'd
Wha's allow'd to be near her;
For the fairest and best
O' her kind 's Mary Shearer!
But farewell Glenlin, and Dunoon, and Loch Striven,
My country and kin,--since I 've sae lov'd the stranger;
Whare she 's been maun be either a pine or a heaven--
Sae across the braid warld for a while I'm a ranger.
Though I try to forget,
In my heart still I 'll wear her,
For mine may be yet--
Name and a'--Mary Shearer!
Gardiner was unfortunate as a bookseller, and ultimately obtained
O these are not my country's hills,
Though they seem bright and fair;
Though flow'rets deck their verdant sides,
The heather blooms not there.
Let me behold the mountain steep,
And wild deer roaming free--
The heathy glen, the ravine deep--
O Scotland's hills for me!
The rose, through all this garden-land,
May shed its rich perfume,
But I would rather wander 'mong
My country's bonnie broom.
There sings the shepherd on the hill,
The ploughman on the lea;
There lives my blithesome mountain maid,
O Scotland's hills for me!
The throstle and the nightingale
May warble sweeter strains
Than thrills at lovely gloaming hour
O'er Scotland's daisied plains;
Give me the merle's mellow note,
The linnet's liquid lay;
The laverocks on the roseate cloud--
O Scotland's hills for me!
And I would rather roam beneath
Thy scowling winter skies,
Than listlessly attune my lyre
Where sun-bright flowers arise.
The baron's hall, the peasant's cot
Protect alike the free;
The tyrant dies who breathes thine air;
O Scotland's hills for me!
In southern climes the radiant sun
A brighter light displays;
But I love best his milder beams
That shine on Scotland's braes.
Then dear, romantic native land
If e'er I roam from thee,
I'll ne'er forget the cheering lay;
O Scotland's hills for me!
 See Lockhart's "Life of Sir Walter Scott."
 We have to acknowledge our obligations to Mr Robert Chambers for
Haste, all ye fairy elves, hither to me,
Over the holme so green, over the lea,
Over the corrie, and down by the lake,
Cross ye the mountain-burn, thread ye the brake,
Stop not at muirland, wide river, nor sea:
Hasten, ye fairy elves, hither to me!
Come when the moonbeam bright sleeps on the hill;
Come at the dead of night when all is still;
Come over mountain steep, come over brae,
Through holt and valley deep, through glen-head gray;
Come from the forest glade and greenwood tree;
Hasten, ye fairy elves, hither to me!
Were ye by woodland or cleugh of the brae,
Were ye by ocean rock dash'd by the spray,
Were ye by sunny dell up in the ben,
Or by the braken howe far down the glen,
Or by the river side; where'er ye be,
Hasten, ye fairy elves, hither to me!
Hasten, ye fairy elves, hither to-night,
Haste to your revel sports gleesome and light,
To bathe in the dew-drops, and bask in the Leven,
And dance on the moonbeams far up the heaven,
Then sleep on the rosebuds that bloom on the lea;
Hasten, ye fairy elves, hither to me!
When autumn comes an' heather bells
Bloom bonnie owre yon moorland fells,
An' corn that waves on lowland dales
Is yellow ripe appearing;
Bonnie lassie will ye gang
Shear wi' me the hale day lang;
An' love will mak' us eithly bang
The weary toil o' shearing?
An' if the lasses should envy,
Or say we love, then you an' I
Will pass ilk ither slyly by,
As if we werena caring.
But aye I wi' my heuk will whang
The thistles, if in prickles strang
Your bonnie milk-white hands they wrang,
When we gang to the shearing.
An' aye we'll haud our rig afore,
An' ply to hae the shearing o'er,
Syne you will soon forget you bore
Your neighbours' jibes and jeering.
For then, my lassie, we'll be wed,
When we hae proof o' ither had,
An' nae mair need to mind what's said
When we're thegither shearing.
Gang wi' me to yonder howe, bonnie Peggie, O!
Down ayont the gowan knowe, bonnie Peggie, O!
When the siller burn rins clear,
When the rose blooms on the brier,
An' where there is none to hear, bonnie Peggie, O!
I hae lo'ed you e'en an' morn, bonnie Peggie, O!
You hae laugh'd my love to scorn, bonnie Peggie, O!
My heart's been sick and sair,
But it shall be sae nae mair,
I've now gotten a' my care, bonnie Peggie, O!
You hae said you love me too, bonnie Peggie, O!
An' you've sworn you will be true, bonnie Peggie, O!
Let the world gae as it will,
Be it weel or be it ill,
Nae hap our joy shall spill, bonnie Peggie, O!
Gang wi' me to yonder howe, bonnie Peggie, O!
Where the flowers o' simmer grow, bonnie Peggie, O!
Nae mair my love is cross'd,
Sorrow's sairest pang is past,
I am happy at the last, bonnie Peggie, O!
Oh, to bound o'er the bonnie blue sea,
With the winds and waves for guides,
From all the wants of Nature free
And all her ties besides.
Beyond where footstep ever trode
Would I hold my onward way,
As wild as the waves on which I rode,
And fearless too as they.
The angry winds with lengthen'd sweep
Were music to mine ear;
I'd mark the gulfs of the yawning deep
Close round me without fear.
When winter storms burst from the cloud
And trouble the ocean's breast,
I'd joy me in their roaring loud,
And mid their war find rest.
By islands fair in the ocean placed,
With waves all murmuring round,
My wayward course should still be traced,
And still no home be found.
When calm and peaceful sleeps the tide,
And men look out to sea,
My bark in silence by should glide,
Their wonder and awe to be.
When sultry summer suns prevail,
And rest on the parching land,
The cool sea breeze would I inhale,
O'er the ocean breathing bland.
A restless sprite, that likes delight,
In calm and tempest found,
'Twere joy to me o'er the bonnie blue sea
For ever and aye to bound.
I love the merry moonlight,
So wooingly it dances,
At midnight hours, round leaves and flowers,
On which the fresh dew glances.
I love the merry moonlight,
On lake and pool so brightly
It pours its beams, and in the stream's
Rough current leaps so lightly.
I love the merry moonlight,
It ever shines so cheerily
When night clouds flit, that, but for it,
Would cast a shade so drearily.
I love the merry moonlight,
For when it gleams so mildly
The passions rest that rule the breast
At other times so wildly.
I love the merry moonlight,
For 'neath it I can borrow
Such blissful dreams, that this world seems
Without a sin or sorrow.
 Printed from the author's MS., in the possession of Mr H. S.
Oh, what are the chains of Love made of,
The only bonds that can,
As iron gyves the body, thrall
The free-born soul of man?
Can you twist a rope of beams of the sun,
Or have you power to seize,
And round your hand, like threads of silk,
Wind up the wandering breeze?
Can you collect the morning dew
And, with the greatest pains,
Beat every drop into a link,
And of these links make chains?
More fleeting in their nature still,
And less substantial are
Than sunbeam, breeze, and drop of dew,
Smile, sigh, and tear--by far.
And yet of these Love's chains are made,
The only bonds that can,
As iron gyves the body, thrall
The free-born soul of man.
 Printed for the first time from the original MS.
Oh! would I were throned on yon glossy golden cloud,
Soaring to heaven with the eagle so proud,
Floating o'er the sky
Like a spirit, to descry
Each bright realm,--and, when I die,
May it be my shroud!
I would skim afar o'er ocean, and drink of bliss my fill,
O'er the thunders of Ni'gara and cataracts of Nile,--
With rising rainbows wreathed,
In mist and darkness sheathed,
Where nought but spirits breathed
Around me the while.
Above the mighty Alps (o'er the tempest's angry god
Careering on the avalanche) should be my bless'd abode.
There, where Nature lowers more wild
Than her most uncultured child,
Revels beauty--as one smiled
O'er life's darkest mood.
Our aerial flight should be where eye hath never been,
O'er the stormy Polar deep, where the icy Alps are seen,
Where Death sits, crested high,
As he would invade the sky,
Whilst the living valleys lie
In their beautiful green!
Spirit of the peaceful autumnal eve!
Child of enchantment! behind thee leave
Thy semblance mantled o'er me;
Too full thy tide of glory
For Fancy to restore thee,
Or Memory give!
The moon hung o'er the gay greenwood,
The greenwood o'er the mossy stream,
That roll'd in rapture's wildest mood,
And flutter'd in the fairy beam.
Through light clouds flash'd the fitful gleam
O'er hill and dell,--all Nature lay
Wrapp'd in enchantment, like the dream
Of her that charm'd my homeward way!
Long had I mark'd thee, maiden fair!
And drunk of bliss from thy dark eye,
And still, to feed my fond despair,
Bless'd thy approach, and, passing by,
I turn'd me round to gaze and sigh,
In worship wild, and wish'd thee mine,
On that fair breast to live and die,
O'er-power'd with transport so divine!
Still sacred be that hour to love,
And dear the season of its birth,
And fair the glade, and green the grove,
Its bowers ne'er droop in wintry dearth
Of melody and woodland mirth!--
The hour, the spot, so dear to me!
That wean'd my soul from all on earth,
To be for ever bless'd in thee.
All night, by the pathway that crosses the moor,
I waited on Mary, I linger'd till morn,
Yet thought her not false--she had ever been true
To her tryst by the old blighted thorn.
I had heard of Love lighting to darken the heart,
Fickle, fleeting as wind and the dews of the morn;
Such were not my fears, though I sigh'd all night long,
And wept 'neath the old blighted thorn.
The snows, that were deep, had awaken'd my dread,
I mark'd as footprints far below by the burn;
I sped to the valley--I found her deep sunk,
On her way to the old blighted thorn!
I whisper'd, "My Mary!"--she spoke not: I caught
Her hand, press'd her pale cheek--'twas icy and cold;
Then sunk on her bosom--its throbbings were o'er--
Nor knew how I quitted my hold.
Stay, proud bird of the shore!
Carry my last breath with thee to the cliff,
Where waits our shatter'd skiff--
One that shall mark nor it nor lover more.
Fan with thy plumage bright
Her heaving heart to rest, as thou dost mine;
And, gently to divine
The tearful tale, flap out her beacon-light.
Again swoop out to sea,
With lone and lingering wail--then lay thy head,
As thou thyself wert dead,
Upon her breast, that she may weep for me.
Now let her bid false Hope
For ever hide her beam, nor trust again
The peace-bereaving strain--
Life has, but still far hence, choice flowers to crop.
Oh! bid not her repine,
And deem my loss too bitter to be borne,
Yet all of passion scorn
But the mild, deep'ning memory of mine.
Thou art away, sweet wind!
Bear the last trickling tear-drop on thy wing,
And o'er her bosom fling
The love-fraught pearly shower till rest it find!
Of a fine genius, a gentle and amiable nature, and pure Christian
"A kinder, warmer heart than his
Was ne'er to minstrel given;
And kinder, holier sympathies
Ne'er sought their native heaven."
The blackbird's hymn is sweet
At fall of gloaming,
When slow, o'er grove and hill,
Night's shades are coming;
But there is a sound that far
More deeply moves us--
The low sweet voice of her
Who truly loves us.
Fair is the evening star
Rising in glory,
O'er the dark hill's brow,
Where mists are hoary;
But the star whose rays
The heart falls nearest,
Is the love-speaking eye
Of our heart's dearest.
Oh, lonely, lonely is
The human bosom,
That ne'er has nursed the sweets
Of young Love's blossom!
The loveliest breast is like
A starless morning,
When clouds frown dark and cold,
And storms are forming.
The e'e o' the dawn, Eliza,
Blinks over the dark green sea,
An' the moon 's creepin' down to the hill-tap,
Richt dim and drowsilie.
An' the music o' the mornin'
Is murmurin' alang the air;
Yet still my dowie heart lingers
To catch one sweet throb mair.
We've been as blest, Eliza,
As children o' earth can be,
Though my fondest wish has been knit by
The bonds of povertie;
An' through life's misty sojourn,
That still may be our fa',
But hearts that are link'd for ever
Ha'e strength to bear it a'.
The cot by the mutterin' burnie,
Its wee bit garden an' field,
May ha'e mair o' the blessin's o' Heaven
Than lichts o' the lordliest bield;
There 's many a young brow braided
But woe may be drinkin' the heart-springs,
While we see nought but smiles.
But adieu, my ain Eliza!
Where'er my wanderin's be,
Undyin' remembrance will make thee
The star o' my destinie;
An' well I ken, thou loved one,
That aye, till I return,
Thou 'lt treasure pure faith in thy bosom,
Like a gem in a gowden urn.
Rise, my love! the moon, unclouded,
Wanders o'er the dark blue sea;
Sleep the tyrant's eye has shrouded,
Hynda comes to set thee free!
Leave those vaults of pain and sorrow,
On the long and dreaming deep;
A bower will greet us ere to-morrow,
Where our eyes may cease to weep.
