Chapter III: Part 3

Having attained a scientific acquaintance with the theory and practice of his art, Mr Finlayson resigned his appointment in the capital, and proceeded to the provinces as an instructor in vocal music. He visited the principal towns in the east and southern districts of Scotland, and was generally successful. During his professional visit to Dumfries in 1820, he became one of the founders of the Burns' Club in that town. After a short absence in Canada, he settled in Kircudbright as a wine and spirit merchant. In 1832 he was appointed to the office of postmaster. Having retired from business a few years since, he enjoys the fruits of a well-earned competency. He has contributed songs to Blackie's "Book of Scottish Song," and other collections. His song beginning "Oh, my love 's bonnie!" has been translated into German, and published with music at Leipsic.

THE BARD STRIKES HIS HARP.

The bard strikes his harp, the wild woods among,
And echo repeats to the breezes his strain;
Enraptured, the small birds around his seat throng,
And the lambkins, delighted, stand mute on the plain.
He sings of the pleasures his young bosom knew,
When beauty inspired him, and love was the theme;
While his harp, ever faithful, awakes them anew,
And a tear dims his eye as he breathes the loved name.

The hearths that bade welcome, the tongues that gave praise,
Are now cold to his sorrows, and mute to his wail!
E'en the oak, his sole shelter, rude winter decays,
And the wild flowers he sung are laid scentless and pale.
Too oft thus in misery, the minstrel must pine;
Neglected by those whom his song wont to cheer,
They think not, alas! as they view his decline,
That his heart still can feel, and his eye shed a tear.

Yet sweet are the pleasures that spring from his woes,
And which souls that are songless can never enjoy;
They know not his joy, for each sweet strain that flows
Twines a wreath round his name time can never destroy.
Sing on, then, sweet bard! though thus lonely ye stray,
Yet ages unborn, thy name shall revere;
While the names that neglect thee have melted away,
As the snowflakes which fall in the stream disappear.

PH[OE]BUS, WI' GOWDEN CREST.

Ph[oe]bus, wi' gowden crest, leaves ocean's heaving breast
An' frae the purple east smiles on the day;
Laverocks wi' blythesome strain, mount frae the dewy plain,
Greenwood and rocky glen echo their lay;
Wild flowers, wi' op'ning blooms, woo ilka breeze that comes,
Scattering their rich perfumes over the lea;
But summer's varied dye, lark's song, and breezes' sigh,
Only bring sorrow and sadness to me.

Blighted, like autumn's leaf, ilk joy is changed to grief--
Day smiles around, but no pleasure can gie;
Night on his sable wings, sweet rest to nature brings--
Sleep to the weary, but waukin' to me.
Aften has warldly care wrung my sad bosom sair;
Hope's visions fled me, an' friendship's untrue;
But a' the ills o' fate never could thus create
Anguish like parting, dear Annie, frae you.

Farewell, those beaming eyes, stars in life's wintry skies--
Aft has adversity fled frae your ray;
Farewell, that angel smile, stranger to woman's wile,
That ever could beguile sorrow away;
Farewell, ilk happy scene, wild wood, an' valley green,
Where time, on rapture's wing, over us flew;
Farewell, that peace of heart, thou only could'st impart--
Farewell, dear Annie--a long, long adieu!

OH, MY LOVE'S BONNIE.

Oh! my love's bonnie, bonnie, bonnie;
Oh! my love's bonnie and dear to me;
The smile o' her face, and her e'e's witchin' grace,
Are mair than the wealth o' this warld can gie.

Her voice is as sweet as the blackbird at gloamin',
When echo repeats her soft notes to the ear,
And lovely and fresh as the wild roses blooming,
That dip in the stream o' the Carron so clear.

But poortith 's a foe to the peace o' this bosom,
That glows sae devoutly, dear lassie, for thee;
Alas! that e'er poortith should blight love's young blossom,
When riches nae lasting contentment can gie.

Yet hope's cheerfu' sun shall aboon my head hover,
And guide a lone wanderer, when far frae thee;
For ne'er, till it sets, will I prove a false lover,
Or think o' anither, dear lassie, but thee.

WILLIAM DOBIE.

An accomplished antiquary, and writer of verses, William Dobie was born in 1790, in the village of Beith, Ayrshire. Educated at the parish school, he was in his thirteenth year apprenticed to a mechanical profession. At the close of his apprenticeship, he commenced business in his native district. In 1822, the munificence of a wealthy relative enabled him to retire from his occupation, which had proved unsuitable to his tastes. For several years he resided in London. He subsequently made a tour through Britain, and visited the Continent. His "Perambulations in Kintyre," a manuscript volume, is frequently quoted by Mr Cosmo Innes, in his "Origines Parochiales Scotiæ," a valuable work printed for the Bannatyne Club. In 1840 he prepared a history of the parish of Kilbirnie, for the "New Statistical Account." He afterwards published an account of the church and churchyard of Kilbirnie, in an interesting pamphlet. Recently Mr Dobie has superintended the erection of a monument to Sir William Wallace, on Barnweil Hill, near Kilmarnock, which has been reared at the entire cost of William Patrick, Esq., of Roughwood. The greater number of the many spirited inscriptions on the monument are the composition of Mr Dobie.

THE DREARY REIGN OF WINTER 'S PAST.

AIR--_'Loch Errochside.'_

The dreary reign of Winter 's past,
The frost, the snow, the surly blast,
To polar hills are scouring fast;
For balmy Spring 's returning.
Adown Glen-Garnock's lonely vale,
The torrent's voice has ceased to wail;
But soft low notes, borne on the gale,
Dispel dull gloom and mourning.

With toil and long fatigue depress'd,
Exhausted nature sunk oppress'd,
Till waken'd from her slumbering rest,
By balmy Spring returning.
Now in flower'd vesture, green and gay,
Lovelier each succeeding day;
Soon from her face shall pass away,
Each trace of Winter's mourning.

