Chapter IV: Part 4

William Wilson was born on the 25th December 1801, in the village of Crieff, Perthshire. His parents being of the industrial class and in indigent circumstances, he was early devoted to a life of manual labour. While employed in a factory at Dundee, some of his poetical compositions were brought under the notice of Mrs Grant, of Laggan, who interested herself in his behalf, and enabled him to begin business as a coal merchant. He married early in life, and continued after marriage to write as ardent poetry about his wife as he had done before marriage. On her death, he married a lady of respectable connexions in the county of Roxburgh. In December 1833, he emigrated to America, and has since been in business as a publisher at Poughkeepsie, in the state of New York. He has repeatedly delivered lectures to scientific institutions, and is well known to the higher class of literary men in America. Many of his earlier poems were contributed to the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_; and he has published several of his own and other songs, with music of his own composition.

O BLESSING ON HER STARLIKE E'EN.

O blessing on her starlike e'en,
Wi' their glance o' love divine;
And blessing on the red, red lip,
Was press'd yestreen to mine!

Her braided locks that waved sae light,
As she danced through the lofty ha',
Were like the cluds on the brow o' night,
Or the wing o' the hoodie craw.

O mony a jimp an' gentle dame,
In jewell'd pomp was there;
But she was first among them a',
In peerless beauty rare!

Her bosom is a holy shrine,
Unstain'd by mortal sin,
An' spotless as the snaw-white foam,
On the breast o' the siller linn.

Her voice--hae ye heard the goudspink's note,
By bowery glen or brake?
Or listen'd ye e'er to the mermaid's lay,
By sea or mountain lake?

Hae ye dreamt ye heard, i' the bowers o' heaven,
The angel's melodie?
Or fancied ye listen'd the sang o' the spheres
As they swung on their path on hie?

Far sweeter to me was her lay o' love,
At the gloamin' hour yestreen;
An', oh! were I king o' the warld wide,
I would mak' that maiden my queen.

OH! BLESSING ON THEE, LAND.

Oh! blessing on thee, land
Of love and minstrel song;
For Freedom found a dwelling-place
Thy mountain cliffs among!
And still she loves to roam
Among thy heath-clad hills;
And blend her wild-wood harp's sweet strain
With the voice of mountain rills.

Her song is on the gale,
Her step upon the wold;
And morning diamonds brightly gem
Her braided locks of gold.
Far up the pine-wood glen,
Her sylph-like form is seen,
By hunter in the hazy dawn,
Or wandering bard at e'en.

My own dear native home,
The birthplace of the brave,
O never may thy soil be trod
By tyrant or by slave!
Then, blessing on thee, land
Of love and minstrel song;
For Freedom found a dwelling-place,
Thy mountain cliffs among!

THE FAITHLESS.

We part,--yet wherefore should I weep,
From faithless thing like thee to sever?
Or let one tear mine eyelids steep,
While thus I cast thee off for ever?
I loved thee--need I say how well?
Few, few have ever loved so dearly;
As many a sleepless hour can tell,
And many a vow breath'd too sincerely.

But late, beneath its jetty lash,
I loved to mark thy blue eyes' splendour,
Which wont, all witchingly, to flash
On me its light so soft and tender;
Now, from that glance I turn away,
As if its thrilling gaze could wound me;
Though not, as once, in love's young day,
When thoughtless passion's fetters bound me.

The dimpling smile, with sweetness fraught,
The bosom, 'mid its snow, upheaving;
Who, that had seen them, could have thought
That things so fair could be deceiving?
The moon, the sky, the wave, the wind,
In all their fitful moods of changing,
Are nought to wavering woman's mind,
For ever shifting, ever ranging!

Farewell! I'd rather launch my bark
Upon the angry ocean billow,
'Mid wintry winds, and tempests dark,
Than make thy faithless breast my pillow.
Thy broken vow now cannot bind,
Thy streaming tears no more can move me,
And thus I turn from thee, to find
A heart that may more truly love me.

MY SOUL IS EVER WITH THEE.

My soul is ever with thee,
My thoughts are ever with thee,
As the flower to the sun, as the lamb to the lea,
So turns my fond spirit to thee.

'Mid the cares of the lingering day,
When troubles around me be,
Fond Fancy for aye will be flitting away--
Away, my beloved, to thee.

When the night-pall darkly spread
O'er shadows, tower, and tree,
Then the visions of my restless bed
Are all, my beloved, of thee.

When I greet the morning beams,
When the midnight star I see,
Alone--in crowded halls--my dreams--
My dreams are for ever of thee.

As spring to the leafless spray,
As calm to the surging sea,
To the weary, rest--to the watcher, day--
So art thou, loved Mary, to me.

AULD JOHNNY GRAHAM.

Dear Aunty, what think ye o' auld Johnny Graham?
The carle sae pawkie an' slee!
He wants a bit wifie to tend his bein hame,
An' the body has ettled at me.

Wi' bonnet sae vaunty, an owerlay sae clean,
An' ribbon that waved 'boon his bree,
He cam' doun the cleugh at the gloamin' yestreen,
An' rappit, an' soon speert for me.

I bade him come ben whare my minny sae thrang
Was birlin' her wheel eidentlie,
An', foul fa' the carle, he was na' that lang,
Ere he tauld out his errand to me.

"Hech, Tibby, lass! a' yon braid acres o' land,
Wi' ripe craps that wave bonnilie,
An' meikle mair gear shall be at yer command,
Gin' ye will look kindly on me.

"Yon herd o' fat owsen that rout i' the glen,
Sax naigies that nibble the lea;
The kye i' the sheugh, and the sheep i' the pen,
I'se gie a', dear Tibby, to thee.

"An', lassie, I've goupins o' gowd in a stockin',
An' pearlin's wad dazzle yer e'e;
A mettl'd, but canny young yaud, for the yokin',
When ye wad gae jauntin' wi' me.

"I 'll hap ye, and fend ye, and busk ye, and tend ye,
And mak' ye the licht o' my e'e;
I 'll comfort and cheer ye, and daut ye and dear ye,
As couthy as couthy can be.

