Chapter I: Neither Got Promise of Siller (3)

Mournfully, oh, mournfully
This midnight wind doth swell,
With its quaint pensive minstrelsy,
Hope's passionate farewell.
To the dreamy joys of early years,
Ere yet grief's canker fell
On the heart's bloom--ay, well may tears
Start at that parting knell!

HE IS GONE! HE IS GONE!

He is gone! he is gone!
Like the leaf from the tree,
Or the down that is blown
By the wind o'er the lea.
He is fled--the light-hearted!
Yet a tear must have started
To his eye when he parted
From love-stricken me!

He is fled! he is fled!
Like a gallant so free--
Plumed cap on his head,
And sharp sword by his knee;
While his gay feathers flutter'd,
Surely something he mutter'd--
He at least must have utter'd
A farewell to me!

He 's away! he 's away!
To far lands o'er the sea,
And long is the day
Ere home he can be;
But where'er his steed prances
Amid thronging lances,
Sure he 'll think of the glances
That love stole from me!

He is gone! he is gone!
Like the leaf from the tree,
But his heart is of stone
If it ne'er dream of me;
For I dream of him ever--
His buff-coat and beaver,
And long sword, oh! never
Are absent from me!

DAVID MACBETH MOIR.

David Macbeth Moir was born at Musselburgh on the 5th January 1798. His elementary education was conducted at a private seminary and the Grammar-school of that town. He subsequently attended the medical classes in the University of Edinburgh, and in his eighteenth year obtained a surgeon's diploma. In partnership with Dr Brown, a respectable physician of long standing, he entered on medical practice in his native place. He wrote good poetry in his fifteenth year, and about the same age contributed some prose essays to the _Cheap Magazine_, a small periodical published in Haddington. In 1816 he published a poem entitled "The Bombardment of Algiers." For a succession of years after its commencement in 1817, he wrote numerous articles for _Constable's Edinburgh Magazine_. Soon after the establishment of _Blackwood's Magazine_, he became one of its more conspicuous contributors; and his poetical contributions, which were generally subscribed by his literary _nom de guerre_, the Greek letter Delta ([Greek: Delta]), long continued a source of much interest to the readers of that periodical. In 1824 he published a collection of his poetical pieces, under the title of "Legend of Genevieve, with other Tales and Poems." "The Autobiography of Mansie Wauch," originally supplied in a series of chapters to _Blackwood_, and afterwards published in a separate form, much increased his reputation as an author. In 1831 appeared his "Outlines of the Ancient History of Medicine;" a work which was followed, in 1832, by a pamphlet entitled, "Practical Observations on Malignant Cholera;" and a further publication, with the title, "Proofs of the Contagion of Malignant Cholera." A third volume of poems from his pen, entitled "Domestic Verses," was published in 1843. In the early part of 1851 he delivered, at the Philosophical Institution of Edinburgh, a course of six lectures on the "Poetical Literature of the Past Half-century," which, afterwards published in an elegant volume by the Messrs Blackwood, commanded a large share of public attention. In a state of somewhat impaired health, he proceeded to Dumfries on the 1st day of July 1851, hoping to derive benefit from a change of scene and climate. But his end was approaching; he died at Dumfries on the 6th of the same month, having reached only his 53d year. His remains were interred, at a public funeral, in the burying-ground of Musselburgh, where a monument has been erected to his memory. Indefatigable in the discharge of his professional duties, Moir regularly devoted a portion of his time to the gratification of his literary tastes. A pleasant prose writer, he will be remembered for his inimitable drollery in the adventures of "Mansie Wauch." As a poet, his style is perspicuous and simple; and his characteristics are tenderness, dignity, and grace. He is occasionally humorous, but he excels in the plaintive and elegiac. Much of his poetry breathes the odour of a genuine piety. He was personally of an agreeable presence. Tall in stature, his countenance, which was of sanguine hue, wore a serious aspect, unless kindled up by the recital of some humorous tale. His mode of utterance was singularly pleasing, and his dispositions were pervaded by a generous benignity. He loved society, but experienced his chief happiness in the social intercourse of his own family circle. He had married in 1829; and his amiable widow, with eight children, still survive. A collected edition of his best poems, in two duodecimo volumes, has been published since his death, by the Messrs Blackwood, under the editorial superintendence of Thomas Aird, who has prefixed an interesting memoir.

CASA WAPPY.[49]

And hast thou sought thy heavenly home,
Our fond, dear boy--
The realms where sorrow dare not come,
Where life is joy?
Pure at thy death as at thy birth,
Thy spirit caught no taint from earth,
Even by its bliss we mete our dearth,
Casa Wappy!

Despair was in our last farewell,
As closed thine eye;
Tears of our anguish may not tell
When thou didst die;
Words may not paint our grief for thee,
Sighs are but bubbles on the sea
Of our unfathom'd agony,
Casa Wappy!

Thou wert a vision of delight
To bless us given;
Beauty embodied to our sight,
A type of heaven.
So dear to us thou wert, thou art
Even less thine own self than a part
Of mine and of thy mother's heart,
Casa Wappy!

Thy bright, brief day knew no decline--
'Twas cloudless joy;
Sunrise and night alone were thine,
Beloved boy!
This morn beheld thee blithe and gay;
That found thee prostrate in decay;
And ere a third shone, clay was clay,
Casa Wappy!

Gem of our hearth, our household pride,
Earth's undefiled,
Could love have saved, thou hadst not died,
Our dear, sweet child!
Humbly we bow to fate's decree;
Yet had we hoped that time should see
Thee mourn for us, not us for thee,
Casa Wappy!

Do what I may, go where I will,
Thou meet'st my sight;
There dost thou glide before me still,
A form of light.
I feel thy breath upon my cheek,
I see thee smile, I hear thee speak,
Till, oh! my heart is like to break,
Casa Wappy!

