Chapter I: Will Wake My Harp When the Shades of Even.23 (2)

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

O say not o' war the young soldier is weary,
Ye wha in battle ha'e witness'd his flame;
Remember his daring when danger was near ye,
Forgive ye the sigh that he heaves for his hame.
Past perils he heeds not, nor dangers yet coming,
Frae dark-brooding terror his young heart is free;
But it pants for the place whar in youth he was roaming;
He turns to the north wi' the tear in his e'e.

'Tis remembrance that saftens what war never daunted,
'Tis the hame o' his birth that gives birth to the tear;
The warm fondled hopes his first love had implanted,
He langs now to reap in his Jeanie sae dear.
An' aften he thinks on the bonnie clear burnie,
Whar oft in love's fondness they daff'd their young day;
Nae tear then was shedded, for short was the journey
'Tween Jeanie's broom bower and the blaeberry brae.

An' weel does he mind o' that morning, when dressing,
In green Highland garb, to cross the wide sea;
His auld mither grat when she gi'ed him her blessing--
'Twas a' that the puir body then had to gi'e.
The black downy plume on his bonnie cheek babbit,
As he stood at the door an' shook hands wi' them a';
But sair was his heart, an' sair Jeanie sabbit,
Whan down the burn-side she convoy'd him awa'.

Now high-headed Alps an' dark seas divide them,
Wilds ne'er imagined in love's early dream;
Their Alps then the knowes, whare the lambs lay beside them,
Their seas then the hazel an' saugh-shaded stream.
An' wha couldna sigh when memory 's revealing
The scenes that surrounded our life's early hame?
The hero whose heart is cauld to that feeling
His nature is harsh, and not worthy the name.

THE LAND I LOVE.

The land I lo'e, the land I lo'e,
Is the land of the plaid and bonnet blue,
Of the gallant heart, the firm and true,
The land of the hardy thistle.

Isle of the freeborn, honour'd and blest,
Isle of beauty, in innocence dress'd,
The loveliest star on ocean's breast
Is the land of the hardy thistle.

Fair are those isles of Indian bloom,
Whose flowers perpetual breathe perfume;
But dearer far are the braes o' broom
Where blooms the hardy thistle.

No luscious fig-tree blossoms there,
No slaves the scented shrubb'ry rear;
Her sons are free as the mountain air
That shakes the hardy thistle.

Lovely 's the tint o' an eastern sky,
And lovely the lands that 'neath it lie;
But I wish to live, and I wish to die
In the land of the hardy thistle!

ROBERT L. MALONE.

Robert L. Malone was a native of Anstruther, in Fife, where he was born in 1812. His father was a captain in the navy, and afterwards was employed in the Coast Guard. He ultimately settled at Rothesay, in Bute. Receiving a common school education, Robert entered the navy in his fourteenth year. He served on board the gun-brig _Marshall_, which attended the Fisheries department in the west; next in the Mediterranean ocean; and latterly in South America. Compelled, from impaired health, to renounce the seafaring life, after a service of ten years, he returned to his family at Rothesay, but afterwards settled in the town of Greenock. In 1845, he became a clerk in the Long-room of the Customs at Greenock, an appointment which he retained till nigh the period of his death. A lover of poetry from his youth, he solaced the hours of sickness by the composition of verses. He published, in 1845, a duodecimo volume of poetry, entitled, "The Sailor's Dream, and other Poems," a work which was well received. His death took place at Greenock on the 6th of July 1850, in his thirty-eighth year. Of modest and retiring dispositions, Malone was unambitious of distinction as a poet. His style is bold and animated, and some of his pieces evince considerable power.

THE THISTLE OF SCOTLAND.

AIR--_"Humours o' Glen."_

Though fair blooms the rose in gay Anglia's bowers,
And green be thy emblem, thou gem of the sea,
The greenest, the sweetest, the fairest of flowers,
Is the thistle--the thistle of Scotland, for me!

Far lovelier flowers glow, the woodlands adorning,
And breathing perfume over moorland and lea,
But there breathes not a bud on the freshness of morning
Like the thistle--the thistle of Scotland, for me!

What scenes o' langsyne even thy name can awaken,
Thou badge of the fearless, the fair, and the free,
And the tenderest chords of the spirit are shaken;
The thistle--the thistle of Scotland, for thee!

Still'd be my harp, and forgotten its numbers,
And cold as the grave my affections must be,
Ere thy name fail to waken my soul from her slumbers;
The thistle--the thistle of Scotland, for me!

On the fields of their fame, while proud laurels she gathers,
Caledonia plants, wi' the tear in her e'e,
Thy soft downy seeds on the graves of our fathers;
The thistle--the thistle of Scotland, for me!

HAME IS AYE HAMELY.

AIR--_"Love's Young Dream."_

Oh! hame is aye hamely still, though poor at times it be,
An' ye winna find a place like hame in lands beyond the sea;
Though ye may wander east an' west, in quest o' wealth or fame,
There 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame,
Oh! there 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame.

There 's gowd in gowpens got, they say, on India's sunny strand,
Then wha would bear to linger here in this bleak, barren land?
I 'll hie me ower the heaving wave, and win myself a name,
And in a palace or a grave forget my Hieland hame.

'Twas thus resolved the peasant boy, and left his native stream,
And Fortune crown'd his every wish, beyond his fondest dream;
His good sword won him wealth and power and long and loud acclaim,
But could not banish from his thoughts his dear-loved mountain hame.

No! The peasant's heart within the peer beat true to nature still,
For on his vision oft would rise the cottage on the hill;
And young companions, long forgot, would join him in the game,
As erst in life's young morning, around his Hieland hame.

Oh! in the Brahmin, mild and gray, his father's face he saw;
He thought upon his mother's tears the day he gaed awa';
And her he loved--his Hieland girl--there 's magic in the name--
They a' combine to wile him back to his far Hieland hame.

