Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

Allan Cunningham ranks next to Hogg as a writer of Scottish song. He sung of the influences of beauty, and of the hills and vales of his own dear Scotland. His songs abound in warmth of expression, simplicity of sentiment, and luxuriousness of fancy. Of his skill as a Scottish poet, Hogg has thus testified his appreciation in the "Queen's Wake":--

"Of the old elm his harp was made,
That bent o'er Cluden's loneliest shade;
No gilded sculpture round her flamed,
For his own hand that harp had framed,
In stolen hours, when, labour done,
He stray'd to view the parting sun.

* * * * *

That harp could make the matron stare,
Bristle the peasant's hoary hair,
Make patriot breasts with ardour glow,
And warrior pant to meet the foe;
And long by Nith the maidens young
Shall chant the strains their minstrel sung.
At ewe-bught, or at evening fold,
When resting on the daisied wold,
Combing their locks of waving gold,
Oft the fair group, enrapt, shall name
Their lost, their darling Cunninghame;
His was a song beloved in youth,
A tale of weir, a tale of truth."

As a prose writer, Cunningham was believed by Southey to have the best style ever attained by any one born north of the Tweed, Hume only excepted. His moral qualities were well appreciated by Sir Walter Scott, who commonly spoke of him as "Honest Allan." His person was broad and powerful, and his countenance wore a fine intelligence.

[6] See vol. ii., p. 223.

[7] Besides Thomas and Allan, the other members of the family afforded evidence of talent. James, the eldest son, with a limited education, was intimately familiar with general literature, and occasionally contributed to the periodicals. He began his career as a stone-mason, and by his ability and perseverance rose to the respectable position of a master builder. He died at Dalswinton, near Dumfries, on the 27th July 1832. John, the third brother, who died in early life, evinced a turn for mechanism, and wrote respectable verses. Peter, the fifth son, studied medicine, and became a surgeon in the navy; he still survives, resident at Greenwich, and is known as the author of two respectable works, bearing the titles, "Two Years in New South Wales," and "Hints to Australian Emigrants." Of the five daughters, one of whom only survives, all gave evidence of intellectual ability.

[8] Writing to Mr Gabriel Neil of Glasgow, in January 1834, along with a copy of the first volume, Cunningham remarks, "I hope you will like the Life; a third of it is new, so are many of the anecdotes, and I am willing to stand or fall as an author by it." Mr Neil, it may be added, contributed to Cunningham a great deal of original information as to the life of the poet, and also some of his unpublished poems.

SHE 'S GANE TO DWALL IN HEAVEN.

She 's gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie,
She 's gane to dwall in heaven:
"Ye 're owre pure," quo' the voice o' God,
"For dwalling out o' heaven!"

Oh, what 'll she do in heaven, my lassie?
Oh, what 'll she do in heaven?
She 'll mix her ain thoughts wi' angels' sangs,
And make them mair meet for heaven.

She was beloved by a', my lassie,
She was beloved by a';
But an angel fell in love wi' her,
An' took her frae us a'.

Lowly there thou lies, my lassie,
Lowly there thou lies;
A bonnier form ne'er went to the yird,
Nor frae it will arise!

Fu' soon I 'll follow thee, my lassie,
Fu' soon I 'll follow thee;
Thou left me naught to covet ahin',
But took gudeness sel' wi' thee.

I look'd on thy death-cold face, my lassie,
I look'd on thy death-cold face;
Thou seem'd a lily new cut i' the bud,
An' fading in its place.

I look'd on thy death-shut eye, my lassie,
I look'd on thy death-shut eye;
An' a lovelier light in the brow of Heaven
Fell Time shall ne'er destroy.

Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie,
Thy lips were ruddy and calm;
But gane was the holy breath o' Heaven,
That sang the evening psalm.

There 's naught but dust now mine, lassie,
There 's naught but dust now mine;
My soul 's wi' thee i' the cauld grave,
An' why should I stay behin'?

THE LOVELY LASS OF PRESTON MILL.

The lark had left the evening cloud,
The dew was soft, the wind was lowne,
The gentle breath amang the flowers
Scarce stirr'd the thistle's tap o' down;
The dappled swallow left the pool,
The stars were blinking owre the hill,
As I met amang the hawthorns green
The lovely lass of Preston Mill.

Her naked feet, amang the grass,
Seem'd like twa dew-gemm'd lilies fair;
Her brow shone comely 'mang her locks,
Dark curling owre her shoulders bare;
Her cheeks were rich wi' bloomy youth;
Her lips had words and wit at will,
And heaven seem'd looking through her een,
The lovely lass of Preston Mill.

Quo' I, "Sweet lass, will ye gang wi' me,
Where blackcocks crow, and plovers cry?
Six hills are woolly wi' my sheep,
Six vales are lowing wi' my kye:
I have look'd lang for a weel-favour'd lass,
By Nithsdale's holmes an' mony a hill;"
She hung her head like a dew-bent rose,
The lovely lass of Preston Mill.

Quo' I, "Sweet maiden, look nae down,
But gie 's a kiss, and gang wi' me:"
A lovelier face, oh! never look'd up,
And the tears were drapping frae her e'e:
"I hae a lad, wha 's far awa',
That weel could win a woman's will;
My heart 's already fu' o' love,"
Quo' the lovely lass of Preston Mill.

"Now wha is he wha could leave sic a lass,
To seek for love in a far countrie?"
Her tears drapp'd down like simmer dew:
I fain wad kiss'd them frae her e'e.
I took but ane o' her comely cheek;
"For pity's sake, kind sir, be still!
My heart is fu' o' ither love,"
Quo' the lovely lass of Preston Mill.

She stretch'd to heaven her twa white hands,
And lifted up her watery e'e--
"Sae lang 's my heart kens aught o' God,
Or light is gladsome to my e'e;
While woods grow green, and burns rin clear,
Till my last drap o' blood be still,
My heart shall haud nae other love,"
Quo' the lovely lass of Preston Mill.

