Chapter VI: Part 6

In lang, lang days o' simmer when the clear and cludless sky
Refuses ae wee drap o' rain to Nature parch'd and dry,
The genial night, wi balmy breath, gaurs verdure spring anew,
An' ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

Sae lest 'mid fortune's sunshine we should feel ower proud an' hie,
An' in our pride forget to wipe the tear frae poortith's e'e,
Some wee dark cluds o' sorrow come, we ken na whence or hoo,
But ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

WIFIE, COME HAME.

Wifie, come hame,
My couthie wee dame!
Oh, but ye 're far awa,
Wifie, come hame!
Come wi' the young bloom o' morn on thy broo,
Come wi' the lown star o' love in thine e'e,
Come wi' the red cherries ripe on thy mou',
A' glist wi' balm, like the dew on the lea.
Come wi' the gowd tassels fringin' thy hair,
Come wi' thy rose cheeks a' dimpled wi' glee,
Come wi' thy wee step, and wifie-like air,
Oh, quickly come, and shed blessings on me!

Wifie, come hame,
My couthie wee dame!
Oh, my heart wearies sair,
Wifie, come hame!
Come wi' our love pledge, our dear little dawtie,
Clasping my neck round, an' clamb'rin' my knee;
Come let me nestle and press the wee pettie,
Gazing on ilka sweet feature o' thee.
Oh, but the house is a cauld hame without ye,
Lanely and eerie 's the life that I dree;
Oh, come awa', an' I 'll dance round about ye,
Ye 'll ne'er again win frae my arms till I dee.

THE BIRDIE SURE TO SING IS AYE THE GORBEL O' THE NEST.

Oh, dinna look ye pridefu' doon on a' aneath your ken,
For he wha seems the farthest but aft wins the farthest ben;
And whiles the doubie o' the school tak's lead o' a' the rest,
The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.

The cauld gray misty morn aft brings a sultry sunny day,
The trees wha's buds are latest are the langest to decay;
The heart sair tried wi' sorrow aye endures the sternest test--
The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.

The wee, wee stern that glints in heaven, may be a lowin' sun,
Though like a speck o' light, scarce seen amid the welkin dun;
The humblest sodger on the field may win the warrior's crest--
The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.

Then dinna be impatient wi' your bairnie when he 's slow,
And dinna scorn the humble, though the world deem them low;
The hindmost and the feeblest aft become the first and best--
The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.

CREEP AFORE YE GANG.

Creep awa', my bairnie, creep afore ye gang;
Cock ye baith your lugs to your auld grannie's sang;
Gin ye gang as far ye will think the road lang,
Creep awa', my bairnie--creep afore ye gang.

Creep awa', my bairnie, ye 're ower young to learn
To tot up and down yet, my bonnie wee bairn;
Better creepin' cannie, as fa'in' wi' a bang,
Duntin' a' your wee brow--creep afore ye gang.

Ye 'll creep, an' ye 'll hotch, an' ye 'll nod to your mither,
Watchin' ilka stap o' your wee donsy brither;
Rest ye on the floor till your wee limbs grow strang,
An' ye 'll be a braw cheil' yet--creep afore ye gang.

The wee burdie fa's when it tries ower soon to flee;
Folks are sure to tumble when they climb ower hie;
They wha dinna walk right are sure to come to wrang--
Creep awa', my bairnie--creep afore ye gang.

AE GUDE TURN DESERVES ANITHER.

Ye mauna be proud, although ye be great,
The puirest bodie is still your brither;
The king may come in the cadger's gate--
Ae gude turn deserves anither.

The hale o' us rise frae the same cauld clay,
Ae hour we bloom, ae hour we wither;
Let ilk help ither to climb the brae--
Ae gude turn deserves anither.

The highest among us are unco wee,
Frae Heaven we get a' our gifts thegither;
Hoard na, man, what ye get sae free!--
Ae gude turn deserves anither.

Life is a weary journey alane,
Blithe 's the road when we wend wi' ither;
Mutual gi'ing is mutual gain--
Ae gude turn deserves anither.

THE NAMELESS LASSIE.

There 's nane may ever guess or trow my bonnie lassie's name,
There 's nane may ken the humble cot my lassie ca's her hame;
Yet though my lassie's nameless, an' her kin o' low degree,
Her heart is warm, her thochts are pure, and, oh! she 's dear to me.

She 's gentle as she 's bonnie, an' she 's modest as she 's fair,
Her virtues, like her beauties a', are varied as they 're rare;
While she is light an' merry as the lammie on the lea--
For happiness an' innocence thegither aye maun be!

Whene'er she shews her blooming face, the flowers may cease to blaw,
An' when she opes her hinnied lips, the air is music a';
But when wi' ither's sorrows touch'd, the tear starts to her e'e,
Oh! that 's the gem in beauty's crown, the priceless pearl to me.

Within my soul her form 's enshrined, her heart is a' my ain,
An' richer prize or purer bliss nae mortal e'er can gain;
The darkest paths o' life I tread wi' steps o' bounding glee,
Cheer'd onward by the love that lichts my nameless lassie's e'e.

BONNIE BONALY.

Bonnie Bonaly's wee fairy-led stream,
Murmurs and sobs like a child in a dream;
Falling where silver light gleams on its breast,
Gliding through nooks where the dark shadows rest,
Flooding with music its own tiny valley,
Dances in gladness the stream o' Bonaly.

Proudly Bonaly's gray-brow'd castle towers,
Bounded by mountains, and bedded in flowers;
Here hangs the blue bell, and there waves the broom;
Nurtured by art, rarest garden sweets bloom;
Heather and thyme scent the breezes that dally,
Playing amang the green knolls o' Bonaly.

Pentland's high hills raise their heather-crown'd crest,
Peerless Edina expands her white breast,
Beauty and grandeur are blent in the scene,
Bonnie Bonaly lies smiling between;
Nature and Art, like fair twins, wander gaily;
Friendship and love dwell in bonnie Bonaly.

SAFT IS THE BLINK O' THINE E'E, LASSIE.

