"Shortly after becoming a probationer, I came to reside in this district, and, not long after, the preacher who officiated in the preaching-station here died. The people connected with it wished me to become his successor, which, after some difficulties on their part had been surmounted, I became. I had other views at the time which were promising and important; but as there had been untoward disturbances in the place, owing to the lack of defined rights and privileges, I had it in my power to become a peacemaker, and, besides, I felt it my duty to comply with a call which was both cordial and unanimous. I now laid wholly aside those things which pertain to the pursuits of romantic literature, and devoted myself to the performance of incumbent duties. In consequence of no house having been provided for the preacher, and no one to be obtained but at a very inconvenient distance, I was in this respect very inconveniently situated. Travelling nine miles to the scene of my official duties, it was frequently my hap to preach in a very uncomfortable condition, when, indeed, the wet would be pouring from my arms on the Bible before me, and oozing over my shoes when the foot was stirred on the pulpit floor. But, by and by, the Duke of Buccleuch built a dwelling-house for me, the same which I still occupy."

To the ministerial charge of the then preaching station of Teviothead Mr Riddell was about to receive ordination, at the united solicitation of his hearers, when he was suddenly visited with severe affliction. Unable to discharge pulpit duty for a period of years, the pastoral superintendence of the district was devolved on another; and on his recovery, with commendable forbearance, he did not seek to interfere with the new ecclesiastical arrangement. This procedure was generously approved of by the Duke of Buccleuch, who conferred upon him the right to occupy the manse cottage, along with a grant of land, and a small annuity.

Mr Riddell's autobiography proceeds:—"In the hope of soon obtaining a permanent and comfortable settlement at Teviothead, I had ventured to make my own, by marriage, her who had in heart been mine through all my college years, and who for my sake had, in the course of these, rejected wealth and high standing in life. The heart that, for the sake of leal faith and love, could despise wealth and its concomitants, and brave the risk of embracing comparative poverty, even at its best estate, was not one likely overmuch to fear that poverty when it appeared, nor flinch with an altered tone from the position which it had adopted, when it actually came. This, much rather, fell to my part. It preyed upon my mind too deeply not to prove injurious in its effects; and it did this all the more, that the voice of love, true to its own law, had the words of hope and consolation in it, but never those of complaint. It appeared the acme of the severity of fate itself to have lived to be the mean of placing a heart and mind so rich in disinterested affection on so wild and waste a scene of trial.

"From an experience of fourteen years, in which there were changes in almost all things except in the affection which bound two hearts in one, before the hands were united, it might be expected that I should give some eminent admonitions concerning the imprudence of men, and particularly of students, allowing their hearts to become interested in, and the remembrance of their minds more fraught with the rich beauty of auburn ringlets than in the untoward confusion, for example, of irregular Greek verbs; yet I much fear that admonition would be of no use. If their fate be woven of a texture similar to that of mine, how can they help it? A man may have an idea that to cling to the shelter which he has found, and indulge in the sleep that has overtaken him amid the stormy blasts of the waste mountains, may be little else than opening for himself the gates of death, yet the toils of the way through which he has already passed may also have rendered him incapable of resisting the dangerous rest and repose of his immediate accommodation. In regard to my own love affairs, I, throughout all these long years which I have specified, might well have adopted, as the motto of both mind and heart, these lines—

"'Oh, poortith cauld and restless love, Ye wreck my peace between ye.'

