Chapter II: Part 2

Influenced in his youth by the genius of the locality in which he was born, to which the Ayrshire Ploughman had left a legacy of immortal song, succeeded by Allan Cunningham, and a number of distinguished followers, it was not, however, till he had been two years a denizen of the metropolis that Mr Bennoch's Scottish feeling sought to vent itself in verse. The love of country is as inherent and vehement in the children of the North as in the Swiss mountaineers; wheresoever they wander from it, their hearts yearn towards the fatherland--

"Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
Land of their sires"--

with the same cherished and enduring affection which excites in the _Rans des Vaches_ so overpowering a sympathy. And the pastoral is perhaps even more replete with the poetical elements than the "stern and wild." It is amid such scenes as the Doon, the Tweed, the Teviot, the Ettrick, the Gala, and the Nith adorn, that the jaded senses are prone to seek recreation, and the spirit, tired with work or worn with cares, flees rejoicingly from the world to the repose of its first breathing and time-sweetened, boyish delights. Thus we find young Bennoch, amid the clatter of the great city, turning to the quiet of his native valley to sing the charms of the Nith, where he

"Had paidlet i' the burn,
And pu'd the gowans fine."

It was in the _Dumfries Courier_ that his first poetic essay found its way to print. That journal was then edited by the veteran M'Diarmid, himself an honour to the literature of Scotland, and no mean judge of its poetry. A cheer from such a quarter was worth the winning, and our aspirant fairly won it, by the five stanzas of which the following is the last:--

"The flowers may fade upon your banks,
The breckan on the brae,
But, oh! the love I ha'e for thee
Shall never pass away.
Though age may wrinkle this smooth brow,
And youth be like a dream,
Still, still my voice to heaven shall rise
For blessings on your stream!"

But banks and braes, and straths and streams, and woods and waves, though very dear to memory, merely come up to the painted beauties of descriptive verse. They must be warmed through

"The dearest theme
That ever waked the poet's dream,"

and love must fill the vision, before the soul can soar above the delicious but inanimate charms of earth, into the glowing region of human feeling and passion.

"In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed;
In war, he mounts the warrior's steed;
In halls, in gay attire is seen;
In hamlets, dances on the green.
Love rules the court, the camp, the grove,
And man below, and saints above:
For love is heaven, and heaven is love!"

Nor was this essential inspiration wanting in the breast of the young bard. The climate of Caledonia is cold, but that the hearts of her sons are susceptible of tropic warmth is shewn by a large proportion of her lyric treasures. Heroism, pathos, satire, and a peculiar quaint humour, present little more than an equal division, and the attributes of the wholly embodied Scottish muse attest the truth of the remark on the characteristic heat and fire which pervade her population, and excite them to daring in war and ardour in gentler pursuits. Thus Bennoch sung his Mary, Jessie, Bessie, Isabel, and other belles, but above all his Margaret:--

"The moon is shining, Margaret,
Serenely bright above,
And, like my dearest Margaret,
Her every look is love!
The trees are waving, Margaret,
And balmy is the air,
Where flowers are breathing, Margaret,
Come, let us wander there.

* * * * *

Yes! there 's a hand, dear Margaret,
A heart it gives to thee;
When heaven is false, my Margaret,
Then I may faithless be."

In the volume whence the preceding quotations are taken (second edition, 1843), the principal poem is "The Storm," in which occur many passages of singular vigour, and slighter touches of genuine poetry. Thus--

"The sea, by day so smooth and bright,
Is far more lovely seen by night,
When o'er old Ocean's wrinkled brow,
The night has hung her silver bow,
And stars in myriads ope their eyes
To guide the footsteps of the wise,
And in the deep reflected lie,
Till Ocean seems a second sky;
And ships, like wing'd aerial cars,
Are voyaging among the stars."

This is--

"Ere winter comes with icy chain,
And clanks his fetters o'er the ground."

The impersonation of Winter himself is very striking--

"Loud, loud were the shouts of his boisterous mirth,
As he scatter'd dismay o'er the smiling earth;
The clouds were rent as the storm was driven;
He howl'd and laugh'd in the face of heaven."

The temperament and inclination cherished by the love of song, naturally seek the companionship of similar tastes and congenial enjoyments. Thus, in the midst of the turmoil and distractions of orders and sales, invoices and shipments, Mr Bennoch has always found leisure to pay his court to literature, and cultivate the society of those whose talents adorn it. Conjoined with this, a skilful appreciation of works of art has led him to intimate relations with many of the leading artists of our time. The interesting Biography of Haydon affords a glimpse at the character of some of these relations. Wherever disappointed and however distressed, poor Haydon "claimed kindred here, and had his claim allowed." To his mercantile friend in Wood Street he never applied in vain. To a very considerable extent his troubles were solaced, his difficulties surmounted, his dark despair changed to golden hope, and the threat of the gaol brightened into another free effort of genius to redeem itself from the thralls of law and grinding oppression. Had his generous friend not been absent from England at the fatal time, it is very probable that the dreadful catastrophe would have been averted; but he only landed from the continent to receive the shocking intelligence that all was over. Friendship could but shed the unavailing tear, but it did not forget or neglect the dear family interests for which (in some measure) the despairing sacrifice was made. It is to be hoped that such an unhappy event has been somewhat compensated by the social intercourse with talent ever hospitably cherished, not only in his pleasant home in Blackheath Park, but amid the precious hours that could be snatched from most active engagements in Wood Street. At either, authors and artists are constantly met; and the brief snatches alluded to are often so heartily occupied as to rival, if not surpass, the slower motions of the more prolonged entertainments. Both may boast of "the feast of reason and the flow of soul," and a crowning increase to these enjoyments is derived from the circumstance, that Mr Bennoch's connexions with the Continent, and more especially with the United States, contribute very frequently to engraft upon these "re-unions" a variety of eminent foreigners and intellectual citizens of America. It is a trite saying, that few men can be good or useful abroad who are not happy at home. Mr Bennoch has been fortunate in wedded life. She who is the theme of many of his sweetest and most touching verses, is a woman whom a poet may love and a wise man consult; in whom the sociable gentleman finds an ever cheerful companion, and the husband a loving and devoted friend.