* * * * *

The nursery shews thy pictured wall,
Thy bat, thy bow,
Thy cloak and bonnet, club and ball;
But where art thou?
A corner holds thine empty chair;
Thy playthings, idly scatter'd there,
But speak to us of our despair,
Casa Wappy!

* * * * *

We mourn for thee when blind, blank night
The chamber fills;
We pine for thee when morn's first light
Reddens the hills;
The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea--
All--to the wallflower and wild pea--
Are changed--we saw the world through thee,
Casa Wappy!

* * * * *

Snows muffled earth when thou didst go,
In life's spring-bloom,
Down to the appointed house below--
The silent tomb.
But now the green leaves of the tree,
The cuckoo, and "the busy bee,"
Return, but with them bring not thee,
Casa Wappy!

'Tis so! but can it be--(while flowers
Revive again)--
Man's doom in death--that we and ours
For aye remain?
Oh! can it be that o'er the grave
The grass, renew'd, should yearly wave,
Yet God forget our child to save?
Casa Wappy!

It cannot be; for were it so
Thus man could die,
Life were a mockery--thought were woe,
And truth a lie--
Heaven were a coinage of the brain--
Religion frenzy--virtue vain,
And all our hopes to meet again,
Casa Wappy!

Then be to us, O dear, lost child!
With beam of love,
A star--death's uncongenial wild--
Smiling above!
Soon, soon thy little feet have trod
The skyward path, the seraph's road,
That led thee back from man to God,
Casa Wappy!

Yet, 'tis sweet balm to our despair,
Fond, fairest boy,
That heaven is God's, and thou art there
With him in joy!
There past are death and all its woes,
There beauty's stream for ever flows,
And pleasure's day no sunset knows,
Casa Wappy!

Farewell, then--for a while farewell,
Pride of my heart!
It cannot be that long we dwell
Thus torn apart--
Time's shadows like the shuttle flee;
And dark howe'er life's night may be,
Beyond the grave I 'll meet with thee,
Casa Wappy!

[49] This touching elegiac poem (which is not unsuitable for music) was written by Mr Moir on the death of his favourite child, Charles Bell--familiarly called by him "Casa Wappy"--who died in February 1838, at the age of four and a half years.

FAREWELL, OUR FATHERS' LAND.

Farewell, our fathers' land,
Valley and fountain!
Farewell, old Scotland's strand,
Forest and mountain!
Then hush the drum and hush the flute,
And be the stirring bagpipe mute--
Such sounds may not with sorrow suit--
And fare thee well, Lochaber!

This plume and plaid no more will see,
Nor philabeg, nor dirk at knee,
Nor even the broadswords which Dundee
Bade flash at Killiecrankie.
Farewell, our fathers' land, &c.

Now when of yore, on bank and brae,
Our loyal clansmen marshall'd gay;
Far downward scowls Bennevis gray,
On sheep-walks spreading lonely.
Farewell, our fathers' land, &c.

For now we cross the stormy sea,
Ah! never more to look on thee,
Nor on thy dun deer, bounding free,
From Etive glens to Morven.
Farewell, our fathers' land, &c.

Thy mountain air no more we 'll breathe;
The household sword shall eat the sheath,
While rave the wild winds o'er the heath
Where our gray sires are sleeping.
Then farewell, our fathers' land, &c.

HEIGH-HO!

A pretty young maiden sat on the grass--
Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!--
And by a blithe young shepherd did pass,
In the summer morning so early.
Said he, "My lass, will you go with me,
My cot to keep and my bride to be;
Sorrow and want shall never touch thee,
And I will love you rarely?"

"O! no, no, no!" the maiden said--
Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!--
And bashfully turn'd aside her head,
On that summer morning so early.
"My mother is old, my mother is frail,
Our cottage it lies in yon green dale;
I dare not list to any such tale,
For I love my kind mother rarely."

The shepherd took her lily-white hand--
Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!--
And on her beauty did gazing stand,
On that summer morning so early.
"Thy mother I ask thee not to leave
Alone in her frail old age to grieve;
But my home can hold us all, believe--
Will that not please thee fairly?"

"O! no, no, no! I am all too young"--
Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!--
"I dare not list to a young man's tongue,
On a summer morning so early."
But the shepherd to gain her heart was bent;
Oft she strove to go, but she never went;
And at length she fondly blush'd consent--
Heaven blesses true lovers so fairly.

ROBERT FRASER.

Robert Fraser was born in the village of Pathhead, Fifeshire, on the 24th of June 1798. Receiving a respectable education at the various schools of the place, he became apprenticed in his fourteenth year to a wine-merchant in Kirkcaldy, with whom he continued during a period of four years. In 1819 he commenced business with a partner as an ironmonger in Kirkcaldy, and for a considerable time was prosperous in merchandise. His spare hours were devoted to literature, more especially to classical learning and the acquisition of the modern languages. He was latterly familiar with all the languages of Europe. He contributed both in prose and verse to the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_, and other periodicals. A series of misfortunes led to his renouncing business, and in 1838 he accepted the editorship of the _Fife Herald_ newspaper, when he removed his residence to Cupar-Fife. He died at Cupar, after a lingering illness, on the 22d May 1839. His "Poetical Remains," with a memoir from the pen of the poet Vedder, were published a few months after his decease. Though not entitled to a high rank, his poetry is pervaded by gracefulness, and some of his lyrics evince considerable power.

OH, I LO'ED MY LASSIE WEEL.

Oh, I lo'ed my lassie weel,
How weel I canna tell;
Lang, lang ere ithers trow'd,
Lang ere I wist mysel'.
At the school amang the lave,
If I wrestled or I ran,
I cared na' for the prize,
If she saw me when I wan.

Oh, I lo'ed my lassie weel,
When thae gleesome days were gane;
'Mang a' the bonnie an' the gude,
To match her saw I nane.
Though the cauld warl' o'er me cam,
Wi' its cumber an' its toil,
My day-tide dool was a' forgot,
In her blithe e'enin' smile.

