Chapter III: Introduction (2)

And has it then vanish'd, that happy time?
Are the winds, and the seas, and the stars sublime
Deaf to thy soul in its manly prime?

Ah, no! ah, no! amid sorrow and pain,
When the world and its facts oppress my brain,
In the world of spirit I rove--I reign.

I feel a deep and a pure delight
In the luxuries of sound and sight--
In the opening day, in the closing night.

The voices of youth go with me still,
Through the field and the wood, o'er the plain and the hill,
In the roar of the sea, in the laugh of the rill.

Every flower is a lover of mine,
Every star is a friend divine:
For me they blossom, for me they shine.

To give me joy the oceans roll,
They breathe their secrets to my soul,
With me they sing, with me condole.

Man cannot harm me if he would,
I have such friends for my every mood
In the overflowing solitude.

Fate cannot touch me: nothing can stir
To put disunion or hate of her
'Twixt Nature and her worshipper.

Sing to me, flowers! preach to me, skies!
Ye landscapes, glitter in mine eyes!
Whisper, ye deeps, your mysteries!

Sigh to me, wind! ye forests, nod!
Speak to me ever, thou flowery sod!
Ye are mine--all mine--in the peace of God.

BELIEVE IF YOU CAN.

_Music by the Author._

Hope cannot cheat us,
Or Fancy betray;
Tempests ne'er scatter
The blossoms of May;
The wild winds are constant,
By method and plan;
Oh! believe me, believe me,
Believe if you can!

Young Love, who shews us
His midsummer light,
Spreads the same halo
O'er Winter's dark night;
And Fame never dazzles
To lure and trepan;
Oh! believe me, believe me,
Believe if you can!

Friends of the sunshine
Endure in the storm;
Never they promise
And fail to perform.
And the night ever ends
As the morning began;
Oh! believe me, believe me,
Believe if you can!

Words softly spoken
No guile ever bore;
Peaches ne'er harbour
A worm at the core;
And the ground never slipp'd
Under high-reaching man;
Oh! believe me, believe me,
Believe if you can!

Seas undeceitful,
Calm smiling at morn,
Wreck not ere midnight
The sailor forlorn.
And gold makes a bridge
Every evil to span;
Oh! believe me, believe me,
Believe if you can.

OH, THE HAPPY TIME DEPARTED!

_Air by Sir H. R. Bishop._

Oh, the happy time departed!
In its smile the world was fair;
We believed in all men's goodness;
Joy and hope were gems to wear;
Angel visitants were with us,
There was music in the air.

Oh, the happy time departed!
Change came o'er it all too soon;
In a cold and drear November
Died the leafy wealth of June;
Winter kill'd our summer roses;
Discord marr'd a heavenly tune.

Let them pass--the days departed--
What befell may ne'er befall;
Why should we with vain lamenting
Seek a shadow to recall?
Great the sorrows we have suffer'd--
Hope is greater than them all.

COME BACK! COME BACK!

Come back! come back! thou youthful Time,
When joy and innocence were ours,
When life was in its vernal prime,
And redolent of sweets and flowers.
Come back--and let us roam once more,
Free-hearted, through life's pleasant ways,
And gather garlands as of yore--
Come back--come back--ye happy days!

Come back! come back!--'twas pleasant then
To cherish faith in love and truth,
For nothing in dispraise of men
Had sour'd the temper of our youth.
Come back--and let us still believe
The gorgeous dream romance displays,
Nor trust the tale that men deceive--
Come back--come back--ye happy days!

Come back!--oh, freshness of the past,
When every face seem'd fair and kind,
When sunward every eye was cast,
And all the shadows fell behind.
Come back--'twill come; true hearts can turn
Their own Decembers into Mays;
The secret be it ours to learn--
Come back--come back--ye happy days!

TEARS.

_Music by Sir H. R. Bishop._

O ye tears! O ye tears! that have long refused to flow,
Ye are welcome to my heart--thawing, thawing, like the snow;
I feel the hard clod soften, and the early snowdrops spring,
And the healing fountains gush, and the wildernesses sing.

O ye tears! O ye tears! I am thankful that ye run;
Though ye trickle in the darkness, ye shall glitter in the sun;
The rainbow cannot shine if the rain refuse to fall,
And the eyes that cannot weep are the saddest eyes of all.

O ye tears! O ye tears! till I felt you on my cheek,
I was selfish in my sorrow, I was stubborn, I was weak.
Ye have given me strength to conquer, and I stand erect and free,
And know that I am human by the light of sympathy.

O ye tears! O ye tears! ye relieve me of my pain;
The barren rock of pride has been stricken once again;
Like the rock that Moses smote, amid Horeb's burning sand,
It yields the flowing water to make gladness in the land.

There is light upon my path, there is sunshine in my heart,
And the leaf and fruit of life shall not utterly depart.
Ye restore to me the freshness and the bloom of long ago--
O ye tears! happy tears! I am thankful that ye flow.

CHEER, BOYS! CHEER!

Cheer, boys! cheer! no more of idle sorrow;
Courage, true hearts, shall bear us on our way!
Hope points before, and shews the bright to-morrow--
Let us forget the darkness of to-day!
So farewell, England! much as we may love thee,
We 'll dry the tears that we have shed before;
Why should we weep to sail in search of fortune?
So farewell, England! farewell evermore!
Cheer, boys! cheer! for England, mother England!
Cheer, boys! cheer! the willing strong right hand;
Cheer, boys! cheer! there 's work for honest labour,
Cheer, boys! cheer! in the new and happy land!

Cheer, boys! cheer! the steady breeze is blowing,
To float us freely o'er the ocean's breast;
The world shall follow in the track we 're going,
The star of empire glitters in the west.
Here we had toil and little to reward it,
But there shall plenty smile upon our pain;
And ours shall be the mountain and the forest,
And boundless prairies, ripe with golden grain.
Cheer, boys! cheer! for England, mother England!
Cheer, boys! cheer! united heart and hand!
Cheer, boys! cheer! there 's wealth for honest labour,
Cheer, boys! cheer! in the new and happy land!