There 's comely maids on Dee's wild banks,
And Nith's romantic vale is fu';
By lanely Cluden's hermit stream
Dwells mony a gentle dame, I trow.
Oh, they are lights of a gladsome kind,
As ever shone on vale or hill;
But there 's a light puts them a' out,
The lovely lass of Preston Mill.

GANE WERE BUT THE WINTER CAULD.

Gane were but the winter cauld,
And gane were but the snaw,
I could sleep in the wild woods,
Where primroses blaw.

Cauld 's the snaw at my head,
And cauld at my feet,
And the finger o' death 's at my een,
Closing them to sleep.

Let nane tell my father,
Or my mither dear:
I 'll meet them baith in heaven,
At the spring o' the year.

IT 'S HAME, AND IT 'S HAME.

It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
When the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf is on the tree,
The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countrie;
It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

The green leaf o' loyalty 's beginning for to fa',
The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a':
But I 'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie,
An' green it will grow in my ain countrie.
It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

There 's naught now frae ruin my country to save,
But the keys o' kind Heaven to open the grave,
That a' the noble martyrs who died for loyaltie,
May rise again and fight for their ain countrie.
It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,
And it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

The great now are gane, a' who ventured to save,
The new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave;
But the sun through the mirk blinks blithe in my e'e:
"I 'll shine on ye yet in your ain countrie."
It 's hame, an' it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS.

There lived a lass in Inverness,
She was the pride of a' the town;
Blithe as the lark on gowan-tap,
When frae the nest but newly flown.
At kirk she won the auld folks' love,
At dance she was the young men's een;
She was the blithest aye o' the blithe,
At wooster-trystes or Hallowe'en.

As I came in by Inverness,
The simmer-sun was sinking down;
Oh, there I saw the weel-faur'd lass,
And she was greeting through the town:
The gray-hair'd men were a' i' the streets,
And auld dames crying, (sad to see!)
"The flower o' the lads of Inverness
Lie dead upon Culloden-lee!"

She tore her haffet-links of gowd,
And dighted aye her comely e'e;
"My father's head 's on Carlisle wall,
At Preston sleep my brethren three!
I thought my heart could haud nae mair,
Mae tears could ever blin' my e'e;
But the fa' o' ane has burst my heart,
A dearer ane there couldna be!

"He trysted me o' love yestreen,
Of love-tokens he gave me three;
But he 's faulded i' the arms o' weir,
Oh, ne'er again to think o' me!
The forest flowers shall be my bed,
My food shall be the wild berrie,
The fa' o' the leaf shall co'er me cauld,
And wauken'd again I winna be."

Oh weep, oh weep, ye Scottish dames,
Weep till ye blin' a mither's e'e;
Nae reeking ha' in fifty miles,
But naked corses, sad to see.
Oh spring is blithesome to the year,
Trees sprout, flowers spring, and birds sing hie;
But oh! what spring can raise them up,
That lie on dread Culloden-lee?

The hand o' God hung heavy here,
And lightly touch'd foul tyrannie;
It struck the righteous to the ground,
And lifted the destroyer hie.
"But there 's a day," quo' my God in prayer,
"When righteousness shall bear the gree;
I 'll rake the wicked low i' the dust,
And wauken, in bliss, the gude man's e'e!"

A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA.

A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
A wind that follows fast,
And fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast;
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While, like the eagle free,
Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.

Oh for a soft and gentle wind!
I hear a fair one cry;
But give to me the snoring breeze,
And white waves heaving high;
And white waves heaving high, my boys,
The good ship tight and free--
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.

There 's tempest in yon horned moon,
And lightning in yon cloud;
And hark the music, mariners!
The wind is piping loud;
The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashing free--
While the hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.

THE BONNIE BARK.

O come, my bonnie bark!
O'er the waves let us go,
With thy neck like the swan,
And thy wings like the snow.
Spread thy plumes to the wind,
For a gentle one soon
Must welcome us home,
Ere the wane of the moon.

The proud oak that built thee
Was nursed in the dew,
Where my gentle one dwells,
And stately it grew.
I hew'd its beauty down;
Now it swims on the sea,
And wafts spice and perfume,
My fair one, to thee.

Oh, sweet, sweet 's her voice,
As a low warbled tune;
And sweet, sweet her lips,
Like the rose-bud of June.
She looks to sea, and sighs,
As the foamy wave flows,
And treads on men's strength,
As in glory she goes.

Oh haste, my bonnie bark,
O'er the waves let us bound,
As the deer from the horn,
Or the hare from the hound.
Pluck down thy white plumes,
Sink thy keel in the sand,
Whene'er ye see my love,
And the wave of her hand.

THOU HAST SWORN BY THY GOD, MY JEANIE.

Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie,
By that pretty white hand o' thine,
And by a' the lowing stars in heaven,
That thou would aye be mine;
And I hae sworn by my God, my Jeanie,
And by that kind heart o' thine,
By a' the stars sown thick owre heaven,
That thou would aye be mine.

Then foul fa' the hands that loose sic bands,
And the heart that would part sic love;
But there 's nae hand can loose my band
But the finger o' God above.
Though the wee, wee cot maun be my bield,
And my claithing e'er sae mean,
I wad lap me up rich i' the faulds o' luve,
Heaven's armfu' o' my Jean.

Her white arm wad be a pillow for me,
Fu' safter than the down;
And luve wad winnow owre us his kind, kind wings,
And sweetly I 'll sleep, an' soun'.
Come here to me, thou lass o' my love,
Come here and kneel wi' me;
The morn is fu' o' the presence o' God,
And I canna pray without thee.

The morn-wind is sweet 'mang the beds o' new flowers,
The wee birds sing kindlie an' hie;
Our gudeman leans owre his kale-yard dyke,
And a blithe auld bodie is he.
The Beuk maun be ta'en when the carle comes hame,
Wi' the holie psalmodie,
And thou maun speak o' me to thy God,
And I will speak o' thee.