Oh, I lo'ed, nor lo'ed in vain;
An' though mony cam to woo,
Wha to won her wad been fain,
Yet to me she aye was true.
She grat wi' very joy
When our waddin' day was set;
An' though twal' gude years sinsyne hae fled,
She 's my darling lassie yet.

JAMES HISLOP.

James Hislop, a short-lived poet of considerable promise, was born of humble parents in the parish of Kirkconnel, Dumfriesshire, in July 1798. Under the care of his grandfather, a country weaver, and a man of piety and worth, he taught himself to read. When little more than a child, he became a cow-herd on the farm of Dalblair, in the neighbourhood of his birth-place. About the age of thirteen, he obtained a year's schooling, which was nearly the whole amount of his regular education. He had already read many books on the hillside. In his fourteenth year, he became a shepherd and tended his first flock at Boghead, parish of Auchinleck, Ayrshire, in the immediate vicinity of Airsmoss, the scene of the skirmish, in 1680, between a body of the soldiers of Charles II. and a small party of Covenanters, when their minister, the famous Richard Cameron, was slain. The traditions which still floated among the peasantry around the tombstone of this indomitable pastor of the persecuted Presbyterians, essentially fostered in his mind the love of poetry; and he afterwards turned them to account in his poem of "The Cameronian's Dream." Some years having passed at this place, he removed to Corsebank, on the stream Crawick, and afterwards to Carcoe, in the neighbourhood of Sanquhar. Instead of a course of indiscriminate reading, he now followed a system of regular study; and ere his twentieth year, was not only a respectable classical scholar, but tolerably conversant with some of the modern languages and the exact sciences. He opened an evening school for the instruction of his humble pastoral associates; and about the close of 1819, was induced to remove to Greenock, there to make the attempt of earning a livelihood by teaching. In October of the same year, he began to contribute verses to the _Edinburgh Magazine_, which excited no inconsiderable attention, and especially called forth the kindly criticisms of the amiable editor, the Rev. Mr Morehead. Visiting Edinburgh, he was introduced by this gentleman to Mr Jeffrey and the Rev. Mr Alison, who had both been interested by his poetry.

The Greenock school adventure was unfortunate, and the poet returned to the pastoral scenes of Carcoe. At this period he composed "The Cameronian's Dream," which appeared in the _Edinburgh Magazine_ for February 1821, and attracted much attention. He now commenced teaching in Edinburgh; but soon obtained, through the recommendation of Mr Jeffrey, the appointment of schoolmaster in the "Doris" frigate, about to sail for South America. At sea, he continued to apply himself to mental improvement; and on his return from a three years' cruise along the coasts of the Western world, he published, in the pages of the _Edinburgh Magazine_, a series of papers, under the title of "Letters from South America," describing the scenes which he had surveyed. In 1825 he proceeded to London, and there formed the acquaintance of Allan Cunningham, Joanna Baillie, and J. G. Lockhart. For some time, he reported to one of the London newspapers; but this employment proving uncongenial, was speedily abandoned. The fidelity with which he had reported a sermon of the famous Edward Irving, gained him the personal acquaintance of that extraordinary individual, who presented him with some tokens of his regard. In 1826, he was appointed teacher of an extensive free school in the neighbourhood of London--an office which, at the end of a year, he exchanged for that of schoolmaster on board the "Tweed" man-of-war, ordered to the Mediterranean and the Cape of Good Hope. While the vessel was cruising off the Cape de Verd islands, Hislop, along with the midshipmen, made a visit of pleasure to the island of St Jago. Sleeping a night on shore, they were all seized with fever, which, in the case of six of the party, including poor Hislop, proved fatal. After lingering for twelve days, he died on the 4th December 1827, in his twenty-ninth year.

Of a clear head, a warm heart, and exemplary steadiness of character, Hislop was much beloved; and a wide circle of hopeful friends deeply lamented his premature decease. By Allan Cunningham, his genius has been described as "elegant rather than vigorous, sweet and graceful rather than lofty, although he was occasionally lofty, too." As the author of "The Cameronian's Dream," he is entitled to a place among the bards of his country.

THE CAMERONIAN'S DREAM.

In a dream of the night, I was wafted away
To the muirlands of mist where the martyrs lay;
Where Cameron's sword and his Bible are seen
Engraved on the stone where the heather grows green.

'Twas a dream of those ages of darkness and blood,
When the minister's home was the mountain and wood,
And in Wellwood's dark valley the standard of Zion,
All bloody and torn, 'mong the heather was lying.

'Twas morning, and summer's young sun from the east
Lay in lovely repose on the green mountain's breast;
On Wardlaw and Cairntable, the clear shining dew
Glisten'd sheen 'mong the heath-bells and mountain-flowers blue.

And far up in heaven, in a white sunny cloud,
The song of the lark was melodious and loud;
And in Glenmuir's wild solitudes, lengthen'd and deep,
Were the whistling of plovers and bleating of sheep.

And Wellwood's sweet valley breathed music and gladness,
The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and redness;
Its daughters were happy to hail the returning,
And drink the delights of July's sweet morning.

But, ah! there were hearts cherish'd far other feelings--
Illumed by the light of prophetic revealings--
And drank from the scenery of beauty but sorrow,
For they knew that their blood would bedew it to-morrow.

'Twas the few faithful ones who with Cameron were lying,
Conceal'd 'mong the mist where the heath-fowl were crying;
For the horsemen of Earlshall around them were hovering,
And their bridle-reins rung through the thin misty covering.

Their faces grew pale, and their swords were unsheath'd,
But the vengeance that darken'd their brow was unbreathed;
With eyes raised to heaven, in calm resignation,
They sung their last song to the God of salvation.

The hills with the sweet mournful music were ringing,
The curlew and plover in concert were singing;
But the melody died 'midst derision and laughter,
As the host of ungodly rush'd on to the slaughter.