MOURN FOR THE MIGHTY DEAD.

_Music by Sir H. R. Bishop._

Mourn for the mighty dead,
Mourn for the spirit fled,
Mourn for the lofty head--
Low in the grave.
Tears such as nations weep
Hallow the hero's sleep;
Calm be his rest, and deep--
Arthur the brave!

Nobly his work was done;
England's most glorious son,
True-hearted Wellington,
Shield of our laws.
Ever in peril's night
Heaven send such arm of might--
Guardian of truth and right--
Raised in their cause!

Dried be the tears that fall;
Love bears the warrior's pall,
Fame shall his deeds recall--
Britain's right hand!
Bright shall his memory be!
Star of supremacy!
Banner of victory!
Pride of our land.

A PLAIN MAN'S PHILOSOPHY.

_Music by the Author._

I 've a guinea I can spend,
I 've a wife, and I 've a friend,
And a troop of little children at my knee, John Brown;
I 've a cottage of my own,
With the ivy overgrown,
And a garden with a view of the sea, John Brown;
I can sit at my door
By my shady sycamore,
Large of heart, though of very small estate, John Brown;
So come and drain a glass
In my arbour as you pass,
And I 'll tell you what I love and what I hate, John Brown.

I love the song of birds,
And the children's early words,
And a loving woman's voice, low and sweet, John Brown;
And I hate a false pretence,
And the want of common sense,
And arrogance, and fawning, and deceit, John Brown;
I love the meadow flowers,
And the brier in the bowers,
And I love an open face without guile, John Brown;
And I hate a selfish knave,
And a proud, contented slave,
And a lout who 'd rather borrow than he 'd toil, John Brown.

I love a simple song
That awakes emotions strong,
And the word of hope that raises him who faints, John Brown;
And I hate the constant whine
Of the foolish who repine,
And turn their good to evil by complaints, John Brown;
But ever when I hate,
If I seek my garden gate,
And survey the world around me, and above, John Brown,
The hatred flies my mind,
And I sigh for human kind,
And excuse the faults of those I cannot love, John Brown.

So, if you like my ways,
And the comfort of my days,
I will tell you how I live so unvex'd, John Brown;
I never scorn my health,
Nor sell my soul for wealth,
Nor destroy one day the pleasures of the next, John Brown;
I 've parted with my pride,
And I take the sunny side,
For I 've found it worse than folly to be sad, John Brown;
I keep a conscience clear,
I 've a hundred pounds a-year,
And I manage to exist and to be glad, John Brown.

THE SECRETS OF THE HAWTHORN.

_Music by the Author._

No one knows what silent secrets
Quiver from thy tender leaves;
No one knows what thoughts between us
Pass in dewy moonlight eves.
Roving memories and fancies,
Travellers upon Thought's deep sea,
Haunt the gay time of our May-time,
O thou snow-white hawthorn-tree!

Lovely was she, bright as sunlight,
Pure and kind, and good and fair,
When she laugh'd the ringing music
Rippled through the summer air.
"If you love me--shake the blossoms!"
Thus I said, too bold and free;
Down they came in showers of beauty,
Thou beloved hawthorn-tree!

Sitting on the grass, the maiden
Vow'd the vow to love me well;
Vow'd the vow; and oh! how truly,
No one but myself can tell.
Widely spreads the smiling woodland,
Elm and beech are fair to see;
But thy charms they cannot equal,
O thou happy hawthorn-tree!

A CRY FROM THE DEEP WATERS.

From the deep and troubled waters
Comes the cry;
Wild are the waves around me--
Dark the sky:
There is no hand to pluck me
From the sad death I die.

To one small plank, that fails me,
Clinging low,
I am dash'd by angry billows
To and fro;
I hear death-anthems ringing
In all the winds that blow.

A cry of suffering gushes
From my lips
As I behold the distant
White-sail'd ships
O'er the white waters gleaming
Where the horizon dips.

They pass; they are too lofty
And remote,
They cannot see the spaces
Where I float.
The last hope dies within me,
With the gasping in my throat.

Through dim cloud-vistas looking,
I can see
The new moon's crescent sailing
Pallidly:
And one star coldly shining
Upon my misery.

There are no sounds in nature
But my moan,
The shriek of the wild petrel
All alone,
And roar of waves exulting
To make my flesh their own.

Billow with billow rages,
Tempest trod;
Strength fails me; coldness gathers
On this clod;
From the deep and troubled waters
I cry to _Thee_, my God!

THE RETURN HOME.

The favouring wind pipes aloft in the shrouds,
And our keel flies as fast as the shadow of clouds;
The land is in sight, on the verge of the sky,
And the ripple of waters flows pleasantly by,--
And faintly stealing,
Booming, pealing,
Chime from the city the echoing bells;
And louder, clearer,
Softer, nearer,
Ringing sweet welcome the melody swells;
And it 's home! and it 's home! all our sorrows are past--
We are home in the land of our fathers at last.

How oft with a pleasure akin to a pain,
In fancy we roam'd through thy pathways again,
Through the mead, through the lane, through the grove, through the corn,
And heard the lark singing its hymn to the morn;
And 'mid the wild wood,
Dear to childhood,
Gather'd the berries that grew by the way;
But all our gladness
Died in sadness,
Fading like dreams in the dawning of day;--
But we 're home! we are home! all our sorrows are past--
We are home in the land of our fathers at last.

We loved thee before, but we 'll cherish thee now
With a deeper emotion than words can avow;
Wherever in absence our feet might delay,
We had never a joy like the joy of to-day;
And home returning,
Fondly yearning,
Faces of welcome seem crowding the shore--
England! England!
Beautiful England!
Peace be around thee, and joy evermore!
And it 's home! and it 's home! all our sorrows are past--
We are home in the land of our fathers at last.

THE MEN OF THE NORTH.