Oh, saft is the blink o' thine e'e, lassie,
Saft is the blink o' thine e'e;
An' a bonnie wee sun glimmers in its blue orb,
As kindly it glints upon me.

The ringlets that twine round thy brow, lassie,
Are gowden, as gowden may be;
Like the wee curly cluds that play round the sun,
When he 's just going to drap in the sea.

Thou hast a bonnie wee mou', lassie,
As sweet as a body may pree;
And fondly I 'll pree that wee hinny mou',
E'en though thou shouldst frown upon me.

Thou hast a lily-white hand, lassie,
As fair as a body may see;
An' saft is the touch o' that wee genty hand,
At e'en when thou partest wi' me.

Thy thoughts are sae haly and pure, lassie,
Thy heart is sae kind and sae free;
My bosom is flooded wi' sunshine an' joy,
Wi' ilka blithe blink o' thine e'e.

THE MAIR THAT YE WORK, AYE THE MAIR WILL YE WIN.

Be eident, be eident, fleet time rushes on,
Be eident, be eident, bricht day will be gone;
To stand idle by is a profitless sin:
The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.

The earth gathers fragrance while nursing the flower,
The wave waxes stronger while feeding the shower,
The stream gains in speed as it sweeps o'er the linn:
The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.

There 's nought got by idling, there 's nought got for nought,
Health, wealth, and contentment, by labour are bought;
In raising yoursel', ye may help up your kin:
The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.

Let every man aim in his heart to excel,
Let every man ettle to fend for himsel';
Aye nourish ye stern independence within:
The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.

THE WIDOW.

The widow is feckless, the widow 's alane,
Yet nae ane e'er hears the puir widow complain;
For, ah! there 's a Friend that the world wots na o',
Wha brightens her ken, and wha lightens her wo.

She looks a' around her, and what sees she there
But quarrels and cavils, but sorrow and care?
She looks in within, and she feels in her breast
A dawning o' glory, a foretaste o' rest.

The hope o' hereafter her lane bosom cheers,
She langs sair to meet him wha left her in tears;
And life's flickerin' licht, as it wanes fast awa',
But fades to gie place to a far brichter daw.

The God o' high heaven is her comfort and guide,
When earthly friends leave her, He stands by her side;
He soothes a' her sorrows, an' hushes her fears,
An' fountains o' joy rise frae well-springs o' tears.

Then, oh! shew the widow the smile on your face,
She 's aft puir in gear, but she 's aft rich in grace;
Be kind to the widow, her Friend is on high,
You 'll meet wi' the widow again in the sky.

MRS ELIZA A. H. OGILVY.

The accomplished author of some poetical works, Mrs Eliza A. H. Ogilvy, is the daughter of Abercromby Dick, Esq., who for many years held an appointment in the civil service of the Honourable East India Company. Her childhood was passed in Scotland, under the care of her paternal uncle, Sir Robert Dick of Tullymett, who, at the head of his division, fell at the battle of Sobraon. After a period of residence in India, to which she had gone in early youth, she returned to Britain. In 1843, she was united in marriage to David Ogilvy, Esq., a cadet of the old Scottish family of Inverquharity. Several years of her married life have been spent in Italy; at present she resides with her husband and children at Sydenham, Kent. "A Book of Scottish Minstrelsy," being a series of ballads founded on legendary tales of the Scottish Highlands, appeared from her pen in 1846, and was well received by the press. She has since published "Traditions of Tuscany," and "Poems of Ten Years."

CRAIG ELACHIE.

Blue are the hills above the Spey,
The rocks are red that line his way;
Green is the strath his waters lave,
And fresh the turf upon the grave
Where sleep my sire and sisters three,
Where none are left to mourn for me:
Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

The roofs that shelter'd me and mine
Hold strangers of a Sassenach line;
Our hamlet thresholds ne'er can shew
The friendly forms of long ago;
The rooks upon the old yew-tree
Would e'en have stranger notes to me:
Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

The cattle feeding on the hills,
We tended once o'er moors and rills,
Like us have gone; the silly sheep
Now fleck the brown sides of the steep,
And southern eyes their watchers be,
And Gael and Sassenach ne'er agree:
Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

Where are the elders of our glen,
Wise arbiters for meaner men?
Where are the sportsmen, keen of eye,
Who track'd the roe against the sky;
The quick of hand, of spirit free?
Pass'd, like a harper's melody:
Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

Where are the maidens of our vale,
Those fair, frank daughters of the Gael?
Changed are they all, and changed the wife,
Who dared, for love, the Indian's life;
The little child she bore to me
Sunk in the vast Atlantic sea:
Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

Bare are the moors of broad Strathspey,
Shaggy the western forests gray;
Wild is the corri's autumn roar,
Wilder the floods of this far shore;
Dark are the crags of rushing Dee,
Darker the shades of Tennessee:
Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

Great rock, by which the Grant hath sworn,
Since first amid the mountains born;
Great rock, whose sterile granite heart
Knows not, like us, misfortune's smart,
The river sporting at thy knee,
On thy stern brow no change can see:
Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

Stand fast on thine own Scottish ground,
By Scottish mountains flank'd around,
Though we uprooted, cast away
From the warm bosom of Strathspey,
Flung pining by this western sea,
The exile's hopeless lot must dree:
Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

Yet strong as thou the Grant shall rise,
Cleft from his clansmen's sympathies;
In these grim wastes new homes we 'll rear,
New scenes shall wear old names so dear;
And while our axes fell the tree,
Resound old Scotia's minstrelsy:
Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

Here can no treacherous chief betray
For sordid gain our new Strathspey;
No fearful king, no statesmen pale,
Wrench the strong claymore from the Gael.
With arm'd wrist and kilted knee,
No prairie Indian half so free:
Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

JOHN FINLAY.