Among the latest of Mr Bennoch's movements in literary affairs, may be mentioned his services on behalf of the late estimable Mary Russell Mitford. Through his intervention the public was gratified by the issue of "Atherton," and other tales, and also by a collected edition of her dramatic works, which she dedicated to him as an earnest of her affectionate regard.

Mr Bennoch is a member of the Society of Arts, the Royal Society of Antiquaries, the Royal Society of Literature, and the Scottish Literary Institute.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The present Memoir has been prepared at our request by the veteran William Jerdan, late of the _Literary Gazette_.

TRUTH AND HONOUR.

If wealth thou art wooing, or title, or fame,
There is that in the doing brings honour or shame;
There is something in running life's perilous race,
Will stamp thee as worthy, or brand thee as base.
Oh, then, be a man--and, whatever betide,
Keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide.

If a king--be thy kingship right royally shewn,
And trust to thy subjects to shelter thy throne;
Rely not on weapons or armies of might,
But on that which endureth,--laws loving and right.
Though a king, be a man--and, whatever betide,
Keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide.

If a noble--remember, though ancient thy blood,
The heart truly noble is that which is good;
Should a stain of dishonour encrimson thy brow,
Thou art slave to the peasant that sweats at the plough.
Be noble as man--and, whatever betide,
Keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide.

If lover or husband--be faithful and kind,
For doubting is death to the sensitive mind;
Love's exquisite passion a breath may destroy;
The sower in faith, reapeth harvests of joy.
Love dignifies man--and, whatever betide,
Keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide.

If a father--be firm, yet forgiving, and prove
How the child honours him who rebuketh with love.
If rich, or if poor, or whate'er thou may'st be,
Remember the truthful alone are the free.
Erect in thy manhood, whatever betide,
Keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide.

Then, though sickness may come, or misfortunes may fall,
There is that in thy bosom surviveth them all;
Truth, honour, love, friendship, no tempests can pale,
They are beacons of light in adversity's gale.
Oh, the manlike is godlike--no ill shall betide
While truth 's thy companion, and honour thy guide.

OUR SHIP.[2]

A song, a song, brave hearts, a song,
To the ship in which we ride,
Which bears us along right gallantly,
Defying the mutinous tide.
Away, away, by night and day,
Propelled by steam and wind,
The watery waste before her lies,
And a flaming wake behind.
Then a ho and a hip to the gallant ship
That carries us o'er the sea,
Through storm and foam, to a western home
The home of the brave and free.

With a fearless bound to the depths profound,
She rushes with proud disdain,
While pale lips tell the fears that swell,
Lest she never should rise again.
With a courser's pride she paws the tide,
Unbridled by bit I trow,
While the churlish sea she dashes with glee
In a cataract from her prow.
Then a ho and a hip, &c.

She bears not on board a lawless horde,
Piratic in thought or deed,
Yet the sword they would draw in defence of law,
In the nation's hour of need.
Professors and poets, and merchant men
Whose voyagings never cease;
From shore to shore, the wide world o'er,
Their bonds are the bonds of peace.
Then a ho and a hip, &c.

She boasts the brave, the dutiful,
The aged and the young,
And woman bright and beautiful,
And childhood's prattling tongue.
With a dip and a rise, like a bird she flies,
And we fear not the storm or squall;
For faithful officers rule the helm,
And heaven protects us all.
Then a ho and a hip to the gallant ship
That carries us o'er the sea,
Through storm and foam, to a western home,
The home of the brave and free.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] Composed on board the steamship Niagara, on her voyage to New York, in August 1849.

AULD PETER MACGOWAN.

AIR--_'The Brisk Young Lad.'_

Auld Peter MacGowan cam down the craft,
An' rubbit his han's an' fidged an' laugh't;
O little thought he o' his wrinkled chaft,
When he wanted me to lo'e;
He patted my brow an' smooth'd my chin,
He praised my e'en an' sleek white skin,
Syne fain wad kiss; but the laugh within
Came rattlin' out, I trew.
O sirs, but he was a canty carle,
Wi' rings o' gowd, an' a brooch o' pearl,
An' aye he spoke o' his frien' the Earl,
And thought he would conquer lo'e.

He boasted o' gear an' acres wide,
O' his bawsand youd that I should ride
When I was made his bonny wee bride,
Returning lo'e for lo'e;
That I a lady to kirk should gang,
Ha'e writ my virtues in a sang;
But I snapp'd my thumb, and said, "gae hang,
Gin that's the best ye can do."
O sirs, but he was a silly auld man,
Nae mair he spak' o' his gear an' lan';
An' through the town like lightning ran,
The tale o' auld Peter's lo'e.

An' sae the auld carle spiel'd up the craft,
And raved and stamp'd like ane gane daft,
Till tears trickled owre his burning chaft,
Sin' he couldna win my lo'e.
"Far better be single," the folk a' said,
"Than a warming pan in an auld man's bed;"
He will be cunning wha gars me wed,
Wi' ane that I never can lo'e;
Na, na! he maun be a fine young lad,
A canty lad, an' a dainty lad;
Oh, he maun be a spirited lad,
Wha thinks to win my lo'e.

THE FLOWER OF KEIR.

O what care I where love was born;
I know where oft he lingers,
Till night's black curtain 's drawn aside,
By morning's rosy fingers.
If you would know, come, follow me,
O'er mountain, moss, and river,
To where the Nith and Scar agree
To flow as one for ever.

Pass Kirk-o'-Keir and Clover lea,
Through loanings red with roses;
But pause beside the spreading tree,
That Fanny's bower encloses.
There, knitting in her shady grove,
Sits Fanny singing gaily;
Unwitting of the chains of love,
She 's forging for us daily.

Like light that brings the blossom forth,
And sets the corn a-growing,
Melts icy mountains in the north,
And sets the streams a-flowing;
So Fanny's eyes, so bright and wise,
Shed loving rays to cheer us,
Her absence gives us wintry skies,
'Tis summer when she 's near us!

