Chapter VII: Part 7

Morning's sun shall then invite us
By the ever sparkling streams;
Evening's fall again delight us
With its crimson-coloured beams.
Flowers of summer sweetly springing,
Deck the dewy lap of earth;
Birds of love are loudly singing,
In their gay and jocund mirth.

HOME OF MY FATHERS.

Home of my fathers, though far from thy grandeur,
In joy or in sorrow, my heart turns to thee;
In visions of night o'er thy loved scenes I wander,
And dwell with those friends that are dearest to me!
I see thy blue hills, where the thunders are leaping,
Where springs the loud cascade to caverns below;
The clouds round their summits their dark watch are keeping,
Thy ravines are streak'd with the purest of snow.
Home of my fathers, in joy or in sorrow--
Home of my fathers, my heart turns to thee!

Warm are thy hearts, though thy breezes be chilly;
Rosy thy maidens, and artless and gay!
Cradled on high lie thy lakes pure and stilly,
Surrounded by mountains gigantic and gray!
Thy stern thistle still shoots aloft in its glory,
And sheds its bright dew tears o'er old heroes' graves,
Thy rudely rear'd cairns echo many a story,
Of those who fell bravely, who scorn'd to be slaves!
Home of my fathers, in joy or in sorrow--
Home of my fathers, my heart turns to thee!

Land of the pibroch, the plaid, and the heather,
The lake and the mountain, the streamlet and glen,
The green thoughts of youth do not easily wither,
But dwell on thy charms, and thy bravest of men!
Both genius and love have in raptures hung o'er thee,
And wafted thy name in sweet sounds o'er the sea--
Till nations afar have bent low to adore thee,
Home of my fathers! my heart turns to thee!
Home of my fathers, in joy or in sorrow--
Home of my fathers, my heart turns to thee!

WHAT AILS MY HEART?

What ails my heart--what dims my e'e?
What maks you seem sae wae, Jamie?
Ye werena aye sae cauld to me;
Ye ance were blythe and gay, Jamie.
I 'm wae to see you, like a flower
Kill'd by the winter's snaw, Jamie,
Droop farer down frae hour to hour,
An' waste sae fast awa, Jamie.

I 'm sure your Jeanie's kind and true,
She loves nae ane but thee, Jamie;
She ne'er has gien thee cause to rue;
If sae--ye still are free, Jamie.
I winna tak your hand and heart,
If there is ane mair dear, Jamie;
I 'd sooner far for ever part
With thee--though wi' a tear, Jamie.

Then tell me your doubts and your fears,
Keep naething hid frae me, Jamie;
Are ye afraid o' coming years,
O' darker days to me, Jamie?
I 'll share your grief, I 'll share your joy,
They 'll come alike to me, Jamie;
Misfortune's hand may all destroy,
Except my love for thee, Jamie.

AWAY TO THE HIGHLANDS.

Away to the Highlands, where Lomond is flowing,
Where mists and where mountains in solitude lie,
And where the braw red-lipp'd heather is growing,
And cataracts foam, as they came from the sky!
Though scenes of the fairest are Windsor adorning,
Though England's proud structures enrapture the view;
Yet Nature's wild grandeur, all artifice scorning,
Is seen 'mong our mountains so bonnie and blue.
Then away to the hills where Loch Lomond is flowing,
Where mists and where mountains in solitude lie,
And where the braw red-lipp'd heather is growing,
And cataracts foam, as they came from the sky!

Benlomond is seen in his monarch-like glory,
His foot in the sea and his head in the sky;
His broad lofty brow is majestic and hoary,
And round him, and round him the elements fly.
The winds are his music, the clouds are his clothing,
The sun is his shield, as he wheels blazing by;
When once on his summit you 'd think you were soaring
'Mong bright beaming stars, they are rolling so nigh!
Then away to the hills where Loch Lomond is flowing,
Where mists and where mountains in solitude lie,
And where the braw red-lipp'd heather is growing,
And cataracts foam, as they came from the sky!

I 'M AWAY.

I 'm away, I 'm away, like a thing that is wild,
With heart full of glee, as the heart of a child!
Afar o'er the mountains, afar o'er the stream,
To revel in joy 'mid the glad summer beam.
I leave care behind me, I throw to the wind
All sorrows allied to the earth-plodding mind;
The music of birds and the murmur of rills,
Shall be my companions o'er Scotia's loved hills.
How lucent each lake, and how lovely each dell!
Who would not be happy, at home let him dwell;
I 'm away, I 'm away, like a thing that is wild,
With heart full of glee, as the heart of a child!

Oh, land of my fathers! Oh, home of my birth!
No spot seems so blest on the round rolling earth!
Thy wild woods so green, and thy mountains so high,
Seem homes of enchantment half hid in the sky!
Thy steep winding passes, where warriors have trod,
Which minstrels of yore often made their abode--
Where Ossian and Fingal rehearsed runic tales,
That echo'd aloft o'er the furze cover'd dales.
How lucent each lake, and how lovely each dell!
Who would not be happy, at home let him dwell;
I 'm away, I 'm away, like a thing that is wild,
With heart full of glee, as the heart of a child!

THERE IS A BONNIE, BLUSHING FLOWER.