YOUNG ELIZA.[9]

Come, maid, upon yon mountain brow,
This day of rest I 'll give to you,
And clasp thy waist with many a vow,
My loved, my young Eliza.

'Tis not that cheek, that bosom bare,
That high arch'd eye, that long brown hair,
That fair form'd foot, thine angel air,--
But 'tis thy mind, Eliza.

Think not to charm me with thine eye,
Those smiling lips, that heaving sigh,
My heart 's charm'd with a nobler tie,--
It is thy mind, Eliza.

This heart, which every love could warm,
Which every pretty face could charm,
No more will beat the sweet alarm,
But to my young Eliza.

The peasant lad unyokes his car,
The star of even shines bright and far,
And lights me to the flood-torn scaur,
To meet my young Eliza.

There is the smile to please, where truth
And soft persuasion fills her mouth,
While warm with all the fire of youth,
She clasps me, young Eliza.

My heart's blood warms in stronger flow,
My cheeks are tinged with redder glow,
When sober matron, Evening slow,
Bids me to meet Eliza.

The bard can kindle his soul to flame,
The patriot hunts a deathless name;
Give me the peasant's humble fame,
And give me young Eliza.

The warlock glen has tint its gloom,
The fairie burn the witching broom,
All wear a lovelier, sweeter bloom,
For there I meet Eliza.

Then come that mind, so finely form'd,
By native truth and virtue warm'd,
With love's soft simplest lay is charm'd,
Come to my breast, Eliza.

[9] This song, which is a juvenile production of the poet, has been communicated by his niece, Miss Pagan of Dumfries. The heroine of the song, Eliza Neilson, eldest daughter of the Reverend Mr Neilson of Kirkbean, still lives, and is resident in Dumfries.

LOVELY WOMAN.[10]

I 've rock'd me on the giddy mast,
Through seas tempestuous foamin',
I 've braved the toil of mountain storm,
From dawning to the gloamin';
Round the green bosom'd earth, sea-swept,
In search of pleasure roamin',
And found the world a wilderness,
Without thee, lovely woman!

The farmer reaps his golden fields,
The merchant sweeps the ocean;
The soldier's steed, gore-fetlock'd, snorts
Through war-field's wild commotion;
All combat in eternal toil,
Mirk midnight, day, and gloamin',
To pleasure Heaven's divinest gift,
Thee, lovely, conquering woman!

The savage in the desert dark,
The monster's den exploring;
The sceptre-swaying prince, who rules
The nations round adoring;
Nay, even the laurell'd-templed bard
Dew-footed at the gloamin',
Melodious wooes the world's ear,
To please thee, lovely woman!

[10] This song appeared in the _London Magazine_, new edit., No. xxx. It was addressed to Mrs Pagan of Curriestanes, the poet's sister, who, it may be remarked, possessed a large share of the family talent. She died on the 5th February 1854, and her remains rest in the Pagan family's burying-ground, in Terregles' churchyard.

EBENEZER PICKEN.

Ebenezer Picken was the only son of a silk-weaver in Paisley, who bore the same Christian name. He was born at the _Well-meadow_ of that town, about the year 1769. Intending to follow the profession of a clergyman, he proceeded to the University of Glasgow, which he attended during five or six sessions. With talents of a high order, he permitted an enthusiastic attachment to verse-making to interfere with his severer studies and retard his progress in learning. Contrary to the counsel of his father and other friends, he published, in 1788, while only in his nineteenth year, a thin octavo volume of poems; and afterwards gave to the gay intercourse of lovers of the muse, many precious hours which ought to have been applied to mental improvement. Early in 1791 he became teacher of a school at Falkirk; and on the 14th of April of the same year appeared at the Pantheon, Edinburgh, where he delivered an oration in blank verse on the comparative merits of Ramsay and Fergusson, assigning the pre-eminence to the former poet. In this debate his fellow-townsman and friend, Alexander Wilson, the future ornithologist, advocated in verse the merits of Fergusson; and the productions of both the youthful adventurers were printed in a pamphlet entitled the "Laurel Disputed." In occupying the position of schoolmaster at Falkirk, Picken proposed to raise funds to aid him in the prosecution of his theological studies; but the circumstance of his having formed a matrimonial union with a young lady, a daughter of Mr Beveridge of the Burgher congregation in Falkirk, by involving him in the expenses of a family, proved fatal to his clerical aspirations. He accepted the situation of teacher of an endowed school at Carron, where he remained till 1796, when he removed to Edinburgh. In the capital he found employment as manager of a mercantile establishment, and afterwards on his own account commenced business as a draper. Unsuccessful in this branch of business, he subsequently sought a livelihood as a music-seller and a teacher of languages. In 1813, with the view of bettering his circumstances, he published, by subscription, two duodecimo volumes of "Poems and Songs," in which are included the pieces contained in his first published volume. His death took place in 1816.

Picken is remembered as a person of gentlemanly appearance, endeavouring to confront the pressure of unmitigated poverty. His dispositions were eminently social, and his love of poetry amounted to a passion. He is commemorated in the poetical works of his early friend, Wilson, who has addressed to him a lengthened poetical epistle. In 1818, a dictionary of Scottish words, which he had occupied some years in preparing, was published at Edinburgh by "James Sawers, Calton Street," and this publication was found of essential service by Dr Jamieson in the preparation of his "Supplement" to his "Dictionary of the Scottish Language." Among Picken's poetical compositions are a few pieces bearing the impress of genius.[11]

[11] Andrew Picken, the only son of Ebenezer, a person of somewhat unprepossessing appearance, contrived to derive a tolerable livelihood by following the conjunct occupation of an itinerant player and portrait-painter. He was the writer of some good poetry, and about 1827 published a respectable volume of verses, entitled, "The Bedouin, and other Poems." He soon afterwards proceeded to America.

PEGGIE WI' THE GLANCIN' E'E.