Fierce as its sunlight, the East may be proud
Of its gay gaudy hues and its sky without cloud;
Mild as its breezes, the beautiful West
May smile like the valleys that dimple its breast;
The South may rejoice in the vine and the palm,
In its groves, where the midnight is sleepy with balm:
Fair though they be,
There 's an isle in the sea,
The home of the brave and the boast of the free!
Hear it, ye lands! let the shout echo forth--
The lords of the world are the Men of the North!

Cold though our seasons, and dull though our skies,
There 's a might in our arms and a fire in our eyes;
Dauntless and patient, to dare and to do--
Our watchword is "Duty," our maxim is "Through!"
Winter and storm only nerve us the more,
And chill not the heart, if they creep through the door:
Strong shall we be
In our isle of the sea,
The home of the brave and the boast of the free!
Firm as the rocks when the storm flashes forth,
We 'll stand in our courage--the Men of the North!

Sunbeams that ripen the olive and vine,
In the face of the slave and the coward may shine;
Roses may blossom where Freedom decays,
And crime be a growth of the Sun's brightest rays.
Scant though the harvest we reap from the soil,
Yet Virtue and Health are the children of Toil:
Proud let us be
Of our isle of the sea,
The home of the brave and the boast of the free!
Men with true hearts--let our fame echo forth--
Oh, these are the fruit that we grow in the North!

THE LOVER'S DREAM OF THE WIND.

I dream'd thou wert a fairy harp
Untouch'd by mortal hand,
And I the voiceless, sweet west wind,
A roamer through the land.
I touch'd, I kiss'd thy trembling strings,
And lo! my common air,
Throbb'd with emotion caught from thee,
And turn'd to music rare.

I dream'd thou wert a rose in bloom,
And I the gale of spring,
That sought the odours of thy breath,
And bore them on my wing.
No poorer thou, but richer I--
So rich, that far at sea,
The grateful mariners were glad,
And bless'd both thee and me.

I dream'd thou wert the evening star,
And I a lake at rest,
That saw thine image all the night
Reflected on my breast.
Too far!--too far!--come dwell on Earth!
Be Harp and Rose of May;--
I need thy music in my heart,
Thy fragrance on my way.

ARCHIBALD CRAWFORD.

Archibald Crawford, a writer of prose and poetry of considerable merit, was born at Ayr in 1785. In his ninth year, left an orphan, he was placed under the care of a brother-in-law, a baker in London. With no greater advantages than the somewhat limited school education then given to the sons of burgesses of small provincial towns, his ardent love of literature and powerful memory enabled him to become conversant with the works of the more distinguished British authors, as well as the best translations of the classics. At the expiry of eight years he returned to Ayr, and soon after entered the employment of Charles Hay, Esq., of Edinburgh, in whose service he continued during a course of years. In honour of a daughter of this gentleman, who had shewn him much kindness during a severe attack of fever, he composed his song of "Bonnie Mary Hay," which, subsequently set to music by R. A. Smith, has become extremely popular. He was afterwards in the employment of General Hay of Rannes, with whom he remained several years. At the close of that period he was offered by his employer an ensigncy in the service of the Honourable East India Company, which, however, he respectfully declined. In 1810 he opened a grocery establishment in his native town; but, with less aptitude for business than literature, he lost the greater part of the capital he had embarked in trade. He afterwards exchanged this business for that of auctioneer and general merchant.

The literary inclinations of his youth had been assiduously followed up, and his employers, sympathising with his tastes, gave him every opportunity, by the use of their libraries, of indulging his favourite studies. With the exception of some fugitive pieces, he did not however seek distinction as an author till 1819, when a satirical poem, entitled "St James's in an uproar," appeared anonymously from his pen. This composition intended to support the extreme political opinions then in vogue, exposed to ridicule some leading persons in the district, and was attended with the temporary apprehension and menaced prosecution of the printer. To the columns of the _Ayr and Wigtonshire Courier_ he now began to contribute a series of sketches, founded on traditions in the West of Scotland; and these, in 1824, he collected into a volume, with the title, "Tales of a Grandmother," which was published by subscription. In the following year the tales, with some additions, were published, in two duodecimo volumes, by Constable and Co.; but the subsequent insolvency of the publishing firm deprived the author of the profits of the sale. Crawford, along with two literary coadjutors, next started a weekly serial at Ayr, entitled _The Correspondent_, but the publication, in the course of a few months, was abandoned. A similar periodical, under the designation of _The Gaberlunzie_, appeared under his management in 1827, and extended to sixteen numbers. He latterly contributed articles in prose and verse to the _Ayr Advertiser_, a weekly newspaper published in that town. His death took place at Ayr on the 6th January 1843, in his 58th year. Much esteemed for his hearty, social nature, with a ready and pungent wit, and much dramatic power as a relater of legendary narrative, he was possessed of strong intellectual capacities, and considerable taste as a poet. His second son, Mr William Crawford, has attained distinction as an artist.

BONNIE MARY HAY.

Bonnie Mary Hay, I will lo'e thee yet,
For thy eye is the slae, thy hair is the jet;
The snaw is thy skin, and the rose is thy cheek;
O! bonnie Mary Hay, I will lo'e thee yet.

Bonnie Mary Hay, will you gang wi' me,
When the sun 's in the west, to the hawthorn-tree;
To the hawthorn-tree, in the bonnie berry-den,
And I 'll tell you, Mary, how I lo'e you then?

Bonnie Mary Hay, it 's haliday to me,
When thou art couthie, kind, and free;
There 's nae clouds in the lift, nor storms in the sky,
My bonnie Mary Hay, when thou art nigh.

Bonnie Mary Hay, thou maunna say me nay,
But come to the bower, by the hawthorn brae;
But come to the bower, and I 'll tell you a' what 's true,
How, Mary, I can ne'er lo'e ane but you.

SCOTLAND, I HAVE NO HOME BUT THEE!