O, saw ye ever such a face,
To waken love and wonder;
A brow with such an arch of grace,
And blue eyes shining under!
Her snaring smiles, sweet nature's wiles,
Are equall'd not by many;
Her look it charms, her love it warms,
The flower of Keir is Fanny.

CONSTANCY.

Oh! I have traversed lands afar,
O'er mountains high, and prairies green;
Still above me like a star,
Serene and bright thy love has been;
Still above me like a star,
To gladden, guide, and keep me free
From every ill. Oh, life were chill,
Apart, my love, apart from thee.

Other eyes might beam as bright,
And other cheeks as rosy be;
Other arms as pure and white,
And other lips as sweet to pree;
But ruddy lips, or beaming eyes,
However fond and fair to see,
I could not, would not love or prize
Apart, my love, apart from thee.

Other friendships I have known,
Friendships dear, and pure, and kind;
Liking soon to friendship grown,
Love is friendship's ore refined.
Oh, what is life, with love denied?
A scentless flower, a leafless tree;
My song with love,--my love with pride,
Are full,--my love, are full of thee.

MY BONNIE WEE WIFIE.

My bonnie wee wifie, I 'm waefu' to leave thee,
To leave thee sae lanely, and far frae me;
Come night and come morning, I 'll soon be returning;
Then, oh, my dear wifie, how happy we 'll be!
Oh, cauld is the night, and the way dreigh and dreary,
The snaw 's drifting blindly o'er moorland an' lea;
All nature looks eerie. How can she be cheery,
Since weel she maun ken I am parted frae thee?

Oh, wae is the lammie, that 's lost its dear mammy,
An' waefu' the bird that sits chirping alane;
The plaints they are making, their wee bit hearts breaking,
Are throbbings o' pleasure compared wi' my pain.
The sun to the simmer, the bark to the timmer,
The sense to the soul, an' the light to the e'e,
The bud to the blossom, sae thou 'rt to my bosom;
Oh, wae 's my heart, wifie, when parted frae thee.

There 's nae guid availing in weeping or wailing,
Should friendship be failing wi' fortune's decay;
Love in our hearts glowing, its riches bestowing,
Bequeaths us a treasure life takes not away.
Let nae anxious feeling creep o'er thy heart, stealing
The bloom frae thy cheek when thou 'rt thinking of me;
Come night and come morning, I 'll then be returning;
Nae mair, cozie wifie, we parted shall be.

THE BONNIE BIRD.

Oh, where snared ye that bonnie, bonnie bird?
Oh, where wiled ye that winsome fairy?
I fear me it was where nae truth was heard,
And far frae the shrine o' guid St Mary.

I didna snare the bonnie, bonnie bird,
Nor try ony wiles wi' the winsome fairy,
But won her young heart where the angels heard,
In the bowery glen of Inverary.

And what want ye wi' sic a bonnie bird?
I fear me its plumes ye will ruffle sairly;
Or bring it low down to the lane kirkyard,
Where blossoms o' grace are planted early.

As life I love my bonnie, bonnie bird,
Its plumage shall never be ruffled sairly;
To the day o' doom I will keep my word,
An' cherish my bonnie bird late an' early.

Oh, whence rings out that merry, merry peal?
The laugh and the sang are cherish'd rarely;
It is--it is the bonny, bonny bird,
Wi' twa sma' voices a' piping early.

For he didna snare that bonny, bonny bird,
Nor did he beguile the winsome fairy,
He had made her his ain, where the angels heard,
At the holy shrine o' the blest St Mary.

COME WHEN THE DAWN.

Come when the dawn of the morning is breaking,
Gold on the mountain-tops, mist on the plain,
Come when the clamorous birds are awaking
Man unto duty and pleasure again;
Bright let your spirits be,
Breathing sweet liberty,
Drinking the rapture that gladdens the brain.

High o'er the swelling hills shepherds are climbing,
Down in the meadows the mowers are seen,
Haymakers singing, and village bells chiming;
Lasses and lads lightly trip o'er the green,
Flying, pursuing,
Toying, and wooing--
Nature is now as she ever has been.

Then when the toils of the day are all over,
Gathered, delighted, set round in a ring--
Youth, with its mirthfulness--age, with its cheerfulness,
Brimful of happiness, cheerily sing,
"Bright may our spirits be--
Happy and ever free.
Blest are the joys that from innocence spring."

GOOD MORROW.[3]

Good morrow, good morrow! warm, rosy, and bright,
Glow the clouds in the east, laughing heralds of light;
Whilst still as the glorious colours decay,
Full gushes of music seem tracking their way.
Hark! hark!
Is it the sheep-bell among the ling,
Or the early milkmaid carolling?
Hark! hark!
Or is it the lark,
As he bids the sun good-morrow?--
Good-morrow;
Though every day brings sorrow.

The daylight is dying, the night drawing near,
The workers are silent; yet ringing and clear,
From the leafiest tree in the shady bowers,
Comes melody falling in silvery showers.
Hark! hark!
Is it the musical chime on the hill,
That sweetly ringeth when all is still?
Hark! hark!
Oh, sweeter than lark,
Is the nightingale's song of sorrow,
Of sorrow;
But pleasure will come to-morrow.

FOOTNOTES:

[3] One of the stanzas of this song is the composition of the late Mary Russell Mitford and appears in her tale of Atherton. The other stanza was composed by Mr Bennoch, at the urgent request of his much loved friend.

OH, WAE'S MY LIFE.

Oh, wae's my life, and sad my heart,
The saut tears fill my e'e, Willie,
Nae hope can bloom this side the tomb,
Since ye hae gane frae me, Willie.
O' warl's gear I couldna' boast,
But now I'm poor indeed, Willie;
The last fond hope I leant upon,
Has fail'd me in my need, Willie.

For wealth or fame ye've left your Jean,
Forgat your plighted vow, Willie;
Can honours proud dispel the cloud,
That darkens on your brow, Willie?
Oh, was I then a thing sae mean,
For nought but beauty prized, Willie;
Caress'd a'e day, then flung away,
A fading flower despised, Willie?

Sin' love has fled, and hope is dead,
Soon my poor heart maun break, Willie;
As your ain life, oh, guard your wife--
I 'll love her for your sake, Willie.
Through my despair, oh, mony a prayer,
Will rise for her and ye, Willie;
That ye may prove to her, in love,
Mair faithfu' than to me, Willie.