He sigh'd for kindred hearts again, and left the sunny lands,
And where his father's cottage stood a stately palace stands;
And with his grandchild on his knee--the old man's heart on flame--
'Tis thus he trains his darling boy to cherish thoughts of hame.

Oh! hame is aye hamely, dear, though poor at times it be,
Ye winna find a spot like hame in lands beyond the sea;
Oh! ye may wander east or west, in quest o' wealth or fame,
But there 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame,
Oh! there 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame.

PETER STILL.

Peter Still was born in the parish of Fraserburgh, Aberdeenshire, on the 1st day of January 1814. At the time of his birth his father rented a farm, but, being unfortunate, he was compelled to seek the support of his family by manual labour. With a limited education at the parish-school of Longside, whither his parents had removed, the subject of this memoir was sent, in his eleventh year, to tend cattle. When somewhat older, he found employment as a farm-servant; but having married in his twentieth year, he afterwards followed the more precarious occupation of a day-labourer. Of a delicate constitution, he suffered much from impaired health, being frequently, for months together, confined to the sick-chamber. During the periods of convalescence from illness, he composed verses, which he gave to the world in three separate publications. His last work--"The Cottar's Sunday, and other Poems"--appeared in 1845, in a handsome duodecimo volume. He closed a life of much privation and suffering at Peterhead, on the 21st March 1848.

Of sound religious principles and devoted Christian feeling, Still meekly submitted to the bitterness of his lot in life. He was fortunate in arresting the attention of some, who occasionally administered to his wants, and contributed, by their patronage, to the increase of his reputation. His verses are largely pervaded with poetical fervour and religious sentiment, while his songs are generally true to nature. In person he was tall and slender, of a long thin countenance, large dark blue eyes, and curling black hair.

JEANIE'S LAMENT.

AIR--_"Lord Gregory."_

I never thocht to thole the waes
It 's been my lot to dree;
I never thocht to sigh sae sad
Whan first I sigh'd for thee.
I thocht your heart was like mine ain,
As true as true could be;
I couldna think there was a stain
In ane sae dear to me.

Whan first amang the dewy flowers,
Aside yon siller stream,
My lowin' heart was press'd to yours,
Nae purer did they seem;
Nae purer seem'd the draps o' dew,
The flowers on whilk they hung,
Than seem'd the heart I felt in you
As to that heart I clung.

But I was young an' thochtless then,
An' easy to beguile;
My mither's warnin's had nae weight
'Bout man's deceitfu' smile.
But noo, alas! whan she is dead,
I 've shed the sad, saut tear,
And hung my heavy, heavy head
Aboon my father's bier!

They saw their earthly hope betray'd,
They saw their Jeanie fade;
They couldna thole the heavy stroke,
An' baith are lowly laid!
Oh, Jamie! but thy name again
Shall ne'er be breathed by me,
For, speechless through yon gow'ny glen,
I 'll wander till I die.

YE NEEDNA' BE COURTIN' AT ME.

AIR--_"John Todd."_

"Ye needna' be courtin' at me, auld man,
Ye needna' be courtin' at me;
Ye 're threescore an' three, an' ye 're blin' o' an e'e,
Sae ye needna' be courtin' at me, auld man,
Ye needna' be courtin' at me.

"Stan' aff, noo, an' just lat me be, auld man,
Stan' aff, noo, an' just lat me be;
Ye 're auld an' ye 're cauld, an' ye 're blin' an' ye 're bald,
An' ye 're nae for a lassie like me, auld man,
Ye 're nae for a lassie like me."

"Ha'e patience, an' hear me a wee, sweet lass,
Ha'e patience, an' hear me a wee;
I 've gowpens o' gowd, an' an aumry weel stow'd,
An' a heart that lo'es nane but thee, sweet lass,
A heart that lo'es nane but thee.

"I 'll busk you as braw as a queen, sweet lass,
I 'll busk you as braw as a queen;
I 've guineas to spare, an', hark ye, what 's mair,
I 'm only twa score an' fifteen, sweet lass,
Only twa score an' fifteen."

"Gae hame to your gowd an' your gear, auld man,
Gae hame to your gowd an' your gear;
There 's a laddie I ken has a heart like mine ain,
An' to me he shall ever be dear, auld man,
To me he shall ever be dear.

"Get aff, noo, an' fash me nae mair, auld man,
Get aff, noo, an' fash me nae mair;
There 's a something in love that your gowd canna move--
I 'll be Johnie's although I gang bare, auld man,
I 'll be Johnie's although I gang bare."

THE BUCKET FOR ME.

The bucket, the bucket, the bucket for me!
Awa' wi' your bickers o' barley bree;
Though good ye may think it, I 'll never mair drink it--
The bucket, the bucket, the bucket for me!
There 's health in the bucket, there 's wealth in the bucket,
There 's mair i' the bucket than mony can see;
An' aye whan I leuk in 't, I find there 's a beuk in 't
That teaches the essence o' wisdom to me.

Whan whisky I swiggit, my wifie aye beggit,
An' aft did she sit wi' the tear in her e'e;
But noo--wad you think it?--whan water I drink it
Right blithesome she smiles on the bucket an' me.
The bucket 's a treasure nae mortal can measure,
It 's happit my wee bits o' bairnies an' me;
An' noo roun' my ingle, whare sorrows did mingle,
I 've pleasure, an' plenty, an' glances o' glee.

The bucket 's the bicker that keeps a man sicker,
The bucket 's a shield an' a buckler to me;
In pool or in gutter nae langer I 'll splutter,
But walk like a freeman wha feels he is free.

Ye drunkards, be wise noo, an' alter your choice noo--
Come cling to the bucket, an' prosper like me;
Ye 'll find it is better to swig "caller water,"
Than groan in a gutter without a bawbee!

ROBERT NICOLL.

