Chapter I: Wander'd Alane (1)

AIR--_"Lucy's Flittin'."_

I wander'd alane at the break o' the mornin',
The dun clouds o' nicht were a' wearin' awa';
The sun rose in glory, the gray hills adornin',
A' glintin like gowd were their tappits o' snaw;
Adown by my side row'd the rock-bedded Kelvin,
While nature aroun' was beginnin' to green,
An' auld cottar bodies their yardies were delvin',
Kennin' thrift in the morn brocht pleasure at e'en.

I leant me against an auld mossy-clad palin',
An' noo an' then dichted a tear frae my e'e,
I look'd on the bodies, an' envied their toilin'--
Though lowly their lot, they seem'd happy by me;
I thought on my riches, yet feckless the treasure,
I tried to forget, but the labour was vain;
My wifie an' bairn were a' my life's pleasure,
An' they to the grave baith thegither had gane.

The thochts o' her love had awaken'd my sorrow,
The laugh o' my bairnie cam' back on mine ears,
An', piercing my heart wi' the force o' an arrow,
It open'd anew the saft channel o' tears.
I grat an' I sabb'd till I thocht life wad lea' me,
An' happy I then could hae parted wi' life--
For naething on earth sic enjoyment could gie me
As the glee o' my bairn an' smile o' my wife.

Oh, weary the day was when they were ta'en frae me,
Leavin' me lane, the last leaf on the tree;
Nae comfort the cauld look o' strangers can gie me--
I 'm wae, and they a' look as waefu' on me.
I wander me aften to break melancholy,
On ilk thing that 's leevin' the maxim I see,
Not walth to the weary 's like peace to the lowly;
Sae, burden'd wi' grief, I maun gang till I die.

KATIE BLAIR.[8]

I 've met wi' mony maidens fair
In kintras far awa,
I 've met wi' mony here at hame,
Baith bonny dames an' braw;
But nane e'er had the power to charm
My love into a snare
Till ance I saw the witchin' e'e
An' smile o' Katie Blair.

She wons by Kelvin's bonnie banks,
Whar' thick the greenwoods grow,
Whar' waters loupin' drouk the leaves
While merrily they row.
They drouk the lily an' the rose,
An' mony flowerets fair,
Yet they ne'er kiss a flower sae sweet
As winsome Katie Blair.

She is a queen owre a' the flowers
O' garden an' o' lea--
Her ae sweet smile mair cheering is
Than a' their balms to me.
As licht to morn she's a' to me,
My bosom's only care;
An' worthy o' the truest love
Is winsome Katie Blair.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] Printed from the Author's MS.

DAVID TAYLOR.

David Taylor was born, in April 1817, in the parish of Dollar, and county of Clackmannan. In early life his parents, having removed to the village of St Ninians, near Stirling, he was there apprenticed to a tartan manufacturer. He has continued to reside at St Ninians, and has been chiefly employed as a tartan weaver. He has written numerous poems and lyrics, and composed music to some of the more popular songs. Latterly he has occupied himself as a teacher of vocal music.

MY AIN GUDEMAN.

O dear, dear to me
Is my ain gudeman,
For kindly, frank, an' free
Is my ain gudeman.
An' though thretty years ha'e fled,
An' five sin' we were wed,
Nae bitter words I 've had
Wi' my ain gudeman.

I 've had seven bonnie bairns
To my ain gudeman,
An' I 've nursed them i' their turns
For my ain gudeman;
An' ane did early dee,
But the lave frae skaith are free,
An' a blessin' they 're to me
An' my ain gudeman.

I cheerie clamb the hill
Wi' my ain gudeman;
An', if it 's Heaven's will,
Wi' my ain gudeman,
In life's calm afternoon,
I wad toddle cannie doun,
Syne at the foot sleep soun'
Wi' my ain gudeman.

ROBERT CATHCART.

Robert Cathcart was born in 1817, and follows the occupation of a weaver in Paisley. Besides a number of fugitive pieces of some merit, he published, in 1842, a small collection of verses entitled, "The Early Blossom."

MARY

Sweet 's the gloamin's dusky gloom,
Spreadin' owre the lea, Mary;
Sweeter far thy love in bloom,
Whilk blaws alane for me, Mary.
When the woods in silence sleep,
And is hid in dusk the steep,
When the flowers in sorrow weep
I 'll sigh and smile wi' thee, Mary.

When love plays in rosy beams
Roun' the hawthorn-tree, Mary,
Then thine e'e a language gleams
Whilk tells o' love for me, Mary.
When thy sigh blends wi' my smile,
Silence reigns o'er us the while,
Then my heart, 'mid flutt'ring toil,
Tells thy love's bloom'd for me, Mary.

When our hands are join'd in love,
Ne'er to part again, Mary,
Till death ance mair his arrows prove
And tak us for his ain, Mary;
Then our joys are crown'd wi' bliss!
In a hallow'd hour like this,
We in rapture join to kiss
And taste o' heaven again, Mary.

WILLIAM JAMIE.

William Jamie was born on the 25th December 1818, in the parish of Marykirk, Kincardineshire. He received his education at the parish school of Maryculter, Aberdeenshire, whither his father removed during his boyhood. After working for some time with his father as a blacksmith, he engaged for several years in the work of tuition. From early manhood a writer of verses, he published, in 1844, at Laurencekirk, a small volume of poems, entitled, "The Muse of the Mearns," which passed through two editions. Of his various subsequent publications may be enumerated, "The Emigrant's Family, and other Poems;" "The Musings of a Wanderer," and a prose tale, entitled, "The Jacobite's Son." Since 1851 he has resided at Pollockshaws, in the vicinity of Glasgow. On the sale of his poetical works he is wholly dependent for subsistence.

AULD SCOTIA'S SANGS.

Although the lays o' ither lands
Ha'e mony an artfu' air,
They want the stirrin' melody
An auld man lo'es to hear.
Auld Scotia's sangs hae winnin' charms
Which maks the bosom fain;
And to her sons, that 's far awa',
Wi' thochts o' hame again.

