Chapter I: Hae Naebody Now (3)

The music o' the year is hush'd,
In bonny glen and shaw, man;
And winter spreads o'er nature dead
A winding sheet o' snaw, man.
O'er burn and loch, the warlike frost,
A crystal brig has laid, man;
The wild geese screaming wi' surprise,
The ice-bound wave ha'e fled, man.

Up, curler, frae your bed sae warm,
And leave your coaxing wife, man;
Gae get your besom, tramps and stane,
And join the friendly strife, man.
For on the water's face are met,
Wi' mony a merry joke, man;
The tenant and his jolly laird,
The pastor and his flock, man.

The rink is swept, the tees are mark'd,
The bonspiel is begun, man;
The ice is true, the stanes are keen,
Huzza for glorious fun, man!
The skips are standing at the tee,
To guide the eager game, man;
Hush, not a word, but mark the broom,
And tak' a steady aim, man.

There draw a shot, there lay a guard,
And here beside him lie, man;
Now let him feel a gamester's hand,
Now in his bosom die, man;
Then fill the port, and block the ice,
We sit upon the tee, man;
Now tak' this in-ring, sharp and neat,
And mak' their winner flee, man.

How stands the game? Its eight and eight,
Now for the winning shot, man;
Draw slow and sure, and tak' your aim,
I 'll sweep you to the spot, man.
The stane is thrown, it glides along,
The besoms ply it in, man;
Wi' twisting back the player stands,
And eager breathless grin, man.

A moment's silence, still as death,
Pervades the anxious thrang, man;
When sudden bursts the victor's shout,
With holla's loud and lang, man.
Triumphant besom's wave in air,
And friendly banters fly, man;
Whilst, cold and hungry, to the inn,
Wi' eager steps they hie, man.

Now fill ae bumper, fill but ane,
And drink wi' social glee, man,
May curlers on life's slippery rink,
Frae cruel rubs be free, man;
Or should a treacherous bias lead
Their erring course ajee, man,
Some friendly in-ring may they meet,
To guide them to the tee, man.

ON THE GREEN SWARD.[88]

TUNE--_"Arniston House."_

On the green sward lay William, in anguish extended,
To soothe and to cheer him his Mary stood near him;
But despair in the cup of his sorrows was blended,
And, inwardly groaning, he wildly exclaim'd--

"Ah! look not so fondly, thou peerless in beauty,
Away, I beseech thee, no comfort can reach me;
A martyr to love, or a traitor to duty,
My pleasure is sorrow, my hope is despair.

"Once the visions of fancy shone bright and attractive,
Like distant scenes blooming which sunbeams illumine;
Love pointed to wealth, and, no longer inactive,
I labour'd till midnight, and rose with the dawn.

"But the day-dreams of pleasure have fled me for ever,
Misfortune surrounds me, oppression confounds me;
No hope to support, and no friend to deliver,
Poor and wretched, alas! I must ever remain.

"And thou, my soul's treasure, whilst pitying my anguish,
New poison does mix in my cup of affliction,
For honour forbids (though without thee I languish)
To make thee a partner of sorrow and want."

"Dear William," she cried, "I 'll no longer deceive thee,
I honour thy merit, I love thy proud spirit;
Too well thou art tried, and if wealth can relieve thee,
My portion is ample--that portion is thine."

[88] Composed in 1804. This song and those following, by Dr Duncan, are here published for the first time.

THE RUTHWELL VOLUNTEERS.[89]

Hark! the martial drums resound,
Valiant brothers, welcome all,
Crowd the royal standard round,
'Tis your injured country's call.
See, see, the robbers come,
Ruin seize the ruthless foe;
For your altars, for your homes,
Heroes lay the tyrants low!

He whom dastard fears abash,
He was born to be a slave--
Let him feel the despot's lash,
And sink inglorious to the grave.
See, see, &c.

He who spurns a coward's life,
He whose bosom freedom warms,
Let him share the glorious strife,
We 'll take the hero to our arms.
See, see, &c.

Spirits of the valiant dead,
Who fought and bled at Freedom's call,
In the path you dared to tread,
We, your sons, will stand or fall.
See, see, &c.

Bending from your airy halls,
Turn on us a guardian eye--
Lead where Fame or Honour calls,
And teach to conquer or to die!
See, see, &c.

[89] Written in 1805, when the nation was in apprehension of the French invasion.

EXILED FAR FROM SCENES OF PLEASURE.[90]

TUNE--_"Blythe, Blythe and Merry was she."_

Exiled far from scenes of pleasure,
Love sincere and friendship true,
Sad I mark the moon's pale radiance,
Trembling in the midnight dew.

Sad and lonely, sad and lonely,
Musing on the tints decay,
On the maid I love so dearly,
And on pleasure's fleeting day.

Bright the moonbeams, when we parted,
Mark'd the solemn midnight hour,
Clothing with a robe of silver
Hill, and dale, and shady bower.

Then our mutual faith we plighted,
Vows of true love to repeat,
Lonely oft the pale orb watching,
At this hour to lovers sweet.

On thy silent face, with fondness,
Let me gaze, fair queen of night,
For my Annie's tears of sorrow
Sparkle in thy soften'd light.

When I think my Annie views thee,
Dearly do I love thy rays,
For the distance that divides us
Seems to vanish as I gaze.

[90] Composed in 1807.

THE ROOF OF STRAW.

I ask no lordling's titled name,
Nor miser's hoarded store;
I ask to live with those I love,
Contented though I 'm poor.
From joyless pomp and heartless mirth
I gladly will withdraw,
And hide me in this lowly vale,
Beneath my roof of straw.

To hear my Nancy's lips pronounce
A husband's cherish'd name,
To press my children to my heart
Are titles, wealth and fame.
Let kings and conquerors delight
To hold the world in awe,
Be mine to find content and peace
Beneath my roof of straw.

When round the winters' warm fireside
We meet with social joy,
The glance of love to every heart
Shall speak from every eye.
More lovely far such such scenes of bliss
Than monarch ever saw,
Even angels might delight to dwell
Beneath my roof of straw.

THOU KEN'ST, MARY HAY.[91]

TUNE--_"Bonny Mary Hay."_

Thou ken'st, Mary Hay, that I loe thee weel,
My ain auld wife, sae canty and leal,
Then what gars thee stand wi' the tear in thine e'e,
And look aye sae wae, when thou look'st at me?