One of the most gifted and hopeful of modern Scottish song writers, Robert Nicoll, was born at Little Tulliebeltane, in the parish of Auchtergaven, Perthshire, on the 7th January 1814. Of a family of nine children, he was the second son. His father, who bore the same Christian name, rented a farm at the period of his birth and for five years afterwards, when, involved in an affair of cautionary, he was reduced to the condition of an agricultural labourer. Young Nicoll received the rudiments of his education from his mother, a woman of superior shrewdness and information; subsequently to his seventh year he tended cattle in the summer months, to procure the means of attending the parish school during the other portion of the year. From his childhood fond of reading, books were his constant companions--in the field, on the highway, and during the intervals of leisure in his father's cottage. In his thirteenth year, he wrote verses and became the correspondent of a newspaper. Apprenticed to a grocer and wine-merchant in Perth, and occupied in business from seven o'clock morning till nine o'clock evening, he prosecuted mental culture by abridging the usual hours of rest. At the age of nineteen he communicated a tale to _Johnstone's Magazine_, an Edinburgh periodical, which was inserted, and attracted towards him the notice of Mr Johnstone, the ingenious proprietor. By this gentleman he was introduced, during a visit he made to the capital, to some men of letters, who subsequently evinced a warm interest in his career.

In 1834, Nicoll opened a small circulating library in Dundee, occupying his spare time in reading and composition, and likewise taking part in public meetings convened for the support of Radical or extreme liberal opinions. To the liberal journals of the town he became a frequent contributor both in prose and verse, and in 1835 appeared as the author of a volume of "Poems and Lyrics." This publication was highly esteemed by his friends, and most favourably received by the press. Abandoning business in Dundee, which had never been prosperous, he meditated proceeding as a literary adventurer to London, but was induced by Mr Tait, his friendly publisher, and some other well-wishers, to remain in Edinburgh till a suitable opening should occur. In the summer of 1836 he was appointed editor of the _Leeds Times_ newspaper, with a salary of £100. The politics of this journal were Radical, and to the exposition and advocacy of these opinions he devoted himself with equal ardour and success. But the unremitting labour of conducting a public journal soon began materially to undermine the energies of a constitution which, never robust, had been already impaired by a course of untiring literary occupation. The excitement of a political contest at Leeds, during a general parliamentary election, completed the physical prostration of the poet; he removed from Leeds to Knaresborough, and from thence to Laverock Bank, near Edinburgh, the residence of his friend Mr Johnstone. His case was hopeless; after lingering a short period in a state of entire prostration, he departed this life in December 1837, in his twenty-fourth year. His remains, attended by a numerous assemblage, were consigned to the churchyard of North Leith.

Possessed of strong poetical genius, Robert Nicoll has attained a conspicuous and honoured niche in the temple of the national minstrelsy. Several of his songs, especially "Bonnie Bessie Lee" and "Ordé Braes," have obtained an equal popularity with the best songs of Burns. Since the period of his death, four different editions of his "Poems" have been called for. The work has latterly been published by the Messrs Blackie of Glasgow in a handsome form, prefaced by an interesting memoir. Nicoll's strain is eminently smooth and simple; and, though many of his lyrics published after his decease had not the benefit of his revision, he never falls into mediocrity. Of extensive sympathies, he portrays the loves, hopes, and fears of the human heart; while he depicts nature only in her loveliness. His sentiments breathe a devoted and simple piety, the index of an unblemished life. In person Nicoll was rather above the middle height, with a slight stoop. His countenance, which was of a sanguine complexion, was thoughtful and pleasing; his eyes were of a deep blue, and his hair dark brown. In society he was modest and unobtrusive, but was firm and uncompromising in the maintenance of his opinions. His political views were founded on the belief that the industrial classes had suffered oppression from the aristocracy. The solace of his hours of leisure were the songs and music of his country. He married shortly prior to his decease, but was not long survived by his widow. A monument to his memory, towards which nearly £100 has lately been subscribed, is about to be erected on the Ordé Braes, in his native parish.

ORDÉ BRAES.

There 's nae hame like the hame o' youth,
Nae ither spot sae fair;
Nae ither faces look sae kind
As the smilin' faces there.
An' I ha'e sat by mony streams,
Ha'e travell'd mony ways;
But the fairest spot on the earth to me
Is on bonnie Ordé Braes.

An ell-lang wee thing then I ran
Wi' the ither neeber bairns,
To pu' the hazel's shining nuts,
An' to wander 'mang the ferns;
An' to feast on the bramble-berries brown,
An' gather the glossy slaes,
By the burnie's side, an' aye sinsyne
I ha'e loved sweet Ordé Braes.

The memories o' my father's hame,
An' its kindly dwellers a',
O' the friends I loved wi' a young heart's love
Ere care that heart could thraw,
Are twined wi' the stanes o' the silver burn,
An' its fairy crooks an' bays,
That onward sang 'neath the gowden broom
Upon bonnie Ordé Braes.

Aince in a day there were happy hames
By the bonnie Ordé's side:
Nane ken how meikle peace an' love
In a straw-roof'd cot can bide.
But thae hames are gane, an' the hand o' time
The roofless wa's doth raze;
Laneness an' sweetness hand in hand
Gang ower the Ordé Braes.

Oh! an' the sun were shinin' now,
An', oh! an' I were there,
Wi' twa three friends o' auld langsyne,
My wanderin' joy to share.
For though on the hearth o' my bairnhood's hame
The flock o' the hills doth graze,
Some kind hearts live to love me yet
Upon bonnie Ordé Braes.

THE MUIR O' GORSE AND BROOM.

I winna bide in your castle ha's,
Nor yet in your lofty towers;
My heart is sick o' your gloomy hame,
An' sick o' your darksome bowers;
An' oh! I wish I were far awa'
Frae their grandeur an' their gloom,
Where the freeborn lintie sings its sang
On the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom.

Sae weel as I like the healthfu' gale,
That blaws fu' kindly there,
An' the heather brown, an' the wild blue-bell
That wave on the muirland bare;
An' the singing birds, an' the humming bees,
An' the little lochs that toom
Their gushing burns to the distant sea
O'er the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom.