There is a bonnie, blushing flower--
But ah! I darena breathe the name;
I fain would steal it frae its bower,
Though a' should think me sair to blame.
It smiles sae sweet amang the rest,
Like brightest star where ither's shine;
Fain would I place it in my breast,
And make this bonnie blossom mine.

At morn, at sunny noon, whene'er
I see this fair, this fav'rite flower,
My heart beats high with wish sincere,
To wile it frae its bonnie bower!
But oh! I fear to own its charms,
Or tear it frae its parent stem;
For should it wither in mine arms,
What would revive my bonnie gem?

Awa', ye coward thoughts, awa'--
That flower can never fade with me,
That frae the wintry winds that blaw
Round each neglected bud is free!
No, it shall only bloom more fair,
When cherished and adored by me;
And a' my joy, and a' my care,
This bonnie, blushing flower shall be!

THE MAID OF GLENCOE.

TUNE--_"Come under my plaidie."_

Once more in the Highlands I wander alone,
Where the thistle and heather are bonnie and blown;
By mountain and streamlet, by cavern and glen,
Where echo repeats the sweet wood-notes again.
Give courtiers their gay-gilded halls and their grandeur,
Give misers their gold, all the bliss they can know;
But let me meet Flora, while pensive I wander--
Fair Flora, dear Flora! the maid of Glencoe!

Oh, first when we met, being handsome and gay,
I felt she had stole my affections away;
The mavis sang loud on the sweet hawthorn tree,
But her voice was more sweet and endearing to me.
The sun spread his rays of bright gold o'er the fountain,
The hours glided by without languor or woe,
As we pull'd the sweet flowers from the steep rocky mountains--
My blessings attend thee, sweet maid of Glencoe!

The glen is more rugged, the scene more sublime,
Now hallow'd by love, and by absence, and time!
And fondly resemble the thoughts of my heart,
Untouch'd by the cold soothing fingers of art.
And lo! as I gaze on the charms of my childhood,
Where bright in the heath-bell the dew-drops still glow,
A fairy-like form ushers forth from the wild wood--
'Tis Flora, fair Flora! the maid of Glencoe.

MARION PAUL AIRD.

The accomplished and amiable author of "Heart Histories" and other poems, Marion Paul Aird, is a native of Glasgow. Her paternal ancestors were respectable yeomen in the Carrick district of Ayrshire. Her mother, a niece of Hamilton Paul, formerly noticed,[13] was descended from a race of opulent landowners in the district of Cunningham. In her youth, Miss Aird had her abode in a romantic cottage at Govan Hill, in the vicinity of Glasgow. For a number of years she has resided in Kilmarnock. She early studied the British poets, and herself wrote verses. In 1846 she published a duodecimo volume of poems and lyrics, entitled "The Home of the Heart, and other Poems;" this was followed in 1853 by a volume of prose and verse, under the title of "Heart Histories." She has two new volumes of poetry ready for the press. Her poetry is largely pervaded by religious fervour and devoted earnestness.

FOOTNOTES:

[13] See vol. ii., p. 120.

THE FA' O' THE LEAF.

'Tis the fa' o' the leaf, and the cauld winds are blawin',
The wee birds, a' sangless, are dowie and wae;
The green leaf is sear, an' the brown leaf is fa'in',
Wan Nature lamentin' o'er simmer's decay.

Noo drumlie an' dark row the siller-like waters,
No a gowden-e'ed gowan on a' the green lea;
Her snell breath, wi' anger, in darkness noo scatters
The wee flowers, that danced to the sang o' the bee.

The green leaves o' simmer sing hopefu' an' cheerie,
When bonnie they smile in the sun's gowden ray;
But dowie when sear leaves in autumn winds eerie
Sigh, "Life, love, and beauty, as flowers ye decay."

How waefu' the heart, where young hopes that gather,
Like spring-flowers in simmer, "are a' wede awa';"
An' the rose-bloom o' beauty, e'er autumn winds wither,
Like green leaves unfaded, lie cauld in the snaw:

But waefu' to see, as a naked tree lanely,
Man shake like a wan leaf in poortith's cauld blast;
The last o' his kin, sighin', "Autumn is gane by,"
An' the wrinkles o' eild tell "his simmer is past."

The fire that 's blawn out, ance mair may be lighted,
An' a wee spark o' hope in the cauld heart may burn;
An' the "morning star" break on the traveller benighted,
An' day, wi' its fresh gushing glories, return:

But dool, dool the fa', when shakes the clay shielin',
An' the last keek o' day sets for ever in night!
When no ae wee star through the dark clud is stealin',
Through the cauld wave o' death, his dark spirit to light.

The spring flowers o' life, a' sae blythesome and bonnie,
Though wither'd and torn frae the heart far awa',
An' the flower we thought fadeless, the fairest o' onie,
May spring up again whar nae freezin' winds blaw.

Kin' spring 'll woo back the green "bud to the timmer,"
Its heart burst in blossom 'neath simmer's warm breath;
But when shall the warm blush o' life's faded simmer
Bring back the rose-bloom frae the winter o' death?

How kin' should the heart be, aye warm an' forgi'en,
When sune, like a leaf, we maun a' fade awa';
When life's winter day as a shadow is fleein'--
But simmer aye shines whar nae autumn leaves fa'!