Though in mist and in darkness and fire they were shrouded,
Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and unclouded;
Their dark eyes flash'd lightning, as, proud and unbending,
They stood like the rock which the thunder was rending.

The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were gleaming,
The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was streaming,
The heavens grew black, and the thunder was rolling,
As in Wellwood's dark muirlands the mighty were falling.

When the righteous had fallen, and the combat was ended,
A chariot of fire through the dark cloud descended;
Its drivers were angels on horses of whiteness,
And its burning wheels turn'd upon axles of brightness.

A seraph unfolded its door, bright and shining,
All dazzling like gold of the seventh refining;
And the souls that came forth out of great tribulation,
Have mounted the chariot and steeds of salvation.

On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding;
Through the path of the thunder the horsemen are riding;
Glide swiftly, bright spirits! the prize is before ye--
A crown never fading, a kingdom of glory!

HOW SWEET THE DEWY BELL IS SPREAD.

How sweet the dewy bell is spread
Where Spango's mossy streams are lavin'
The heathery locks o' deepenin' red,
Around the mountain brow aye wavin'!
Here, on the sunny mountain side,
Dear lassie, we 'll lie down thegither;
Where Nature spreads luve's crimson bed,
Among the bonnie bloomin' heather.

Lang hae I wish'd, my lovely maid,
Amang thae fragrant wilds to lead ye;
And now, aneath my tartan plaid,
How blest I lie wi' you aside me!
And art thou happy--dearest, speak--
Wi' me aneath the tartan plaidie?
Yes; that dear glance, sae saft and meek,
Resigns thee to thy shepherd laddie.

The saftness o' the gentle dove,
Its eyes in dying sweetness closin',
Is like thae languid eyes o' love,
Sae fondly on my heart reposin'.
When simmer suns the flowers expand,
In a' their silken beauties shinin',
They 're no sae saft as thy white hand,
Upon my love-warm cheek reclinin'.

While thus, aneath my tartan plaid,
Sae warmly to my lips I press ye;
That hinnied bloom o' dewy red
Is nocht like thy sweet lips, dear lassie!
Reclined on love's soft crimson bed,
Our hearts sae fondly lock'd thegither;
Thus o'er my cheek thy ringlets spread,
How happy, happy 'mang the heather!

ROBERT GILFILLAN.

A respectable contributor to the Caledonian minstrelsy, Robert Gilfillan was born in Dunfermline on the 7th July 1798. His parents were in humble circumstances; and owing to the infirmities of his father, he was required, while a mere youth, to engage in manual labour for the support of the family. He found a solace to his toils in the gratification of a turn for verse-making, which he inherited from his mother. In his thirteenth year, he entered on an apprenticeship to a cooper in Leith; and at the age of twenty, became a grocer's assistant in his native town. From his twenty-third till his thirty-ninth year, he acted as clerk to a wine-merchant in Leith. In 1837, he was preferred to the office of Collector of Poor's-rates in Leith, and continued to hold this appointment till his death. This event took place on the 4th December 1850, in his fifty-second year.

A man of amiable and social dispositions, Gilfillan was much cherished among the wits of the capital. A volume of lyrics from his pen passed through two editions; and several of his songs have been set to music, and have attained a well-merited popularity. His style is remarkable for graceful simplicity.

MANOR BRAES.

TUNE--_"Logan Water."_

Where Manor stream rins blithe an' clear,
And Castlehill's white wa's appear,
I spent ae day, aboon a' days,
By Manor stream, 'mang Manor braes.
The purple heath was just in bloom,
And bonnie waved the upland broom,
The flocks on flowery braes lay still,
Or, heedless, wander'd at their will.

'Twas there, 'mid Nature's calm repose,
Where Manor clearest, saftest flows,
I met a maiden fair to see,
Wi' modest look and bashfu' e'e;
Her beauty to the mind did bring
A morn where summer blends wi' spring,
So bright, so pure, so calm, so fair,
'Twas bliss to look--to linger there!

Ilk word cam frae her bosom warm,
Wi' love to win and sense to charm,
So much of nature, nought of art,
She 'll live enthroned within my heart!
Aboon her head the laverock sang,
And 'neath her feet the wild-flowers sprang;
Oh, let me dwell, where beauty strays,
By Manor stream an' Manor braes.

I speir'd gif ane sae young an' fair
Knew aught of love, wi' a' its care?
She said her heart frae love was free,
But aye she blush'd wi' downcast e'e.
The parting cam, as partings come,
Wi' looks that speak, though tongues be dumb;
Yet I 'll return, ere many days,
To live an' love 'mang Manor braes.

FARE THEE WELL.

TUNE--_"Roy's Wife."_

Fare thee well, for I must leave thee;
But, oh, let not our parting grieve thee;
Happier days may yet be mine,
At least I wish them thine--believe me!

We part--but by those dew-drops clear,
My love for thee will last for ever;
I leave thee--but thy image dear,
Thy tender smiles, will leave me never.
Fare thee well, &c.

Oh! dry those pearly tears that flow--
One farewell smile before we sever;
The only balm for parting woe
Is--fondly hope 'tis not for ever.
Fare thee well, &c.

Though dark and dreary lowers the night,
Calm and serene may be the morrow;
The cup of pleasure ne'er shone bright,
Without some mingling drops of sorrow!
Fare thee well, for I must leave thee,
But, oh, let not our parting grieve thee;
Happier days may yet be mine,
At least I wish them thine--believe me!

THE FIRST ROSE OF SUMMER.

'Tis the first rose of summer that opes to my view,
With its bright crimson bosom all bathed in the dew;
It bows to its green leaves with pride from its throne--
'Tis the queen of the valley, and reigneth alone.

Oh! why, lovely stranger! thus early in bloom,
Art thou here to assure us that summer is come?
The primrose and harebell appear with the spring,
But tidings of summer the young roses bring.