Scotland, thy mountains, thy valleys, and fountains,
Are famous in story--the birth-place of song;
Thy daughters the fairest, the sweetest, the rarest,
Well may thy pilgrims long for their home.
Trace the whole world o'er, find me a fairer shore,
The grave of my fathers! the land of the free!
Joy to the rising race! Heaven send them ev'ry grace;
Scotland, dear Scotland, I have no home but thee!

Glow on, ye southern skies, where fruits wear richer dyes
To pamper the bigot, assassin, and slave;
Scotland, to thee I 'll twine, with all thy varied clime,
For the fruits that thou bearest are true hearts and brave.
Trace the whole world o'er, find me a fairer shore,
The grave of my fathers! the land of the free!
Joy to the rising race! Heaven send them ev'ry grace;
Scotland, dear Scotland, I have no home but thee!

GEORGE DONALD.

George Donald was born at Glasgow on the 19th January 1800. His parents being in circumstances of indigence, he was sent to labour in a factory so early as his eighth year. A limited attendance at school he supplemented by devoting his intervals of toil to self-instruction. He began to contribute verses to the public journals in his eighteenth year, and soon after composed a series of poems, entitled "Lays of the Covenanters," which appeared in one of the Glasgow newspapers. Of extreme political opinions, he upheld his peculiar views in a series of satirical compositions both in prose and verse, which, by leading dissolute persons to seek his society, proved the commencement of a most unfortunate career. Habits of irregularity were contracted; he ceased to engage in the duties of his calling: and leaving his wife and family of young children without any means of support, he became a reckless wanderer. He afterwards emigrated to the United States, but at the expiry of sixteen months re-appeared in Glasgow. He now became steady; and joining the Total Abstinence Society, advocated the cause of sobriety in a number of temperance songs. Renouncing his pledge, he soon returned to his former habits. He proceeded to Ireland, where he supported himself as a public reciter of popular Scottish ballads. He contributed to the _Banner of Ulster_ a narrative of his experiences in America; and published at Belfast, in a separate volume, his "Lays of the Covenanters," two abridged editions of which were subsequently printed and circulated in Glasgow. Returning to his native city, he was fortunate in receiving the kindly patronage of Dr John Smith of the _Examiner_ newspaper, who paid him a stipulated salary as a contributor. After a period of illness, his death took place at the village of Thornliebank, near Glasgow, on the 7th December 1851. In "The Songs for the Nursery," an interesting little work published by Mr David Robertson of Glasgow in 1846, ten pieces are from his pen. A poem which he composed in his latter years entitled "The Progress of Society, in five books," is still in MS. Amidst all his failings Donald maintained a sense of religion. Evincing a sincere regret for the errors of his life, he died in Christian hope.

THE SPRING TIME O' LIFE.

AIR--_"O wat ye wha I met yestreen?"_

The summer comes wi' rosy wreaths,
And spreads the mead wi' fragrant flowers,
While furthy autumn plenty breathes,
And blessings in abundance showers.
E'en winter, wi' its frost and snaw,
Brings meikle still the heart to cheer,
But there's a season worth them a',
And that's the spring-time o' the year.

In spring the farmer ploughs the field
That yet will wave wi' yellow corn,
In spring the birdie bigs its bield
In foggy bank or budding thorn;
The burn and brae, the hill and dell,
A song of hope are heard to sing,
And summer, autumn, winter, tell,
Wi' joy or grief, the work o' spring.

Now, youth 's the spring-time o' your life,
When seed is sown wi' care and toil,
And hopes are high, and fears are rife,
Lest weeds should rise the braird to spoil.
I 've sown the seed, my bairnies dear,
By precept and example baith,
And may the hand that guides us here
Preserve it frae the spoiler's skaith!

But soon the time may come when you
Shall miss a mother's tender care,
A sinfu' world to wander through,
Wi' a' its stormy strife to share;
Then mind my words, whare'er ye gang,
Let fortune smile or thrawart be,
Ne'er let the tempter lead ye wrang--
If sae ye live, ye'll happy dee.

THE SCARLET ROSE-BUSH.

AIR--_"There grows a bonnie brier bush."_

Come see my scarlet rose-bush
My father gied to me,
That's growing in our window-sill
Sae fresh and bonnilie;
I wadna gie my rose-bush
For a' the flowers I see,
Nor for a pouchfu' o' red gowd,
Sae dear it is to me.

I set it in the best o' mould
Ta'en frae the moudie's hill,
And covered a' the yird wi' moss
I gather'd on the hill;
I saw the blue-bell blooming,
And the gowan wat wi' dew,
But my heart was on my rose-bush set,
I left them where they grew.

I water 't ilka morning
Wi' meikle pride and care,
And no a wither'd leaf I leave
Upon its branches fair;
Twa sprouts are rising frae the root,
And four are on the stem,
Three rosebuds and six roses blawn--
'Tis just a perfect gem!

Come, see my bonnie, blooming bush
My father gied to me,
Wi' roses to the very top,
And branches like a tree.
It grows upon our window-sill,
I watch it tentilie;
O! I wadna gie my dear rose-bush
For a' the flowers I see.

HENRY GLASSFORD BELL.

Henry Glassford Bell is the son of James Bell, Esq., advocate. His mother was the daughter of the Rev. John Hamilton, minister of Cathcart. He was born at Glasgow, but his early life was spent chiefly in Edinburgh, whither his parents removed in his sixth year. Having studied at the University of Edinburgh, he passed advocate in 1832. Prior to his commencing the study of law, he much devoted himself to literary pursuits. In 1828 he published, in "Constable's Miscellany," a "Life of Mary, Queen of Scots," in two volumes, of which work several editions have since appeared. About the same time he established the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_, which he conducted for several years with much acceptance to the public. His other publications are, "My Old Portfolio," a volume of miscellaneous prose and verse, and "Summer and Winter Hours," a volume of lyric poems and songs. Both these works are out of print. Mr Bell has contributed to the principal periodicals, and associated with the leading literary men of his time. Since 1839 he has resided in Glasgow, holding the appointment of a Sheriff-substitute of Lanarkshire.