Lo, at her mild benign command,
Life rouses up on every hand;
While bursts of joy o'er all the land,
Hail balmy Spring returning.
E'en murmuring stream and raving linn,
And solemn wood in softened din,
All join great Nature's praise to hymn,
That fled is Winter's mourning.

While all on earth, and in the skies,
In transports fervently rejoice,
Shall man refuse to raise his voice,
And welcome Spring returning?
If such ingrates exist below,
They ne'er can feel the sacred glow,
That Nature and the Muse bestow,
To cheer the gloom of mourning.

ROBERT HENDRY, M.D.

A man of unobtrusive literary merit, and no inconsiderable poetical ability, Robert Hendry was born at Paisley on the 7th October 1791. Descended from a respectable family in Morayshire, his paternal great-grandfather fixed his residence in Glasgow. His grandfather, after serving as a lieutenant under the Duke of Cumberland in Holland, quitted the army, and settled as a silk manufacturer in Paisley. Under the name of "The Hollander," this gentleman had the distinction of being lampooned by Alexander Wilson, during the days of his hot youth, prior to his embarkation for America. Of his two sons, the elder removed to London, where he became senior Alderman, and died on the eve of his nomination as Lord Mayor.

The grandson of "The Hollander," by his second son, the subject of this memoir, was, in his twelfth year, apprenticed to his maternal uncle, a medical practitioner. On the completion of a course of philosophical and medical study at the University of Glasgow, he obtained his diploma, and settled as a surgeon in his native town. Amidst due attention to his professional duties, he became ardently devoted to literary pursuits. Besides conducting several local periodicals, he contributed to some of the more important serials. During the year 1826, which proved so disastrous to the manufacturing interests in Paisley, he devised a scheme for the relief of the unemployed, and his services were appropriately acknowledged by the magistrates. He afterwards sought the general improvement of the burgh, and among many other fiscal and sanitary reforms, succeeded in introducing into the place a supply of excellent water. Declining the provostship offered him by the Town Council, he retired a few years since to the village of Helensburgh, where he continues to reside.

Dr Hendry was an intimate acquaintance of Tannahill; and afterwards ranked among his friends the poet Motherwell and Robert Archibald Smith. He has at various time contributed verses to the periodicals. Latterly his attention has been more especially directed to scientific pursuits.

OH, LET NA GANG YON BONNIE LASSIE.

Oh, let na gang yon bonnie lassie
Cam' to see you a' yestreen;
A winning gate 's about that lassie,
Something mair than meets the een.
Had she na baked the Christmas pasty,
Think ye it had been sae fine?
Or yet the biscuit sae delicious
That we crumpit to the wine?

Her ringlets are the gift o' nature,
Flowing gracefu' o'er her brow;
The turn, the hue o' ilka feature,
Form, and colour, nature drew.
She 's meikle sought, and meikle thought o',
Lang unwedded canna be;
Wi' kindness court the comely creature,
Cast the glaumrie o'er her e'e.

Have ye an ear can be delighted?
Like a seraph she can sing,
Wi' charming grace and witching manner,
Thrilling o'er the music string.
Her tell the tale that moves to pity,
But wi' heart and feeling speak;
Then watch the turn o' ilka feature,
Kiss the tear that weets her cheek.

She sooms na aye in silk or satin,
Flaunting like a modern belle;
Her robe and plaid 's the simple tartan,
Sweet and modest like hersel'.
The shapely robe adorns her person
That her eident hand wad sew;
The plaid sae graceful flung around her,
'Twas her tastefu' manner threw.

She 'll mak' a thrifty loving woman
To a kind weel-doing man,
Forby a tender-hearted mother--
Win the lassie if ye can.
For weel she 's worth your heart and treasure;
May your bridal day be near--
Then half a score o' bairns hereafter--
May ye live a hunder year.

HEW AINSLIE.

Hew Ainslie was born on the 5th April 1792, at Bargeny Mains, in the parish of Dailly, and county of Ayr. Receiving the rudiments of education from a private teacher in his father's house, he entered the parish school of Ballantrae in his tenth year, and afterwards became a pupil in the academy of Ayr. A period of bad health induced him to forego the regular prosecution of learning, and, having quitted the academy, he accepted employment as an assistant landscape gardener on the estate of Sir Hew Dalrymple Hamilton. At the age of sixteen he entered the writing chambers of a legal gentleman in Glasgow, but the confinement of the office proving uncongenial, he took a hasty departure, throwing himself on the protection of some relatives at Roslin, near Edinburgh. His father's family soon after removed to Roslin, and through the kindly interest of Mr Thomas Thomson, Deputy-Clerk Register, he procured a clerkship in the General Register House, Edinburgh. For some months he acted as amanuensis to Professor Dugald Stewart, in transcribing his last work for the press.

Having entered into the married state, and finding the salary of his office in the Register House unequal to the comfortable maintenance of his family, he resolved to emigrate to the United States, in the hope of bettering his circumstances. Arriving at New York in July 1822, he made purchase of a farm in that State, and there resided the three following years. He next made a trial of the Social System of Robert Owen, at New Harmony, but abandoned the project at the close of a year. In 1827 he entered into partnership with Messrs Price & Wood, brewers, in Cincinnati, and set up a branch of the establishment at Louisville. Removing to New Albany, Indiana, he there built a large brewery for a joint-stock company, and in 1832 erected in that place similar premises on his own account. The former was ruined by the great Ohio flood of 1832, and the latter perished by fire in 1834. He has since followed the occupation of superintending the erection of mills and factories; and has latterly fixed his abode in Jersey, a suburb of New York.

Early imbued with the love of song, Mr Ainslie composed verses when a youth on the mountains of Carrick. A visit to his native country in 1820 revived the ardour of his muse; and shortly before his departure to America, he published the whole of his rhyming effusions in a duodecimo volume, with the title, "Pilgrimage to the Land of Burns." A second volume from his pen, entitled, "Scottish Songs, Ballads, and Poems," was in 1855 published at New York.

THE HAMEWARD SANG.

Each whirl of the wheel,
Each step brings me nearer
The hame of my youth--
Every object grows dearer.
Thae hills and thae huts,
And thae trees on that green,
Losh! they glower in my face
Like some kindly auld frien'.