Thou fair gift of nature (I welcome the boon),
Was 't the lark of the morning that 'woke thee so soon?
Yet I weep, thou sweet floweret! for soon, from the sky,
The lark shall repose where thy leaves wither'd lie.

Oh! if beauty could save thee, thou ne'er wouldst decay,
But, alas! soon thou 'lt perish and wither away;
And thy kindred may blossom, and blossom as fair--
Yet I 'll mourn, lonely rosebud! when thou art not there.

THE EXILE'S SONG.

TUNE--_"My ain Countrie."_

Oh! why left I my hame,
Why did I cross the deep?
Oh! why left I the land
Where my forefathers sleep?
I sigh for Scotia's shore,
And I gaze across the sea;
But I canna get a blink
O' my ain countrie!

The palm-tree waveth high,
And fair the myrtle springs,
And to the Indian maid
The bulbul sweetly sings;
But I dinna see the broom
Wi' its tassels on the lea,
Nor hear the lintie's sang
O' my ain countrie!

Oh! here no Sabbath bell
Awakes the Sabbath morn,
Nor song of reapers heard
Amang the yellow corn;
For the tyrant's voice is here,
And the wail of slaverie,
But the sun of freedom shines
In my ain countrie!

There 's a hope for every woe,
And a balm for every pain;
But the first joys o' our heart
Come never back again.
There 's a track upon the deep,
And a path across the sea,
But the weary ne'er return
To their ain countrie!

THE HAPPY DAYS O' YOUTH.

Oh! the happy days o' youth are fast gaun by,
And age is coming on, wi' its bleak winter sky;
An' whar shall we shelter frae its storms when they blaw,
When the gladsome days o' youth are flown awa'?

They said that wisdom cam wi' manhood's riper years,
But naething did they tell o' its sorrows an' tears;
Oh! I 'd gie a' the wit, gif ony wit be mine,
For ae sunny morning o' bonnie langsyne.

I canna dow but sigh, I canna dow but mourn,
For the blithe happy days that never can return;
When joy was in the heart, an' love was on the tongue,
An' mirth on ilka face, for ilka face was young.

Oh! the bonnie weaving broom, whaur aften we did meet,
Wi' its yellow flowers that fell like gowd 'mang our feet;
The bird would stop its sang, but only for a wee,
As we gaed by its nest, 'neath its ain birk-tree.

Oh! the sunny days o' youth, they couldna aye remain--
There was ower meikle joy and ower little pain;
Sae fareweel, happy days! an' fareweel, youthfu' glee!
The young may court your smiles, but ye 're gane frae me.

'TIS SAIR TO DREAM.

'Tis sair to dream o' them we like,
That waking we sall never see;
Yet oh! how kindly was the smile
My laddie in my sleep gave me!
I thought we sat beside the burn
That wimples down the flowery glen,
Where, in our early days o' love,
We met that ne'er sall meet again.

The simmer sun sank 'neath the wave,
And gladden'd wi' his parting ray
The woodland wild and valley green,
Fast fading into gloamin' gray.
He talk'd of days o' future joy,
And yet my heart was haflins sair;
For when his eye it beam'd on me,
A withering death-like glance was there!

I thought him dead, and then I thought
That life was young and love was free;
For o'er our heads the mavis sang,
And hameward hied the janty bee!
We pledged our love and plighted troth,
But cauld, cauld was the kiss he gave;
When, starting from my dream, I found
His troth was plighted to the grave!

I canna weep, for hope is fled,
And nought would do but silent mourn,
Were 't no for dreams that should na come,
To whisper back my love's return.
'Tis sair to dream o' them we like,
That waking we sall never see;
Yet, oh! how kindly was the smile
My laddie in my sleep gave me!

METRICAL TRANSLATIONS

FROM

The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.

METRICAL TRANSLATIONS

FROM

The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.

WILLIAM ROSS.

William Ross, the Bard of Gairloch, and the Burns of the Gaelic Highlands, was born at Broadford, in the island of Skye, in 1762. He received his school education at Forres, whither his parents removed during his youth, and obtained his training as a poet among the wilds of Highland scenery, which he visited with his father, who followed the calling of a pedlar. Acquiring a knowledge of the classics and of general learning, he was found qualified for the situation of parish school-master of Gairloch. He died at Gairloch in 1790, at the early age of twenty-eight. Ross celebrated the praises of whisky (_uisg-bea_) in several lyrics, which continue popular among the Gael; but the chief theme of his inspiration was "Mary Ross," a fair Hebridean, whose coldness and ultimate desertion are understood to have proved fatal to the too susceptible poet.

THE HIGHLAND MAY.

I.

Let the maids of the Lowlands
Vaunt their silks and their Hollands,
In the garb of the Highlands
Oh give me my dear!
Such a figure for grace!
For the Loves such a face!
And for lightness the pace
That the grass shall not stir.
* * * * *

II.

Lips of cherry confine
Teeth of ivory shine,
And with blushes combine
To keep us in thrall.
Thy converse exceeding
All eloquent pleading,
Thy voice never needing
To rival the fall
Of the music of art,--
Steal their way to the heart,
And resistless impart
Their enchantment to all.

III.

When _Beltane_ is over,
And summer joys hover,
With thee a glad rover
I 'll wander along,
Where the harp-strings of nature
Are strung by each creature,
And the sleep shall be sweeter
That lulls to their song,
There, bounding together,
On the lawn of the heather,
And free from the tether,
The heifers shall throng.

IV.

There shall pasture the ewes,
There the spotted goats browse,
And the kids shall arouse
In their madness of play;
They shall butt, they shall fight,
They shall emulate flight,
They shall break with delight
O'er the mountains away.
And there shall my Mary
With her faithful one tarry,
And never be weary
In the hollows to stray.

V.