Sweet bygane scenes, and native charms,
They fondly bring to min'
The trystin'-tree and bonny lass,
Wi a' love's dreams langsyne.
Oh! lilt me owre some tender strain,
For weel I lo'e to hear--
Be 't bonny "Broom o' Cowdenknowes,"
And "Bush aboon Traquair."

Or "Banks and braes o' bonny Doon,"
Whaur Robin tuned his lyre;
And "Roslin Castle's" ruined wa's--
Oh! sing, and I'll admire!
For I hae heard auld Scotia's sangs
Sung owre and owre wi' glee;
And the mair I hear their artless strains
They dearer grow to me.

Enchanting strains again they bring,
Fond memory glints alang
To humble bards wha woke the lyre,
And wove the patriot's sang.
Oh! leeze me on our ain auld sangs,
The sangs o' youth and glee;
They tell o' Bruce and glorious deeds,
Which made our country free.

JOHN CRAWFORD.

A poet possessing, in an eminent degree, the lyrical simplicity and power of the Bard of Coila, John Crawford was, in the year 1816, born at Greenock, in the same apartment which, thirty years before, had witnessed the death of Burns' "Highland Mary," his mother's cousin. With only a few months' attendance at school, he was, in boyhood, thrown on his own resources for support. Selecting the profession of a house-painter, he left Greenock in his eighteenth year, and has since prosecuted his vocation in the town of Alloa. Of strong native genius, he early made himself acquainted with general literature, while he has sought recreation in the composition of verses. In 1850 he published a small duodecimo volume of lyrics, entitled, "Doric Lays; being snatches of Song and Ballad." This little work was much commended by Lord Jeffrey, and received the strong approbation of the late amiable Miss Mitford. "There is," wrote the latter to a correspondent, "an originality in his writings very rare in a follower of Burns.... This is the true thing--a flower springing from the soil, not merely cut and stuck into the earth. Will you tell Mr Crawford how much pleasure he has given to a poor invalid?"

Crawford is an occasional contributor to the public journals. He is at present preparing an historical and descriptive work, to be entitled, "Memorials of the Town and Parish of Alloa." The following poetical epistle in tribute to his genius is from the pen of Mr Scott Riddell.

The days, when write wad minstrel men
To ane anither thus, are gone,
And days ha'e come upon us when
Bards praise nae anthems but their own:
But I will love the fashion old
While breath frae heaven this breast can draw,
And joy when I my tale have told
Anent the Bard of Alloa.

Thou, Crawford, sung hast mony a lay.
Far mair through nature's power than art's,
Pouring them frae thine ain, that they
Might reach and gladden other hearts;
Therefore our hearts shall honour thee,
And say't alike in cot and ha'--
Sublime thro' pure simplicity
Is he--the Bard of Alloa.

Though far o'er earth these lays shall roam,
And make to mankind their appeal;
'Tis not because they 'll lack a home,
While Scottish hearts, as wont, can feel:
The swains shall sing them on the hill,
The maidens in the greenwood-shaw,
And mothers bless, wi' warm guid-will,
The gifted Bard of Alloa.

E'en weans, wi' their shauchled shoon,
And clouted hose, and pinafores,
Will lilt, methinks, these lays, sae soon
As they can staucher 'boot the doors:
Sae shall they sing anent themsells
To nature true, as its ain law;
For minstrel nane on earth excels
In this the Bard of Alloa.

Fresh as the moorland's early dews,
And glowing as the woodland rose,
Of hearts, his thought gives forth the hues,
As richly bright as heaven's ain bow 's--
With me, my native land, rejoice,
And let the bard thy bosom thaw,
As Spring's sweet breathing comes the voice
Of him wha sings frae Alloa.

Then rest thee, Crawford, on the lawn,
And thus, if song thy soul shall sway,
I'll bless thee, while thy toil-worn han'
Pu's for itsel' a flower or twa;
'Tis idle--gowd-gear hearts will say--
But maist for whilk will tear-drops fa'
When death has come, and flowers shall bloom
Aboon the Bard of Alloa?

Oh, sing, ye bards, to nature true,
And glory shall your brows adorn,
And else than this, by none or few,
The poet's wreath will long be worn.
Cauld fa' the notes o' him wha sings
O' scenes whilk man yet never saw--
Pour then, frae nature's ain heart-strings,
Your strains like him of Alloa.

Possess maun he a poet's heart,
And he maun ha'e a poet's mind
Wha deftly plays the generous part
That warms the cauld, and charms the kind.
Nor scorn, ye frozen anes, the powers
Whilk hinder other hearts to fa'
Into a sordid sink--like yours--
But bless the Bard of Alloa.

Ah! little ye may trow or ken
The mony cares, and waes, and toils,
'Mang hearts and hames o' lowly men
Whilk nought save poetry beguiles;
It lifts fu' mony fortune 'boon,
When she begins her face to thraw,
That ne'er sae sweet a harp could tune
As his that sounds frae Alloa.

And as for me, ere this I'd lain
Where mark'd my head a mossy stane,
Had it not made the joys my ain
When a' life's other joys were gane.
If 'mang the mountains lone and gray,
Unknown, my early joys I sung,
When cares and woes wad life belay,
How could my harp away be flung?

The dearest power in life below,
Is life's ain native power of song,
As he alone can truly know,
To whom it truly may belong.
Lighten'd hath it fu' mony a step,
And lessen'd hath it mony a hill,
And lighted up the rays o' hope,
Ay, and it up shall light them still.

Lo! avarice cauld can gowd secure,
Ambition win the wreath o' fame,
Wealth gies reputed wit and power,
And crowns wi' joy the owner's aim.
But be my meed the generous heart,
For nought can charm this heart o' mine,
Like those who own the undying art
That gies a claim to Ossian's line.

Hale be thy heart, dear Crawford--hale
Be every heart belonging thee,--
The day whan fortune gies ye kale
Out through the reek, may ye ne'er see.
Ilk son o' song is dear to me;
And though thy face I never saw,
I'll honour till the day I dee
The gifted Bard o' Alloa.

MY AULD WIFIE JEAN.

