Chapter I: Neither Got Promise of Siller (2)

There 's music in the lighted ha',
And looks in laughing een,
That seem affection forth to show,
That less is felt than seen.
But silent in the faithfu' heart
The charm o' love shall reign,
Or words shall but its power impart
To make it mair our ain.
Let worldlings doat upon their wealth,
And spendthrifts hae their glee,
Not a' the state o' a' the great,
Shall draw a wish frae me;
Away wi' thee by glen an' bower,
Far frae the haunts o' men,
Oh! a' the bliss o' hour like this,
The world can never ken.
Oh! scenes delighting, smiles inviting,
Heartfelt pleasures len',
And aye how fain we 'll meet again,
When nane on earth can ken.

DANIEL WEIR.

Daniel Weir was born at Greenock, on the 31st of March 1796. His father, John Weir, was a shoemaker, and at one period a small shopkeeper in that town. From his mother, Sarah Wright, he inherited a delicate constitution. His education was conducted at a private school; and in 1809, he became apprentice to Mr Scott, a respectable bookseller in Greenock. In 1815, he commenced business as a bookseller on his own account.

Imbued with the love of learning, and especially of poetry, Weir devoted his hours of leisure to extensive reading and the composition of verses. To the "Scottish Minstrel" of R. A. Smith, he contributed several respectable songs; and edited for Messrs Griffin & Co., booksellers in Glasgow, three volumes of lyric poems, which appeared under the title of "The National Minstrel," "The Sacred Lyre," and "Lyrical Gems." These collections are adorned with many compositions of his own. In 1829, he published a "History of the Town of Greenock," in a thin octavo volume, illustrated with engravings. He died on the 11th November 1831, in his thirty-fifth year.

Possessed of a fine genius, a brilliant fancy, and much gracefulness of expression, Weir has decided claims to remembrance. His conversational talents were of a remarkable description, and attracted to his shop many persons of taste, to whom his poetical talents were unknown. He was familiar with the whole of the British poets, and had committed their best passages to memory. Possessing a keen relish for the ludicrous, he had at command a store of delightful anecdote, which he gave forth with a quaintness of look and utterance, so as to render the force of the humour totally irresistible. His sarcastic wit was an object of dread to his opponents in burgh politics. His appearance was striking. Rather mal-formed, he was under the middle size; his head seemed large for his person, and his shoulders were of unusual breadth. His complexion was dark, and his eyes hazel; and when his countenance was lit upon the recitation of some witty tale, he looked the impersonation of mirthfulness. Eccentric as were some of his habits and modes of action, he was seriously impressed by religious principle; some of his devotional compositions are admirable specimens of sacred poetry. He left an unpublished MS. poem, entitled "The Pleasures of Religion."

SEE THE MOON.

See the moon o'er cloudless Jura
Shining in the lake below;
See the distant mountain tow'ring
Like a pyramid of snow.
Scenes of grandeur--scenes of childhood--
Scenes so dear to love and me!
Let us roam by bower and wildwood--
All is lovelier when with thee.

On Leman's breast the winds are sighing;
All is silent in the grove;
And the flow'rs, with dew-drops glist'ning,
Sparkle like the eye of love.
Night so calm, so clear, so cloudless;
Blessed night to love and me!
Let us roam by bower and fountain--
All is lovelier when with thee.

LOVE IS TIMID.

Love is timid, love is shy,
Can you tell me, tell me why?
Ah! tell me why true love should be
Afraid to meet the kindly smile
Of him she loves, from him would flee,
Yet thinks upon him all the while?
Can you tell me, tell me why
Love is timid, love is shy?

Love is timid, love is shy,
Can you tell me, tell me why?
True love, they say, delights to dwell
In some sequester'd, lonely bow'r,
With him she loves, where none can tell
Her tender look in passion's hour.
Can you tell me, tell me why
Love is timid, love is shy?

Love is timid, love is shy,
Can you tell me, tell me why?
Love, like the lonely nightingale,
Will pour her heart, when all is lone;
Nor will repeat, amidst the vale,
Her notes to any, but to one.
Can you tell me, tell me why
Love is timid, love is shy?

RAVEN'S STREAM.

My love, come let us wander
Where Raven's streams meander,
And where, in simple grandeur,
The daisy decks the plain.
Peace and joy our hours shall measure;
Come, oh! come, my soul's best treasure!
Then how sweet, and then how cheerie,
Raven's braes will be, my dearie.

The silver moon is beaming,
On Clyde her light is streaming;
And, while the world is dreaming,
We 'll talk of love, my dear.
None, my Jean, will share this bosom,
Where thine image loves to blossom;
And no storm will ever sever
That dear flow'r, or part us ever.

OH! OUR CHILDHOOD'S ONCE DELIGHTFUL HOURS.

AIR--_"Oh! the days are past when beauty bright."_

Oh! our childhood's once delightful hours
Ne'er come again--
Their sunny glens, their blooming bowers,
And primrose plain!
With other days,
Ambitious rays
May flash upon our mind;
But give me back the morn of life,
With fond thoughts twined;
As it sweetly broke on bower and hill,
And youth's gay mind!

Oh! our childhood's days are ne'er forgot
On life's dark sea,
And memory hails that sacred spot
Where'er we be;
It leaves all joys,
And fondly sighs
As youth comes on the mind,
And looks upon the morn of life
With fond thoughts, &c.

When age will come, with locks of gray,
To quench youth's spark,
And its stream runs cold along the way
Where all seems dark,
'Twill smiling gaze,
As memory's blaze
Breaks on its wavering mind;
But 'twill never bring the morn of life,
With fond thoughts, &c.

COULD WE BUT LOOK BEYOND OUR SPHERE.

Could we but look beyond our sphere,
And trace, along the azure sky,
The myriads that were inmates here
Since Abel's spirit soar'd on high--
Then might we tell of those who see
Our wand'rings from eternity!

But human frailty cannot gaze
On such a cloud of splendid light
As heaven's sacred court displays,
Of blessed spirits clothed in white,
Who from the fears of death are free,
And look from an eternity.