E'en the brutes they look social,
As gif they would crack;
And the sang o' the birds
Seems to welcome me back.
Oh, dear to our hearts
Is the hand that first fed us,
And dear is the land
And the cottage that bred us.

And dear are the comrades
With whom we once sported,
And dearer the maiden
Whose love we first courted.
Joy's image may perish,
E'en grief die away;
But the scenes of our youth
Are recorded for aye.

DOWIE IN THE HINT O' HAIRST.

Its dowie in the hint o' hairst,
At the wa'-gang o' the swallow,
When the wind grows cauld, and the burns grow bauld,
And the wuds are hingin' yellow;
But oh, its dowier far to see
The wa-gang o' her the heart gangs wi',
The dead-set o' a shinin' e'e--
That darkens the weary warld on thee.

There was mickle love atween us twa--
Oh, twa could ne'er be fonder;
And the thing on yird was never made,
That could hae gart us sunder.
But the way of heaven's aboon a' ken,
And we maun bear what it likes to sen'--
It's comfort, though, to weary men,
That the warst o' this warld's waes maun en'.

There's mony things that come and gae,
Just kent, and just forgotten;
And the flowers that busk a bonnie brae,
Gin anither year lie rotten.
But the last look o' that lovely e'e,
And the dying grip she gae to me,
They're settled like eternitie--
Oh, Mary! that I were wi' thee.

ON WI' THE TARTAN.

Can you lo'e, my dear lassie,
The hills wild and free;
Whar' the sang o' the shepherd
Gars a' ring wi' glee?
Or the steep rocky glens,
Where the wild falcons bide?
Then on wi' the tartan,
And, fy, let us ride!

Can ye lo'e the knowes, lassie,
That ne'er war in rigs?
Or the bonnie loune lee,
Where the sweet robin bigs?
Or the sang o' the lintie,
Whan wooin' his bride?
Then on wi' the tartan,
And, fy, let us ride!

Can ye lo'e the burn, lassie,
That loups amang linns?
Or the bonnie green howmes,
Where it cannilie rins,
Wi' a cantie bit housie,
Sae snug by its side?
Then on wi' the tartan,
And, fy, let us ride!

THE ROVER O' LOCHRYAN.

The Rover o' Lochryan, he's gane,
Wi' his merry men sae brave;
Their hearts are o' the steel, an' a better keel
Ne'er bowl'd owre the back o' a wave.
Its no when the loch lies dead in his trough
When naething disturbs it ava;
But the rack and the ride o' the restless tide,
Or the splash o' the gray sea-maw.

Its no when the yawl an' the light skiffs crawl
Owre the breast o' the siller sea;
That I look to the west for the bark I lo'e best,
An' the rover that's dear to me,
But when that the clud lays its cheek to the flud,
An' the sea lays its shouther to the shore;
When the win' sings high, and the sea-whaup's cry,
As they rise frae the whitening roar.

Its then that I look to the thickening rook,
An' watch by the midnight tide;
I ken the wind brings my rover hame,
An' the sea that he glories to ride.
Oh, merry he sits 'mang his jovial crew,
Wi' the helm heft in his hand,
An' he sings aloud to his boys in blue,
As his e'e's upon Galloway's land:

"Unstent and slack each reef an' tack,
Gae her sail, boys, while it may sit;
She has roar'd through a heavier sea afore,
An' she'll roar through a heavier yet.
When landsmen sleep, or wake an' creep,
In the tempest's angry moan,
We dash through the drift, and sing to the lift
O' the wave that heaves us on."

THE LAST LOOK O' HAME.

Bare was our burn brae,
December's blast had blawn,
The last flower was dead,
An' the brown leaf had fa'n:
It was dark in the deep glen,
Hoary was our hill;
An' the win' frae the cauld north,
Cam' heavy and chill:

When I said fare-ye-weel,
To my kith and my kin;
My barque it lay ahead,
An' my cot-house ahin';
I had nought left to tine,
I'd a wide warl' to try;
But my heart it wadna lift,
An' my e'e it wadna dry.

I look'd lang at the ha',
Through the mist o' my tears,
Where the kind lassie lived,
I had run wi' for years;
E'en the glens where we sat,
Wi' their broom-covered knowes,
Took a haud on this heart
That I ne'er can unloose.

I hae wander'd sin' syne,
By gay temples and towers,
Where the ungather'd spice
Scents the breeze in their bowers;
Oh! sic scenes I could leave
Without pain or regret;
But the last look o' hame
I ne'er can forget.

THE LADS AN' THE LAND FAR AWA'.

AIR--_'My ain fireside.'_

When I think on the lads an' the land I hae left,
An' how love has been lifted, an' friendship been reft;
How the hinnie o' hope has been jumbled wi' ga',
Then I sigh for the lads an' the land far awa'.

When I think on the days o' delight we hae seen,
When the flame o' the spirit would spark in the e'en;
Then I say, as in sorrow I think on ye a',
Where will I find hearts like the hearts far awa?

When I think on the nights we hae spent hand in hand,
Wi' mirth for our sowther, and friendship our band,
This world gets dark; but ilk night has a daw',
And I yet may rejoice in the land far awa'!

MY BONNIE WEE BELL.

My bonnie wee Bell was a mitherless bairn,
Her aunty was sour, an' her uncle was stern;
While her cousin was aft in a cankersome mood;
But that hinder'd na Bell growing bonnie and gude.

When we ran to the schule, I was aye by her han',
To wyse off the busses, or help owre a stran';
An' as aulder we grew, a' the neighbours could tell
Hoo my liking grew wi' thee, my bonnie wee Bell.

Thy cousin gangs dinkit, thy cousin gangs drest,
In her silks and her satins, the brawest and best;
But the gloss o' a cheek, the glint o' an e'e,
Are jewels frae heaven, nae tocher can gie.

Some goud, an' some siller, my auld gutcher left,
An' in houses an' mailins I'll soon be infeft;
I've a vow in the heaven, I've an aith wi' thysel',
I'll make room in this world for thee, bonnie Bell.