Oh! if I had a dwallin' there,
Biggit laigh by a burnie's side,
Where ae aik tree, in the summer time,
Wi' its leaves that hame might hide;
Oh! I wad rejoice frae day to day,
As blithe as a young bridegroom;
For dearer than palaces to me
Is the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom!

In a lanely cot on a muirland wild,
My mither nurtured me;
O' the meek wild-flowers I playmates made,
An' my hame wi' the wandering bee.
An', oh! if I were far awa'
Frae your grandeur an' your gloom,
Wi' them again, an' the bladden gale,
On the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom.

THE BONNIE HIELAND HILLS.

Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills,
Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills,
The bonnie hills o' Scotland O!
The bonnie Hieland hills.

There are lands on the earth where the vine ever blooms,
Where the air that is breathed the sweet orange perfumes;
But mair dear is the blast the lane shepherd that chills
As it wantons along o'er our ain Hieland hills.
Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills.

There are rich garden lands wi' their skies ever fair;
But o' riches or beauty we mak na our care;
Wherever we wander ae vision aye fills
Our hearts to the burstin'--our ain Hieland hills.
Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills.

In our lone and deep valleys fair maidens there are,
Though born in the midst o' the elements' war;
O sweet are the damsels that sing by our rills,
As they dash to the sea frae our ain Hieland hills.
Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills.

On the moss-cover'd rock wi' their broadswords in hand,
To fight for fair freedom, their sons ever stand;
A storm-nursed bold spirit each warm bosom fills,
That guards frae a' danger our ain Hieland hills.
Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills,
Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills;
The bonnie hills o' Scotland O!
The bonnie Hieland hills.

THE BONNIE ROWAN BUSH.

The bonnie rowan bush
In yon lane glen,
Where the burnie clear doth gush
In yon lane glen;
My head is white and auld,
An' my bluid is thin an' cauld;
But I lo'e the bonnie rowan bush
In yon lane glen.

My Jeanie first I met
In yon lane glen,
When the grass wi' dew was wet
In yon lane glen;
The moon was shining sweet,
An' our hearts wi' love did beat,
By the bonnie, bonnie rowan bush
In yon lane glen.

Oh! she promised to be mine,
In yon lane glen;
Her heart she did resign,
In yon lane glen;
An' mony a happy day
Did o'er us pass away,
Beside the bonnie rowan bush
In yon lane glen.

Sax bonnie bairns had we
In yon lane glen--
Lads an' lassies young an' spree,
In yon lane glen;
An' a blither family
Than ours there cou'dna be,
Beside the bonnie rowan bush
In yon lane glen.

Now my auld wife's gane awa'
Frae yon lane glen,
An' though summer sweet doth fa'
On yon lane glen--
To me its beauty's gane,
For, alake! I sit alane
Beside the bonnie rowan bush
In yon lane glen.

BONNIE BESSIE LEE.

Bonnie Bessie Lee had a face fu' o' smiles,
And mirth round her ripe lip was aye dancing slee;
And light was the footfa', and winsome the wiles,
O' the flower o' the parochin, our ain Bessie Lee!
Wi' the bairns she would rin, and the school laddies paik,
And o'er the broomy braes like a fairy would flee,
Till auld hearts grew young again wi' love for her sake--
There was life in the blithe blink o' bonnie Bessie Lee!

She grat wi' the waefu', and laughed wi' the glad,
And light as the wind 'mang the dancers was she;
And a tongue that could jeer, too, the little limmer had,
Whilk keepit aye her ain side for bonnie Bessie Lee!
She could sing like the lintwhite that sports 'mang the whins,
An' sweet was her note as the bloom to the bee--
It has aft thrilled my heart whaur our wee burnie rins,
Where a' thing grew fairer wi' bonnie Bessie Lee.[27]

And she whiles had a sweetheart, and sometimes had twa,
A limmer o' a lassie; but atween you and me,
Her warm wee bit heartie she ne'er threw awa',
Though mony a ane had sought it frae bonnie Bessie Lee.
But ten years had gane since I gazed on her last--
For ten years had parted my auld hame and me--
And I said to mysel', as her mither's door I passed,
Will I ever get anither kiss frae bonnie Bessie Lee?

But Time changes a' thing--the ill-natured loon!
Were it ever sae rightly, he 'll no let it be;
And I rubbit at my e'en, and I thought I would swoon,
How the carle had come roun' about our ain Bessie Lee!
The wee laughing lassie was a gudewife grown auld,
Twa weans at her apron, and ane on her knee,
She was douce too, and wise-like--and wisdom's sae cauld;
I would rather hae the ither ane than this Bessie Lee.

FOOTNOTES:

[27] The last four lines of this stanza are not the production of Nicoll, but have been contributed for the present work by Mr Alexander Wilson, of Perth. The insertion of the lines prevents the occurrence of a half stanza, which has hitherto interfered with the singing of this popular song.

ARCHIBALD STIRLING IRVING.

Archibald Stirling Irving was born in Edinburgh on the 18th of December 1816. His father, John Irving, Writer to the Signet, was the intimate early friend of Sir Walter Scott, and is "the prosperous gentleman" referred to in the general Introduction to the Waverley Novels. Having a delicate constitution, young Irving was unable to follow any regular profession, but devoted himself, when health permitted, to the concerns of literature. He made himself abundantly familiar with the Latin classics, and became intimately conversant with the more distinguished British poets. Possessed of a remarkably retentive memory, he could repeat some of the longest poems in the language. Receiving a handsome annuity from his father, he resided in various of the more interesting localities of Scottish scenery, some of which he celebrated in verse. He published anonymously, in 1841, a small volume of "Original Songs," of which the song selected for the present work may be regarded as a favourable specimen. He died at Newmills, near Ardrossan, on the 20th September 1851, in his thirty-fifth year. Some time before his death, he exclusively devoted himself to serious reflection and Scriptural reading. He married in October 1850, and his widow still survives.