They look, but ne'er return again
To tell the secrets of their home;
And kindliest tears for them are vain--
For never, never shall they come,
Till Time's pale light begin to flee
Before a bright eternity!

Could we but gaze beyond our sphere,
Within the golden porch of heaven,
And see those spirits which appear
Like stars upon the robe of even!
But no! unseen to us they see
Our wanderings from eternity!

The crimes of men which Heaven saw,
And pitied with a parent's eye,
Could ne'er a kindred spirit draw
In mercy from its home on high;
They look, but all they know or see
Is silent as eternity!

At noonday hour, or midnight deep,
No bright inhabitant draws nigh;
And though a parent's offspring weep,
No whisper echoes from the sky;
Though friends may gaze, yet all they see
Is known but in eternity!

Yet we may look beyond our sphere
On One who shines among the throng;
And we by faith may also hear
The triumphs of a glorious song;
And while we gaze on Him, we see
The path to this eternity!

IN THE MORNING OF LIFE.

In the morning of life, when its sweet sunny smile
Shines bright on our path, we may dream we are blest;
We may look on the world as a gay fairy isle,
Where sorrow 's unknown, and the weary have rest!

But the brightness that shone, and the hopes we enjoy'd,
Are clouded ere noon, and soon vanish away;
While the dark beating tempest, on life's stormy tide,
Obscures all the sweets of the morning's bright ray!

Then where are those bowers, in some gay, happy plain,
Where hope ne'er deceives, and where love is aye true;
Where the brightness of morning shines on but to gain
A sunshine as bright and as promising too?

Oh! ask for it not in this valley of sighs,
Where we smile but to weep, and we ne'er can find rest;
For the world we would wish shines afar in the skies,
Where sorrow 's unknown--'tis the home of the blest!

ON THE DEATH OF A PROMISING CHILD.

Oh! weep not thus, though the child thou hast loved,
Still, still as the grave, in silence sleeps on;
'Midst the tears that are shed, his eye is unmoved,
And the beat of that bosom for ever is gone:
Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!

The world to him, with its sorrows and sighs,
Has fled like a dream when the morn appears;
While the spirit awakes in the light of the skies,
No more to revisit this valley of tears:
Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!

Few, few were his years; but, had they been more,
The sunshine which smiled might have vanish'd away,
And he might have fallen on some far friendless shore,
Or been wreck'd amidst storms in some desolate bay:
Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!

Like a rosebud of promise, when fresh in the morn,
Was the child of thy heart while he lingered here;
But now from thy love, from thine arms he is torn,
Yet to bloom in a lovelier, happier sphere:
Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!

How happy the pilgrim whose journey is o'er,
Who, musing, looks back on its dangers and woes;
Then rejoice at his rest, for sorrow no more
Can start on his dreams, or disturb his repose:
Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!

Who would not recline on the breast of a friend,
When the night-cloud has lower'd o'er a sorrowful day?
Who would not rejoice at his journey's end,
When perils and toils encompass'd his way?
Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!

THE DYING HOUR.

Why does the day, whose date is brief,
Smile sadly o'er the western sea?
Why does the brown autumnal leaf
Hang restless on its parent tree?
Why does the rose, with drooping head,
Send richer fragrance from the bow'r?
Their golden time of life had fled--
It was their dying hour!

Why does the swan's melodious song
Come thrilling on the gentle gale?
Why does the lamb, which stray'd along,
Lie down to tell its mournful tale?
Why does the deer, when wounded, fly
To the lone vale, where night-clouds low'r?
Their time was past--they lived to die--
It was their dying hour!

Why does the dolphin change its hues,
Like that aerial child of light?
Why does the cloud of night refuse
To meet the morn with beams so bright?
Why does the man we saw to-day,
To-morrow fade like some sweet flow'r?
All earth can give must pass away--
It was their dying hour!

THE MIDNIGHT WIND.

I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,
Which seem'd, to fancy's ear,
The mournful music of the mind,
The echo of a tear;
And still methought the hollow sound
Which, melting, swept along,
The voice of other days had found,
With all the powers of song.

I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,
And thought of friends untrue--
Of hearts that seem'd so fondly twined,
That nought could e'er undo;
Of cherish'd hopes, once fondly bright--
Of joys which fancy gave--
Of youthful eyes, whose lovely light
Were darken'd in the grave.

I 've listen'd to the midnight wind
When all was still as death;
When nought was heard before, behind--
Not e'en the sleeper's breath.
And I have sat at such an hour
And heard the sick man's sigh;
Or seen the babe, like some sweet flow'r,
At that lone moment die.

I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,
And wept for others' woe;
Nor could the heart such music find
To bid its tear-drops flow.
The melting voice of one we loved,
Whose voice was heard no more,
Seem'd, when those fancied chords were moved,
Still breathing as before.

I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,
And sat beside the dead,
And felt those movings of the mind
Which own a secret dread.
The ticking clock, which told the hour,
Had then a sadder chime;
And these winds seem'd an unseen pow'r,
Which sung the dirge of time.

I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,
When, o'er the new-made grave
Of one whose heart was true and kind,
Its rudest blasts did rave.
Oh! there was something in the sound--
A mournful, melting tone--
Which led the thoughts to that dark ground
Where he was left alone.

I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,
And courted sleep in vain,
While thoughts like these have oft combined
To rack the wearied brain.
And even when slumber, soft and deep,
Has seen the eyelid close,
The restless soul, which cannot sleep,
Has stray'd till morning rose.

ROBERT DAVIDSON.