MY LIFE IS ONE LONG THOUGHT OF THEE.

Say wilt thou, Leila, when alone,
Remember days of bliss gone by?
Wilt thou, beside thy native Rhone,
E'er for our distant streamlets sigh?
Beneath thy own glad sun and sky,
Ah! Leila, wilt thou think of me?
She blush'd, and murmur'd in reply,
"My life is one long thought of thee."

Sweet girl! I would not have it so;
My destiny must not be thine,
For wildly as the wild waves flow,
Will pass this fleeting life of mine.
"And let thy fate be weal or woe,
My thoughts," she smiling said, "are free;
And well the watchful angels know
My life is one long thought of thee."

Then, Leila, may thy thoughts and prayers
Be with me in my hour of need,
When round me throng the cold world's cares,
And all my heart's fresh sorrows bleed!
"Why, dearest, nurse so dark a creed?
For full of joy thy years shall be;
And mine shall share the blissful meed,
For life is one long thought of thee."

WHY IS MY SPIRIT SAD?

Why is my spirit sad?
Because 'tis parting, each succeeding year,
With something that it used to hold more dear
Than aught that now remains;
Because the past, like a receding sail,
Flits into dimness, and the lonely gale
O'er vacant waters reigns!

Why is my spirit sad?
Because no more within my soul there dwell
Thoughts fresh as flowers that fill the mountain dell
With innocent delight;
Because I am aweary of the strife
That with hot fever taints the springs of life,
Making the day seem night!

Why is my spirit sad?
Alas! ye did not know the lost, the dead,
Who loved with me of yore green paths to tread--
The paths of young romance;
Ye never stood with us 'neath summer skies,
Nor saw the glad light of their tender eyes--
The Eden of their glance.

Why is my spirit sad?
Have not the beautiful been ta'en away--
Are not the noble-hearted turn'd to clay--
Wither'd in root and stem?
I see that others, in whose looks are lit
The radiant joys of youth, are round me yet,
But not--but not like them!

I would not be less sad;
My days of mirth are past; droops o'er my brow
The sheaf of care in sickly paleness now;
The present is around me;
Would that the future were both come and gone,
And that I lay where, 'neath a nameless stone,
Crush'd feelings could not wound me!

GEORDIE YOUNG.

I 'll no walk by the kirk, mother,
I 'll no walk by the manse;
I aye meet wi' the minister,
Wha looks at me askance.

What ails ye at the minister?--
A douce and sober lad;
I trow it is na every day
That siclike can be had.

I dinna like his smooth-kaim'd hair,
Nor yet his pawkie face;
I dinna like a preacher, mother,
But in a preaching place.

Then ye 'll gang down by Holylee--
Ye needna look sae scared--
For wha kens but at Holylee
Ye 'll aiblins meet the Laird?

I canna bide the Laird, mother,
He says sic things to me;
Ae half he says wi' wily words,
And ae half wi' his e'e.

Awa! awa! ye glaikit thing!
It 's a' that Geordie Young;
The Laird has no an e'e like him,
Nor the minister a tongue!

He 's fleech'd ye out o' a' ye hae,
For nane but him ye care;
But love can ne'er be lasting, bairn,
That aye gangs cauld and bare.

The faithfu' heart will aye, mother,
Put trust in ane above,
And how can folks gang bare, mother,
Wrapp'd in the faulds o' love?

Weel, lassie, walk ye by the burn,
And walk ye slow and sly;
My certie! weel ye ken the gate
That Geordie Young comes by!

His plighted troth is mine, mother,
And lang afore the spring
I 'll loose my silken snood, mother,
And wear the gowden ring.

MY FAIRY ELLEN.

Beautiful moon! wilt thou tell me where
Thou lovest most to be softly gleaming?
Is it on some rich bank of flowers
Where 'neath each blossom a fay lies dreaming?
Or is it on yonder silver lake
Where the fish in green and gold are sparkling?
Or is it among those ancient trees
Where the tremulous shadows move soft and darkling?
Oh, no! said the moon, with a playful smile,
The best of my beams are for ever dwelling
In the exquisite eyes, so deeply blue,
And the eloquent glance of the fairy Ellen.

Gentlest of zephyrs! pray tell me how
Thou lovest to spend a serene May morning,
When dew-drops are twinkling on every bough,
And violets wild each glade adorning?
Is it in kissing the glittering stream,
O'er its pebbly channel so gaily rippling?
Is it in sipping the nectar that lies
In the bells of the flowers--an innocent tippling?
Oh no! said the zephyr, and softly sigh'd,
His voice with a musical melody swelling,
All the mornings of May 'mong the ringlets I play
That dance on the brow of the fairy Ellen.

White little lily! pray tell me when
Thy happiest moments the fates allow thee?
Thou seemest a favourite with bees and men,
And all the boys and butterflies know thee;
Is it at dawn or at sunset hour
That pleasantest fancies are o'er thee stealing?
One would think thee a poet, to judge by thy looks,
Or at least a pale-faced man of feeling?
Oh no! said the lily, and slightly blush'd,
My highest ambition 's to be sweet smelling,
To live in the sight, and to die on the breast
Of the fairest of beings, the fairy Ellen.

Oh! would that I were the moon myself,
Or a balmy zephyr, fresh fragrance breathing;
Or a white-crown'd lily, my slight green stem
Slily around that dear neck wreathing!
Worlds would I give to bask in those eyes,
Stars, if I had them, for one of those tresses,
My heart and my soul, and my body to boot,
For merely the smallest of all her kisses!
And if she would love me, oh heaven and earth!
I would not be Jove, the cloud-compelling,
Though he offer'd me Juno and Venus both
In exchange for one smile of my fairy Ellen!

A BACHELOR'S COMPLAINT.

They 're stepping off, the friends I knew,
They 're going one by one;
They 're taking wives to tame their lives,
Their jovial days are done;
I can't get one old crony now
To join me in a spree;
They've all grown grave, domestic men,
They look askance on me.