Dost thou miss, Mary Hay, the saft bloom o' my cheek,
And the hair curling round it, sae gentie and sleek?
For the snaw 's on my head, and the roses are gane,
Since that day o' days I first ca'd thee my ain.

But though, Mary Hay, my auld e'en be grown dim,
An age, wi' its frost, maks cauld every limb,
My heart, thou kens weel, has nae cauldness for thee,
For simmer returns at the blink o' thine e'e.

The miser hauds firmer and firmer his gold,
The ivy sticks close to the tree, when its old,
And still thou grows't dearer to me, Mary Hay,
As a' else turns eerie, and life wears away.

We maun part, Mary Hay, when our journey is done,
But I 'll meet thee again in the bricht world aboon,
Then what gars thee stand wi' the tear in thine e'e,
And look aye sae wae when thou look'st at me?

[91] Composed in 1830.

ROBERT ALLAN.

Robert Allan was the son of a respectable flax-dresser in the village of Kilbarchan, Renfrewshire. The third of a family of ten children, he was born on the 4th of November 1774. Inheriting a taste for music, he early evinced talent in the composition of song, which was afterwards fostered by the encouragement of Tannahill and Robert Archibald Smith. With Tannahill he lived on terms of the most cordial friendship. He followed the occupation of a muslin weaver in his native place, and composed many of his best verses at the loom. He was an extensive contributor to the "Scottish Minstrel," published by R. A. Smith, his songs being set to music by the editor. In 1820, a number of his songs appeared in the "Harp of Renfrewshire." His only separate volume was published in 1836, under the editorial revision of Robert Burns Hardy, teacher of elocution in Glasgow.

In his more advanced years, Allan, who was naturally of good and benevolent dispositions, became peculiarly irritable; he fancied that his merits as a poet had been overlooked, and the feeling preyed deeply upon his mind. He entertained extreme political opinions, and conceived a dislike to his native country, which he deemed had not sufficiently estimated his genius. Much in opposition to the wishes of his friends, he sailed for New York in his 67th year. He survived the passage only six days; he died at New York on the 1st June 1841.

Robert Allan is entitled to an honourable position as a writer of Scottish song; all his lyrics evince a correct appreciation of the beautiful in nature, and of the pure and elevated in sentiment. Several of his lays are unsurpassed in genuine pathos.[92]

[92] We have to acknowledge our obligations to Mr John Macgregor, of Paisley, son-in-law of Mr Allan, for most of the particulars contained in this short memoir. Mr Macgregor prepared an extended life of the poet for our use, which, however, was scarcely suited for our purpose. A number of Mr Allan's songs, transcribed from his manuscripts, in the possession of his son in New York, were likewise communicated by Mr Macgregor. These being, in point of merit, unequal to the other productions of the bard, we have not ventured on their publication.

BLINK OVER THE BURN, MY SWEET BETTY.

Blink over the burn, my sweet Betty,
Blink over the burn, love, to me;
O, lang hae I look'd, my dear Betty,
To get but a blink o' thine e'e.
The birds are a' sporting around us,
And sweetly they sing on the tree;
But the voice o' my bonny sweet Betty,
I trow, is far dearer to me.

The ringlets, my lovely young Betty,
That wave o'er thy bonnie e'ebree,
I 'll twine wi' the flowers o' the mountain,
That blossom sae sweetly, like thee.
Then come o'er the burn, my sweet Betty,
Come over the burn, love, to me;
O, sweet is the bliss, my dear Betty,
To live in the blink o' thine e'e.

COME AWA, HIE AWA.

AIR--_"Haud awa frae me, Donald."_

Come awa, hie awa,
Come and be mine ain, lassie;
Row thee in my tartan plaid,
An' fear nae wintry rain, lassie.
A gowden brooch, an' siller belt,
Wi' faithfu' heart I 'll gie, lassie,
Gin ye will lea' your Lawland hame,
For Highland hills wi' me, lassie.
Come awa, &c.

A bonnie bower shall be thy hame,
And drest in silken sheen, lassie.
Ye 'll be the fairest in the ha',
And gayest on the green, lassie.
Come awa, &c.

ANSWER.

Haud awa, bide awa,
Haud awa frae me, Donald;
What care I for a' your wealth,
And a' that ye can gie, Donald?

I wadna lea' my Lowland lad
For a' your gowd and gear, Donald;
Sae tak' your plaid, an' o'er the hill,
An' stay nae langer here, Donald.
Haud awa, &c.

My Jamie is a gallant youth,
I lo'e but him alane, Donald,
And in bonnie Scotland's isle,
Like him there is nane, Donald;
Haud awa, &c.

He wears nae plaid, or tartan hose,
Nor garters at his knee, Donald;
But oh, he wears a faithfu' heart,
And love blinks in his e'e, Donald.

Sae haud awa, bide awa,
Come nae mair at e'en, Donald;
I wadna break my Jamie's heart,
To be a Highland Queen, Donald.

ON THEE, ELIZA, DWELL MY THOUGHTS.

AIR--_"In yon garden fine and gay."_

On thee, Eliza, dwell my thoughts,
While straying was the moon's pale beam;
At midnight, in my wand'ring sleep,
I see thy form in fancy's dream.

I see thee in the rosy morn,
Approach as loose-robed beauty's queen;
The morning smiles, but thou art lost,
Too soon is fled the sylvan scene.

Still fancy fondly dwells on thee,
And adds another day of care;
What bliss were mine could fancy paint
Thee true, as she can paint thee fair!

O fly, ye dear deceitful dreams!
Ye silken cords that bind the heart;--
Canst thou, Eliza, these entwine,
And smile and triumph in the smart?

TO A LINNET.

AIR--_"M'Gilchrist's Lament."_

Chaunt no more thy roundelay,
Lovely minstrel of the grove,
Charm no more the hours away,
With thine artless tale of love;
Chaunt no more thy roundelay,
Sad it steals upon mine ear;
Leave, O leave thy leafy spray,
Till the smiling morn appear.

Light of heart, thou quitt'st thy song,
As the welkin's shadows low'r;
Whilst the beetle wheels along,
Humming to the twilight hour.
Not like thee I quit the scene,
To enjoy night's balmy dream;
Not like thee I wake again,
Smiling with the morning beam.