Robert Davidson was born in the parish of Morebattle, Roxburghshire, in 1779. The son of humble parents, he was sent to tend cattle in his tenth year. He had received at the parish school a limited education; and he devoted his leisure time on the hills to miscellaneous reading. Learning scraps of old ballads from the cottage matrons, as they sung them at their distaffs, he early began to essay imitations of these olden ditties. As a farm-servant and an agricultural labourer, he continued through life to seek repose from toil in the perusal of poetry and the composition of verses. "My simple muse," he afterwards wrote, "oft visited me at the plough, and made the labour to seem lighter and the day shorter." In 1811, and in 1824, he published small collections of verses. At the recommendation of some influential friends, he published, in 1848, a compact little volume of his best pieces, under the title, "Leaves from a Peasant's Cottage-Drawer;" and to which was prefixed a well-written autobiographical sketch. He was often oppressed by poverty; and, latterly, was the recipient of parochial relief. He died in the parish of Hounam, on the 6th April 1855; and his remains rest in the church-yard of his native parish. Many of his poems are powerful, both in expression and sentiment; and several of his songs are worthy of a place in the national minstrelsy. In private life he was sober, prudent, and industrious.

FAREWELL TO CALEDONIA.

Adieu! a lang and last adieu,
My native Caledonia!
For while your shores were in my view,
I steadfast gazed upon ye, O!
Your shores sae lofty, steep, an' bold,
Fit emblem of your sons of old,
Whose valour, more than mines of gold,
Has honour'd Caledonia.

I think how happy I could be,
To live and die upon ye, O!
Though distant many miles from thee,
My heart still hovers o'er ye, O!
My fancy haunts your mountains steep,
Your forests fair, an' valleys deep,
Your plains, where rapid rivers sweep
To gladden Caledonia.

Still mem'ry turns to where I spent
Life's cheerfu' morn sae bonnie, O!
Though by misfortune from it rent,
It 's dearer still than ony, O!
In vain I 'm told our vessel hies
To fertile fields an' kindly skies;
But still they want the charm that ties
My heart to Caledonia.

My breast had early learn'd to glow
At name of Caledonia;
Though torn an' toss'd wi' many a foe,
She never bow'd to ony, O!
A land of heroes, famed an' brave--
A land our fathers bled to save,
Whom foreign foes could ne'er enslave--
Adieu to Caledonia!

ON VISITING THE SCENES OF EARLY DAYS.

Ye daisied glens and briery braes,
Haunts of my happy early days,
Where oft I 've pu'd the blossom'd slaes
And flow'rets fair,
Before my heart was scathed wi' waes
Or worldly care.

Now recollection's airy train
Shoots through my heart with pleasing pain,
And streamlet, mountain, rock, or plain,
Like friends appear,
That, lang, lang lost, now found again,
Are doubly dear.

But many a dauted object 's fled;
Low lies my once paternal shed;
Rank hemlocks wild, and weeds, o'erspread
The ruin'd heap;
Unstirr'd by cheerful tongue or tread,
The echoes sleep.

Yon bonnie burn, whose limpid streams,
When warm'd with summer's glowing beams,
Have often laved my tender limbs,
When my employ
Was chasing childhood's airy whims
From joy to joy.

Upon yon green, at gloamin' gray,
I 've often join'd in cheerful play,
Wi' comrades guileless, blithe, and gay,
Whose magic art,
Remember'd at this distant day,
Still warms the heart.

Ah, cronies dear! for ever lost!
Abroad on life's rough ocean toss'd,
By adverse winds and currents cross'd,
By watching worn,
Some landed on that silent coast,
Ne'er to return!

Howe'er the path of life may lie,
If poorly low, or proudly high,
When scenes of childhood meet our eye,
Their charms we own,
And yield the tribute of a sigh
To days long gone.

TO WANDER LANG IN FOREIGN LANDS.

AIR--_"Auld Langsyne."_

To wander lang in foreign lands,
It was my destinie;
I joyful was at my return,
My native hills to see.
My step grew light, my heart grew fain,
I thought my cares to tine,
Until I fand ilk weel-kenn'd spot
Sae alter'd sin' langsyne.

I sigh'd to see the flow'ry green
Skaith'd by the ruthless pleugh;
Likewise the bank aboon the burn,
Where broom and hawthorns grew.
A lonely tree, whose aged trunk
The ivy did entwine,
Still mark'd the spot where youngsters met,
In cheerful sports langsyne.

I mixed with the village train,
Yet still I seem'd alane;
Nae kindly hand did welcome me,
For a' my friends were gane.
Those friends who oft in foreign lands
Did haunt this heart o' mine,
And brought to mind the happy days
I spent wi' them langsyne.

In youthfu' prime, at fortune's ca',
I braved the billows' roar;
I 've now seen thirty simmer suns
Blink on a distant shore;
And I have stood where honour call'd,
In the embattled line,
And there left many gallant lads,
The cronies o' langsyne.

I 've gather'd walth o' weel-won gear,
Yet still I fortune blame;
I lang wi' strangers pass'd my days,
And now I 'm ane at hame.
I have nae friend but what my gowd
Can draw to mammon's shrine;
But how unlike the guileless hearts
That wish'd me weel langsyne!

PETER ROGER.

Peter Roger, blacksmith, formerly at Glenormiston, and latterly at Peebles, though more the enthusiastic lover of, than a contributor to, the national minstrelsy, is entitled to remembrance. His numerous communications addressed to the editor of this work, have supplied much information, which has been found useful in the preparation of these volumes. Roger was born at Clovenford, in the parish of Stow, in 1792. For thirty-seven years he wrought as blacksmith at Glenormiston, on the banks of the Tweed, near Innerleithen. In 1852, he removed to Peebles, where he had purchased a small cottage and garden. He died suddenly, at Peebles, on the 3d April 1856, in his 64th year. The following sketch of his character has been supplied, at our request, by his intimate acquaintance, the Rev. James Murray, minister of Old Cumnock:--

"Roger was in many respects a very remarkable man....
He possessed, in an eminent degree, an exquisite
natural sympathy with all things beautiful and good. He
was an excellent botanist, well-skilled in music, and
passionately fond of poetry. His conversation was very
interesting; and his slight tendency to dogmatise in
the presence of a stranger, entirely disappeared in the
society of his friends. He might almost be said to
revere any one possessed of intellectual gifts and
accomplishments, whether natural or acquired; and as he
lived many years in a cottage situated on the way-side
between Peebles and Innerleithen, he was frequently
visited by those who passed by. Occasionally the
Ettrick Shepherd would stop his gig to have a few
minutes' _crack_ with his 'friend Peter,' as he called
him. At another time it would be his minister, the Rev.
Mr Leckie, or some other worthy pastor, or some surgeon
of the district upon his widely-extended rounds--Dr
Craig, for example; or Mr Thomas Smibert; or Mr Adam
Dickson, a young genius nipt in the bud--whose
appearance would be the welcome signal for the
'tinkling' of Peter's hammer to know a brief respite.
And I could mention others of his acquaintance, almost
self-taught like himself, whose intelligence might
enable them 'to stand before kings.'