Walkin' out ae mornin' early,
Ken ye wha I chanced to see?
But my lassie, gay and frisky,
Peggie wi' the glancin' e'e.
Phoebus, left the lap o' Thetis,
Fast was lickin' up the dew,
Whan, ayont a risin' hilloc,
First my Peggie came in view.

Hark ye, I gaed up to meet her;
But whane'er my face she saw,
Up her plaidin' coat she kiltit,
And in daffin' scour'd awa'.
Weel kent I that though my Peggie
Ran sae fast out owre the mead,
She was wantin' me to follow--
Yes, ye swains, an' sae I did.

At yon burnie I o'ertook her,
Whare the shinin' pebbles lie;
Whare the flowers, that fringe the border,
Soup the stream, that wimples by.
While wi' her I sat reclinin',
Frae her lips I staw a kiss;
While she blush'd, I took anither,--
Shepherds, was there ill in this?

Could a lass, sae sweet an' comely,
Ever bless a lover's arms?
Could the bonnie wife o' Vulcan
Ever boast o' hauf the charms?
While the zephyrs fan the meadows,
While the flow'rets crown the lea,
While they paint the gowden simmer,
Wha sae blest as her an' me?

WOO ME AGAIN.

TUNE--_"On a Primrosy Bank."_

Whan Jamie first woo'd me, he was but a youth:
Frae his lips flow'd the strains o' persuasion and truth;
His suit I rejected wi' pride an' disdain,
But, oh! wad he offer to woo me again!

He aft wad hae tauld me his love was sincere,
And e'en wad hae ventured to ca' me his dear:
My heart to his tale was as hard as a stane;
But, oh! wad he offer to woo me again!

He said that he hoped I would yield an' be kind,
But I counted his proffers as light as the wind;
I laugh'd at his grief, whan I heard him complain;
But, oh! wad he offer to woo me again!

He flatter'd my locks, that war black as a slae,
And praised my fine shape, frae the tap to the tae;
I flate, an' desired he wad let me alane;
But, oh! wad he offer to woo me again!

Repulsed, he forsook me, an' left me to grieve,
An' mourn the sad hour that my swain took his leave;
Now, since I despised, an' was deaf to his maen,
I fear he 'll ne'er offer to woo me again!

Oh! wad he but now to his Jean be inclined,
My heart in a moment wad yield to his mind;
But I fear wi' some ither my laddie is taen,
An' sae he 'll ne'er offer to woo me again.

Ye bonnie young lasses, be warn'd by my fate,
Despise not the heart you may value too late;
Improve the sweet sunshine that now gilds the plain;
With you it may never be sunshine again.

The simmer o' life, ah! it soon flits awa',
An' the bloom on your cheek will soon dow in the snaw;
Oh! think, ere you treat a fond youth wi' disdain,
That, in age, the sweet flower never blossoms again.

STUART LEWIS.

Stuart Lewis, the mendicant bard, was the eldest son of an innkeeper at Ecclefechan in Annandale, where he was born about the year 1756. A zealous Jacobite, his father gave him the name of Stuart, in honour of Prince Charles Edward. At the parish school, taught by one Irving, an ingenious and learned person of eccentric habits, he received a respectable ground-work of education; but the early deprivation of his father, who died bankrupt, compelled him to relinquish the pursuit of learning. At the age of fifteen, with the view of aiding in the support of his widowed mother, with her destitute family of other five children, he accepted manual employment from a relation in the vicinity of Chester. Subsequently, along with a partner, he established himself as a merchant-tailor in the town of Chester, where he remained some years, when his partner absconded to America with a considerable amount, leaving him to meet the demands of the firm. Surrendering his effects to his creditors, he returned to his native place, almost penniless, and suffering mental depression from his misfortunes, which he recklessly sought to remove by the delusive remedy of the bottle. The habit of intemperance thus produced, became his scourge through life. At Ecclefechan he commenced business as a tailor, and married a young country girl, for whom he had formed a devoted attachment. He established a village library, and debating club, became a diligent reader, a leader in every literary movement in the district, and a writer of poetry of some merit. A poem on the melancholy story of "Fair Helen of Kirkconnel," which he composed at this period, obtained a somewhat extensive popularity. To aid his finances, he became an itinerant seller of cloth,--a mode of life which gave him an opportunity of studying character, and visiting interesting scenery. The pressure of poverty afterwards induced him to enlist, as a recruit, in the Hopetoun Fencibles; and, in this humble position, he contrived to augment his scanty pay by composing acrostics and madrigals for the officers, who rewarded him with small gratuities. On the regiment being disbanded in 1799, he was entrusted by a merchant with the sale of goods, as a pedlar, in the west of England; but this employment ceased on his being robbed, while in a state of inebriety. Still descending in the social scale, he became an umbrella-maker in Manchester, while his wife was employed in some of the manufactories. Some other odd and irregular occupations were severally attempted without success, till at length, about his fiftieth year, he finally settled into the humble condition of a wandering poet. He composed verses on every variety of theme, and readily parted with his compositions for food or whisky. His field of wandering included the entire Lowlands, and he occasionally penetrated into Highland districts. In his wanderings he was accompanied by his wife, who, though a severe sufferer on his account, along with her family of five or six children, continued most devoted in her attachment to him. On her death, which took place in the Cowgate, Edinburgh, early in 1817, he became almost distracted, and never recovered his former composure. He now roamed wildly through the country, seldom remaining more than one night in the same place. He finally returned to Dumfriesshire, his native county; and accidentally falling into the Nith, caught an inflammatory fever, of which he died, in the village of Ruthwell, on the 22d September 1818. Lewis was slender, and of low stature. His countenance was sharp, and his eye intelligent, though frenzied with excitement. He always expressed himself in the language of enthusiasm, despised prudence and common sense, and commended the impulsive and fanciful. He published, in 1816, a small volume, entitled "The African Slave; with other Poems and Songs." Some of his lyrics are not unworthy of a place in the national minstrelsy.

LANARK MILLS.