Oh! some little isle of gladness,
Smiling in the waters clear,
Where the dreary tone of sadness
Never smote the lonely ear--
Soon will greet us, and deliver
Souls so true, to freedom's plan;
Death may sunder us, but never
Tyrant's threats, nor fetters can.
Then our lute's exulting numbers,
Unrestrain'd will wander on,
While the night has seal'd in slumbers,
Fair creation, all her own.
And we'll wed, while music stealeth
Through the starry fields above,
While each bounding spirit feeleth
All the luxury of love.
Then we'll scorn oppression's minions,
All the despot's bolts and powers;
While Time wreathes his heavy pinions
With love's brightest passion-flowers.
Rise, then! let us fly together,
Now the moon laughs on the sea;
East or west, I care not whither,
When with love and liberty!
Born where the glorious star-lights trace
In mountain snows their silver face,
Where Nature, vast and rude,
Looks as if by her God design'd
To fill the bright eternal mind,
With her fair magnitude.
Hers was a face, to which was given
Less portion of the earth than heaven,
As if each trait had stole
Its hue from Nature's shapes of light;
As if stars, flowers, and all things bright
Had join'd to form her soul.
Her heart was young--she loved to breathe
The air which spins the mountain's wreath,
To wander o'er the wild,
To list the music of the deep,
To see the round stars on it sleep,
For she was Nature's child!
Nursed where the soul imbibes the print
Of freedom--where nought comes to taint,
Or its warm feelings quell:
She felt love o'er her spirit driven,
Such as the angels felt in heaven,
Before they sinn'd and fell.
Her mind was tutor'd from its birth,
From all that's beautiful on earth--
Lights which cannot expire--
From all their glory, she had caught
A lustre, till each sense seem'd fraught
With heaven's celestial fire.
The desert streams familiar grown,
The stars had language of their own,
The hills contain'd a voice
With which she could converse, and bring
A charm from each insensate thing,
Which bade her soul rejoice.
She had the feeling and the fire,
That fortune's stormiest blast could tire,
Though delicate and young;
Her bosom was not formed to bend--
Adversity, that firmest friend,
Had all its fibres strung.
Such was my love--she scorn'd to hide
A passion which she deem'd a pride!
Oft have we sat and view'd
The beauteous stars walk through the night,
And Cynthia lift her sceptre bright,
To curb old Ocean's mood.
She'd clasp me as if ne'er to part,
That I might feel her beating heart--
Might read her living eye;
Then pause! I've felt the pure tide roll
Through every vein, which to my soul,
Said--Nature could not lie.
My spirit could its vigil hold
For ever at this silent spot;
But, ah! the heart within is cold,
The sleeper heeds me not:
The fairy scenes of love and youth,
The smiles of hope, the tales of truth,
By her are all forgot:
Her spirit with my bliss is fled--
I only weep above the dead!
I need not view the grassy swell,
Nor stone escutcheon'd fair;
I need no monument to tell
That thou art lying there:
I feel within, a world like this,
A fearful blank in all my bliss--
An agonized despair,
Which paints the earth in cheerful bloom,
But tells me, thou art in the tomb!
I knew Death's fatal power, alas
Could doom man's hopes to pine,
But thought that many a year would pass
Before he scatter'd mine!
Too soon he quench'd our morning rays,
Brief were our loves of early days--
Brief as those bolts that shine
With beautiful yet transient form,
Round the dark fringes of the storm!
I little thought, when first we met,
A few short months would see
Thy sun, before its noontide, set
In dark eternity!
While love was beaming from thy face,
A lover's eye but ill could trace
Aught that obscured its ray;
So calm its pain thy bosom bore,
I thought not death was at its core!
The silver moon is shining now
Upon thy lonely bed,
Pale as thine own unblemish'd brow,
Cold as thy virgin head;
She seems to breathe of many a day
Now shrouded with thee in the clay,
Of visions that have fled,
When we beneath her holy flame,
Dream'd over hopes that never came!
Hark! 'tis the solemn midnight bell,
It mars the hallow'd scene;
And must we bid again--farewell!
Must life still intervene?
Its charms are vain! my heart is laid
E'en with thine own, celestial maid!
A few short days have been
An age of pain--a few may be
A welcome passport, love! to thee.
'Tis finish'd, they 've died for their forefathers' land,
As the patriot sons of the mountain should die,
With the mail on each bosom, the sword in each hand,
On the heath of the desert they lie.
Like their own mountain eagles they rush'd to the fight,
Like the oaks of their deserts they braved its rude blast;
Their blades in the morning look'd dazzling and bright,
But red when the battle was past.
They rush'd on, exulting in honour, and met
The foes of their country in battle array;
But the sun of their glory in darkness hath set,
And the flowers of the forest are faded away!
Oh! far from the scenes of their childhood they sleep,
No friend of their bosom, no loved one is near,
To add a gray stone to their cairns on the steep,
Or drop o'er their ashes a tear.
The sky in beauty arch'd
The wide and weltering flood,
While the winds in triumph march'd
Through their pathless solitude--
Rousing up the plume on ocean's hoary crest,
That like space in darkness slept,
When his watch old Silence kept,
Ere the earliest planet leapt
From its breast.
A speck is on the deeps,
Like a spirit in her flight;
How beautiful she keeps
Her stately path in light!
She sweeps the shining wilderness in glee--
The sun has on her smiled,
And the waves, no longer wild,
Sing in glory round that child
Of the sea.
That she tilted o'er the flood,
Moving like God alone
O'er the glorious solitude--
The billows crouch around her as her slaves.
How exulting are her crew--
Each sight to them is new,
As they sweep along the blue
Of the waves!
Fair herald of the fleets
That yet shall cross the wave,
Till the earth with ocean meets
One universal grave,
What armaments shall follow thee in joy!
Linking each distant land
With trade's harmonious band,
Or bearing havoc's brand
To destroy!
Though this wild brain is aching,
Spill not thy tears with mine;
Come to my heart, though breaking,
Its firmest half is thine.
Thou wert not made for sorrow,
Then do not weep with me;
There is a lovely morrow,
That yet will dawn on thee.
When I am all forgotten--
When in the grave I lie--
When the heart that loved thee 's broken,
And closed the sparkling eye;
Love's sunshine still will cheer thee,
Unsullied, pure, and deep;
For the God who 's ever near thee,
Will never see thee weep.
When cities of old days
But meet the savage gaze,
Stream of my early ways
Thou wilt roll.
Though fleets forsake thy breast,
And millions sink to rest--
Of the bright and glorious west
Still the soul.
When the porch and stately arch,
Which now so proudly perch
O'er thy billows, on their march
To the sea,
Are but ashes in the shower;
Still the jocund summer hour,
From his cloud will weave a bower
Over thee.
When the voice of human power
Has ceased in mart and bower,
Still the broom and mountain flower
Will thee bless.
And the mists that love to stray
O'er the Highlands, far away,
Will come down their deserts gray
To thy kiss.
And the stranger, brown with toil,
From the far Atlantic soil,
Like the pilgrim of the Nile,
Yet may come
To search the solemn heaps
That moulder by thy deeps,
Where desolation sleeps,
Though fetters yet should clank
O'er the gay and princely rank
Of cities on thy bank,
All sublime;
Still thou wilt wander on,
Till eternity has gone,
And broke the dial stone
Devoted to the important duties of the clerical office, Mr Torry
Away on the wings of the wind she flies,
Like a thing of life and light--
And she bounds beneath the eastern skies,
And the beauty of eastern night.
Why so fast flies the bark through the ocean's foam,
Why wings it so speedy a flight?
'Tis an Araby maid who hath left her home,
To fly with her Christian knight.
She hath left her sire and her native land,
The land which from childhood she trode,
And hath sworn, by the pledge of her beautiful hand,
To worship the Christian's God.
Then away, away, oh swift be thy flight,
It were death one moment's delay;
For behind there is many a blade glancing bright--
Then away--away--away!
They are safe in the land where love is divine,
In the land of the free and the brave--
They have knelt at the foot of the holy shrine,
Nought can sever them now but the grave.
The maid is at the altar kneeling,
Hark the chant is loudly pealing--
Now it dies away!
Her prayers are said at the holy shrine,
No other thought but thought divine
Doth her sad bosom fill.
The world to her is nothing now,
For she hath ta'en a solemn vow
To do her father's will.
But why hath one so fair, so young,
The joys of life thus from her flung--
Why hath she ta'en the veil?
Her lover fell where the brave should fall,
Amidst the fight, when the trumpet's call
Proclaim'd the victory.
He fought, he fell, a hero brave--
And though he fill a lowly grave,
His name can never die.
The victory's news to the maiden came--
They loudly breathed her lover's name,
Who for his country fell.
But vain the loudest trumpet tone
Of fame to her, when he was gone
To whom the praise was given!
Her sun of life had set in gloom--
Its joys were withered in his tomb--
She vow'd herself to Heaven.
I love the sea, I love the sea,
My childhood's home, my manhood's rest,
My cradle in my infancy--
The only bosom I have press'd.
I cannot breathe upon the land,
Its manners are as bonds to me,
Till on the deck again I stand,
I cannot feel that I am free.
Then tell me not of stormy graves--
Though winds be high, there let them roar;
I 'd rather perish on the waves
Than pine by inches on the shore.
I ask no willow where I lie,
My mourner let the mermaid be,
My only knell the sea-bird's cry,
My winding-sheet the boundless sea!
editorship of the _Dumfries Journal_, a respectable Conservative
"Study to fill your paper," writes Cunningham, "with
such agreeable and diversified matter as will allure
readers; correct intelligence, sprightly and elegant
paragraphs, remarks on men and manners at once free
and generous; and local intelligence pertaining to the
district, such as please men of the Nith in a far land.
These are the staple commodity of a newspaper, and
these you can easily have. A few literary paragraphs
you can easily scatter about; these attract
booksellers, and booksellers will give advertisements
where they find their works are noticed. Above all
things, write cautiously concerning all localities; if
you praise much, a hundred will grumble; if you are
severe, one only may complain, but twenty will shake
the head. You will have friends on one side of the
water desiring one thing, friends on the other side
desiring the reverse, and in seeking to please one you
vex ten. An honest heart, a clear head, and a good
conscience, will enable you to get well through all."
On terminating his connexion with the _Dumfries Journal_, Allan
"They are never idle. Their very recreations are made conducive
to their business, and they go through their labours with a
spirit and cheerfulness, which shew how consonant these are with
their dispositions." "Mr Robert Chambers," he adds, "is the most
mild, unassuming, kind-hearted man I ever knew, and is perfectly
uneasy if he thinks there is any one uncomfortable about him. The
everything I ever experienced, and the friendly yet delicate way
in which he is every other day asking me if I am all comfortable
at home, and bidding me apply to him when I am in want of
anything, equally puzzles me to understand or express due thanks
publication, with suitable music. In 1834, some of his relatives
Is your war-pipe asleep, and for ever, M'Crimman?
Is your war-pipe asleep, and for ever?
Shall the pibroch, that welcom'd the foe to Benaer,
Be hush'd when we seek the dark wolf in his lair,
To give back our wrongs to the giver?
To the raid and the onslaught our chieftains have gone,
Like the course of the fire-flaught the clansmen pass'd on,
Then raise your wild slogan-cry--on to the foray!
Sons of the heather-hill, pinewood, and glen,
Till the Lomonds re-echo the challenge again!
Youth of the daring heart! bright be thy doom
As the bodings which light up thy bold spirit now,
But the fate of M'Crimman is closing in gloom,
And the breath of the gray wraith hath pass'd o'er his brow;
Victorious, in joy, thou'lt return to Benaer,
And be clasp'd to the hearts of thy best beloved there,
But M'Crimman, M'Crimman, M'Crimman, never--
Wilt thou shrink from the doom thou canst shun not, M'Crimman?
Wilt thou shrink from the doom thou canst shun not?
If thy course must be brief, let the proud Saxon know
That the soul of M'Crimman ne'er quail'd when a foe
Bared his blade in the land he had won not!
Where the light-footed roe leaves the wild breeze behind,
And the red heather-bloom gives its sweets to the wind,
There our broad pennon flies, and the keen steeds are prancing,
'Mid the startling war-cries, and the war-weapons glancing,
Then raise your wild slogan-cry--on to the foray!
Sons of the heather-hill, pinewood, and glen;
Till the Lomonds re-echo the challenge again!
 In Blackie's "Book of Scottish Song," this song is attributed to
I will think of thee yet, though afar I may be,
In the land of the stranger, deserted and lone,
Though the flowers of this earth are all wither'd to me,
And the hopes which once bloom'd in my bosom are gone,
I will think of thee yet, and the vision of night
Will oft bring thine image again to my sight,
And the tokens will be, as the dream passes by,
A sigh from the heart and a tear from the eye.
I will think of thee yet, though misfortune fall chill
O'er my path, as yon storm-cloud that lours on the lea,
And I'll deem that this life is worth cherishing still,
While I know that one heart still beats warmly for me.