HEY, MY BONNIE WEE LASSIE.

Hey, my bonnie wee lassie,
Blythe and cheerie wee lassie,
Will ye wed a canty carle,
Bonnie, bonnie wee lassie?

I ha'e sheep, an' I ha'e kye,
I ha'e wheat, an' I ha'e rye,
An' heaps o' siller, lass, forbye,
That ye shall spen' wi' me, lassie!
Hey, my bonnie wee lassie,
Blythe and cheerie wee lassie,
Will ye wed a canty carle,
Bonnie, bonnie wee lassie?

Ye shall dress in damask fine,
My goud and gear shall a' be thine,
And I to ye be ever kin'.
Say,--will ye marry me, lassie?
Hey, my bonnie wee lassie,
Blythe and cheerie wee lassie,
Will ye wed a canty carle,
Bonnie, smiling wee lassie?

Gae hame, auld man, an' darn your hose,
Fill up your lanky sides wi' brose,
An' at the ingle warm your nose;
But come na courtin' me, carle.
Oh, ye tottering auld carle,
Silly, clavering auld carle,
The hawk an' doo shall pair, I trew,
Before I pair wi' ye, carle!

Your heart is cauld an' hard as stanes,
Ye ha'e nae marrow in your banes,
An' siller canna buy the brains
That pleasure gie to me, carle!
Oh, ye tottering auld carle,
Silly, clavering auld carle,
The hound an' hare may seek ae lair,
But I'll no sleep wi' ye, carle.

I winna share your gowd wi' ye,
Your withering heart, an' watery e'e;
In death I'd sooner shrouded be
Than wedded to ye, auld carle!
Oh, ye tottering auld carle,
Silly, clavering auld carle,
When roses blaw on leafs o' snaw,
I'll bloom upon your breast, carle.

But there's a lad, an' I'm his ain,
May heaven blessings on him rain!
Though plackless, he is unco fain,
And he's the man for me, carle!
Oh, youth an' age can ne'er agree;
Though rich, you're no the man for me.
Gae hame, auld carle, prepare to dee;
Pray heaven to be your bride, carle.

BESSIE.

Oh, mony a year has come and gane,
An' mony a weary day,
Sin' frae my hame, my mountain hame,
I first was lured away,
To wander over unco lands,
Far, far ayont the sea;
But no to find a land like this,
The hame o' Bess an' me!

I've traversed mony a dreary land,
Across the braid, braid sea;
But, oh, my native mountain hame,
My thochts were aye wi' thee.
As certain as the sun wad rise,
And set ahint the sea,
Sae constant, Bessie, were my prayers,
At morn an' nicht for thee;

When I return'd unto my hame,
The hills were clad wi' snow;
Though they look'd cold and cheerless, love,
My heart was in a glow.
Though keen the wintry north wind blew,
Like summer 'twas to me;
For, Bess, my frame was warm wi' love,
Of country, kindred, thee!

Nae flower e'er hail'd wi' sweeter smiles
Returning sunny beams,
Than I then hailed my native hame,
Its mountains, woods, and streams.
Now we are met, my bonnie Bess,
We never mair will part;
Although to a' we seem as twa,
We only hae ae heart!

We 'll be sae loving a' the nicht,
Sae happy a' the day,
That though our bodies time may change,
Our love shall ne'er decay:
As gently as yon lovely stream
Declining years shall run,
An' life shall pass frae our auld clay,
As snow melts 'neath the sun.

COURTSHIP.

Yestreen on Cample's bonnie flood
The summer moon was shining;
While on a bank in Chrichope wood
Two lovers were reclining:
They spak' o' youth, an' hoary age,
O' time how swiftly fleeting,
Of ilka thing, in sooth, but ane,--
The reason of their meeting!

When Willie thoucht his heart was firm,
An' might declare its feeling,
A glance frae Bessy's starry een
Sent a' his senses reeling;
For aye when he essay'd to speak,
An' she prepared to hear him,
The thought in crimson dyed his cheek,
But words would no come near him!

'Tis ever thus that love is taught
By his divinest teacher;
He silent adoration seeks,
But shuns the prosy preacher.
Now read me right, ye gentle anes,
Nor deem my lesson hollow;
The deepest river silent rins,
The babbling brook is shallow.

TOGETHER.

Together, dearest, we have play'd,
As girl and boy together;
Through storm and calm, in sun and shade,
In spring and wintry weather.
Oh! every pang that stinging came
But made our love the dearer;
If danger lower'd--'twas all the same,
We only clung the nearer.

In riper years, when all the world
Lay bathed in light before us,
And life in rainbow hues unfurl'd
Its glowing banner o'er us,
Amid the beauty storms would rise
And flowers collapsing wither,
While open friends turned hidden foes--
Yet were we blest together.

But now the battle's fought and won,
And care with life is flying,
While, setting slowly like the sun,
Ambition's fires are dying.
We gather hope with fading strength,
And go, we know not whither,
Contented if in death at last
We sleep in peace together.

FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE.

With lofty song we love to cheer
The hearts of daring men;
Applauded thus, they gladly hear
The trumpet's call again.
But now we sing of lowly deeds
Devoted to the brave,
Where she, who stems the wound that bleeds,
A hero's life may save:
And heroes saved exulting tell
How well her voice they knew;
How sorrow near it could not dwell,
But spread its wings and flew.

Neglected, dying in despair,
They lay till woman came
To soothe them with her gentle care,
And feed life's flickering flame.
When wounded sore, on fever's rack,
Or cast away as slain,
She called their fluttering spirits back
And gave them strength again.
'Twas grief to miss the passing face
That suffering could dispel;
But joy to turn and kiss the place
On which her shadow fell.[4]

When words of wrath profaning rung,
She moved with pitying grace;
Her presence still'd the wildest tongue,
And holy[5] made the place.
They knew that they were cared for then,
Their eyes forgot their tears;
In dreamy sleep they lost their pain,
And thought of early years--
Of early years, when all was fair,
Of faces sweet and pale.
They woke: the angel bending there
Was--Florence Nightingale!