AIR--_"There 'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame."_

My couthie auld wifie, aye blythsome to see,
As years slip awa' aye the dearer to me;
For ferlies o' fashion I carena ae preen
When I cleek to the kirk wi' my auld wifie Jean.

The thoughts o' the past are aye pleasin' to me,
And mair sae when love lights my auld wifie's e'e;
For then I can speak o' the days I ha'e seen
When care found nae hame i' the heart o' my Jean.

A hantle we've borne since that moment o' bliss,
Frae thy lips, breathin' balm, when I stole the first kiss,
When I read a response to my vows in thy e'en.
An, blushin', I prest to my bosom my Jean.

Like a rose set in snaw was the bloom on thy cheek,
Thy hair, wi' its silken snood, glossy and sleek,
When the Laird o' Drumlochie, sae lithless and lean,
Wad ha'e gane a lang mile for ae glisk o' my Jean.

Thy mither was dead, and thy faither was fain
That the lang-luggit lairdie wad ca' thee his ain;
But auld age and frailty could ne'er gang atween
The vows I had niffer'd wi' bonnie young Jean.

I canna weel work, an' ye 're weary an' worn,
The gudes and the ills lang o' life we ha'e borne;
But we ha'e a hame, an' we 're cozie and bein,
And the thrift I've to thank o' my auld wifie Jean.

Baith beddin' an' cleadin' o' a' kind ha'e we,
A sowp for the needy we 've aye had to gie,
A bite and a drap for baith fremit an' frien',
Was aye the warst wish o' my auld wifie Jean.

The puir beildless body has scugg'd the cauld blast,
'Yont our hallan he 's houft till the gurl gaed past,
An' a bite aff our board, aye sae tidy an' clean,
He 's gat wi' gudewill frae my auld wifie Jean.

Our hopes we ha'e set where our bairnies ha'e gaen;
Though lyart we've grown since they frae us were ta'en;
The thoughts o' them yet brings the tears to our e'en,
And aft I 've to comfort my auld wifie Jean.

The paughty and proud ha'e been laid i' the dust,
Since the first hairst I shore, since the first clod I cuist;
And soon we'll lie laigh; but aboon we 've a Frien',
And bright days are comin' for me an' my Jean.

THE LAND O' THE BONNET AND PLAID.

Hurra! for the land o' the broom-cover'd brae,
The land o' the rowan, the haw, and the slae;
Where waves the blue harebell in dingle and glade--
The land o' the pibroch, the bonnet, and plaid.

Hurra! for the hills o' the cromlech and cairn,
Where blossoms the thistle by hillocks o' fern;
There Freedom in triumph an altar has made
For holiest rites in the land o' the plaid.

A coronal wreath, where the wild flowers bloom,
To garnish the martyr and patriot's tomb:
Shall their names ever perish--their fame ever fade
Who ennobled the land o' the bonnet and plaid?

Oh, hame o' my bairnhood, ye hills o' my love!
The haunt o' the freeman for aye may ye prove;
And honour'd forever be matron and maid
In the land o' the heather, the bonnet, and plaid.

Hurra! for the land o' the deer and the rae,
O' the gowany glen and the bracken-clad brae,
Where blooms our ain thistle, in sunshine and shade--
Dear badge o' the land o' the bonnet and plaid.

SING ON, FAIRY DEVON.[9]

Sing on, fairy Devon,
'Mong gardens and bowers,
Where love's feast lies spread
In an Eden o' flowers.
What visions o' beauty
My mind has possess'd,
In thy gowany dell
Where a seraph might rest.

Sing on, lovely river,
To hillock and tree
A lay o' the loves
O' my Jessie and me;
For nae angel lightin',
A posie to pu',
Can match the fair form
O' the lassie I lo'e.

Sweet river, dear river,
Sing on in your glee,
In thy pure breast the mind
O' my Jessie I see.
How aft ha'e I wander'd,
As gray gloamin' fell,
Rare dreamin's o' heaven
My lassie to tell.

Sing on, lovely Devon,
The sang that ye sung
When earth in her beauty
Frae night's bosom sprung,
For lanesome and eerie
This warld aye would be
Did clouds ever fa'
Atween Jessie and me.

FOOTNOTES:

[9] Written for the present work.

ANN O' CORNYLEE.

GAELIC AIR--_"Soraiadh slan do'un Ailleagan."_

I 'll twine a gowany garland
Wi' lilies frae the spring;
The fairest flowers by Clutha's side
In a' their bloom I 'll bring.
I 'll wreath a flowery wreath to shade
My lassie's scornfu' e'e--
For oh, I canna bide the frown
O' Ann o' Cornylee.

Nae gilded ha', nae downie bed
My lowly lot maun cheer,
A sheilin' on the banks o' Gryfe
Is a' my worldly gear;
A lanely cot, wi' moss o'ergrown,
Is a' I ha'e to gie;
A leal heart, sinking 'neath the scorn
O' Ann o' Cornylee.

The linty 'mang the yellow broom,
The laverock in the lift
Ha'e never sang the waes o' love
O' hope and joy bereft;
Nor has the mavis ever sang
The ills I ha'e to dree,
For lovin' o' a paughty maid,
Fair Ann o' Cornylee.

MY MARY DEAR.[10]

TUNE--_"Annie Laurie."_

The gloamin' star was showerin'
Its siller glories doun,
And nestled in its mossy lair
The lintie sleepit soun';
The lintie sleepit soun',
And the starnies sparklet clear,
When on a gowany bank I sat
Aside my Mary dear.

The burnie wanders eerie
Roun' rock and ruin'd tower,
By mony a fairy hillock
And mony a lanely bower;
Roun' mony a lanely bower,
Love's tender tale to hear,
Where I in whisper'd vows ha'e woo'd
And won my Mary dear.

Oh, hallow'd hours o' happiness
Frae me for ever ta'en!
Wi' summer's flowery loveliness
Ye come na back again!
Ye come na back again,
The waefu' heart to cheer,
For lang the greedy grave has closed
Aboon my Mary dear.

FOOTNOTES:

[10] Written for the present work.