I had, as has already been hinted, a rival, who, if not so devotedly attached as I, nevertheless was by far too much so for any one who is destined to love without encouragement. He was as rich in proportion as I was poor. The gifts of love, called the gifts of friendship, which he contrived to bestow were costly; mine, as fashioned forth by a higher hand than that of art, might be equally rich and beautiful in the main, yet wild-flowers, though yellow as the gold, and though wrapped in rhymes, are light ware when weighed against the solid material. He, in personal appearance, manners, and generosity of heart, was one with whom it was impossible to be acquainted and not to esteem; and another feature of this affair was, that we were friends, and almost constant companions for some years. When in the country I had to be with him as continually as possible; and when I went to the city, it was his wont to follow me. Here, then, was a web strangely woven by the fingers of a wayward fate. Feelings were brought into daily exercise which might seem the least compatible with being brought into contact and maintained in harmony. And these things, which are strictly true, if set forth in the contrivances of romance might, or in all likelihood would, be pronounced unnatural or overstrained. The worth and truth of the heart to which these fond anxieties related left me no ground to fear for losing that regard which I valued as 'light and life' itself; but in another way there reached me a matchless misery, and which haunted me almost as constantly as my own shadow when the sun shone. Considering the dark uncertainty of my future prospects in life, that regard I felt it fearful almost beyond measure even to seek to retain, incurring the responsibility of marring the fortune of one whom nevertheless I could not bear the thought of another than myself having the bliss of rendering blessed. If selfishness be thus seen to exist even in love itself, I would fain hope that it is of an elevated and peculiar kind, and not that which grovels, dragging downwards, and therefore justly deserving of the name. I am the more anxious in regard to this on account of its being in my own case felt so deeply. It maintained its ground with more or less firmness at all times, and ultimately triumphed, in despite of all efforts made to the contrary over the suggestions of prudence and even the sterner reasonings of the sense of justice. In times of sadness and melancholy, which, like the preacher's days of darkness, were many, when hope scarcely lit the gloom of the heart on which it sat though the band of love was about its brow, I busied myself in endeavouring to form resolutions to resign my pretensions to the warmer regard of her who was the object of all this serious solicitude; but neither she herself, nor time and place seemed, so far as I could see, disposed in the least to aid me in these efforts of self-control and denial; and, indeed, even at best, I much suspect that the resolutions of lovers in such cases are only like the little dams which the rivulet forms in itself by the frail material of stray grass-piles, and wild-rose leaves, easily overturned by the next slight impulse that the wave receives. In a ballad called 'Lanazine,' written somewhat in the old irregular style, sentiments relating to this matter, a little—and only a little—disguised, are set forth. The following is a portion of these records, written from time to time for the sake of preserving to the memory what might once be deeply interesting to the heart:—

"'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 constituting the keen and trying experience of many years, as arising in consequence of this attachment and untoward circumstances, it has brought more than a sufficient compensation; and were it possible, and the choice given, I would assuredly follow the same course, and suffer it all over again, rather than be without 'that treasure of departed sorrow' that is even now at my right hand as I write these lines.

"'The Christian Politician'[4] was published during the time of my indisposition. This work I had written at leisure hours, with the hopes of its being beneficial to the people placed under my care, by giving them a general and connected view of the principles and philosophical bearing of the Christian religion. In exhorting them privately, I discovered that many of them understood that religion better in itself, than they appeared to comprehend the manner in which it stood in connexion with the surrounding circumstances of this life. In other words, they were acquainted with doctrines and principles whose application and use, whether in regard to thought, or feeling, or daily practice, they did not so clearly recognise. To remedy this state of things, I wrote 'The Christian Politician' in a style as simple as the subjects treated of in it would well admit of, giving it a conversational cast, instead of systematic arrangement, that it might be the less forbidding to those for whom it was principally intended. Being published, however, at the time when, through my indisposition, I could take no interest in it, it was sent forth in a somewhat more costly shape than rightly suited the original design; and although extensively introduced and well received, it was in society of a higher order than that which it was its object chiefly to benefit.

"My latest publication is a volume of 'Poems and Songs,'[5] published by Messrs Sutherland and Knox of Edinburgh. 'The Cottagers of Glendale,' the 'Lay of Life,' and some others of the compositions in this volume, were written during the period of my convalescence; the songs are, for the greater part, the production of 'the days of other years.' Many of the latter had been already sung in every district of the kingdom, but had been much corrupted in the course of oral transmission. These wanderers of the hill-harp are now secured in a permanent form."