THE AULD KIRK-YARD.

Calm sleep the village dead
In the auld kirk-yard;
But softly, slowly tread
In the auld kirk-yard;
For the weary, weary rest,
Wi' the green turf on their breast,
And the ashes o' the blest
Flower the auld kirk-yard.

Oh! many a tale it hath,
The auld kirk-yard,
Of life's crooked thorny path
To the auld kirk-yard.
But mortality's thick gloom
Clouds the sunny world's bloom,
Veils the mystery of doom,
In the auld kirk-yard.

A thousand memories spring
In the auld kirk-yard,
Though time's death-brooding wing
Shade the auld kirk-yard.
The light of many a hearth,
Its music and its mirth,
Sleep in the deep dark earth
Of the auld kirk-yard.

Nae dreams disturb their sleep
In the auld kirk-yard;
They hear nae kindred weep
In the auld kirk-yard.
The sire, with silver hair,
The mother's heart of care,
The young, the gay, the fair,
Crowd the auld kirk-yard.

So live that ye may lie
In the auld kirk-yard,
Wi' a passport to the sky
Frae the auld kirk-yard;
That when thy sand is run,
And life's weary warfare done,
Ye may sing o' victory won
Where there 's nae kirk-yard.

FAR, FAR AWAY.

TUNE--_"Long, long ago."_

Had I the wings of a dove, I would fly
Far, far away; far, far away;
Where not a cloud ever darkens the sky,
Far, far away; far, far away;
Fadeless the flowers in yon Eden that blow,
Green, green the bowers where the still waters flow,
Hearts, like their garments, are pure as the snow,
Far, far away; far away.

There never trembles a sigh of regret,
Far, far away; far, far away;
Stars of the morning in glory ne'er set,
Far, far away; far, far away;
There I from sorrow for ever would rest,
Leaning in joy on Immanuel's breast;
Tears never fall in the homes of the blest,
Far, far away; far away.

Friends, there united in glory, ne'er part,
Far, far away; far, far away;
One is their temple, their home, and their heart,
Far, far away; far, far away;
The river of crystal, the city of gold,
The portals of pearl, such glory unfold,
Thought cannot image, and tongue hath not told,
Far, far away; far away.

List! what yon harpers on golden harps play;
Come, come away; come, come away;
Falling and frail is your cottage of clay;
Come, come away; come, come away:
Come to these mansions, there 's room yet for you,
Dwell with the Friend ever faithful and true;
Sing ye the song, ever old, ever new;
Come, come away; come away.

WILLIAM SINCLAIR.

A pleasing lyric poet, William Sinclair, was born at Edinburgh in 1811. His father was a trader in the city. Receiving an ordinary education, he became in his fourteenth year apprentice to a bookseller in Frederick Street. A large circulating library connected with the establishment enabled him to gratify an ardent love of reading, and brought him into contact with persons of strong literary tastes. Quitting the business of bookseller, he proceeded to Dundee, as clerk in a lawyer's office. He afterwards accepted a situation in the Customs at Liverpool. His official services were subsequently transferred to Leith, where he had the privilege of associating with the poets Moir, Gilfillan, and Vedder.

Early devoted to song-writing, Mr Sinclair, while the bookseller's apprentice, contributed verses to the newspapers and popular periodicals. Some of his poetical compositions have appeared in _Blackwood's Magazine_. The poet Robert Nicoll submitted the first edition of his poems to his revision. In 1843 he published an octavo volume of poems and songs, with the title "Poems of the Fancy and the Affections." To Major de Renzy's "Poetical Illustrations of the Achievements of the Duke of Wellington," published in 1852, he was a conspicuous contributor. Several of his songs have been set to music. Mr Sinclair has latterly resided in Stirling, where he holds the situation of reporter to one of the local journals.

THE ROYAL BREADALBANE OAK.

Thy queenly hand, Victoria,
By the mountain and the rock,
Hath planted 'midst the Highland hills
A Royal British Oak;
Oh, thou guardian of the free!
Oh, thou mistress of the sea!
Trebly dear shall be the ties
That shall bind us to thy name,
Ere this Royal Oak shall rise
To thy fame, to thy fame!

The oak hath scatter'd terror
O'er our foemen from our ships,
They have given the voice of England's fame
In thunders from their lips;
'Twill be mirror'd in the rills!
It shall wave among the hills!
And the rallying cry shall wake
Nigh the planted of thy hand,
That the loud acclaim may break
O'er the land, o'er the land!

While it waves unto the tempest,
It shall call thy name to mind,
And the "Gathering" 'mong the hills shall be
Like the rushing of the wind!
Arise! ye Gaels, arise!
Let the echoes ring your cries,
By our mountain's rocky throne,
By Victoria's name adored--
We shall reap her enemies down
With the sword, with the sword!

Oh, dear among the mountains
Shall thy kindly blessing be;
Though rough may be our mien we bear
A loyal heart to thee!
'Neath its widely spreading shade
Shall the gentle Highland maid
Teach the youths, who stand around,
Like brave slips from Freedom's tree,
That thrice sacred is the ground
Unto thee, unto thee!