THE WAES O' EILD.

(_For an old Gaelic air._)

The cranreuch 's on my heid,
The mist 's now on my een,
A lanesome life I lead,
I'm no what I ha'e been.
Ther 're runkles on my broo,
Ther 're furrows on my cheek,
My wither'd heart fills fu'
Whan o' bygane days I speak.
For I 'm weary,
I 'm weary,
I 'm weary o' care--
Whare my bairnies ha'e gane,
Oh, let me gang there.

I ance was fu' o' glee,
And wha was then sae gay,
Whan dreamin' life wad be
But ae lang simmer day?
My feet, like lichtnin', flew
Roun' pleasure's dizzy ring,
They gimply staucher noo
Aneath a feckless thing.
For I 'm weary,
I 'm weary,
I 'm weary o' care--
Whare my first luve lies cauld,
Oh, let me lie there.

The ourie breath o' eild
Has blown ilk frien' frae me;
They comena near my beild
I ha'e dauted on my knee;
They hand awa their heids,
My frailties no to see;
My blessing on them, ane and a'--
I 've naething else to gie.
For I 'm weary,
I 'm weary,
I 'm weary and worn--
To the friens o' my youth
I maun soon, soon return.

JOHN STUART BLACKIE.[11]

John Stuart Blackie, Professor of Greek in the University of Edinburgh, was born at Glasgow in the year 1809. His father, who had originally come from Kelso, removed from Glasgow to Aberdeen, as agent for the Commercial Bank in that city, while his son was still very young. At the grammar school of Aberdeen, then under the rectorship of Dr Melvin, the boy began his classical education, and subsequently, according to the ridiculous Scottish custom, the folly of which he has done his best to expose, he became, in his twelfth year, a student in Marischal College. He was a student of arts for five years in Aberdeen and Edinburgh--and then he attended theological classes for three years. In 1829 he proceeded to the Continent, and studied at Gottingen and Berlin, where he mastered the German language, and dived deep into the treasures of German literature. From Germany he went to Rome, where he spent fifteen months, devoting himself to the Italian language and literature, and to the study of archaeology. His first publication testifies to his success in both studies. It is entitled, "Osservazioni sopra un antico sarcophago." It was written in Italian, and published in the _Annali del Instituto Archaeologico, Roma_, 1831.

Mr Blackie had given up the idea of entering the Church, and on his return to Scotland he studied law, and passed advocate in 1834. The study of law was never very congenial to him, and the practice of the profession was still less so. Accordingly, at this period he occupied himself with literary work, principally writing for Reviews. It was at this time that his translation of "Faust" appeared. It is entitled, "Faust: a Tragedy, by J. W. Goethe. Translated into English Verse, with Notes, and Preliminary Remarks, by John S. Blackie, Fellow of the Society for Archaeological Correspondence, Rome." Mr Blackie had taken upon him a very difficult task in attempting to translate the great work of the great German, and we need not wonder that he did not succeed entirely. We believe, with Mr Lewes, that the perfect accomplishment of this task is impossible, and that Goethe's work is fully intelligible only to the German scholar. But, at the same time, Mr Blackie fully succeeded in the aim which he set before him. He says in the preface, "The great principle on which the excellence of a poetical translation depends, seems to be, that it should not be a mere _transposing_, but a _re-casting_, of the original. On this principle, it has been my first and chief endeavour to make my translation spirited--to seize, if possible, the very soul and living power of the German, rather than to give a careful and anxious transcription of every individual line, or every minute expression." If this is what a translator should do, there can be no question that the "Faust" of Blackie is all that can be desired--full of spirit and life, harmonious from beginning to end, and reading exactly like an original. The best proof of its success is that Mr Lewes, in his biography of Goethe, prefers it, as a whole, to any of the other poetical translations of Goethe. The preliminary remarks are very characteristic, written with that intense enthusiasm which still animates all his writings. The notes at the end are full of curious information regarding the witchcraft and astrology of the Middle Ages, gathered with assiduous labour from the stores of the Advocates' Library.

The translation of "Faust" established Mr Blackie's reputation as a German scholar; and, for some time after this, he was chiefly occupied in reviewing German books for the _Foreign Quarterly Review_. He was also a contributor to _Blackwood_, _Tait_, and the _Westminster Review_. The subjects on which he principally wrote were poetry, history or religion; and among his articles may be mentioned a genial one on Uhland, a deeply earnest article on Jung Stillung, whose life he seems to have studied very thoroughly, and several on the later campaigns of Napoleon. To this last subject he then gave very great attention, as almost every German and English book on the subject that appeared is reviewed by him; and the article which describes Napoleon's Leipzig campaign is one of the clearest military monographs that has been written. During this time, Mr Blackie was still pursuing his Latin and Greek studies; and one article, on a classical subject, deserves especial notice. It is a thorough criticism of all the dramas of Euripides, in which he takes a view of the dramatist exactly the reverse of that maintained by Walter Savage Landor--asserting that he was a bungler in the tragic art, and far too much addicted to foisting his stupid moralisings into his plays. Another article in the _Westminster_, on the Prussian Constitution, is worthy of remark for its thoroughness. The whole machinery of the Prussian bureaucracy is explained in a way very satisfactory to an English reader.

In 1841, Mr Blackie was appointed Professor of Humanity in Marischal College, Aberdeen--a post which he held for eleven years. To this new labour he gave himself with all his heart, and was eminently successful. The Aberdeen students were remarkable for their accurate knowledge of the grammatical forms and syntax of Latin, acquired under the careful training of Dr Melvin; but their reading, both classical and general, was restricted, and they were wanting in literary impulses. Professor Blackie strove to supply both deficiencies. He took his students over a great deal of ground, opening up to them the beauties of the authors read, and laying the foundation of higher criticism. Then he formed a class-library, delivered lectures on Roman literature in all its stages, and introduced the study of general history. From this period dates the incessant activity which he has displayed in educational, and especially University reform. At the time he commenced his work, the subject was a very disagreeable one to Scottish ears, and he had to bear the apathy not only of his fellow-countrymen, but also of his fellow-professors. He has never, however, bated a jot of heart, and he is now beginning to reap his reward. Several of the reforms which he advocated at the commencement of his agitation, and which were at first met with something approaching to contempt, have been adopted, and he has lived to see entrance examinations introduced into several Universities, and the test abolished. Many of the other reforms which he then proposed are on a fair way to accomplishment, and the subject is no longer treated with that indifference which met his early appeals. His principal publications on this subject are: 1. An appeal to the Scottish people on the improvement of their scholastic and academical institutions; 2. A plea for the liberties of the Scottish Universities; 3. University reform; with a letter to Professor Pillans.