John Finlay was born at Glasgow in 1808, and is one of the partners in the respectable firm of R. G. Finlay & Co., manufacturers in that city. Amidst due attention to the active prosecution of business, he has long been keenly devoted to the principal national games--curling, angling, bowling, quoiting, and archery--in all of which he has frequently carried off prizes at the various competitions throughout the country. To impart humorous sociality to the friendly meetings of the different societies of which he is a member, Mr Finlay was led to become a song-writer. There is scarcely a characteristic of any of his favourite games which he has not celebrated in racy verse. Some of his songs have obtained celebrity in certain counties where the national sports are peculiarly cultivated.

THE NOBLE SCOTTISH GAME.

AIR--_"Castles in the Air."_

The King is on the throne wi' his sceptre an' his croon,
The elements o' cauld are the courtiers staunin' roun';
He lifts his icy haun', an' he speaks wi' awe profound,
He chills the balmy air, and he binds the yielding ground;
He calms the raging winds when they moan and loudly rave,
He stops the rinnin' stream, and he stills the dancin' wave;
He calls the curlers on to the field of hope and fame,
An' the spreading lake resounds wi' the noble Scottish game!

The hedges an' the trees are a' hung wi' pearls braw,
An' the rinks are glancing clear 'mang the heaps o' shinin' snaw;
The wee birds in the blast are a' tremblin' wi' the cauld;
The sheep are lyin' close in the safely guarded fauld;
The farmer leaves the plough, an' the weaver leaves the loom,
Auld age gangs totterin' by wi' the youth in manhood's bloom;
The miseries o' life are a' banish'd far frae hame,
When the curlers meet to play at the brave old Scottish game!

It makes the auld folk young, an' the crimson tide to flow,
It gars the pale face shine wi' a fresh and ruddy glow;
The rich forget their state and the charms o' wealth and power,
When the bosom swells wi' joy in the bright triumphant hour.
The wise may laugh an' sneer, and the unco guid may gloom
At the happy, happy man, wi' his curlin' stanes and broom;
The melody to charm is the sport we love to name,
Ah! there 's music in the stanes, at the rare old Scottish game!

The warm and glowin' clime will subdue the manly form;
The curler's happy hame is the land o' mist an' storm,
Where the dreary winter reigns wi' a wide extended sway,
An' the heathy moors are clad in a robe o' white array,
Till the gentle breath o' spring blaws the icy fields awa',
To woo the springin' flowers, and to melt the frozen snaw.
When the curlin' days are o'er, a' the joys o' life are tame--
There 's naething warms the heart like the noble Scottish game!

THE MERRY BOWLING-GREEN.

AIR--_"Castles in the Air."_

The gloomy days are gone
With the blasts o' winter keen;
The flowers are blooming fair,
And the trees are budding green;
The lark is in the sky,
With his music ringing loud,
Raining notes of joy
From the sunny Summer cloud--
Springing at the dawn
With the blushing light of day,
And quivering with delight
In the morning's golden ray;
But there 's rapture dearer far
In the warm and social power
Of the merry bowling-green,
In the happy evening hour!

The lights and shades of life,
Like an April day, are seen,
'Mid the melting sunny showers,
On the lively bowling-green.
The Spring and Autumn meet
When the old and young are there,
And mirth and wisdom chase
From the heart the thoughts of care.
When the creaking wheels of life
Are revolving weak and slow,
And the dashing tide of hope
May be ebbing dark and low,
The sons of wealth and toil
Feel the sweet and soothing power
Of the merry bowling-green,
In the charming leisure hour!

The streams of life run on
Till they fall into the sea;
And the flowers are left behind,
With their fragrance on the lea.
The circling flight of time
Will soon make the young folk old;
And pleasure dances on
Till the springs of life grow cold.
We 'll taste the joys of life
As the hours are gliding fast,
And learn to live and love
From the follies of the past;
And remember with delight,
When misfortunes intervene,
The happy days we 've spent
On the merry bowling-green.

THOMAS TOD STODDART.

Thomas Tod Stoddart, well-known through his ingenious works on angling, was born on the 14th February 1810 in Argyle Square, Edinburgh. In the chamber of his birth Dr Robertson is said to have written the "History of Scotland." His father, a rear-admiral in the navy, shared in several distinguished services: he was present at Lord Howe's victory at the landing in Egypt; at the battles of the Nile and Copenhagen, and in many desperate encounters between Russia and Sweden. Young Stoddart was educated at a Moravian establishment at Fairfield, near Manchester, and subsequently passed through a course of philosophy and law in the University of Edinburgh. Early devoted to verse-making, he composed a tragedy in his ninth year; and at the age of sixteen was the successful competitor in Professor Wilson's class, for a poem on "Idolatry." He was an early contributor to the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_.

Mr Stoddart studied for the Bar, and passed advocate in 1833. Finding the legal profession uncongenial, he soon relinquished it; and entering upon the married state in 1836, he has since resided at Kelso. For many years he has divided his time between the pursuits of literature, and the recreation of angling. In 1831, he published "The Deathwake, or Lunacy, a Poem;" in 1834, "The Art of Angling;" in 1836, "Angling Reminiscences;" in 1839, "Songs and Poems;" and in 1844, "Abel Massinger; or the Aëronaut, a Romance." The second of these publications has been remodelled, and under the title of "The Angler's Companion," has exhausted several impressions, and continues in general favour. The volume of "Songs" having been sold out, a new edition, along with a tragedy, entitled "The Crown Jewel," and "The Aëronaut," both still in MS., may be expected. Living at Kelso, Mr Stoddart has every opportunity of prosecuting his favourite pastime in the Tweed, and enjoying scenery calculated to foster the poetic temperament.

ANGLING SONG.

Bring the rod, the line, the reel!
Bring, oh, bring the osier creel!
Bring me flies of fifty kinds,
Bring me showers, and clouds, and winds,
All things right and tight,
All things well and proper,
Trailer red and bright,
Dark and wily dropper;
Casts of midges bring,
Made of plover hackle,
With a gaudy wing,
And a cobweb tackle.

Lead me where the river flows,
Shew me where the alder grows,
Reel and rushes, moss and mead,
To them lead me--quickly lead,
Where the roving trout
Watches round an eddy,
With his eager snout
Pointed up and ready,
Till a careless fly,
On the surface wheeling,
Tempts him, rising sly
From his safe concealing.