Yes! Grief and Despair may encompass me round,
'Till not e'en the shadow of peace can be found;
But mine anguish will cease when my thoughts turn to you
And the wild mountain land which my infancy knew.
I will think of thee; oh! if I e'er can forget
The love that grew warm as all others grew cold,
'Twill but be when the sun of my reason hath set,
Or memory fled from her care-haunted hold;
But while life and its woes to bear on is my doom,
Shall my love, like a flower in the wilderness, bloom;
And thine still shall be, as so long it hath been,
A light to my soul when no other is seen.
Lassie, dear lassie, the dew 's on the gowan,
And the brier-bush is sweet whar the burnie is rowin',
But the best buds of Nature may blaw till they weary,
Ere they match the sweet e'e or the cheek o' my dearie!
I wander alane, when the gray gloamin' closes,
And the lift is spread out like a garden o' roses;
But there 's nought which the earth or the sky can discover
Sae fair as thysell to thy fond-hearted lover!
The snaw-flake is pure frae the clud when it 's shaken,
And melts into dew ere it fa's on the bracken,
Oh sae pure is the heart I hae won to my keepin'!
But warm as the sun-blink that thaw'd it to weepin'!
Then come to my arms, and the bosom thou 'rt pressing
Will tell by its throbs a' there's joy in confessing,
For my lips could repeat it a thousand times over,
And the tale still seem new to thy fond-hearted lover.
When I look far down on the valley below me,
Where lowly the lot of the cottager's cast,
While the hues of the evening seem ling'ring to shew me
How calmly the sun of this life may be pass'd,
How oft have I wish'd that kind Heaven had granted
My hours in such spot to have peacefully run,
Where, if pleasures were few, they were all that I wanted,
And Contentment 's a blessing which wealth never won.
I have mingled with mankind, and far I have wander'd,
Have shared all the joys youth so madly pursues;
I have been where the bounties of Nature were squander'd
Till man became thankless and learn'd to refuse!
Yet _there_ I still found that man's innocence perish'd,
As the senses might sway or the passions command;
That the scenes where alone the soul's treasures were cherish'd,
Were the peaceful abodes of my own native land.
Then why should I leave this dear vale of my choice
And the friends of my bosom, so faithful and true,
To mix in the great world, whose jarring and noise
Must make my soul cheerless though sorrows were few?
Ah! too sweet would this life of probation be render'd,
Our feelings ebb back from Eternity's strand,
And the hopes of Elysium in vain would be tender'd,
Could we have all we wish'd in our dear native land.
 Printed, for the first time, from the author's MS.
I will wake my harp when the shades of even
Are closing around the dying day,
When thoughts that wear the hues of Heaven
Are weaning my heart from the world away;
And my strain will tell of a land and home
Which my wand'ring steps have left behind,
Where the hearts that throb and the feet that roam
Are free as the breath of their mountain wind.
I will wake my harp when the star of Vesper
Hath open'd its eye on the peaceful earth,
When not a leaf is heard to whisper
That a dew-drop falls, or a breeze hath birth.
And you, dear friends of my youthful years,
Will oft be the theme of my lonely lay,
And a smile for the past will gild the tears
That tell how my heart is far away.
I will wake my harp when the moon is holding
Her star-tent court in the midnight sky,
When the spirits of love, their wings unfolding,
Bring down sweet dreams to each fond one's eye.
And well may I hail that blissful hour,
For my spirit will then, from its thrall set free,
Return to my own lov'd maiden's bower,
And gather each sigh that she breathes for me.
Thus, still when those pensive hours are bringing
The feelings and thoughts which no lips can tell,
I will charm each cloud from my soul by singing
Of all I have left and lov'd so well.
Oh! Fate may smile, and Sorrow may cease,
But the dearest hope we on earth can gain
Is to come, after long sad years, in peace,
And be join'd with the friends of our love, again.
 Printed for the first time.
hospitable, he latterly avoided general society, and, in a great
All lovely and bright, 'mid the desert of time,
Seem the days when I wander'd with you,
Like the green isles that swell in this far distant clime,
On the deeps that are trackless and blue.
And now, while the torrent is loud on the hill,
And the howl of the forest is drear,
I think of the lapse of our own native rill--
I think of thy voice with a tear.
The light of my taper is fading away,
It hovers, and trembles, and dies;
The far-coming morn on her sea-paths is gray,
But sleep will not come to mine eyes.
Yet why should I ponder, or why should I grieve
O'er the joys that my childhood has known?
We may meet, when the dew-flowers are fragrant at eve,
As we met in the days that are gone.
Of lively and playful dispositions, Sillery did not derive much
She died in beauty! like a rose
Blown from its parent stem;
She died in beauty! like a pearl
Dropp'd from some diadem.
She died in beauty! like a lay
Along a moonlit lake;
She died in beauty! like the song
Of birds amid the brake.
She died in beauty! like the snow
On flowers dissolved away;
She died in beauty! like a star
Lost on the brow of day.
She _lives_ in glory! like night's gems
Set round the silver moon;
She lives in glory! like the sun
Amid the blue of June!
Let the proud Indian boast of his jessamine bowers,
His pastures of perfume, and rose-cover'd dells;
While humbly I sing of those wild little flowers--
The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue-bells.
Wave, wave your dark plumes, ye proud sons of the mountain,
For brave is the chieftain your prowess who quells,
And dreadful your wrath as the foam-flashing fountain,
That calms its wild waves 'mid the Scottish blue-bells.
Then strike the loud harp to the land of the river,
The mountain, the valley, with all their wild spells,
And shout in the chorus for ever and ever--
The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue-bells.
Sublime are your hills when the young day is beaming,
And green are your groves with their cool crystal wells,
And bright are your broadswords, like morning dews gleaming
On blue-bells of Scotland, on Scottish blue-bells.
Awake! ye light fairies that trip o'er the heather,
Ye mermaids, arise from your coralline cells--
Come forth with your chorus, all chanting together--
The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue-bells.
Then strike the loud harp to the land of the river,
The mountain, the valley, with all their wild spells,
And shout in the chorus for ever and ever--
The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue-bells.
The loved of early days!
Where are they?--where?
Not on the shining braes,
The mountains bare;--
Not where the regal streams
Their foam-bells cast--
Where childhood's time of dreams
And sunshine pass'd.
Some in the mart, and some
In stately halls,
With the ancestral gloom
Of ancient walls;
Some where the tempest sweeps
The desert waves;
Some where the myrtle weeps
On Roman graves.
And pale young faces gleam
With solemn eyes;
Like a remember'd dream
The dead arise;
In the red track of war
The restless sweep;
In sunlit graves afar
The loved ones sleep.
The braes are dight with flowers,
The mountain streams
Foam past me in the showers
Of sunny gleams;
But the light hearts that cast
A glory there,
In the rejoicing past,
Where are they?--where?
Oh! would that the wind that is sweeping now
O'er the restless and weary wave,
Were swaying the leaves of the cypress bough
O'er the calm of my early grave--
And my heart with its pulses of fire and life,
Oh! would it were still as stone.
I am weary, weary, of all the strife,
And the selfish world I 've known.
I 've drunk up bliss from a mantling cup,
When youth and joy were mine;
But the cold black dregs are floating up,
Instead of the laughing wine;
And life hath lost its loveliness,
And youth hath spent its hour,
And pleasure palls like bitterness,
And hope hath not a flower.
And love! was it not a glorious eye
That smiled on my early dream?
It is closed for aye, where the long weeds sigh,
In the churchyard by the stream:
And fame--oh! mine were gorgeous hopes
Of a flashing and young renown:
But early, early the flower-leaf drops
From the withering seed-cup down.
And beauty! have I not worshipp'd all
Her shining creations well?
The rock--the wood--the waterfall,
Where light or where love might dwell.
But over all, and on my heart,
The mildew hath fallen sadly,
I have no spirit, I have no part
In the earth that smiles so gladly!
I only sigh for a quiet bright spot
In the churchyard by the stream,
Whereon the morning sunbeams float,
And the stars at midnight dream;
Where only Nature's sounds may wake
The sacred and silent air,
And only her beautiful things may break
Through the long grass gathering there.
Alexander Hume was born at Kelso on the 1st of February 1809. His
ascertained. His first teacher was Mr Ballantyne of Kelso, a man
About this period (1822 or 1823), when irritated by those who had
appreciation of his integrity and worth.
"Musical as is Apollo's lute,"
metropolis; nor was he disappointed in the hope of realising
considerable pecuniary advantages.
unremitting. Mr Hume's health gradually declined, and ultimately
My wee wife dwells in yonder cot,
My bonnie bairnies three;
Oh! happy is the husband's lot,
Wi' bairnies on his knee.
My wee, wee wife, my wee, wee wife,
My bonnie bairnies three;
How bright is day how sweet is life!
When love lights up the e'e.
The king o'er me may wear a crown,
Have millions bow the knee,
But lacks he love to share his throne,
How poor a king is he!
My wee, wee wife, my wee, wee wife,
My bonnie bairnies three,
Let kings ha'e thrones, 'mang warld's strife,
Your hearts are thrones to me.
I 've felt oppression's galling chain,
I 've shed the tear o' care,
But feeling aye lost a' its pain,
When my wee wife was near.
My wee, wee wife, my wee, wee wife,
My bonnie bairnies three,
The chains we wear are sweet to bear,
How sad could we go free!
Eliza was a bonnie lass, and oh! she lo'ed me weel,
Sic love as canna find a tongue, but only hearts can feel;
But I was poor, her faither doure, he wadna look on me;
O poverty! O poverty! that love should bow to thee.
I went unto her mother, and I argued and I fleech'd,
I spak o' love and honesty, and mair and mair beseech'd;
But she was deaf to a' my grief, she wadna look on me;
O poverty! O poverty! that love should bow to thee.
I next went to her brother, and I painted a' my pain,
I told him o' our plighted troth, but it was a' in vain;
Though he was deep in love himsel', nae feeling he'd for me;
O poverty! O poverty! that love should bow to thee.
Oh! wealth it makes the fool a sage, the knave an honest man,
And canker'd gray locks young again, if he has gear and lan';
To age maun beauty ope her arms, though wi' a tearfu' e'e;
O poverty! O poverty! that love should bow to thee.
But wait a wee, oh! love is slee, and winna be said nay,
It breaks a' chains, except its ain, but it will ha'e its way;
In spite o' fate we took the gate, now happy as can be;
O poverty! O poverty! we're wed in spite o' thee.
There 's mony a flower beside the rose,
And sweets beside the honey;
But laws maun change ere life disclose
A flower or sweet like Nanny.
Her e'e is like the summer sun,
When clouds can no conceal it,
Ye 're blind if it ye look upon,
Oh! mad if ere ye feel it.
I 've mony bonnie lassies seen,
Baith blithesome, kind, an' canny;
But oh! the day has never been
I 've seen another Nanny!
She 's like the mavis in her sang,
Amang the brakens bloomin',
Her lips ope to an angel's tongue,
But kiss her, oh! she's woman.
My Bessie, oh! but look upon these bonnie budding flowers,
Oh! do they no remember ye o' mony happy hours,
When on this green and gentle hill we aften met to play,
An' ye were like the morning sun, an' life a nightless day?
The gowans blossom'd bonnilie, I 'd pu' them from the stem,
An' rin in noisy blithesomeness to thee, my Bess, wi' them,
To place them in thy lily breast, for ae sweet smile on me,
I saw nae mair the gowans then, then saw I only thee.
Like two fair roses on a tree, we flourish'd an' we grew,
An' breathe young vows that after-years o' sorrow has na brak!
We 'd raise our lisping voices in auld Coila's melting lays,
An' sing that tearfu' tale about Doon's bonnie banks and braes;
But thoughtna' we o' banks and braes, except those at our feet,
Oh! is na this a joyous day, a' Nature's breathing forth,
In gladness an' in loveliness owre a' the wide, wide earth?
The linties they are lilting love, on ilka bush an' tree,
Oh! may such joy be ever felt, my Bess, by thee and me!
A wee bird sits upon a spray,
And aye it sings o' Menie Hay,
The burthen o' its cheery lay
Is "Come away, dear Menie Hay!
Sweet art thou, O Menie Hay!
Fair I trow, O Menie Hay!
There 's not a bonnie flower in May
Shows a bloom wi' Menie Hay."
A light in yonder window 's seen,
And wi' it seen is Menie Hay;
Wha gazes on the dewy green,
Where sits the bird upon the spray?
"Sweet art thou, O Menie Hay!
Fair I trow, O Menie Hay!
At sic a time, in sic a way,
What seek ye there, O Menie Hay?"
"What seek ye there, my daughter dear?
What seek ye there, O Menie Hay?"
"Dear mother, but the stars sae clear
Around the bonnie Milky Way."
"Sweet are thou, O Menie Hay!