To this autobiographical sketch it remains to be added, that Mr Riddell is possessed of nearly all the qualities of a great master of the Scottish lyre. He has viewed the national character where it is to be seen in its most unsophisticated aspects, and in circumstances the most favourable to its development. He has lived, too, among scenes the best calculated to foster the poetic temperament. "He has got," wrote Professor Wilson, "a poet's education: he has lived the greater part of his days amidst pastoral scenes, and tended sheep among the green and beautiful solitudes of nature." Sufficiently imaginative, he does not, like his minstrel predecessor the Ettrick Shepherd, soar into the regions of the supernatural, or roam among the scenes of the viewless world. He sings of the mountain wilds and picturesque valleys of Caledonia, and of the simple joys and habits of rural or pastoral life. His style is essentially lyrical, and his songs are altogether true to nature. Several of his songs, such as "Scotland Yet," "The Wild Glen sae Green," "The Land of Gallant Hearts," and "The Crook and Plaid," will find admirers while Scottish lyric poetry is read or sung.

In 1855, Mr Riddell executed a translation of the Gospel of Matthew into the Scottish language by command of Prince Lucien Bonaparte, a performance of which only a limited number of copies have been printed under the Prince's auspices. At present, he is engaged in preparing a romance connected with Border history.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] A flock of sheep.

[2] See Minstrel, vol. iii. p. 186.

[3] "Songs of the Ark, with other Poems." Edin. 1831. 8vo.

[4] "The Christian Politician, or the Right Way of Thinking." Edinburgh, 1844, 8vo. This work, now nearly out of print, we would especially commend to the favourable attention of the Religious Tract Society.—ED.

[5] "Poems, Songs, and Miscellaneous Pieces." Edinburgh, 1847, 12mo.



THE WILD GLEN SAE GREEN.

AIR—"The Posy, or Roslin Castle."

When my flocks upon the heathy hill are lying a' at rest, And the gloamin' spreads its mantle gray o'er the world's dewy breast, I'll take my plaid and hasten through yon woody dell unseen, 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.

My fauldin' plaid shall shield her frae the gloamin's chilly gale; The star o' eve shall mark our joy, but shall not tell our tale— Our simple tale o' tender love—that tauld sae oft has been 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.

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 Beneath the sky of Scotia!



THE LAND OF GALLANT HEARTS.

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 YELLOW LOCKS O' CHARLIE.

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.

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! 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.



THE GRECIAN WAR SONG.

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!



FLORA'S LAMENT.

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, But Charlie, ah! Charlie, no ray to thy Flora Can dawn from thy coming to chase the dark sorrow Which death, in thine absence, alone can subdue.



WHEN THE GLEN ALL IS STILL.

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.



SCOTLAND YET.[6]

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.

FOOTNOTES:

[6] This song, set to music by Mr Peter M'Leod, was published in a separate form, and the profits, which amounted to a considerable sum, given for the purpose of placing a parapet and railing around the monument of Burns on the Calton Hill, Edinburgh.



THE MINSTREL'S GRAVE.

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."



OUR OWN LAND AND LOVED ONE.

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!



THE BOWER OF THE WILD.

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!



THE CROOK AND PLAID.

AIR—"The Ploughman."

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, While o'er him sweet the laverock sings, new sprung frae 'mang the dew; His doggie frolics roun' and roun', and may not weel be stay'd, 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.

When the dews begin to fauld the flowers, and the gloamin' shades draw on, When the star comes stealing through the sky, and the kye are on the loan, He whistles through the glen sae sweet, the heart is lighter made To ken the laddie hameward hies who wears the crook and plaid; 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, Oh! nae wooers like the laddie that rows me in his plaid; 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; And through life I'll love the laddie that wears the crook and plaid; For he's aye true, &c.



THE MINSTREL'S BOWER.

AIR—"Bonnie Mary Hay."

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, But ah! its looks impart nae sweet tale o' love to me!

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.

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.

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.

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, When I to Scotland and to her Must all this heart surrender. Then would I were, &c.



OH! TELL ME WHAT SOUND.

AIR—"Paddy's Resource."

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.[7]

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!

FOOTNOTES:

[7] This exquisite lay forms a portion of "The Cottagers of Glendale," Mr Riddell's longest ballad poem.



MRS MARGARET M. INGLIS.