I hate to see them sober'd down,
The merry boys and true,
I hate to hear them sneering now
At pictures fancy drew;
I care not for their married cheer,
Their puddings and their soups,
And middle-aged relations round,
In formidable groups.

And though their wife perchance may have
A comely sort of face,
And at the table's upper end
Conduct herself with grace,
I hate the prim reserve that reigns,
The caution and the state,
I hate to see my friend grow vain
Of furniture and plate.

Oh, give me back the days again,
When we have wander'd free,
And stole the dew from every flower,
The fruit from every tree;
The friends I loved they will not come,
They've all deserted me;
They sit at home and toast their toes,
Look stupid and sip tea.

Alas! alas! for years gone by,
And for the friends I've lost;
When no warm feeling of the heart
Was chill'd by early frost.
If these be Hymen's vaunted joys,
I'd have him shun my door,
Unless he quench his torch, and live
Henceforth a bachelor.

WILLIAM BENNET.

William Bennet was born on the 29th September, 1802, in the parish of Glencairn, and county of Dumfries. He first wrote verses while apprenticed to a mechanic in a neighbouring parish. In his nineteenth year he published a volume of poems, which excited some attention, and led to his connexion with the newspaper press. He became a regular contributor to the _Dumfries Courier_, edited by the ingenious John M'Diarmid; and in 1825 and the following year conducted the _Dumfries Magazine_, in which appeared many interesting articles from his pen. In December 1826, he became editor of the _Glasgow Free Press_, which supported the liberal cause during the whole of the Reform Bill struggle. Along with Sir Daniel Sandford, he afterwards withdrew from the Whig party, and established the _Glasgow Constitutional_, the editorship of which he resigned in 1836. In 1832-3, he published a periodical, entitled, "Bennet's Glasgow Magazine." Continuing to write verses, he afterwards published a poetical volume, with the title, "Songs of Solitude." His other separate works are, "Pictures of Scottish Scenes and Character," in three volumes; "Sketches of the Isle of Man;" and "The Chief of Glen-Orchay," a poem in five cantos, illustrative of Highland manners and mythology in the middle ages.

Mr Bennet, subsequent to leaving Glasgow, resided successively in Ireland, and London. He afterwards lived several years in Galloway, and has latterly fixed his abode at Greenmount, near Burntisland. He is understood to be engaged in a new translation of the Scriptures.

BLEST BE THE HOUR OF NIGHT.

Blest be the hour of night,
When, his toils over,
The swain, with a heart so light,
Meets with his lover!
Sweet the moon gilds their path,
Arm in arm straying;
Clouds never rise in wrath,
Chiding their staying.

Gently they whisper low:
Unseen beside them,
Good angels watch, that no
Ill may betide them.
Silence is everywhere,
Save when the sighing
Is heard, of the breeze's fall,
Fitfully dying.

How the maid's bosom glows,
While her swain 's telling
The love, that 's been long, she knows,
In his heart swelling!
How, when his arms are thrown
Tenderly round her,
Fears she, in words to own
What he hath found her!

When the first peep of dawn
Warns them of parting,
And from each dewy lawn
Blythe birds are starting,
Fondly she hears her swain
Vow, though they sever,
Soon they shall meet again,
Mated for ever.

THE ROSE OF BEAUTY.

Amang the breezy heights and howes
Where winds the Milk[6] sae clearly,
A Rose o' beauty sweetly grows,
A Rose I lo'e most dearly.

Wi' spring's saft rain and simmer's sun
How blooms my Rose divinely!
And lang ere blaws the winter wun',
This breast shall nurse it kin'ly.

May heaven's dew aye freshly weet
My Rose at ilka gloamin',
And oh, may nae unhallow'd feet
Be near it ever roamin'!

I soon shall buy a snug wee cot,
And hae my Rose brought thither;
And then, in that lowne sunny spot,
We'll bloom and fade thegither.

FOOTNOTES:

[6] A beautiful sylvan stream, falling from the uplands into the Annan, between Ecclefechan and Lockerbie.

I 'LL THINK ON THEE, LOVE.

I 'll think on thee, Love, when thy bark
Hath borne thee far across the deep;
And, as the sky is bright or dark,
'Twill be my fate to smile or weep;
For oh, when winds and waters keep
In trust so dear a charge as thee,
My anxious fears can never sleep
Till thou again art safe with me!

I 'll think on thee, Love, when each hour
Of twilight comes, with pensive mood,
And silence, like a spell of power,
Rests, in its depth, on field and wood;
And as the mingling shadows brood
Still closer o'er the lonely sea,
Here, on the beach where first we woo'd,
I 'll pour to heaven my prayers for thee.

Then haply on the breeze's wing,
That to me steals across the wave,
Some angel's voice may answer bring
That list'ning heaven consents to save.
And oh, the further boon I crave
Perchance may also granted be,
That thou, return'd, no more shalt brave
The wanderer's perils on the sea!

THERE 'S MUSIC IN A MOTHER'S VOICE.

There 's music in a mother's voice,
More sweet than breezes sighing;
There 's kindness in a mother's glance,
Too pure for ever dying.

There 's love within a mother's breast,
So deep, 'tis still o'erflowing,
And for her own a tender care,
That 's ever, ever growing.

And when a mother kneels to heaven,
And for her child is praying,
Oh, who shall half the fervour tell
That burns in all she 's saying!

A mother, when she, like a star,
Sets into heaven before us,
From that bright home of love, all pure,
Still minds and watches o'er us.

THE BRIG OF ALLAN.

Come, memory, paint, though far away,
The wimpling stream, the broomy brae,
The upland wood, the hill-top gray,
Whereon the sky seems fallin';
Paint me each cheery, glist'ning row
Of shelter'd cots, the woods below,
Where Airthrie's healing waters flow
By bonny Brig of Allan.