THE PRIMROSE IS BONNY IN SPRING.

AIR--_"The Banks of Eswal."_

The primrose is bonnie in spring,
And the rose it is sweet in June;
It 's bonnie where leaves are green,
I' the sunny afternoon.
It 's bonny when the sun gaes down,
An' glints on the hoary knowe;
It 's bonnie to see the cloud
Sae red in the dazzling lowe.

When the night is a' sae calm,
An' comes the sweet twilight gloom,
Oh! it cheers my heart to meet
My lassie amang the broom,
When the birds in bush and brake,
Do quit their blythe e'enin' sang;
Oh! what an hour to sit
The gay gowden links amang.

THE BONNIE LASS O' WOODHOUSELEE.

AIR--_"Hey the rantin' Murray's Ha'."_

The sun blinks sweetly on yon shaw,
But sweeter far on Woodhouselee,
And dear I like his setting beam
For sake o' ane sae dear to me.
It was na simmer's fairy scenes,
In a' their charming luxury,
But Beauty's sel' that won my heart,
The bonnie lass o' Woodhouselee.

Sae winnin', was her witchin' smile,
Sae piercin', was her coal-black e'e,
Sae sairly wounded was my heart,
That had na wist sic ills to dree;
In vain I strave in beauty's chains,
I cou'd na keep my fancy free,
She gat my heart sae in her thrall,
The bonnie lass o' Woodhouselee.

The bonnie knowes, sae yellow a',
Where aft is heard the hum of bee,
The meadow green, and breezy hill,
Where lambkins sport sae merrilie,
May charm the weary, wand'rin' swain,
When e'enin' sun dips in the sea,
But a' my heart, baith e'en and morn,
Is wi' the lass o' Woodhouselee.

The flowers that kiss the wimplin' burn,
And dew-clad gowans on the lea,
The water-lily on the lake,
Are but sweet emblems a' of thee;
And while in simmer smiles they bloom,
Sae lovely, and sae fair to see,
I 'll woo their sweets, e'en for thy sake,
The bonnie lass o' Woodhouselee.

THE SUN IS SETTING ON SWEET GLENGARRY.

The sun is setting on sweet Glengarry,
The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green;
O bonnie lassie, ye maun be my dearie,
And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.

Doun yon glen ye never will weary,
The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green;
Bonnie lassie, ye maun be my dearie,
And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.

Birds are singing fu' blythe and cheery,
The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green;
Bonnie lassie, on bank sae briery,
And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.

In yonder glen there 's naething to fear ye,
The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green;
Ye canna be sad, ye canna be eerie,
And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.

The water is wimpling by fu' clearly,
The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green;
Oh! ye sall ever be my dearie,
And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.

HER HAIR WAS LIKE THE CROMLA MIST.

_Gaelic Air._

Her hair was like the Cromla mist,
When evening sun beams from the west,
Bright was the eye of Morna;
When beauty wept the warrior's fall,
Then low and dark was Fingal's hall,
Sad was the lovely Morna.

O! lovely was the blue-eyed maid
That sung peace to the warrior's shade,
But none so fair as Morna.
The hallow'd tears bedew'd the brake,
That waved beside dark Orna's lake,
Where wander'd lovely Morna.

Sad was the hoary minstrel's song,
That died the rustling heath among,
Where sat the lovely Morna;
It slumber'd on the placid wave,
It echoed through the warrior's cave,
And sigh'd again to Morna.

The hero's plumes were lowly laid;
In Fingal's hall each blue-eyed maid
Sang peace and rest to Morna;
The harp's wild strain was past and gone,
No more it whisper'd to the moan
Of lovely, dying Morna.

O LEEZE ME ON THE BONNIE LASS.

AIR--_"Hodgart's Delight."_

O leeze me on the bonnie lass
That I lo'e best o' a';
O leeze me on my Marion,
The pride o' Lockershaw.
O weel I like my Marion,
For love blinks in her e'e,
And she has vow'd a solemn vow,
She lo'es na ane but me.

The flowers grow bonnie on the bank,
Where doun the waters fa';
The birds sing bonnie in the bower,
Where red, red roses blaw.
An' there, wi' blythe and lightsome heart,
When day has closed his e'e,
I wander wi' my Marion,
Wha lo'es na ane but me.

Sic luve as mine an' Marion's,
O, may it never fa'!
But blume aye like the fairest flower,
That grows in Lockershaw.
My Marion I will ne'er forget
Until the day I dee,
For she has vow'd a solemn vow,
She lo'es na ane but me.

QUEEN MARY'S ESCAPE FROM LOCHLEVEN CASTLE.

_Highland Boat-air._

Put off, put off, and row with speed,
For now 's the time, and the hour of need!
To oars, to oars, and trim the bark,
Nor Scotland's queen be a warder's mark!
Yon light that plays round the castle's moat
Is only the warder's random shot!
Put off, put off, and row with speed,
For now is the time, and the hour of need!

Those pond'rous keys[93] shall the kelpies keep,
And lodge in their caverns dark and deep;
Nor shall Lochleven's towers or hall,
Hold thee, our lovely lady, in thrall;
Or be the haunt of traitors, sold,
While Scotland has hands and hearts so bold;
Then, steersmen, steersmen, on with speed,
For now is the time, and the hour of need!

Hark! the alarum-bell hath rung,
And the warder's voice hath treason sung;
The echoes to the falconet's roar,
Chime swiftly to the dashing oar.
Let town, and hall, and battlements gleam,
We steer by the light of the tapers' beam;
For Scotland and Mary, on with speed,
Now, now is the time, and the hour of need!

[93] The keys here alluded to were, at a recent period, found in the lake.

WHEN CHARLIE TO THE HIGHLANDS CAME.

AIR--_"The bonnie Mill-dams o' Balgonie."_

When Charlie to the Highlands came,
It was a' joy and gladness,
We trow'd na that our hearts sae soon
Wad broken be wi' sadness.

Oh! why did Heaven sae on us frown,
And break our hearts wi' sorrow;
Oh! it will never smile again,
And bring a gladsome morrow!

Our dwellings, and our outlay gear,
Lie smoking, and in ruin;
Our bravest youths, like mountain deer,
The foe is oft pursuing.

Our home is now the barren rock,
As if by Heaven forsaken;
Our shelter and our canopy,
The heather and the bracken.