"I 've lo'ed ye, dear lassie, since first, a bit bairn,
Ye ran up the knowe to meet me;
An' deckit my bonnet wi' blue bells an' fern,
Wi' meikle glad laughin' an' glee.

"An' noo woman grown, an' mensefu', an' fair,
An' gracefu' as gracefu' can be--
Will ye tak' an' auld carle wha ne'er had a care
For woman, dear Tibby, but thee?"

Sae, Aunty, ye see I 'm a' in a swither,
What answer the bodie to gie--
But aften I wish he wad tak' my auld mither,
And let puir young Tibby abee.

JEAN LINN.

Oh, haud na' yer noddle sae hie, ma doo!
Oh, haud na' yer noddle sae hie!
The days that hae been, may be yet again seen,
Sae look na sae lightly on me, ma doo!
Sae look na' sae lightly on me!

Oh, geck na' at hame hodden gray, Jean Linn!
Oh, geck na' at hame hodden gray!
Yer gutcher an mine wad thocht themsels fine,
In cleedin' sae bein, bonnie May, bonnie May--
In cleedin' sae bein, bonnie May.

Ye mind when we won in Whinglen, Jean Linn--
Ye mind when we won in Whinglen,
Your daddy, douce carle, was cotter to mine,
An' our herd was yer bonnie sel', then, Jean Linn,
An' our herd was yer bonnie sel', then.

Oh, then ye were a' thing to me, Jean Linn,
Oh, then ye were a' thing to me!
An' the moments scour'd by, like birds through the sky,
When tentin' the owsen wi' thee, Jean Linn,
When tentin' the owsen wi' thee.

I twined ye a bower by the burn, Jean Linn,
I twined ye a bower by the burn,
But dreamt na that hour, as we sat in that bower,
That fortune wad tak' sic a turn, Jean Linn.
That fortune wad tak' sic a turn.

Ye busk noo in satins fu' braw, Jean Linn!
Ye busk noo in satins fu' braw!
Yer daddy's a laird, mine 's i' the kirkyard,
An' I 'm yer puir ploughman, Jock Law, Jean Linn,
An' I 'm yer puir ploughman, Jock Law.

BONNIE MARY.

When the sun gaes down, when the sun gaes down,
I 'll meet thee, bonnie Mary, when the sun gaes down;
I 'll row my apron up, an' I 'll leave the reeky town,
And meet thee by the burnie, when the sun gaes down.

By the burnie there 's a bower, we will gently lean us there,
An' forget in ither's arms every earthly care,
For the chiefest o' my joys, in this weary mortal roun',
Is the burnside wi' Mary when the sun gaes down.
When the sun gaes down, &c.

There the ruin'd castle tower on the distant steep appears,
Like a hoary auld warrior faded with years;
An' the burnie stealing by wi' a fairy silver soun',
Will soothe us wi' its music when the sun gaes down.
When the sun gaes down, &c.

The burnside is sweet when the dew is on the flower,
But 'tis like a little heaven at the trystin' hour;
And with pity I would look on the king who wears the crown,
When wi' thee by the burnie, when the sun gaes down.
When the sun gaes down, &c.

When the sun gaes down, when the sun gaes down,
I 'll meet thee by the burnie, when the sun gaes down;
Come in thy petticoatie, and thy little drugget gown,
And I 'll meet thee, bonnie Mary, when the sun gaes down.

MRS MARY MACARTHUR.

Mrs Mary Waugh, the widow of Mr James Macarthur, merchant, Glasgow, published in 1842 a duodecimo volume of verses, with the title, "The Necropolis, and other Poems." One of the compositions in that publication, entitled "The Missionary," is inserted in the present work, as being worthy of a place among the productions of the national Muse. In early life Mrs Macarthur lived in the south of Scotland; she has for many years been resident in Glasgow.

THE MISSIONARY.

He left his native land, and, far away
Across the waters sought a world unknown,
Though well he knew that he in vain might stray
In search of one so lovely as his own.

He left his home, around whose humble hearth
His parents, kindred, all he valued, smil'd--
Friends who had known and loved him from his birth,
And who still loved him as a fav'rite child.

He left the scenes by youthful hopes endear'd,
The woods, the streams, that sooth'd his infant ear;
The plants, the trees that he himself had rear'd,
And every charm to love and fancy dear.

All these he left, with sad but willing heart,
Though unallur'd by honours, wealth, or fame;
In them not even his wishes claim'd a part,
And the world knew not of his very name.

Canst thou not guess what taught his steps to stray?
'Twas love, but not such love as worldlings own,
That often smiles its sweetest to betray,
And stabs the breast that offered it a throne!

'Twas love to God, and love to all mankind!
His Master bade the obedient servant go,
And try if he in distant realms could find
Some who His name and saving grace would know.

'Twas this that nerved him when he saw the tears
His aged mother at their parting shed;
'Twas this that taught her how to calm her fears,
And beg a heavenly blessing on his head.

'Twas this that made his father calmly bear
A godly sorrow, deep, but undismay'd,
And bade him humbly ask of God in prayer,
His virtuous son to counsel, guide, and aid.

And when he rose to bless, and wish him well,
And bent a head with age and sorrow gray--
E'en when he breath'd a fond and last farewell,
Half sad, half joyful, dashed his tears away.

"And go," he said, "though I with mortal eyes
Shall ne'er behold thy filial reverence more;
But when from earth to heaven our spirits rise,
The Hand that gave him shall my child restore.

"I bid thee go, though human tears will steal
From eyes that see the course thou hast to run;
And God forgive me if I wrongly feel,
Like Abraham call'd to sacrifice his son!"

And he is gone, with ardent steps he prest
Across the hills to where the vessel lay,
And soon I ween upon the ocean's breast
They saw the white sails bearing him away.

And did he go unfriended, poor, alone?
Did none of those who, in a favour'd land
The shelter of the gospel tree had known,
Desire to see its peaceful shade expand?

'Tis not for me to answer questions here--
Let ev'ry heart its own responses give,
And those to whom their fellow-men are dear,
Bestow the bread by which their souls may live!

JOHN RAMSAY.