Paint yonder Grampian heights sublime,
The Roman eagles could not climb,
And Stirling, crown'd in after time
With Royalty's proud dwallin';
These, with the Ochils, sentry keep,
Where Forth, that fain in view would sleep,
Tries, from his Links, oft back to peep
At bonny Brig of Allan.

Oh, lovely, when the rising sun
Greets Stirling towers, so steep and dun,
And silver Forth's calm breast upon
The golden beams are fallin'!
Then, trotting down to join his flood,
Through rocky steeps, besprent with wood,
How bright, in morning's joyous mood,
Appears the stream of Allan!

Upon its banks how sweet to stray,
With rod and line, the livelong day,
Or trace each rural charm, away
From cark of every callin'!
There dove-like, o'er my path would brood
The spirit pure of solitude;
For native each rapt, genial mood
Is to the beauteous Allan.

Oh, witching as its scenes, and bright
As is its cloudless summer light,
Be still its maids, the soul's delight
Of every truthful callan'!
Be health around it ever spread,
To light the eye, to lift the head,
And joy on every heart be shed
That beats by Brig of Allan!

GEORGE OUTRAM.

The author of "Legal Lyrics," a small volume of humorous songs, printed for private circulation, George Outram, was born in the vicinity of Glasgow in 1805. His father, a native of England, was partner and manager in the Clyde Iron Works. In 1827 he was called to the Scottish bar, and practised for some years as an advocate. To the character of an orator he made no pretensions, but he evinced great ability as a chamber counsel. He accepted, in 1837, the editorship of the _Glasgow Herald_, and continued the principal conductor of this journal till the period of his death. He died at Rosemore, on the shores of the Holy Loch, on the 16th September 1856, in his fifty-first year. His remains were interred in Warriston Cemetery, Edinburgh.

Of most retiring disposition, Mr Outram confined his intercourse to a limited circle of friends, by whom he was esteemed for his genial worth and interesting conversation. By the late Lord Cockburn he was especially beloved. He has left in MS. several interesting songs, which are likely to be published by his executors. His cousin-german, General Sir James Outram, is well known for his military services in India.

CHARGE ON A BOND OF ANNUITY.[7]

AIR--_"Duncan Davidson."_

I gaed to spend a week in Fife,
An unco week it proved to be,
For there I met a waesome wife,
Lamenting her viduity.
Her grief brak' out sae fierce and fell,
I thought her heart wad burst the shell;
And, I was sae left to mysel,
I sell't her an annuity.

The bargain lookit fair eneugh,
She just was turned o' saxty-three;
I couldna guess'd she 'd prove sae teugh
By human ingenuity.
But years have come, and years have gane,
And there she 's yet as stieve 's a stane;
The auld wife 's growing young again
Since she got her annuity.

She 's crined awa to bane an' skin,
But that it seems is nought to me;
She 's like to live, although she 's in
The last stage o' tenuity.
She munches wi' her wizen'd gums,
An' stumps about on legs o' thrums,
But comes--as sure as Christmas comes--
To ca' for her annuity.

She jokes her joke, an' cracks her crack,
As spunkie as a growin' flea;
An' there she sits upon my back
A livin' perpetuity.
She hurkles by her ingle side,
An' toasts an' tans her wrinkled hide;
Lord kens how lang she yet may bide
To ca' for her annuity.

I read the tables drawn wi' care
For an Insurance Company;
Her chance o' life was stated there
Wi' perfect perspicuity.
But tables here, or tables there,
She 's lived ten years beyond her share;
An 's like to live a dozen mair
To ca' for her annuity.

I gat the loon that drew the deed,
We spell'd it ower richt carefully;
In vain he yerk'd his souple head
To find an ambiguity.
It 's dated, tested, a' complete;
The proper stamp, nae word delete;
And diligence, as on decreet,
May pass for her annuity.

* * * * *

I thought that grief might gar her quit,
Her only son was lost at sea;
But aff her wits behuved to flit
An' leave her in fatuity.
She threeps, an' threeps he 's livin' yet
For a' the tellin' she can get;
But catch the doited wife forget
To ca' for her annuity.

If there 's a sough o' cholera
Or typhus, wha sae gleg as she!
She buys up baths, an' drugs, an' a',
In siccan superfluity!
She doesna need--she's fever proof--
The pest walked o'er her very roof;
She tauld me sae, and then her loof
Held out for her annuity.

Ae day she fell, her arm she brak,
A compound fracture as could be;
Nae leech the cure wad undertak,
Whate'er was the gratuity.
It 's cured! she handles 't like a flail,
It does as weel in bits as hale;
But I 'm a broken man mysel'
Wi' her and her annuity.

Her broozled flesh and broken banes
Are weel as flesh and banes can be,
She beats the taeds that live in stanes
An' fatten in vacuity!
They die when they 're exposed to air,
They canna thole the atmosphere;
But her! expose her onywhere,
She lives for her annuity.

* * * * *

The water-drap wears out the rock
As this eternal jade wears me;
I could withstand the single shock,
But not the continuity.
It 's pay me here, an' pay me there,
An' pay me, pay me evermair;
I 'll gang demented wi' despair;
I 'm _charged_ for her annuity.

FOOTNOTES:

[7] This facetious composition, in the original form, extends to considerably greater length.

HENRY INGLIS.

Henry Inglis is the son of William Inglis, Esq. of Glaspin, W.S., and was born in Edinburgh on the 6th November 1806. His early years were spent at Middleton, his father's residence in Linlithgowshire. Completing with distinction the usual course of classical study at the High School of Edinburgh, he entered the University of that city. At the close of a philosophical curriculum, he devoted himself to legal pursuits, and became a writer to the Signet. In 1851 he published "Marican, and other Poems," in one volume octavo. Another poetical work, entitled "The Briar of Threave," appeared from his pen in 1855. Mr Inglis is at present engaged with pieces illustrative of the history of the Covenant, which may afterwards be offered to the public.

The representative of the old Border family of Inglis of Branxholme, Mr Inglis is great-grandson of the celebrated Colonel Gardiner, who fell on the field of Preston in 1745.