THE WILD-ROSE BLOOMS.

TUNE--_"Caledonia."_

The wild-rose blooms in Drummond woods,
The trees are blossom'd fair,
The lake is smiling to the sun,
And Mary wand'ring there.
The powers that watch'd o'er Mary's birth
Did nature's charms despoil;
They stole for her the rose's blush,
The sweet lake's dimpled smile.

The lily for her breast they took,
Nut-brown her locks appear;
But when they came to make her eyes,
They robb'd the starry sphere.
But cruel sure was their design,
Or mad-like their device--
For while they filled her eyes with fire,
They made her heart of ice.

ALEXANDER A. RITCHIE.[28]

Alexander Abernethy Ritchie, author of "The Wells o' Wearie," was born in the Canongate, Edinburgh, in 1816. In early youth he evinced a lively appreciation of the humorous and the pathetic, and exhibited remarkable artistic talent, sketching from nature with fidelity and ease. His parents being in humble circumstances, he was apprenticed as a house-painter, and soon became distinguished for his skill in the decorative branch of his profession. On the expiry of his apprenticeship, he cultivated painting in a higher department of the art, and his pictures held a highly respectable place at the annual exhibitions of the Scottish Academy. Among his pictures which became favourites may be mentioned the "Wee Raggit Laddie," "The Old Church Road," "The Gaberlunzie," "Tak' your Auld Cloak about ye," and "The Captive Truant." His illustrations of his friend, Mr James Ballantine's works, "The Gaberlunzie's Wallet" and "The Miller of Deanhaugh," and of some other popular works, evince a lively fancy and keen appreciation of character. He executed a number of water-colour sketches of the more picturesque and interesting lanes and alleys of Edinburgh; and contributed to the _Illustrated London News_ representations of remarkable events as they occurred in the Scottish capital. He died suddenly at St John's Hill, Canongate, Edinburgh, in 1850, in the thirty-fourth year of his age. Ritchie was possessed of a vast fund of humour, and was especially esteemed for the simplicity of his manners and his kindly dispositions. He excelled in reading poetry, whether dramatic or descriptive, and sung his own songs with intense feeling. He lived with his aged mother, whom he regarded with dutiful affection, and who survives to lament his loss. Shortly before his death he composed the following hymn, which has been set to appropriate music:--

Father of blissfulness,
Grant me a resting-place
Now my sad spirit is longing for rest.
Lord, I beseech Thee,
Deign Thou to teach me
Which path to heaven is surest and best:
Lonely and dreary,
Laden and weary,
Oh! for a home in the land of the blest!

Father of holiness,
Look on my lowliness;
From this sad bondage, O Lord, set me free;
Grant that, 'mid love and peace,
Sorrow and sin may cease,
While in the Saviour my trust it shall be.
When Death's sleep comes o'er me,
On waking--before me
The portals of glory all open I 'll see.

FOOTNOTES:

[28] We are indebted to Mr James Ballantine, of Edinburgh, for the particulars contained in this memoir.

THE WELLS O' WEARIE.

AIR--_"Bonnie House o' Airlie."_

Sweetly shines the sun on auld Edinbro' toun,
And mak's her look young and cheerie;
Yet I maun awa' to spend the afternoon
At the lanesome Wells o' Wearie.

And you maun gang wi' me, my winsome Mary Grieve,
There 's nought in the world to fear ye;
For I ha'e ask'd your minnie, and she has gi'en ye leave
To gang to the Wells o' Wearie.

Oh, the sun winna blink in thy bonnie blue e'en,
Nor tinge the white brow o' my dearie,
For I 'll shade a bower wi' rashes lang and green
By the lanesome Wells o' Wearie.

But, Mary, my love, beware ye dinna glower
At your form in the water sae clearly,
Or the fairy will change you into a wee, wee flower,
And you 'll grow by the Wells o' Wearie.

Yestreen as I wander'd there a' alane,
I felt unco douf and drearie,
For wanting my Mary, a' around me was but pain
At the lanesome Wells o' Wearie.

Let fortune or fame their minions deceive,
Let fate look gruesome and eerie;
True glory and wealth are mine wi' Mary Grieve,
When we meet by the Wells o' Wearie.

Then gang wi' me, my bonnie Mary Grieve,
Nae danger will daur to come near ye;
For I ha'e ask'd your minnie, and she has gi'en ye leave,
To gang to the Wells o' Wearie.

ALEXANDER LAING.

One of the simplest and most popular of the living national song-writers, Alexander Laing, was born at Brechin on the 14th May 1787. His father, James Laing, was an agricultural labourer. With the exception of two winters' schooling, he was wholly self-taught. Sent to tend cattle so early as his eighth year, he regularly carried books and writing-materials with him to the fields. His books were procured by the careful accumulation of the halfpence bestowed on him by the admirers of his juvenile tastes. In his sixteenth year, he entered on the business of a flax-dresser, in his native town--an occupation in which he was employed for a period of fourteen years. He afterwards engaged in mercantile concerns, and has latterly retired from business. He now resides at Upper Tenements, Brechin, in the enjoyment of a well-earned competency.

Mr Laing early wrote verses. In 1819, several songs from his pen appeared in the "Harp of Caledonia"--a respectable collection of minstrelsy, edited by John Struthers. He subsequently became a contributor to the "Harp of Renfrewshire" and the "Scottish Minstrel," edited by R. A. Smith. His lyrics likewise adorn the pages of Robertson's "Whistle Binkie" and the "Book of Scottish Song." He published, in 1846, a collected edition of his poems and songs, in a duodecimo volume, under the designation of "Wayside Flowers." A second edition appeared in 1850. He has been an occasional contributor to the local journals; furnished a number of anecdotes for the "Laird of Logan," a humorous publication of the west of Scotland; and has compiled some useful elementary works for the use of Sabbath-schools. His lyrics are uniformly pervaded by graceful simplicity, and the chief themes of his inspiration are love and patriotism. Than his song entitled "My Ain Wife," we do not know a lay more beautifully simple. His "Hopeless Exile" is the perfection of tenderness.