The writer of spirited and elegant poetry, Mrs Margaret Maxwell Inglis was the youngest daughter of Alexander Murray, a medical practitioner, who latterly accepted a small government situation in the town of Sanquhar, Dumfriesshire. She was born at Sanquhar on the 27th October 1774, and at an early age became the wife of a Mr Finlay, who held a subordinate post in the navy. On the death of her husband, which took place in the West Indies, she resided with the other members of her family in Dumfries; and in 1803, she married Mr John Inglis, only son of John Inglis, D.D., minister of Kirkmabreck, in Galloway. By the death of Mr Inglis in 1826, she became dependent, with three children by her second marriage, on a small annuity arising from an appointment which her late husband had held in the Excise. She relieved the sadness of her widowhood by a course of extensive reading, and of composition both in prose and verse. In 1838 she published, at the solicitation of friends, a duodecimo volume, entitled "Miscellaneous Collection of Poems, chiefly Scriptural Pieces." Of the compositions in this volume, there are several of very superior merit, while the whole are marked by a vein of elegant fancy.

Mrs Inglis died in Edinburgh on the 21st December 1843. Eminently gifted as a musician, she could boast of having been complimented by the poet Burns on the grace with which she had, in his presence, sung his own songs. Of retiring and unobtrusive habits, she mixed sparingly in general society; but among her intimate friends, she was held in estimation for the extent of her information and the unclouded cheerfulness of her disposition. She has left some MSS. of poems and songs, from which we have been privileged to make selections for the present work.



SWEET BARD OF ETTRICK'S GLEN.[8]

AIR—"Banks of the Devon."

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; The Bird of the Wilderness, Low in the waving grass, Shall, cow'ring, sing sadly its farewell to thee.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] This song was composed by Mrs Inglis, in honour of the Ettrick Shepherd, shortly after the period of his death.



YOUNG JAMIE.[9]

AIR—"Drummond Castle."

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.

FOOTNOTES:

[9] Printed for the first time.



CHARLIE'S BONNET'S DOWN, LADDIE.

AIR—"Tullymet."

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?

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, Or saw ye the Lords o' Seaforth and Airlie; Saw ye the Glengarry, M'Leod, and Clandonachil, 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?



BRUCE'S ADDRESS.

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.

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?

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!



JAMES KING.

James King was born in Paisley in 1776. His paternal ancestors, for a course of centuries, were farmers in the vicinity of Gleniffer Braes. Having been only one year at school, he was, at the age of eight, required to assist his father in his trade of muslin-weaving. Joining a circulating library, he soon acquired an acquaintance with books; he early wrote verses, and became the intimate associate of Tannahill, who has honourably mentioned him in one of his poetical epistles. In his fifteenth year he enlisted in a fencible regiment, which was afterwards stationed at Inverness. On its being disembodied in 1798, he returned to the loom at Paisley, where he continued till 1803, when he became a recruit in the Renfrewshire county militia. He accompanied this regiment to Margate, Deal, Dover, Portsmouth, and London, and subsequently to Leith, the French prisoners' depot at Penicuick, and the Castle of Edinburgh. At Edinburgh his poetical talents recommended him to some attention from Sir Walter Scott, the Ettrick Shepherd, and several others of the poets of the capital.

Accused of exciting disaffection, and promoting an attempt made by a portion of his comrades to resist lawful authority while the regiment was stationed at Perth, King, though wholly innocent of the charge, fearing the vengeance of the adjutant, who was hostile to him, contrived to effect his escape. By a circuitous route, so as to elude the vigilance of parties sent to apprehend him, he reached the district of Galloway, where he obtained employment as a shepherd and agricultural labourer. He subsequently wrought as a weaver at Crieff till 1815, when, on his regiment being disembodied, he was honourably acquitted from the charge preferred against him, and granted his discharge. He now settled as a muslin-weaver, first at Glasgow, and afterwards at Paisley and Charleston. He died at Charleston, near Paisley, on the 27th September 1849, in his seventy-third year.

Of vigorous intellect, lively fancy, and a keen appreciation of the humorous, King was much esteemed among persons of a rank superior to his own. His mind was of a fine devotional cast, and his poetical compositions are distinguished by earnestness of expression and sentiment.



THE LAKE IS AT REST.

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.



LIFE'S LIKE THE DEW.