There, as with a pleasant friend,
I the happy hours will spend,
Urging on the subtle hook,
O'er the dark and chancy nook,
With a hand expert
Every motion swaying,
And on the alert
When the trout are playing;
Bring me rod and reel,
Flies of every feather,
Bring the osier creel,
Send me glorious weather!

LET ITHER ANGLERS.

Let ither anglers choose their ain,
An' ither waters tak' the lead;
O' Hieland streams we covet nane,
But gie to us the bonnie Tweed!
An' gie to us the cheerfu' burn
That steals into its valley fair--
The streamlets that at ilka turn,
Sae saftly meet an' mingle there.

The lanesome Tala and the Lyne,
An' Manor wi' its mountain rills,
An' Etterick, whose waters twine
Wi' Yarrow, frae the forest hills;
An' Gala, too, an' Teviot bright,
An' mony a stream o' playfu' speed;
Their kindred valleys a' unite
Amang the braes o' bonnie Tweed.

There 's no a hole abune the Crook,
Nor stane nor gentle swirl aneath,
Nor drumlie rill, nor fairy brook,
That daunders through the flowrie heath,
But ye may fin' a subtle troot,
A' gleamin' ower wi' starn an' bead,
An' mony a sawmon sooms aboot,
Below the bields o' bonnie Tweed.

Frae Holylee to Clovenford,
A chancier bit ye canna hae,
So gin ye tak' an' angler's word,
Ye 'd through the whins an' ower the brae,
An' work awa' wi' cunnin' hand
Yer birzy hackles black and reid;
The saft sough o' a slender wand
Is meetest music for the Tweed!

THE BRITISH OAK.

The oak is Britain's pride!
The lordliest of trees,
The glory of her forest side,
The guardian of her seas!
Its hundred arms are brandish'd wide,
To brave the wintry breeze.

Our hearts shall never quail
Below the servile yoke,
Long as our seamen trim the sail,
And wake the battle smoke--
Long as they stem the stormy gale,
On planks of British oak!

Then in its native mead,
The golden acorn lay;
And watch with care the bursting seed,
And guard the tender spray;
England will bless us for the deed,
In some far future day!

Oh! plant the acorn tree
Upon each Briton's grave;
So shall our island ever be,
The island of the brave--
The mother-nurse of liberty,
And empress o'er the wave!

PEACE IN WAR.

Peace be upon their banners!
When our war-ships leave the bay--
When the anchor is weigh'd,
And the gales
Fill the sails,
As they stray--
When the signals are made,
And the anchor is weigh'd,
And the shores of England fade
Fast away!

Peace be upon their banners,
As they cross the stormy main!
May they no aggressors prove,
But unite,
Britain's right
To maintain;
And, unconquer'd, as they move,
May they no aggressors prove;
But to guard the land we love,
Come again!

Long flourish England's commerce!
May her navies ever glide,
With concord in their lead,
Ranging free
Every sea,
Far and wide;
And at their country's need,
With thunders in their lead,
May the ocean eagles speed
To her side!

ALEXANDER MACLAGAN.[12]

Alexander Maclagan was born at Bridgend, Perth, on the 3d of April 1811. His father, Thomas Maclagan, was bred to farming, but early abandoning this occupation, he settled in Perth as a manufacturer. Unfortunate in business, he removed to Edinburgh, with a young family of three children; the subject of the present memoir being the eldest. Catherine Stuart, the poet's mother, was descended from the Stuarts of Breadalbane, a family of considerable rank in that district. At the period of his father's removal to Edinburgh, Alexander was only in his fifth year. Not more successful in his pursuits in Edinburgh, where three additional children were born to him, Thomas Maclagan was unable to bestow upon his son Alexander the liberal education which his strong natural capacity demanded; but acquiring the common rudiments of knowledge at several schools in the Old Town, he was at the early age of ten years taken thence, and placed in a jeweller's shop, where he remained two years. Being naturally strong, and now of an age to undertake more laborious employment, his father, rather against the son's inclinations, bound him apprentice to a plumber in Edinburgh, with whom he served six years. About this time he produced many excellent drawings, which received the approbation of the managers of the Edinburgh School of Design, but the arduous duties of his occupation precluded the possibility of his following his natural bent. His leisure time was chiefly devoted to the cultivation of literature. So early as his thirteenth year he entered the Edinburgh Mechanics' Library as a member; and from this early age he dates his taste for poetry.

In 1829, while yet an apprentice, Maclagan became connected with the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_, edited by Mr Glassford Bell. As a contributor to that publication, he was introduced to the Ettrick Shepherd, Professor Wilson, William Tennant, and William Motherwell, who severally commended his verses. On the expiry of his apprenticeship he worked for some time as a journeyman plumber. He was married in his eighteenth year; and he has three surviving children. In 1831, he commenced on his own account, in a shop at the head of the Mound, Edinburgh; but finding he had inadequate capital, he proceeded to London in quest of employment in some managing department of his trade. In the metropolis he was well received by Allan Cunningham, and was, through his recommendation, offered an appointment under Mr Cubitt, the well known builder. A strike among Mr Cubitt's workmen unfortunately interfered with the completion of the arrangement, and the poet, much disappointed, returned to Edinburgh. He now accepted an engagement as manager of a plumbery establishment in Dunfermline, where he continued two years. He afterwards devoted himself to literary and educational pursuits.

In 1841, Maclagan published a collected edition of his poems, which immediately attracted the favourable notice of Lord Jeffrey. He invited the poet to his residence, and on many occasions proved his benefactor. On the publication, in 1849, of another volume, entitled, "Sketches from Nature, and other Poems," the critic wrote to the poet in these words, "I can remember when the appearance of such a work would have produced a great sensation, and secured to its author both distinction and more solid advantages." Among the last written of Lord Jeffrey's letters, was one addressed to Mr Maclagan in regard to the second edition of his Poems. Shortly after his patron's death, the poet found a new friend in Lord Cockburn, who procured for him a junior clerkship in the office of the Inland Revenue, Edinburgh. This situation proved, however, most uncongenial; he found himself unsuited to the practice of lengthened arithmetical summations, and he resigned his post under the promise of being transferred to another department, more suitable to his habits. In 1851 he was, by a number of his admirers, entertained at a public dinner in the hall attached to Burns' Cottage, and more lately he received a similar compliment in his native town. Considerate attentions have been shewn him by the Duchess of Sutherland, the Duke of Argyle, the Rev. Dr Guthrie, and other distinguished individuals. In the autumn of 1856 he had conferred on him by the Queen a small Civil List pension.