Mr Blackie delivered public lectures on education in Edinburgh, Glasgow, and Aberdeen, and wrote various articles on it in the newspapers. He gave himself also to the study of the philosophy of education. His most noteworthy contributions in this direction are, his review of Beneche's masterly work on education, in the _Foreign Quarterly_, and two lectures "On the Studying and Teaching of Languages."

During the whole of this period, his main strength was devoted to Latin and Greek philology. Some of the results of this labour were published in the _Classical Museum_. One of the contributions to that journal was published separately--"On the Rhythmical Declamation of the Ancients." It is a clear exposition of the principles of accentuation, drawing accurately the distinction between accent and quantity, and between the accents of common talk and the musical accents that occur in poetry. It is the best monograph on the subject, of which we know. Another article, "On Prometheus," clears AEschylus from the charge of impiety, because he appears to make Zeus act tyrannically towards Prometheus in the "Prometheus Vinctus." He also gave the results of some of his classical studies, in lectures in Edinburgh and Glasgow on Roman history and Greek literature. The principal works on which he was engaged at this time were translations of Horace and AEschylus. Translations of several odes of Horace have appeared in various publications. The translation of all the dramas of AEschylus appeared in 1850. It was dedicated to the Chevalier Bunsen and Edward Gerhard, Royal Archaeologist, "the friends of his youth, and the directors of his early studies." This work is now universally admitted to be the best complete translation of AEschylus in English.

In 1852 he was elected to the chair of Greek in Edinburgh University. In that position he has carried on the same agitation in behalf of educational and university reform, which characterised his stay in Aberdeen. His last _brochure_ on the subject is a letter to the Town Council of Edinburgh "On the Advancement of Learning in Scotland." Having made this matter a work of his life, he takes every opportunity to urge it, and, notwithstanding that he has got many gratuitous rebuffs, continues on his way cheerily, now delivering a lecture or speech on the subject, now writing letters in reply to this or that assailant, and now giving a more complete exposition of his views in the _North British Review_.

His first publication after his election to the Greek professorship was "The Pronunciation of Greek; Accent and Quantity. A Philological Inquiry:" 1852. In this work he sought to shew what authority there is for the modern Greek pronunciation of Greek, advocating a return, in the reading of prose, to that pronunciation of Greek which was the only one known in Europe anterior to the time of Erasmus. This method is consistently carried out in the Greek classes. In 1853 he travelled in Greece, living in Athens for two months and a-half, and acquiring a fluent use of the living Greek language. On his return, he gave the results of his journey in various articles, especially in one in the _North British_ on Modern Greek Literature, and in another in the _Westminster_ on Greece. He also expressed some of them in an introductory lecture "On the Living Language of Greece." Since that time he has written principally in _Blackwood_ and the _North British_, discussing subjects of general literature, and introducing any new German book which he considers of especial interest. Among his papers may be mentioned his reviews, in the _North British_, of his friend Bunsen's "Signs of the Times," and of Perthos' Life. His articles more especially relating to his own department are AEschylus and Homer, in the _Encyclopaedia Britannica_, an article on accents in the _Cambridge Philological_, and an essay on Plato in the "Edinburgh Essays."

In 1857 was published the work which brings him into the list of Scottish poets--"Lays and Legends of Ancient Greece, with other Poems." The Lays and Legends are the work of the scholar, who, believing verse to be the proper vehicle for an exposition of these beautiful myths, gives them that form, instead of writing learned dissertations about them. The miscellaneous poems shew more of the inner man than any of his other works--deep religious feeling, great simplicity, earnestness, and manliness, confidence in the goodness of men, and delight in everything that is pure, beautiful, and honest, with thorough detestation of all falsehood.

FOOTNOTES:

[11] The present Memoir has been contributed by James Donaldson, Esq., Edinburgh.

SONG OF BEN CRUACHAN.

Ben Cruachan is king of the mountains
That gird in the lovely Loch Awe;
Loch Etive is fed from his fountains,
By the streams of the dark-rushing Awe.
With his peak so high
He cleaves the sky
That smiles on his old gray crown,
While the mantle green,
On his shoulders seen,
In many a fold flows down.

He looks to the north, and he renders
A greeting to Nevis Ben;
And Nevis, in white snowy splendours,
Gives Cruachan greeting again.
O'er dread Glencoe
The greeting doth go
And where Etive winds fair in the glen;
And he hears the call
In his steep north wall,
"God bless thee, old Cruachan Ben."

When the north winds their forces muster,
And ruin rides high on the storm,
All calm, in the midst of their bluster,
He stands with his forehead enorm.
When block on block,
With thundering shock,
Comes hurtled confusedly down,
No whit recks he,
But laughs to shake free
The dust from his old gray crown.

And while torrents on torrents are pouring
Down his sides with a wild, savage glee,
And when louder the loud Awe is roaring,
And the soft lake swells to a sea,
He smiles through the storm,
And his heart grows warm
As he thinks how his streams feed the plains
And the brave old Ben
Grows young again,
And swells with his lusty veins.

For Cruachan is king of the mountains
That gird in the lovely Loch Awe;
Loch Etive is fed from his fountains,
By the streams of the dark-rushing Awe.
Ere Adam was made
He rear'd his head
Sublime o'er the green winding glen;
And when flame wraps the sphere,
O'er earth's ashes shall peer
The peak of the old granite Ben.

THE BRAES OF MAR.