AIR—"Scott's Boat Song."

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."



ISOBEL PAGAN.

The author of a sweet pastoral lyric, which has been praised both by Robert Burns and Allan Cunningham, Isobel Pagan claims a biographical notice. She was born in the parish of New Cumnock, Ayrshire, about the year 1741. Deserted by her relations in youth, and possessing only an imperfect education, she was led into a course of irregularities which an early moral training would have probably prevented. She was lame and singularly ill-favoured, but her manners were spirited and amusing. Her chief employment was the composition of verses, and these she sung as a mode of subsistence. She published, in 1805, a volume of doggerel rhymes, and was in the habit of satirising in verse those who had offended her. Her one happy effort in song-making has preserved her name. She lived chiefly in the neighbourhood of Muirkirk. She died on the 3d November 1821, in her eightieth year, and her remains were interred in the churchyard of Muirkirk. A tombstone marks her grave.



CA' THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES.[10]

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."

FOOTNOTES:

[10] Of this song a new version was composed by Burns, the original chorus being retained. Burns' version commences—"Hark the mavis' evening sang."



JOHN MITCHELL.

John Mitchell, the Paisley bard, died in that place on the 12th August 1856, in his seventieth year. He was born at Paisley in 1786. The labour of weaving he early sought to relieve by the composition of verses. He contributed pieces, both in prose and verse, to the Moral and Literary Observer, a small Paisley periodical of the year 1823, and of which he was the publisher. In 1838, he appeared as the author of "A Night on the Banks of the Doon, and other Poems," a volume which was followed in 1840 by "The Wee Steeple's Ghaist, and other Poems and Songs," the latter being dedicated to Professor Wilson. In the year 1840, he likewise produced, jointly with a Mr Dickie, the "Philosophy of Witchcraft," a work which, published by Messrs Oliver and Boyd, was well received. His next publication appeared in 1845, with the title, "One Hundred Original Songs." His last work, "My Gray Goose Quill, and other Poems and Songs," was published in 1852.

Mitchell employed himself latterly in forwarding the sale of his publications, and succeeded by this course in securing a comfortable maintenance. He wrote verses with much readiness, and occasionally with considerable power. His songs, which we have selected for the present work, are distinguished by graceful simplicity and elegant pathos. Had Mitchell written less, and more carefully, he had reached a higher niche in the Temple of National Song. His manners were eccentric, and he was not unconscious of his poetical endowments.



BEAUTY.

What wakes the Poet's lyre? 'Tis Beauty; What kindles his poetic fire? 'Tis Beauty; What makes him seek, at evening's hour, The lonely glen, the leafy bower, When dew hangs on each little flower? Oh! it is Beauty.

What melts the soldier's soul? 'Tis Beauty; What can his love of fame control? 'Tis Beauty; 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? 'Tis Beauty; What gives a polish to the rude? 'Tis Beauty; 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 Be Beauty; Is it not king and peasant's boast? Yes, Beauty; Then let us guard with tender care The gentle, th' inspiring fair, And Love will a diviner air Impart to Beauty.



TO THE EVENING STAR.

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.

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, 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.



ALEXANDER JAMIESON.

Alexander Jamieson was born in the village of Dalmellington, Ayrshire, on the 29th January 1789. After a course of study at the University of Edinburgh, he obtained licence as a medical practitioner. In 1819, he settled as a surgeon and apothecary in the town of Alloa. A skilful mechanician, he constructed a small printing-press for his own use; he was likewise ardently devoted to the study of botany. He composed verses with remarkable facility, many of which he contributed to the Stirling Journal newspaper. His death was peculiarly melancholy: he had formed one of a pic-nic party, on a fine summer day, to the summit of Bencleugh, one of the Ochils, and descending by a shorter route to visit a patient at Tillicoultry, he missed his footing, and was precipitated about two hundred feet into one of the ravines. He was early next morning discovered by a shepherd, but only survived a few hours afterwards. His death took place on the 26th July 1826. Possessed of varied talents, and excellent dispositions, Jamieson was deeply regretted by his friends. He left a widow, who died lately in Dunfermline. His songs, of which two specimens are adduced, afford evidence of power.