In the bosom of the Highlands
Thou hast left a glorious pledge,
To the honour of our native land,
In every coming age:
By thy royal voice that spoke
On the soil where springs the oak--
By the freedom of the land
That can never bear a slave--
The Breadalbane Oak shall stand
With the brave, with the brave!

EVENING.

Oh, how I love the evening hour,
Its calm and tranquil sky,
When the parting sun from a sea of gold
Is passing silently;
And the western clouds--bright robes of heaven--
Rest gently on the breast of even!

How calm, how gorgeous, and how pure,
How peaceful and serene!
There is a promise and a hope
Enthroned o'er all the scene;
While, blushing, with resplendent pride,
The bright sun lingers on the tide.

The zephyrs on the waveless sea
Are wrapt in silent sleep,
And there is not a breath to wake
The slumbers of the deep--
Peace sits on her imperial throne,
And sounds of sadness there are none!

Methinks I hear in distance harps
By heavenly seraphs strung,
And in the concave of the sky
The holy vespers sung!
Oh, thou great Source of light and power,
We bless thee for the evening hour!

MARY.

If there 's a word that whispers love
In gentlest tones to hearts of woe,
If there 's a name more prized above,
And loved with deeper love below,
'Tis Mary.

If there 's a healing sound beneath
To soothe the heart in sorrow's hour,
If there 's a name that angels breathe
In silence with a deeper power,
'Tis Mary.

It softly hangs on many a tongue
In ladies' bower and sacred fane,
The sweetest name by poets sung--
The high and consecrated strain--
Is Mary.

And Scotia's Bard--life's holiest dream
Was his, the silent heavens above,
When on the Bible o'er the stream
He vowed his early vows of love
To Mary.

Oh, with the sweet repose of even,
By forest lone, by fragrant lea,
And by thy beauties all, Loch Leven,
How dear shall the remembrance be
Of Mary!

Scotland and Mary are entwined
With blooming wreath of fadeless green,
And printed on the undying mind;
For, oh! her fair, though fated Queen,
Was Mary.

By the lone forest and the lea,
When smiles the thoughtful evening star,
Though other names may dearer be,
The sweetest, gentlest, loveliest far,
Is Mary.

ABSENCE.

The fields, the streams, the skies are fair,
There 's freshness in the balmy air,
A grandeur crowns thine ancient woods,
And pleasure fills thy solitudes,
And sweets are strewn where'er we rove--
But thou art not the land we love.

How glorious, from the eastern heaven,
The fulness of the dawn is given!
How fair on ocean's glowing breast
Sleeps the soft twilight of the west!
All radiant are thy stars above--
But thou art not the land we love.

Fair flowers, that kiss the morning beam,
Hang their bright tresses o'er the stream;
From morn to noon, from noon to even,
Sweet songsters lift soft airs to heaven,
From field and forest, vale and grove--
But thou art not the land we love.

To high and free imaginings
Thy master minstrels swept the strings,
The brave thy sons to triumph led,
Thy turf enshrouds the glorious dead,
And Liberty thy chaplet wove--
But thou art not the land we love.

From the far bosom of the sea
A flood of brightness rests on thee,
And stately to the bending skies
Thy temples, domes, and turrets rise:
Thy heavens--how fair they smile above!
But thou art not the land we love.

Oh, for the bleak, the rocky strand,
The mountains of our native land!
Oh, for the torrents, wild, and free,
And their rejoicing minstrelsy!
The heath below, the blue above,
The altars of the land we love!

IS NOT THE EARTH.

Is not the earth a burial place
Where countless millions sleep,
The entrance to the abode of death,
Where waiting mourners weep,
And myriads at his silent gates
A constant vigil keep?

The sculptor lifts his chisel, and
The final stroke is come,
But, dull as the marble lip he hews,
His stiffened lip is dumb;
Though the Spoiler hath cast a holier work,
He hath called to a holier home!

The soldier bends his gleaming steel,
He counts his laurels o'er,
And speaks of the wreaths he yet may win
On many a foreign shore;
But his Master declares with a sterner voice,
He shall break a lance no more!

The mariner braved the deluge long,
He bow'd to the sweeping blast,
And smiled when the frowning heavens above
Were the deepest overcast;
He hath perish'd beneath a smiling sky--
He hath laid him down at last.

Far in the sea's mysterious depths
The lowly dead are laid,
Hath not the ocean's dreadful voice
Their burial service said?
Have not the quiring tempests rung
The dirges of the dead?

The vales of our native land are strewn
With a thousand pleasant things;
The uplands rejoicing in the light
Of the morning's flashing wings;
Even there are the martyrs' rugged cairns--
The resting-place of kings!

And man outpours his heart to heaven,
And "chants his holiest hymn,"
But anon his frame is still and cold,
And his sparkling eyes are dim--
And who can tell but the home of death
Is a happier home to him?

OH, LOVE THE SOLDIER'S DAUGHTER DEAR![14]

Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear--
He fell on Balaklava's plain,
Yet ere he found a soldier's bier
He blest his beauteous child again;
Though o'er the Light Brigade like rain,
War's deadly lightning swiftly fell,
On--on the squadron charged amain
Amidst that storm of shot and shell!
Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear,
A jewel in his heart was she,
Whose noble form disdain'd the storm,
And, Freedom, fought and died for thee!

Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear--
Even like a knight of old romance,
Brave Cardigan, disdaining fear,
Heard but the bugle sound--advance!
And paler droops the flower of France,
And brighter glows proud England's rose,
As charge they on with sabre-glance,
And thunders thickening as they close!
Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear, &c.

Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear,
And be thy grateful kindness shewn;
And still her father's name revere,
For, oh, 'tis dearer than her own;
And tell his deeds in battle done,
And how he fearless faced the foe,
And urged the snorting war-horse on
With death above, around, below!
Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear, &c.

Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear,
Who lowly bends at sorrow's shrine;
Her father's glorious deeds appear,
And laurels round her brow entwine;
In that full eye, that seems divine,
Her sire's commanding ardour glows;
His blood, that flow'd for thee and thine,
Within his daughter's bosom flows!
Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear,
A jewel in his heart was she,
Whose noble form disdain'd the storm,
And, Freedom, fought and died for thee!

FOOTNOTES:

[14] This song, and the following, have been contributed by Mr Sinclair to the present work.

THE BATTLE OF STIRLING.

To Scotland's ancient realm
Proud Edward's armies came,
To sap our freedom, and o'erwhelm
Our martial force in shame:
"It shall not be!" brave Wallace cried;
"It shall not be!" his chiefs replied;
"By the name our fathers gave her,
Our steel shall drink the crimson stream,
We 'll all her dearest rights redeem--
Our own broadswords shall save her!"

With hopes of triumph flush'd,
The squadrons hurried o'er
Thy bridge, Kildean, and heaving rush'd
Like wild waves to the shore:
"They come--they come!" was the gallant cry;
"They come--they come!" was the loud reply;
"O strength, thou gracious Giver!
By Love and Freedom's stainless faith,
We 'll dare the darkest night of death--
We 'll drive them back for ever!"

All o'er the waving broom,
In chivalry and grace,
Shone England's radiant spear and plume,
By Stirling's rocky base:
And, stretching far beneath the view,
Proud Cressingham! thy banners flew,
When, like a torrent rushing,
O God! from right and left the flame
Of Scottish swords like lightning came,
Great Edward's legions crushing!

High praise, ye gallant band,
Who, in the face of day,
With a daring heart and a fearless hand,
Have cast your chains away!
The foemen fell on every side--
In crimson hues the Forth was dyed--
Bedew'd with blood the heather,
While cries triumphal shook the air--
"Thus shall they do, thus shall they dare,
Wherever Scotsmen gather!"

Though years like shadows fleet
O'er the dial-stone of Time,
Thy pulse, O Freedom! still shall beat
With the throb of manhood's prime!
Still shall the valour, love, and truth,
That shone on Scotland's early youth,
From Scotland ne'er dissever;
The Shamrock, Rose, and Thistle stern
Shall wave around her Wallace cairn,
And bless the brave for ever!

WILLIAM MILLER.

The writer of Nursery Songs in "Whistle Binkie," William Miller, was born at Parkhead, Glasgow, about the year 1812. He follows the profession of a cabinet-turner in his native city. "Ye cowe a'," which we subjoin, amply entitles him to a place among the minstrels of his country.

YE COWE A'.

AIR--_"Comin' through the rye."_

I wiled my lass wi' lovin' words to Kelvin's leafy shade
And a' that fondest heart can feel, or tongue can tell, I said;
But nae reply my lassie gied--I blamed the waterfa';
Its deavin' soun' her voice might droun'. "Oh, it cowes a'!
Oh, it cowes a'!" quo' I; "oh, it cowes a'!
I wonder how the birds can woo--oh, it cowes a'!"

I wiled my lass wi' lovin' words to Kelvin's solemn grove,
Where silence in her dewy bowers hush'd a' sounds but o' love;
Still frae my earnest looks an' vows she turn'd her head awa';
Nae cheerin' word the silence heard. "Oh, this cowes a'!
Oh, this cowes a'!" quo' I; "oh, this cowes a'!"
To woo I 'll try anither way--for this cowes a'!"

I wiled my lass wi' lovin' words to where the moonlight fell,
Upon a bank o' bloomin' flowers, beside the pear-tree well;
Say, modest moon, did I do wrang to clasp her waist sae sma',
And steal ae kiss o' honey'd bliss? "Oh, ye cowe a'!
Oh, ye cowe a'!" quo' she; "oh, ye cowe a'!
Ye might hae speer'd a body's leave--oh, ye cowe a'!"

"I 'll to the clerk," quo' I, "sweet lass; on Sunday we 'll be cried,
And frae your father's house, next day, ye 'll gang a dear-lo'ed bride."
Quo' she, "I 'd need anither week to mak a gown mair braw;"
"The gown ye hae, we 'll mak it do!" "Oh, ye cowe a'!
Oh, ye cowe a'!" quo' she; "oh, ye cowe a'!
But wilfu' folk maun hae their way--oh, ye cowe a'!"

ALEXANDER HUME.

Alexander Hume was born at Edinburgh on the 17th February 1811. He is employed as a journeyman cabinetmaker in that city. As a musical composer he has attained considerable eminence. The following popular songs from his pen are published with music of his own composition.

MY AIN DEAR NELL.