Farewell ye braes of broad Braemar,
From you my feet must travel far,
Thou high-peak'd steep-cliff'd Loch-na-Gar,
Farewell, farewell for ever!
Thou lone green glen where I was born,
Where free I stray'd in life's bright morn.
From thee my heart is rudely torn,
And I shall see thee never!

The braes of Mar with heather glow,
The healthful breezes o'er them blow,
The gushing torrents from them flow,
That swell the rolling river.
Strong hills that nursed the brave and free,
On banks of clear, swift-rushing Dee,
My widow'd eyne no more shall see
Your birchen bowers for ever!

Farewell thou broad and bare Muicdhui
Ye stout old pines of lone Glen Lui,
Thou forest wide of Ballochbuie,
Farewell, farewell for ever!
In you the rich may stalk the deer,
Thou 'lt know the tread of prince and peer;
But oh, the poor man's heart is drear
To part from you for ever!

May God forgive our haughty lords,
For whom our fathers drew their swords;
No tear for us their pride affords,
No bond of love they sever.
Farewell ye braes of broad Braemar,
From bleak Ben Aon to Loch-na-Gar--
The friendless poor is banished far
From your green glens for ever!

MY LOVES.

Name the leaves on all the trees,
Name the waves on all the seas,
Name the notes of all the groves--
Thus thou namest all my loves.

I do love the dark, the fair,
Golden ringlets, raven hair,
Eye that swims in sunny light,
Glance that shoots like lightning bright.

I do love the stately dame
And the sportive girl the same;
Every changeful phase between
Blooming cheek and brow serene.

I do love the young, the old,
Maiden modest, virgin bold,
Tiny beauties, and the tall--
Earth has room enough for all.

Which is better--who can say?--
Lucy grave or Mary gay?
She who half her charms conceals?
She who sparkles while she feels?

Why should I confine my love?
Nature bids us freely rove;
God hath scatter'd wide the fair,
Blooms and beauties everywhere.

Paris was a pedant fool,
Meting beauty by a rule:
Pallas? Juno? Venus?--he
Should have chosen all the three.

I am wise, life's every bliss
Thankful tasting; and a kiss
Is a sweet thing, I declare,
From a dark maid or a fair.

LIKING AND LOVING.

Liking is a little boy
Dreaming of a sea employ,
Sitting by the stream, with joy
Paper frigates sailing:
Love 's an earnest-hearted man,
Champion of beauty's clan,
Fighting bravely in the van,
Pushing and prevailing.

Liking hovers round and round,
Capers with a nimble bound,
Plants his foot on easy ground,
Through the glass to view it:
Love shoots sudden glance for glance,
Spurs the steed, and rests the lance,
With a brisk and bold advance,
Sworn to die or do it.

Liking 's ever on the wing,
From new blooms new sweets to bring;
Nibbling aye, the nimble thing
From the hook is free still:
Love 's a tar of British blue,
Let mad winds their maddest do,
To his haven carded true,
As I am to thee still.

WILLIAM STIRLING, M.P.

William Stirling of Keir, parliamentary representative of the county of Perth, was born on the 8th March 1818, in the mansion of Kenmure, in the vicinity of Glasgow. The only son of the late Archibald Stirling of Keir, his paternal ancestors, for a course of centuries, have been extensive landowners in the counties of Lanark and Perth. The representative of the house, Sir George Stirling, was a conspicuous supporter of the famous Marquis of Montrose. On the side of his mother, who was a daughter of Sir John Maxwell, Bart., of Polloc, he is descended from a family who adhered to the Covenant and the Revolution of 1688.

Mr Stirling took the degrees of B.A. and M.A. at Trinity College, Cambridge. To literary pursuits ardently devoted from his youth, he afforded the first indication of his peculiar tastes in a small poetical _brochure_. "The Songs of the Holy Land," composed chiefly during a visit to Palestine, were printed for private circulation in 1846, but were published with considerable additions in a handsome octavo volume in 1848. Two specimens of these sacred lays are inserted in the present work with the author's permission.

During a residence in Spain, Mr Stirling was led to direct his attention to the state of the Fine Arts in that country; and in 1848 he produced a work of much research and learning, entitled "Annals of the Artists of Spain," in three volumes octavo. In 1852 appeared "The Cloister Life of the Emperor Charles V.," which has already passed through several editions, and has largely increased the reputation of the writer. His latest publication, "Velasquez and his Works" was published in 1855.

In 1852 Mr Stirling was elected, without opposition, member of Parliament for the county of Perth, and was again returned at the general election in April 1857. Recently he has evinced a deep interest in the literary improvement of the industrial population, by delivering lectures to the district Mechanics' Institutions.

RUTH.

The golden smile of morning
On the hills of Moab play'd,
When at the city's western gate
Their steps three women stay'd.
One laden was with years and care,
A gray and faded dame,
Of Judah's ancient lineage,
And Naomi her name;
And two were daughters of the land,
Fair Orpah and sweet Ruth,
Their faces wearing still the bloom,
Their eyes the light of youth;
But all were childless widows,
And garb'd in weeds of woe,
And their hearts were full of sorrow,
And fast their tears did flow.

For the Lord God from Naomi
Her spouse and sons had taken,
And she and these that were their wives,
Are widow'd and forsaken;
And wish or hope her bosom knows
None other but to die,
And lay her bones in Bethlehem,
Where all her kindred lie.
So gives she now upon the way
To Jordan's western waters
Her farewell kisses and her tears
Unto her weeping daughters:
"Sweet daughters mine, now turn again
Unto your homes," she said,
"And for the love ye bear to me,
The love ye bear the dead,
The Lord with you deal kindly,
And give you joy and rest
And send to each a faithful mate
To cheer her widow'd breast."

Then long and loud their weeping was,
And sore was their lament,
And Orpah kiss'd sad Naomi,
And back to Moab went;
But gentle Ruth to Naomi
Did cleave with close embrace,
And earnest spoke, with loving eyes
Up-gazing in her face--
"Entreat me not to leave thee,
Nor sever from thy side,
For where thou goest I will go,
Where thou bidest I will bide,
Thy people still my people,
And thy God my God shall be,
And where thou diest I will die,
And make my grave with thee."