WILLIAM THOMSON.

William Thomson was born in 1797, in the village of Kennoway, Fifeshire. He has constantly resided in his native place. After obtaining an ordinary education at the parish school, he engaged in the business of a manufacturer. Relinquishing this occupation, he became a grocer and general merchant; and since 1824, he has held the office of Postmaster. He composed verses at an early period. In 1825, some of his verses appeared in the _Paisley Advertiser_, and the favour with which they were received induced him to offer some poetical compositions to the _Fife Herald_, a newspaper which had just been established in the capital of his native county. Under the signature of _Theta_, he has since been a regular contributor of verses to that journal. He has likewise contributed articles in prose and poetry to other newspapers and some of the periodicals.

THE MAIDEN TO HER REAPING HOOK.

The soldier waves the shining sword, the shepherd boy his crook,
The boatman plies the splashing oar, but well I love the hook.
When swift I haste at sunny morn, unto the spreading plain,
And view before me, like a sea, the fields of golden grain,
And listen to the cheerful sound of harvest's echoing horn,
Or join the merry reaper band, that gather in the corn;
How sweet the friendly welcoming, how gladsome every look,
Ere we begin, with busy hands, to wield the Reaping Hook.

My Reaping Hook! my Reaping Hook! I love thee better far,
Than glancing spear and temper'd sword, bright instruments of war;
As thee I grasp with willing hand, and feel a reaper's glee,
When, waving in the rustling breeze, the ripen'd field I see;
Or listen to the harmless jest, the bandsman's cheerful song,
The hearty laugh, the rustic mirth, while mingling 'mid the throng;
With joy I see the well-fill'd sheaf, and mark each rising stook,
As thee I ply with agile arm, my trusty Reaping Hook!

They tell of glorious battle-fields, strew'd thick with heaps of slain!
Alas! the triumphs of the sword bring only grief and pain;
But thou, my shining Reaping Hook, the symbol art of peace,
And fill'st a thousand families with smiles and happiness;
While conquering warrior's burning brand, amid his gory path,
The emblem is of pain and woe, of man's destructive wrath.
Soon therefore may the spear give place unto the shepherd's crook,
And the conqueror's flaming sword be turn'd into a Reaping Hook!

ALEXANDER SMART.

Alexander Smart was born at Montrose on the 26th April 1798. His father was a respectable shoemaker in the place. A portion of his school education was conducted under the care of one Norval, a teacher in the Montrose Academy, whose mode of infusing knowledge he has not unjustly satirised in his poem, entitled "Recollections of Auld Lang Syne." Norval was a model among the tyrant pedagogues of the past; and as an illustration of Scottish school life fifty years since, we present our author's reminiscences of the despot. "Gruesome in visage and deformed in body, his mind reflected the grim and tortuous aspects of his person. The recollection of his monstrous cruelties,--his cruel flagellations,--is still unaccountably depressing. One day of horrors I shall never cease to remember. Every Saturday he caused the pupils to repeat a prayer which he had composed for their use; and in hearing which he stood over each with a paper ruler, ready, in the event of omission of word or phrase, to strike down the unfortunate offender, who all the while drooped tremblingly before him. On one of these days of extorted prayer, I was found at fault in my grammar lesson, and the offence was deemed worthy of peculiar castigation. The school was dismissed at the usual time, but, along with a few other boys who were to become witnesses of my punishment and disgrace, I was detained in the class-room, and dragged to the presence of the tyrant. Despite of his every effort, I resisted being bound to the bench, and flogged after the fashion of the times. So the punishment was commuted into 'palmies.' Horrible commutation! Sixty lashes with leather thongs on my right hand, inflicted with all the severity of a tyrant's wrath, made me scream in the anguish of desperation. My pitiless tormentor, unmoved by the sight of my hand sorely lacerated, and swollen to twice its natural size, threatened to cut out my tongue if I continued to complain; and so saying, laid hold on a pair of scissors, and inflicted a deep cut on my lip. The horrors of the day fortunately emancipated me from the further control of the despot."

At another seminary Smart completed his education. He was now apprenticed to a watchmaker in his native town, his hours of leisure being sedulously devoted to the perusal of the more distinguished British poets. It was his delight to repeat his favourite passages in solitary rambles on the sea beach. In 1819, on the completion of his apprenticeship, he proceeded to Edinburgh, where, during a period of six months, he wrought at his trade. But the sedentary life of a watchmaker proving injurious to his health, he was led to seek employment in a printing-office. Soon after, he became editor, printer, and publisher of the _Montrose Chronicle_, a newspaper which was originated in his native town, but which proved unsuccessful. He thereafter held an appointment in the office of the _Dundee Courier_. Returning to Edinburgh, he accepted employment as a pressman in a respectable printing-office, and afterwards attained the position of press overseer in one of the most important printing establishments of the city.

In his twentieth year Smart adventured on the composition of verses, but being dissatisfied with his efforts, he consigned them to oblivion. He subsequently renewed his invocation of the Muse, and in 1834 published a small duodecimo volume of poems and songs, entitled "Rambling Rhymes." This publication attracted considerable attention, and secured for the author the personal favour of Lord Jeffrey. He also received the commendation of Thomas Campbell, Charles Dickens, Thomas Babington Macaulay, Charles Mackay, and other literary and poetical celebrities. A new and enlarged edition of his volume appeared in 1845, and was dedicated by permission to Lord Jeffrey.

Smart was one of the principal contributors to "Whistle Binkie." At different periods he has composed excellent prose essays and sketches, some of which have appeared in _Hogg's Instructor_. Those papers entitled "Burns and his Ancestors," "Leaves from an Autobiography," and "Scenes from the Life of a Sufferer," may be especially enumerated. Of a peculiarly nervous temperament, he has more than once experienced the miseries of mental aberration. Latterly he has completely recovered his health, and living in Edinburgh with his wife and family, he divides his time between the mechanical labours of the printing-office and the more congenial pursuits of literature.