AIR--_"Miss Forbes' Farewell to Banff."_

Adieu! romantic banks of Clyde,
Where oft I 've spent the joyful day;
Now, weary wand'ring on thy side,
I pour the plaintive, joyless lay.
To other lands I 'm doom'd to rove,
The thought with grief my bosom fills;
Why am I forced to leave my love,
And wander far from Lanark Mills?

Can I forget th' ecstatic hours,
When ('scaped the village evening din)
I met my lass 'midst Braxfield bowers,
Or near the falls of Corhouse Linn!
While close I clasp'd her to my breast,
(Th' idea still with rapture thrills!)
I thought myself completely blest,
By all the lads of Lanark Mills.

Deceitful, dear, delusive dream,
Thou 'rt fled--alas! I know not where,
And vanish'd is each blissful gleam,
And left behind a load of care.
Adieu! dear winding banks of Clyde,
A long farewell, ye rising hills;
No more I 'll wander on your side,
Though still my heart 's at Lanark Mills.

While Tintock stands the pride of hills,
While Clyde's dark stream rolls to the sea,
So long, my dear-loved Lanark Mills,
May Heaven's best blessings smile on thee.
A last adieu! my Mary dear,
The briny tear my eye distils;
While reason's powers continue clear,
I 'll think of thee, and Lanark Mills.

O'ER THE MUIR.[12]

Ae morn of May, when fields were gay,
Serene and charming was the weather,
I chanced to roam some miles frae home,
Far o'er yon muir, amang the heather.
O'er the muir amang the heather,
O'er the muir amang the heather,
How healthsome 'tis to range the muirs,
And brush the dew from vernal heather.

I walk'd along, and humm'd a song,
My heart was light as ony feather,
And soon did pass a lovely lass,
Was wading barefoot through the heather.
O'er the muir amang the heather,
O'er the muir amang the heather;
The bonniest lass that e'er I saw
I met ae morn amang the heather.

Her eyes divine, mair bright did shine,
Than the most clear unclouded ether;
A fairer form did ne'er adorn
A brighter scene than blooming heather.
O'er the muir amang the heather,
O'er the muir amang the heather;
There 's ne'er a lass in Scotia's isle,
Can vie with her amang the heather.

I said, "Dear maid, be not afraid;
Pray sit you down, let 's talk together;
For, oh! my fair, I vow and swear,
You 've stole my heart amang the heather."
O'er the muir amang the heather,
O'er the muir amang the heather;
Ye swains, beware of yonder muir,
You 'll lose your hearts amang the heather.

She answer'd me, right modestly,
"I go, kind sir, to seek my father,
Whose fleecy charge he tends at large,
On yon green hills beyond the heather."
O'er the muir amang the heather,
O'er the muir amang the heather;
Were I a king, thou shou'dst be mine,
Dear blooming maid, amang the heather.

Away she flew out of my view,
Her home or name I ne'er could gather,
But aye sin' syne I sigh and pine
For that sweet lass amang the heather.
O'er the muir amang the heather,
O'er the muir amang the heather,
While vital heat glows in my heart,
I 'll love the lass amang the heather.

[12] The more popular words to the same tune and chorus, beginning, "Comin' through the Craigs o' Kyle," are believed, on the authority of Burns, to have been the composition of Jean Glover, a girl of respectable parentage, born at Kilmarnock in 1758, who became attached to a company of strolling players. Lewis is said to have claimed priority for his verses, and the point is not likely ever to be decided. This much may be said in favour of Lewis's claims, that he had long been the writer of respectable lyrics; while Jean Glover, though well skilled as a musician, is not otherwise known to have composed verses. One of the songs is evidently an echo of the other.

DAVID DRUMMOND.

David Drummond, author of "The Bonnie Lass o' Levenside," a song formerly of no inconsiderable popularity, was a native of Crieff, Perthshire. Along with his four brothers, he settled in Fifeshire, about the beginning of the century, having obtained the situation of clerk in the Kirkland works, near Leven. In 1812, he proceeded to India, and afterwards attained considerable wealth as the conductor of an academy and boarding establishment at Calcutta. A man of vigorous mind and respectable scholarship, he had early cultivated a taste for literature and poetry, and latterly became an extensive contributor to the public journals and periodical publications of Calcutta. The song with which his name has been chiefly associated, was composed during the period of his employment at the Kirkland works,--the heroine being Miss Wilson, daughter of the proprietor of Pirnie, near Leven, a young lady of great personal attractions, to whom he was devotedly attached. The sequel of his history, in connexion with this lady, forms the subject of a romance, in which he has been made to figure much to the injury of his fame. The correct version of this story, in which Drummond has been represented as faithless to the object of his former affections, we have received from a gentleman to whom the circumstances were intimately known. In consequence of a proposal to become his wife, Miss Wilson sailed for Calcutta in 1816. On her arrival, she was kindly received by her affianced lover, who conducted her to the house of a respectable female friend, till arrangements might be completed for the nuptial ceremony. In the interval, she became desirous of withdrawing from her engagement; and Drummond, observing her coldness, offered to pay the expense of her passage back to Scotland. Meanwhile, she was seized with fever, of which she died. Report erroneously alleged that she had died of a broken heart on account of her lover being unfaithful, and hence the memory of poor Drummond has been most unjustly aspersed. Drummond died, at Calcutta, in 1845, about the age of seventy. He was much respected among a wide circle of friends and admirers. His personal appearance was unprepossessing, almost approaching to deformity,--a circumstance which may explain the ultimate hesitation of Miss Wilson to accept his hand. "The Bonnie Lass o' Levenside" was first printed, with the author's consent, though without acknowledgment, in a small volume of poems, by William Rankin, Leven, published in 1812. The authorship of the song was afterwards claimed by William Glass,[13] an obscure rhymster of the capital.

[13] Glass was a house-painter in Edinburgh; he ultimately became very dissipated, and died in circumstances of penury about 1840. He published, in 1811, "The Album, a Collection of Poems and Songs," 12mo; in 1814, "Scenes of Gloamin'," 12mo; and in 1816, a third volume, entitled "Songs of Edina." The last is dedicated, by permission, to the Duke of Gordon. In the "Scenes of Gloamin'," Glass has included the "Bonnie Lass o' Levenside," as a song of his own composition.