Oh! we maun wander far and near,
And foreign lands maun hide in;
Our bonnie glens, we lo'ed sae dear,
We daurna langer bide in.

LORD RONALD CAME TO HIS LADY'S BOWER.

Lord Ronald came to his lady's bower,
When the moon was in her wane;
Lord Ronald came at a late, late hour,
And to her bower is gane.
He saftly stept in his sandal shoon,
And saftly laid him doun;
"It 's late, it 's late," quoth Ellenore,
"Sin ye maun wauken soon.

"Lord Ronald, stay till the early cock
Shall flap his siller wing,
An' saftly ye maun ope the gate,
An' loose the silken string."
"O Ellenore, my fairest fair,
O Ellenore, my bride!
How can ye fear when my merry men a'
Are on the mountain side."

The moon was hid, the night was sped,
But Ellenore's heart was wae;
She heard the cock flap his siller wing,
An' she watched the morning ray:
"Rise up, rise up, Lord Ronald, dear,
The mornin' opes its e'e;
Oh, speed thee to thy father's tower,
And safe, safe may thou be."

But there was a page, a little fause page,
Lord Ronald did espy,
An' he has told his baron all,
Where the hind and hart did lie.
"It is na for thee, but thine, Lord Ronald,
Thy father's deeds o' weir;
But since the hind has come to my faul',
His blood shall dim my spear."

Lord Ronald kiss'd fair Ellenore,
And press'd her lily hand;
Sic a comely knight and comely dame
Ne'er met in wedlock's band:
But the baron watch'd, as he raised the latch,
And kiss'd again his bride;
And with his spear, in deadly ire,
He pierced Lord Ronald's side.

The life-blood fled frae fair Ellenore's cheek,
She look'd all wan and ghast;
She lean'd her down by Lord Ronald's side,
An' the blood was rinnin' fast:
She kiss'd his lip o' the deadlie hue,
But his life she cou'dna stay;
Her bosom throbb'd ae deadlie throb,
An' their spirits baith fled away.

THE LOVELY MAID OF ORMADALE.

AIR--_"Highland Lassie."_

When sets the sun o'er Lomond's height,
To blaze upon the western wave;
When peace and love possess the grove,
And echo sleeps within the cave;
Led by love's soft endearing charms,
I stray the pathless winding vale,
And hail the hour that gives to me
The lovely maid of Ormadale.

Her eyes outshine the star of night,
Her cheeks the morning's rosy hue;
And pure as flower in summer shade,
Low bending in the pearly dew:
Nor flower sae fair and lovely pure,
Shall fate's dark wintry winds assail;
As angel-smile she aye will be
Dear to the bowers of Ormadale.

Let fortune soothe the heart of care,
And wealth to all its votaries give;
Be mine the rosy smile of love,
And in its blissful arms to live.
I would resign fair India's wealth,
And sweet Arabia's spicy gale,
For balmy eve and Scotian bower,
With thee, loved maid of Ormadale.

A LASSIE CAM' TO OUR GATE.

A lassie cam' to our gate yestreen,
An' low she curtsied doun;
She was lovelier far, an' fairer to see,
Then a' our ladies roun'.

Oh, whare do ye wend, my sweet winsome doo?
An' whare may your dwelling be?
But her heart, I trow, was liken to break,
An' the tear-drap dimm'd her e'e.

I haena a hame, quo' the bonnie lassie--
I haena a hame, nor ha';
Fain here wad I rest my weary feet,
For the night begins to fa'.

I took her into our tapestry ha',
An' we drank the ruddy wine;
An' aye I strave, but fand my heart
Fast bound wi' Love's silken twine.

I ween'd she might be the fairies' queen
She was sae jimp and sma';
And the tear that dimm'd her bonnie blue e'e
Fell ower twa heaps o' snaw.

Oh, whare do ye wend, my sweet winsome doo?
An' whare may your dwelling be?
Can the winter's rain an' the winter's wind
Blaw cauld on sic as ye?

I haena a hame, quo' the bonnie lassie--
I haena a ha' nor hame;
My father was ane o' "Charlie's" men,
An' him I daurna name.

Whate'er be your kith, whate'er be your kin,
Frae this ye mauna gae;
An' gin ye 'll consent to be my ain,
Nae marrow ye shall hae.

Sweet maiden, tak' the siller cup,
Sae fu' o' the damask wine,
An' press it to your cherrie lip,
For ye shall aye be mine.

An' drink, sweet doo, young Charlie's health,
An' a' your kin sae dear;
Culloden has dimm'd mony an e'e
Wi' mony a saut, saut tear.

THE THISTLE AND THE ROSE.

There grew in bonnie Scotland
A thistle and a brier,
And aye they twined and clasp'd,
Like sisters, kind and dear.
The rose it was sae bonnie,
It could ilk bosom charm;
The thistle spread its thorny leaf,
To keep the rose frae harm.

A bonnie laddie tended
The rose baith ear' and late;
He water'd it, and fann'd it,
And wove it with his fate;
And the leal hearts of Scotland
Pray'd it might never fa',
The thistle was sae bonny green,
The rose sae like the snaw.

But the weird sisters sat
Where Hope's fair emblems grew;
They drapt a drap upon the rose
O' bitter, blasting dew;
And aye they twined the mystic thread,--
But ere their task was done,
The snaw-white shade it disappear'd,
And wither'd in the sun!

A bonnie laddie tended
The rose baith ear' an' late;
He water'd it, and fann'd it,
And wove it with his fate;
But the thistle tap it wither'd,
Winds bore it far awa',
And Scotland's heart was broken,
For the rose sae like the snaw!

THE COVENANTER'S LAMENT.

TUNE--_"The Martyr's Grave."_

There 's nae Covenant now, lassie!
There 's nae Covenant now!
The Solemn League and Covenant
Are a' broken through!
There 's nae Renwick now, lassie,
There 's nae gude Cargill,
Nor holy Sabbath preaching
Upon the Martyrs' Hill!

It 's naething but a sword, lassie!
A bluidy, bluidy ane!
Waving owre poor Scotland,
For her rebellious sin.
Scotland 's a' wrang, lassie,
Scotland 's a' wrang--
It 's neither to the hill nor glen,
Lassie, we daur gang.