The author of "Woodnotes of a Wanderer," John Ramsay, was born at Kilmarnock in 1802. With a limited school education, he was early apprenticed in a carpet manufactory in his native place. He afterwards traded for some years as a retail grocer. During his connexion with the carpet factory, he composed some spirited verses, which were inserted in the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_; and having subsequently suffered misfortune in business, he resolved to repair his losses by publishing a collected edition of his poetical writings, and personally pushing the sale. For the long period of fifteen years, he travelled over the country, vending his volume of "Woodnotes." This creditable enterprise has been rewarded by his appointment to the agency of a benevolent society in Edinburgh.

FAREWELL TO CRAUFURDLAND.

Thou dark stream slow wending thy deep rocky way,
By foliage oft hid from the bright eye of day,
I 've view'd thee with pleasure, but now must with pain,
Farewell! for I never may see you again.

Ye woods, whence fond fancy a spirit would bring,
That trimm'd the bright pinions of thought's hallow'd wing,
Your beauties will gladden some happier swain;
Farewell! for I never may see you again.

I 've roam'd you, unknown to care's life-sapping sigh,
When prospects seem'd fair and my young hopes were high;
These prospects were false, and those hopes have proved vain;
Farewell! for I never may see you again.

Soon distance shall bid my reft heart undergo
Those pangs that alone the poor exile can know--
Away! like a craven why should I complain?
Farewell! for I never may see you again.

JAMES PARKER.

James Parker, author of a duodecimo volume of poetry, entitled "Poems of Past Years," was born in Glasgow, and originally followed the trade of a master baker. He now holds a respectable appointment in the navy. He has contributed verses to the periodicals.

THE MARINER'S SONG.

Oh merrily and gallantly
We sweep across the seas,
Like the wild ocean birds which ply
Their pinions on the breeze;
We quail not at the tempest's voice
When the billow dashes o'er us,
Firm as a rock, we bear the shock,
And join its dreadful chorus.

Across the foaming surge we glide
With bosoms true and brave,
It is our home--our throne of pride--
It soon may be our grave;
Yet fearlessly we rush to meet
The foe that comes before us;
The fight begun, we man the gun,
And join its thundering chorus.

Our lives may be as fierce and free
As the waves o'er which we roam,
But let not landsmen think that we
Forget our native home;
And when the winds shall waft us back
To the shores from which they bore us,
Amid the throng of mirth and song,
We'll join the jovial chorus.

HER LIP IS O' THE ROSE'S HUE.

Her lip is o' the rose's hue,
Like links o' goud her hair,
Her e'e is o' the azure blue,
An' love beams ever there;
Her step is like the mountain goat's
That climbs the stately Ben,
Her voice sweet as the mavis' notes
That haunt her native glen.

There is a sweet wee hazel bower
Where woodbine blossoms twine,
There Jeanie, ae auspicious hour,
Consented to be mine;
An' there we meet whene'er we hae
An idle hour to spen',
An' Jeanie ne'er has rued the day
She met me in the glen.

Oh bricht, bricht are the evenin' beams,
An' sweet the pearly dew,
An' lovely is the star that gleams
In gloamin's dusky brow;
But brichter, sweeter, lovelier far,
Aboon a' human ken,
Is my sweet pearl--my lovely star--
My Jeanie o' the glen.

JOHN HUNTER.

The following compositions are, with permission, transcribed from a small volume of juvenile poems, with the title "Miscellanies, by N. R.," which was printed many years ago, for private circulation only, by Mr John Hunter, now auditor of the Court of Session.

THE BOWER O' CLYDE.

On fair Clydeside thair wonnit ane dame,
Ane dame of wondrous courtesie,
An' bonny was the kindly flame
That stremit frae her saft blue e'e.

Her saft blue e'e, 'mid the hinney dew,
That meltit to its tender licht,
Was bonnier far than the purest starre
That sails thro' the dark blue hevin at nicht.

If ony culd luke and safely see
Her dimplit cheek, and her bonny red mou,
Nor seek to sip the dew frae her lip,
A lifeless lump was he, I trow.

But it wuld haif saften'd the dullest wicht,
If ae moment that wicht might see
Her bonny breast o' the purest snaw,
That heavit wi' luve sae tenderlie.

An' dear, dear was this bonny dame,
Dear, dear was she to me,
An' my heart was tane, an' my sense was gane,
At ae blink o' her bonny blue e'e.

An' sair an' saft I pleadit my luve,
Tho' still she hardly wuld seem to hear,
An' wuld cauldly blame the words o' flame
That I breathit so warmly in her ear.

Yet aye as she turn'd her frae my look,
Thair was kindness beamit in her e'e,
An' aye as she drew back her lily han',
I faund that it tremblit tenderlie.

But the time sune cam, the waesome time,
When I maun awa frae my dear,
An' oh! that thocht, how aften it brocht
The deep-heavit sigh an' the cauld bitter tear!

Then socht I my luve, her cauld heart to muve,
Wi' my tears, an' my sighs, an' my prayers,
An' I gaed by her side doun the banks o' the Clyde,
An' the hours stal awa unawares.

'Twas a still summer nicht, at the fa'ing o' licht,
At the gloamin's saft an' schadowie hour,
An' we wander'd alane till the daylicht was gane,
An' we cam' to a sweet simmer bour.

The mune was up i' the clear blue skye,
The mune an' her single wee starre,
The winds gaed gently whisperin' bye,
Thair was stillness near an' farre.

Alane we sat i' the green summer bour,
I tauld her a' that was kind and dear,
An' she did na blame the words o' flame
That I breathit sae warmly in her ear.

She listenit to the luve-sang warm,
Her breast it throbbit and heavit high;
She culd hear nae mair, but her gentill arm
She lean't upon mine, wi' a tender sigh.

Then warmly I prest wi' my burning lips,
Ae kiss on her bonny red mow,
An' aften I prest her form to my breast,
An' fondly an' warmly I vowit to be true.

An' oh! that hour, that hallowit hour,
My fond heart will never forget;
Though drear is the dule I haif suffer'd sin syne,
That hour gars my heart beat warmly yet.

The parting time cam, an' the parting time past,
An' it past nae without the saut tear,
An' awa' to anither an' farre awa' land
I gaed, an' I left my ain dear.