"My own intimacy with Peter extends back to the time of
my boyhood; and I can honestly say, that an evening
spent under his roof, in company with him and his pious
and amiable sister Peggy, who survives him, was among
the greatest treats I ever experienced. There, at his
door, in paper cap and leather apron, his shirt sleeves
turned up, and his bare, brawny arms crossed upon his
chest, and 'his brow wet with honest sweat,' would the
hard-headed and warm-hearted blacksmith await the
coming of him whom he expected. And, first, whilst his
sister was attending to the preparation of some
creature-comforts--for he was a man of some substance,
and hospitable withal--you would be conducted into his
little garden, sloping down to the very brink of the
Tweed, and embosomed amid natural hazel wood, the
lingering remains of a once goodly forest, to see some
favourite flower, or to hear him trill, with a skill
and execution which would have done little dishonour to
_Picus_ himself, some simple native melody upon his
Scotch flute. The _in-door_ entertainment consisted of
varied conversation, embracing the subjects of
literature, politics, and theology, largely
interspersed with the reading of MS. poems by his
numerous poetical friends. But the best part of the
treat came last. Gradually you would notice a serious
shade, not gloomy but chastened, steal over his massive
features. His conversation would glide most naturally,
and without any intentional effort that was apparent,
into a serious strain; and then Peggy would bring down
the family Bible, and, after having selected a suitable
psalm, he would sing it to some plaintive air--and he
could sing well; and the prayer which closed the usual
exercises was such a manly, pathetic, and godly
outpouring of a spirit chastened with the simplest and
purest piety, as made the heart glad.

"Peter did nothing by halves, but everything with the
energy of a man working at a forge. He embraced the
temperance movement as soon as he heard of it, and
continued to the end of his days a most rigid total
abstainer from the use of all ardent spirits.
Altogether, he was one of those self-taught,
large-hearted, pious, and intellectual men of whom
Scotland may well be proud."

LOVELY JEAN.

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

'Mang a' the lassies young an' braw,
An' fair as summer's rosy beam,
There 's ane the bonniest o' them a',
That dwells by Manor's mountain stream.
Oft hae I gazed on her sweet face,
An' ilka time new beauties seen;
For aye some new discover'd grace
Endears to me my lovely Jean.

An' oh! to list her ev'ning sang,
When a' alane she gently strays
The yellow waving broom amang,
That blooms on Manor's flow'ry braes--
Her voice sae saft, sae sweet and clear,
Afar in yonder bower sae green,
The mavis quits her lay to hear
A bonnier sang frae lovely Jean.

But it 's no her peerless face nor form,
It 's no her voice sae sweet and clear,
That keeps my love to her sae warm,
An' maks her every day mair dear;
It 's just the beauties o' her mind,
Her easy, winning, modest mien,
Her truth and constancy, which bind
My heart and soul to lovely Jean.

JOHN MALCOLM.

John Malcolm was the second son of the Rev. John Malcolm, minister of the parish of Firth and Stennis, Orkney, where he was born about 1795. Through a personal application to the Duke of Kent, he was enabled to proceed as a volunteer to join the army in Spain. Arriving at the period when the army under General Graham (afterwards Lord Lynedoch) was besieging St Sebastian, he speedily obtained a lieutenancy in the 42d Regiment, in which he served to the close of the Pyrenees' campaign. Wounded at the battle of Toulouse, by a musket-ball penetrating his right shoulder, and otherwise debilitated, he retired from active service on half-pay, and with a pension for his wound. He now fixed his abode in Edinburgh, and devoted himself to literary pursuits. He contributed to _Constable's Magazine_, and other periodicals. For one of the earlier volumes of "Constable's Miscellany," he wrote a narrative of the Peninsular War. As a poet, he became known by some stanzas on the death of Lord Byron, which appeared in the _Edinburgh Weekly Journal_. In 1828, he published "Scenes of War, and other Poems;" and subsequently contributed numerous poetical pieces to the pages of the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_. A small volume of prose sketches also appeared from his pen, under the title of "Tales of Field and Flood." In 1831 he undertook the editorship of the _Edinburgh Observer_ newspaper, which he held till the period of his death. He died at Edinburgh, of a pulmonary complaint, in September 1835.

Fond of conversation, and abounding in humorous anecdote, Malcolm was especially esteemed for his gentle and amiable deportment. His poetry, which is often vigorous, is uniformly characterised by sweetness of versification.

THE MUSIC OF THE NIGHT.

The music of the night,
Upon its lonely flight
Into the west, where sink its ebbing sands;
That muffled music seems
Like voices heard in dreams,
Sigh'd back from long-lost years and distant lands.

Amid the stillness round,
As 'twere the shade of sound,
Floats on the low sweet strain of lulling tones;
Such as from trembling wire
Of sweet AEolian lyre,
With winds awake in murmurs and in moans.

Oh! melting on the ear,
What solemn chords are there!
The torrent's thunder sunk into a sigh;
And thine, majestic main!
Great Nature's organ strain,
Deep pealing through the temple of the sky.

And songs unsung by day--
The nightingale's lone lay.
From lady's bower, the lover's serenade;
And dirge of hermit-bird
From haunts of ruin heard,
The only voice that wails above the dead.