Mr Maclagan's latest publication, entitled, "Ragged and Industrial School Rhymes," appeared in 1854, and has well sustained his reputation. Imbued with a keen perception of the beautiful and pleasing, alike in the natural and moral world, his poetry is marked by refinement of thought, elegance of expression, and an earnest devotedness. In social life he delights to depict the praises of virtue. The lover's tale he has told with singular simplicity and tenderness.

FOOTNOTES:

[12] To Mr Disseret of Edinburgh we are indebted for the particulars of Mr Maclagan's personal history.

CURLING SONG.

Hurrah for Scotland's worth and fame,
A health to a' that love the name;
Hurrah for Scotland's darling game,
The pastime o' the free, boys.
While head, an' heart, an' arm are strang,
We 'll a' join in a patriot's sang,
And sing its praises loud and lang--
The roarin' rink for me, boys.
Hurrah, hurrah, for Scotland's fame,
A health to a' that love the name;
Hurrah for Scotland's darling game;
The roarin' rink for me, boys.

Gie hunter chaps their break-neck hours,
Their slaughtering guns amang the muirs;
Let wily fisher prove his powers
At the flinging o' the flee, boys.
But let us pledge ilk hardy chiel,
Wha's hand is sure, wha's heart is leal,
Wha's glory 's on a brave bonspiel--
The roarin' rink for me, boys.

In ancient days--fame tells the fact--
That Scotland's heroes werena slack
The heads o' stubborn foes to crack,
And mak' the feckless flee, boys.
Wi' brave hearts, beating true and warm,
They aften tried the curlin' charm
To cheer the heart and nerve the arm--
The roarin' rink for me, boys.

May love and friendship crown our cheer
Wi' a' the joys to curlers dear;
We hae this nicht some heroes here,
We aye are blythe to see, boys.
A' brithers brave are they, I ween,
May fickle Fortune, slippery queen,
Aye keep their ice baith clear and clean--
The roarin' rink for me, boys.

May health an' strength their toils reward,
And should misfortune's gales blow hard,
Our task will be to plant a guard
Or guide them to the tee, boys.
Here 's three times three for curlin' scenes,
Here 's three times three for curlin' freen's,
Here 's three times three for beef an' greens--
The roarin' rink for me, boys.

A' ye that love auld Scotland's name,
A' ye that love auld Scotland's fame,
A' ye that love auld Scotland's game,
A glorious sicht to see, boys--
Up, brothers, up, drive care awa';
Up, brothers, up, ne'er think o' thaw;
Up, brothers, up, and sing hurrah--
The roarin' rink for me, boys.

THE AULD MEAL MILL.

The auld meal mill--oh, the auld meal mill,
Like a dream o' my schule-days, it haunts me still;
Like the sun's simmer blink on the face o' a hill,
Stands the love o' my boyhood, the auld meal mill.

The stream frae the mountain, rock-ribbit and brown,
Like a peal o' loud laughter, comes rattlin' down;
Tak' my word for 't, my friend, 'tis na puny rill
That ca's the big wheel o' the auld meal mill.

When flashin' and dashin' the paddles flee round,
The miller's blythe whistle aye blends wi' the sound;
The spray, like the bricht draps whilk rainbows distil,
Fa' in showers o' red gowd round the auld meal mill.

The wild Hielan' heather grows thick on its thack,
The ivy and apple-tree creep up its back;
The lightning-wing'd swallow, wi' Nature's ain skill,
Builds its nest 'neath the eaves o' the auld meal mill.

Keep your e'e on the watch-dog, for Cæsar kens weel
When the wild gipsy laddies are tryin' to steal;
But he lies like a lamb, and licks wi' good will
The hard, horny hand that brings grist to the mill.

There are mony queer jokes 'bout the auld meal mill--
They are noo sober folks 'bout the auld meal mill--
But ance it was said that a het Hielan' still
Was aften at wark near the auld meal mill.

When the plough 's at its rest, the sheep i' the fauld,
Sic' gatherin's are there, baith o' young folk and auld;
The herd blaws his horn, richt bauldly and shrill,
A' to bring doon his clan to the auld meal mill.

Then sic jumpin' o'er barrows, o'er hedges and harrows,
The men o' the mill can scarce fin' their marrows;
Their lang-barrell'd guns wad an armory fill--
There 's some capital shots near the auld meal mill.

At blithe penny-weddin' or christ'nin' a wee ane,
Sic' ribbons, sic' ringlets, sic feather's are fleein';
Sic' laughin', sic' daffin', sic dancin', until
The laft near comes doon o' the auld meal mill.

I hae listen'd to music--ilk varying tone,
Frae the harp's deein' fa' to the bagpipe's drone;
But nane stirs my heart wi' sae happy a thrill
As the sound o' the wheel o' the auld meal mill.

Success to the mill and the merry mill-wheel!
Lang, lang may it grind aye the wee bairnies' meal!
Bless the miller--wha often, wi' heart and good-will,
Fills the widow's toom pock at the auld meal mill.

The auld meal mill--oh, the auld meal mill,
Like a dream o' my schule days it haunts me still;
Like the sun's summer blink on the face o' a hill,
Stands the love o' my boyhood, the auld meal mill.

THE THISTLE.

Hurrah for the thistle! the brave Scottish thistle,
The evergreen thistle of Scotland for me!
A fig for the flowers, in your lady-built bowers--
The strong-bearded, weel-guarded thistle for me!