Slee I trow, O Menie Hay!
Ye something see ye daurna say,
Paukie, winsome Menie Hay!"
The window 's shut, the light is gane,
And wi' it gane is Menie Hay;
But wha is seen upon the green,
Kissing sweetly Menie Hay?
"Sweet art thou, O Menie Hay!
Slee I trow, O Menie Hay!
For ane sae young ye ken the way,
And far from blate, O Menie Hay!"
"Gae scour the country, hill and dale;
Oh! waes me, where is Menie Hay?
Search ilka nook, in town or vale,
For my daughter, Menie Hay."
"Sweet art thou, O Menie Hay!
Slee I trow, O Menie Hay!
I wish you joy, young Johnie Fay,
O' your bride, sweet Menie Hay."
I 've wander'd on the sunny hill, I 've wander'd in the vale,
The rising sun, in golden beams, dispels the night's dark gloom--
But sunbeams ne'er so brightly play'd in dance o'er yon glad sea,
I love thee as the pilgrims love the water in the sand,
I loved thee, bonnie Bessie, as the earth adores the sun,
I ask'd nae lands, I craved nae gear, I prized but thee alone;
Ye smiled in look, but no in heart--your heart was no for me;
Oh! years hae come, an' years hae gane,
Sin' first I sought the warld alane,
Sin' first I mused wi' heart sae fain
On the hills o' Caledonia.
But oh! behold the present gloom,
My early friends are in the tomb,
And nourish now the heather bloom
On the hills o' Caledonia.
My father's name, my father's lot,
Is now a tale that 's heeded not,
Or sang unsung, if no forgot
On the hills o' Caledonia.
O' our great ha' there 's left nae stane--
A' swept away, like snaw lang gane;
Weeds flourish o'er the auld domain
On the hills o' Caledonia.
The Ti'ot's banks are bare and high,
The stream rins sma' an' mournfu' by,
Like some sad heart maist grutten dry
On the hills o' Caledonia.
The wee birds sing no frae the tree,
The wild-flowers bloom no on the lea,
As if the kind things pitied me
On the hills o' Caledonia.
But friends can live, though cold they lie,
An' mock the mourner's tear an' sigh,
When we forget them, then they die
On the hills o' Caledonia.
An' howsoever changed the scene,
While mem'ry an' my feeling 's green,
Still green to my auld heart an' e'en
Are the hills o' Caledonia.
My mountain hame, my mountain hame!
My kind, my independent mother;
While thought and feeling rule my frame,
Can I forget the mountain heather?
Scotland dear!
I love to hear your daughters dear
The simple tale in song revealing,
Whene'er your music greets my ear
My bosom swells wi' joyous feeling--
Scotland dear!
Though I to other lands may gae,
Should Fortune's smile attend me thither,
I 'll hameward come, whene'er I may,
And look again on the mountain heather--
Scotland dear!
When I maun die, oh! I would lie
Where life and me first met together;
That my cauld clay, through its decay,
Might bloom again in the mountain heather--
Scotland dear!
A poet and indefatigable prose-writer, Thomas Smibert was born in
"Information for the People." In 1842, he was appointed to the
indicate a fine fancy and deep pathos.
Afore the Lammas tide
Had dun'd the birken-tree,
In a' our water side
Nae wife was bless'd like me.
A kind gudeman, and twa
Sweet bairns were 'round me here,
But they're a' ta'en awa'
Sin' the fa' o' the year.
Sair trouble cam' our gate,
And made me, when it cam',
A bird without a mate,
A ewe without a lamb.
Our hay was yet to maw,
And our corn was to shear,
When they a' dwined awa'
In the fa' o' the year.
I downa look a-field,
For aye I trow I see
The form that was a bield
To my wee bairns and me;
But wind, and weet, and snaw,
They never mair can fear,
Sin' they a' got the ca'
In the fa' o' the year.
Aft on the hill at e'ens,
I see him 'mang the ferns--
The lover o' my teens,
The faither o' my bairns;
For there his plaid I saw,
As gloamin' aye drew near,
But my a's now awa'
Sin' the fa' o' the year.
Our bonnie rigs theirsel',
Reca' my waes to mind;
O' a' that I hae tyned;
For wha our wheat will saw,
And wha our sheep will shear,
Sin' my a' gaed awa'
In the fa' o' the year?
My hearth is growing cauld,
And will be caulder still,
And sair, sair in the fauld
Will be the winter's chill;
For peats were yet to ca',
Our sheep they were to smear,
When my a' passed awa'
In the fa' o' the year.
I ettle whiles to spin,
But wee, wee patterin' feet
Come rinnin' out and in,
And then I just maun greet;
I ken it 's fancy a',
And faster rows the tear,
That my a' dwined awa'
In the fa' o' the year.
Be kind, O Heaven abune!
To ane sae wae and lane,
And tak' her hamewards sune
In pity o' her maen.
Lang ere the March winds blaw,
May she, far far frae here,
Meet them a' that's awa
Sin' the fa' o' the year!
Once more on the broad-bosom'd ocean appearing
The banner of England is spread to the breeze,
And loud is the cheering that hails the uprearing
Of glory's loved emblem, the pride of the seas.
No tempest shall daunt her,
No victor-foe taunt her,
What manhood can do in her cause shall be done--
Britannia's best seaman,
The boast of her freemen,
Will conquer or die by his colours and gun.
On Acre's proud turrets an ensign is flying,
Which stout hearts are banded till death to uphold;
And bold is their crying, and fierce their defying,
When trench'd in their ramparts, unconquer'd of old.
But lo! in the offing,
To punish their scoffing,
Brave Napier appears, and their triumph is done;
No danger can stay him,
No foeman dismay him,
He conquers or dies by his colours and gun.
Now low in the dust is the Crescent flag humbled,
Its warriors are vanquish'd, their freedom is gone;
The strong walls have tumbled, the proud towers are crumbled,
And England's flag waves over ruin'd St John.
But Napier now tenders
To Acre's defenders
The aid of a friend when the combat is won;
For mercy's sweet blossom
Blooms fresh in his bosom,
Who conquers or dies by his colours and gun.
"All hail to the hero!" his country is calling,
And "hail to his comrades!" the faithful and brave,
They fear'd not for falling, they knew no appalling,
But fought like their fathers, the lords of the wave.
And long may the ocean,
In calm and commotion,
Rejoicing convey them where fame may be won,
And when foes would wound us
May Napier be round us,
To conquer or die by their colours and gun!
Oh! bonnie are the howes
And sunny are the knowes
That feed the kye and yowes
Where my life's morn dawn'd;
And brightly glance the rills
That spring amang the hills
And ca' the merry mills
In my ain dear land.
But now I canna see
The lammies on the lea,
Nor hear the heather bee
On this far, far strand.
I see nae father's ha',
Nae burnie's waterfa',
But wander far awa'
Frae my ain dear land.
My heart was free and light,
My ingle burning bright,
When ruin cam' by night
Through a foe's fell hand.
I left my native air,
I gaed to come nae mair;
And now I sorrow sair
For my ain dear land.
But blithely will I bide
Whate'er may yet betide
When ane is by my side
On this far, far strand.
My Jean will soon be here
This waefu' heart to cheer,
And dry the fa'ing tear
For my ain dear land.
Oh! say na you maun gang awa',
Oh! say na you maun leave me;
The dreaded hour that parts us twa
Of peace and hope will reave me.
When you to distant shores are gane
How could I bear to tarry,
Where ilka tree and ilka stane
Would mind me o' my Mary?
I couldna wander near yon woods
That saw us oft caressing,
And on our heads let fa' their buds
In earnest o' their blessing.
Ilk stane wad mind me how we press'd
Its half-o'erspreading heather,
And how we lo'ed the least the best
That made us creep thegither.
I couldna bide, when you are gane,
My ain, my winsome dearie,
I couldna stay to pine my lane--
I live but when I 'm near ye.
Then say na you maun gang awa',
Oh! say na you maun leave me;
For ah! the hour that parts us twa
Of life itself will reave me.
Alexander, who was considerably his senior. After some years'
Adieu! ye wither'd flow'rets!
Your day of glory's past;
But your latest smile was loveliest,
For we knew it was your last.
No more the sweet aroma
Of your golden cups shall rise,
To scent the morning's stilly breath,
Or gloaming's zephyr-sighs.
Ye were the sweetest offerings
Which Friendship could bestow--
A token of devoted love
In pleasure or in woe!
Ye graced the head of infancy,
By soft affection twined
Into a fairy coronal
Its sunny brows to bind.
But ah! a dreary blast hath blown
Athwart you in your bloom,
And, pale and sickly, now your leaves
The hues of death assume.
We mourn your vanish'd loveliness,
Ye sweet departed flowers;
For ah! the fate which blighted you
An emblem is of ours.
And though, like you, sweet flowers of earth,
We wither and depart,
And leave behind, to mourn our loss,
Full many an aching heart;
Yet when the winter of the grave
Is past, we hope to rise,
Warm'd by the Sun of Righteousness,
To blossom in the skies.
There is a concert in the trees,
There is a concert on the hill,
There 's melody in every breeze,
And music in the murmuring rill.
The shower is past, the winds are still,
The fields are green, the flow'rets spring,
The birds, and bees, and beetles fill
The air with harmony, and fling
The rosied moisture of the leaves
In frolic flight from wing to wing,
Fretting the spider as he weaves
His airy web from bough to bough;
In vain the little artist grieves
Their joy in his destruction now.
Alas! that, in a scene so fair,
The meanest being e'er should feel
The gloomy shadow of despair
Or sorrow o'er his bosom steal.
But in a world where woe is real,
Each rank in life, and every day,
Must pain and suffering reveal,
And wretched mourners in decay--
When nations smile o'er battles won,
When banners wave and streamers play,
The lonely mother mourns her son
Left lifeless on the bloody clay;
And the poor widow, all undone,
Sees the wild revel with dismay.
Even in the happiest scenes of earth,
When swell'd the bridal-song on high,
When every voice was tuned to mirth,
And joy was shot from eye to eye,
I 've heard a sadly-stifled sigh;
And, 'mid the garlands rich and fair,
I 've seen a cheek, which once could vie
In beauty with the fairest there,
Grown deadly pale, although a smile
Was worn above to cloak despair.
Poor maid! it was a hapless wile
Of long-conceal'd and hopeless love
To hide a heart, which broke the while
With pangs no lighter heart could prove.
The joyous spring and summer gay
With perfumed gifts together meet,
And from the rosy lips of May
Breathe music soft and odours sweet;
And still my eyes delay my feet
To gaze upon the earth and heaven,
And hear the happy birds repeat
Their anthems to the coming even;
Yet is my pleasure incomplete;
I grieve to think how few are given
To feel the pleasures I possess,
While thousand hearts, by sorrow riven,
Must pine in utter loneliness,
Or be to desperation driven.
Oh! could we find some happy land,
Some Eden of the deep blue sea,
By gentle breezes only fann'd,
Upon whose soil, from sorrow free,
Grew only pure felicity!
Who would not brave the stormiest main
Within that blissful isle to be,
Exempt from sight or sense of pain?
There is a land we cannot see,
Whose joys no pen can e'er portray;
And yet, so narrow is the road,
From it our spirits ever stray--
Shed light upon that path, O God!
And lead us in the appointed way.
There only joy shall be complete,
More high than mortal thoughts can reach,
For there the just and good shall meet,
Pure in affection, thought, and speech;
No jealousy shall make a breach,
Nor pain their pleasure e'er alloy;
There sunny streams of gladness stretch,
And there the very air is joy.
There shall the faithful, who relied
On faithless love till life would cloy,
And those who sorrow'd till they died
O'er earthly pain and earthly woe,
See Pleasure, like a whelming tide,
From an unbounded ocean flow.
Stewart was a person of modest demeanour, and of a thoughtful and
The storm grew faint as daylight tinged
The lofty billows' crest;
And love-lit hopes, with fears yet fringed,
Danced in the sea-boy's breast.
And perch'd aloft, he cheer'ly sung
To the billows' less'ning roar--
"O Ellen, so fair, so free, and young,
I 'll see thee yet once more!"
And O what joy beam'd in his eye,
When, o'er the dusky foam,
He saw, beneath the northern sky,
The hills that mark'd his home!
His heart with double ardour strung,
He sung this ditty o'er--
"O Ellen, so fair, so free, and young,
I 'll see thee yet once more!"
Now towers and trees rise on his sight,
And many a dear-loved spot;
And, smiling o'er the blue waves bright,
He saw young Ellen's cot.
The scenes on which his memory hung
A cheerful aspect wore;
He then, with joyous feeling, sung,
"I 'll see her yet once more!"
The land they near'd, and on the beach
Stood many a female form;
But ah! his eye it could not reach
His hope in many a storm.
He through the spray impatient sprung,
And gain'd the wish'd-for shore;
But Ellen, so fair, so sweet, and young,
Was gone for evermore!