I gaed, an' though ither and brichter maids
Wuld smile wi' fond luve i' their e'e,
I but thocht o' the sweet green hour by the Clyde,
An' that thocht was enough for me.

MARY.

Oh! Mary, while thy gentle cheek
Is on my breast reclining,
And while these arms around thy form
Are fondly thus entwining;
It seems as if no earthly power
Our beating hearts could sever,
And that in ecstasy of bliss
We thus could hang for ever!

Yet ah! too well, too well we know,
The fiat fate hath spoken--
The spell that bound our souls in one,
The world's cold breath hath broken.
The hours--the days--whose heavenly light
Hath beam'd in beauty o'er us,
When Love his sunshine shed around,
And strew'd his flowers before us,

Must now be but as golden dreams,
Whose loveliness hath perish'd;
Wild dreams of hope, in human hearts
Too heavenly to be cherish'd.
Yet, oh! where'er our lot is cast,
The love that once hath bound us--
The thought that looks to days long past,
Will breathe a halo round us.

IN DISTANT YEARS.

In distant years! when other arms
Around thy form are prest,
Oh! heave one fond regretful sigh
For him thy love once blest!
Oh! drop one tear from that dark eye,
That was his guiding light,
And cast the same deep tender glance,
That thrills his soul to-night.

And oh! believe, though dark his fate,
And devious his career,
The music of that gentle voice
Will tremble in his ear;
And breathing o'er his troubled soul,
Storm-tost and tempest riven,
Will still fierce passion's wild control,
And win him back to Heaven.

ROBERT CHAMBERS.

Robert Chambers, well known for his connexion with the publishing house of W. & R. Chambers, Edinburgh, and as the author of several meritorious works of a national character, was born in 1802 at Peebles, where his parents occupied a respectable position. Robert was the second of a family of six children, his elder brother William being about two years his senior. In consequence of misfortunes in business, James Chambers, the father of these youths, found it desirable to remove to Edinburgh with his family in 1813. While still in childhood Robert manifested a remarkable aptitude for learning, as well as a taste for music and poetry--a taste inherited from his father, who was a good performer on several instruments, and possessed a taste for both literature and science. Before completing his twelfth year, he had passed through a complete classical course at the grammar school of his native burgh, had perused no small portion of the books within his reach including those of a circulating library, and mastered much of the general information contained in a copy of the "Encyclopædia Britannica," of which his father possessed a copy of the then latest edition. Left very much to their own resources, William became an apprentice to a bookseller in 1814; and Robert, at the age of sixteen, threw himself on the world, as a dealer in old books, a step in accordance with his natural tastes, and which proved fortunate. How the two lads struggled on obscurely, but always improving their circumstances; how they were cheered onward by the counsels of their widowed mother; how they finally went into partnership for the purpose of prosecuting literary undertakings--need not here be detailed. Robert, in 1822-3, began to write the "Traditions of Edinburgh," which first brought him prominently into notice. This amusing work was followed by the "Popular Rhymes of Scotland." Next came his "Picture of Scotland," an interesting topographical work in two volumes; "Histories of the Scottish Rebellions;" three volumes of "Scottish Ballads and Songs;" and "Biography of Distinguished Scotsmen," in four volumes. Besides various popular works, he produced, for private circulation, a volume of poetical pieces, distinguished for their fine taste and feeling. William having started _Chambers's Edinburgh Journal_ in February 1832, Robert became an efficient coadjutor, and mainly helped to give the work its extensive popularity. In the more early volumes, in particular, there appear many admirable essays, humorous and pathetic, from his pen. Besides these professional avocations, Mr Robert Chambers takes part in the proceedings of the scientific and other learned bodies in Edinburgh. Among his latest detached works is a volume, of a geological character, on the "Ancient Sea Margins of Scotland;" also, "Tracings of Iceland," the result of a visit to that interesting island in the summer of 1855. Living respected in Edinburgh, in the bosom of his family, and essentially a self-made man, Mr Robert Chambers is peculiarly distinguished for his kindly disposition and unobtrusive manners--for his enlightened love of country, and diligence in professional labours, uniting, in a singularly happy manner, the man of refined literary taste with the man of business and the useful citizen.

YOUNG RANDAL.

TUNE--_'There grows a bonnie brier bush.'_

Young Randal was a bonnie lad when he gaed awa',
Young Randal was a bonnie lad when he gaed awa',
'Twas in the sixteen hundred year o' grace and thritty-twa,
That Randal, the laird's youngest son, gaed awa'.

It was to seek his fortune in the High Germanie,
To fecht the foreign loons in the High Germanie,
That he left his father's tower o' sweet Willanslee,
And monie mae friends in the North Countrie.

He left his mother in her bower, his father in the ha',
His brother at the outer yett, but and his sisters twa',
And his bonnie cousin Jean, that look'd owre the castle wa',
And, mair than a' the lave, loot the tears down fa'.

"Oh, whan will ye be back," sae kindly did she speir,
"Oh, whan will ye be back, my hinny and my dear?"
"Whenever I can win eneuch o' Spanish gear,
To dress ye out in pearlins and silks, my dear."

Oh, Randal's hair was coal-black when he gaed awa'--
Oh, Randal's cheeks were roses red when he gaed awa',
And in his bonnie e'e, a spark glintit high,
Like the merrie, merrie look in the morning sky.

Oh, Randal was an altert man whan he came hame--
A sair altert man was he when he came hame;
Wi' a ribbon at his breast, and a Sir at his name--
And gray, gray cheeks did Randal come hame.

He lichtit at the outer yett, and rispit with the ring,
And down came a ladye to see him come in,
And after the ladye came bairns feifteen:
"Can this muckle wife be my true love Jean?"

"Whatna stoure carl is this," quo' the dame,
"Sae gruff and sae grand, and sae feckless and sae lame?"
"Oh, tell me, fair madam, are ye bonnie Jeanie Graham?"
"In troth," quo' the ladye, "sweet sir, the very same."

He turned him about wi' a waefu' e'e,
And a heart as sair as sair could be;
He lap on his horse, and awa' did wildly flee,
And never mair came back to sweet Willanslee.

Oh, dule on the poortith o' this countrie,
And dule on the wars o' the High Germanie,
And dule on the love that forgetfu' can be,
For they 've wreck'd the bravest heart in this hale countrie.