Oh, bonnie Nelly Brown, I will sing a song to thee;
Though oceans wide between us row, ye 'll aye be dear to me;
Though mony a year 's gane o'er my head since, down in Linton's dell,
I took my last fond look o' thee, my ain dear Nell.
Oh, tell me, Nelly Brown, do you mind our youthfu' days,
When we ran about the burnie's side, or speel'd the gow'ny braes;
When I pu'd the crawpea's blossom, an' the bloomin' heather-bell,
To twine them round thy bonnie brow, my ain dear Nell!

How often, Nelly Brown, hae we wander'd o'er the lea,
Where grow the brier, the yellow bloom, an' flowery hawthorn-tree;
Or sported 'mang the leafy woods, till nicht's lang shadows fell--
Oh, we ne'er had thoughts o' partin' then, my ain dear Nell!
And in winter, Nelly Brown, when the nichts were lang an' drear,
We would creep down by the ingle side, some fairy tale to hear;
We cared nae for the snawy drift, or nippin' frost sae snell,
For we lived but for each other then, my ain dear Nell!

They tell me, Nelly Brown, that your bonnie raven hair
Is snaw-white now, an' that your brow, sae cloudless ance an' fair,
Looks care-worn now, and unco sad; but I heed na what they tell,
For I ne'er can think you 're changed to me, my ain dear Nell!
Ance mair then, Nelly Brown, I hae sung o' love and thee,
Though oceans wide between us row, ye 're aye the same to me,
As when I sigh'd my last farewell in Linton's flowery dell--
Oh, I ne'er can tine my love for thee, my ain dear Nell!

THE PAIRTIN'.

Mary, dearest maid, I leave thee,
Hame, and frien's, and country dear;
Oh! ne'er let our pairtin' grieve thee,
Happier days may soon be here.
See yon bark, sae proudly bounding,
Soon shall bear me o'er the sea,
Hark! the trumpet loudly sounding
Calls me far frae love and thee.

Summer flowers shall cease to blossom;
Streams run backward frae the sea;
Cauld in death maun be this bosom,
Ere it cease to throb for thee.
Fare-thee-weel! may every blessin',
Shed by Heaven, around thee fa';
Ae last time thy loved form pressin'--
Think o' me when far awa'.

METRICAL TRANSLATIONS

FROM

The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.

JOHN MACDONALD, D.D.

The Rev. John Macdonald, D.D., one of the most popular of Gaelic preachers, was born in 1778. He was ordained minister of the Gaelic Church, Edinburgh, in 1806, and was afterwards translated to the parish of Urquhart, in Ross-shire. While at Urquhart, he began a career of remarkable ministerial success; though it was as a missionary, or visitor of other Highland districts, that he established his professional fame. His powerful voice is said to have reached and moved thousands of auditors assembled in the open air. A long-expected volume of Gaelic poetry, consisting chiefly of elegies, hymns, and sacred lyrics, appeared from his pen in 1848. Dr Macdonald died in 1849. At the Disruption in 1843, he had joined the Free Church.

THE MISSIONARY OF ST KILDA.

The descriptive portion of a sacred lyric composed by Dr Macdonald
on the occasion of his first visit to St Kilda, often called "_The
Hirt_" or "_Hirta_," after the Gaelic. His missionary enterprise was
blessed, we believe, with remarkable success.

I see, I see the Hirta, the land of my desire,
And the missionary spirit within me is on fire;
But needs it all--for, bristling from the bosom of the sea,
Those giant crags are menacing, but welcome rude to me;
The eye withdraws in horror from yon mountains rude and bare,
Where flag of green nor tree displays, nor blushes flow'ret fair.
And how shall bark so frail as mine that beetling beach come near,
Where rages betwixt cliff and surf the battle-din of fear?
It seems as, like a rocking hull, that Island of the main
Were shaken from its basement, and creaking with the strain!
But the siege of waters nought prevails 'gainst giant Hirt the grim,
Save his face to furrow with some scars, or his brow with mist to dim.
Oh, needs a welcome to that shore, for well my thought might say,
'Twere better than that brow to face that I were leagues away.
But no, not so! what fears should daunt,--for what welcomes e'er outran
The welcome that I bring with me, my call from God and man?
Nor vain my trust! my helmsman, He who sent me, now is steering,
And, by His power, the wave-worn craft the shore in calm is nearing,
And scarce my foot was on the beach when two hundred echoes spake
Their welcome, and a hundred hands flew forth my hand to take.
And he, believe me, has his best protection by his side
Who bears the call of God and man, from the reef, the crag, the tide;
And, for welcome on the shore, give me the flashing eyes that glow'd,
When I told the men of Hirt the news I brought them from their God!

DUNCAN KENNEDY.