THE MAID WHO WOVE.[11]

"Russian Air."

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.

FOOTNOTES:

[11] This song was addressed by Mr Jamieson to Miss Jane Morrison of Alloa, the heroine of Motherwell's popular ballad of "Jeanie Morrison," and who had thus the singular good fortune to be celebrated by two different poets. For some account of Miss Morrison, now Mrs Murdoch, see vol. iii. p. 233.



A SIGH AND A SMILE.

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."



JOHN GOLDIE.

A short-lived poet and song-writer of some promise, John Goldie was born at Ayr on the 22d December 1798. His father, who bore the same Christian name, was a respectable shipmaster. Obtaining an ample education at the academy of his native town, he became, in his fifteenth year, assistant to a grocer in Paisley; he subsequently held a similar situation in a stoneware and china shop in Glasgow. In 1821 he opened, on his own account, a stoneware establishment at Ayr; but proving unfortunate in business, he abandoned the concerns of trade. From his boyhood being devoted to literature he now resolved on its cultivation as a means of support. Already known as an occasional contributor, both in prose and verse, to the public press, he received the appointment of assistant editor of the Ayr Courier, and shortly after obtained the entire literary superintendence of that journal. In 1821, he published a pamphlet of respectable verses; and in the following year appeared as the author of a duodecimo volume of "Poems and Songs," which he inscribed to the Ettrick Shepherd. Of the compositions in the latter publication, the greater portion, he intimates in the preface, "were composed at an early age, chiefly betwixt the years of sixteen and twenty;" and as the production of a very young man, the volume is altogether creditable to his genius and taste.

Deprived of the editorship of the Courier, in consequence of a change in the proprietary, Goldie proceeded to London, in the hope of forming a connexion with some of the leading newspapers in the metropolis. Unsuccessful in this effort, he formed the project of publishing The London Scotsman, a newspaper to be chiefly devoted to the consideration of Scottish affairs. Lacking that encouragement necessary to the ultimate success of this adventure, he abandoned the scheme after the third publication, and in very reduced circumstances returned to Scotland. He now projected the Paisley Advertiser, of which the first number appeared on the 9th October 1824. The editorship of this newspaper he retained till his death, which took place suddenly on the 27th February 1826, in his twenty-eighth year.

Of a vigorous intellect, and possessed of a correct literary taste, Goldie afforded excellent promise of eminence as a journalist. As a poet and song-writer, a rich vein of humour pervades certain of his compositions, while others are marked by a plaintive tenderness. Of sociable and generous dispositions, he was much esteemed by a circle of admiring friends. His personal appearance was pleasing, and his countenance wore the aspect of intelligence.



AND CAN THY BOSOM?

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.

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.



ROBERT POLLOK.

Robert Pollok, author of the immortal poem, "The Course of Time," was the son of a small farmer in the parish of Eaglesham, Renfrewshire, where he was born on the 19th October 1798. With a short interval of employment in the workshop of a cabinetmaker, he was engaged till his seventeenth year in services about his father's farm. Resolving to prepare for the ministry in the Secession Church, he took lessons in classical learning at the parish school of Fenwick, Ayrshire, and in twelve months fitted himself for the university. He attended the literary and philosophical classes in Glasgow College, during five sessions, and subsequently studied in the Divinity Hall of the United Secession Church. He wrote verses in his boyhood, in his eighteenth year composed a poetical essay, and afterwards produced respectable translations from the Classics as college exercises. His great poem, "The Course of Time," was commenced in December 1824, and finished within the space of nineteen months. On the 24th March 1827, the poem was published by Mr Blackwood; and on the 2d of the following May the author received his license as a probationer. The extraordinary success of his poem had excited strong anticipations in respect of his professional career, but these were destined to disappointment. Pollok only preached four times. His constitution, originally robust, had suffered from over exertion in boyhood, and more recently from a course of sedulous application in preparing for license, and in the production of his poem. To recruit his wasted strength, a change of climate was necessary, and that of Italy was recommended. The afflicted poet only reached Southampton, where he died a few weeks after his arrival, on the 18th September 1827. In Millbrook churchyard, near Southampton, where his remains were interred, a monument has been erected to his memory.