So Naomi, not loath, was won
Unto her gentle will;
And thence, with faces westward set,
They fared o'er plain and hill;
The Lord their staff, till Bethlehem
Rose fair upon their sight,
A rock-built town with towery crown,
In evening's purple light,
Midst slopes in vine and olive clad,
And spread along the brook,
White fields, with barley waving,
That woo'd the reaper's hook.

* * * * *

Now for the sunny harvest field
Sweet Ruth her mother leaves,
And goes a-gleaning after
The maids that bind the sheaves.
And the great lord of the harvest
Is of her husband's race,
And looks upon the lonely one
With gentleness and grace;
And he loves her for the brightness
And freshness of her youth,
And for her unforgetting love,
Her firm enduring truth--
The love and truth that guided Ruth
The border mountains o'er,
Where her people and her own land
She left for evermore.

So he took her to his home and heart,
And years of soft repose
Did recompense her patient faith,
Her meekly-suffer'd woes;
And she became the noblest dame
Of palmy Palestine,
And the stranger was the mother
Of that grand and glorious line
Whence sprang our royal David,
In the tide of generations,
The anointed king of Israel,
The terror of the nations:
Of whose pure seed hath God decreed
Messiah shall be born,
When the day-spring from on high shall light
The golden lands of morn;
Then heathen tongues shall tell the tale
Of tenderness and truth--
Of the gentle deed of Boaz
And the tender love of Ruth.

SHALLUM.

Oh, waste not thy woe on the dead, nor bemoan him
Who finds with his fathers the grave of his rest;
Sweet slumber is his, who at night-fall hath thrown him
Near bosoms that waking did love him the best.

But sorely bewail him, the weary world-ranger,
Shall ne'er to the home of his people return;
His weeping worn eyes must be closed by the stranger,
No tear of true sorrow shall hallow his urn.

And mourn for the monarch that went out of Zion,
King Shallum, the son of Josiah the Just;
For he the cold bed of the captive shall die on,
Afar from his land, nor return to its dust.

THOMAS C. LATTO.

A song-writer of considerable popularity, Thomas C. Latto was born in 1818, in the parish of Kingsbarns, Fifeshire. Instructed in the elementary branches at the parochial seminary, he entered, in his fourteenth year, the United College of St Andrews. Having studied during five sessions at this University, he was in 1838 admitted into the writing-chambers of Mr John Hunter, W.S., Edinburgh, now Auditor of the Court of Session. He subsequently became advocate's clerk to Mr William E. Aytoun, Professor of Rhetoric in the University of Edinburgh. After a period of employment as a Parliament House clerk, he accepted the situation of managing clerk to a writer in Dundee. In 1852 he entered into business as a commission-agent in Glasgow. Subsequently emigrating to the United States, he has for some years been engaged in mercantile concerns at New York.

Latto first became known as a song-writer in the pages of "Whistle-binkie." In 1845 he edited a poem, entitled "The Minister's Kail-yard," which, with a number of lyrics of his own composition, appeared in a duodecimo volume. To the "Book of Scottish Song" he made several esteemed contributions. Verses from his pen have appeared in _Blackwood's_ and _Tait's Magazines_.

THE KISS AHINT THE DOOR.

TUNE--_"There 's nae Luck about the House."_

There 's meikle bliss in ae fond kiss,
Whiles mair than in a score;
But wae betak' the stouin smack
I took ahint the door.

O laddie, whisht! for sic a fricht
I ne'er was in afore;
Fou brawly did my mither hear
The kiss ahint the door.
The wa's are thick--ye needna fear;
But, gin they jeer and mock,
I 'll swear it was a startit cork,
Or wyte the rusty lock.
There 's meikle bliss, &c.

We stappit ben, while Maggie's face
Was like a lowin' coal;
An' as for me, I could hae crept
Into a mouse's hole.
The mither look't--saffs how she look't!--
Thae mithers are a bore,
An' gleg as ony cat to hear
A kiss ahint the door.
Their 's meikle bliss, &c.

The douce gudeman, tho' he was there,
As weel micht been in Rome,
For by the fire he puff'd his pipe,
An' never fash'd his thumb;
But, titterin' in a corner, stood
The gawky sisters four--
A winter's nicht for me they micht
Hae stood ahint the door.
There 's meikle bliss, &c.

"How daur ye tak' sic freedoms here?"
The bauld gudewife began;
Wi' that a foursome yell got up--
I to my heels and ran.
A besom whiskit by my lug,
An' dishclouts half-a-score:
Catch me again, tho' fidgin' fain,
At kissin 'hint the door.
There 's meikle bliss, &c.

THE WIDOW'S AE BIT LASSIE.

TUNE--_"My only Jo and Dearie, O!"_

Oh, guess ye wha I met yestreen
On Kenly banks sae grassy, O!
Wha cam' to bless my waitin' een?--
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!
She brak' my gloamin' dream sae sweet,
Just whaur the wimplin' burnies meet;
The smother'd laugh--I flew to greet
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!

They glintit slee--the moon and she--
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!--
On tremblin' stream an' tremblin' me:
She is a dear wee lassie, O!
How rapture's pulse was beating fast
As Mary to my heart I claspt!
Oh, bliss divine--owre sweet to last--
I 've kiss'd the dear bit lassie, O!

She nestled close, like croodlin' doo--
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!
My cheek to hers, syne mou' to mou'--
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!
Unto my breast again, again,
I prest her guileless heart sae fain;
Sae blest were baith--now she 's my ain,
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!

Ye powers aboon, wha made her mine--
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!
My heart wad break gin I should tyne
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!
Our hearth shall glad the angels' sight;
The lamp o' love shall lowe sae bright
On me and her, my soul's delight,
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!

THE YELLOW-HAIRED LADDIE.

The maidens are smiling in rocky Glencoe,
The clansmen are arming to rush on the foe;
Gay banners are streaming as forth pours the clan,
The yellow-haired laddie is first in the van.

The pibroch is kindling each heart to the war,
The Cameron's slogan is heard from afar;
They close for the struggle where many shall fall,
But the yellow-haired laddie is foremost of all.