The Martyrs' Hill 's forsaken,
In simmer's dusk sae calm;
There 's nae gathering now, lassie,
To sing the e'ening psalm!
But the martyr's grave will rise, lassie,
Aboon the warrior's cairn;
An' the martyr soun' will sleep, lassie,
Aneath the waving fern!

BONNIE LASSIE.

Bonnie lassie, blythesome lassie,
Sweet 's the sparkling o' thine e'e;
Aye sae wyling, aye beguiling,
Ye hae stown my heart frae me.

Fondly wooing, fondly sueing,
Let me love, nor love in vain;
Fate shall never fond hearts sever,
Hearts still bound by true love's chain.

Fancy dreaming, hope bright beaming,
Shall each day life's feast renew;
Ours the treasure, ours the pleasure,
Still to live and love more true.

Mirth and folly, joys unholy,
Never shall our thoughts employ;
Smiles inviting, hearts uniting,
Love and bliss without alloy.

Bonnie lassie, blythesome lassie,
Sweet 's the sparkling o' thine e'e;
Aye sae wyling, aye beguiling,
Ye hae stown my heart frae me.

ANDREW MERCER.

Andrew Mercer was born at Selkirk, in 1775. By his father, who was a respectable tradesman, he was destined for the pulpit of the United Secession Church. He became a student in the University of Edinburgh, in 1790, and was the class-fellow and friend of John Leyden, and of Dr Alexander Murray, the future philologist. At the house of Dr Robert Anderson, he formed the intimacy of Thomas Campbell; he also numbered among his early associates Thomas Brown and Mungo Park. Abandoning theological study, he cultivated a taste for the fine arts; and he endeavoured to establish himself in the capital in the twofold capacity of a miniature-painter, and a man of letters. With respect to both avocations, he proved unfortunate. In 1804, a periodical entitled the _North British Magazine_ was originated and supported by his friends, on his behalf; but the publication terminated at the end of thirteen months. At a subsequent period, he removed to Dunfermline, where he was engaged in teaching, and in drawing patterns for the manufacturers. In 1828, he published a "History of Dunfermline," in a duodecimo volume; and, at an interval of ten years, a volume of poems, entitled "Summer Months among the Mountains." A man of considerable ingenuity and scholarship, he lacked industry and steadiness of application. His latter years were clouded by poverty. He died at Dunfermline on the 11th of June 1842, in his 67th year.

THE HOUR OF LOVE.

When the fair one and the dear one--
Her lover by her side--
Strays or sits as fancy flits,
Where yellow streamlets glide;
Gleams illuming--flowers perfuming
Where'er her footsteps rove;
Time beguiling with her smiling,
Oh! that 's the hour of love.

When the fair one and the dear one,
Amid a moonlight scene,
Where grove and glade, and light and shade,
Are all around serene;
Heaves the soft sigh of ecstasy,
While coos the turtle-dove,
And in soft strains appeals--complains,
Oh! that 's the hour of love.

Should the fair one and the dear one
The sigh of pity lend
For human woe, that presses low
A stranger, or a friend,
Tears descending, sweetly blending,
As down her cheeks they rove;
Beauty's charms in pity's arms--
Oh! that 's the hour of love.

When the fair one and the dear one
Appears in morning dreams,
In flowing vest by fancy drest,
And all the angel beams;
The heavenly mien, and look serene,
Confess her from above;
While rising sighs and dewy eyes
Say, that 's the hour of love!

JOHN LEYDEN, M.D.

John Leyden was born on the 8th September 1775, at Denholm, a hamlet in the parish of Cavers, Roxburghshire. His ancestors, for several generations, were farmers, but his father followed the humble occupation of a shepherd. Of four brothers and two sisters, John was the eldest. About a year after his birth, his father removed to Henlawshiel, a solitary cottage,[94] about three miles from Denholm, on the margin of the heath stretching down from the "stormy Ruberslaw." He received the rudiments of knowledge from his paternal grandmother; and discovering a remarkable aptitude for learning, his father determined to afford him the advantages of a liberal education. He was sent to the parish school of Kirkton, and afterwards placed under the tutorship of a Cameronian clergyman, in Denholm, reputed as a classical scholar. In 1790, he entered the University of Edinburgh, where he soon acquired distinction for his classical attainments and devotedness to general learning. His last session of college attendance was spent at St Andrews, where he became a tutor. By the Presbytery of St Andrews, in May 1798, he was licensed as a probationer of the Scottish Church. On obtaining his licence, he returned to the capital, where his reputation as a scholar had secured him many friends. He now accepted the editorship of the _Scots Magazine_, to which he had formerly been a contributor, and otherwise employed himself in literary pursuits. In 1799, he published, in a duodecimo volume, "An Historical and Philosophical Sketch of the Discoveries and Settlements of the Europeans in Northern and Central Africa, at the Close of the Eighteenth Century." "The Complaynt of Scotland," a curious political treatise of the sixteenth century, next appeared under his editorial care, with an ingenious introduction, and notes. In 1801, he contributed the ballad of "The Elf-king," to Lewis' "Tales of Wonder;" and, about the same period, wrote several ballads for the "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border." The dissertation on "Fairy Superstition," in the second volume of the latter work, slightly altered by Scott, proceeded from his pen. In 1802, he edited a small volume, entitled, "Scottish Descriptive Poems," consisting of a new edition of Wilson's "Clyde," and a reprint of "Albania,"--a curious poem, in blank verse, by an anonymous writer of the beginning of the eighteenth century.

A wide circle of influential friends were earnestly desirous of his promotion. In 1800, the opposition of the aged incumbent prevented his appointment as assistant and successor in the ministerial charge of his native parish. A proposal to appoint him Professor of Rhetoric in the University of Edinburgh also failed. He now resolved to proceed to Africa, to explore the interior, under the auspices of the African Association; but some of his friends meanwhile procured him an appointment as a surgeon in the East India Company's establishment at Madras. During his course at the University, he had attended some of the medical classes; and he now resumed the study of medicine, with such an amount of success, that in six weeks he qualified himself for a surgeon's diploma. About the same time, the degree of M.D. was conferred on him by the University of St Andrews.