To them that sail the deep,
When winds have sunk to sleep,
The dreamy murmurs of the night steal on;
Say, does their mystic hum,
So vague and varied, come
From distant shores unseen, and lands unknown?

In them might fancy's ear
Earth's dying echoes hear,
Our home's sweet voices swooning on the floods;
Or songs of festal halls,
Or sound of waterfalls,
Or Indian's dismal war-whoop through the woods.

Joy breathes in morning song,
And happy things among
Her choral bowers wake matins of delight;
But dearer unto me
The dirge-like harmony
Of vesper voices, and of wailing night.

THE SEA.

The sea--the deep, deep sea--
That awful mystery!
Was there a time of old ere it was born,
Or e'er the dawn of light,
Coeval with the night--
Say, slept it on, for ever and forlorn?

Till the Great Spirit's word
Its sullen waters heard,
And their wild voices, through the void profound,
Gave deep responsive roar;
But silent never more
Shall be their solemn, drear, and dirge-like sound!

Earth's echoes faint and die;
Sunk down into a sigh,
Scamander's voice scarce whispers on its way;
And desert silence reigns
Upon the mighty plains
Where battles' thunders peal'd--and where are they?

But still from age to age
Upon its pilgrimage,
When many a glorious strain the world hath flown;
And while her echoes sleep
In darkness, the great deep,
Unwearied and unchanged, goes sounding on.

ERSKINE CONOLLY.

Erskine Conolly was born at Crail, Fifeshire, on the 12th of June 1796. At the burgh school of his native town, he received an ordinary elementary education, and was afterwards apprenticed to Mr Cockburn, bookseller in Anstruther. He subsequently commenced business as a bookseller in the small town of Colinsburgh; but after a trial of several years, not having succeeded according to his expectations, he removed to Edinburgh, where he was employed as a clerk by Mr Thomas Megget, writer to the signet. At a future period, he entered into partnership with Mr James Gillon, writer and messenger in Edinburgh; and after his partner's death, carried on the business on his own account. He died at Edinburgh on the 7th January 1843. Of highly sociable dispositions, and with talents of a superior order, Conolly was much beloved among a wide circle of friends. Unambitious of fame as a poet, though he frequently wrote verses, he never ventured on a publication. His popular song of "Mary Macneil," appeared in the _Edinburgh Intelligencer_ of the 23d December 1840; it is much to be remarked for deep feeling and genuine tenderness.

MARY MACNEIL.

AIR--_"Kinloch of Kinloch."_

The last gleam o' sunset in ocean was sinkin',
Owre mountain an' meadowland glintin' fareweel;
An' thousands o' stars in the heavens were blinkin',
As bright as the een o' sweet Mary Macneil.
A' glowin' wi' gladness she lean'd on her lover,
Her een-tellin' secrets she thought to conceal;
And fondly they wander'd whar nane might discover
The tryst o' young Ronald an' Mary Macneil.

Oh! Mary was modest, an' pure as the lily,
That dew-draps o' mornin' in fragrance reveal;
Nae fresh bloomin' flow'ret in hill or in valley
Could rival the beauty of Mary Macneil.
She moved, and the graces play'd sportive around her;
She smiled, and the hearts o' the cauldest wad thrill;
She sang, and the mavis cam listenin' in wonder,
To claim a sweet sister in Mary Macneil.

But ae bitter blast on its fair promise blawin',
Frae spring a' its beauty an' blossoms will steal;
An' ae sudden blight on the gentle heart fa'in',
Inflicts the deep wound nothing earthly can heal.
The simmer saw Ronald on glory's path hiein';
The autumn, his corse on the red battle fiel';
The winter, the maiden found heartbroken, dyin';
An' spring spread the green turf owre Mary Macneil!

THERE 'S A THRILL OF EMOTION.

There 's a thrill of emotion, half-painful, half-sweet,
When the object of untold affection we meet,
But the pleasure remains, though the pang is as brief,
As the touch and recoil of the sensitive leaf.

There 's a thrill of distress, between anger and dread,
When a frown o'er the fair face of beauty is spread;
But she smiles, and away the disturber is borne,
Like sunbeams dispelling the vapours of morn.

There 's a thrill of endearment, all raptures above,
When the pure lip imprints the first fond kiss of love,
Which, like songs of our childhood, to memory clings,
The longest, the last of terrestrial things.

GEORGE MENZIES.

George Menzies was born in the parish of Arbuthnot, Kincardineshire, on the 21st January 1797. His father was an agricultural labourer. On completing his education at a country school, he became, in his fourteenth year, apprentice to a gardener. He prosecuted his vocation in different districts; acted some time as clerk to the contractors of the Forth and Clyde Canal; laboured as a weaver in several towns in the counties of Forfar and Kincardine; and conducted unendowed schools in various localities. In 1833, he emigrated to Canada, where he taught in different seminaries, and afterwards formed a connexion with a succession of public journals. He ultimately became proprietor and editor of the _Woodstock Herald_ newspaper. After a short illness, he died at Woodstock, Canada West, on the 4th March 1847, in his fifty-first year.

Menzies was possessed of good talents and indomitable energy. He wrote respectable verses, though not marked by any decided originality. In 1822, he published, at Forfar, a small volume of poems, entitled, "Poetical Trifles," of which a second and enlarged edition appeared five years afterwards. The whole of his poems, with an account of his life, in a duodecimo volume, were published at Montrose in 1854.

THE BRAES OF AUCHINBLAE.

As clear is Luther's wave, I ween,
As gay the grove, the vale as green;
But, oh! the days that we have seen
Are fled, and fled for aye, Mary!

Oh! we have often fondly stray'd
In Fordoun's green embow'ring glade,
And mark'd the moonbeam as it play'd
On Luther's bonnie wave, Mary!

Since then, full many a year and day
With me have slowly pass'd away,
Far from the braes of Auchinblae,
And far from love and thee, Mary!

And we must part again, my dear,
It is not mine to linger here;
Yes, we must part--and, oh! I fear,
We meet not here again, Mary!