THE LADYE THAT I LOVE.

Were I a doughty cavalier
On fire for high-born dame,
With sword and lance I would not fear
To win a warrior's fame.
But since no more stern deeds of blood
The gentle fair may move,
I 'll woo in softer better mood
The ladye that I love.

For helmet bright with steel and gold,
And plumes that flout the sky,
I 'll wear a soul of hardier mould,
And thoughts that sweep as high.
For scarf athwart my corslet cast,
With her fair name y-wove;
I 'll have her pictured in my breast,
The ladye that I love.

No crested steed through battle throng
Shall bear me bravely on,
But pride shall make my spirit strong,
Where honours may be won.
Amidst the great of mind and heart,
My prowess I will prove,
And thus I 'll win, by gentler art,
The ladye that I love.

THOU GENTLE AND KIND ONE.

Thou gentle and kind one,
Who com'st o'er my dreams,
Like the gales of the west,
Or the music of streams;
Oh, softest and dearest,
Can that time e'er be,
When I could be forgetful
Or scornful of thee?

No! my soul might be dark,
Like a landscape in shade,
And for thee not the half
Of its love be display'd,
But one ray of thy kindness
Would banish my pain,
And soon kiss every feature
To brightness again.

And if, in contending
With men and the world,
My eye might be fierce,
Or my brow might be curl'd;
That brow on thy bosom
All smooth'd would recline,
And that eye melt in kindness
When turn'd upon thine.

If faithful in sorrow,
More faithful in joy--
Thou shouldst find that no change
Could affection destroy;
All profit, all pleasure,
As nothing would be,
And each triumph despised
Unpartaken by thee.

LAMENT FOR THE OLD HIGHLAND WARRIORS.

Oh, where are the pretty men of yore?
Oh, where are the brave men gone?
Oh, where are the heroes of the north?
Each under his own gray stone.
Oh, where now the broad bright claymore?
Oh, where are the trews and plaid?
Oh, where now the merry Highland heart?
In silence for ever laid.
Och on a rie, och on a rie,
Och on a rie, all are gone;
Och on a rie, the heroes of yore,
Each under his own gray stone.

The chiefs that were foremost of old,
Macdonald and brave Lochiel,
The Gordon, the Murray, and the Graham,
With their clansmen true as steel;
Who follow'd and fought with Montrose,
Glencairn, and bold Dundee;
Who to Charlie gave their swords and their all,
And would aye rather fa' than flee.
Och on a rie, &c.

The hills that our brave fathers trod
Are now to the stranger a store;
The voice of the pipe and the bard
Shall awaken never more.
Such things it is sad to think on--
They come like the mist by day--
And I wish I had less in this world to leave,
And be with them that are away.
Och on a rie, &c.

THOMAS AIRD.

Thomas Aird, one of the most distinguished of the living Scottish poets, was born in the parish of Bowden, Roxburghshire, in 1802. He received the rudiments of his education at Bowden and Melrose parish schools; and went through a course of literary and philosophical study at the University of Edinburgh. In 1827 he published a little treatise, entitled "Religious Characteristics." After a residence of some years in Edinburgh, in the course of which he contributed occasionally to _Blackwood's Magazine_, and other periodicals, he was, in 1835, on the recommendation of his steadfast friend Professor Wilson, appointed editor of the _Dumfries Herald_, a conservative journal newly started in Dumfries. The paper has prospered under his management, and he is editor still. In 1845 he published "The Old Bachelor in the Old Scottish Village," a collection of tales and sketches of Scottish scenery, character, and life. In 1848 he collected and published his poems. In 1852 he wrote a memoir of his friend, David Macbeth Moir (the well-known "Delta" of _Blackwood's Magazine_), and prefixed it to an edition of Moir's poems, which he edited for behoof of the poet's family, under the generous instructions of the Messrs Blackwood. In 1856 a new edition of Mr Aird's poems appeared, with many fresh pieces, and the old carefully revised; Messrs Blackwood being the publishers.

THE SWALLOW.

The little comer 's coming, the comer o'er the sea,
The comer of the summer, all the sunny days to be;
How pleasant, through the pleasant sleep, thy early twitter heard--
Oh, swallow by the lattice! glad days be thy reward!

Thine be sweet morning, with the bee that 's out for honey-dew,
And glowing be the noontide, for the grasshopper and you;
And mellow shine, o'er days' decline, the sun to light thee home--
What can molest thy airy nest? Sleep till the morrow come.

The river blue, that lapses through the valley, hears thee sing,
And murmurs much beneath the touch of thy light-dipping wing;
The thunder-cloud, over us bow'd, in deeper gloom is seen,
When quick relieved it glances to thy bosom's silvery sheen.

The silent power that brings thee back, with leading-strings of love,
To haunts where first the summer sun fell on thee from above,
Shall bind thee more to come aye to the music of our leaves,
For here thy young, where thou hast sprung, shall glad thee in our eaves.

GENIUS.

Eye of the brain and heart,
O Genius, inner sight,
Wonders from thee familiar start,
In thy decisive light.
Wide and deep the eye must go,
The process of our world to know.
Old mountains grated to the sea,
Sow the young seed of isles to be.
States dissolve, that Nature's plan
May bear the broadening type of man.
Passes ne'er the Past away;
Child of the ages springs to-day.
Life, death, and life! but circling change,
Still working to a higher range!
Make thee all science, Genius, clear
Our world; all Muses, grace and cheer.
And may the ideal thou hast shewn,
With joy peculiar be thine own;
For thee the starry belts of time,
The inner laws, the heavenly chime;
Thine storm and rack--the forests crack,
The sea gives up her secrets hoary;
And Beauty thine, on loom divine,
Weaving the rainbow's woof of glory.

Power of the civic heart,
More than a power to know,
Genius, incarnated in Art,
By thee the nations grow.
Lawgiver thine, and priest, and sage,
Lit up the Oriental age.
Persuasive groves, and musical,
Of love the illumined mountains all.
Eagles and rods, and axes clear,
Forum and amphitheatre;
These in thy plastic forming hand,
Forth leapt to life the classic Land.
Old and new, the worlds of light,
Who bridged the gulf of Middle Night?
See the purple passage rise,
Many arch'd of centuries;
Genius built it long and vast,
And o'er it social knowledge pass'd.
Far in the glad transmitted flame,
Shinar, knit to Britain, came;
Their state by thee our fathers free,
O Genius, founded deep and wide,
Majestic towers the fabric ours,
And awes the world from side to side.