'Tis the flower the proud eagle greets in its flight,
When he shadows the stars with the wings of his might;
'Tis the flower that laughs at the storm as it blows,
For the stronger the tempest, the greener it grows!
Hurrah for the thistle, &c.

Round the love-lighted hames o' our ain native land--
On the bonneted brow, on the hilt of the brand--
On the face o' the shield, 'mid the shouts o' the free,
May the thistle be seen where the thistle should be!
Hurrah for the thistle, &c.

Hale hearts we hae yet to bleed in its cause;
Bold harps we hae yet to sound its applause;
How, then, can it fade, when sic chiels an' sic cheer,
And sae mony braw sprouts o' the thistle are here?
Then hurrah for the thistle! the brave Scottish thistle,
The evergreen thistle of Scotland for me!
A fig for the flowers in your lady-built bowers--
The strong-bearded, well-guarded thistle for me!

THE SCOTCH BLUE BELL.

The Scotch blue-bell, the Scotch blue-bell,
The dear blue-bell for me!
Oh! I wadna gie the Scotch blue-bell
For a' the flowers I see.

I lo'e thee weel, thou Scotch blue-bell,
I hail thee, floweret fair;
Whether thou bloom'st in lanely dell,
Or wavest mid mountain air--
Blithe springing frae our bare, rough rocks,
Or fountain's flowery brink:
Where, fleet as wind, in thirsty flocks,
The deer descend to drink.
The Scotch blue-bell, &c.

Sweet flower! thou deck'st the sacred nook
Beside love's trystin' tree;
I see thee bend to kiss the brook,
That kindly kisseth thee.
'Mang my love's locks ye 're aften seen,
Blithe noddin' o'er her brow,
Meet marrows to her lovely een
O' deep endearin' blue!
The Scotch blue-bell, &c.

When e'enin's gowden curtains hing
O'er moor and mountain gray,
Methinks I hear the blue-bells ring
A dirge to deein' day;
But when the licht o' mornin' wakes
The young dew-drooket flowers,
I hear amid their merry peals,
The mirth o' bridal hours!
The Scotch blue-bell, &c.

How oft wi' rapture hae I stray'd,
The mountain's heather crest,
There aft wi' thee hae I array'd
My Mary's maiden breast;
Oft tremblin' mark'd amang thy bells,
Her bosom fa' and rise,
Like snawy cloud that sinks and swells,
'Neath summer's deep blue skies.
The Scotch blue-bell, &c.

Oh! weel ye guess when morning daws,
I seek the blue-bell grot;
An' weel ye guess, when e'enin' fa's
Sae sweet, I leave it not;
An' when upon my tremblin' breast,
Reclines my maiden fair,
Thou know'st full well that I am blest,
And free frae ilka care.

The Scotch blue-bell, the Scotch blue-bell,
The dear blue-bell for me!
Oh! I wadna gie the Scotch blue-bell,
For a' the flowers I see.

THE ROCKIN'.

The ingle cheek is bleezin' bricht,
The croozie sheds a cheerfu' licht,
An' happy hearts are here the nicht,
To haud a rantin' rockin'!

There 's laughin' Lizzie, free o' care;
There 's Mary, wi' the modest air;
An' Kitty, wi' the gowden hair,
Will a' be at the rockin'.

There 's Bessie, wi' her spinnin' wheel;
There 's Jeanie Deans, wha sings sae weel;
An' Meg, sae daft about a reel,
Will a' be at the rockin'.

The ploughman, brave as Wallace wicht;
The weaver, wi' his wit sae bricht;
The vulcan, wi' his arm o' micht,
Will a' be at the rockin'.

The shepherd, wi' his eagle e'e,
Kindly heart an' rattlin' glee;
The wonder-workin' dominie,
Will a' be at the rockin'.

The miller, wi' his mealy mou',
Wha kens sae weel the way to woo--
His faither's pipes frae Waterloo
He 'll bring to cheer our rockin'.

The souter, wi' his bristly chin,
Frae whilk the lasses screechin' rin;
The curly-headed whupper-in,
Will a' be at the rockin'.

There 's merry jokes to cheer the auld,
There 's love an' joy to warm the cauld,
There 's sangs o' weir to fire the bauld;
Sae prove our merry rockin'.

The tales they tell, the sangs they sing,
Will gar the auld clay biggin' ring,
And some will dance the Highland fling,
Right blithely at the rockin'.

Wi' wit, an' love, an' fun, an' fire,
Fond friendship will each soul inspire,
An' mirth will get her heart's desire
O' rantin', at the rockin'.

When sair foredung wi' crabbit care,
When days come dark whilk promised fair,
To cheer the gloom, just come an' share
The pleasures o' our rockin'.

THE WIDOW.

Oh, there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain,
Oh, there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain;
Though the heart o' this warld 's as hard as a stane,
Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain.

Though totterin' noo, like her auld crazy biel,
Her step ance the lichtest on hairst-rig or reel;
Though sighs tak' the place o' the heart-cheerin' strain,
Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!

Though humble her biggin', and scanty her store,
The beggar ne'er yet went unserved frae her door;
Though she aft lifts the lid o' her girnel in vain,
Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!

Though thin, thin her locks, noo like hill-drifted snaw,
Ance sae glossy and black, like the wing o' the craw;
Though grief frae her mild cheek the red rose has ta'en,
Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!

The sang o' the lark finds the Widow asteer,
The birr o' her wheel starts the nicht's dreamy ear;
The tears o'er the tow-tap will whiles fa' like rain,
Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!

Ye may hear in her speech, ye may see in her claes,
That auld Widow Miller has seen better days,
Ere her auld Robin dee'd, sae fond an' sae fain'--
Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!

Oh, sad was the hour when the brave Forty-twa,
Wi' their wild-sounding pipes, march'd her callant awa';
Though she schules, feeds, an' cleeds his wee orphan wean,
Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!

Ye wild wintry winds, ye blaw surly and sair,
On the heart that is sad, on the wa's that are bare;
When care counts the links o' life's heavy chain,
The poor heart is hopeless that winna complain.

