Chapter I: Wander'd Alane (2)

A poet of sentiment and moral feeling, Allan Gibson was removed from the scene at the threshold of a promising career. He was born at Paisley on the 2d October 1820. In his boyhood he devoted himself to the perusal of works of history and romance; and he acquired a familiarity with the more distinguished British poets. It was his delight to stray amidst rural scenes, and to imbibe inspiration among the solitudes of nature. His verses were composed at such periods. They are prefaced by prose reflections, and abound in delicate colouring and gentle pathos. Several detached specimens of his prose writing are elegant and masterly. He followed an industrial occupation, but was unfortunate in business. After an illness of two years, he died on the 9th August 1849, at the early age of twenty-nine. He was possessed of much general talent; was fond of society, fluent in conversation, and eloquent as a public speaker. His habits were sober and retiring. He left a widow and four children. A thin 8vo volume of his "Literary Remains" was published in 1850, for the benefit of his family.

THE LANE AULD MAN.

He sorrowfu' sat by the ingle cheek,
Its hearth was cauld to his weary feet,
For a' were gane, an' nae mair would meet
By the side o' the lane auld man.

To the wreck o' his hopes fond memory clung
When flowers o' his heart on his hearthstane sprung;
But death's cauld hand had cruelly wrung
The heart o' the lane auld man.

A leafless tree in life's wintry blast,
He stood alane o' his kin the last,
For ane by ane frae his side they pass'd,
An' left him a lane auld man.

His bonnie bairns, o' his heart the prize,
Wi' their bounding step and sunny eyes,
Hae left his hearth for hame in the skies;
Alack for the lane auld man!

The weel lo'ed form o' his ain auld wife,
Wha sooth'd the cares o' a lang bleak life,
Has gane to rest wi' her weans frae strife,
An' heeds na her lane auld man.

Owre the turf on their breast he lo'ed to weep,
And sair he lang'd wi' the lost to meet,
Till death did close, in his ain calm sleep,
The een o' the lane auld man.

Whar yew-trees bend owre the dark kirk-yard,
An' gowans peep frae the lang green-sward,
The moss-clad stanes o' the cauld grave guard
The last o' the lane auld man.

THE WANDERER'S RETURN.

Shadows of glory the twilight is parting,
The day-star is seeking its home in the west,
The herd from the field to the fold is departing,
As, Lochwinnoch, sad on thy summits I rest.
And far o'er the scene, while the evening is veiling
Thy waters that spread their still breast on the lea,
On his broad truant wing the lone heron is sailing,
To rest with his mate by the rock on the sea.

But, houseless and homeless, around thee I wander,
The faces are gone I have panted to see,
And cold is the hearth to the feet of the stranger,
Which once had a seat in its circle for me.
Here youth's golden hours of my being were number'd,
When joy in my bosom was breathing its lay;
If care on the light of my happiness linger'd,
Hope hasted the heartless intruder away.

Then sweetly the brow of the beaming-eyed future
Was smiling my welcome to life's rosy way,
And fondly I sigh'd in her Eden to meet her,
And bask in the bowers where her happiness lay.
While fancy on light airy pinion was mounting,
I strain'd my young vision in rapture to see
The land of my dreams, with its love-mirror'd fountains,
And breath'd in the balm of the south's sunny sea.

Then, far on the track of ambition, I follow'd
The footsteps of fortune through perilous climes,
And trod the bright scenes which my childhood had hallow'd
But found not the charms which fond fancy enshrines.
The gold I have won, can it purchase the treasure
Of hearts' warm affections left bleeding behind,
Restore me the ties which are parted for ever,
And gild the dark gloom of my desolate mind?

The gold I have won! but, unblest and beguiling,
It came like the sun when unclouded and gay;
Its light on the cold face of winter is smiling,
But cheers not the earth with the warmth of its ray.
Again fare-thee-well, for the heart-broken rover
Now bids thee a long and a lasting adieu;
Yet o'er thee the dreams of my spirit will hover,
And burn as it broods on life's dismal review.

THOMAS ELLIOTT.

The author of a small volume of very meritorious poems and lyrics, Thomas Elliott is descended from a branch of the old Border family of that name, which settled in the north of Ireland subsequent to the Revolution. His father was a shoemaker at Bally-ho-bridge, a hamlet in county Fermanagh, province of Ulster, where the poet was born on the 22d December 1820. Entering school at the age of five years, he was not removed till he had acquired a considerable acquaintance with the ordinary branches of popular education. In his fifteenth year he apprenticed himself to his father. The family removed to Belfast in 1836, and there he had opportunities of occupying his leisure hours in extensive and varied reading. After a few years of somewhat desultory employment, he visited Glasgow in 1847, and there, following his original trade, he has continued to reside.