WEEP AWAY.

Weep away, heart, weep away!
Let no muleteer
Be afraid
To weep; for a brave heart may
Lament for a dear,
Fickle maid.

The lofty sky weeps in cloud,
The earth weeps in dews
From its core;
The diamond brooks weep aloud,
The flowers change the hues
Which they wore.

The grass mourns in the sunbeam,
In gums weep the trees
And in dye;
And if mourn meadow and stream--
Inanimate these--
May not I?

The wood-pigeon mourns his mate,
The caged birds bewail
Freedom gone;
Shall not man mourn over fate?
Dumb sorrow assail
Him alone?

Then weep on, heart, weep away!
Let no muleteer
Be afraid
To weep; for a brave heart may
Lament for a dear,
Fickle maid.

JAMES MANSON.

James Manson, one of the conductors of the _Glasgow Herald_, has composed a number of lyrics, some of which have been set to music. Mr Manson was born in the parish of Kilwinning, Ayrshire, about the year 1812. He was bred to a laborious handicraft occupation, at which he wrought industriously during a course of years.

OCEAN.

_Set to Music by H. Lambeth._

ON SHORE--CALM.

Summer Ocean,
Placid Ocean,
Soft and sweet thy lullaby;
Shadows lightly,
Sunbeams brightly,
Flicker o'er thee noiselessly.

Resting gently on thy bosom,
Snowy sea-gulls preen thy wings,
While perfumed sighs, from many a blossom,
Float around the strain the skylark sings.

Love's emotion,
Summer Ocean,
Like thy self, 'neath cloudless skies,
Glances brightly,
Dances lightly
Till the fond illusion flies.

AT SEA--STORM.

Winter Ocean,
Furious Ocean,
Fierce and loud thy choral lay:
Storm-clouds soaring,
Whirlwinds roaring
O'er thy breast in madness play.

Homeless petrels shriek their omen
Harshly 'mid thy billows' roar;
Fleshless bones of shipwreck'd seamen
Dash against thy rock-ribb'd shore.

War's commotion,
Winter Ocean,
Like thyself, when tempest driven,
By passion hurl'd,
Would wreck the world,
And mock the wrath-scowling heaven.

THE HUNTER'S DAUGHTER.

_Set to Music by Herr Kuecken._

When loud the horn is sounding
Along the distant hills,
Then would I rove, ne'er weary,
The Hunter's Daughter near me,
By flowery margin'd rills.

'Mid stately pines embosom'd
There stands the Hunter's cot,
From which this maiden daily
At morning peeps so gaily,
Contented with her lot.

This Hunter and his Daughter
Make everything their prey;
He slays the wild roe bounding,
Her eyes young hearts are wounding--
No shafts so sure as they!

AN INVITATION.

_Music arranged by Julius Siligmann._

The skylark sings his matin lay,
The waking flowers at dawning day,
With perfumed breath, sigh, Come! come! come!
Oh, haste, Love, come with me,
To the wild wood come with me.
Hark, the wing'd warblers singing,
Come with me;
Beauteous flowers, their perfume flinging,
Wait for thee!

The sunlight sleeps upon the lea,
And sparkles o'er the murmuring sea,
The wanton wind sighs, Come! come! come!
Oh, haste, Love, come with me,
To the wild wood come with me--
Come and gather luscious berries,
Come with me;
Clustering grapes and melting cherries
Wait for thee!

My bird of love, my beauteous flower,
Come, reign the queen of yonder bower,
'Tis True-love whispers, Come! come! come!
Oh, haste, then, come with me,
To the wild wood come with me.
Life's first fairest hours are fleeting--
Come with me;
Hope, and Joy, and Love's fond greeting
Wait for thee!

CUPID AND THE ROSE-BUD.

_Set to Music by H. Lambeth._

Young Love once woo'd a budding Rose,
(_Sing hey down ho, the bleak winds blow._)
With fond delight his bosom glows,
(_How softly fall the flakes of snow._)
Love watch'd the flower whose ruby tips
Peep'd coyly forth, like pouting lips,
Then nearer to the Rose he trips;
(_The stately oak will soon lie low._)

Young Love was fond and bashful too,
(_Sing hey down ho, the sea rolls aye._)
He sigh'd and knew not what to do;
(_Life like an arrow flies away._)
Then whispering low his cherish'd wish,
The Rose-bud trembled on her bush,
While redder grew her maiden blush;
(_Ruddy eve forecasts the brightest day._)

To pull this Rose young Love then tried;
(_'Tis sweet to hear the skylark sing._)
Her blush of hope she strove to hide;
(_Joy soars aloft on painted wing._)
Love press'd the Rose-bud to his breast,
He felt the thorn, but well he guess'd
Such "Nay" meant "Yea," 'twas fond Love's jest;
(_'Tis honey soothes the bee's fell sting._)

ROBIN GOODHEART'S CAROL.

TUNE--_"The Brave Old Oak."_

'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! all eyes are bright,
And joyous songs abound;
Our log burns high, but it glows less bright
Than the eyes which sparkle round.
The merry laugh, and the jocund tale,
And the kiss 'neath the mistletoe,
Make care fly as fast as the blustering gale
That wreaths the new fallen snow.
'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! all eyes are bright,
And joyous thoughts abound;
The log burns high, but it glows less bright
Than the eyes which sparkle round.

'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! see the old grandsire
Forgets his weight of years;
He laughs with the young, and a fitful fire
Beams through his unbidden tears.
With tremulous tenor he joins the strain--
The song of his manhood's prime;
For his thoughts grow young, and he laughs again,
While his aged head nods time.
'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! &c.

'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! and the infant's heart
Beats high with a new delight,
And youths and maidens, with guileless art,
Make merry the livelong night.
The time flies on with gladsome cheer,
And welcomes pass around--
'Tis the warmest night of all the year,
Though winter hath chain'd the ground.
'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! &c.

JAMES HEDDERWICK.