While a concert shall cheer us,
For the bushes are near us;
And the birds shall not fear us,
We 'll harbour so still.

* * * * *

Strains the mavis his throat,
Lends the cuckoo her note,
And the world is forgot
By the side of the hill.

THE CELT AND THE STRANGER.

The dawn it is breaking; but lonesome and eerie
Is the hour of my waking, afar from the glen.[50]
Alas! that I ever came a wanderer hither,
Where the tongue of the stranger is racking my brain!

Cleft in twain is my heart, all my pleasure betraying;
The half is behind, but the better is straying
The shade of the hills and the copses away in,
And the truant I call to the Lowlands in vain.

I know why it wanders,--it is to be treading
Where long I frequented the haunts of my dear,
The meadow so dewy, the glades so o'erspreading,
With the gowans to lean on, the mavis to cheer.

It is to be tending where heifers are wending,
And the birds, with the music of love, are contending;
And rapture, its passion to innocence lending,
Is a dance in my soul, and a song in my ear.

[50] This song was written in Edinburgh.

CORMAC'S CURE.

The following is a portion of the poet's "Lament for
his Lost Love," on her departure to England with her
husband. Cormac, an Irish harper, was long entertained
in his professional character by Macleod of Lewis; and
had the temerity to make love to the chief's daughter.
On the discovery, and its apprehended consequences to
his safety, he is said to have formed the desperate
resolution of slaying the father, and carrying away the
lady. His hand was stayed, as he raised the deadly
weapon, by the sudden appearance of Macleod's son; who,
with rare and commendable temper, advised him to look
for a love among the hundred maidens of his own degree
who were possessed of equal charms. With the same
uncommon self-command, poor Cormac formed the
resolution of drowning his love in the swell of his own
music. Ross applies the story to his own case.

Thus sung the minstrel Cormac, his anguish to beguile,
And laid his hand upon his harp, and struck the strings the while--
"Since they have taught my lady fair on her poet's gifts to frown,
In deeper swellings of the lay, I 'll learn my love to drown."

When Colin Cormac's guilty grasp was closing with the spear,
Rush'd in the chieftain's heir, and cried, "What frenzied mood is here!
Sure many a May of ruby ray, as blushful on the brow,
As rosy on the lip, is there--then, why so frantic thou?"

The heart-struck minstrel heard the word; and though his flame, uncured,
Still fired his soul, in haste the shores of danger he abjured:
But aye he rung his harp, though now it knew another strain,
And loud arose its warblings as the sounding of the main.

Yes! 'twas an organ peal that soar'd the vocal lift along,
As chorus'd to the high-strung harp his words of mightier song,
Lest, hapless chance! should rise, above the swelling of the tide,
A remnant of the ambitious love that sought a noble bride.

But I, alas! no language find, of Sassenach or Gael,
Nor note of music in the land, my cureless woe to quail.
And art thou gone, without a word, without a kindly look
Of smiling comfort, on the bard whose life thy beauty shook?

Not so it fared with Cormac; for thus the tale is told,
That never, to the last, he brook'd desertion's bitter cold.
His comrades sorrow'd round him; his dear vouchsafed a kiss--
He almost thought he heard her sigh, "_Come back again to bliss!_"

THE LAST LAY OF LOVE.

This was composed when Ross was dying, and probably
when he was aware of his approaching end. He died of
consumption, precipitated by the espousals of his
mistress to another lover.

Reft the charm of the social shell
By the touch of the sorrowful mood;
And already the worm, in her cell,
Is preparing the birth of her brood.

She blanches the hue of my cheek,
And exposes my desperate love;
Nor needs it that death should bespeak
The hurt no remeid can remove.

The step, 'twas a pleasure to trace,
Even that has withdrawn from the scene;
And, now, not a breeze can displace
A leaf from its summit of green

So prostrate and fallen to lie,
So far from the branch where it hung,
As, in dust and in helplessness, I,
From the hope to which passion had clung.

Yet, benison bide! where thy choice
Deems its bliss and its treasure secure,
May the months in thy blessings rejoice,
While their rise and their wane shall endure!

For me, a poor warrior, in blood
By thy arrow-shot steep'd, I am prone,
The glow of ambition subdued,
The weapons of rivalry gone.

Yet, cruel to mock me, the base
Who scoff at the name of the bard,
To scorn the degree of my race,
Their toil and their travail, is hard.

Since one, a bold yeoman ne'er drew
A furrow unstraight or unpaid;
And the other, to righteousness true,
Hung even the scales of his trade.

And I--ah! they should not compel
To waken the theme of my praise;
I can boast over hundreds, to tell
Of a chief in the conflict of lays.

And now it is over--the heart
That bounded, the hearing that thrill'd,
In the song-fight shall never take part,
And weakness gives warning to yield.

As the discord that raves 'neath the cloud
That is raised by the dash of the spray
When waters are battling aloud,
Bewilderment bears me away.

And to measure the song in its charm,
Or to handle the viol with skill,
Or beauty with carols to warm,
Gone for ever, the power and the will.

No never, no never, ascend
To the mountain-pass glories, shall I,
In the cheer of the chase to unbend;
Enough, it is left but to die.

And yet, shall I go to my rest,
Where the dead of my brothers repair--
To the hall of the bards, not unblest,
That their worthies before me are there?

LACHLAN MACVURICH.

This bard, known by his territorial designation of "Strathmassie," lived during nearly eighty years of the last century, and died towards its close. His proper patronymic was Macpherson. He was a favourite tenant of the chief of Cluny, and continued to enjoy the benefit of his lease of a large farm in Badenoch, after the misfortunes of the family, and forfeiture of their estate. He was very intimate with his clansman, James Macpherson, who has identified his own fame so immortally with that of Ossian. Lachlan had the reputation of being his Gaelic tutor, and was certainly his fellow-traveller during the preparation of his work. In the specimens of his poetical talents which are preserved, "Strathmassie" evinces the command of good Gaelic, though there is nothing to indicate his power of being at all serviceable to his namesake in that fabrication of imagery, legends, and sentiments, which, in the opinion of many, constitutes all that we have in the name of Ossian.