The Sabbath-day comes, and the Widow is seen,
I' the aisle o' the auld kirk, baith tidy and clean;
Though she aft sits for hours on the mossy grave-stane,
Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!

An' then when she turns frae the grave's lanely sod,
To breathe out her soul in the ear of her God,
What she utters to Him is no kent to ane,
But there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!

Ye wealthy an' wise in this fair world o' ours,
When your fields wave wi' gowd, your gardens wi' flowers;
When ye bind up the sheaves, leave out a few grains,
To the heart-broken Widow wha never complains.

THE HIGHLAND PLAID.

What though ye hae nor kith nor kin',
An' few to tak' your part, love;
A happy hame ye'll ever fin'
Within my glowing heart, love.
So! while I breathe the breath o' life,
Misfortune ne'er shall steer ye;
My Highland Plaid is warm an' wide--
Creep closer, my wee dearie!

The thunder loud, the burstin' cloud,
May speak o' ghaists an' witches,
An' spunkie lichts may lead puir wichts
Through bogs an' droonin' ditches;
There's no ae imp in a' the host
This nicht will daur come near ye;
My Highland Plaid is warm an' wide--
Creep closer, my wee dearie!

Why do you heave sic heavy sighs,
Why do ye sab sae sair, love?
Altho' beneath my rustic plaid
An earl's star I wear love,
I woo'd ye as a shepherd youth,
And as a queen revere thee;
My Highland plaid is warm an' wide--
Creep closer, my wee deerie!

THE FLOWER O' GLENCOE.

Oh! dear to my heart are my heather-clad mountains,
An' the echoes that burst from their caverns below,
The wild woods that darken the face of their fountains--
The haunts of the wild deer an' fleet-footed roe;
But dearer to me is the bower o' green bushes
That flowers the green bank where the Tay gladly gushes,
For there, all in tears, an' deep crimson'd wi' blushes,
I won the young heart o' the Flower o' Glencoe.

Contented I lived in my canty auld biggin',
'Till Britain grew wud wi' the threats o' a foe;
Then I drew my claymore frae the heather-clad riggin',
My forefathers wielded some cent'ries ago.
An' though Mary kent weel that my heart was nae ranger,
Yet the thoughts o' my wa'-gaun, the dread an' the danger
O' famine and death in the land o' the stranger,
Drave the bloom frae the cheek o' the Flower o' Glencoe.

But success crown'd our toils--ye hae a' heard the story,
How we beat the proud French, an' their eagles laid low--
I've walth o' war's wounds, an' a share o' its glory,
An' the love o' auld Scotland wherever I go.
Come, now fill the wine cup! let love tell the measure;
Toast the maid of your heart, an' I'll pledge you with pleasure;
Then a bumper I claim to my heart's dearest treasure--
The fair-bosom'd, warm-hearted Flower o' Glencoe.

MRS JANE C. SIMPSON.

Jane Cross Bell, better known by her assumed name of "Gertrude," is the daughter of the late James Bell, Esq., Advocate, and was born in Glasgow. Her first effusions, written in early youth, were published in the _Greenock Advertiser_, while her father for a short time resided in that town, as assessor to the Magistrates. To the pages of the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_ she afterwards contributed numerous poetical compositions, and subsequently various articles in prose and verse to the _Scottish Christian Herald_, then under the able editorship of the Rev. Dr Gardner. In 1836, "Gertrude" published a small volume of tales and sketches, entitled, "The Piety of Daily Life;" and, in 1838, a duodecimo volume of lyric poetry, named, "April Hours." Her latest work, "Woman's History," appeared in 1848.

In July 1837, Miss Bell was married to her cousin, Mr J. B. Simpson, and has since resided chiefly in Glasgow. Amidst numerous domestic avocations in which she has latterly been involved, Mrs Simpson continues to devote a considerable portion of her time to literary pursuits. She is at present engaged in a poetical work of a more ambitious description than any she has yet offered to the public.

GENTLENESS.

Oh! the winning charm of gentleness, so beautiful to me,
'Tis this has bound my soul so long, so tenderly, to thee;
The gentle heart, like jewel bright, beneath the ocean blue,
In every look and tone of thine, still shining sweetly through!

What though the crowd with wonder bow, before great genius' fire,
And wit, with lightning flash, commands to reverence and admire;
'Tis gentleness alone that gains the tribute of our love,
And falls upon the ear, like dew on flowers, from heaven above!

Ah! many a day has pass'd since then, yet I remember well,
Once from my lips an angry thought, in hasty accents fell;
A word of wrath I utter'd, in a light and wayward mood--
Of wrath to thee, my earliest friend, the noble and the good!

No answering words were given for mine, but, calm and bright as now,
Thy speaking eyes a moment dwelt upon my ruffled brow,
And then a sweet, forgiving smile came o'er thy pensive face,
And thy hand was softly tender'd me, with melancholy grace.

An instant mute and motionless, before thee did I stand,
And gazed upon thy placid mien, thy smile, thy proffer'd hand--
Ah! ne'er could angel, sent to walk this earth of sinful men,
Look lovelier in his robes of light, than thou to me wert then!

I long'd to weep--I strove to speak--no words came from my tongue,
Then silently to thy embrace, I wildly, fondly sprung;
The sting of guilt, like lightning, struck to my awaken'd mind;
I could have borne to meet thy wrath--'twas death to see thee kind!

'Tis ever thus! when anger wins but anger in return,
A trifle grows a thing of weight, and fast the fire will burn;
But when reproachful words are still in mild forgiveness past,
The proudest soul will own his fault, and melt in tears at last!
O Gentleness! thy gentleness, so beautiful to me!
It will ever bind my heart in love and tenderness to thee;
I bless thee for all high-born thoughts, that fill that breast of thine,
But most, I bless thee for that gift of gentleness divine!

HE LOVED HER FOR HER MERRY EYE.

He loved her for her merry eye,
That, like the vesper star,
In evening's blue and deepening sky,
Shed light and joy afar!

He loved her for her golden hair,
That o'er her shoulders hung;
He loved her for her happy voice,
The music of her tongue.