WHEN THE BEE HAS LEFT THE BLOSSOM.

When the bee has left the blossom,
And the lark has closed his lay,
And the daisy folds its bosom
In the dews of gloaming gray;
When the virgin rose is bending,
Wet with evening's pensive tear,
And the purple light is blending
With the soft moon rising clear;

Meet me then, my own true maiden,
Where the wild flowers shed their bloom
And the air with fragrance laden,
Breathes around a rich perfume.
With my true love as I wander,
Captive led by beauty's power,
Thoughts and feelings sweet and tender
Hallow that delightful hour.

Give ambition dreams of glory,
Give the poet laurell'd fame,
Let renown in song and story
Consecrate the hero's name;
Give the great their pomp and pleasure,
Give the courtier place and power;
Give to me my bosom's treasure,
And the lonely gloaming hour.

OH, LEAVE ME NOT.

Oh, leave me not! the evening hour,
So soft, so still, is all our own;
The dew descends on tree and flower,
They breathe their sweets for thee alone.
Oh, go not yet! the evening star,
The rising moon, all bid thee stay;
And dying echoes, faint and far,
Invite our lingering steps to stray.

Far from the city's noisy din,
Beneath the pale moon's trembling light,
That lip to press, those smiles to win,
Will lend a rapture to the night.
Let fortune fling her favours free
To whom she will, I'll ne'er repine:
Oh, what is all the world to me,
While thus I clasp and call thee mine!

NEVER DESPAIR.

Never despair! when the dark cloud is lowering,
The sun, though obscured, never ceases to shine;
Above the black tempest his radiance is pouring
While faithless and faint-hearted mortals repine.
The journey of life has its lights and its shadows,
And Heaven in its wisdom to each sends a share;
Though rough be the road, yet with reason to guide us,
And courage to conquer, we'll never despair!

Never despair! when with troubles contending,
Make labour and patience a sword and a shield,
And win brighter laurels, with courage unbending,
Than ever were gained on the blood-tainted field.
As gay as the lark in the beam of the morning,
When young hearts spring upward to do and to dare,
The bright star of promise their future adorning,
Will light them along, and they'll never despair!

The oak in the tempest grows strong by resistance,
The arm at the anvil gains muscular power,
And firm self-reliance, that seeks no assistance,
Goes onward, rejoicing, through sunshine and shower;
For life is a struggle, to try and to prove us,
And true hearts grow stronger by labour and care,
While Hope, like a seraph, still whispers above us,--
Look upward and onward, and never despair!

JOHN DUNLOP.

The author of some popular songs, and of four volumes of MS. poetry, John Dunlop is entitled to a place in the catalogue of Caledonian lyrists. The younger son of Colin Dunlop of Carmyle, he was born in November 1755, in the mansion of the paternal estate, in the parish of Old Monkland, and county of Lanark. Commencing his career as a merchant in Glasgow, he was in 1796 elevated to the Lord Provostship of the city. He afterwards accepted the office of Collector of Customs at Borrowstounness, and subsequently occupied the post of Collector at Port-Glasgow. His death took place at Port-Glasgow, in October 1820.

Possessed of fine poetic tastes and an elegant fancy, Dunlop composed verses on every variety of theme, with facility and power. His MS. volumes, which have been kindly submitted to our inspection by a descendant, and from which we have made some extracts, contain numerous poetical compositions worthy of being presented to the public. A vein of humour pervades the majority of his verses; in the elegiac strain he is eminently plaintive. He is remembered as a man of excellent dispositions and eminent social qualities: he sung with grace the songs of his country, and delighted in humorous conversation. His elder brother was proprietor of Garnkirk, and his son, who bore the same Christian name, became Sheriff of Renfrewshire. The latter is entitled to remembrance as the author of "The History of Fiction."

THE YEAR THAT'S AWA'.

Here's to the year that's awa'!
We will drink it in strong and in sma';
And here's to ilk bonnie young lassie we lo'ed,
While swift flew the year that's awa'.
And here's to ilk, &c.

Here's to the sodger who bled,
And the sailor who bravely did fa';
Their fame is alive, though their spirits are fled
On the wings of the year that's awa'.
Their fame is alive, &c.

Here's to the friends we can trust
When the storms of adversity blaw;
May they live in our song, and be nearest our hearts,
Nor depart like the year that's awa'.
May they live, &c.

OH, DINNA ASK ME.

TUNE--_'Comin' through the rye.'_

Oh, dinna ask me gin I lo'e thee;
Troth, I daurna tell:
Dinna ask me gin I lo'e ye;
Ask it o' yoursel'.

Oh, dinna look sae sair at me,
For weel ye ken me true;
Oh, gin ye look sae sair at me,
I daurna look at you.

When ye gang to yon braw, braw town,
And bonnie lassies see,
Oh, dinna, Jamie, look at them,
Lest you should mind na me.

For I could never bide the lass
That ye'd lo'e mair than me;
And oh, I'm sure, my heart would break,
Gin ye'd prove false to me.

LOVE FLIES THE HAUNTS OF POMP AND POWER[9]

Love flies the haunts of pomp and power,
To find the calm retreat;
Loathing he leaves the velvet couch,
To seek the moss-grown seat.

Splendid attire and gilded crowns
Can ne'er with love accord;
But russet robes, and rosy wreathes,
His purest joys afford.

From pride, from business, and from care,
His greatest sorrows flow;
When these usurp the heart of man,
That heart he ne'er can know.

FOOTNOTES:

[9] This lyric and the following are printed from the author's MSS.

WAR.

TUNE--_'Where they go, where they go.'_

For twenty years and more,
Bloody war,
Bloody war;
For twenty years and more,
Bloody war.
For twenty years and more
We heard the cannons roar
To swell the tide of gore,
Bloody war!

A tyrant on a throne
We have seen,
We have seen;
A tyrant on a throne
Who thought the earth his own,
But now is hardly known
To have been.

Who rung the loud alarm
To be free,
To be free?
Who rung the loud alarm
To be free?
'Twas Britain broke the charm,
And with her red right arm
She rung the loud alarm
To be free.