AE HAPPY HOUR.

AIR--_"The Cock Laird."_

The dark gray o' gloamin',
The lone leafy shaw,
The coo o' the cushat,
The scent o' the haw;
The brae o' the burnie,
A' bloomin' in flower,
An' twa' faithfu' lovers,
Make ae happy hour.

A kind winsome wifie,
A clean canty hame,
An' smilin' sweet babies
To lisp the dear name;
Wi' plenty o' labour,
An' health to endure,
Make time to row round aye
The ae happy hour.

Ye lost to affection,
Whom avarice can move
To woo an' to marry
For a' thing but love;
Awa' wi' your sorrows,
Awa' wi' your store,
Ye ken na the pleasure
O' ae happy hour.

LASS, GIN YE WAD LO'E ME.

AIR--_"Lass, gin I come near you."_

"Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me,
Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me,
Ye'se be ladye o' my ha',
Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me.
A canty but, a cosie ben,
Weel plenish'd ye may trow me;
A brisk, a blithe, a kind gudeman--
Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me!"

"Walth, there 's little doubt ye ha'e,
An' bidin' bein an' easy;
But brisk an' blithe ye canna be,
An' you sae auld an' crazy.
Wad marriage mak' you young again?
Wad woman's love renew you?
Awa', ye silly doitet man,
I canna, winna lo'e you!"

"Witless hizzie, e'en 's you like,
The ne'er a doit I 'm carin';
But men maun be the first to speak,
An' wanters maun be speerin'.
Yet, lassie, I ha'e lo'ed you lang,
An' now I'm come to woo you;
I 'm no sae auld as clashes gang,
I think you 'd better lo'e me."

"Doitet bodie! auld or young,
Ye needna langer tarry,
Gin ane be loutin' o'er a rung,
He 's no for me to marry.
Gae hame an' ance bethink yoursel'
How ye wad come to woo me,
An' mind me i' your latter-will,
Bodie, gin ye lo'e me!"

LASS OF LOGIE.

AIR--_"Lass of Arranteenie."_

I 've seen the smiling summer flower
Amang the braes of Yarrow;
I 've heard the raving winter wind
Amang the hills of Barra;
I 've wander'd Scotland o'er and o'er,
Frae Teviot to Strathbogie;
But the bonniest lass that I ha'e seen
Is bonnie Jean of Logie.

Her lips were like the heather bloom,
In meekest dewy morning;
Her cheeks were like the ruddy leaf,
The bloomy brier adorning;
Her brow was like the milky flower
That blossoms in the bogie;
And love was laughing in her een--
The bonnie lass of Logie.

I said, "My lassie, come wi' me,
My hand, my hame are ready;
I ha'e a lairdship of my ain,
And ye shall be my ladye.
I 've ilka thing baith out and in,
To make you blithe and vogie;"
She hung her head and sweetly smiled--
The bonnie lass of Logie!

But she has smiled, and fate has frown'd,
And wrung my heart with sorrow;
The bonnie lass sae dear to me
Can never be my marrow.
For, ah! she loves another lad--
The ploughman wi' his cogie;
Yet happy, happy may she be,
The bonnie lass of Logie!

MY AIN WIFE.

AIR--_"John Anderson, my Jo."_

I wadna gi'e my ain wife
For ony wife I see;
For, Oh! my dainty ain wife,
She 's aye sae dear to me.
A bonnier yet I 've never seen,
A better canna be;
I wadna gi'e my ain wife
For ony wife I see.

Though beauty is a fadin' flower,
As fadin' as it 's fair,
It looks fu' well in ony wife,
An' mine has a' her share.
She ance was ca'd a bonnie lass--
She 's bonnie aye to me;
I wadna gi'e my ain wife
For ony wife I see.

Oh, couthy is my ingle-cheek,
An' cheery is my Jean;
I never see her angry look,
Nor hear her word on ane.
She 's gude wi' a' the neebours roun',
An' aye gude wi' me;
I wadna gi'e my ain wife
For ony wife I see.

But Oh, her looks sae kindly,
They melt my heart outright,
When ower the baby at her breast
She hangs wi' fond delight.
She looks intill its bonnie face,
An' syne looks to me;
I wadna gi'e my ain wife
For ony wife I see.

THE MAID O' MONTROSE.

AIR--_"O tell me the Way for to Woo."_

O sweet is the calm dewy gloaming,
When saftly by Rossie-wood brae,
The merle an' mavis are hymning
The e'en o' the lang summer's day!
An' sweet are the moments when o'er the blue ocean,
The full moon arising in majesty glows;
An' I, breathing o'er ilka tender emotion,
Wi' my lovely Mary, the Maid o' Montrose.

The fopling sae fine an' sae airy,
Sae fondly in love wi' himsel',
Is proud wi' his ilka new dearie,
To shine at the fair an' the ball;
But gie me the grove where the broom's yellow blossom
Waves o'er the white lily an' red smiling rose,
An' ae bonnie lassie to lean on my bosom--
My ain lovely Mary, the Maid o' Montrose.

O what is the haill warld's treasure,
Gane nane o' its pleasures we prove?
An' where can we taste o' true pleasure,
Gin no wi' the lassie we love?
O sweet are the smiles an' the dimples o' beauty,
Where lurking the loves an' the graces repose;
An' sweet is the form an' the air o' the pretty,
But sweeter is Mary, the Maid o' Montrose.

O Mary, 'tis no for thy beauty,
Though few are sae bonnie as thee;
O Mary, 'tis no for thy beauty,
Though handsome as woman can be.
The rose bloom is gane when the chill autumn's low'ring;
The aik's stately form when the wild winter blows;
But the charms o' the mind are the ties mair enduring--
These bind me to Mary, the Maid o' Montrose.