THE BONNIE LASS O' LEVENSIDE.

AIR--_"Up amang the Cliffy Rocks."_

How sweet are Leven's silver streams,
Around her banks the wild flowers blooming;
On every bush the warblers vie,
In strains of bosom-soothing joy.
But Leven's banks that bloom sae bra,
And Leven's streams that glide sae saucy,
Sic joy an' beauty couldna shaw,
An 't were not for my darling lassie;
Her presence fills them a' wi' pride,
The bonnie lass o' Levenside.

When sober eve begins her reign,
The little birds to cease their singing,
The flowers their beauty to renew,
Their bosoms bathe in diamond dew;
When far behind the Lomonds high,
The wheels of day are downwards rowing,
And a' the western closing sky
Wi' varied tints of glory lowing,
'Tis then my eager steps I guide,
To meet the lass o' Levenside.

The solemn sweetness nature spreads,
The kindly hour to bliss inviting,
Within our happy bosoms move,
The softest sigh o' purest love;
Reclined upon the velvet grass,
Beneath the balmy, birken blossom,
What words could a' my joy express,
When clasped to her beating bosom;
How swells my heart with rapture's tide,
When wi' the lass o' Levenside.

She never saw the splendid ball,
She never blazed in courtly grandeur,
But like her native lily's bloom,
She cheerfu' gilds her humble home;
The pert reply, the modish air,
To soothe the soul were never granted,
When modest sense and love are there,
The guise o' art may well be wanted;
O Fate! gi'e me to be my bride
The bonnie lass o' Levenside.

JAMES AFFLECK.

The "Posthumous Poetical Works" of James Affleck, tailor in Biggar, with a memoir of his life by his son, were published at Edinburgh in 1836. Affleck was born in the village of Drummelzier, in Peeblesshire, on the 8th September 1776. His education was scanty; and after some years' occupation as a cowherd, he was apprenticed to a tailor in his native village. He afterwards prosecuted his trade in the parish of Crawfordjohn, and in the town of Ayr. In 1793, he established himself as master tailor in Biggar. Fond of society, he joined the district lodge of freemasons, and became a leading member of that fraternity. He composed verses for the entertainment of his friends, which he was induced to give to the world in two separate publications. He possessed considerable poetical talent, but his compositions are generally marked by the absence of refinement. The song selected for the present work is the most happy effort in his posthumous volume. His death took place at Biggar, on the 8th September 1835.

HOW BLEST WERE THE DAYS!

How blest were the days o' langsyne when a laddie!
Alane by a bush wi' my dog and my plaidie;
Nae fop was sae happy, though dress'd e'er sae gaudy,
Sae sweet were the days o' langsyne when a laddie.

Whiles croonin' my sonnet amang the whin bushes,
Whiles whistling wi' glee as I pou'd the green rashes;
The whim o' the moment kept me aye frae sorrow,
What I wanted at night was in prospect to-morrow.

The nest o' a lintie I fondly explored,
And plundering bykes was the game I adored;
My pleasures did vary, as I was unsteady,
Yet I always found something that pleased when a laddie.

The boy with great pleasure the butterfly chases;
When manhood approaches, the maid he embraces;
But view him at once baith the husband and daddie,
He fondly looks back to the joys o' a laddie.

When childhood was over my prospects were greater,
I tried to be happy, but, alas, foolish creature!
The sports of my youth were my sweetest employment--
Much sweetness in prospect embitters enjoyment.

But now I 'm grown auld, and wi' cares I 'm perplex'd,
How numerous the woes are by which I am vex'd!
I 'm tentin' the kye wi' my dog, staff, and plaidie;
How changed are the days since langsyne when a laddie!

JAMES STIRRAT.

James Stirrat was born in the village of Dalry, Ayrshire, on the 28th March 1781. His father was owner of several houses in the place, and was employed in business as a haberdasher. Young Stirrat was educated at the village school; in his 17th year, he composed verses which afforded some indication of power. Of a delicate constitution, he accepted the easy appointment of village postmaster. He died in March 1843, in his sixty-second year. Stirrat wrote much poetry, but never ventured on a publication. Several of his songs appeared at intervals in the public journals, the "Book of Scottish Song," and the "Contemporaries of Burns." The latter work contains a brief sketch of his life. He left a considerable number of MSS., which are now in the possession of a relative in Ayr. Possessed of a knowledge of music, he excelled in playing many of the national airs on the guitar. His dispositions were social, yet in society he seldom talked; among his associates, he frequently expressed his hope of posthumous fame. He was enthusiastic in his admiration of female beauty, but died unmarried.

HENRY.[14]

AIR--_"Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch."_

Can my dearest Henry leave me?
Why, ah! why would he deceive me?
Whence this cold and cruel change,
That bids him thus forsake and grieve me?

Can he the hours of love forget,
The stolen hours I 'll mind for ever,
When down the burn we fondly met,
And aften vow'd we ne'er should sever?
Will my Henry then deceive me,
Faithless laddie, can he leave me?
Ne'er till now did fancy dream,
My dearest laddie sae would grieve me.

And will he then me aye forsake?
Must I for ever, ever lose him?
And can he leave this heart to break,
That swells and bursts within my bosom?
Never, Henry, could I leave thee,
Never could this heart deceive thee,
Why then, laddie, me forsake,
And sae wi' cruel absence grieve me?

[14] This song and that following are printed from the original MSS.

MARY.[15]

"In life's gay morn," when hopes beat high,
And youthfu' love's endearing tie
Gave rapture to the mutual sigh,
Within the arms of Mary,
My ain dear Mary;
Nae joys beneath the vaulted sky,
Could equal mine wi' Mary.

The sacred hours like moments flew,
Soft transports thrill'd my bosom through,
The warl' evanish'd frae my view
Within the arms of Mary,
My ain dear Mary;
Nae gloomy cares my soul e'er knew
Within the arms of Mary.