The battle van she led
Of the brave,
Of the brave;
The battle van she led
Of the brave;
The battle van she led,
Till tyranny lay dead,
And glory crown'd the head
Of the brave.

Give honour to the brave
Where they lie,
Where they lie;
Give honour to the brave
Where they lie;
Give honour to the brave,
And sacred be the grave,
On land or in the wave,
Where they lie.

WILLIAM BLAIR.

William Blair, author of "The Highland Maid," was, in the year 1800, born at Dunfermline. The son of respectable parents of the industrial class, he received an ordinary education at the burgh school. Apprenticed to the loom, he became known as a writer of verses; and having attracted the notice of an officer's lady, then resident in the place, he was at her expense sent to the grammar school. Having made some progress in classical learning, he was recommended for educational employment in Dollar Academy; but no suitable situation being vacant at the period of his application, he was led to despair of emanating from the humble condition of his birth. A settled melancholy was afterwards succeeded by symptoms of permanent imbecility. For a number of years Blair has been an inmate of the Dunfermline poor house.

THE HIGHLAND MAID.

Again the laverock seeks the sky,
And warbles, dimly seen;
And summer views, wi' sunny joy,
Her gowany robe o' green.
But ah! the summer's blithe return,
In flowery pride array'd,
Nae mair can cheer this heart forlorn,
Or charm the Highland Maid.

My true love fell by Charlie's side,
Wi' mony a clansman dear;
That fatal day--oh, wae betide
The cruel Southron's spear!
His bonnet blue is fallen now,
And bluidy is the plaid,
That aften on the mountain's brow,
Has wrapt his Highland Maid.

My father's shieling on the hill
Is dowie now and sad;
The breezes whisper round me still,
I 've lost my Highland lad.
Upon Culloden's fatal heath,
He spake o' me, they said,
And falter'd, wi' his dying breath,
"Adieu, my Highland Maid!"

The weary nicht for rest I seek,
The langsome day I mourn;
The smile upon my wither'd cheek
Can never mair return.
But soon beneath the sod I 'll lie,
In yonder lonely glade;
And, haply, ilka passer by
Will mourn the Highland Maid.

THE NEAPOLITAN WAR SONG.[10]

TUNE--_"Brian the Brave."_

Your foes are at hand, and the brand that they wield,
Soon, soon will emblazon your plain;
But, ah! may the arm of the brave be your shield,
And the song of the victory your strain.
Remember the fetters and chains that are wove,
And fated by slavery's decree,
Are not like the fetters of union and love,
That bind and encircle the free.

Though rich be your fields, they will blight in their bloom,
With the glow of the patriot's fires;
And the sun that now gladdens, shall sink into gloom,
And grow dark when your freedom expires.
Be yours, then, the triumph to brave ones that 's meet,
And your country, with laurels in store,
Each weary and toil-worn warrior will greet
When the tumult of battle is o'er.

FOOTNOTES:

[10] Here printed for the first time.

ARCHIBALD MACKAY.

Archibald Mackay was born at Kilmarnock in 1801. Receiving a common school education, he was apprenticed to a handloom weaver. Abandoning the loom, he subsequently acquired a knowledge of bookbinding, and has continued to prosecute that trade. From his youth devoted to the Muse, he produced in 1828 a metrical tale, entitled "Drouthy Tam," which, passing through numerous editions, brought a local reputation to the writer. In 1830 he published a small volume of poems, and in 1832 a little work in prose and verse, entitled "Recreations of Leisure Hours." In 1848 appeared from his pen a "History of Kilmarnock," in a well-written octavo volume. A collection of his best songs was published in 1855, under the title of "Ingleside Lilts." Mackay has contributed extensively to the local journals, and has established a circulating library for the benefit of his fellow-townsmen.

OUR AULD SCOTS SANGS.

AIR--_"Traveller's Return."_

Oh, weel I lo'e our auld Scots sangs,
The mournfu' and the gay;
They charm'd me by a mither's knee,
In bairnhood's happy day:
And even yet, though owre my pow
The snaws of age are flung,
The bluid loups joyfu' in my veins
Whene'er I hear them sung.

They bring the fond smile to the cheek,
Or tear-drap to the e'e;
They bring to mind auld cronies kind,
Wha sung them aft wi' glee.
We seem again to hear the voice
Of mony a lang-lost frien';
We seem again to grip the hand
That lang in dust has been.

And, oh, how true our auld Scots sangs
When nature they portray!
We think we hear the wee bit burn
Gaun bickering doun the brae;
We see the spot, though far awa',
Where first life's breath we drew,
And a' the gowden scenes of youth
Seem rising to the view.

And dear I lo'e the wild war strains
Our langsyne minstrels sung--
They rouse wi' patriotic fires
The hearts of auld and young;
And even the dowie dirge that wails
Some brave but ruin'd band,
Inspires us wi' a warmer love
For hame and fatherland.

Yes, leese me on our auld Scots sangs--
The sangs of love and glee,
The sangs that tell of glorious deeds
That made auld Scotland free.
What though they sprung frae simple bards,
Wha kent nae rules of art?
They ever, ever yield a charm
That lingers round the heart.

MY LADDIE LIES LOW.

Alas! how true the boding voice
That whisper'd aft to me,
"Thy bonnie lad will ne'er return
To Scotland or to thee!"
Oh! true it spoke, though hope the while
Shed forth its brightest beam;
For low in death my laddie lies
By Alma's bloody stream.

I heard the village bells proclaim
That glorious deeds were done;
I heard wi' joy the gladsome shout,
"The field, the field is won!"
And I thought my lad, wi' glory crown'd,
Might come to me again;
But vain the thought! cold, cold he lies
On Alma's gory plain.

Oh! woe to him whose thirst for power
Has roll'd the bolts of war,
And made my laddie bleed and die
Frae hame and friends afar.
Alas! his form I ne'er shall see,
Except in fancy's dream;
For low he lies, where brave he fought,
By Alma's bloody stream.

JOUK AND LET THE JAW GAE BY.