While beaus and belles parade the streets
On summer gloamings gay,
And barter'd smiles and borrow'd sweets,
And all such vain display;
My walks are where the bean-field's breath
On evening's breeze is borne,
With her, the angel of my heart--
My lovely Menie Lorn.
Love's ambuscades her auburn hair,
Love's throne her azure eye,
Where peerless charms and virtues rare
In blended beauty lie.
The rose is fair at break of day,
And sweet the blushing thorn,
But sweeter, fairer far than they,
The smile of Menie Lorn.
O tell me not of olive groves,
Where gold and gems abound;
Of deep blue eyes and maiden loves,
With every virtue crown'd.
I ask no other ray of joy
Life's desert to adorn,
Than that sweet bliss, which ne'er can cloy--
The love of Menie Lorn.
AIR--_"The Banks of the Devon."_
O say not o' war the young soldier is weary,
Ye wha in battle ha'e witness'd his flame;
Remember his daring when danger was near ye,
Forgive ye the sigh that he heaves for his hame.
Past perils he heeds not, nor dangers yet coming,
Frae dark-brooding terror his young heart is free;
But it pants for the place whar in youth he was roaming;
He turns to the north wi' the tear in his e'e.
'Tis remembrance that saftens what war never daunted,
'Tis the hame o' his birth that gives birth to the tear;
The warm fondled hopes his first love had implanted,
He langs now to reap in his Jeanie sae dear.
An' aften he thinks on the bonnie clear burnie,
Whar oft in love's fondness they daff'd their young day;
Nae tear then was shedded, for short was the journey
'Tween Jeanie's broom bower and the blaeberry brae.
An' weel does he mind o' that morning, when dressing,
In green Highland garb, to cross the wide sea;
His auld mither grat when she gi'ed him her blessing--
'Twas a' that the puir body then had to gi'e.
The black downy plume on his bonnie cheek babbit,
As he stood at the door an' shook hands wi' them a';
But sair was his heart, an' sair Jeanie sabbit,
Whan down the burn-side she convoy'd him awa'.
Now high-headed Alps an' dark seas divide them,
Wilds ne'er imagined in love's early dream;
Their Alps then the knowes, whare the lambs lay beside them,
Their seas then the hazel an' saugh-shaded stream.
An' wha couldna sigh when memory 's revealing
The scenes that surrounded our life's early hame?
The hero whose heart is cauld to that feeling
His nature is harsh, and not worthy the name.
The land I lo'e, the land I lo'e,
Is the land of the plaid and bonnet blue,
Of the gallant heart, the firm and true,
The land of the hardy thistle.
Isle of the freeborn, honour'd and blest,
Isle of beauty, in innocence dress'd,
The loveliest star on ocean's breast
Is the land of the hardy thistle.
Fair are those isles of Indian bloom,
Whose flowers perpetual breathe perfume;
But dearer far are the braes o' broom
Where blooms the hardy thistle.
No luscious fig-tree blossoms there,
No slaves the scented shrubb'ry rear;
Her sons are free as the mountain air
That shakes the hardy thistle.
Lovely 's the tint o' an eastern sky,
And lovely the lands that 'neath it lie;
But I wish to live, and I wish to die
In the land of the hardy thistle!
considerable power.
Though fair blooms the rose in gay Anglia's bowers,
And green be thy emblem, thou gem of the sea,
The greenest, the sweetest, the fairest of flowers,
Is the thistle--the thistle of Scotland, for me!
Far lovelier flowers glow, the woodlands adorning,
And breathing perfume over moorland and lea,
But there breathes not a bud on the freshness of morning
Like the thistle--the thistle of Scotland, for me!
What scenes o' langsyne even thy name can awaken,
Thou badge of the fearless, the fair, and the free,
And the tenderest chords of the spirit are shaken;
The thistle--the thistle of Scotland, for thee!
Still'd be my harp, and forgotten its numbers,
And cold as the grave my affections must be,
Ere thy name fail to waken my soul from her slumbers;
The thistle--the thistle of Scotland, for me!
On the fields of their fame, while proud laurels she gathers,
Caledonia plants, wi' the tear in her e'e,
Thy soft downy seeds on the graves of our fathers;
The thistle--the thistle of Scotland, for me!
Oh! hame is aye hamely still, though poor at times it be,
An' ye winna find a place like hame in lands beyond the sea;
Though ye may wander east an' west, in quest o' wealth or fame,
There 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame,
Oh! there 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame.
There 's gowd in gowpens got, they say, on India's sunny strand,
Then wha would bear to linger here in this bleak, barren land?
I 'll hie me ower the heaving wave, and win myself a name,
And in a palace or a grave forget my Hieland hame.
'Twas thus resolved the peasant boy, and left his native stream,
And Fortune crown'd his every wish, beyond his fondest dream;
And young companions, long forgot, would join him in the game,
As erst in life's young morning, around his Hieland hame.
Oh! in the Brahmin, mild and gray, his father's face he saw;
He thought upon his mother's tears the day he gaed awa';
And her he loved--his Hieland girl--there 's magic in the name--
They a' combine to wile him back to his far Hieland hame.
He sigh'd for kindred hearts again, and left the sunny lands,
And where his father's cottage stood a stately palace stands;
Oh! hame is aye hamely, dear, though poor at times it be,
Ye winna find a spot like hame in lands beyond the sea;
Oh! ye may wander east or west, in quest o' wealth or fame,
But there 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame,
together, confined to the sick-chamber. During the periods of
I never thocht to thole the waes
It 's been my lot to dree;
I never thocht to sigh sae sad
Whan first I sigh'd for thee.
I thocht your heart was like mine ain,
As true as true could be;
I couldna think there was a stain
In ane sae dear to me.
Whan first amang the dewy flowers,
Aside yon siller stream,
My lowin' heart was press'd to yours,
Nae purer did they seem;
Nae purer seem'd the draps o' dew,
The flowers on whilk they hung,
Than seem'd the heart I felt in you
As to that heart I clung.
But I was young an' thochtless then,
An' easy to beguile;
My mither's warnin's had nae weight
'Bout man's deceitfu' smile.
But noo, alas! whan she is dead,
I 've shed the sad, saut tear,
And hung my heavy, heavy head
Aboon my father's bier!
They saw their earthly hope betray'd,
They saw their Jeanie fade;
They couldna thole the heavy stroke,
An' baith are lowly laid!
Oh, Jamie! but thy name again
Shall ne'er be breathed by me,
For, speechless through yon gow'ny glen,
I 'll wander till I die.
"Ye needna' be courtin' at me, auld man,
Ye needna' be courtin' at me;
Ye 're threescore an' three, an' ye 're blin' o' an e'e,
Sae ye needna' be courtin' at me, auld man,
Ye needna' be courtin' at me.
"Stan' aff, noo, an' just lat me be, auld man,
Stan' aff, noo, an' just lat me be;
Ye 're auld an' ye 're cauld, an' ye 're blin' an' ye 're bald,
An' ye 're nae for a lassie like me, auld man,
Ye 're nae for a lassie like me."
"Ha'e patience, an' hear me a wee, sweet lass,
Ha'e patience, an' hear me a wee;
I 've gowpens o' gowd, an' an aumry weel stow'd,
An' a heart that lo'es nane but thee, sweet lass,
A heart that lo'es nane but thee.
"I 'll busk you as braw as a queen, sweet lass,
I 'll busk you as braw as a queen;
I 've guineas to spare, an', hark ye, what 's mair,
I 'm only twa score an' fifteen, sweet lass,
Only twa score an' fifteen."
"Gae hame to your gowd an' your gear, auld man,
Gae hame to your gowd an' your gear;
There 's a laddie I ken has a heart like mine ain,
An' to me he shall ever be dear, auld man,
To me he shall ever be dear.
"Get aff, noo, an' fash me nae mair, auld man,
Get aff, noo, an' fash me nae mair;
There 's a something in love that your gowd canna move--
I 'll be Johnie's although I gang bare, auld man,
I 'll be Johnie's although I gang bare."
The bucket, the bucket, the bucket for me!
Awa' wi' your bickers o' barley bree;
Though good ye may think it, I 'll never mair drink it--
The bucket, the bucket, the bucket for me!
There 's health in the bucket, there 's wealth in the bucket,
There 's mair i' the bucket than mony can see;
An' aye whan I leuk in 't, I find there 's a beuk in 't
That teaches the essence o' wisdom to me.
Whan whisky I swiggit, my wifie aye beggit,
An' aft did she sit wi' the tear in her e'e;
But noo--wad you think it?--whan water I drink it
Right blithesome she smiles on the bucket an' me.
The bucket 's a treasure nae mortal can measure,
It 's happit my wee bits o' bairnies an' me;
An' noo roun' my ingle, whare sorrows did mingle,
I 've pleasure, an' plenty, an' glances o' glee.
The bucket 's the bicker that keeps a man sicker,
The bucket 's a shield an' a buckler to me;
In pool or in gutter nae langer I 'll splutter,
But walk like a freeman wha feels he is free.
Ye drunkards, be wise noo, an' alter your choice noo--
Come cling to the bucket, an' prosper like me;
Ye 'll find it is better to swig "caller water,"
Than groan in a gutter without a bawbee!
cottage. In his thirteenth year, he wrote verses and became the
Possessed of strong poetical genius, Robert Nicoll has attained a
There 's nae hame like the hame o' youth,
Nae ither spot sae fair;
Nae ither faces look sae kind
As the smilin' faces there.
An' I ha'e sat by mony streams,
Ha'e travell'd mony ways;
But the fairest spot on the earth to me
Is on bonnie Ordé Braes.
An ell-lang wee thing then I ran
Wi' the ither neeber bairns,
To pu' the hazel's shining nuts,
An' to wander 'mang the ferns;
An' to feast on the bramble-berries brown,
An' gather the glossy slaes,
By the burnie's side, an' aye sinsyne
I ha'e loved sweet Ordé Braes.
The memories o' my father's hame,
An' its kindly dwellers a',
O' the friends I loved wi' a young heart's love
Ere care that heart could thraw,
Are twined wi' the stanes o' the silver burn,
An' its fairy crooks an' bays,
That onward sang 'neath the gowden broom
Upon bonnie Ordé Braes.
Aince in a day there were happy hames
By the bonnie Ordé's side:
Nane ken how meikle peace an' love
In a straw-roof'd cot can bide.
But thae hames are gane, an' the hand o' time
The roofless wa's doth raze;
Laneness an' sweetness hand in hand
Gang ower the Ordé Braes.
Oh! an' the sun were shinin' now,
An', oh! an' I were there,
Wi' twa three friends o' auld langsyne,
My wanderin' joy to share.
For though on the hearth o' my bairnhood's hame
The flock o' the hills doth graze,
Some kind hearts live to love me yet
Upon bonnie Ordé Braes.
I winna bide in your castle ha's,
Nor yet in your lofty towers;
My heart is sick o' your gloomy hame,
An' sick o' your darksome bowers;
An' oh! I wish I were far awa'
Frae their grandeur an' their gloom,
Where the freeborn lintie sings its sang
Sae weel as I like the healthfu' gale,
That blaws fu' kindly there,
An' the heather brown, an' the wild blue-bell
That wave on the muirland bare;
An' the singing birds, an' the humming bees,
An' the little lochs that toom
Their gushing burns to the distant sea
O'er the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom.
Oh! if I had a dwallin' there,
Biggit laigh by a burnie's side,
Where ae aik tree, in the summer time,
Wi' its leaves that hame might hide;
Oh! I wad rejoice frae day to day,
As blithe as a young bridegroom;
For dearer than palaces to me
In a lanely cot on a muirland wild,
My mither nurtured me;
O' the meek wild-flowers I playmates made,
An' my hame wi' the wandering bee.
An', oh! if I were far awa'
Frae your grandeur an' your gloom,
Wi' them again, an' the bladden gale,
Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills,
Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills,
The bonnie hills o' Scotland O!
The bonnie Hieland hills.
There are lands on the earth where the vine ever blooms,
Where the air that is breathed the sweet orange perfumes;
But mair dear is the blast the lane shepherd that chills
As it wantons along o'er our ain Hieland hills.
Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills.
There are rich garden lands wi' their skies ever fair;
But o' riches or beauty we mak na our care;
Wherever we wander ae vision aye fills
Our hearts to the burstin'--our ain Hieland hills.
Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills.
In our lone and deep valleys fair maidens there are,
Though born in the midst o' the elements' war;
O sweet are the damsels that sing by our rills,
As they dash to the sea frae our ain Hieland hills.
Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills.
On the moss-cover'd rock wi' their broadswords in hand,
To fight for fair freedom, their sons ever stand;
A storm-nursed bold spirit each warm bosom fills,
That guards frae a' danger our ain Hieland hills.
Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills,
Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills;
The bonnie hills o' Scotland O!
The bonnie Hieland hills.