Young fancy spread her visions gay,
Love fondly view'd the fair display,
Hope shew'd the blissfu' nuptial day,
And I was rapt with Mary,
My ain dear Mary;
The flowers of Eden strew'd the way
That led me to my Mary.

But life is now a dreary waste,
I lanely wander sair depress'd,
For cold and lifeless is that breast
Where throbb'd the heart of Mary,
My ain dear Mary;
She 's gane to seats o' blissfu' rest,
And I hae lost my Mary.

[15] This song was set to music by R. A. Smith.

JOHN GRIEVE.

John Grieve, whose name is especially worthy of commemoration as the generous friend of men of genius, was born at Dunfermline on the 12th September 1781. He was the eldest son of the Rev. Walter Grieve, minister of the Cameronian or Reformed Presbyterian church in that place; his mother, Jane Ballantyne, was the daughter of Mr George Ballantyne, tenant at Craig, in the vale of Yarrow. While he was very young, his father retired from the ministerial office, and fixed his residence at the villa of Cacrabank, in Ettrick. After an ordinary education at school, young Grieve became clerk to Mr Virtue, shipowner and wood-merchant in Alloa: and, early in 1801, obtained a situation in a bank at Greenock. He soon returned to Alloa, as the partner of his friend Mr Francis Bald, who had succeeded Mr Virtue in his business as a wood-merchant. On the death of Mr Bald, in 1804, he proceeded to Edinburgh to enter into copartnership with Mr Chalmers Izzet, hat-manufacturer on the North Bridge. The firm subsequently assumed, as a third partner, Mr Henry Scott, a native of Ettrick.

Eminently successful in business, Mr Grieve found considerable leisure for the cultivation of strong literary tastes. Though without pretension as a man of letters, he became reputed as a contributor to some of the more respectable periodicals.[16] In his youth he had been a votary of the Muse, and some of his early lyrics he was prevailed on to publish anonymously in Hogg's "Forest Minstrel." The songs marked C., in the contents of that work, are from his pen. In the encouragement of men of genius he evinced a deep interest, affording them entertainment at his table, and privately contributing to the support of those whose circumstances were less fortunate. Towards the Ettrick Shepherd his beneficence was munificent. Along with his partner, Mr Scott, a man of kindred tastes and of ample generosity, he enabled Hogg to surmount the numerous difficulties which impeded his entrance into the world of letters. In different portions of his works, the Shepherd has gracefully recorded his gratitude to his benefactors. In his "Autobiography," after expressing the steadfast friendship he had experienced from Mr Grieve, he adds, "During the first six months that I resided in Edinburgh, I lived with him and his partner Mr Scott, who, on a longer acquaintance, became as firmly attached to me as Mr Grieve; and I believe as much so as to any other man alive.... In short, they would not suffer me to be obliged to any one but themselves for the value of a farthing; and without this sure support, I could never have fought my way in Edinburgh. I was fairly starved into it, and if it had not been for Messrs Grieve and Scott, would, in a very short time, have been starved out of it again." To Mr Grieve, Hogg afterwards dedicated his poem "Mador of the Moor;" and in the character of one of the competing bards in the "Queen's Wake," he has thus depicted him:--

"The bard that night who foremost came
Was not enroll'd, nor known his name;
A youth he was of manly mould,
Gentle as lamb, as lion bold;
But his fair face, and forehead high,
Glow'd with intrusive modesty.
'Twas said by bank of southland stream
Glided his youth in soothing dream;
The harp he loved, and wont to stray
Far to the wilds and woods away,
And sing to brooks that gurgled by
Of maiden's form and maiden's eye;
That when this dream of youth was past,
Deep in the shade his harp he cast;
In busy life his cares beguiled,
His heart was true, and fortune smiled."

Affected with a disorder in the spine, Mr Grieve became incapacitated for business in his thirty-seventh year. In this condition he found an appropriate solace in literature; he made himself familiar with the modern languages, that he might form an acquaintance with the more esteemed continental authors. Retaining his usual cheerfulness, he still experienced satisfaction in intercourse with his friends; and to the close of his life, his pleasant cottage at Newington was the daily resort of the _savans_ of the capital. Mr Grieve died unmarried on the 4th April 1836, in the fifty-fifth year of his age. His remains were interred in the sequestered cemetery of St Mary's, in Yarrow. The few songs which he has written are composed in a vigorous style, and entitle him to rank among those whom he delighted to honour.[17]

[16] In the "Key to the Chaldee MS.," he is described as the author of "The White Cottage, a Tale;" this was not written by him, but was the production of one More, a native of Berwickshire, whose literary aspirations he had promoted.

[17] For a number of particulars in this memoir, we are indebted to our venerated friend Mr Alexander Bald, of Alloa.

CULLODEN; OR, LOCHIEL'S FAREWELL.

AIR--_"Fingal's Lament."_

Culloden, on thy swarthy brow
Spring no wild flowers nor verdure fair;
Thou feel'st not summer's genial glow,
More than the freezing wintry air.
For once thou drank'st the hero's blood,
And war's unhallow'd footsteps bore;
Thy deeds unholy, nature view'd,
Then fled, and cursed thee evermore.

From Beauly's wild and woodland glens,
How proudly Lovat's banners soar!
How fierce the plaided Highland clans
Rush onward with the broad claymore!
Those hearts that high with honour heave,
The volleying thunder there laid low;
Or scatter'd like the forest leaves,
When wintry winds begin to blow!

Where now thy honours, brave Lochiel?
The braided plumes torn from thy brow,
What must thy haughty spirit feel,
When skulking like the mountain roe!
While wild birds chant from Locky's bowers,
On April eve, their loves and joys,
The Lord of Locky's loftiest towers
To foreign lands an exile flies.

To his blue hills that rose in view,
As o'er the deep his galley bore,
He often look'd and cried, "Adieu!
I 'll never see Lochaber more!
Though now thy wounds I cannot feel,
My dear, my injured native land,
In other climes thy foe shall feel
The weight of Cameron's deadly brand.