Besides his remarkable poem, Pollok published three short tales relative to the sufferings of the Covenanters. He had projected a large work respecting the influences which Christianity had exercised upon literature. Since his death, several short poetical pieces from his pen have, along with a memoir, been published by his brother. In person he was of the ordinary height, and of symmetrical form. His complexion was pale brown; his features small, and his eyes dark and piercing. "He was," writes Mr Gabriel Neil, who enjoyed his friendship, "of plain simple manners, with a well-cultivated mind; he loved debate, and took pleasure in good-humoured controversy." The copyright of "The Course of Time" continues to produce emolument to the family.



THE AFRICAN MAID.

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.

J. C. Denovan was born at Edinburgh in 1798. Early evincing a predilection for a seafaring life, he was enabled to enter a sloop of war, with the honorary rank of a midshipman. After accomplishing a single voyage, he was necessitated, by the death of his father, to abandon his nautical occupation, and to seek a livelihood in Edinburgh. He now became, in his sixteenth year, apprentice to a grocer; and he subsequently established himself as a coffee-roaster in the capital. He died in 1827. Of amiable dispositions, he was an agreeable and unassuming member of society. He courted the Muse to interest his hours of leisure, and his poetical aspirations received the encouragement of Sir Walter Scott and other men of letters.



OH DERMOT, DEAR LOVED ONE!

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.

John Imlah, one of the sweetest and most patriotic of Scottish song-writers, was born in North Street, Aberdeen, about the close of the year 1799. His progenitors were farmers in the parish of Fyvie, but his father followed the profession of an innkeeper. Of seven sons, born in succession to his parents, the poet was the youngest. On completing an ordinary education at the grammar-school, he was apprenticed to a pianoforte maker in Aberdeen. Excelling as a piano-tuner he, in this capacity, sought employment in London, and was fortunate in procuring an engagement from the Messrs Broadwood. For the first six months of the year he performed the duties of a tuner in the metropolis, and during the remaining six months prosecuted his vocation in Scotland. Attached to his native country, he took delight in celebrating her strains. He composed songs from his boyhood. In 1827, he published "May Flowers," a duodecimo volume of lyrics, chiefly in the Scottish dialect, which he followed by a second volume of "Poems and Songs" in 1841. He contributed to Macleod's "National Melodies" and the Edinburgh Literary Journal. On the 9th January 1846, his death took place at Jamaica, whither he had gone on a visit to one of his brothers.

Imlah was a person of amiable dispositions and agreeable manners. Of his numerous lyrics, each is distinguished by a rich fancy, and several of his songs will maintain a lasting place in the national minstrelsy.



KATHLEEN.

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!



HIELAN' HEATHER.

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!



FAREWELL TO SCOTLAND.

AIR—"Kinloch."

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!



THE ROSE OF SEATON VALE.

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 The Rose of Seaton Vale.

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, The Rose of Seaton Vale.



KATHERINE AND DONALD.

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, Dunallan and Clanronald; And minstrel measures pour to praise Fair Kath'rine and brave Donald!



GUID NIGHT, AN' JOY BE WI' YOU A'.

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'!



THE GATHERING.[12]

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, Lads of Lochaber, Braemar, and Breadalbin!

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! Chief of Clanronald, Donald Macdonald! 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!

FOOTNOTES:

[12] A MS. copy of this song had been sent by the author to the Ettrick Shepherd. Having been found among the Shepherd's papers after his decease, it was regarded as his own composition, and has consequently been included in the posthumous edition of his songs, published by the Messrs Blackie. The song appears in Imlah's "May Flowers," published in 1827.



MARY.

AIR—"The Dawtie."

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.[13]

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, By Border Nith, and Highland Spey, 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.