THE EXILE OF CLUNY.

The brave chief of Cluny, after lingering long on the
heights of Benalder, where he entertained his
unfortunate prince during some of the last days of the
adventurer's wandering, at length took shipping for
France, amidst the tears and regrets of a clan that
loved him with the fondest devotion. "Strathmassie"
seems to have caught, in the following verses, some
characteristic traits of his chief, in whom peaceful
dispositions were remarkably blended with the highest
courage in warfare.

Oh, many a true Highlander, many a liegeman,
Is blank on the roll of the brave in our land;
And bare as its heath is the dark mountain region,
Of its own and its prince's defenders unmann'd.
The hound's death abhorr'd, some have died by the cord,
And the axe with the best of our blood is defiled,
And e'en to the visions of hope unrestored,
Some have gone from among us, for ever exiled.

He is gone from among us, our chieftain of Cluny;
At the back of the steel, a more valiant ne'er stood;
Our father, our champion, bemoan we, bemoan we!
In battle, the brilliant; in friendship, the good.
When the sea shut him from us, then the cross of our trial
Was hung on the mast and was swung in the wind:
"Woe the worth we have sepulchred!" now is the cry all;
"Save the shade of a memory, is nothing behind."

What symbols may match our brave chief's animation?
When his wrath was awake, 'twas a furnace in glow;
As a surge on the rock struck his bold indignation,
As the breach to the wall was his arm to the foe.
So the tempest comes down, when it lends in its fury
To the frown of its darkness the rattling of hail;
So rushes the land-flood in turmoil and hurry,
So bickers the hill-flame when fed by the gale.

Yet gentle as Peace was the flower of his race,
Rare was shade on his face, as dismay in his heart;
The brawl and the scuffle he deem'd a disgrace,
But the hand to the brand was as ready to start.
Who could grapple with him in firmness of limb
And sureness of sinew? and--for the stout blow--
'Twas the scythe to the swathe in the meadows of death,
Where numbers were levell'd as fast and as low.

Ever loyal to reason, we 've seen him appeasing
With a wave of one hand the confusion of strife;
With the other unsheathing his sword, and, unbreathing,
Following on for the right in the havoc of life.
To the wants of the helpless, the wail of the weak,
His hand aye was open, his arm was aye strong;
And under yon sun, not a tongue can bespeak
His word or his deed that was blemish'd with wrong.

JAMES M'LAGGAN.

James M'Laggan was the son of a small farmer at Ballechin, in the parish of Logierait, Perthshire, where he was born in 1728. Educated at the University of St Andrews, he received license as a probationer of the Established Church. Through the influence of the Duke of Atholl, he was appointed to the Chapel of Ease, at Amulree, in Perthshire, and subsequently to the chaplainship of the 42d Regiment, his commission to the latter office bearing date the 15th of June 1764. His predecessor in the chaplainship was Dr Adam Ferguson, author of the "History of the Roman Republic," who was also a native of the parish of Logierait.

Than Mr M'Laggan, few could have been better qualified for the duties of chaplain to a Highland regiment. He was intimately conversant with the language, character, and partialities of the Gael, and was possessed of much military ardour, as well as Christian devotedness. He accompanied the regiment to America, and was present in several skirmishes during the War of Independence. Anecdotes are still recounted of the humour and spirit with which he maintained an influence over the minds of his flock; and Stewart, in his "History of the Highlands," has described him as having essentially contributed to form the character of the Highland soldier, then in the novitiate of his loyalty and efficiency in the national service. In 1776, while stationed with his regiment in Glasgow, he had the freedom of the city conferred on him by the corporation. After discharging the duties of military chaplain during a period of twenty-four years, he was in 1788 presented by the Duke of Atholl to the parish of Blair-Athole, Perthshire. He died in 1805, in the seventy-seventh year of his age.

A pious and exemplary clergyman, Mr M'Laggan is still kindly remembered in the scene of his parochial ministrations. An accomplished Gaelic scholar, and with a strong admiration of the poetry of the Gael, he recovered, from the recitation of many aged persons, large portions of the poetry of Ossian, prior to the publication of the collections of Macpherson.[51] He composed some spirited Gaelic lyrics during the period of his connexion with the army, but the greater portion of his poetry still remains in MS. A collection of Gaelic songs under his editorial superintendence was published anonymously.

Mr M'Laggan was of fair and ruddy complexion, and was under the middle stature. He was fond of humour, and his dispositions were singularly benevolent. In youth, he was remarkable for his skill in athletic exercises. He married a daughter of the Rev. James Stewart, minister of Killin, the originator of the translation of the Scriptures into the Gaelic language. Of a family of four sons and three daughters, one son and two daughters still survive; his eldest son, the Rev. James M'Laggan, D.D., was successively minister of the parishes of Auchtergaven and Kinfauns, in Perthshire, and ultimately Free Church Professor of Divinity in Aberdeen.

[51] Macpherson afterwards consulted Mr M'Laggan's "Collection of Ossianic Remains" (see report on Ossian, App. 153).

SONG OF THE ROYAL HIGHLAND REGIMENT.

For success, a prayer, with a farewell, bear
To the warriors dear of the muir and the valley--
The lads that convene in their plaiding of green,
With the curtal coat, and the sweeping _eil-e_.
In their belts array'd, where the dark blue blade
Is hung, with the dirk at the side;
When the sword is at large, and uplifted the targe,
Ha! not a foe the boys will abide.

The followers in peril of Ian the Earl,
The race of the wight of hand;
Sink the eyes of the foe, of the friend's mounts the glow,
When the Murdoch's high blood takes command.
With Loudon to lead ye, the wise and the steady,
The daring in fight and the glorious,
Like the lightning ye 'll rush, with the sword's bright flash,
And return to your mountains victorious.