Mart of the ties of blood,
Mart of the souls of men!
O Christ! to see thy Brotherhood
Bought to be sold again,
Front of hell, to trade therein.
Genius face the giant sin;
Shafts of thought, truth-headed clear,
Temper'd all in Pity's tear,
Every point and every tip,
In the blood of Jesus dip;
Pierce till the monster reel and cry,
Pierce him till he fall and die.
Yet cease not, rest not, onward quell,
Power divine and terrible!
See where yon bastion'd Midnight stands,
On half the sunken central lands;
Shoot! let thy arrow heads of flame
Sing as they pierce the blot of shame,
Till all the dark economies
Become the light of blessed skies.
For this, above in wondering love,
To Genius shall it first be given,
To trace the lines of past designs,
All confluent to the finish'd Heaven.

ROBERT WHITE.

Robert White, an indefatigable antiquary, and pleasing writer of lyric poetry, is a native of Roxburghshire. His youth and early manhood were spent at Otterburn, in Redesdale, where his father rented a farm. Possessed of an ardent love of reading, he early became familiar with the English poets, and himself tried metrical composition. While still a young man, he ranked among the poetical contributors to the _Newcastle Magazine_. In 1825 he accepted a situation as clerk to a respectable tradesman in Newcastle, which he retained upwards of twenty years. Latterly he has occupied a post of respectable emolument, and with sufficient leisure for the improvement of his literary tastes.

Besides contributing both in prose and verse to the local journals, and some of the periodicals, Mr White is the author of several publications. In 1829 appeared from his pen "The Tynemouth Nun," an elegantly versified tale; in 1853, "The Wind," a poem; and in 1856, "England," a poem. He has contributed songs to "Whistle Binkie," and "The Book of Scottish Song." At present he has in the press a "History of the Battle of Otterburn," prepared from original sources of information.

MY NATIVE LAND.

Fair Scotland! dear as life to me
Are thy majestic hills;
And sweet as purest melody
The music of thy rills.
The wildest cairn, the darkest dell,
Within thy rocky strand,
Possess o'er me a living spell--
Thou art my native land.

Loved country, when I muse upon
Thy dauntless men of old,
Whose swords in battle foremost shone--
Thy Wallace brave and bold;
And Bruce who, for our liberty,
Did England's sway withstand;
I glory I was born in thee,
Mine own ennobled land!

Nor less thy martyrs I revere,
Who spent their latest breath
To seal the cause they held so dear,
And conquer'd even in death.
Their graves evince, o'er hill and plain,
No bigot's stern command
Shall mould the faith thy sons maintain,
My dear devoted land.

And thou hast ties around my heart,
Attraction deeper still--
The gifted poet's sacred art,
The minstrel's matchless skill.
Yea; every scene that Burns and Scott
Have touch'd with magic hand
Is in my sight a hallow'd spot,
Mine own distinguish'd land!

Oh! when I wander'd far from thee,
I saw thee in my dreams;
I mark'd thy forests waving free,
I heard thy rushing streams.
Thy mighty dead in life came forth,
I knew the honour'd band;
We spoke of thee--thy fame--thy worth--
My high exalted land!

Now if the lonely home be mine
In which my fathers dwelt,
And I can worship at the shrine
Where they in fervour knelt;
No glare of wealth, or honour high,
Shall lure me from thy strand;
Oh, I would yield my parting sigh
In thee, my native land!

A SHEPHERD'S LIFE.

Eliza fair, the mirth of May
Resounds from glen and tree;
Yet thy mild voice, I need not say,
Is dearer far to me.
And while I thus a garland cull,
To grace that brow of thine,
My cup of pure delight is full--
A shepherd's life be mine!

Believe me, maid, the means of wealth,
Howe'er profuse they be,
Produce not pleasure that in health
Is shared by you and me!
'Tis when elate with thoughts of joy
We find a heart like thine,
That objects grateful glad the eye--
A shepherd's life be mine!

O mark, Eliza, how the flowers
Around us sweetly spring;
And list how in these woodland bowers
The birds with rapture sing;
Behold that vale whose streamlet clear
Flows on in waving line;
Can Paradise more bright appear?
A shepherd's life be mine!

Now, dearest, not the morning bright,
That dawns o'er hill and lea,
Nor eve, with all its golden light,
Can charm me without thee.
To feel the magic of thy smile--
To catch that glance of thine--
To talk to thee of love the while,
A shepherd's life be mine!

HER I LOVE BEST.

Thou morn full of beauty
That chases the night,
And wakens all Nature
With gladness and light,
When warbles the linnet
Aloof from its nest,
O scatter thy fragrance
Round her I love best!

Ye hills, dark and lofty,
That near her ascend,
If she in her pastime
Across thee shall wend,
Let every lone pathway
In wild flowers be drest,
To welcome the footsteps
Of her I love best!

Thou sun, proudly sailing
O'er depths of the sky,
Dispensing beneath thee
Profusion and joy,
Until in thy splendour
Thou sink'st to the west,
Oh, gaze not too boldly
On her I love best!

Ye wild roving breezes,
I charge you, forbear
To wantonly tangle
The braids of her hair;
Breathe not o'er her rudely,
Nor sigh on her breast,
Nor kiss you the sweet lip
Of her I love best!

Thou evening, that gently
Steals after the day,
To robe with thy shadow
The landscape in gray,
O fan with soft pinion
My dearest to rest!
And calm be the slumber
Of her I love best!

Ye angels of goodness,
That shield us from ill,
The purest of pleasures
Awarding us still,
As near her you hover,
Oh, hear my request!
Pour blessings unnumber'd
On her I love best!

THE KNIGHT'S RETURN.

Fair Ellen, here again I stand--
All dangers now are o'er;
No sigh to reach my native land
Shall rend my bosom more.
Ah! oft, beyond the heaving main,
I mourn'd at Fate's decree;
I wish'd but to be back again
To Scotland and to thee.