JEAN OF ABERDEEN.

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

Ye 've seen the blooming rosy brier,
On stately Dee's wild woody knowes;
Ye 've seen the op'ning lily fair,
In streamy Don's gay broomy howes:
An' ilka bonnie flower that grows,
Amang their banks and braes sae green--
These borrow a' their finest hues
Frae lovely Jean of Aberdeen.

Ye 've seen the dew-ey'd bloomy haw,
When morning gilds the welkin high;
Ye 've heard the breeze o' summer blaw,
When e'ening steals alang the sky.
But brighter far is Jeanie's eye,
When we 're amang the braes alane,
An' softer is the bosom-sigh
Of lovely Jean of Aberdeen.

Though I had a' the valleys gay,
Around the airy Bennochie;
An' a' the fleecy flocks that stray
Amang the lofty hills o' Dee;
While Mem'ry lifts her melting ee,
An' Hope unfolds her fairy scene,
My heart wi' them I'd freely gie
To lovely Jean of Aberdeen.

THE HOPELESS EXILE.

AIR--_"Alas! for Poor Teddy Macshane."_

Oh! where has the exile his home?
Oh! where has the exile his home?
Where the mountain is steep,
Where the valley is deep,
Where the waves of the Ohio foam;
Where no cheering smile
His woes may beguile--
Oh! there has the exile his home.

Oh! when will the exile return?
Oh! when will the exile return?
When our hearts heave no sigh,
When our tears shall be dry,
When Erin no longer shall mourn;
When his name we disown,
When his mem'ry is gone--
Oh! then will the exile return!

GLEN-NA-H'ALBYN.[29]

AIR--_"O rest thee, my Darling."_

On the airy Ben-Nevis the wind is awake,
The boat 's on the shallow, the ship on the lake;
Ah! now in a moment my country I leave;
The next I am far away--far on the wave!
Oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, Glen-na-h'Albyn!
Oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, Glen-na-h'Albyn!

I was proud of the power and the fame of my chief,
And to build up his House was the aim of my life;
And now in his greatness he turns me away,
When my strength is decay'd and my locks worn gray.
Oh! fare thee well!

Farewell the gray stones of my ancestors' graves,
I go to my place 'neath the foam of the waves;
Or to die unlamented on Canada's shore,
Where none of my fathers were gathered before!
Oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, Glen-na-h'Albyn!
Oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, Glen-na-h'Albyn!

FOOTNOTES:

[29] "Glen-na-h'Albyn, or Glen-more-na-h'Albyn, the great Glen of Caledonia, is a name applied to the valley which runs in a direction from north-east to south-west, the whole breadth of the kingdom, from the Moray Firth at Inverness to the Sound of Mull below Fort-William, and is almost filled with lakes."

ALEXANDER CARLILE.

Alexander Carlile was born at Paisley in the year 1788. His progenitors are said to have been remarkable for their acquaintance with the arts, and relish for elegant literature. His eldest brother, the late Dr Carlile of Dublin attained much eminence as a profound thinker and an accomplished theologian. Having received a liberal education, first at the grammar-school of Paisley, and afterwards in the University of Glasgow, the subject of this sketch settled as a manufacturer in his native town. Apart from the avocations of business, much of his time has been devoted to the concerns of literature; he has contributed to the more esteemed periodicals, and composed verses for several works on the national minstrelsy. At an early period he composed the spirited and popular song, beginning "Oh, wha's at the window, wha, wha?" which has since obtained a place in all the collections. His only separate publication, a duodecimo volume of "Poems," appeared in 1855, and has been favourably received. Mr Carlile is much devoted to the interests of his native town, and has sedulously endeavoured to promote the moral and social welfare of his fellow-townsmen. His unobtrusive worth and elegant accomplishments have endeared him to a wide circle of friends. His latter poetical compositions have been largely pervaded by religious sentiment.

WHA'S AT THE WINDOW?[30]

Oh, wha's at the window, wha, wha?
Oh, wha's at the window, wha, wha?
Wha but blithe Jamie Glen,
He 's come sax miles and ten,
To tak' bonnie Jeannie awa, awa,
To tak' bonnie Jeannie awa.

He has plighted his troth, and a', and a',
Leal love to gi'e, and a', and a',
And sae has she dune,
By a' that 's abune,
For he lo'es her, she lo'es him, 'bune a', 'bune a',
He lo'es her, she lo'es him, 'bune a'.

Bridal-maidens are braw, braw,
Bridal-maidens are braw, braw,
But the bride's modest e'e,
And warm cheek are to me
'Bune pearlins, and brooches, and a', and a',
'Bune pearlins, and brooches, and a'.

It 's mirth on the green, in the ha', the ha',
It 's mirth on the green, in the ha', the ha';
There 's quaffing and laughing,
There 's dancing and daffing,
And the bride's father 's blithest of a', of a',
The bride's father 's blithest of a'.

It 's no that she 's Jamie's ava, ava,
It 's no that she 's Jamie's ava, ava,
That my heart is sae eerie
When a' the lave 's cheerie,
But it 's just that she 'll aye be awa, awa,
It 's just that she 'll aye be awa.

FOOTNOTES:

[30] The title of this song seems to have been suggested by that of a ballad recovered by Cromek, and published in his "Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song," p. 219. The first line of the old ballad runs thus: "Oh, who is this under my window."--ED.

MY BROTHERS ARE THE STATELY TREES.

My brothers are the stately trees
That in the forests grow;
The simple flowers my sisters are,
That on the green bank blow.
With them, with them, I am a child
Whose heart with mirth is dancing wild.

The daisy, with its tear of joy,
Gay greets me as I stray;
How sweet a voice of welcome comes
From every trembling spray!
How light, how bright, the golden-wing'd hours
I spend among those songs and flowers!