AIR--_"Jockie's Gray Breeks."_

Oh! say not life is ever drear,
For midst its scenes of toil and care
There 's aye some joy the heart to cheer--
There 's aye some spot that 's green and fair.
To gain that spot the aim be ours,
For nocht we 'll get unless we try;
And when misfortune round us lours,
We 'll jouk and let the jaw gae by.

The wee bit flow'ret in the glen
Maun bend beneath the surly blast;
The birdie seeks some leafy den,
And shelters till the storm is past:
The "owrie sheep," when winds blaw snell,
To some lowne spot for refuge hie;
And sae, frae ills we canna quell,
We 'll jouk and let the jaw gae by.

Yet there are ills we a' should brave--
The ills that man on man would throw;
For oh! he 's but a thowless slave,
That patient bears Oppression's woe.
But if 'tis but the taunts of pride,
Of envy's tongue that would annoy,
'Tis nobler far to turn aside,
And jouk and let the jaw gae by.

In worldly gear we may be bare,
We may hae mony a dreary hour;
But never, never nurse despair,
For ilka ane maun taste the sour:
Even kings themsels, wi' a' their power,
Wi' a' their pomp and honours high,
'Neath adverse blasts are forced to cower,
And jouk to let the jaw gae by.

But mark this truth--the ills that blight
Are aft the fruits that folly brings;
Then shun the wrong, pursue the right--
Frae this the truest pleasure springs;
And fret not though dark clouds should spread
At times across life's troubled sky;
Sweet sunshine will the gloom succeed--
Sae jouk and let the jaw gae by.

VICTORIOUS BE AGAIN, BOYS.

Hurrah! hurrah! we 've glory won,
And brighter blazes freedom's sun;
But daring deeds must yet be done
To curb Oppression's reign, boys.
Like wintry clouds in masses roll'd,
Our foes are thick'ning on the wold;
Then up! then up! be firm--be bold--
Victorious be again, boys.

The hearts--the blessings of the brave--
Of those who scorn the name of slave,
Are with you on the ocean's wave,
And on the battle-plain, boys:
Then rouse ye, rouse ye, every one,
And gird your brightest armour on;
Complete the work so well begun--
Victorious be again, boys!

Though red with gore your path may be,
It leads to glorious liberty;
Remember, God is with the free,
The brave He will sustain, boys:
The tyrant fears the coming fight,
He fears the power of Truth and Right;
Then up! then up! in all your might--
Victorious be again, boys.

WILLIAM AIR FOSTER.

The author of some spirited effusions in Scottish verse, William Air Foster, was born at Coldstream on the 16th June 1801. He has followed the occupation of a bootmaker, first in his native town, and latterly in Glasgow. Devoted to the Border sports, in which he was formerly an active performer, he has celebrated them in animated verse. To "Whistle Binkie" he has contributed a number of sporting and angling songs, and he has composed some volumes of poetry which are still in manuscript.

FAREWEEL TO SCOTIA.

Fareweel to ilk hill whar the red heather grows,
To ilk bonnie green glen whar the mountain stream rows,
To the rock that re-echoes the torrent's wild din,
To the graves o' my sires, and the hearths o' my kin.

Fareweel to ilk strath an' the lav'rock's sweet sang--
For trifles grow dear whan we 've kenn'd them sae lang;
Round the wanderer's heart a bright halo they shed,
A dream o' the past, when a' other's hae fled.

The young hearts may kythe, though they 're forced far away,
But its dool to the spirit when haffets are gray;
The saplin transplanted may flourish a tree,
Whar the hardy auld aik wad but wither and dee.

They tell me I gang whar the tropic suns shine
Owre landscapes as lovely and fragrant as thine;
For the objects sae dear that the heart had entwined
Turn eerisome hame-thoughts, and sicken the mind.

No, my spirit shall stray whar the red heather grows!
In the bonnie green glen whar the mountain stream rows,
'Neath the rock that re-echoes the torrent's wild din,
'Mang the graves o' my sires, round the hearths o' my kin.

THE FALCON'S FLIGHT.

AIR--_"There 's nae luck about the house."_

I sing of gentle woodcroft gay, for well I love to rove,
With the spaniel at my side and the falcon on my glove;
For the noble bird which graced my hand I feel my spirit swell,
Array'd in all her hunting-gear--hood, jessy, leash, and bell.

I have watch'd her through the moult, till her castings all were pure,
And have steep'd and clean'd each gorge ere 'twas fix'd upon the lure;
While now to field or forest glade I can my falcon bring
Without a pile of feather wrong, on body, breast, or wing.

When drawn the leash, and slipt the hood, her eye beams black and bright,
And from my hand the gallant bird is cast upon her flight;
Away she darts, on pinions free, above the mountains far,
Until in less'ning size she seems no bigger than a star.

Away, away, in farthest flight I feel no fear or dread,
When a whistle or a whoop brings her tow'ring o'er my head;
While poised on moveless wing, from her voice a murmur swells,
To speak her presence near, above the chiming from her bells.

'Tis Rover's bark--halloo! see the broad-wing'd heron rise,
And soaring round my falcon queen, above her quarry flies,
With outstretch'd neck the wary game shoots for the covert nigh;
But o'er him for a settled stoop my hawk is tow'ring high.

My falcon 's tow'ring o'er him with an eye of fire and pride,
Her pinions strong, with one short pull, are gather'd to her side,
When like a stone from off the sling, or bolt from out the bow,
In meteor flight, with sudden dart, she stoops upon her foe.

The vanquish'd and the vanquisher sink rolling round and round,
With wounded wing the quarried game falls heavy on the ground.
Away, away, my falcon fair has spread her buoyant wings,
While on the ear her silver voice as clear as metal rings.

Though high her soar, and far her flight, my whoop has struck her ear,
And reclaiming for the lure, o'er my head she sallies near.
No other sport like falconry can make the bosom glow,
When flying at the stately game, or raking at the crow.

Who mews a hawk must nurse her as a mother would her child,
And soothe the wayward spirit of a thing so fierce and wild;
Must woo her like a bride, while with love his bosom swells
For the noble bird that bears the hood, the jessy, leash, and bells.