The bonnie rowan bush
In yon lane glen,
Where the burnie clear doth gush
In yon lane glen;
My head is white and auld,
An' my bluid is thin an' cauld;
But I lo'e the bonnie rowan bush
In yon lane glen.
My Jeanie first I met
In yon lane glen,
When the grass wi' dew was wet
In yon lane glen;
The moon was shining sweet,
An' our hearts wi' love did beat,
By the bonnie, bonnie rowan bush
In yon lane glen.
Oh! she promised to be mine,
In yon lane glen;
Her heart she did resign,
In yon lane glen;
An' mony a happy day
Did o'er us pass away,
Beside the bonnie rowan bush
In yon lane glen.
Sax bonnie bairns had we
In yon lane glen--
Lads an' lassies young an' spree,
In yon lane glen;
An' a blither family
Than ours there cou'dna be,
Beside the bonnie rowan bush
In yon lane glen.
Now my auld wife's gane awa'
Frae yon lane glen,
An' though summer sweet doth fa'
On yon lane glen--
To me its beauty's gane,
For, alake! I sit alane
Beside the bonnie rowan bush
In yon lane glen.
Bonnie Bessie Lee had a face fu' o' smiles,
And mirth round her ripe lip was aye dancing slee;
And light was the footfa', and winsome the wiles,
O' the flower o' the parochin, our ain Bessie Lee!
Wi' the bairns she would rin, and the school laddies paik,
And o'er the broomy braes like a fairy would flee,
Till auld hearts grew young again wi' love for her sake--
There was life in the blithe blink o' bonnie Bessie Lee!
She grat wi' the waefu', and laughed wi' the glad,
And light as the wind 'mang the dancers was she;
And a tongue that could jeer, too, the little limmer had,
Whilk keepit aye her ain side for bonnie Bessie Lee!
She could sing like the lintwhite that sports 'mang the whins,
An' sweet was her note as the bloom to the bee--
It has aft thrilled my heart whaur our wee burnie rins,
Where a' thing grew fairer wi' bonnie Bessie Lee.
And she whiles had a sweetheart, and sometimes had twa,
A limmer o' a lassie; but atween you and me,
Her warm wee bit heartie she ne'er threw awa',
Though mony a ane had sought it frae bonnie Bessie Lee.
But ten years had gane since I gazed on her last--
For ten years had parted my auld hame and me--
And I said to mysel', as her mither's door I passed,
Will I ever get anither kiss frae bonnie Bessie Lee?
But Time changes a' thing--the ill-natured loon!
Were it ever sae rightly, he 'll no let it be;
And I rubbit at my e'en, and I thought I would swoon,
How the carle had come roun' about our ain Bessie Lee!
The wee laughing lassie was a gudewife grown auld,
Twa weans at her apron, and ane on her knee,
She was douce too, and wise-like--and wisdom's sae cauld;
I would rather hae the ither ane than this Bessie Lee.
 The last four lines of this stanza are not the production of
The wild-rose blooms in Drummond woods,
The trees are blossom'd fair,
The lake is smiling to the sun,
And Mary wand'ring there.
The powers that watch'd o'er Mary's birth
Did nature's charms despoil;
They stole for her the rose's blush,
The sweet lake's dimpled smile.
The lily for her breast they took,
Nut-brown her locks appear;
But when they came to make her eyes,
They robb'd the starry sphere.
But cruel sure was their design,
Or mad-like their device--
For while they filled her eyes with fire,
They made her heart of ice.
house-painter, and soon became distinguished for his skill in the
contributed to the _Illustrated London News_ representations of
Father of blissfulness,
Grant me a resting-place
Now my sad spirit is longing for rest.
Lord, I beseech Thee,
Deign Thou to teach me
Which path to heaven is surest and best:
Lonely and dreary,
Laden and weary,
Oh! for a home in the land of the blest!
Father of holiness,
Look on my lowliness;
From this sad bondage, O Lord, set me free;
Grant that, 'mid love and peace,
Sorrow and sin may cease,
While in the Saviour my trust it shall be.
When Death's sleep comes o'er me,
On waking--before me
The portals of glory all open I 'll see.
 We are indebted to Mr James Ballantine, of Edinburgh, for the
particulars contained in this memoir.
Sweetly shines the sun on auld Edinbro' toun,
And mak's her look young and cheerie;
Yet I maun awa' to spend the afternoon
At the lanesome Wells o' Wearie.
And you maun gang wi' me, my winsome Mary Grieve,
There 's nought in the world to fear ye;
For I ha'e ask'd your minnie, and she has gi'en ye leave
To gang to the Wells o' Wearie.
Oh, the sun winna blink in thy bonnie blue e'en,
Nor tinge the white brow o' my dearie,
For I 'll shade a bower wi' rashes lang and green
By the lanesome Wells o' Wearie.
But, Mary, my love, beware ye dinna glower
At your form in the water sae clearly,
Or the fairy will change you into a wee, wee flower,
And you 'll grow by the Wells o' Wearie.
Yestreen as I wander'd there a' alane,
I felt unco douf and drearie,
For wanting my Mary, a' around me was but pain
At the lanesome Wells o' Wearie.
Let fortune or fame their minions deceive,
Let fate look gruesome and eerie;
True glory and wealth are mine wi' Mary Grieve,
When we meet by the Wells o' Wearie.
Then gang wi' me, my bonnie Mary Grieve,
Nae danger will daur to come near ye;
For I ha'e ask'd your minnie, and she has gi'en ye leave,
To gang to the Wells o' Wearie.
One of the simplest and most popular of the living national
Mr Laing early wrote verses. In 1819, several songs from his pen
appeared in the "Harp of Caledonia"--a respectable collection of
minstrelsy, edited by John Struthers. He subsequently became a
Robertson's "Whistle Binkie" and the "Book of Scottish Song." He
The dark gray o' gloamin',
The lone leafy shaw,
The coo o' the cushat,
The scent o' the haw;
The brae o' the burnie,
A' bloomin' in flower,
An' twa' faithfu' lovers,
Make ae happy hour.
A kind winsome wifie,
A clean canty hame,
An' smilin' sweet babies
To lisp the dear name;
Wi' plenty o' labour,
An' health to endure,
Make time to row round aye
The ae happy hour.
Ye lost to affection,
Whom avarice can move
To woo an' to marry
For a' thing but love;
Awa' wi' your sorrows,
Awa' wi' your store,
Ye ken na the pleasure
O' ae happy hour.
AIR--_"Lass, gin I come near you."_
"Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me,
Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me,
Ye'se be ladye o' my ha',
Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me.
A canty but, a cosie ben,
Weel plenish'd ye may trow me;
A brisk, a blithe, a kind gudeman--
Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me!"
"Walth, there 's little doubt ye ha'e,
An' bidin' bein an' easy;
But brisk an' blithe ye canna be,
Wad marriage mak' you young again?
Wad woman's love renew you?
Awa', ye silly doitet man,
I canna, winna lo'e you!"
"Witless hizzie, e'en 's you like,
The ne'er a doit I 'm carin';
But men maun be the first to speak,
An' wanters maun be speerin'.
Yet, lassie, I ha'e lo'ed you lang,
An' now I'm come to woo you;
I 'm no sae auld as clashes gang,
I think you 'd better lo'e me."
"Doitet bodie! auld or young,
Ye needna langer tarry,
Gin ane be loutin' o'er a rung,
He 's no for me to marry.
Gae hame an' ance bethink yoursel'
How ye wad come to woo me,
An' mind me i' your latter-will,
Bodie, gin ye lo'e me!"
AIR--_"Lass of Arranteenie."_
I 've seen the smiling summer flower
Amang the braes of Yarrow;
I 've heard the raving winter wind
Amang the hills of Barra;
I 've wander'd Scotland o'er and o'er,
But the bonniest lass that I ha'e seen
Is bonnie Jean of Logie.
Her lips were like the heather bloom,
In meekest dewy morning;
Her cheeks were like the ruddy leaf,
The bloomy brier adorning;
Her brow was like the milky flower
That blossoms in the bogie;
And love was laughing in her een--
The bonnie lass of Logie.
I said, "My lassie, come wi' me,
My hand, my hame are ready;
I ha'e a lairdship of my ain,
And ye shall be my ladye.
I 've ilka thing baith out and in,
To make you blithe and vogie;"
She hung her head and sweetly smiled--
The bonnie lass of Logie!
But she has smiled, and fate has frown'd,
And wrung my heart with sorrow;
The bonnie lass sae dear to me
Can never be my marrow.
For, ah! she loves another lad--
The ploughman wi' his cogie;
Yet happy, happy may she be,
The bonnie lass of Logie!
I wadna gi'e my ain wife
For ony wife I see;
For, Oh! my dainty ain wife,
She 's aye sae dear to me.
A bonnier yet I 've never seen,
A better canna be;
I wadna gi'e my ain wife
For ony wife I see.
Though beauty is a fadin' flower,
As fadin' as it 's fair,
It looks fu' well in ony wife,
An' mine has a' her share.
She ance was ca'd a bonnie lass--
She 's bonnie aye to me;
I wadna gi'e my ain wife
For ony wife I see.
Oh, couthy is my ingle-cheek,
An' cheery is my Jean;
I never see her angry look,
Nor hear her word on ane.
She 's gude wi' a' the neebours roun',
An' aye gude wi' me;
I wadna gi'e my ain wife
For ony wife I see.
But Oh, her looks sae kindly,
They melt my heart outright,
When ower the baby at her breast
She hangs wi' fond delight.
She looks intill its bonnie face,
An' syne looks to me;
I wadna gi'e my ain wife
For ony wife I see.
AIR--_"O tell me the Way for to Woo."_
O sweet is the calm dewy gloaming,
When saftly by Rossie-wood brae,
The merle an' mavis are hymning
The e'en o' the lang summer's day!
An' sweet are the moments when o'er the blue ocean,
The full moon arising in majesty glows;
An' I, breathing o'er ilka tender emotion,
Wi' my lovely Mary, the Maid o' Montrose.
The fopling sae fine an' sae airy,
Sae fondly in love wi' himsel',
Is proud wi' his ilka new dearie,
To shine at the fair an' the ball;
But gie me the grove where the broom's yellow blossom
Waves o'er the white lily an' red smiling rose,
An' ae bonnie lassie to lean on my bosom--
My ain lovely Mary, the Maid o' Montrose.
O what is the haill warld's treasure,
Gane nane o' its pleasures we prove?
An' where can we taste o' true pleasure,
Gin no wi' the lassie we love?
O sweet are the smiles an' the dimples o' beauty,
Where lurking the loves an' the graces repose;
An' sweet is the form an' the air o' the pretty,
But sweeter is Mary, the Maid o' Montrose.
O Mary, 'tis no for thy beauty,
Though few are sae bonnie as thee;
O Mary, 'tis no for thy beauty,
Though handsome as woman can be.
The rose bloom is gane when the chill autumn's low'ring;
The aik's stately form when the wild winter blows;
But the charms o' the mind are the ties mair enduring--
These bind me to Mary, the Maid o' Montrose.
AIR--_"Miss Forbes's Farewell to Banff."_
Ye 've seen the blooming rosy brier,
On stately Dee's wild woody knowes;
Ye 've seen the op'ning lily fair,
In streamy Don's gay broomy howes:
An' ilka bonnie flower that grows,
Amang their banks and braes sae green--
These borrow a' their finest hues
Frae lovely Jean of Aberdeen.
Ye 've seen the dew-ey'd bloomy haw,
When morning gilds the welkin high;
Ye 've heard the breeze o' summer blaw,
When e'ening steals alang the sky.
But brighter far is Jeanie's eye,
When we 're amang the braes alane,
An' softer is the bosom-sigh
Of lovely Jean of Aberdeen.
Though I had a' the valleys gay,
Around the airy Bennochie;
An' a' the fleecy flocks that stray
Amang the lofty hills o' Dee;
While Mem'ry lifts her melting ee,
An' Hope unfolds her fairy scene,
My heart wi' them I'd freely gie
To lovely Jean of Aberdeen.
AIR--_"Alas! for Poor Teddy Macshane."_
Oh! where has the exile his home?
Oh! where has the exile his home?
Where the mountain is steep,
Where the valley is deep,
Where the waves of the Ohio foam;
Where no cheering smile
His woes may beguile--
Oh! there has the exile his home.
Oh! when will the exile return?
Oh! when will the exile return?
When our hearts heave no sigh,
When our tears shall be dry,
When Erin no longer shall mourn;
When his name we disown,
When his mem'ry is gone--
Oh! then will the exile return!
AIR--_"O rest thee, my Darling."_
On the airy Ben-Nevis the wind is awake,
The boat 's on the shallow, the ship on the lake;
Ah! now in a moment my country I leave;
The next I am far away--far on the wave!
Oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, Glen-na-h'Albyn!
Oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, Glen-na-h'Albyn!