O Ellen, how I prized thy love
In foreign lands afar!
Upon my helm I bore thy glove
Through thickest ranks of war:
And as a pledge, in battle-field,
Recall'd thy charms to me;
I breath'd a prayer behind my shield
For Scotland and for thee.

I scarce can tell how eagerly
My eyes were hither cast,
When, faintly rising o'er the sea,
These hills appear'd at last.
My very breast, as on the shore
I bounded light and free,
Declared by throbs the love I bore
To Scotland and to thee.

Oh, long, long has the doom been mine
In other climes to roam;
Yet have I seen no form like thine,
No sweeter spot than home;
Nor ask'd I e'er another heart
To feel alone for me:
O Ellen, never more I'll part
From Scotland and from thee!

THE BONNIE REDESDALE LASSIE.

The breath o' spring is gratefu',
As mild it sweeps alang,
Awakening bud an' blossom
The broomy braes amang,
And wafting notes o' gladness
Frae ilka bower and tree;
Yet the bonnie Redesdale lassie
Is sweeter still to me.

How bright is summer's beauty!
When, smilin' far an' near,
The wildest spots o' nature
Their gayest livery wear;
And yellow cups an' daisies
Are spread on ilka lea;
But the bonnie Redesdale lassie
Mair charming is to me.

Oh! sweet is mellow autumn!
When, wide oure a' the plain,
Slow waves in rustlin' motion
The heavy-headed grain;
Or in the sunshine glancin',
And rowin' like the sea;
Yet the bonnie Redesdale lassie
Is dearer far to me!

As heaven itsel', her bosom
Is free o' fraud or guile;
What hope o' future pleasure
Is centred in her smile!
I wadna lose for kingdoms
The love-glance o' her e'e;
Oh! the bonnie Redesdale lassie
Is life and a' to me!

THE MOUNTAINEER'S DEATH.

I pray for you, of your courtesy, before we further move,
Let me look back and see the place that I so dearly love.
I am not old in years, yet still, where'er I chanced to roam,
The strongest impulse of my heart was ever link'd with home:
There saw I first the light of heaven--there, by a mother's knee,
In time of infancy and youth, her love supported me:
All that I prize on earth is now my aching sight before,
And glen and brae, and moorland gray, I'll witness never more.

Beneath yon trees, that o'er the cot their deep'ning shadows fling,
My father first reveal'd to me the exile of our king;
Upon yon seat beside the door he gave to me his sword,
With charge to draw it only for our just and rightful lord.
And I remember when I went, unfriended and alone,
Amidst a world I never loved--ay! yonder is the stone
At which my mother, bending low, for me did heaven implore--
Stone, seat and tree are dear to me--I'll see them never more!

Yon hawthorn bower beside the burn I never shall forget;
Ah! there my dear departed maid and I in rapture met:
What tender aspirations we breathed for other's weal!
How glow'd our hearts with sympathy which none but lovers feel!
And when above our hapless Prince the milk-white flag was flung,
While hamlet, mountain, rock, and glen with martial music rung,
We parted there; from her embrace myself I wildly tore;
Our hopes were vain--I came again, but found her never more.

Oh! thank you for your gentleness--now stay one minute still;
There is a lone and quiet spot on yonder rising hill;
I mark it, and the sight revives emotions strong and deep--
There, lowly laid, my parents in the dust together sleep.
And must I in a land afar from home and kindred lie?
Forbid it, heaven! and hear my prayer--'tis better now to die!
My limbs grow faint--I fain would rest--my eyes are darkening o'er;
Slow flags my breath; now, this is death--adieu, for evermore!

WILLIAM CAMERON.

William Cameron was born on the 3d December 1801, in the parish of Dunipace, and county of Stirling. His father was employed successively in woollen factories at Dumfries, Dalmellington, and Dunipace. He subsequently became proprietor of woollen manufactories at Slamannan, Stirlingshire, and at Blackburn and Torphichen, in the county of Linlithgow. While receiving an education with a view to the ministry, the death of his father in 1819 was attended with an alteration in his prospects, and he was induced to accept the appointment of schoolmaster at the village of Armadale, parish of Bathgate. In 1836 he resigned this situation, and removed to Glasgow, where he has since prosperously engaged in mercantile concerns. Of the various lyrics which have proceeded from his pen, "Jessie o' the Dell" is an especial favourite. The greater number of his songs, arranged with music, appear in the "Lyric Gems of Scotland," a respectable collection of minstrelsy published in Glasgow.

SWEET JESSIE O' THE DELL.

O bright the beaming queen o' night
Shines in yon flow'ry vale,
And softly sheds her silver light
O'er mountain, path, and dale.
Short is the way, when light 's the heart
That 's bound in love's soft spell;
Sae I 'll awa' to Armadale,
To Jessie o' the Dell,
To Jessie o' the Dell,
Sweet Jessie o' the Dell;
The bonnie lass o' Armadale,
Sweet Jessie o' the Dell.

We 've pu'd the primrose on the braes
Beside my Jessie's cot,
We 've gather'd nuts, we 've gather'd slaes,
In that sweet rural spot.
The wee short hours danced merrily,
Like lambkins on the fell;
As if they join'd in joy wi' me
And Jessie o' the Dell.

There's nane to me wi' her can vie,
I 'll love her till I dee;
For she's sae sweet and bonnie aye,
And kind as kind can be.
This night in mutual kind embrace,
Oh, wha our joys may tell;
Then I 'll awa' to Armadale,
To Jessie o' the Dell.

MEET ME ON THE GOWAN LEA.

Meet me on the gowan lea,
Bonnie Mary, sweetest Mary;
Meet me on the gowan lea,
My ain, my artless Mary.

Before the sun sink in the west,
And nature a' hae gane to rest,
There to my fond, my faithful breast,
Oh, let me clasp my Mary.
Meet me on the gowan lea,
Bonnie Mary, sweetest Mary;
Meet me on the gowan lea,
My ain, my artless Mary.

The gladsome lark o'er moor and fell,
The lintie in the bosky dell,
Nae blyther than your bonnie sel',
My ain, my artless Mary.
Meet me, &c.