FOOTNOTES:

[4] She would speak to one and to another, and nod and smile to many more, but she could not do it to all; but we could kiss her shadow as it fell, and lay our heads on the pillow again, content.--_Soldier's Letter from the Crimea._

[5] "Before she came there was cussin' and swearin', but after that it was as holy as a church."--_Ibid._

JOSEPH MACGREGOR.

The writer of several good songs, which have been published with music, Joseph Macgregor, followed the profession of an accountant in Edinburgh. Expert as a man of business, he negotiated the arrangement of the city affairs at the period of the municipal bankruptcy. A zealous member of the Liberal party, he took a prominent interest in the Reform Bill movement, and afterwards afforded valuable assistance in the election of Francis Jeffrey as one of the representatives of the city in Parliament. He latterly occupied Ramsay Lodge, the residence of the poet Allan Ramsay, where he died about the year 1845, at a somewhat advanced age. The following songs from his pen are published by the kind permission of Messrs Robertson & Co., musicsellers, Edinburgh.

LADDIE, OH! LEAVE ME.

Down whar the burnie rins whimplin' and cheery,
When love's star was smilin', I met wi' my dearie;
Ah! vain was its smilin'--she wadna believe me,
But said wi' a saucy air, "Laddie, oh! leave me;
Leave me, leave me, laddie, oh! leave me."

"I 've lo'ed thee o'er truly to seek a new dearie,
I 've lo'ed thee o'er fondly, through life e'er to weary,
I 've lo'ed thee o'er lang, love, at last to deceive thee;
Look cauldly or kindly, but bid me not leave thee;"
Leave thee, leave thee, &c.

"There 's nae ither saft e'e that fills me wi' pleasure,
There 's nae ither rose-lip has half o' its treasure,
There 's nae ither bower, love, shall ever receive me,
Till death break this fond heart--oh! then I maun leave thee;"
Leave thee, leave thee, &c.

The tears o'er her cheeks ran like dew frae red roses;
What hope to the lover one tear-drop discloses!
I kiss'd them, and blest her--at last to relieve me
She yielded her hand, and sigh'd, "Oh! never leave me;"
Leave me, leave me, &c.

HOW BLYTHELY THE PIPE.

AIR--_"Kinloch of Kinloch."_

How blythely the pipe through Glenlyon was sounding,
At morn when the clans to the merry dance hied;
And gay were the love-knots, o'er hearts fondly bounding,
When Ronald woo'd Flora, and made her his bride.
But war's banner streaming soon changed their fond dreaming--
The battle-cry echoed, around and above
Broad claymores were glancing, and war-steeds were prancing;
Up, Ronald! to arms for home and your love.

All was hush'd o'er the hill, where love linger'd despairing,
With her bride-maids still deck'd in their gay festal gear!
And she wept as she saw them fresh garlands preparing,
Which might laurel Love's brow, or be strew'd o'er his bier!
But cheer thee, fond maiden--each wild breeze is laden
With victory's slogan, through mountain and grove;
Where death streams were gushing, and war-steeds were rushing,
Lord Ronald has conquer'd for home and for love!

WILLIAM DUNBAR, D.D.

A native of Dumfries, William Dunbar, received his elementary education in that town. Having studied at the University of Edinburgh, he was in 1805 licensed as a probationer of the Established Church. During the vacations of his theological curriculum, and the earlier portion of his probationary career, he resided chiefly in the Hebrides. At this period he composed the popular song, entitled, "The Maid of Islay," the heroine being a Miss Campbell of the island of Islay. In several collections the song has been erroneously ascribed to Joseph Train. Mr Dunbar was, in May 1807, ordained to the parish of Applegarth, Dumfriesshire. Long reputed as one of the most successful cultivators of the honey-bee, Dr Dunbar was, in 1840, invited to prepare a treatise on the subject for the entomological series of the "Naturalist's Library." His observations were published, without his name, in a volume of the series, with the title, "The Natural History of Bees, comprehending the uses and economical management of the British and Foreign Honey-Bee; together with the known wild species. Illustrated by thirty-six plates, coloured from nature, with portrait and memoir of Huber." The publication has been pronounced useful to the practical apiarian and a valuable contribution to the natural history of the honey-bee.

In the fiftieth year of his pastorate, Dr Dunbar enjoys the veneration of a flock, of whom the majority have been reared under his ministerial superintendence.

THE MAID OF ISLAY.

Rising o'er the heaving billow,
Evening gilds the ocean's swell,
While with thee, on grassy pillow,
Solitude! I love to dwell.
Lonely to the sea-breeze blowing,
Oft I chant my love-lorn strain,
To the streamlet sweetly flowing,
Murmur oft a lover's pain.

'Twas for her, the Maid of Islay,
Time flew o'er me wing'd with joy;
'Twas for her, the cheering smile aye
Beam'd with rapture in my eye.
Not the tempest raving round me,
Lightning's flash or thunder's roll;
Not the ocean's rage could wound me,
While her image fill'd my soul.

Farewell, days of purest pleasure,
Long your loss my heart shall mourn!
Farewell, hours of bliss the measure,
Bliss that never can return!
Cheerless o'er the wild heath wand'ring,
Cheerless o'er the wave-worn shore,
On the past with sadness pond'ring,
Hope's fair visions charm no more.

WILLIAM JERDAN.