Before his departure for the East, Leyden finished his longest poem, the "Scenes of Infancy," the publication of which he entrusted to his friend, Dr Thomas Brown. His last winter in Britain he passed in London, enjoying the society of many distinguished men of letters, to whom he was introduced by his former friend, Mr Richard Heber. He sailed for India[95] on the 7th April 1803, and arrived at Madras on the 19th August. In Hindostan, his talents and extraordinary capabilities in forming an acquaintance with the native tongues gained him numerous friends. He was successively appointed surgeon to the commissioners for surveying the provinces in Mysore, recently conquered from Tippoo Sultan; professor of Hindostan in the College of Calcutta; judge of the twenty-four pargunnahs of Calcutta; a commissioner of the Court of Requests in Calcutta; and assay-master of the mint. His literary services being required by the Governor-General, he left Calcutta for Madras, and afterwards proceeded along with the army in the expedition against Java. On the capture of the town of Batavia, having gone to examine the library of the place, in which he expected to find some curious Indian MSS., he caught a malignant fever from the tainted air of the apartment. He survived only three days, terminating a life of much promise, on the 28th of August 1811, in the thirty-sixth year of his age.

In John Leyden an unconquerable perseverance was united to remarkable native genius, and a memory of singular retentiveness. Eminent as a linguist, he was an able and accurate philologist; in a knowledge of the many languages of India he stood unrivalled. During his residence in the East, he published a "Dissertation on the Languages and Literature of the Indo-Chinese Nations," in the tenth volume of the "Asiatic Researches," and he left numerous MSS. on subjects connected with oriental learning. He was early a votary of the Muse; and, in youth, was familiar with the older Scottish bards. In April 1795, he appeared in the _Edinburgh Literary Magazine_ as author of an elegy "On the Death of a Sister;" and subsequently became a regular contributor of verses to the periodicals of the capital. His more esteemed poetical productions are the "Scenes of Infancy," and the ballads which he composed for the "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border." Of the latter, the supernatural machinery is singularly striking; in the former poem, much smooth and elegant versification is combined with powerful and vigorous description. There are, indeed, occasional repetitions and numerous digressions; but amidst these marks of hasty composition, every sentence bears evidence of a masculine intellect and powerful imagination. His lyrical effusions are pervaded with simplicity and tenderness.

Like some other sons of genius, Leyden was of rather eccentric habits. He affected to despise artificial manners; and, though frequenting polished circles in Edinburgh, then in London, and afterwards in Madras and Calcutta, he persevered in an indomitable aversion to the use of the English tongue, which he so well knew how to write with precision and power. He spoke the broadest provincial Scotch with singular pertinacity. His voice was extremely dissonant, but, seemingly unconscious of the defect, he talked loud; and if engaged in argument, raised his voice to a pitch which frequently proved more powerful than the strength of his reasoning. He was dogmatical in maintaining his opinions, and prone to monopolise conversation; his gesticulations were awkward and even offensive. Peculiar as were his habits, few of the distinguished persons who sought his acquaintance ever desired to renounce his friendship.[96] In his domestic habits, he was temperate often to abstinence; he was frugal, but not mean--careful, but not penurious. He was generous towards his aged parents; was deeply imbued with a sense of religion, and was the foe of vice in every form. He was of a slight figure, and of middle stature; his countenance was peculiarly expressive of intelligence. His hair was auburn, his eyes dark, and his complexion clear and sanguine. He was considerably robust, and took delight in practising gymnastics; he desired fame, not less for feats of running and leaping, than in the sedate pursuits of literature. His premature death was the subject of general lamentation; in the "Lord of the Isles," Scott introduced the following stanza in tribute to his memory:--

"His bright and brief career is o'er,
And mute his tuneful strain;
Quench'd is his lamp of varied lore,
That loved the light of song to pour;
A distant and a deadly shore
Has Leyden's cold remains."

[94] We lately visited the spot. Not a vestige of the cottage remains. A wilder and more desolate locality hardly ever nourished the youthful imagination of a poet.

[95] Leyden was assisted in his outfit for India by Sir Walter Scott and Sydney Smith, the latter contributing forty pounds. (See "Memoir of the Rev. Sydney Smith," by his daughter, Lady Holland, vol. i. p. 21. London: 1855. 2 vols. 8vo.)

[96] Thomas Campbell was one of Leyden's early literary friends; they had quarrelled, but continued to respect each other's talents. The following anecdote is recorded by Sir Walter Scott in his diary:--"When I repeated 'Hohenlinden' to Leyden, he said, 'Dash it, man, tell the fellow that I hate him; but, dash him, he has written the finest verses that have been published these fifty years.' I did mine errand as faithful as one of Homer's messengers, and had for answer:--'Tell Leyden that I detest him, but I know the value of his critical approbation.'"--_Lockhart's Life of Scott._

ODE TO THE EVENING STAR.

How sweet thy modest light to view,
Fair star! to love and lovers dear;
While trembling on the falling dew,
Like beauty shining through a tear.

Or hanging o'er that mirror-stream,
To mark that image trembling there,
Thou seem'st to smile with softer gleam,
To see thy lovely face so fair.

Though, blazing o'er the arch of night,
The moon thy timid beams outshine
As far as thine each starry light,
Her rays can never vie with thine.

Thine are the soft, enchanting hours
When twilight lingers on the plain,
And whispers to the closing flowers
That soon the sun will rise again.

Thine is the breeze that, murmuring bland
As music, wafts the lover's sigh,
And bids the yielding heart expand
In love's delicious ecstasy.

Fair star! though I be doom'd to prove
That rapture's tears are mix'd with pain,
Ah, still I feel 'tis sweet to love--
But sweeter to be loved again.

THE RETURN AFTER ABSENCE.

Oh! the breeze of the mountain is soothing and sweet,
Warm breathing of love, and the friends we shall meet;
And the rocks of the desert, so rough when we roam,
Seem soft, soft as silk, on the dear path of home;
The white waves of the Jeikon, that foam through their speed,
Seem scarcely to reach to the girth of my steed.

Rejoice, O Bokhara, and flourish for aye!
Thy King comes to meet thee, and long shall he stay.
Our King is our moon, and Bokhara our skies,
Where soon that fair light of the heavens shall arise--
Bokhara our orchard, the cypress our king,
In Bokhara's fair orchard soon destined to spring.

LAMENT FOR RAMA.

FROM THE BENGALI.

I warn you, fair maidens, to wail and to sigh,
For Rama, our Rama, to greenwood must fly;
Then hasten, come hasten, to see his array,
Ayud'hya is dark when our chief goes away.