For on Culloden's bloody field,
Our hapless Prince's fate is seal'd--
Last night to me it was reveal'd
Sooth as the word of heaven, Mary!

And ere to-morrow's sun shall shine
Upon the heights of Galloquhine,
A thousand victims at the shrine
Of tyranny shall bleed, Mary!

Hark! hark! they come--the foemen come--
I go; but wheresoe'er I roam,
With thee my heart remains at home--
Adieu, adieu for aye, Mary!

FARE THEE WEEL.

Fare thee weel, my bonnie lassie;
Fare thee weel for ever, Jessie!
Though I ne'er again may meet thee,
Tell na me that I 'll forget thee.

By yon starry heavens I vow it!
By my love!--(I mayna rue it)--
By this hour in which we sever!
I will love but thee for ever.

Should the hand of death arrest me,
Think my latest prayer hath blest thee;
As the parting pang draws nearer,
I will love thee aye the dearer.

Still my bosom's love I 'll cherish--
'Tis a spark that winna perish;
Though I ne'er again may meet thee,
Tell na me that I 'll forget thee.

JOHN SIM.

John Sim was born in Paisley, on the 6th of April 1797. His father, James Sim, was engineer in the factory of James Carlile and Sons, and was highly valued by his employers. In the Grammar-school, John made rapid progress in classical learning; and in 1814 entered the University of Glasgow, with a view to the medical profession. He obtained his diploma as surgeon on the 6th of April 1818. He commenced the practice of medicine in the village of Auchinleck, Ayrshire; but removed in a few months to his native town. His professional success was not commensurate with his expectations; and in the hope of bettering his circumstances, he proceeded to the West Indies. He sailed from Greenock on the 19th January 1819, for Trinidad; but had only been resident in that island about eight months when he was seized with a fatal illness. The precise date of his death is unknown.

Sim was a young man of high promise. Early wedded to the muse, he was selected as the original editor of the "Harp of Renfrewshire." He published a small volume of poems and songs. His songs are somewhat imitative, but are remarkable for sweetness of expression, and are pervaded by genial sentiment.

NAE MAIR WE 'LL MEET.

AIR--_"We 'll meet beside the dusky glen."_

Nae mair we 'll meet again, my love, by yon burn side--
Nae mair we 'll wander through the grove, by yon burn side--
Ne'er again the mavis lay will we hail at close o' day,
Nor ne'er again we 'll stray down by yon burn side.

Yet mem'ry oft will fondly brood on yon burn side,
O'er haunts which we sae saft hae trod, by yon burn side;
Still the walk wi' me thou 'lt share, though thy foot can never mair
Bend to earth the gowan fair, down by yon burn side.

Now far removed from every care, 'boon yon burn side,
Thou bloom'st, my love, an angel fair, 'boon yon burn side;
And if angels pity know, sure the tear for me will flow,
Who must linger here below, down by yon burn side.

BONNIE PEGGY.[46]

AIR--_"Bonnie lassie, O."_

Oh, we aft hae met at e'en, bonnie Peggy, O!
On the banks of Cart sae green, bonnie Peggy, O!
Where the waters smoothly rin,
Far aneath the roarin' linn,
Far frae busy strife and din, bonnie Peggy, O!
When the lately crimson west, bonnie Peggy, O!
In her darker robe was dress'd, bonnie Peggy, O!
And a sky of azure blue,
Deck'd with stars of golden hue,
Rose majestic to the view, bonnie Peggy, O!
When the sound of flute or horn, bonnie Peggy, O!
On the gale of ev'ning borne, bonnie Peggy, O!
We have heard in echoes die,
While the wave that rippled by,
Sung a soft and sweet reply, bonnie Peggy, O!

Then how happy would we rove, bonnie Peggy, O!
Whilst thou, blushing, own'd thy love, bonnie Peggy, O!
Whilst thy quickly throbbing breast
To my beating heart I press'd,
Ne'er was mortal half so blest, bonnie Peggy, O!
Now, alas! these scenes are o'er, bonnie Peggy, O!
Now, alas! we meet no more, bonnie Peggy, O!
Oh! never again, I ween,
Will we meet at summer e'en
On the banks of Cart sae green, bonnie Peggy, O!
Yet had'st thou been true to me, bonnie Peggy, O!
As I still hae been to thee, bonnie Peggy, O!
Then with bosom, oh, how light,
Had I hail'd the coming night,
And yon evening star so bright, bonnie Peggy, O!

[46] This song is much in the strain of the popular song of "Kelvin Grove," which, it may here be remarked, has often been erroneously ascribed to Sim. It was contributed to the "Harp of Renfrewshire," then under his editorial care, by his townsman, class-fellow, and professional brother, Mr Thomas Lyle, surgeon, Glasgow, and was published in that work (p. 144) by Mr John Murdoch, the successor of Sim in the editorship, with a number of alterations by that gentleman. Of these alterations Mr Lyle complained to Mr Sim, and received a letter from him attributing them to Mr Murdoch. On the completion of the work, Sim was mentioned in the index as the author of the song--by the poet Motherwell, the third and last editor, who, not unnaturally, assigned to the original editor those songs which appeared anonymously in the earlier portion of the volume. The song being afterwards published with music by Mr Purdie, musicseller in Edinburgh, Mr Lyle was induced to adopt measures for establishing his title to the authorship. In the absence of the original MS., the claim was sufficiently made out by the production of Mr Sim's letter on the subject of the alterations. (See Memoir of Mr Lyle, _postea_.)

NOW, MARY, NOW THE STRUGGLE 'S O'ER.[47]

_Gaelic Air._

Now, Mary, now the struggle 's o'er--
The war of pride and love;
And, Mary, now we meet no more,
Unless we meet above.

Too well thou know'st how much I loved!
Thou knew'st my hopes how fair!
But all these hopes are blighted now,
They point but to despair.

Thus doom'd to ceaseless, hopeless love,
I haste to India's shore;
For here how can I longer stay,
And call thee mine no more?

Now, Mary, now the struggle 's o'er;
And though I still must love,
Yet, Mary, here we meet no more,
Oh, may we meet above!