The well known editor of the _Literary Gazette_, William Jerdan, was born at Kelso, Roxburghshire, on the 16th April 1782. The third son and seventh child of John Jerdan, a small land proprietor and baron-bailie under the Duke of Roxburghe, his paternal progenitors owned extensive possessions in the south-east of Scotland. His mother, Agnes Stuart, a woman of superior intelligence, claimed descent from the Royal House of Stuart. Educated at the parochial school of his native town, young Jerdan entered a lawyer's office, with a view to the legal profession. Towards literary pursuits his attention was directed through the kindly intercourse of the Rev. Dr Rutherford, author of the "View of Ancient History," who then assisted the minister of Kelso, and subsequently became incumbent of Muirkirk. In 1801 he proceeded to London, where he was employed as clerk in a mercantile establishment. Returning to Scotland, he entered the office of a Writer to the Signet; but in 1804 he resumed his connexion with the metropolis. Suffering from impaired health, he was taken under the care of a maternal uncle, surgeon of the _Gladiator_ guard-ship. On the recommendation of this relative, he served as a seaman for a few months preceding February 1806. A third time seeking the literary world of London, he became reporter to the _Aurora_, a morning paper, of temporary duration. In January 1807, he joined the _Pilot_, an evening paper. Subsequently, he was one of the conductors of the _Morning Post_ and a reporter for the _British Press_. Purchasing the copyright of the _Satirist_, he for a short time edited that journal. In May 1813, he became conductor of _The Sun_, an appointment which he retained during a period of four years, but was led to relinquish from an untoward dispute with the publisher. He now entered on the editorship of the _Literary Gazette_, which he conducted till 1850, and with which his name will continue to be associated.

During a period of nearly half a century, Mr Jerdan has occupied a prominent position in connexion with literature and politics. He was the first person who seized Bellingham, the murderer of Percival, in the lobby of the House of Commons. With Mr Canning he was on terms of intimacy. In 1821 he aided in establishing the Royal Society of Literature. He was one of the founders of the Melodist's Club, for the promotion of harmony, and of the Garrick Club, for the patronage of the drama. In the affairs of the Royal Literary Fund he has manifested a deep interest. In 1830 he originated, in concert with other literary individuals, the _Foreign Literary Gazette_, of which he became joint-editor. About the same period, he wrote the biographical portion of Fisher's "National Portrait Gallery." In 1852-3 appeared his "Autobiography," in four volumes; a work containing many curious details respecting persons of eminence. In 1852 Mr Jerdan's services to literature were acknowledged by a pension of £100 on the Civil List, and about the same time he received a handsome pecuniary testimonial from his literary friends.

THE WEE BIRD'S SONG.[6]

I heard a wee bird singing,
In my chamber as I lay;
The casement open swinging,
As morning woke the day.
And the boughs around were twining,
The bright sun through them shining,
And I had long been pining,
For my Willie far away--
When I heard the wee bird singing.

He heard the wee bird singing,
For its notes were wondrous clear;
As if wedding bells were ringing,
Melodious to the ear.
And still it rang that wee bird's song;
Just like the bells--dong-ding, ding-dong;
While my heart beat so quick and strong--
It felt that he was near!
And he heard the wee bird singing.

We heard the wee bird singing,
After brief time had flown;
The true bells had been ringing,
And Willie was my own.
And oft I tell him, jesting, playing,
I knew what the wee bird was saying,
That morn, when he, no longer straying,
Flew back to me alone.
And we love the wee bird singing.

FOOTNOTES:

[6] Here first published.

WHAT MAKES THIS HOUR?

What makes this hour a day to me?
What makes this day a year?
My own love promised we should meet--
But my own love is not here!
Ah! did she feel half what I feel,
Her tryst she ne'er would break;
She ne'er would lift this heart to hope,
Then leave this heart to ache;
And make the hour a day to me,
And make the day a year;
The hour she promised we should meet--
But my own love is not here.

Alas! can she inconstant prove?
Does sickness force her stay?
Or is it fate, or failing love,
That keeps my love away,
To make the hour a day to me,
And make the day a year?
The hour and day we should have met--
But my own love is not here.

ALEXANDER BALD.

Alexander Bald was born at Alloa, on the 9th June 1783. His father, who bore the same Christian name, was a native of Culross, where he was originally employed in superintending the coal works in that vicinity, under the late Earl of Dundonald. He subsequently became agent for the collieries of John Francis Erskine, afterwards Earl of Mar. A book of arithmetical tables and calculations from his pen, entitled, "The Corn-dealer's Assistant," was long recognised as an almost indispensable guide for tenant farmers.

The subject of this notice was early devoted to literary pursuits. Along with his friend, Mr John Grieve, the future patron of the Ettrick Shepherd, he made a visit to the forest bard, attracted by the merit of his compositions, long prior to his public recognition as a poet. He established a literary association in his native town, entitled, "The Shakspeare Club;" which, at its annual celebrations, was graced by the presence of men of genius and learning. To the _Scots' Magazine_ he became a poetical contributor early in the century. A man of elegant tastes and Christian worth, Mr Bald was a cherished associate of the more distinguished literary Scotsmen of the past generation. During the period of half a century, he has conducted business in his native town as a timber merchant and brick manufacturer. His brother, Mr Robert Bald, is the distinguished mining engineer.

THE LILY OF THE VALE.[7]

TUNE--_'Ye banks and braes o' bonny Doon.'_

The lily of the vale is sweet,
And sweeter still the op'ning rose,
But sweeter far my Mary is
Than any blooming flower that blows.
Whilst spring her fragrant blossoms spreads,
I'll wander oft by Mary's side;
And whisper saft the tender tale,
By Forth, sweet Forth's meandering tide.

There will we walk at early dawn,
Ere yet the sun begins to shine;
At eve oft, too, the lawn we'll tread,
And mark that splendid orb's decline.
The fairest, choicest flowers I'll crop,
To deck my lovely Mary's hair;
And while I live, I vow and swear,
She'll be my chief--my only care.

FOOTNOTES:

[7] This song was originally Published in the _Scots' Magazine_ for October 1806. In the "Book of Scottish Song," it has been attributed to Allan Ramsay.

HOW SWEET ARE THE BLUSHES OF MORN.

How sweet are the blushes of morn,
And sweet is the gay blossom'd grove;
The linnet chants sweet from the thorn,
But sweeter's the smile of my love.

Awhile, my dear Mary, farewell,
Since fate has decreed we should part;
Thine image shall still with me dwell,
Though absent, you'll reign in my heart.

But by winding Devon's green bowers,
At eve's dewy hour as I rove,
I'll grieve for the pride of her flowers,
And the pride of her maidens, my love.

The music shall cease in the grove,
Thine absence the linnet shall mourn;
But the lark, in strains bearing love,
Soft warbling, shall greet thy return.

GEORGE WILSON.