We 'll join our love notes to the breeze
That sighs in whispers through the trees,
And a' that twa fond hearts can please
Will be our sang, dear Mary.
Meet me, &c.

There ye shall sing the sun to rest,
While to my faithfu' bosom prest;
Then wha sae happy, wha sae blest,
As me and my dear Mary.
Meet me, &c.

MORAG'S FAIRY GLEN.

Ye ken whar yon wee burnie, love,
Rins roarin' to the sea,
And tumbles o'er it's rocky bed,
Like spirit wild and free.
The mellow mavis tunes his lay,
The blackbird swells his note,
And little robin sweetly sings
Above the woody grot.
There meet me, love, by a' unseen,
Beside yon mossy den,
Oh, meet me, love, at dewy eve,
In Morag's fairy glen;
Oh, meet me, love, at dewy eve,
In Morag's fairy glen.

Come when the sun, in robes of gold,
Sinks o'er yon hills to rest,
An' fragrance floating in the breeze
Comes frae the dewy west.
And I will pu' a garland gay,
To deck thy brow sae fair;
For many a woodbine cover'd glade
An' sweet wild flower is there.

There 's music in the wild cascade,
There 's love amang the trees,
There 's beauty in ilk bank and brae,
An' balm upon the breeze;
There 's a' of nature and of art,
That maistly weel could be;
An' oh, my love, when thou art there,
There 's bliss in store for me.

OH! DINNA CROSS THE BURN, WILLIE.

Oh! dinna cross the burn, Willie,
Dinna cross the burn,
For big 's the spate, and loud it roars;
Oh, dinna cross the burn.
Your folks a' ken you 're here the nicht,
And sair they wad you blame;
Sae bide wi' me till mornin' licht--
Indeed, you 're no gaun hame.
The thunder-storm howls in the glen,
The burn is rising fast;
Bide only twa-three hours, and then
The storm 'll a' be past.
Oh, dinna cross, &c.

Then bide, dear Willie, here the nicht,
Oh, bide till mornin' here;
My faither, he 'll see a' things richt,
And ye 'll hae nocht to fear.
See, dark 's the lift, no moon is there,
The rains in torrents pour;
And see the lightning's dreadful glare,
Hear how the thunders roar!
Oh, dinna cross, &c.

Away he rode, no kind words could
His mad resolve o'erturn;
He plunged into the foaming flood,
But never cross'd the burn!
And now though ten long years have pass'd
Since that wild storm blew by--
Oh! still the maniac hears the blast,
And still her crazy cry,
Oh, dinna cross, &c.

ALEXANDER TAIT.

Alexander Tait is a native of Peebles. Abandoning in 1829 the occupation of a cotton-weaver, he has since been engaged in the work of tuition. He has taught successively in the parishes of Lasswade, Tweedsmuir, Meggat, Pennycuick, Yarrow, and Peebles. To the public journals, both in prose and verse, he has been an extensive contributor.

E'ENING'S DEWY HOUR.

AIR--_'Roslin Castle.'_

When rosy day, far in the west, has vanish'd frae the scene,
And gloamin' spreads her mantle gray owre lake and mountain green;
When yet the darklin' shades o' mirk but haflens seem to lower,
How dear to love and beauty is the e'ening's dewy hour!

When down the burnie's wimpling course, amid the hazel shade,
The robin chants his vesper sang, the cushat seeks the glade;
When bats their drowsy vigils wheel round eldrich tree and tower,
Be 't mine to meet the lass I lo'e at e'ening's dewy hour!

When owre the flower-bespangled sward the flocks have ceased to stray,
And maukin steals across the lawn beneath the twilight gray;
Then, oh! how dear, frae men apart, in glen or woodland bower,
To meet the lass we dearly lo'e at e'ening's dewy hour!

The ruddy morn has charms enow, when, from the glowin' sky,
The sun on rival beauties smiles wi' gladness in his eye;
But, oh! the softer shaded scene has magic in its power,
Which cheers the youthful lover's heart at e'ening's dewy hour!

CHARLES FLEMING.

A handloom weaver in Paisley, of which place he is a native, Charles Fleming has, from early youth, devoted his leisure hours to the pursuits of elegant literature. He has long been a contributor to the public journals.

WATTY M'NEIL.

When others are boasting 'bout fetes and parades,
Whar silken hose shine, and glitter cockades,
In the low-thatched cot mair pleasure I feel
To discourse wi' the aul'-farint Watty M'Neil.

The gentles may hoot, and slip by his door;
His mien it is simple, his haudin' is poor:
Aft fashion encircles a heart no sae leal--
Far, far will ye ride for a Watty M'Neil.

His welcome is touching, yet nought o' the faun--
A warmth is express'd in the shake o' his han';
His cog and his bed, or ought in his biel,
The lonely will share frae kind Watty M'Neil.

He kens a' 'bout Scotland, its friends and its foes,
How Leslie did triumph o'er gallant Montrose;
And the Covenant's banner ower Philiphaugh's fiel'
Waved glorious--'twas noble, says Watty M'Neil.

Then gang and see Watty ere laid in the mools,
He 's a help to the wise folk, a lesson to fools;
Contentment and innocence mingle sae weel
Mid the braw lyart haffits o' Watty M'Neil.

WILLIAM FERGUSON.

The author of several esteemed and popular songs, William Ferguson, follows the avocation of a master plumber in Nicolson Street, Edinburgh. Born within the shadow of the Pentlands, near the scene of Ramsay's "Gentle Shepherd," he has written verses from his youth. He has contributed copiously to "Whistle Binkie," and "The Book of Scottish Song."

I 'LL TEND THY BOWER, MY BONNIE MAY.

I 'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May,
In spring time o' the year;
When saft'ning winds begin to woo
The primrose to appear;
When daffodils begin to dance,
And streams again flow free;
And little birds are heard to pipe,
On the sprouting forest tree.

I 'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May,
When summer days are lang,
When nature's heart is big wi' joy,
Her voice laden wi' sang;
When shepherds pipe on sunny braes,
And flocks roam at their will,
And auld and young, in cot an' ha',
O' pleasure drink their fill.