[47] This song was addressed to a young lady to whom the author was attached, and who had agreed to marry him on an improvement in his worldly circumstances. A desire speedily to gain her hand is said to have been the cause of his proceeding to the West Indies. The prediction in the song was sadly realised.

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

William Motherwell was born in High Street, Glasgow, on the 13th October 1797. For thirteen generations, his paternal ancestors were owners of the small property of Muirsmill, on the banks of the Carron, Stirlingshire. His father, who bore the same Christian name, carried on the business of an ironmonger in Glasgow. His mother, whose maiden name was Elizabeth Barnet, was the daughter of a prosperous farmer in the parish of Auchterarder, Perthshire, from whom she inherited a considerable fortune. Of a family of six, William was the third son. His parents removed to Edinburgh early in the century; and in April 1805, he became a pupil of Mr William Lennie, a successful private teacher in Crichton Street. In October 1808, he entered the High-school of Edinburgh; but was soon after placed at the Grammar-school of Paisley, being entrusted to the care of an uncle in that place. In his fifteenth year, he became clerk in the office of the Sheriff-clerk of Paisley, and in this situation afforded evidence of talent by the facility with which he deciphered the more ancient documents. With the view of obtaining a more extended acquaintance with classical literature, he attended the Latin and Greek classes in the University of Glasgow, during the session of 1818-19, and had the good fortune soon thereafter to receive the appointment of Sheriff-clerk-depute of the county of Renfrew.

From his boyhood fond of literature, Motherwell devoted his spare hours to reading and composition. He evinced poetical talent so early as his fourteenth year, when he produced the first draught of his beautiful ballad of "Jeanie Morrison." Many of his earlier sketches, both in prose and verse, were inconsiderately distributed among his friends. In 1818, he made some contributions in verse to the "Visitor," a small work published at Greenock; and in the following year became the third and last editor of the "Harp of Renfrewshire," an esteemed collection of songs, to which he supplied an interesting introductory essay and many valuable notes. Pursuing his researches on the subject of Scottish song and ballad, he appeared in 1827 as the editor of an interesting quarto volume, entitled "Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern,"--a work which considerably extended his reputation, and secured him the friendly correspondence of Sir Walter Scott. In 1828, he originated the _Paisley Magazine_, which was conducted by him during its continuance of one year; it contains several of his best poetical compositions, and a copy is now extremely rare. During the same year, he was appointed editor of the _Paisley Advertiser_, a Conservative newspaper; and this office he exchanged, in January 1830, for the editorship of the _Glasgow Courier_, a more influential journal in the same political interests.

On his removal to Glasgow, Motherwell rapidly extended the circle of his literary friends, and began to exercise no unimportant influence as a public journalist. To _The Day_, a periodical published in the city in 1832, he contributed many poetical pieces with some prose sketches; and about the same time furnished a preface of some length to a volume of Scottish Proverbs, edited by his ingenious friend, Andrew Henderson. Towards the close of 1832, he collected his best poetical compositions into a small volume, with the title of "Poems, Narrative and Lyrical." In 1835, he became the coadjutor of the Ettrick Shepherd in annotating an edition of Burns' Works, published by Messrs Fullarton of Glasgow; but his death took place before the completion of this undertaking. He died of apoplexy, after a few hours' illness, on the 1st of November 1835, at the early age of thirty-eight. His remains were interred in the Necropolis, where an elegant monument, with a bust by Fillans, has been erected to his memory.

Motherwell was of short stature, but was well-formed. His head was large and forehead ample, but his features were somewhat coarse; his cheek-bones were prominent, and his eyes small, sunk in his head, and surmounted by thick eye-lashes. In society he was reserved and often taciturn, but was free and communicative among his personal friends. He was not a little superstitious, and a firm believer in the reality of spectral illusions. Desultory in some of his literary occupations, he was laborious in pruning and perfecting his poetical compositions. His claims as a poet are not inconsiderable; "Jeanie Morrison" is unsurpassed in graceful simplicity and feeling, and though he had not written another line, it had afforded him a title to rank among the greater minstrels of his country. Eminent pathos and earnestness are his characteristics as a song-writer. The translations of Scandinavian ballads which he has produced are perhaps the most vigorous and successful efforts of the kind which have appeared in the language. An excellent edition of his poetical works, with a memoir by Dr M'Conechy, was published after his death by Mr David Robertson of Glasgow.

JEANIE MORRISON.[48]

I 've wander'd east, I 've wander'd west,
Through mony a weary way,
But never, never can forget
The luve o' life's young day!
The fire that 's blawn on Beltane e'en,
May weel be black gin Yule;
But blacker fa' awaits the heart
Where first fond luve grows cule.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
The thochts o' bygane years
Still fling their shadows owre my path,
And blind my een wi' tears;
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears;
And sair and sick I pine,
As memory idly summons up
The blithe blinks o' langsyne.

'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel,
'Twas then we twa did part;
Sweet time--sad time! twa bairns at schule,
Twa bairns, and but ae heart!
'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink,
To leir ilk ither lear;
And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed,
Remember'd evermair.

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,
When sitting on that bink,
Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof,
What our wee heads could think.
When baith bent doun owre ae braid page,
Wi' ae buik on our knee,
Thy lips were on thy lesson--but
My lesson was in thee.

Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads,
How cheeks brent red wi' shame,
Whene'er the schule-weans, laughin', said
We cleek'd thegither hame?
And mind ye o' the Saturdays
(The schule then skailt at noon)
When we ran aff to speel the braes--
The broomy braes o' June?

My head rins round and round about,
My heart flows like a sea,
As ane by ane the thoughts rush back
O' schule-time and o' thee.
Oh, mornin' life! oh, mornin' luve!
Oh, lichtsome days and lang,
When hinnied hopes around our hearts,
Like simmer blossoms sprang!