He towers like a wave in the fierce rolling tide,
No kinsman of Evan's may stand by his side;
The Camerons gather around him alone--
He heeds not the danger, and fear is unknown.

The plumes of his bonnet are seen through the fight--
A beacon for valour, which fires at the sight;
But he sees not yon claymore--ah! traitorous thrust!
The plumes and the bonnet are laid in the dust.

The maidens are smiling in rocky Glencoe--
The clansmen approach--they have vanquish'd the foe;
But sudden the cheeks of the maidens are pale,
For the sound of the coronach comes on the gale.

The maidens are weeping in rocky Glencoe,
From warriors' eyelids the bitter drops flow;
They come--but, oh! where is their chieftain so dear?
The yellow-haired laddie is low on the bier.

The maidens are wailing in rocky Glencoe--
There 's gloom in the valley, at sunrise 'twill go;
But no sun can the gloom from their hearts chase away--
The yellow-haired laddie lies cauld in the clay.

TELL ME, DEAR.

AIR--_"Loudon's bonnie Woods and Braes."_

Tell me dear! in mercy speak,
Has Heaven heard my prayer, lassie?
Faint the rose is on thy cheek,
But still the rose is there, lassie!
Away, away each dark foreboding,
Heavy days with anguish clouding,
Youthfu' love in sorrow shrouding,
Heaven could ne'er allow, lassie!
Day and night I've tended thee,
Watching, love, thy changing e'e;
Dearest gift that Heaven could gi'e,
Say thou 'rt happy now, lassie!

Willie, lay thy cheek to mine--
Kiss me, oh! my ain laddie!
Never mair may lip o' thine
Press where it hath lain, laddie!
Hark! I hear the angels calling,
Heavenly strains are round me falling,
But the stroke--thy soul appalling--
'Tis my only pain, laddie!
Yet the love I bear to thee
Shall follow where I soon maun be;
I 'll tell how gude thou wert to me--
We part to meet again, laddie!

Lay thine arm beneath my head--
Grieve na sae for me, laddie!
I'll thole the doom that lays me dead,
But no a tear frae thee, laddie!
Aft where yon dark tree is spreading,
When the sun's last beam is shedding,
Where no earthly foot is treading,
By my grave thou 'lt be, laddie!
Though my sleep be wi' the dead,
Frae on high my soul shall speed,
And hover nightly round thy head,
Although thou wilt na see, laddie.

WILLIAM CADENHEAD.

William Cadenhead was born at Aberdeen on the 6th April 1819. With a limited education at school, he was put to employment in a factory in his ninth year. His leisure hours were devoted to mental culture, and ramblings in the country. The perusal of Beattie's _Minstrel_ inspired him with the love of poetry, and at an early age his compositions in verse were admitted in the Poet's Corner of the _Aberdeen Herald_. In 1819 he published a small poetical work, entitled "The Prophecy," which, affording decided evidence of power, established his local reputation. Having contributed verses for some years to several periodicals and the local journals, he published a collection of these in 1853, with the title, "Flights of Fancy, and Lays of Bon-Accord." "The New Book of Bon-Accord," a guide-book to his native town on an original plan, appeared from his pen in 1856. For three years he has held a comfortable and congenial appointment as confidential clerk to a merchant in his native city. He continues to contribute verses to the periodicals.

DO YOU KNOW WHAT THE BIRDS ARE SINGING?

Do you know what the birds are singing?
Can you tell their sweet refrains,
When the green arch'd woods are ringing
With a thousand swelling strains?
To the sad they sing of sadness,
To the blythe, of mirth and glee,
And to me, in my fond love's gladness,
They sing alone of thee!
They sing alone of thee, love,
Of thee, through the whole day long,
And each its own dear charm extols,
And each with its own sweet song!

Do you know what the soft winds whisper
When they sigh through blooming trees--
When each bough is a choral lisper
Of the woodland melodies?
To some they seem to be grieving
For the summer's short-lived glee;
But to me they are always weaving
Sweet songs in praise of thee!
Sweet songs in praise of thee, love,
And telling the flowers below,
How far thy charms outshine them all,
Though brightly their soft leaves glow!

Do you know what the streamlet trilleth
As it glides or leaps along,
While the cool green nook it filleth
With the gushes of its song?
Do you think it sings its dreaming
Of its distant home, the sea?
Oh, no, but the voice of its streaming
Is still of thee, of thee!
Is still of thee, of thee, love,
Till echoes and woodland fays--
Yea, Nature all is eloquent
And vocal in thy praise.

AN HOUR WITH AN OLD LOVE.

Lat me look into thy face, Jeanie,
As I 've look'd in days gane by,
When you gae me kiss for kiss, Jeanie,
And answer'd sigh for sigh;
When in our youth's first flame, Jeanie,
Although poor and lane together,
We had wealth in our ain love, Jeanie,
And were a' to ane anither!

Oh, blessin's on thy lips, Jeanie,
They ance were dear to me,
As the honey-savour'd blossoms
To the nectar-hunting bee!
It kens whar dwalls the banquets
O' the sweetest dewy wine--
And as the chosen flower to it,
Sae were thy lips to mine.

I see thy very thochts, Jeanie,
Deep in thy clear blue e'e,
As ye 'll see the silver fishes flash,
When ye sail the midnicht sea;
And ye needna close the lids, Jeanie,
Though the thochts they are nae mine,
For I see there 's nae repentant ane,
That they ance were sae langsyne.

Oh, lat me hear thy voice, Jeanie--
Ay, that 's the very chime,
Whase silver echoes haunted me
Through a' my youthfu' prime.
Speak on! thy gentle words, Jeanie,
Awake a blessed train
Of memories that I thocht had slept
To never wake again!

God's blessin's on your heart, Jeanie,
And your face sae angel fair!
May the ane be never pierced wi' grief,
Nor the ither blanch'd wi' care;
And he wha has your love, Jeanie,
May he be dear to thee,
As I may aiblins ance have been--
And as thou 'rt still to me!

ALLAN GIBSON.