Oh, sons of the Lion! your watch is the wild-lands,
The garb of the Highlands is mingled with blue,
Though the target and bosses are bright in the Highlands,
The axe in your hands might be blunted well, too.
Then forward--and see ye be huntsmen true,
And, as erst the red deer felling,
So fell ye the Gaul, and so strike ye all
The tribes in the backwoods dwelling.

Where ocean is roaring, let top-sails be towering,
And sails to the motion of helm be flying;
Though high as the mountain, or smooth as the fountain,
Or fierce as the boiling floods angrily crying,
Though the tide with a stroke be assailing the rock;
Oh, once let the pibroch's wild signal be heard,
Then the waves will come bending in dimples befriending,
And beckoning the friends of their country on board.
The ocean-tide 's swelling, its fury is quelling,
In salute of thunder proclaiming your due;
And, methinks, that the hum of a welcome is come,
And is warbling the Jorram to you.

When your levy is landed, oh, bright as the pearls
Shall the strangers who welcome you, gladly and greeting
Speak beautiful thoughts; aye, the beautiful girls
From their eyes shall the tears o'er the ruby be meeting,
And encounter ye, praying, from the storm and the slaying,
"From the stranger, the enemy, save us, oh save!
From rapine and plunder, oh tear us asunder,--
Our noble defenders are ever the brave!"

"If the fondest ye of true lovers be,"
So cries each trembling beauty,
"Be bold in the fight, and give transport's delight
To your friends and the fair, by your duty."
"Oh, yes!" shall the beautiful hastily cry;
"Oh, yes!" in a word, shall the valiant reply;
"By our womanly faith we pledge you for both,
For where'er we contract, and where'er we betroth,
We vow with the daring to die!"

Faithful to trust is the lion-like host
Whom the dawn of their youth doth inure
To hunger's worst ire, and to action's bold fire,
And to ranging the wastes of the moor.
Accustom'd so well to each enterprise snell,
Be the chase or the warfare their quarry;
Aye ever they fight the best, for the right
To the strike of the swords, when they hurry.

GLOSSARY.

_Ahin'_, behind.

_Auld-farrant_, sagacious, cunning.

_Baudrons_, a cat.

_Beltane_, the 1st of May.

_Bield_, shelter.

_Bink_, a bank of earth.

_Birk_, birch.

_Blae_, blue.

_Blaud_, a flat piece of anything, to slap.

_Blinket_, looked kindly.

_Bonnie_, beautiful.

_Burnie_, a small rivulet.

_Byke_, a bee-hive.

_Cannily_, gently, dexterously.

_Cauldrife_, coldish.

_Chanter_, the drone of a bagpipe.

_Cleugh_, a cliff.

_Clutch_, seize.

_Coble_, a fishing-boat.

_Couthilie_, kindly.

_Crack_, to converse.

_Cuiff_, a blockhead.

_Daffin'_, diversion.

_Dautit_, fondled, caressed.

_Dighted_, wiped.

_Doited_, very stupid.

_Donnart_, stupified.

_Dow_, wither.

_Dowie_, sad, worn with grief.

_Dree_, suffer, endure.

_Dreich_, tedious.

_Dunt_, a knock.

_Eerie_, dreading things supernatural.

_Fashious_, troublesome.

_Fause_, false.

_Ferlies_, wonders.

_Flate_, scolded.

_Flow_, a small quantity.

_Gar_, compel.

_Gauds_, trinkets.

_Gawkie_, a thoughtless person.

_Gif_, if.

_Gilphie_, a half-grown person, a romping lad.

_Glaiks_, foolish talk.

_Gowd_, gold.

_Gree_, agree.

_Greet_, weep.

_Haddin_, a farmer's stock.

_Haffit-links_, a necklace.

_Haflins_, nearly half, partly.

_Haps_, outer garments.

_Haud_, hold.

_Hinnied_, honied.

_Hodden_, a coarse kind of cloth.

_Hummel_, humble.

_Kame_, comb.

_Ken_, know.

_Kilt_, to truss up the clothes.

_Kye_, cattle.

_Laigh_, low.

_Leal_, loyal, true.

_Lear_, learning.

_Lick_, wipe, beat.

_Lift_, the sky.

_Litheless_, listless.

_Loonie_, a little fellow.

_Loupin'_, leaping.

_Losh_, an exclamation of surprise.

_Lowne_, warm.

_Maen_, moan, complain.

_Mailin_, a tax, a rent.

_Maw_, to mow, the stomach.

_Meikle_, much.

_Mim_, prim.

_Mirk_, dark.

_Muter_, multure, ground corn.

_Neivefu'_, a handful.

_Newfangled_, newfashioned.

_Nit_, a nut.

_Owre_, over.

_Pow_, the head.

_Pree_, to taste, to kiss.

_Puirtith_, poverty.

_Racket_, stretched.

_Scaur_, to scare, a wound.

_Scoured_, burnished, ran.

_Scunner'd_, disgusted.

_Shiel_, a temporary cottage or hut.

_Siccan_, such.

_Siching_, sighing.

_Skailt_, emptied, scattered.

_Souch_, the sighing of the wind, the breathing of a tune.

_Speer'd_, inquired.

_Steer_, stir.

_Syne_, then, since.

_Tauld_, told.

_Tentie_, heedful, cautious.

_Tentin'_, leading.

_Tint_, lost.

_Trantlooms_, odds and ends.

_Wauken_, awaken.

_Waukrife_, watchful, sleepless.

_Waunert_, wandered.

_Wean_, a child.

_Wee_, little.

_Weel-faur'd_, well-favoured.

_Weir_, war, to herd.

_Whusslit_, whistled.

_Wooster-trystes_, wool-markets.

_Yird_, earth, soil.

END OF VOL. III.

EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY.