Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

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

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

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

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

FOOTNOTES:

[1] A flock of sheep.

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

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

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

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

THE WILD GLEN SAE GREEN.

AIR--_"The Posy, or Roslin Castle."_

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

I'll meet her by the trysting-tree, that's stannin' a' alane,
Where I hae carved her name upon yon little moss gray stane,
There I will fauld her to my breast, and be mair bless'd I ween
Than a' that are aneath the sky, in the wild glen sae green.

Her head reclined upon this heart, in simple bliss I'll share
The pure, pure kiss o' tender love that owns nae earthly care,
And spirits hovering o'er us shall bless the heartfelt scene,
While I woo my bonnie lassie in the wild glen sae green.

My fauldin' plaid shall shield her frae the gloamin's chilly gale;
The star o' eve shall mark our joy, but shall not tell our tale--
Our simple tale o' tender love--that tauld sae oft has been
To my bonnie, bonnie lassie, in the wild glen sae green.

It may be sweet at morning hour, or at the noon o' day,
To meet wi' those that we lo'e weel in grove or garden gay;
But the sweetest bliss o' mortal life is at the hour o' e'en,
Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie, in the wild glen sae green.

O! I could wander earth a' o'er, nor care for aught o' bliss,
If I might share, at my return, a joy sae pure as this;
And I could spurn a' earthly wealth--a palace and a queen,
For my bonnie, bonnie lassie, in the wild glen sae green!

SCOTIA'S THISTLE.

Scotia's thistle guards the grave,
Where repose her dauntless brave;
Never yet the foot of slave
Has trode the wilds of Scotia.
Free from tyrant's dark control--
Free as waves of ocean roll--
Free as thoughts of minstrel's soul,
Still roam the sons of Scotia.

Scotia's hills of hoary hue,
Heaven wraps in wreathes of blue,
Watering with its dearest dew
The heathy locks of Scotia.
Down each green-wood skirted vale,
Guardian spirits, lingering, hail
Many a minstrel's melting tale,
As told of ancient Scotia.

When the shades of eve invest
Nature's dew-bespangled breast,
How supremely man is blest
In the glens of Scotia!
There no dark alarms convey
Aught to chase life's charms away;
There they live, and live for aye,
Round the homes of Scotia.

Wake, my hill harp! wildly wake!
Sound by lee and lonely lake,
Never shall this heart forsake
The bonnie wilds of Scotia.
Others o'er the ocean's foam
Far to other lands may roam,
But for ever be my home
Beneath the sky of Scotia!

THE LAND OF GALLANT HEARTS.

Ours is the land of gallant hearts,
The land of lovely forms,
The island of the mountain-harp,
The torrents and the storms;
The land that blooms with freeman's tread,
And withers with the slave's,
Where far and deep the green woods spread,
And wild the thistle waves.

Ere ever Ossian's lofty voice
Had told of Fingal's fame,
Ere ever from their native clime
The Roman eagles came,
Our land had given heroes birth,
That durst the boldest brave,
And taught above tyrannic dust,
The thistle tufts to wave.

What need we say how Wallace fought,
And how his foemen fell?
Or how on glorious Bannockburn
The work went wild and well?
Ours is the land of gallant hearts,
The land of honour'd graves,
Whose wreath of fame shall ne'er depart
While yet the thistle waves.

THE YELLOW LOCKS O' CHARLIE.

The gathering clans, 'mong Scotia's glens,
Wi' martial steps are bounding,
And loud and lang, the wilds amang,
The war pipe's strains are sounding;
The sky and stream reflect the gleam
Of broadswords glancing rarely,
To guard till death the hills of heath
Against the foes o' Charlie.

Then let on high the banners fly,
And hearts and hands rise prouder,
And wake amain the warlike strain
Still louder, and still louder;
For we ha'e sworn, ere dawn the morn
O'er Appin's mountains early,
Auld Scotland's crown shall nod aboon
The yellow locks o' Charlie.

While banners wave aboon the brave
Our foemen vainly gather,
And swear to claim, by deeds o' fame,
Our hills and glens o' heather.
For seas shall swell to wild and fell,
And crown green Appin fairly,
Ere hearts so steel'd to foemen yield
The rights o' royal Charlie.

Then wake mair loud the pibroch proud,
And let the mountains hoary
Re-echo round the warlike sound
That speaks of Highland glory.
For strains sublime, through future time,
Shall tell the tale unsparely,
How Scotland's crown was placed aboon
The yellow locks o' Charlie.

WE'LL MEET YET AGAIN.

We'll meet yet again, my loved fair one, when o'er us
The sky shall be bright, and the bower shall be green,
And the visions of life shall be lovely before us
As the sunshine of summer that sleeps o'er the scene.
The woodlands are sad when the green leaves are fading,
And sorrow is deep when the dearest must part,
But for each darker woe that our spirit is shading
A joy yet more bright shall return to the heart.

We'll meet yet again, when the pain, disconcerting
The peace of our minds in a moment like this,
Shall melt into nought, like the tears of our parting,
Or live but in mem'ry to heighten our bliss.
We have loved in the hours when a hope scarce could find us;
We've loved when our hearts were the lightest of all,
And the same tender tie that has bound still shall bind us,
When the dark chain of fate shall have ceased to enthral.

We'll meet yet again, when the spirit of gladness
Shall breathe o'er the valley, and brighten its flowers,
And the lone hearts of those who have long been in sadness
Shall gather delight from the transport of ours;
Yes, thine are the charms, love, that never can perish,
And thine is the star that my guide still shall be,
Alluring the hope in this soul that shall cherish
Its life's dearest treasures, to share them with thee.

OUR AIN NATIVE LAND.

Our ain native land! our ain native land!
There's a charm in the words that we a' understand,
That flings o'er the bosom the power of a spell,
And makes us love mair what we a' love so well.
The heart may have feelings it canna conceal,
As the mind has the thoughts that nae words can reveal,
But alike he the feelings and thought can command
Who names but the name o' our ain native land.

Our ain native land! our ain native land!
Though bleak be its mountains and rugged its strand,
The waves aye seem bless'd, dancing wild o'er the sea,
When woke by the winds from the hills o' the free.
Our sky oft is dark, and our storms loud and cauld,
But where are the hearts that sic worth can unfauld
As those that unite, and uniting expand,
When they hear but the name o' our ain native land?

Our ain native land! our ain native land!
To hear of her famed ones let none e'er demand,
For the hours o' a' time far too little would prove
To name but the names that we honour and love.
The bard lives in light, though his heart it be still,
And the cairn of the warrior stands gray on the hill,
And songster and sage can alike still command
A garland of fame from our ain native land.

Our ain native land! our ain native land!
Her wild woods are glorious, her waterfalls grand,
And her songs still proclaim, as they ring through the glen,
The charms of her maids and the worth of her men.
Her thistle shall cease in the breezes to wave,
And the floweret to bloom on the patriot's grave,
Ere we cease to defend, with our heart and our hand,
The freedom and faith of our ain native land.

THE GRECIAN WAR SONG.

On! on to the fields, where of old
The laurels of freedom were won;
Let us think, as the banners of Greece we unfold,
Of the brave in the pages of glory enroll'd,
And the deeds by our forefathers done!
O yet, if there's aught that is dear,
Let bravery's arm be its shield;
Let love of our country give power to each spear,
And beauty's pale cheek dry its long-gather'd tear
In the light of the weapons we wield.
Awake then to glory, that Greece yet may be
The land--the proud land of the famed and the free!

Rear! rear the proud trophies once more,
Where Persia's hosts were o'erthrown;
Let the song of our triumph arise on our shore,
Till the mountains give back the far sounds, as of yore,
To the fields where our foemen lie strewn!
Oh ne'er shall our bold efforts cease
Till the garlands of freedom shall wave
In breezes, which, fraught with the tidings of peace,
Shall wander o'er all the fair islands of Greece,
And cool not the lip of a slave;
Awake then to glory! that Greece yet may be
The land--the proud land of the famed and the free!

FLORA'S LAMENT.

More dark is my soul than the scenes of yon islands,
Dismantled of all the gay hues that they wore;
For lost is my hope since the Prince of the Highlands
'Mong these, his wild mountains, can meet me no more.
Ah! Charlie, how wrung was this heart when it found thee
Forlorn, and the die of thy destiny cast;
Thy Flora was firm 'mid the perils around thee,
But where were the brave of the land that had own'd thee,
That she--only she--should be true to the last?

The step's in the bark on the dark heaving waters,
That now should have been on the floor of a throne;
And, alas for auld Scotland, her sons and her daughters!
Thy wish was their welfare, thy cause was their own.
But 'lorn may we sigh where the hill-winds awaken,
And weep in the glen where the cataracts foam,
And sleep where the dew-drops are deep on the bracken;
Thy foot has the land of thy fathers forsaken,
And more--never more will it yield thee a home.

Oh! yet when afar, in the land of the stranger,
If e'er on thy spirit remembrance may be
Of her who was true in these moments of danger,
Reprove not the heart that still lives but for thee.
The night-shrouded flower from the dawning shall borrow
A ray, all the glow of its charms to renew,
But Charlie, ah! Charlie, no ray to thy Flora
Can dawn from thy coming to chase the dark sorrow
Which death, in thine absence, alone can subdue.

WHEN THE GLEN ALL IS STILL.

AIR--_"Cold Frosty Morning."_

When the glen all is still, save the stream of the fountain,
When the shepherd has ceased o'er the dark heath to roam,
And the wail of the plover awakes on the mountain,
Inviting her mate to return to his home--
Oh! meet me, Eliza, adown by the wild-wood,
Where the wild daisies sleep 'mong the low-lying dew,
And our bliss shall be sweet as the visions of childhood,
And pure as the fair star, in heaven's deep blue.

Thy locks shall be braided in drops of the gloaming,
And fann'd by the far-travell'd breeze of the lawn;
The spirits of heaven shall know of thy coming,
And watch o'er our joy till the hour of the dawn.
No woes shall we know of dark fortune's decreeing,
Of the past and the future my dreams may not be,
For the light of thine eye seems the home of my being,
And my soul's fondest thoughts shall be gather'd to thee.

SCOTLAND YET.[6]

Gae, bring my guid auld harp ance mair,--
Gae, bring it free and fast,--
For I maun sing another sang
Ere a' my glee be past;
And trow ye as I sing, my lads,
The burden o't shall be
Auld Scotland's howes, and Scotland's knowes,
And Scotland's hills for me--
I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet
Wi' a' the honours three.

The heath waves wild upon her hills,
And foaming frae the fells,
Her fountains sing o' freedom still,
As they dance down the dells;
And weel I lo'e the land, my lads,
That's girded by the sea;
Then Scotland's dales, and Scotland's vales,
And Scotland's hills for me--
I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet
Wi' a' the honours three.

The thistle wags upon the fields
Where Wallace bore his blade,
That gave her foemen's dearest bluid
To dye her auld gray plaid;
And looking to the lift, my lads,
He sang this doughty glee--
Auld Scotland's right, and Scotland's might,
And Scotland's hills for me--
I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet
Wi' a' the honours three.

They tell o' lands wi' brighter skies,
Where freedom's voice ne'er rang;
Gie me the hills where Ossian lies,
And Coila's minstrel sang;
For I've nae skill o' lands, my lads,
That ken nae to be free;
Then Scotland's right, and Scotland's might,
And Scotland's hills for me--
I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet
Wi' a' the honours three.

FOOTNOTES:

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

THE MINSTREL'S GRAVE.

I sat in the vale, 'neath the hawthorns so hoary,
And the gloom of my bosom seem'd deep as their shade,
For remembrance was fraught with the far-travell'd story,
That told where the dust of the minstrel was laid:
I saw not his harp on the wild boughs above me,
I heard not its anthems the mountains among;
But the flow'rets that bloom'd on his grave were more lovely
Than others would seem to the earth that belong.

"Sleep on," said my soul, "in the depths of thy slumber
Sleep on, gentle bard! till the shades pass away;
For the lips of the living the ages shall number
That steal o'er thy heart in its couch of decay:
Oh! thou wert beloved from the dawn of thy childhood,
Beloved till the last of thy suffering was seen,
Beloved now that o'er thee is waving the wild-wood,
And the worm only living where rapture hath been.

"Till the footsteps of time are their travel forsaking,
No form shall descend, and no dawning shall come,
To break the repose that thy ashes are taking,
And call them to life from their chamber of gloom:
Yet sleep, gentle bard! for, though silent for ever,
Thy harp in the hall of the chieftain is hung;
No time from the mem'ry of mankind shall sever
The tales that it told, and the strains that it sung."

OUR OWN LAND AND LOVED ONE.

AIR--_"Buccleuch Gathering."_

No sky shines so bright as the sky that is spread
O'er the land that gave birth to the first breath we drew--
Such radiance but lives in the eye of the maid
That is dear to our heart--to our heart ever true.

With her--yes, with her that this spirit has bless'd,
'Neath my dear native sky let my home only be;
And the valley of flowers, and the heath-covered waste,
Shall alike have a spell of enchantment for me.

Let her eye pour its light o'er the joy of my heart,
Or mingle its beam with the gloom of my woe,
And each shadow of care from the soul shall depart,
Save of care that on her it is bliss to bestow.

My thought shall not travel to sun-lighted isles,
Nor my heart own a wish for the wealth they may claim,
But live and be bless'd in rewarding her smiles
With the song of the harp that shall hallow her name.

The anthems of music delightful may roll,
Or eloquence flow as the waves of the sea,
But the sounds that enchantment can shed o'er the soul
Are--the lass that we love, and the land that is free!

THE BOWER OF THE WILD.

I form'd a green bower by the rill o' yon glen,
Afar from the din and the dwellings of men;
Where still I might linger in many a dream,
And mingle my strains wi' the voice o' the stream.
From the cave and the cliff, where the hill foxes roam,
Where the earn has his nest and the raven his home,
I brought the young flower-buds ere yet they had smiled,
And taught them to bloom round my bower of the wild.

But the fair maidens came, from yon vale far away,
And sought my lone grotto still day after day,
And soon were the stems of their fair blossoms shorn
That the flowers of the bard might their ringlets adorn.
Full fair were they all, but the maiden most fair
Would still have no flower till I pull'd it with care;
And gentle, and simple, and modest, and mild,
She stole my lone heart in the bower of the wild.

The summer is past, and the maidens are gone,
And this heart, like my grotto, is wither'd and lone,
And yet, with the winter, I'll cease not to mourn,
Unless, with the blossoms, these fair ones return.
Oh! had they ne'er come, or had ne'er gone away,
I sing in my sorrow still day after day.
The scene seems a desert--the charm is exiled,
And woe to my blooms and my bower of the wild!

THE CROOK AND PLAID.

AIR--_"The Ploughman."_

I winna love the laddie that ca's the cart and pleugh,
Though he should own that tender love, that's only felt by few;
For he that has this bosom a' to fondest love betray'd,
Is the faithfu' shepherd laddie that wears the crook and plaid;
For he's aye true to his lassie--he's aye true to his lassie,
Who wears the crook and plaid.

At morn he climbs the mountains wild his fleecy flocks to view,
While o'er him sweet the laverock sings, new sprung frae 'mang the dew;
His doggie frolics roun' and roun', and may not weel be stay'd,
Sae blithe it is the laddie wi' that wears the crook and plaid;
And he's aye true, &c.

At noon he leans him down upon the high and heathy fell,
And views his flocks, beneath him a', fair feeding in the dell;
And there he sings the sangs o' love, the sweetest ever made;
O! how happy is the laddie that wears the crook and plaid;
And he's aye true, &c.

He pu's the bells o' heather red, and the lily-flowers sae meek,
Ca's the lily like my bosom, and the heath-bell like my cheek;
His words are sweet and tender, as the dews frae heaven shed;
And weel I love to list the lad who wears the crook and plaid;
For he's aye true, &c.

When the dews begin to fauld the flowers, and the gloamin' shades draw on,
When the star comes stealing through the sky, and the kye are on the loan,
He whistles through the glen sae sweet, the heart is lighter made
To ken the laddie hameward hies who wears the crook and plaid;
For he's aye true, &c.

Beneath the spreading hawthorn gray, that's growing in the glen,
He meets me in the gloamin' aye, when nane on earth can ken,
To woo and vow, and there I trow, whatever may be said,
He kens aye unco weel the way to row me in his plaid;
For he's aye true, &c.

The youth o' mony riches may to his fair one ride,
And woo across the table cauld his madam-titled bride;
But I'll gang to the hawthorn gray, where cheek to cheek is laid,
Oh! nae wooers like the laddie that rows me in his plaid;
And he's aye true, &c.

To own the truth o' tender love what heart wad no comply,
Since love gives purer happiness than aught aneath the sky?
If love be in the bosom, then the heart is ne'er afraid;
And through life I'll love the laddie that wears the crook and plaid;
For he's aye true, &c.

THE MINSTREL'S BOWER.

AIR--_"Bonnie Mary Hay."_

Oh, lassie! if thou'lt gang to yonder glen wi' me,
I'll weave the wilds amang a bonnie bower for thee;
I'll weave a bonnie bower o' the birks and willows green,
And to my heart thou'lt be what nae other e'er has been.

When the dew is on the flower, and the starlight on the lea,
In the bonnie green-wood bower I'll wake my harp to thee;
I'll wake my hill-harp's strain, and the echoes o' the dell
Shall restore the tales again that its notes o' love shall tell.

Oh, lassie! thou art fair as the morning's early beam,
As the image of a flower reflected frae the stream;
There's kindness in thy heart, and there's language in thine e'e,
But ah! its looks impart nae sweet tale o' love to me!

Oh, lassie! wert thou mine I wad love thee wi' such love
As the lips can ne'er define, and the cold can never prove;
In the bower by yonder stream our happy home should be,
And our life a blissful dream, while I lived alone for thee.

When I am far away my thoughts on thee shall rest,
Allured, as by a ray, frae the dwellings o' the blest;
For beneath the clouds o' dew, where'er my path may be,
Oh! a maiden fair as thou, I again shall never see!

WHEN THE STAR OF THE MORNING.

When the star of the morning is set,
And the heavens are beauteous and blue,
And the bells of the heather are wet
With the drops of the deep-lying dew;
'Mong the flocks on the mountains that lie,
'Twas blithesome and blissful to be,
When these all my thoughts would employ;
But now I must think upon thee.

When noontide displays all its powers,
And the flocks to the valley return,
To lie and to feed 'mong the flowers
That bloom on the banks of the burn;
O sweet, sweet it was to recline
'Neath the shade of yon hoar hawthorn-tree,
And think on the charge that was mine;
But now I must think upon thee.

When Gloaming stole down from the rocks,
With her fingers of shadowy light,
And the dews of the eve in her locks,
To spread down a couch for the night;
'Twas sweet through yon green birks to stray,
That border the brook and the lea;
But now, 'tis a wearisome way,
Unless it were travell'd with thee.

All lovely and pure as thou art,
And generous of thought and of will,
Oh Mary! speak thou to this heart,
And bid its wild beating be still;
I'd give all the ewes in the fold--
I'd give all the lambs on the lea,
By night or by day to behold
One look of true kindness from thee.

THOUGH ALL FAIR WAS THAT BOSOM.

Though all fair was that bosom, heaving white,
While hung this fond spirit o'er thee;
And though that eye, with beauty's light,
Still bedimm'd every eye before thee;
Oh! charms there were still more divine,
When woke that melting voice of thine,
The charms that caught this soul of mine,
And taught it to adore thee.

Then died the woes of the heart away
With the thoughts of joys departed;
For my soul seem'd but to live in thy lay,
While it told of the faithful-hearted.
Methought how sweet it were to be
Far in some wild green glen with thee;
From all of life and of longing free,
Save what pure love imparted.

Oh! I could stray where the drops of dew
Never fell on the desert round me,
And dwell where the fair flowers never grew
If the hymns of thy voice still found me.
Thy smile itself could the soul invest
With all that here makes mortals bless'd;
While every thought thy lips express'd
In deeper love still bound me.

WOULD THAT I WERE WHERE WILD WOODS WAVE.

Would that I were where wild woods wave
Aboon the beds where sleep the brave;
And where the streams o' Scotia lave
Her hills and glens o' grandeur!

Where freedom reigns, and friendship dwells,
Bright as the sun upon the fells,
When autumn brings the heather-bells
In all their native splendour.
The thistle wi' the hawthorn joins,
The birks mix wi' the mountain pines,
And heart with dauntless heart combines
For ever to defend her.
Then would I were, &c.

There roam the kind, and live the leal,
By lofty ha' and lowly shiel;
And she for whom the heart must feel
A kindness still mair tender.
Fair, where the light hill breezes blaw,
The wild-flowers bloom by glen and shaw;
But she is fairer than them a',
Wherever she may wander.
Then would I were, &c.

Still, far or near, by wild or wood,
I'll love the generous, wise, and good;
But she shall share the dearest mood
That Heaven to life may render.
What boots it then thus on to stir,
And still from love's enjoyment err,
When I to Scotland and to her
Must all this heart surrender.
Then would I were, &c.

OH! TELL ME WHAT SOUND.

AIR--_"Paddy's Resource."_

Oh! tell me what sound is the sweetest to hear--
The sound that can most o'er our being prevail?
'Tis the sweet melting voice of the maid we love dear,
When chanting the songs of her own native vale.
More thrilling is this than the tone of the gale,
Awakening the wind-harp's wild wandering lore;
More sweet than the songster that sings in the dale,
When the strains of the rest of the warblers are o'er.

Oh! tell me what light, of the earth or the sky,
Can the deepest delight to the spirit impart?
'Tis the bright beaming radiance that lives in the eye
Of the maid that affection has bound to the heart.
More charming is this than the glory of art,
More lovely than rays from yon heavens above;
It heightens each joy, as it soothes every smart,
Enchanting our souls with the magic of love.

Oh! tell me what drop is most melting and meek
That aught 'neath the azure of heaven can share?
'Tis the tear-drop that falls o'er the dear maiden's cheek
When she breathes o'er her lover her sigh and her prayer!
More tender is this--more celestial and fair--
Than the dew-drop that springs from the chamber of morn;
A balm that still softens the ranklings of care,
And heals every wound that the bosom hath borne.

OUR MARY.[7]

Our Mary liket weel to stray
Where clear the burn was rowin',
And trouth she was, though I say sae,
As fair as ought ere made o' clay,
And pure as ony gowan.

And happy, too, as ony lark
The clud might ever carry;
She shunn'd the ill, and sought the good,
E'en mair than weel was understood;
And a' fouk liket Mary.

But she fell sick wi' some decay,
When she was but eleven;
And as she pined frae day to day,
We grudged to see her gaun away,
Though she was gaun to Heaven.

There's fears for them that's far awa',
And fykes for them are flitting,
But fears and cares, baith grit and sma',
We, by and by, o'er-pit them a';
But death there's nae o'er-pitting.

And nature's bands are hard to break,
When thus they maun be broken;
And e'en the form we loved to see,
We canna lang, dear though it be,
Preserve it as a token.

But Mary had a gentle heart--
Heaven did as gently free her;
Yet lang afore she reach'd that part,
Dear sir, it wad hae made ye start
Had ye been there to see her.

Sae changed, and yet sae sweet and fair,
And growing meek and meeker,
Wi' her lang locks o' yellow hair,
She wore a little angel's air,
Ere angels cam to seek her.

And when she couldna stray out by,
The wee wild-flowers to gather;
She oft her household plays wad try,
To hide her illness frae our eye,
Lest she should grieve us farther.

But ilka thing we said or did,
Aye pleased the sweet wee creature;
Indeed ye wad hae thought she had
A something in her made her glad
Ayont the course o' nature.

For though disease, beyont remeed,
Was in her frame indented,
Yet aye the mair as she grew ill,
She grew and grew the lovelier still,
And mair and mair contented.

But death's cauld hour cam' on at last,
As it to a' is comin';
And may it be, whene'er it fa's,
Nae waur to others than it was
To Mary, sweet wee woman!

FOOTNOTES:

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

MRS MARGARET M. INGLIS.

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

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

SWEET BARD OF ETTRICK'S GLEN.[8]

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

Sweet bard of Ettrick's glen!
Where art thou wandering?
Miss'd is thy foot on the mountain and lea.
Why round yon craggy rocks
Wander thy heedless flocks,
While lambies are list'ning and bleating for thee?
Cold as the mountain stream,
Pale as the moonlight beam,
Still is thy bosom, and closed is thine e'e.
Wild may the tempest's wave
Sweep o'er thy lonely grave;
Thou art deaf to the storm--it is harmless to thee.

Like a meteor's brief light,
Like the breath of the morning,
Thy life's dream hath pass'd as a shadow gone by;
Till thy soft numbers stealing
O'er mem'ry's warm feeling,
Each line is embalm'd with a tear or a sigh.
Sweet was thy melody,
Rich as the rose's dye,
Shedding its odours o'er sorrow or glee;
Love laugh'd on golden wing,
Pleasure's hand touch'd the string,
All taught the strain to sing, Shepherd, by thee.

Cold on Benlomond's brow
Flickers the drifted snow,
While down its sides the wild cataracts foam;
Winter's mad winds may sweep
Fierce o'er each glen and steep,
Thy rest is unbroken, and peaceful thy home.
And when on dewy wing
Comes the sweet bird of spring,
Chanting its notes on the bush or the tree;
The Bird of the Wilderness,
Low in the waving grass,
Shall, cow'ring, sing sadly its farewell to thee.

FOOTNOTES:

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

YOUNG JAMIE.[9]

AIR--_"Drummond Castle."_

Leafless and bare were the shrub and the flower,
Cauld was the drift that blew over yon mountain,
But caulder my heart at his last ling'ring hour,
Though warm was the tear-drap that fell frae my e'e.
O saft is the tint o' the gowan sae bonny,
The blue heather-bell and the rose sweet as ony,
But softer the blink o' his bonnie blue e'e,
And sweeter the smile o' young Jamie.

Dark lowers the cloud o'er yon mountain sae hie,
Faint gloams the sun through the mists o' the ocean,
Rough rows the wave on whose bosom I see
The wee bit frail bark that bears Jamie frae me.
Oh, lang may I look o'er yon wild waste sae dreary,
And lang count the hours, now so lonesome and weary,
And oft may I see the leaf fade frae the tree,
Ere I see the blithe blink o' his bonnie blue e'e.

Cheerless and wae, on yon snaw-cover'd thorn,
Mournfu' and lane is the chirp o' the Robin,
He looks through the storm, but nae shelter can see;
Come, Robin, and join the sad concert wi' me.
Oh, lang may I look o'er yon foam-crested billow,
And Hope dies away like a storm-broken willow;
Sweet Robin, the blossom again ye may see,
But I'll ne'er see the blink o' his bonnie blue e'e.

FOOTNOTES:

[9] Printed for the first time.

CHARLIE'S BONNET'S DOWN, LADDIE.

AIR--_"Tullymet."_

Let Highland lads, wi' belted plaids,
And bonnets blue and white cockades,
Put on their shields, unsheathe their blades,
And conquest fell begin;
And let the word be Scotland's heir:
And when their swords can do nae mair,
Lang bowstrings o' their yellow hair
Let Hieland lasses spin, laddie.
Charlie's bonnet's down, laddie,
Kilt yer plaid and scour the heather;
Charlie's bonnet's down, laddie,
Draw yer dirk and rin.

Mind Wallace wight, auld Scotland's light,
And Douglas bright, and Scrymgeour's might,
And Murray Bothwell's gallant knight,
And Ruthven light and trim--
Kirkpatrick black, wha in a crack
Laid Cressingham upon his back,
Garr'd Edward gather up his pack,
And ply his spurs and rin, laddie.
Charlie's bonnet's down, &c.

HEARD YE THE BAGPIPE?

Heard ye the bagpipe, or saw ye the banners
That floated sae light o'er the fields o' Kildairlie;
Saw ye the broadswords, the shields and the tartan hose,
Heard ye the muster-roll sworn to Prince Charlie?
Saw ye brave Appin, wi' bonnet and belted plaid,
Or saw ye the Lords o' Seaforth and Airlie;
Saw ye the Glengarry, M'Leod, and Clandonachil,
Plant the white rose in their bonnets for Charlie?

Saw ye the halls o' auld Holyrood lighted up,
Kenn'd ye the nobles that revell'd sae rarely;
Saw ye the chiefs of Lochiel and Clanronald,
Wha rush'd frae their mountains to follow Prince Charlie?
But saw ye the blood-streaming fields of Culloden,
Or kenn'd ye the banners were tatter'd sae sairly;
Heard ye the pibroch sae wild and sae wailing,
That mourn'd for the chieftains that fell for Prince Charlie.

Wha, in yon Highland glen, weary and shelterless,
Pillows his head on the heather sae barely;
Wha seeks the darkest night, wha maunna face the light,
Borne down by lawless might--gallant Prince Charlie?
Wha, like the stricken deer, chased by the hunter's spear,
Fled frae the hills o' his father sae scaredly;
But wha, by affection's chart, reigns in auld Scotland's heart--
Wha but the royal, the gallant Prince Charlie?

BRUCE'S ADDRESS.

When the morning's first ray saw the mighty in arms,
And the tyrant's proud banners insultingly wave,
And the slogan of battle from beauty's fond arms
Roused the war-crested chieftain, his country to save;
The sunbeam that rose on our mountain-clad warriors,
And reflected their shields in the green rippling wave,
In its course saw the slain on the fields of their fathers,
And shed its last ray on their cold bloody graves.

O'er those green beds of honour our war-song prepare,
And the red sword of vengeance triumphantly wave,
While the ghosts of the slain cry aloud--Do not spare,
Lead to victory and freedom, or die with the brave;
For the high soul of freedom no tyrant can fetter,
Like the unshackled billows our proud shores that lave;
Though oppressed, he will watch o'er the home of his fathers,
And rest his wan cheek on the tomb of the brave.

To arms, then! to arms! Let the battle-cry rise,
Like the raven's hoarse croak, through their ranks let it sound;
Set their knell on the wing of each arrow that flies,
Till the shouts of the free shake the mountains around;
Let the cold-blooded, faint-hearted changeling now tremble,
For the war-shock shall reach to his dark-centered cave,
While the laurels that twine round the brows of the victors
Shall with rev'rence be strew'd o'er the tombs of the brave.

REMOVED FROM VAIN FASHION.

Removed from vain fashion,
From title's proud ken,
In a straw-cover'd cottage,
Deep hid in yon glen,
There dwells a sweet flow'ret,
Pure, lovely, and fair,
Though rear'd, like the snowdrop,
'Midst hardships' chill air.

No soft voice of kindred,
Or parent she knows--
In the desert she blooms,
Like the sweet mountain rose,
Like the little stray'd lammie
That bleats on the lea;
She's soft, kind, and gentle,
And dear, dear to me.

Though the rich dews of fortune
Ne'er water'd this stem,
Nor one fostering sunbeam
Matured the rich gem--
Oh! give me that pure bosom,
Her lot let me share,
I'll laugh at distinction,
And smile away care.

WHEN SHALL WE MEET AGAIN?

When shall we meet again,
Meet ne'er to sever?
When shall Peace wreath her chain
Round us for ever?
When shall our hearts repose,
Safe from each breath that blows,
In this dark world of woes?
Never! oh, never!

Fate's unrelenting hand
Long may divide us,
Yet in one holy land
One God shall guide us.
Then, on that happy shore,
Care ne'er shall reach us more,
Earth's vain delusions o'er,
Angels beside us.

There, where no storms can chill,
False friends deceive us,
Where, with protracted thrill,
Hope cannot grieve us;
There with the pure in heart,
Far from fate's venom'd dart,
There shall we meet to part
Never! oh, never!

JAMES KING.

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

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

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

THE LAKE IS AT REST.

The lake is at rest, love,
The sun's on its breast, love,
How bright is its water, how pleasant to see;
Its verdant banks shewing
The richest flowers blowing,
A picture of bliss and an emblem of thee!

Then, O fairest maiden!
When earth is array'd in
The beauties of heaven o'er mountain and lea,
Let me still delight in
The glories that brighten,
For they are, dear Anna, sweet emblems of thee.

But, Anna, why redden?
I would not, fair maiden,
My tongue could pronounce what might tend to betray;
The traitor, the demon,
That could deceive woman,
His soul's all unfit for the glories of day.

Believe me then, fairest,
To me thou art dearest;
And though I in raptures view lake, stream, and tree,
With flower blooming mountains,
And crystalline fountains,
I view them, fair maid, but as emblems of thee.

LIFE'S LIKE THE DEW.

AIR--_"Scott's Boat Song."_

No sound was heard o'er the broom-cover'd valley,
Save the lone stream o'er the rock as it fell,
Warm were the sunbeams, and glancing so gaily,
That gold seem'd to dazzle along the flower'd vale.
At length from the hill I heard,
Plaintively wild, a bard,
Yet pleasant to me was his soul's ardent flow;
"Remember what Morard says,
Morard of many days,
Life's like the dew on the hill of the roe.

"Son of the peaceful vale, keep from the battle plain,
Sad is the song that the bugle-horns sing;
Though lovely the standard it waves o'er the mangled slain,
Widows' sighs stretching its broad gilded wing.
Hard are the laws that bind
Poor foolish man and blind;
But free thou may'st walk as the breezes that blow,
Thy cheeks with health's roses spread,
Till time clothes with snow thy head,
Fairer than dew on the hill of the roe.

"Wouldst thou have peace in thy mind when thou'rt hoary,
Shun vice's paths in the days of thy bloom;
Innocence leads to the summit of glory,
Innocence gilds the dark shades of the tomb.
The tyrant, whose hands are red,
Trembles alone in bed;
But pure is the peasant's soul, pure as the snow,
No horror fiends haunt his rest,
Hope fills his placid breast,
Hope bright as dew on the hill of the roe."

Ceased the soft voice, for gray mist was descending,
Slow rose the bard and retired from the hill,
The blackbird's mild notes with the thrush's were blending,
Oft scream'd the plover her wild notes and shrill,
Yet still from the hoary bard,
Methought the sweet song I heard,
Mix'd with instruction and blended with woe;
And oft as I pass along,
Chimes in mine ear his song,
"Life's like the dew on the hill of the roe."

ISOBEL PAGAN.

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

CA' THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES.[10]

Ca' the yowes to the knowes,
Ca' them where the heather grows,
Ca' them where the burnie rows,
My bonnie dearie.

As I gaed down the water-side,
There I met my shepherd lad,
He row'd me sweetly in his plaid,
An' he ca'd me his dearie.

"Will ye gang down the water-side,
And see the waves sae sweetly glide
Beneath the hazels spreading wide?
The moon it shines fu' clearly.

"Ye shall get gowns and ribbons meet,
Cauf-leather shoon to thy white feet,
And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep,
And ye shall be my dearie."

"If ye'll but stand to what ye've said,
I'se gang wi' you, my shepherd lad,
And ye may row me in your plaid,
And I shall be your dearie."

"While water wimples to the sea,
While day blinks in the lift sae hie,
Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my e'e,
Ye shall be my dearie."

FOOTNOTES:

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

JOHN MITCHELL.

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

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

BEAUTY.

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

What melts the soldier's soul?
'Tis Beauty;
What can his love of fame control?
'Tis Beauty;
For oft, amid the battle's rage,
Some lovely vision will engage
His thoughts and war's rough ills assuage:
Such power has Beauty.

What tames the savage mood?
'Tis Beauty;
What gives a polish to the rude?
'Tis Beauty;
What gives the peasant's lowly state
A charm which wealth cannot create,
And on the good alone will wait?
'Tis faithful Beauty.

Then let our favourite toast
Be Beauty;
Is it not king and peasant's boast?
Yes, Beauty;
Then let us guard with tender care
The gentle, th' inspiring fair,
And Love will a diviner air
Impart to Beauty.

TO THE EVENING STAR.

Star of descending Night!
Lovely and fair,
Robed in thy mellow light,
Subtle and rare;
Whence are thy silvery beams,
That o'er lone ocean gleams,
And in our crystal streams
Dip their bright hair?

Far in yon liquid sky,
Where streamers play
And the red lightnings fly,
Hold'st thou thy way;
Clouds may envelop thee,
Winds rave o'er land and sea,
O'er them thy march is free
As thine own ray.

OH! WAFT ME TO THE FAIRY CLIME.

Oh! waft me to the fairy clime
Where Fancy loves to roam,
Where Hope is ever in her prime,
And Friendship has a home;
There will I wander by the streams
Where Song and Dance combine,
Around my rosy waking dreams
Ecstatic joys to twine.

On Music's swell my thoughts will soar
Above created things,
And revel on the boundless shore
Of rapt imaginings.
The rolling spheres beyond earth's ken
My fancy will explore,
And seek, far from the haunts of men,
The Poet's mystic lore.

Love will add gladness to the scene,
And strew my path with flowers;
And Joy with Innocence will lean
Amid my rosy bowers.
Then waft me to the fairy clime
Where Fancy loves to roam,
Where Hope is ever in her prime,
And Friendship has a home.

THE LOVE-SICK MAID.

The love-sick maid, the love-sick maid,
Ah! who will comfort bring to the love-sick maid?
Can the doctor cure her woe
When she will not let him know
Why the tears incessant flow
From the love-sick maid?

The flaunting day, the flaunting day,
She cannot bear the glare of the flaunting day!
For she sits and pines alone,
And will comfort take from none;
Nay, the very colour's gone
From the love-sick maid.