He loved her for her airy form
Of animated grace;
He loved her for the light of soul,
That brighten'd in her face.

He loved her for her simple heart,
A shrine of gentle things;
He loved her for her sunny hopes,
Her gay imaginings.

But not for him that bosom beat,
Or glanced that merry eye,
Beneath whose diamond light he felt
It would be heaven to die.

He never told her of his love,
He breathed no prayer--no vow;
But sat in silence by her side,
And gazed upon her brow.

And when, at length, she pass'd away,
Another's smiling bride,
He made his home 'mid ocean's waves--
He died upon its tide.

LIFE AND DEATH.

To live in cities--and to join
The loud and busy throng,
Who press with mad and giddy haste,
In pleasure's chase along;
To yield the soul to fashion's rules,
Ambition's varied strife;
Borne like a leaf upon the stream--
Oh! no--this is not life!

To pass the calm and pleasant hours,
By wild wood, hill, and grove,
And find a heaven in solitude,
With one we deeply love;
To know the wealth of happiness,
That each to each can give,
And feel no power can sever us--
Ah! this it is to live!

It is not death, when on the couch
Of sickness we are laid,
With all our spirit wasted,
And the bloom of youth decay'd;
To feel the shadow dim our eyes,
And pant for failing breath;
Then break at length life's feeble hain--
Oh, no! this is not death!

To part from one beneath whose smiles
We long were used to dwell,
To hear the lips we love pronounce
A passionate farewell;
To catch the last _too_ tender glance
Of an adoring eye,
And weep in solitude of heart--
Ah! this it is to die!

GOOD NIGHT.

Good night! the silver stars are clear,
On evening's placid brow;
We have been long together, love--
We must part now.

Good night! I never can forget
This long bright summer day,
We pass'd among the woods and streams,
Far, far away!

Good night! we have had happy smiles,
Fond dreams, and wishes true,
And holier thoughts and communings,
And weeping too.

Good night! perchance I ne'er may spend
Again so sweet a time,
Alone with Nature and with thee,
In my life's prime!

Good night! yet e'er we sever, love,
Take thou this faded flower,
And lay it next thy heart, against
Our meeting hour.

Good night! the silver stars are clear,
Thy homeward way to light;
Remember this long summer day--
Good night! good night!

ANDREW PARK.

The author of numerous poetical works, Andrew Park was born at Renfrew, on the 7th March 1811. After an ordinary education at the parish school, he attended during two sessions the University of Glasgow. In his fifteenth year he entered a commission warehouse in Paisley, and while resident in that town, published his first poem, entitled the "Vision of Mankind." About the age of twenty he went to Glasgow, as salesman in a hat manufactory; and shortly after, he commenced business on his own account. At this period he published several additional volumes of poems. His business falling off in consequence of a visitation of cholera in the city, he disposed of his stock and proceeded to London, to follow the career of a man of letters. After some years' residence in the metropolis, he returned to Glasgow in 1841; and having purchased the stock of the poet Dugald Moore, recently deceased, he became a bookseller in Ingram Street. The speculation proved unfortunate, and he finally retired from the concerns of business. He has since lived principally in Glasgow, but occasionally in London. In 1856 he visited Egypt and other Eastern countries, and the following year published a narrative of his travels in a duodecimo volume, entitled, "Egypt and the East."

Of the twelve volumes of poems which Mr Park has given to the public, that entitled "Silent Love" has been the most popular. It has appeared in a handsome form, with illustrations by J. Noel Paton, R.S.A. In one of his poems, entitled "Veritas," published in 1849, he has supplied a narrative of the principal events of his life up to that period. Of his numerous songs, several have obtained a wide popularity. The whole of his poetical works were published in 1854, by Bogue of London, in a handsome volume, royal octavo.

HURRAH FOR THE HIGHLANDS.

Hurrah for the Highlands! the stern Scottish Highlands,
The home of the clansmen, the brave and the free;
Where the clouds love to rest, on the mountain's rough breast
Ere they journey afar o'er the islandless sea.

'Tis there where the cataract sings to the breeze,
As it dashes in foam like a spirit of light;
And 'tis there the bold fisherman bounds o'er the seas,
In his fleet tiny bark, through the perilous night.

'Tis the land of deep shadow, of sunshine, and shower,
Where the hurricane revels in madness on high;
For there it has might that can war with its power,
In the wild dizzy cliffs that are cleaving the sky.

I have trod merry England, and dwelt on its charms;
I have wander'd through Erin, that gem of the sea;
But the Highlands alone the true Scottish heart warms--
Her heather is blooming, her eagles are free!

OLD SCOTLAND, I LOVE THEE!

Old Scotland, I love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me
Than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea;
Though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar,
Yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war!

Thy cloud-cover'd hills that look up from the seas,
Wave sternly their wild woods aloft in the breeze;
Where flies the bold eagle in freedom on high,
Through regions of cloud in its wild native sky!
For, old Scotland, I love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me
Than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea;
Though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar,
Yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war!

O name not the land where the olive-tree grows,
Nor the land of the shamrock, nor land of the rose;
But shew me the thistle that waves its proud head,
O'er heroes whose blood for their country was shed.
For, old Scotland, I love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me
Than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea;
Though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar,
Yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war!

Then tell me of bards and of warriors bold,
Who wielded their brands in the battles of old,
Who conquer'd and died for their loved native land,
With its maidens so fair, and its mountains so grand!
For, old Scotland, I love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me
Than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea;
Though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar,
Yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war!

FLOWERS OF SUMMER.

Flowers of summer, sweetly springing,
Deck the dewy lap of earth;
Birds of love are fondly singing
In their gay and jocund mirth:
Streams are pouring from their fountains,
Echoing through each rugged dell;
Heather bells adorn the mountains,
Bid the city, love! farewell.

See the boughs are rich in blossom,
Through each sunlit, silent grove;
Cast all sorrow from thy bosom--
Freedom is the soul of love!
Let us o'er the valleys wander,
Nor a frown within us dwell,
And in joy see Nature's grandeur--
Bid the city, love! farewell.