George Wilson was born on the 20th June 1784, in the parish of Libberton, and county of Lanark. Deprived of both his parents early in life, he was brought to the house of his paternal uncle, who rented a sheep-farm in the vicinity of Peebles. At the burgh school of that place he received an ordinary education, and in his thirteenth year hired himself as a cow-herd. Passing through the various stages of rural employment at Tweedside, he resolved to adopt a trade, and in his eighteenth year became apprenticed to his maternal uncle, a cabinetmaker in Edinburgh. On fulfilling his indenture, he accepted employment as a journeyman cabinetmaker; he subsequently conducted business on his own account. In 1831 he removed from Edinburgh to the village of Corstorphine, in the vicinity; where he continues to reside. He published "The Laverock," a volume of poems and songs, in 1829. The following lyrics from his pen evince no inconsiderable vigour, and seem worthy of preservation.

MILD AS THE MORNING.

AIR--_'Bonnie Dundee.'_

Mild as the morning, a rose-bud of beauty,
Young Mary, all lovely, had come from afar,
With tear-streaming eyes, and a grief-burden'd bosom,
To view with sad horror the carnage of war.
She sought her brave brother with sighing and sorrow;
Her loud lamentations she pour'd out in vain;
The hero had fallen, with kinsmen surrounded,
And deep he lay buried 'mong heaps of the slain.

"Oh! Donald, my brother, in death art thou sleeping?
Or groan'st thou in chains of some barbarous foe?
Are none of thy kindred in life now remaining,
To tell a sad tale of destruction and woe?"
A hero who struggled in death's cold embraces,
Whose bosom, deep gash'd, was all clotted with gore--
"Alas! Lady Mary, the mighty M'Donald,
Will lead his brave heroes to battle no more."

She turn'd, and she gazed all around, much confounded;
The tidings of sorrow sunk deep in her heart;
She saw her brave kinsman laid low, deadly wounded,
He wanted that succour, she could not impart--
"Oh! Murdoch, my kinsman," with hands raised to heaven,
"Thy strength, bloom, and beauty, alas! all are o'er;
And oh, my brave brother, my brave gallant brother,
Lies sleeping beside thee, to waken no more."

THE BEACONS BLAZED.

AIR--_'Cope sent a letter frae Dunbar.'_

The beacons blazed, the banners flew,
The war-pipes loud their pibrochs blew,
The trusty clans their claymores drew,
To shield their Royal Charlie.

Come a' ye chiefs, bring a' your clans,
Frae a' your mountains, muirs, and glens,
Bring a' your spears, swords, dirks, and guns,
To shield and save Prince Charlie.

They, like their fathers, bold and brave,
Came at a call, wi' dirk and glaive;
Of danger fearless, sworn to save
Or fa' for Royal Charlie.

Famed Scotia's chiefs, intrepid still,
Led forth their tribes frae strath and hill,
And boldly dared, wi' right guid will,
To shield their Royal Charlie.

The forests and the rocks replied
To shouts which rung both far and wide:
Our prince is come, his people's pride--
Oh, welcome hame, Prince Charlie!

Thee, Scotia's rightful prince we own;
We'll die, or seat thee on the throne,
Where many a Scottish king has shone;
The sires o' Royal Charlie.

No faithful Scot now makes a pause;
Plain truth and justice plead thy cause;
Each fearlessly his weapon draws,
To shield and save Prince Charlie.

Now, lead us on against thy foes;
Thy rightful claim all Europe knows;
We'll scatter death with all our blows,
To shield and save Prince Charlie.

Now, chiefs and clans, your faith display,
By deathless deeds in battle day,
To stretch them pale on beds of clay,
The foes of Royal Charlie.

THE RENDEZVOUS.

Warlike chieftains now assembled,
Fame your daring deeds shall tell,
Fiercest foes have fear'd and trembled,
When you raised your warlike yell.
Bards shall sing when battle rages,
Scotia's sons shall victors be;
Bards shall sing in after ages,
Caledonians aye were free.

Blest be every bold avenger,
Cheer'd the heart that fears no wound;
Dreadful in the day of danger
Be each chieftain ever found.

Let the hills our swords have shielded,
Ring to every hero's praise;
And the tribes who never yielded,
Their immortal trophies raise.

Heroes brave, be ever ready,
At your king and country's call;
When your dauntless chiefs shall lead you,
Let the foe that dares you fall.

Let the harp to strains resounding,
Ring to cheer the dauntless brave;
Let the brave like roes come bounding
On to glory or a grave.

Let your laurels never-fading,
Gleam like your unconquer'd glaive;
Where your thistle springs triumphant,
There let freedom's banner wave.

JOHN YOUNGER.

John Younger, the shoemaker of St Boswells, and author of the Prize Essay on the Sabbath, has some claim to enrolment among the minstrels of his country. He was born on the 5th July 1785, at Longnewton village, in the parish of Ancrum, and county of Roxburgh. So early as his ninth year, he began to work at his father's trade of a shoemaker. In 1810 he married, and commenced shoemaking in the village of St Boswells, where he has continued to reside. Expert in his original profession, he has long been reputed for his skill in dressing hooks for Tweed angling; the latter qualification producing some addition to his emoluments. He holds the office of village postmaster.

A man of superior intellect and varied information, John Younger enjoys the respect of a wide circle of friends. His cottage is the resort of anglers of every rank; and among his correspondents he enumerates the most noted characters of the age. Letter writing is his favourite mode of recreation, and he has preserved copies of his letters in several interesting volumes. He has published a poetical _brochure_ with the title, "Thoughts as they Rise;" also a "Treatise on River Angling." His Prize Essay on the Sabbath, entitled, "The Light of the Week," was published in 1849, and has commanded a wide circulation. Of his lyrical effusions we have selected the following from his MS. collection.

ILKA BLADE O' GRASS GETS ITS AIN DRAP O' DEW.

Oh, dinna be sae sair cast down,
My ain sweet bairnies dear,
Whatever storms in life may blaw,
Take nae sic heart o' fear.
Though life's been aye a checker'd scene
Since Eve's first apple grew,
Nae blade o' grass has been forgot
O' its ain drap o' dew.