I was proud of the power and the fame of my chief,
And to build up his House was the aim of my life;
And now in his greatness he turns me away,
When my strength is decay'd and my locks worn gray.
Oh! fare thee well!
Farewell the gray stones of my ancestors' graves,
I go to my place 'neath the foam of the waves;
Or to die unlamented on Canada's shore,
Where none of my fathers were gathered before!
Oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, Glen-na-h'Albyn!
Oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, Glen-na-h'Albyn!
 "Glen-na-h'Albyn, or Glen-more-na-h'Albyn, the great Glen of
Oh, wha's at the window, wha, wha?
Oh, wha's at the window, wha, wha?
Wha but blithe Jamie Glen,
He 's come sax miles and ten,
To tak' bonnie Jeannie awa, awa,
To tak' bonnie Jeannie awa.
He has plighted his troth, and a', and a',
Leal love to gi'e, and a', and a',
And sae has she dune,
By a' that 's abune,
For he lo'es her, she lo'es him, 'bune a', 'bune a',
He lo'es her, she lo'es him, 'bune a'.
Bridal-maidens are braw, braw,
Bridal-maidens are braw, braw,
But the bride's modest e'e,
And warm cheek are to me
'Bune pearlins, and brooches, and a', and a',
'Bune pearlins, and brooches, and a'.
It 's mirth on the green, in the ha', the ha',
It 's mirth on the green, in the ha', the ha';
There 's quaffing and laughing,
There 's dancing and daffing,
And the bride's father 's blithest of a', of a',
The bride's father 's blithest of a'.
It 's no that she 's Jamie's ava, ava,
It 's no that she 's Jamie's ava, ava,
That my heart is sae eerie
When a' the lave 's cheerie,
But it 's just that she 'll aye be awa, awa,
It 's just that she 'll aye be awa.
 The title of this song seems to have been suggested by that of a
My brothers are the stately trees
That in the forests grow;
The simple flowers my sisters are,
That on the green bank blow.
With them, with them, I am a child
Whose heart with mirth is dancing wild.
The daisy, with its tear of joy,
Gay greets me as I stray;
How sweet a voice of welcome comes
From every trembling spray!
How light, how bright, the golden-wing'd hours
I spend among those songs and flowers!
I love the Spirit of the Wind,
His varied tones I know;
His voice of soothing majesty,
Of love and sobbing woe;
Whate'er his varied theme may be,
With his my spirit mingles free.
I love to tread the grass-green path,
Far up the winding stream;
For there in nature's loneliness,
The day is one bright dream.
And still the pilgrim waters tell
Of wanderings wild by wood and dell.
Or up the mountain's brow I toil
Beneath a wid'ning sky,
Seas, forests, lakes, and rivers wide,
Crowding the wondering eye.
Then, then, my soul on eagle's wings,
To cloudless regions upwards springs!
The stars--the stars! I know each one,
With all its soul of love,
They beckon me to come and live
In their tearless homes above;
And then I spurn earth's songs and flowers,
And pant to breathe in heaven's own bowers.
O yes, there 's a valley as calm and as sweet
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;
So bland in its beauty, so rich in its green,
'Mid Scotia's dark mountains--the Vale of Killean.
The flocks on its soft lap so peacefully roam,
The stream seeks the deep lake as the child seeks its home,
That has wander'd all day, to its lullaby close,
Singing blithe 'mid the wild-flowers, and fain would repose.
How solemn the broad hills that curtain around
This sanctuary of nature, 'mid a wilderness found,
Whose echoes low whisper, "Bid the world farewell,
And with lowly contentment here peacefully dwell!"
Then build me a cot by that lake's verdant shore,
'Mid the world's wild turmoil I 'll mingle no more,
And the tidings evoking the sigh and the tear,
Of man's crimes and his follies, no more shall I hear.
Young Morn, as on tiptoe he ushers the day,
Will teach fading Hope to rekindle her ray;
And pale Eve, with her rapture tear, soft will impart
To the soul her own meekness--a rich glow to the heart.
The heavings of passion all rocked to sweet rest,
As repose its still waters, so repose shall this breast;
And 'mid brightness and calmness my spirit shall rise,
Like the mist from the mountain to blend with the skies.
My young heart's luve! twal' years ha'e been
A century to me;
I ha'e na seen thy smile, nor heard
Thy voice's melodie.
The mony hardships I ha'e tholed
Sin' I left Larocklea,
I maun na tell, for it would bring
The saut tear in thine e'e.
But I ha'e news, an' happy news,
To tell unto my love--
What I ha'e won, to me mair dear
That it my heart can prove.
Its thochts unchanged, still it is true,
An' surely sae is thine;
Thou never, never canst forget
That twa waur ane langsyne.
The simmer sun blinks on the tarn,
An' on the primrose brae,
Where we, in days o' innocence,
Waur wont to daff an' play;
An' I amang the mossy springs
Wade for the hinny blooms--
To thee the rush tiara wove,
Bedeck'd wi' lily plumes.
When on the ferny knowe we sat,
A happy, happy pair--
Thy comely cheek laid on my knee,
I plaited thy gowden hair.
Oh! then I felt the holiest thocht
That e'er enter'd my mind--
It, Mary, was to be to thee
For ever true an' kind.
Though fair the flowers that bloom around
My dwallin' owre the sea--
Though bricht the streams, an' green the bowers,
They are na _sae_ to me.
I hear the bulbul's mellow leed
Upo' the gorgeous paum--
The sweet cheep o' the feather'd bee
Amang the fields o' baum.
But there are nae auld Scotland's burds,
Sae dear to childhood's days--
The laverock, lintie, shulf, an' yyoite,
That taught us luve's sweet lays.
Gin' thou e'er wauk'st alane to think
On him that's owre the sea,
Their cheerfu' saft luve-lilts will tell
My heart's luve-thochts to thee.
Lat joy be in thy leal, true heart,
An' bricht smile in thine e'e--
The bonnie bark is in the bay,
I 'm coming hame to thee;
I 'm coming hame to thee, Mary,
Wi' mony a pearl fine,
An' I will lay them in thy lap,
For the kiss o' sweet langsyne.
 The wooded scenery of the Kelvin will in a few years be included
Let us haste to Kelvin Grove, bonnie lassie, O!
Through its mazes let us rove, bonnie lassie, O!
Where the rose in all her pride,
Paints the hollow dingle side,
Where the midnight fairies glide, bonnie lassie, O!
Let us wander by the mill, bonnie lassie, O!
To the cove beside the rill, bonnie lassie, O!
Where the glens rebound the call
Of the roaring water's fall,
Through the mountains rocky hall, bonnie lassie, O!
O Kelvin banks are fair, bonnie lassie, O!
When in summer we are there, bonnie lassie, O!
There the May pink's crimson plume
Throws a soft but sweet perfume
Round the yellow banks of broom, bonnie lassie, O!
Though I dare not call thee mine, bonnie lassie, O!
As the smile of fortune 's thine, bonnie lassie, O!
Yet with fortune on my side,
I could stay thy father's pride,
And win thee for my bride, bonnie lassie, O!
But the frowns of fortune lower, bonnie lassie, O!
On thy lover at this hour, bonnie lassie, O!
Ere yon golden orb of day
Wake the warblers on the spray,
From this land I must away, bonnie lassie, O!
Then farewell to Kelvin grove, bonnie lassie, O!
And adieu to all I love, bonnie lassie, O!
To the river winding clear,
To the fragrant-scented breer,
Even to thee of all most dear, bonnie lassie, O!
When upon a foreign shore, bonnie lassie, O!
Should I fall midst battle's roar, bonnie lassie, O!
Then, Helen! shouldst thou hear
Of thy lover on his bier,
To his memory shed a tear, bonnie lassie, O!
The night-wind's Eolian breezes,
Chase melody over the grove,
The fleecy clouds wreathing in tresses,
Float rosy the woodlands above;
Then tarry no longer, my true love,
The stars hang their lamps in the sky,
'Tis lovely the landscape to view, love,
When each bloom has a tear in its eye.
So stilly the evening is closing,
Bright dew-drops are heard as they fall,
Eolian whispers reposing
Breathe softly, I hear my love call;
Yes, the light fairy step of my true love
The night breeze is wafting to me;
Over heathbell and violet blue, love,
Perfuming the shadowy lea.
The harvest morning breaks
Breathing balm, and the lawn
Through the mist in rosy streaks
Gilds the dawn,
While fairy troops descend,
With the rolling clouds that bend
O'er the forest as they wend
Fast away, when the day
Chases cloudy wreaths away
From the land.
The harvest breezes swell,
And the song pours along,
From the reapers in the dell,
Joyous throng!
The tiny gleaners come,
Picking up their harvest home,
As they o'er the stubble roam,
Dancing here, sporting there,
All the balmy sunny air
Is full of song.
The harvest evening falls,
While each flower round the bower,
Breathing odour, now recalls
The lover's hour.
The moon enthroned in blue
Lights the rippling lake anew,
And the wailing owls' whoo! whoo!
From the glen again, again,
Wakes the stillness of the scene
On my adieu.
 Contributed by Mr Lyle to the present work.
I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel,
When the lark begins to sing,
And a thousan', thousan' joyfu' hearts
Are welcoming the spring:
When the merle and the blackbird build their nest
In the bushy forest tree,
And a' things under the sky seem blest,
My thoughts shall be o' thee.
I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel,
When the simmer spreads her flowers,
And the lily blooms and the ivy twines
In beauty round the bowers;
When the cushat coos in the leafy wood,
And the lambs sport o'er the lea,
And every heart 's in its happiest mood,
My thoughts shall be o' thee.
I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel,
When har'st blithe days begin,
And shearers ply, in the yellow ripe field,
The foremost rig to win;
When the shepherd brings his ewes to the fauld,
Where light-hair'd lasses be,
And mony a tale o' love is tauld,
My thoughts shall be o' thee.
I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel,
When the winter winds rave high,
And the tempest wild is pourin' doun
Frae the dark and troubled sky:
When a hopeless wail is heard on land,
And shrieks frae the roaring sea,
And the wreck o' nature seems at hand,
My thoughts shall be o' thee!
Oh, hast thou forgotten the birk tree's shade,
And this warm, true heart o' mine, Mary?
Oh, hast thou forgotten the promise thou made,
When so fondly 't was pressed to thine, Mary?
Oh, hast thou forgotten, what I ne'er can forget,
The hours we have spent together?
Those hours which, like stars in my memory, yet
Shine on as brightly as ever!
Oh, hast thou forgotten that moment of bliss,
So fraught with the heart's full feeling?
As we clung to each other in the last embrace,
The soul of love revealing!
Oh, hast thou forgotten that sacred spot,
Where the farewell word was spoken?
Is the sigh, and the tear, and all forgot,
The vow and the promise broken?
Then for ever farewell, thou false fair one;
Though other arms caress thee,
Though a fairer youth thy heart should gain,
And a smoother tongue should bless thee:--
Yet never again on thy warm young cheek
Will breathe a soul more warm than mine,
And never again will a lover speak
Of love more pure to thine.
AIR--_"The Last Rose of Summer."_
When the maid of my heart, with the dark rolling eye,
The only beloved of my bosom is nigh,
I ask not of Heaven one bliss to impart,
Save that which I feel with the maid of my heart.
When around and above us there 's nought to be seen,
But the moon on the sky and the flower on the green,
And all is at rest in the glen and the hill,
Save the soul-stirring song of the breeze and the rill.
Then the maid of my heart to my bosom is press'd,
Then all I hold dear in this world is possess'd;
Then I ask not of Heaven one bliss to impart,
Save that which I feel with the maid of my heart.
Oh! the land of hills is the land for me,
Where the maiden's step is light and free;
Where the shepherd's pipe, and the hunter's horn,
Awake the joys of the rosy morn.
There 's a voice in the wind, when it comes from the lake,
That tells how the foamy billows break;
There 's a voice in the wind, when it comes from the wood,
That tells of dreary solitude.
But, oh! when it comes from the mountain fells,
Where the Spirit of Song and Freedom dwells,
Where in youth's warm day I woke that strain
I ne'er in this world can wake again.
The warm blood leaps in its wonted course,
And fresh tears gush from their briny source,
As if I had hail'd in the passing wind
The all I have loved and left behind.
O, saw ye this sweet bonnie lassie o' mine?
Or saw ye the smile on her cheek sae divine?
Or saw ye the kind love that speaks in her e'e?
Sure naebody e'er was sae happy as me.
It 's no that she dances sae light on the green,
It 's no the simplicity marked in her mien--
But, O! it 's the kind love that speaks in her e'e
That keeps me aye happy as happy can be.
To meet her alane 'mang the green leafy trees,
When naebody kens, an' when naebody sees;
To breathe out the soul in a saft melting kiss--
On earth sure there 's naething is equal to this.
I have felt every bliss which the soul can enjoy,
When friends circle round, and nought to annoy;
I have felt every joy which illumines the breast
When the full flowing bowl is most warmly caress'd.