All the people are flocking to see him pass by;
They are silent and sad, with the tear in their eye:
From the fish in the streamlets a broken sigh heaves,
And the birds of the forest lament from the leaves.

His fine locks are matted, no raiment has he
For the wood, save a girdle of bark from the tree;
And of all his gay splendour, you nought may behold,
Save his bow and his quiver, and ear-rings of gold.

Oh! we thought to have seen him in royal array
Before his proud squadrons his banners display,
And the voice of the people exulting to own
Their sovereign assuming the purple and crown;
But the time has gone by, my hope is despair,--
One maiden perfidious has wrought all my care.

Our light is departing, and darkness returns,
Like a lamp half-extinguished, and lonely it burns;
Faith fades from the age, nor can honour remain,
And fame is delusive, and glory is vain.

JAMES SCADLOCK.

James Scadlock, a poet of considerable power, and an associate of Tannahill, was born at Paisley on the 7th October 1775. His father, an operative weaver, was a person of considerable shrewdness; and the poet M'Laren, who became his biographer, was his uterine brother. Apprenticed to the loom, he renounced weaving in the course of a year, and thereafter was employed in the establishment of a bookbinder. At the age of nineteen he entered on an indenture of seven years to a firm of copperplate engravers at Ferenize. He had early been inclined to verse-making, and, having formed the acquaintance of Tannahill, he was led to cultivate with ardour his native predilection. He likewise stimulated his ingenious friend to higher and more ambitious efforts in poetry. Accomplished in the elegant arts of drawing and painting, Scadlock began the study of classical literature and the modern languages. A general stagnation of trade, which threw him out of employment, checked his aspirations in learning. After an interval attended with some privations, he heard of a professional opening at Perth, which he proceeded to occupy. He returned to Paisley, after the absence of one year; and having married in 1808, his attention became more concentrated in domestic concerns. He died of fever on the 4th July 1818, leaving a family of four children.

Scadlock was an upright member of society, a sincere friend, a benevolent neighbour, and an intelligent companion. In the performance of his religious duties he was regular and exemplary. Desirious of excelling in conversation, he was prone to evince an undue formality of expression. His poetry, occasionally deficient in power, is uniformly distinguished for smoothness of versification.

ALONG BY LEVERN STREAM SO CLEAR.[97]

Along by Levern stream so clear,
When Spring adorns the infant year,
And music charms the list'ning ear,
I 'll wander with my Mary,
My bonny blooming Mary;
Not Spring itself to me is dear,
When absent from my Mary.

When Summer's sun pours on my head
His sultry rays, I 'll seek the shade,
Unseen upon a primrose bed
I 'll sit with little Mary,
My bonny blooming Mary,
Where fragrant flowers around are spread,
To charm my little Mary.

She 's mild 's the sun through April shower
That glances on the leafy bower,
She 's sweet as Flora's fav'rite flower,
My bonny little Mary,
My blooming little Mary;
Give me but her, no other dower
I 'll ask with little Mary.

Should fickle fortune frown on me,
And leave me bare 's the naked tree,
Possess'd of her, how rich I 'd be,
My lovely little Mary,
My bonny blooming Mary;
From gloomy care and sorrow free,
I 'd ever keep my Mary.

[97] Set to music by R. A. Smith.

HARK, HARK, THE SKYLARK SINGING.

WELSH AIR--_"The rising of the Lark."_

Hark, hark the skylark singing,
While the early clouds are bringing
Fragrance on their wings;
Still, still on high he 's soaring,
Through the liquid haze exploring,
Fainter now he sings.
Where the purple dawn is breaking,
Fast approaches morning's ray,
From his wings the dew he 's shaking,
As he joyful hails the day,
While echo, from his slumbers waking,
Imitates his lay.

See, see the ruddy morning,
With his blushing locks adorning
Mountain, wood, and vale;
Clear, clear the dew-drop 's glancing,
As the rising sun 's advancing
O'er the eastern hill;
Now the distant summits clearing,
As the vapours steal their way,
And his heath-clad breast 's appearing,
Tinged with Phoebus' golden ray,
Far down the glen the blackbird 's cheering
Morning with her lay.

Come, then, let us be straying,
Where the hazel boughs are playing,
O'er yon summits gray;
Mild now the breeze is blowing,
And the crystal streamlet 's flowing
Gently on its way.
On its banks the wild rose springing
Welcomes in the sunny ray,
Wet with dew its head is hinging,
Bending low the prickly spray;
Then haste, my love, while birds are singing,
To the newborn day.

OCTOBER WINDS.

AIR--_"Oh, my love's bonnie."_

October winds, wi' biting breath,
Now nip the leaves that 's yellow fading;
Nae gowans glint upon the green,
Alas! they 're co'er'd wi' winter's cleading.
As through the woods I musing gang,
Nae birdies cheer me frae the bushes,
Save little robin's lanely sang,
Wild warbling where the burnie gushes.

The sun is jogging down the brae,
Dimly through the mist he 's shining,
And cranreugh hoar creeps o'er the grass,
As Day resigns his throne to E'ening.
Oft let me walk at twilight gray,
To view the face of dying nature,
Till Spring again, wi' mantle green,
Delights the heart o' ilka creature.

SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL, BART.

Alexander Boswell was the eldest son of James Boswell, the celebrated biographer of Dr Johnson, and grandson of Lord Auchinleck, one of the senators of the College of Justice. He was born on the 9th October 1775. His mother, a daughter of Sir Walter Montgomery, Bart., of Lainshaw, was a woman of superior intelligence, and of agreeable and dignified manners. Along with his only brother James, he received his education at Westminster School and the University of Oxford. In 1795, on the death of his father, he succeeded to the paternal estate of Auchinleck. He now made the tour of Europe, and on his return took up his residence in the family mansion.