FOOTNOTES:

[13] The chorus of this song, which is said to have been originally connected with a plaintive Jacobite ditty, now lost, has suggested several modern songs similar in manner and sentiment. Imlah composed two songs with this chorus. The earlier of these compositions appears in the "May Flowers." It is evidently founded upon a rumour, which prevailed in Aberdeenshire during the first quarter of the century, to the effect, that a Scottish officer, serving in Egypt, had been much affected on hearing a soldier's wife crooning to herself the original words of the air. We have inserted in the text Imlah's second version, as being somewhat smoother in versification. It is the only song which we have transcribed from his volume, published in 1841. But the most popular words which have been attached to the air and chorus were the composition of a student in one of the colleges of Aberdeen, nearly thirty years since, who is now an able and accomplished clergyman of the Scottish Church. Having received the chorus and heard the air from a comrade, he immediately composed the following verses, here printed from the author's MS.:—

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 undoubtedly old, from its resemblance to several Gaelic and Irish airs. 'Cuir's chiste moir me,' and several others, might be thought to have been originally the same in the first part. The second part of the air is, I think, modern." The Gadie is a rivulet, and Bennachie a mountain, in Aberdeenshire.



JOHN TWEEDIE.

John Tweedie was born in the year 1800, in the vicinity of Peebles, where his father was a shepherd. Obtaining a classical education, he proceeded to the University of Edinburgh, to prosecute his studies for the Established Church. By acting as a tutor during the summer months, he was enabled to support himself at the university, and after the usual curriculum, he was licensed as a probationer. Though possessed of popular talents as a preacher, he was not successful in obtaining a living in the Church. During his probationary career, he was employed as a tutor in the family of the minister of Newbattle, assisted in the parish of Eddleston, and ultimately became missionary at Stockbridge, Edinburgh. He died at Linkfieldhall, Musselburgh, on the 29th February 1844. Tweedie was a person of amiable dispositions and unaffected piety; he did not much cultivate his gifts as a poet, but the following song from his pen, to the old air, "Saw ye my Maggie," has received a considerable measure of popularity.[14]

FOOTNOTES:

[14] In the "Cottagers of Glendale," Mr H. S. Riddell alludes to two of Tweedie's brothers, who perished among the snow in the manner described in that poem. The present memoir is prepared from materials chiefly supplied by Mr Riddell.



SAW YE MY ANNIE?

Saw ye my Annie, Saw ye my Annie, Saw ye my Annie, 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, That we may ken her be? 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.



THOMAS ATKINSON.

Thomas Atkinson, a respectable writer of prose and verse, was born at Glasgow about the year 1800. Having completed an apprenticeship to Mr Turnbull, bookseller, Trongate, he entered into copartnership with Mr David Robertson, subsequently King's publisher in the city. Of active business habits, he conducted, along with his partner, an extensive bookselling trade, yet found leisure for the pursuits of elegant literature. At an early age he published "The Sextuple Alliance," a series of poems on the subject of Napoleon Bonaparte, which afforded considerable promise, and received the commendation of Sir Walter Scott. In 1827, he published "The Ant," a work in two volumes, one of which consists of entirely original, and the other of selected matter. "The Chameleon," a publication of the nature of an annual, commenced in 1831, and extended to three octavo volumes. Of this work, a melange of prose and poetry, the contents for the greater part were of his own composition. The last volume appeared in September 1833, shortly before his death.

Deeply interested in the public affairs, Atkinson was distinguished as a public speaker. At the general election, subsequent to the passing of the Reform Bill, he was invited to become a candidate in the liberal interest for the parliamentary representation of the Stirling burghs, in opposition to Lord Dalmeny, who was returned. Naturally of a sound constitution, the exertions of his political canvass superinduced an illness, which terminated in pulmonary consumption. During a voyage he had undertaken to Barbadoes for the recovery of his health, he died at sea on the 10th October 1833. His remains, placed in an oaken coffin, which he had taken along with him, were buried in the deep. He bequeathed a sum, to be applied, after accumulation, in erecting a building in Glasgow for scientific purposes. A monument to his memory has been erected in the Glasgow Necropolis. The following stanzas were composed by the dying poet at the outset of his voyage, and less than three weeks prior to his decease; they are dated the "River Mersey," 21st September 1833:—

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."

In the "Chameleon" several of Mr Atkinson's songs are set to music, but, with the exception of "Mary Shearer," none of them are likely to obtain popularity.



MARY SHEARER.

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!