The bonnie flowers o' Paradise,
And a' that 's bloom'd sinsyne,
By bank an' brae an' lover's bower,
Adown the course o' time,
Or 'neath the gardener's fostering hand,--
Their annual bloom renew,
Ilk blade o' grass has had as weel
Its ain sweet drap o' dew.

The oaks and cedars of the earth
May toss their arms in air,
Or bend beneath the sweeping blast
That strips the forest bare;
The flower enfolds while storms o'erpass,
Till sunshine spreads anew,
And sips, as does ilk blade o' grass,
Its lucent drap o' dew.

The great may loll in world's wealth
And a' the pomp o' state,
While labour, bent wi' eident cares,
Maun toil baith ear and late.
The poor may gae to bed distrest,
With nae relief in view,
And rising, like ilk blade o' grass,
Shine wi' the pearl o' dew.

Oh, what a gentle hand is His
That cleeds the lilies fair,
And o' the meanest thing in life
Takes mair than mother's care!
Can ye no put your trust in Him,
With heart resign'd and true,
Wha ne'er forgets to gie the grass,
Ilk blade its drap o' dew.

THE MONTH OF JUNE.

O June, ye spring the loveliest flowers
That a' our seasons yield;
Ye deck sae flush the greenwood bowers,
The garden, and the field;
The pathway verge by hedge and tree,
So fresh, so green, and gay,
Where every lovely blue flower's e'e
Is opening to the day.

The river banks and craggy peaks
In wilding blossoms drest;
With ivy o'er their jutting nooks
Ye screen the ouzel's nest;
From precipice, abrupt and bold,
Your tendrils flaunt in air,
With craw-flowers dangling living gold
Ye tuft the steep brown scaur.

Your foliage shades the wild bird's nest
From every prying e'e,
With fairy fingers ye invest
In woven flowers the lea;
Around the lover's blissful hour
Ye draw your leafy screen,
And shade those in your rosy bower,
Who love to muse unseen.

JOHN BURTT.

John Burtt was born about the year 1790, at Knockmarloch, in the parish of Riccarton, and county of Ayr. With a limited school education, he was apprenticed to a weaver in Kilmarnock; but at the loom he much improved himself in general scholarship, especially in classical learning. In his sixteenth year he was decoyed into a ship of war at Greenock, and compelled to serve on board. Effecting his escape, after an arduous servitude of five years, he resumed the loom at Kilmarnock. He subsequently taught an adventure school, first in Kilmarnock, and afterwards at Paisley. The irksome labours of sea-faring life he had sought to relieve by the composition of verses; and these in 1816 he published, under the title of "Horæ Poeticæ; or, the Recreations of a Leisure Hour." In 1817 he emigrated to the United States, where his career has been prosperous. Having studied theology at Princeton College, New Jersey, he became a licentiate of the Presbyterian Church, and was appointed to a ministerial charge at Salem. In 1831 he removed to Philadelphia, where he edited a periodical entitled the _Presbyterian_. Admitted in 1833 to a Presbyterian Church in Cincinnati, he there edited the _Standard_, a religious newspaper. In August 1835, he was promoted to a chair in the Theological Seminary of that place.

O'ER THE MIST-SHROUDED CLIFFS.[8]

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

O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the gray mountain straying,
Where the wild winds of winter incessantly rave;
What woes wring my heart while intently surveying
The storm's gloomy path on the breast of the wave?
Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail,
Ere ye toss me afar from my loved native shore;
Where the flower which bloom'd sweetest in Coila's green vale,
The pride of my bosom--my Mary 's no more.

No more by the banks of the streamlet we 'll wander,
And smile at the moon's rimpled face in the wave;
No more shall my arms cling with fondness around her,
For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her grave.
No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast--
I haste with the storm to a far distant shore,
Where, unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest,
And joy shall revisit my bosom no more.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] This song has been erroneously assigned to Burns.

O! LASSIE, I LO'E DEAREST!

O! lassie, I lo'e dearest!
Mair fair to me than fairest,
Mair rare to me than rarest,
How sweet to think o' thee.
When blythe the blue e'ed dawnin'
Steals saftly o'er the lawnin',
And furls night's sable awnin',
I love to think o' thee.

An' while the honey'd dew-drap
Still trembles at the flower-tap,
The fairest bud I pu't up,
An' kiss'd for sake o' thee.
An' when by stream or fountain,
In glen, or on the mountain,
The lingering moments counting,
I pause an' think o' thee.

When the sun's red rays are streamin',
Warm on the meadow beamin',
Or o'er the loch wild gleamin',
My heart is fu' o' thee.
An' tardy-footed gloamin',
Out o'er the hills slow comin',
Still finds me lanely roamin',
And thinkin' still o' thee.

When soughs the distant billow,
An' night blasts shake the willow,
Stretch'd on my lanely pillow,
My dreams are a' o' thee.
Then think when frien's caress thee,
Oh, think when cares distress thee,
Oh, think when pleasures bless thee,
O' him that thinks o' thee.

CHARLES JAMES FINLAYSON.

Charles James Finlayson was born on the 27th August 1790, in the parish of Larbert, and county of Stirling. Owing to the death of his father during his childhood, and the poverty of the family, he was never at school. While a cow-herd to a farmer, he taught himself letters in the fields. With a fine ear for music and an excellent voice, he took delight in singing such scraps of old ballads as he had learned from the cottage matrons. The small gratuities which he procured for holding the horses of the farmers at the annual Falkirk _trysts_, put him in possession of all the printed ballad literature which that town could supply. In his eleventh year he entered, in a humble capacity, the Carron Iron Works; where he had some opportunity of improving himself in scholarship, and gratifying his taste for books. He travelled from Carron to Glasgow, a distance of twenty-three miles, to procure a copy of Ossian. Improving his musical predilections, he was found qualified, while still a young man, to officiate as precentor, or leader of the psalmody, in the church of his native parish. Resigning this appointment, and his situation in the Carron Works, he for some time taught church music in the neighbouring towns. On an invitation from the Kirk-session and congregation, he became precentor in the Old Kirk, Edinburgh; and in this office gained the active friendship of the respected clergyman, Dr Macknight.