Oh, mind ye, luve, how aft we left
The deavin', dinsome toun,
To wander by the green burnside,
And hear its waters croon?
The simmer leaves hung owre our heads,
The flowers burst round our feet,
And in the gloamin o' the wood,
The throssil whusslit sweet.

The throssil whusslit in the wood,
The burn sang to the trees,
And we, with nature's heart in tune,
Concerted harmonies;
And on the knowe abune the burn,
For hours thegither sat
In the silentness o' joy, till baith
Wi' very gladness grat.

Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Tears trickled doun your cheek,
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane
Had ony power to speak!
That was a time, a blessed time,
When hearts were fresh and young,
When freely gush'd all feelings forth,
Unsyllabled--unsung!

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,
Gin I hae been to thee
As closely twined wi' earliest thochts,
As ye hae been to me!
Oh, tell me gin their music fills
Thine heart, as it does mine;
Oh, say gin e'er your heart grows grit
Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?

I 've wander'd east, I 've wander'd west,
I 've borne a weary lot;
But in my wanderings, far or near,
Ye never were forgot.
The fount that first burst frae this heart,
Still travels on its way;
And channels deeper as it rins,
The luve o' life's young day.

Oh, dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Since we were sinder'd young,
I 've never seen your face, nor heard
The music o' your tongue;
But I could hug all wretchedness,
And happy could I die,
Did I but ken your heart still dream'd
O' bygane days and me!

[48] The heroine of this song, Miss Jane Morrison, now Mrs Murdoch, still survives. Her father, Mr Ebenezer Morrison, was a respectable brewer and corn-merchant in Alloa. In the autumn of 1807, when in her seventh year, she became a pupil of Mr Lennie, and for several months occupied the same class-room with young Motherwell. Of the flame which she had excited in the susceptible heart of her boy-lover, she was totally unconscious. Mr Lennie, however, in a statement published by the editor of Motherwell's poems, refers to the strong impression which she made on the young poet; he describes her as "a pretty girl, and of good capacity." "Her hair," he adds, "was of a lightish brown, approaching to fair; her eyes were dark, and had a sweet and gentle expression; her temper was mild, and her manners unassuming." In 1823, Miss Morrison became the wife of Mr John Murdoch, commission-agent in Glasgow, who died in 1829. She has since resided in different places, but has now (Whitsunday 1856) fixed her abode in the vicinity of Stirling. She never met the poet in after-life, and has only an imperfect recollection of his appearance as a boy. The ballad of "Jeanie Morrison" had been published for several years before she became aware that she was the heroine. It remains to be added, somewhat in justification of the poet's juvenile passion, that Mrs Murdoch is a person of the most gentle and amiable manners, and retains, in a very remarkable degree, that personal beauty for which she was celebrated in youth.

WEARIE'S WELL.

In a saft simmer gloamin',
In yon dowie dell,
It was there we twa first met,
By Wearie's cauld well.
We sat on the broom bank,
And look'd in the burn,
But sidelang we look'd on
Ilk ither in turn.

The corncraik was chirming
His sad eerie cry,
And the wee stars were dreaming
Their path through the sky;
The burn babbled freely
Its love to ilk flower,
But we heard and we saw nought
In that blessed hour.

We heard and we saw nought,
Above or around;
We felt that our luve lived,
And loathed idle sound.
I gazed on your sweet face
Till tears fill'd my e'e,
And they drapt on your wee loof--
A warld's wealth to me.

Now the winter snaw 's fa'ing
On bare holm and lea,
And the cauld wind is strippin'
Ilk leaf aff the tree.
But the snaw fa's not faster,
Nor leaf disna part
Sae sune frae the bough, as
Faith fades in your heart.

You 've waled out anither
Your bridegroom to be;
But can his heart luve sae
As mine luvit thee?
Ye 'll get biggings and mailins,
And mony braw claes;
But they a' winna buy back
The peace o' past days.

Fareweel, and for ever,
My first luve and last;
May thy joys be to come--
Mine live in the past.
In sorrow and sadness
This hour fa's on me;
But light, as thy luve, may
It fleet over thee!

WAE BE TO THE ORDERS.

Oh! wae be to the orders that march'd my luve awa',
And wae be to the cruel cause that gars my tears down fa',
Oh! wae be to the bluidy wars in Hie Germanie,
For they hae ta'en my luve, and left a broken heart to me.

The drums beat in the mornin', afore the screich o' day,
And the wee, wee fifes play'd loud and shrill, while yet the morn was gray;
The bonnie flags were a' unfurl'd, a gallant sight to see,
But waes me for my sodger lad that march'd to Germanie.

Oh! lang, lang is the travel to the bonnie Pier o' Leith,
Oh! dreich it is to gang on foot wi' the snaw drift in the teeth!
And oh, the cauld wind froze the tear that gather'd in my e'e,
When I gaed there to see my luve embark for Germanie.

I look'd owre the braid blue sea, sae lang as could be seen
A wee bit sail upon the ship that my sodger lad was in;
But the wind was blawin' sair an' snell, and the ship sail'd speedilie,
And the waves and cruel wars hae twinn'd my winsome luve frae me.

I never think o' dancin', and I downa try to sing,
But a' the day I speir what news kind neibour bodies bring;
I sometimes knit a stocking, if knittin' it may be,
Syne for every loop that I cast on, I 'm sure to let doun three.

My father says I 'm in a pet, my mither jeers at me,
And bans me for a dautit wean, in dorts for aye to be;
But little weet they o' the cause that drumles sae my e'e,
Oh! they hae nae winsome love like mine, in the wars o' Germanie.

THE MIDNIGHT WIND.

Mournfully, oh, mournfully
This midnight wind doth sigh,
Like some sweet plaintive melody
Of ages long gone by:
It speaks a tale of other years--
Of hopes that bloom'd to die--
Of sunny smiles that set in tears,
And loves that mouldering lie.

Mournfully, oh, mournfully
This midnight wind doth moan;
It stirs some chord of memory,
In each dull heavy tone:
The voices of the much-loved dead
Seem floating thereupon--
All, all my fond heart cherished,
Ere death hath made it lone.