I love the Spirit of the Wind,
His varied tones I know;
His voice of soothing majesty,
Of love and sobbing woe;
Whate'er his varied theme may be,
With his my spirit mingles free.

I love to tread the grass-green path,
Far up the winding stream;
For there in nature's loneliness,
The day is one bright dream.
And still the pilgrim waters tell
Of wanderings wild by wood and dell.

Or up the mountain's brow I toil
Beneath a wid'ning sky,
Seas, forests, lakes, and rivers wide,
Crowding the wondering eye.
Then, then, my soul on eagle's wings,
To cloudless regions upwards springs!

The stars--the stars! I know each one,
With all its soul of love,
They beckon me to come and live
In their tearless homes above;
And then I spurn earth's songs and flowers,
And pant to breathe in heaven's own bowers.

THE VALE OF KILLEAN.

O yes, there 's a valley as calm and as sweet
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;
So bland in its beauty, so rich in its green,
'Mid Scotia's dark mountains--the Vale of Killean.

The flocks on its soft lap so peacefully roam,
The stream seeks the deep lake as the child seeks its home,
That has wander'd all day, to its lullaby close,
Singing blithe 'mid the wild-flowers, and fain would repose.

How solemn the broad hills that curtain around
This sanctuary of nature, 'mid a wilderness found,
Whose echoes low whisper, "Bid the world farewell,
And with lowly contentment here peacefully dwell!"

Then build me a cot by that lake's verdant shore,
'Mid the world's wild turmoil I 'll mingle no more,
And the tidings evoking the sigh and the tear,
Of man's crimes and his follies, no more shall I hear.

Young Morn, as on tiptoe he ushers the day,
Will teach fading Hope to rekindle her ray;
And pale Eve, with her rapture tear, soft will impart
To the soul her own meekness--a rich glow to the heart.

The heavings of passion all rocked to sweet rest,
As repose its still waters, so repose shall this breast;
And 'mid brightness and calmness my spirit shall rise,
Like the mist from the mountain to blend with the skies.

JOHN NEVAY.

John Nevay, the bard of Forfar, was born in that town on the 28th of January 1792. He was educated at the schools of his native place, and considerably improved himself in classical learning, at an early age, under the tuition of Mr James Clarke, sometime master of the Burgh School, and the friend and correspondent of Burns. Fond of solitary rambles in the country, he began, while a mere youth, to portray in verse his impressions of the scenery which he was in the habit of surveying. He celebrated the green fields, the lochs and mountains near the scene of his nativity, and was rewarded with the approving smiles of the family circle. Acquiring facility in the production of verses, he was at length induced to venture on a publication. In 1818 he gave to the world a "Pamphlet of Rhymes," which, obtaining a ready sale, induced him to publish a second small collection of verses in 1821. After an interval devoted to mental improvement, he appeared, in 1834, as the author of "The Peasant, a Poem in Nine Cantos, with other Poems," in one volume, 12mo. In the following year he published "The Child of Nature, and other Poems," in a thin duodecimo volume. In 1853 he printed, by subscription, a third volume, entitled "Rosaline's Dream, in Four Duans, and other Poems," which was accompanied with an introductory essay by the Rev. George Gilfillan. His latest production--"The Fountain of the Rock, a Poem"--appeared in a pamphlet form, in 1855. He has repeatedly written prose tales for the periodicals, and has contributed verses to _Blackwood's Magazine_ and the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_.

From the labour of a long career of honourable industry, John Nevay is now enjoying the pleasures of retirement. He continues to compose verses with undiminished ardour, and has several MS. poems ready for the press. He has also prepared a lengthened autobiography. As a poet, his prevailing themes are the picturesque objects of nature. His lyrical pieces somewhat lack simplicity. His best production--"The Emigrant's Love-letter"--will maintain a place in the national minstrelsy. It was composed during the same week with Motherwell's "Jeanie Morrison," which it so peculiarly resembles both in expression and sentiment.

THE EMIGRANT'S LOVE-LETTER.

My young heart's luve! twal' years ha'e been
A century to me;
I ha'e na seen thy smile, nor heard
Thy voice's melodie.
The mony hardships I ha'e tholed
Sin' I left Larocklea,
I maun na tell, for it would bring
The saut tear in thine e'e.

But I ha'e news, an' happy news,
To tell unto my love--
What I ha'e won, to me mair dear
That it my heart can prove.
Its thochts unchanged, still it is true,
An' surely sae is thine;
Thou never, never canst forget
That twa waur ane langsyne.

The simmer sun blinks on the tarn,
An' on the primrose brae,
Where we, in days o' innocence,
Waur wont to daff an' play;
An' I amang the mossy springs
Wade for the hinny blooms--
To thee the rush tiara wove,
Bedeck'd wi' lily plumes.

When on the ferny knowe we sat,
A happy, happy pair--
Thy comely cheek laid on my knee,
I plaited thy gowden hair.
Oh! then I felt the holiest thocht
That e'er enter'd my mind--
It, Mary, was to be to thee
For ever true an' kind.

Though fair the flowers that bloom around
My dwallin' owre the sea--
Though bricht the streams, an' green the bowers,
They are na _sae_ to me.
I hear the bulbul's mellow leed
Upo' the gorgeous paum--
The sweet cheep o' the feather'd bee
Amang the fields o' baum.

But there are nae auld Scotland's burds,
Sae dear to childhood's days--
The laverock, lintie, shulf, an' yyoite,
That taught us luve's sweet lays.
Gin' thou e'er wauk'st alane to think
On him that's owre the sea,
Their cheerfu' saft luve-lilts will tell
My heart's luve-thochts to thee.

Lat joy be in thy leal, true heart,
An' bricht smile in thine e'e--
The bonnie bark is in the bay,
I 'm coming hame to thee;
I 'm coming hame to thee, Mary,
Wi' mony a pearl fine,
An' I will lay them in thy lap,
For the kiss o' sweet langsyne.

THOMAS LYLE.