Duncan Kennedy was born about the year 1758. His father was gardener to Mr M'Lachlan of Kilanahanach, in the parish of Glassary, Argyleshire. In his youth he enjoyed the advantage of attending the parish school, which was then conducted by an able classical scholar. At an early age he was qualified to become an instructor of youth in a remote part of his native parish, and there he had frequent opportunities of becoming acquainted with "Iain Bàn Maor" the Gaelic poet, and enjoyed the privilege of listening to the eminent Daniel Campbell and other pious ministers in the surrounding parishes. He was promoted to the parish school of Kilmelford about the year 1784, and soon thereafter published his collection of "Hymns and Spiritual Songs." During his summer vacations he travelled over the districts of Kintyre, Argyle, and Lorn, in search of legends concerning the Fingalians, and was successful in collecting a mass of information, which in Gaelic verse he styled "Sean dana." The MS. of his researches he intrusted to the perusal of a neighbouring clergyman, from whom he was never able to recover it, a circumstance which led him afterwards to inveigh against the clerical order. From Kilmelford parish school, Kennedy in 1790 removed to Glasgow, where he was engaged, first as an accountant, and afterwards in mercantile pursuits. At one period he realised about £10,000, but he was latterly unfortunate and indigent. During his old age he was allowed a small pension from "The Glasgow Merchants' Home." Several years subsequent to 1830 he resided at Ardrisaig in Argyleshire. His death took place at Glasgow in 1836. He has left a MS. ready for publication, entitled "The Ark of Ancient Knowledge." His volume of hymns has passed into a second edition.

THE RETURN OF PEACE.

With a breezy burst of singing
Blow we out the flames of rage!
Europe's peace, through Europe ringing,
Is, of peace, our lifetime pledge.
Faldar, aldar, aldar, ari,
Faldar, aldar, aldar, e';
Faldar, aldar, aldar, ari,
Faldar, ari, faldar, e'.

Every musket to the guard-house,
And its lead to furlough send--
To the tilling of the meadows
Every gallant bayonet bend.

See, a lusty fleet is steering
Homewards, to the shore of peace;
And brave hearts, a host, are nearing
To the expectant dear's embrace.

See the kilted Highlander
As from Egypt's battles come--
Westlander and Norlander,
Eager for the sight of home.

Seven years orphan'd of their fathers,
Shelterless and sad no more,
Quite a little army gathers,
Shouting welcomes from the shore.

All the echoes are in motion,
All the sheilings ring with glee,
Since, of peace, the paths of ocean
Give the news a passage free.

The birds the dash of oars was scaring--
Hush'd their note, but soon they raise,
To their wonted branch repairing,
Sweetest numbers on the sprays.

Seem the woods to dance a measure,
Nodding as the notes inspire--
And their branches, as with pleasure,
Add their music to the choir.

Of the streamlet, every murmur
Sweetly swells the song of peace,
Chanting, with each vocal charmer,
Joys that bloom and wars that cease.

ALLAN M'DOUGALL.

Allan M'Dougall was born about the year 1750, in the district of Glencoe, Argyleshire. While employed as a tailor's apprentice, he had the misfortune to lose his eyesight; he afterwards earned his subsistence as a violinist. About the year 1790 he removed to Inverlochy, in the vicinity of Fort-William. Composing verses in the vernacular Gaelic, he contrived, by vending them, to add considerably to his finances. In preparing for publication a small volume of poetry, he was aided by the poet Evan Maclachlan,[15] who then was employed in the vicinity as a tutor. Latterly, M'Dougall became family bard to Colonel Ronaldson Macdonell of Glengarry, who provided for him on his estate. His death took place in 1829. Shortly before this event, he republished his volume, adding several of his later compositions. His poetry is popular in the Highlands.

FOOTNOTES:

[15] See Minstrel, Vol. iv. p. 279.

THE SONG OF THE CARLINE.

O hi, O hu, she 's sad for scolding,
O hi, O hu, she 's too mad for holding,
O hi, O hu, her arms I 'm cold in,
And but a poor wittol to see.

If I go to fair, or feast, or waddin',
The crone's in the sulks, for she 'd fain be gaddin',
A wink to the girls sets her soul a-maddin',
She 's a shame and sorrow to me.
If I stop at the hostel to buy me a gill,
Or with a good fellow a moment sit still,
Her fist it is clench'd, and is ready to kill,
And the talk of the clachan are we.

She 's ailing for ever--my welcome is small,
If I bring for her nonsense no cordial at all;
Contention and strife, in the but and the hall,
Are ready to greet my return.
Oh, did he come to us, our bondage to sever,
I would cry, Be on Death benedictions for ever,
I would jump it so high, and I 'd jig it so clever--
Short while would suffice me to mourn.

It was not her face, or dress, or riches,
It was not a heart pierced through with stitches--
'Twas the glamour of more than a hundred witches
That brought me a bargain like Janet.
O when, in the spring I return from the plough,
And fain at the ingle would bask at its low,
Her bauchle is off, and I 'm sure of a blow,
Or a kick, if her foot is within it.

No thrift she is plying, no cakes she is dressing,
No babe of her bosom in fondness caressing;
Be up she, or down she, she 's ever distressing
The core of my heart with her bother.
For a groat, for a groat with goodwill I would sell her,
As the bark of the oak is the tan of her leather,
And a bushel of coals would avail but to chill her,
For a hag can you shew such another?

No tooth in her head, and a squint in her eye,
At the dusk of the day, when her choler is high,
The bairns, nay, the team I 've unhalter'd, they fly,
And leave the reception for me.
O hi, O hu, she 's sad for scolding,
O hi, O hu, she 's too mad for holding,
O hi, O hu, her arms I 'm cold in,
And but a poor wittol to see!

KENNETH MACKENZIE.