Inheriting his father's love of literature, and deriving from his mother a taste for elegant accomplishments, Alexander Boswell diligently applied himself to the cultivation of his mind, by an examination of the stores of the famous "Auchinleck Library." From his youth he had been ardent in his admiration of Burns, and had written verses for the amusement of his friends. A wooer of the lyric Muse, many of his lays rapidly obtained circulation, and were sung with a gusto not inferior to that inspired by the songs of the Bard of Coila. In 1803 he published, without his name, in a thin octavo volume, "Songs, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect," and subsequently contributed a number of lyrics of various merit to the Musical Collection of Mr George Thomson, and Campbell's "Albyn's Anthology." Several other poetical works proceeded from his pen. In 1803, shortly after the appearance of his songs, he published a ballad entitled "The Spirit of Tintoc; or, Johnnie Bell and the Kelpie," with notes, 16 pp. 8vo: Mundell and Son, Edinburgh. This performance, in which are humorously related the adventures of a drunken tailor with the brownies and other denizens of the unseen world, on the summit of Tintoc Hill, was followed in 1810 by another amusing poem, bearing the title of "Edinburgh, or the Ancient Royalty, a Sketch of Former Manners, with Notes by Simon Gray." In this poem, the changes which had occurred in the habits of the citizens of Edinburgh are pourtrayed in a colloquy between an old farmer and his city friend. In 1811 appeared "Clan-Alpin's Vow, a Fragment," with the author's name prefixed. This production, founded upon a horrible tragedy connected with the history of the Clan Macgregor, proved one of the most popular of the author's works; it was reprinted in 1817, by Bentley and Son, London. His future publications may be simply enumerated; they were generally issued from a printing press which he established in the mansion of Auchinleck. In 1812 he printed, for private circulation, a poetical fragment entitled "Sir Albon," intended to burlesque the peculiar style and rhythm of Sir Walter Scott; in 1815, "The Tyrant's Fall," a poem on the battle of Waterloo; in 1816, "Skeldon Haughs, or the Sow is Flitted," a tale in verse founded on an old Ayrshire tradition; and in the same year another poetical tale, after the manner of Allan Ramsay's "Monk and Miller's Wife," entitled, "The Woo'-creel, or the Bull o' Bashun." From his printing office at Auchinleck, besides his poetical tales and pasquinades, he issued many curious and interesting works, chiefly reprints of scarce tracts on different subjects, preserved in the Auchinleck Library. Of these the most remarkable was the disputation between John Knox and Quentin Kennedy, at Maybole, in 1562, of which the only copy then known to exist was deposited in his paternal library.[98]

Amidst his devotedness to the pursuits of elegant literature, Mr Boswell bestowed much attention on public affairs. He was M.P. for the county of Ayr; and though silent in the House of Commons, was otherwise indefatigable in maintaining his political sentiments. He supported strict conservative principles, and was not without the apprehension of civil disturbance through the impetuosity of the advocates of reform. As Lieutenant-Colonel of the Ayrshire Yeomanry Cavalry, he was painstaking in the training of his troops; the corps afterwards acknowledging his services by the presentation of a testimonial. In 1821, his zeal for the public interest was rewarded by his receiving the honour of a Baronetcy.

One of the most substantial of Sir Alexander's patriotic achievements was the erection of an elegant monument to Robert Burns on the banks of the Doon. The mode in which the object was accomplished is sufficiently interesting. Along with a friend who warmly approved of the design, Sir Alexander advertised in the public prints that a meeting would be held at Ayr, on a particular day, to take into consideration the proposal of rearing a monument to the great national bard. The day and hour arrived, but, save the projectors, not a single individual attended. Nothing disheartened, Sir Alexander took the chair, and his friend proceeded to act as clerk; resolutions were proposed, seconded, and recorded, thanks were voted to the chairman, and the meeting separated. These resolutions being printed and circulated, were the means of raising by public subscription the sum of nearly two thousand pounds for the erection of the monument. Sir Alexander laid the foundation stone on the 25th of January 1820.

The literary and patriotic career of Sir Alexander Boswell was brought to a sudden termination. Prone to indulge a strong natural tendency for sarcasm, especially against his political opponents, he published, in a Glasgow newspaper, a severe poetical pasquinade against Mr James Stuart, younger of Dunearn, a leading member of the Liberal party in Edinburgh. The discovery of the authorship was followed by a challenge from Mr Stuart, which being accepted, the hostile parties met near the village of Auchtertool, in Fife. Sir Alexander fell, the ball from the pistol of his antagonist having entered near the root of his neck on the right side. He was immediately carried to Balmuto, a seat of his ancestors in the vicinity, where he expired the following day. The duel took place on the 26th March 1822.

The remains of the deceased Baronet were solemnly deposited in the family vault of Auchinleck. In personal appearance, Sir Alexander presented a powerful muscular figure; in society, he was fond of anecdote and humour. In his youth he was keen on the turf and in field sports; he subsequently found his chief entertainment in literary avocations. As a poet, he had been better known if his efforts had been of a less fragmentary character. The general tendency of his Muse was drollery, but some of his lyrics are sufficiently touching.

[98] Another copy has since been discovered.

JENNY'S BAWBEE.

I met four chaps yon birks amang,
Wi' hanging lugs and faces lang;
I spier'd at neighbour Bauldy Strang,
Wha 's they I see?
Quoth he, Ilk cream-faced, pawky chiel'
Thinks himsel' cunnin' as the deil,
And here they cam awa' to steal
Jenny's bawbee.

The first, a Captain to his trade,
Wi' ill-lined skull, but back weel clade,
March'd round the barn, and by the shed,
And papped on his knee:
Quoth he, My goddess, nymph, and queen,
Your beauty 's dazzled baith my e'en!
Though ne'er a beauty he had seen
But Jenny's bawbee.

A Norland Laird neist trotted up,
Wi' bawsint naig and siller whup;
Cried--There 's my beast, lad, haud the grup,
Or tie it to a tree.
What 's gowd to me? I 've wealth o' lan',
Bestow on ane o' worth your han':
He thought to pay what he was awn
Wi' Jenny's bawbee.

A Lawyer neist, wi' bleth'rin' gab,
Wha speeches wove like ony wab;
O' ilk ane's corn aye took a dab,
And a' for a fee;
Accounts he owed through a' the toun,
And tradesmen's tongues nae mair could drown;
But now he thought to clout his goun
Wi' Jenny's bawbee.

Quite spruce, just frae the washin' tubs,
A fool came neist; but life has rubs;
Foul were the roads, and fu' the dubs,
And jaupit a' was he:
He danced up, squintin' through a glass,
And grinn'd, i' faith, a bonnie lass!
He thought to win, wi' front o' brass,
Jenny's bawbee.