But, O! there 's a sweet and a heavenly charm
In life's early day, when the bosom is warm,
When soul meets with soul in a saft melting kiss,
On earth sure there 's naething is equal to this.
introduced it shortly after in his _Noctes Bengerianæ_, in the
speculations.
"Oh, will ye walk the wood wi' me?
Oh, will ye walk the green?
Or will ye sit within mine arms,
My ain kind Jean?"
"It 's I 'll not walk the wood wi' thee,
Nor yet will I the green;
And as for sitting in your arms,
It 's what I dinna mean."
"Oh! slighted love is ill to thole,
And weel may I compleen;
But since that better mayna be,
I e'en maun thol 't for Jean."
Ye saw her late yestreen;
Ye'll find in her a lightsome love
Ye winna find in Jean."
"Wi' bonny May o' Mistycleugh
I carena to be seen;
Her lightsome love I'd freely gie
For half a blink frae Jean."
"Gang down to Madge o' Miryfaulds,
I ken for her ye green;
Wi' her ye 'll get a purse o' gowd--
Ye 'll naething get wi' Jean."
"For doity Madge o' Miryfaulds
I dinna care a preen;
The purse o' gowd I weel could want,
If I could hae my Jean."
"Oh, yes! I 'll walk the wood wi' thee;
Oh, yes! I 'll walk the green;
But first ye 'll meet me at the kirk,
And mak' me aye your Jean."
"Sweet summer now is by,
And cauld winter is nigh,
The wan leaves they fa' frae the tree;
The hills are white wi' snaw,
And the frosty winds blaw,
And I maun gie over the sea, Mary,
And I maun gie over the sea.
"But winter will gang by,
And summer come wi' joy,
And Nature again will be free;
And wooers you will find,
And mair ye 'll never mind
The laddie that 's over the sea, Mary,
The laddie that 's over the sea."
"Oh, Willie, since it 's sae,
My heart is very wae
To leave a' my friends and countrie;
But wi' thee I will gang,
Though the way it be lang,
And wi' thee I 'll cross the saut sea, Willie,
And wi' thee I 'll cross the saut sea."
"The way is vera far,
And terrible is war,
And great are the hardships to dree;
And if I should be slain,
Or a prisoner ta'en,
"Sae at hame ye maun bide,
And should it sae betide
That a bride to another ye be,
For ane that lo'ed ye dear
Ye 'll whiles drap a tear;
I 'll aften do the same for thee, Mary,
I 'll aften do the same for thee."
The rowan tear down fell,
Her bosom wasna well,
For she sabbit most wofullie;
"Oure the yirth I wad gang,
And never count it lang,
But I fear ye carena for me, Willie,
But I fear ye carena for me."
Nae langer could he thole,
She tore his vera soul,
He dighted her bonnie blue e'e;
"Oh, what was it you said,
Oh my ain loving maid?
I 'll never love a woman but thee, Mary,
I 'll never love a woman but thee!"
The fae is forced to yield,
And freedom has the field;
"Away I will ne'er gang frae thee;
Only death shall us part,
Keep sic thoughts frae my heart,
But never shall part us the sea, Mary,
But never shall part us the sea."
One of the most learned of the modern Gaelic song-writers, Evan
The first stanza of this song was the composition of a
lady. Maclachlan completed the composition in Gaelic,
and afterwards produced the following version of the
whole in English.
Not the swan on the lake, or the foam on the shore,
Can compare with the charms of the maid I adore:
Not so white is the new milk that flows o'er the pail,
Or the snow that is shower'd from the boughs of the vale.
As the cloud's yellow wreath on the mountain's high brow,
The locks of my fair one redundantly flow;
Her cheeks have the tint that the roses display
When they glitter with dew on the morning of May.
As the planet of Venus that gleams o'er the grove,
Her blue rolling eyes are the symbols of love:
Her pearl-circled bosom diffuses bright rays,
Like the moon when the stars are bedimm'd with her blaze.
The mavis and lark, when they welcome the dawn,
Make a chorus of joy to resound through the lawn:
But the mavis is tuneless, the lark strives in vain,
When my beautiful charmer renews her sweet strain.
When summer bespangles the landscape with flowers,
While the thrush and the cuckoo sing soft from the bowers,
Through the wood-shaded windings with Bella I 'll rove,
And feast unrestrained on the smiles of my love.
These verses are allegorical. In the character of a
song-bird the bard relates the circumstances of his
nativity, the simple habits of his progenitors, and his
own rural tastes and recreations from infancy, giving
the first place to the delights of melody. He proceeds
to give an account of his flight to a strange but
hospitable region, where he continued to sing his songs
among the birds, the flocks, the streams, and
cultivated fields of the land of his sojourn. This
piece is founded upon a common usage of the Gaelic
bards, several of whom assume the allegorical character
of the "Mavis" of their own clan. Thus we have the
Mavis of Clan-ranald by Mac-Vaistir-Allister--of
Macdonald (of Sleat) by Mac Codrum--of Macleod, and
many others.
Clan Lachlan's tuneful mavis, I sing on the branches early,
And such my love of song, I sleep but half the night-tide rarely;
No bird of devastating claw, but a woodland songster meek.
I love the apple's infant bloom; my ancestry have fared
For ages on the nourishment the orchard hath prepared:
Their hey-day was the summer, their joy the summer's dawn,
And their dancing-floor it was the green leaf's velvet lawn;
Their song was the carol that defiance bade to care,
And their breath of life it was the summer's balmiest air.
When first my morn of life was born, the Pean's silver stream
But changes will come over us, and now a stranger I
Among the glades of Cluaran must imp my wings and fly;
Yet gratitude forbid complaint, although in foreign grove,
Since welcome to my haunt I come, and there in freedom rove.
By every song-bird charm'd, my ear is fed the livelong day,
Now from the hollow's deepest dell, now from the top-most spray,
With its own clusters loaded, with its rich foliage dress'd,
Each bough is hanging down, and each shapely stem depress'd,
While nestle there inhabitants, a feather'd tuneful choir,
The concert of your harmony, nor ever harshly jars
A string of all your harping, nor of your voices trill
Notes that are weak for tameness, that are for sharpness shrill.
The sun is on his flushing march, his golden hair abroad,
It seems as on the mountain's side of beams a furnace glow'd,
Now melts the honey from all flowers, and now a dew o'erspreads
(A dew of fragrant blessedness) all the grasses of the meads.
Nor least in my remembrance is my country's flowering heather,
Of my own Highland mountains that I climb in love and pride.
Dear tribes of nature! co-mates ye of nature's wandering son--
I hail the lambs that on the floor of milky pastures run,
The streams they drink are waters of the ever-gushing well,
I will not name each sister beam, but clustering there I see
The beauty of the purple-bell, the daisy of the lea.
Of every hue I mark them, the many-spotted kine,
With the barley and the corn that Scotland loves so well.
And now I close my clannish lay with blessings on the shade
That bids the mavis sing her song, well nurtured, undismay'd;
The shade where bloom and cresses, and the ear-honey'd heather,
Are smiling fair, and dwelling in their brotherhood together;
For the sun is setting largely, and blinks my eye its ken;
 The stream that flows through Glen Pean.
distinguished from the Lowland Brown, which he assumed. He first
publications.
The poet had paid his addresses to one of the sisters,
but without the consent of her relatives, who
ultimately induced her to wed another. After a lapse of
time the bard transferred his affection to another
daughter of the same distinguished family, and being
successful, was compensated for his former trials.
The sundown had mantled Ben Nevis with night,
And the stars were attired in the glory of light,
And the hope of the lover was shining as day,
When Dunolly's fair daughter was sprited away.
Away she has gone at the touch of the helm,
And the shadows of darkness her lover o'erwhelm--
But, would that his strength as his purpose was true,
At Dunolly, Culloden were battled anew!
Yes! did they give courtesy, did they give time,
The kindred of Cowal would meet at the prime,
And the _Brunach_ would joy, in the succour they gave,
To win him a bride, or to win him a grave.
My lost one! I'm not like the laggard thou'st found,
Whose puissance scarce carries the sword he has bound;
In the flush of my health and my penniless youth,
I could well have rewarded thine honour and truth.
Five years they have pass'd, and the Brunach has shaken
The burden of woe that his spirit was breaking;
A sister is salving a sister's annoy,
And the eyes of the Brunach are treasured with joy.
A bride worth the princesses England is rearing,
Comes forth from Dunolly, a star reappearing;
If my heart in Dunolly was garner'd before,
In Dunolly, my pride and my pleasure is more.
The lowly, the gentle, the graceful, the mild
That in friendship or charity never beguiled,
She is mine--to Dunduala that traces her stem,
As for kings to be proud of, 'tis prouder for them,
Though Donald the gracious be head of her line,
And "our exiled and dear" in her pedigree shine.
Then hearken, ye men of the country I love!
Despair not, unsmooth though the course of your love,
Ere ye yield to your sorrow or die in your folly,
May ye find, like the Brunach, another Dunolly.
 Brunach--The Brown, viz., the poet himself.
 Supposed to be the first of our Christian kings.
concealment by his own daughter, a child about ten years old.
No homeward scene near me,
No comrade to cheer me,
I cling to my dearie,
And sigh till I marry.
Sing ever O, and ra-ill O,
Ra-ill O,
Sing ever O, and ra-ill O,
Was ever a May like my fairy?
My youth with the stranger,
Next on mountains a ranger,
I pass'd--but no change, here,
Will sever from Mary.
What ringlets discover
Their gloss thy brows over--
Forget thee! thy lover,
Ah, first shall they bury.
Thy aspect of kindness,
Thy graces they bind us,
And, like Feili, remind us
Of a heaven undreary.
Than the treasures of Spain
I would toil more to gain
Thy love--but my pain,
Ah, 'tis cruel, my Mary!
When the shell is o'erflowing,
And its dew-drops are glowing,
No, never, thy snow on
A slander shall tarry.
When viols are playing,
And dancers are Maying,
My eyes may be straying,
But my soul is with Mary.
That white hand of thine
Might I take into mine,
Could I ever repine,
Or from tenderness vary?
No, never! no, never!
My troth on 't for ever,
Lip to lip, I 'd deliver
My being to Mary.
 Festivals, saint-days.
Thy wily eyes, my darling,
Have grieved me since our parting
At the kirk of Glendaruel.
'Twas to the Kirkton wending
Bright eyes encounter'd duty,
And mavis' notes were blending
With the rosy cheeks of beauty.
Oh, jimpsome is her shapely waist,
Her arms, her instep queenly;
And her sweet parting lips are graced
With rows of ivory inly.
When busy tongues are railing,
Lown is her word unsaucy,
And with modest grace unfailing
She trips it o'er the causey.
Should royalty prefer me,
Preferment none I crave,
But to live a shepherd near thee,
On the howes of Corrichnaive.
Would fortune crown my wishes--
The shealing of the hill,
With my darling, and the rushes
To couch on, were my will.
I hear, but not instruction,
Though faithful lips are pleading--
I read thy eyes' perfection,
On their dew of mildness feeding.
My hand is swiftly scrolling,
In the courts of reverend men;
But, ah! my restless soul in
Is triumphing my Jean.
I fear, I fear their frowning--
But though they chased me over
Where Holland's flats are drowning,
I 'll live and die thy lover.
 The war was raging in Holland, under the command of the Duke of
York. The bard threatens to exchange the pen for the sword.
Versified from the Gaelic Original by the Author.
Beneath a hill 'mang birken bushes,
By a burnie's dimplit linn,
I told my love with artless blushes
To the lassie o' the glen.
Oh! the birken bank sae grassy,
Hey! the burnie's dimplit linn;
Dear to me 's the bonnie lassie
Living in yon rashy glen!
Lanely Ruail! thy stream sae glassy
Shall be aye my fav'rite theme,
For on thy banks my Highland lassie
First confess'd a mutual flame.
What bliss to sit, and nane to fash us,
In some sweet wee bow'ry den!
Or fondly stray amang the rashes,
Wi' the lassie o' the glen!
And though I wander now unhappy,
Far frae scenes we haunted then,
I'll ne'er forget the bank sae grassy,
Nor the lassie o' the glen.
_Aumry_, a store-place.
_Bicker_, a drinking vessel.
_Burnie_, a small stream.
_Dighted_, wiped.
_Doit_, a small coin.
_Dwine_, dwindle.
_Fleechit_, cajoled.
_Fykes_, troubles, anxieties.
_Glour_, look earnestly.
_Grannie_, grandmother.
_Heuk_, reaping-hook.
_Hizzie_, _Hussy_, a thoughtless girl.
_Knows_, knolls, hillocks.
_Lift_, firmament.
_Minnie_, mother.
_Sabbit_, sobbed.
_Speerin'_, inquiring.
_Swiggit_, swallowed.
_Unco_, uncommon.