Kenneth Mackenzie was born in 1758, at Caisteal Leanir, near Inverness. By his parents, who were possessed of considerable means, he was well educated at the best schools in his native district. He became a seaman in his seventeenth year; and while on board composed verses as a relief to labour, and for the entertainment of his shipmates. In 1789 he quitted the seafaring life, and commenced to itinerate for subscribers to enable him to publish his poems. Through the influence of the Earl of Buchan, to whom he was recommended by his talents, he procured an officer's commission in the 78th Highland Regiment. He latterly accepted the situation of Postmaster in a provincial town in Ireland. The date of his death is unknown, but he is understood to have attained an advanced age. His habits were exemplary, and he was largely imbued with feelings of hospitality.

THE SONG OF THE KILT.

My darling is the philabeg,
With scarlet hosen for the leg,
And the spotted curtal coat so trig,
And the head blue-bonneted.

The wimpled kilt be mine to wear,
Confusion take the breechen gear,
My limbs be fetterless and bare,
And not like Saxon donnot-led.[16]

Oh, well I love the _eididh_[17] free,
When it sends me bounding on the lea,
Or up the brae so merrily,
There's ne'er a darg that wonnet speed.

Give me the plaid, and on the hill
I 'll watch my turn, a se'ennight's spell,
And not a shiver from the chill
Shall pierce my trusty coverlet.

And for the tartan's lively flame,
In glen or clachan 'tis the same,
Alike it pleases lass and dame--
Unmatched its glories ever yet.

Be mine in Highland graith array'd,
With weapon trim the glens to tread,
And rise a stag of foremost head,
Then let him tent my culiver.

And when I marshal to the feast,
With deer-skin belt around my waist,
And in its fold a dirk embraced,
Then Roland match shall Oliver.

FOOTNOTES:

[16] Hen-pecked (Sc.), from _donned_, silly woman.

[17] Highland garb.

JOHN CAMPBELL.

John Campbell (Ian Bàn), overseer on the estate of Shirvain, Argyleshire, was born about the year 1705, in the parish of Glassary, in the same county. He was entirely uneducated in youth, and never attained any knowledge of the English language. Becoming intimately acquainted with the Scriptures in his vernacular language, he paraphrased many passages in harmonious verse; but, with the exception of fifteen hymns or sacred lays which were recovered from his recitation by the poet Duncan Kennedy, the whole have perished. The hymns of John Campbell retain much popularity among the Gael.

THE STORM BLAST.

Oh, say not 'tis the March wind! 'tis a fiercer blast that drives
The clouds along the heavens, 'tis a feller sweep that rives
The image of the sun from man; a scowling tempest hurls
Our world into a chaos, and still it whirls and whirls.
It is the Boreal blast of sin, else all were meek and calm,
And Creation would be singing still its old primeval psalm.
Woe for the leaf of human life! it flutters in the sere,
And what avails its dance in air, with dust and down-come near?
That airy dance, what signifies the madness that inspires?
The king, the clown, alike is borne along, alike expires.
Come let us try another weird--the tempest let us chain;
A bridle for the passions ho! for giant pride a rein!
Thus quelleth grace the master-craft that was the cause of all
The ruin that befell us in the whirlwind of the Fall.

JAMES M'GREGOR, D.D.

The Rev. James Macgregor, D.D., Presbyterian minister at Nova Scotia, was born in 1762, in the vicinity of Comrie, Perthshire. He entered on ministerial duty in Nova Scotia shortly after becoming a probationer, and continued in this important sphere of clerical labour to the close of his life. He died at Pictou on the 1st of March 1830, in his 68th year. Dr Macgregor composed excellent sacred verses in Gaelic. His general scholarship and attainments were publicly acknowledged by his receiving the degree of Doctor of Divinity from the University of Glasgow.

LIGHT IN THE HIGHLANDS.[18]

Of learning long a scantling was the portion of the Gael,
Untaught by calculation's art their loss or gain to unveil,
Though well was seen the Saxon's power their interest to betray;
But now, to knowledge thanks, the Gael are letter-wise as they.

Well fare the benefactors who have raised us from the ground,
Even as were raised from brutal dust our countrymen around;
Now ignorance shall furl her wing, and while our hopes aspire,
To all her native darkness she must in despair retire.
Each nook will have its scholar craft, and high in learning's scale
Will mount the inspirations of the language of the Gael.

* * * * *

Yes! now the trusty Highlander aloft shall raise his head,
As large as is his native worth, his wealthy arts shall spread;
Inventions crowd to save him from the poor man's bitter doom,
And well-taught skill, to grace with comfort's ray his humblest home.
No more o'er weakness shall exult the mighty and the proud--
No more in nakedness shall 'plain his lot the wretch aloud.

O, sure are coming nigh our hills the auspices foretold,
When he shall fail to vaunt his power who chain'd our sires of old,
In iron bands who held them fast, but now he droops with fear;
Delusion's age is past, and strife avows the smile, the tear,
That sympathy or fondness ask,--and the sad world is fain
To welcome its return to love and innocence again.

FOOTNOTES:

[18] Composed on hearing of the late Principal Baird's successful expedition to the Highlands, for the purpose of establishing the General Assembly's Schools.

END OF VOL. V.

EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Modern Scottish Minstrel, Volume V., by Various