"Land of proud hearts and mountains gray,
Where Fingal fought, and Ossian sung!
Mourn dark Culloden's fateful day,
That from thy chiefs the laurel wrung.
Where once they ruled and roam'd at will,
Free as their own dark mountain game,
Their sons are slaves, yet keenly feel
A longing for their father's fame.

"Shades of the mighty and the brave,
Who, faithful to your Stuart, fell!
No trophies mark your common grave,
Nor dirges to your memory swell.
But generous hearts will weep your fate,
When far has roll'd the tide of time;
And bards unborn shall renovate
Your fading fame in loftiest rhyme."

LOVELY MARY.[18]

AIR--_"Gowd in gowpens."_

I 've seen the lily of the wold,
I 've seen the opening marigold,
Their fairest hues at morn unfold,
But fairer is my Mary.
How sweet the fringe of mountain burn,
With opening flowers at spring's return!
How sweet the scent of flowery thorn!
But sweeter is my Mary.

Her heart is gentle, warm, and kind;
Her form 's not fairer than her mind;
Two sister beauties rarely join'd,
But join'd in lovely Mary.
As music from the distant steep,
As starlight on the silent deep,
So are my passions lull'd asleep
By love for bonnie Mary.

[18] This song was written during the author's first residence at Alloa. The heroine was Miss Mary Douglas, a young lady of great personal attractions, daughter of Captain Douglas, of the East India Company's Marine Service, who resided in the village of Sauchie, in the vicinity. She became the wife of a Mr Rhind, an Edinburgh gentleman, but died soon after her marriage. Her remains were brought for interment to the churchyard of Alloa.

HER BLUE ROLLIN' E'E.

AIR--_"Banks of the Devon."_

My lassie is lovely, as May day adorning
Wi' gowans an' primroses ilka green lee;
Though sweet is the violet, new blown i' the morning,
As tender an' sweet is her blue rollin' e'e.
O, say what is whiter than snaw on the mountain?
Or what wi' the red rose in beauty can vie?
Yes, whiter her bosom than snaw on the mountain,
An' bonnie her face as the red rose can be.

See yon lowly cottage that stands by the wild-wood,
Hedged round wi' the sweetbriar and green willow-tree,
'Twas yonder I spent the sweet hours of my childhood,
An' first felt the power of a love-rollin' e'e.
Though soon frae my hame an' my lassie I wander'd;
Though lang I 've been tossing on fortune's rough sea;
Aye dear was the valley where Ettrick meander'd;
Aye dear was the blink o' her blue-rollin' e'e.

Oh! for the evening, and oh! for the hour,
When down by yon greenwood she promised to be;
When quick as the summer-dew dries on the flower,
A' earthly affections and wishes wad flee.
Let Art and let Nature display their proud treasures;
Let Paradise boast o' what ance it could gie;
As high is my bliss, an' as sweet are my pleasures,
In the heart-melting blink o' my lassie's blue e'e.

CHARLES GRAY.

Charles Gray was born at Anstruther-wester, on the 10th March 1782. He was the schoolfellow and early associate of Dr Thomas Chalmers, and Dr William Tennant, the author of "Anster Fair," who were both natives of Anstruther. He engaged for some years in a handicraft occupation; but in 1805, through the influence of Major-General Burn,[19] his maternal uncle, was fortunate in procuring a commission in the Woolwich division of the Royal Marines. In 1811 he published an octavo volume of "Poems and Songs," of which a second edition was called for at the end of three years. In 1813 he joined Tennant and some other local poets in establishing the "Musomanik Society of Anstruther,"--an association which existed about four years, and gave to the world a collection of respectable verses.[20] After thirty-six years' active service in the Royal Marines, he was enabled to retire in 1841, on a Captain's full pay. He now established his head-quarters in Edinburgh, where he cultivated the society of lovers of Scottish song. In 1841, in compliance with the wishes of numerous friends, expressed in the form of a _Round Robin_, he published a second volume of verses, with the title of "Lays and Lyrics." This work appeared in elegant duodecimo, illustrated with engravings of the author's portrait and of his birthplace. In the _Glasgow Citizen_ newspaper, he subsequently published "Cursory Remarks on Scottish Song," which have been copiously quoted by Mr Farquhar Graham, in his edition of the "Songs of Scotland."

Of cheerful and amiable dispositions, Captain Gray was much cherished by his friends. Intimately acquainted with the productions of the modern Scottish poets, he took delight in discussing their merits; and he enlivened the social circle by singing his favourite songs. Of his lyrical compositions, those selected for this work have deservedly attained popularity. An ardent admirer of Burns, he was led to imitate the style of the great national bard. In person he was of low stature; his gray weather-beaten countenance wore a constant smile. He died, after a period of declining health, on the 13th April 1851. He married early in life, and his only son is now a Captain of Marines.

[19] A memoir of this estimable individual, chiefly from materials found in his Diary, has been published by the London Tract Society.

[20] This volume of the merry Anstruther rhymers is entitled "Bouts-Rimes, or Poetical Pastimes of a few Hobblers round the base of Parnassus;" it is dedicated "To the Lovers of Rhyme, Fun, and Good-Fellowship throughout the British Empire."

MAGGIE LAUDER.[21]

The cantie Spring scarce rear'd her head,
And Winter yet did blaud her,
When the Ranter came to Anster fair,
And speir'd for Maggie Lauder;
A snug wee house in the East Green,[22]
Its shelter kindly lent her;
Wi' canty ingle, clean hearth-stane,
Meg welcomed Rob the Ranter!

Then Rob made bonnie Meg his bride,
And to the kirk they ranted;
He play'd the auld "East Nook o' Fife;"
And merry Maggie vaunted,
That Hab himsel' ne'er play'd a spring,
Nor blew sae weel his chanter,
For he made Anster town to ring--
And wha 's like Rob the Ranter?