THE SALMON RUN.

AIR--_"The brave old Oak."_

Oh! away to the Tweed,
To the beautiful Tweed,
My much-loved native stream;
Where the fish from his hold,
'Neath some cataract bold,
Starts up like a quivering gleam.

From his iron-bound keep,
Far down in the deep,
He holds on his sovereign sway;
Or darts like a lance,
Or the meteor's glance,
Afar on his bright-wing'd prey.

As he roves through the tide,
Then his clear glitt'ring side
Is burnish'd with silver and gold;
And the sweep of his flight
Seems a rainbow of light,
As again he sinks down in his hold.

With a soft western breeze,
That just thrills through the trees,
And ripples the beautiful bay;
Throw the fly for a lure--
That 's a rise! strike him sure--
A clean fish--with a burst he 's away.

Hark! the ravel line sweel,
From the fast-whirring reel,
With a music that gladdens the ear;
And the thrill of delight,
In that glorious fight,
To the heart of the angler is dear.

Hold him tight--for the leap;
Where the waters are deep,
Give out line in the far steady run;
Reel up quick, if he tire,
Though the wheel be on fire,
For in earnest to work he 's begun.

Aroused up at length,
How he rolls in his strength,
And springs with a quivering bound;
Then away with a dash,
Like the lightning's flash,
Far o'er the smooth pebbly ground.

Though he strain on the thread,
Down the stream with his head,
That burst from the run makes him cool;
Then spring out for the land,
On the rod change the hand,
And draw down for the deepening pool.

Mark the gleam of his side,
As he shoots through the tide!
Are the dyes of the dolphin more fair?
Fatigue now begins,
For his quivering fins
On the shallows are spread in despair.

CHARLES MARSHALL.

The Rev. Charles Marshall, author of "Homely Words and Songs for Working Men and Women," is a native of Paisley. In early life he was engaged in mercantile concerns. At the University of Glasgow he studied for two sessions, and in 1826 completed a philosophical curriculum at the University of Edinburgh. In the following year he was chosen governor of John Watson's Institution, Edinburgh, where he remained for thirteen years. During that time the directors of the institution expressed their approbation of his services by large pecuniary donations, and by increasing his official emoluments. In addition to these expressions of liberality, they afforded him permission to attend the Divinity Hall. In 1840, on the completion of his theological studies, he was licensed as a probationer of the Established Church. In 1841 he accepted a call to the North Extension Church, Dunfermline. At the Disruption in 1843, he adhered to the Free Church. He continues to labour as minister of the Free North Church, Dunfermline.

To the moral and religious reformation of the industrial classes, as well as the improvement of their physical condition, Mr Marshall has long been earnestly devoted. In 1853 he published a small volume of prose and poetry, addressed to industrial females, with the title, "Lays and Lectures to Scotia's Daughters of Industry." This work rapidly passed through various editions. In 1856 he appeared as the author of a similar publication, entitled "Homely Words and Songs for Working Men and Women," to which his former work has been added as a second part. For terse and homely counsels, and vigorous and manly sentiments, adapted to the peculiar feelings and condition of the Scottish peasantry, these _brochures_ are without a parallel. Mr Marshall proposes to add to the series two other parts, addressed to "Husbands and Fathers," and to "Young Men."

THE BLESSING ON THE WARK.

I like to spring in the morning bricht,
Before the mill bell rings;
When waukening blithe in gowden licht,
My joyfu' spirit sings.

I like to hear, when the pearly tear
Gems morning's floweret cup,
The trumpet summons of chanticleer
Pipe "drowsy mortals up."

I tread as lightly as silent puss,
While a' the household sleep;
And gird me to clean and redd the house
Before the bairnies cheep.

I like to dress and mak me clean
As ony winsome bride;
And think na shame, though my face be seen,
At morn or eventide.

I like to handle, before I rin,
The word o' truth and love;
And seek, or the daily wark begin,
Gude counsel from above.

Then skipping wi' lichtsome heart, I hie
To earn my bit o' bread;
The wark spins on, and the time rins by,
Wi' pleasant, blessed speed.

JEWEL OF A LAD.

AIR--_"Fye, gae rub her owre wi' strae."_

As sunshine to the flowers in May,
As wild flowers to the hinny bee,
As fragrant scent o' new mown hay,
So my true love is sweet to me.

As costly jewels to the bride,
As beauty to the bridegroom's e'e--
To sailors, as fair wind and tide,
So my true love is dear to me.

As rain-draps to the thirsty earth,
As waters to the willow-tree,
As mother's joy at baby's birth,
So my true love is dear to me.

Though owning neither wealth nor lan',
He 's ane o' Heaven's pedigree;
His love to God, his love to man,
His goodness makes him dear to me.

The lass that weds a warly fool
May laugh, and sing, and dance a wee;
But earthly love soon waxes cool,
And foolish fancies turn ajee.

My laddie's heart is fu' o' grace,
His loving e'e blinks bonnily,
A heavenly licht illumes his face;
Nae wonder though he 's dear to me.

TWILIGHT JOYS.

Musing, we sat in our garden bower,
In the balmy month of June,
Enjoying the pensive gloamin' hour
When our daily task was done.

We spake of the friends of our early days,
Some living, some dead and gane,
And fancy skimm'd o'er the flow'ry braes
Of our morning life again.

A bless'd, a lightsome hour was that,
And joyful were we to see
The sunny face of ilk bonnie brat,
So full of frolicsome glee.

They ran, they row'd, they warsl'd, they fell,
Whiles whirl'd in a fairy ring--
Our hearts ran o'er like a gushing well,
And we bless'd each happy thing.

In our wee dwelling the lamp of love,
Trimm'd daily by faith and prayer,
Flings light on earth, on heaven above,
Sheds glory everywhere.

This golden lamp shines clear and bright,
When the world looks dark and doure,
It brightens our morning, noon, and night,
And gladdens our gloamin' hour.

WILLIAM WILSON.