Elliott assigns the commencement of his poetical efforts to the year 1842, when he was led to satirise a pedagogue teacher of music, who had given him offence. His poetical volume, entitled "Doric Lays and Attic Chimes," appeared in 1856, and has been well received. Several of his lyrics have been published with music in "The Lyric Gems of Scotland," a collection of songs published at Glasgow.

UP WITH THE DAWN.

Up with the dawn, ye sons of toil,
And bare the brawny arm,
To drive the harness'd team afield,
And till the fruitful farm;
To dig the mine for hidden wealth,
Or make the woods to ring
With swinging axe and sturdy stroke,
To fell the forest king.

With ocean car and iron steed
Traverse the land and sea,
And spread our commerce round the globe
As winds that wander free.
Subdue the earth, and conquer fate,
Outspeed the flight of time;
Old earth is rich, and man is young,
Nor near his jocund prime.

Work, and the clouds of care will fly,
Pale want will pass away;
Work, and the leprosy of crime
And tyrants must decay.
Leave the dead ages in their urns;
The present time be ours,
To grapple bravely with our lot,
And strew our path with flowers.

CLYDE BOAT SONG.

_Music by A. Hume._

Leave the city's busy throng--
Dip the oar, and wake the song,
While on Cathkin Braes the moon
Rises with a star aboon:
Hark! the boom of evening bells
Trembles through the dewy dells.
Row, lads, row; row, lads, row,
While the golden eventide
Lingers o'er the vale of Clyde,
Row, lads, row; row, lads, row,
O'er the tide, up the Clyde,
Row, lads, row.

Life 's a river, deep and old,
Stemm'd by rowers, brave and bold;
Now in shadow, then in light,
Onward aye, a thing of might;
Sons of Albyn's ancient land,
Row with strong and steady hand,
Row, lads, row; row, lads, row;
Gaily row, and cheery sing,
Till the woodland echoes ring;
Row, lads, row; row lads, row,
O'er the tide, up the Clyde,
Row, lads, row.

Hammers on the anvil rest,
Dews upon the gowan's breast;
Young hearts heave with tender thought,
Low winds sigh, with odours fraught,
Stars bedeck the blue above,
Earth is full of joy and love;
Row, lads, row; row, lads, row;
Let your oars in concert beat
Merry time, like dancers' feet;
Row, lads, row; row, lads, row,
With the tide, down the Clyde,
Row, lads, row.

DIMPLES AND A'.

I love a sweet lassie, mair gentle and true
Than ony young, wood-loving, wild cushie doo;
Her cheeks they are dimpled, her jimp waist is sma',
She says she 's my ain lassie, dimples and a'--
Dimples and a', dimples and a'--
That bonnie wee lass wi' her dimples and a'.

Her brown wavy hair has a dark gowden tinge,
Her bonnie black e'e has a long jetty fringe,
Her footstep is light as the thistle doun's fa',
Her wee hand is lily-white, dimpled and a'--
Dimpled and a', dimpled and a'--
And I ken it 's my ain hand, dimples and a'.

I 'll wed my dear lassie, and gie her my name,
I 'll get a bit housie, and bring my love hame;
When winter is eerie, and stormy winds blaw,
She 'll mak' me fu' cheerie wi' dimples and a'--
Dimples and a', dimples and a'--
My ain bonnie wifie, wi' her dimples and a'.

When the day's wark is done, and stars blink above,
I 'll rest in her smile, and be bless'd wi' her love;
She 'll sing a' the cares o' this world awa'
Frae our cosie ingle, wi' dimples and a'.
Dimples and a', dimples and a'--
Our ain cosie ingle, wi' dimples and a'.

BUBBLES ON THE BLAST.

A wee bit laddie sits wi' a bowl upon his knees,
And from a cutty pipe 's puffing bubbles on the breeze;
Oh, meikle is the mirth of the weans on our stair,
To see the bubbles sail like balloons alang the air.
Some burst before they rise, others mount the gentle wind,
And leave the little band in their dizzy joy behind;
And such are human pomp and ambition at the last--
The wonder of an hour, like thae bubbles on the blast.

How breathless is the watch of that merry little throng,
To mark the shining globes as they float in pride along!
'Tis thus life's bubbles come, ever flashing from afar--
Now a revolution, and again a woeful war;
A hero or a bard, in their glory or their might;
A bonnie bird of song, or a nightingale of light;
Or yellow golden age, with its speculations vast--
All wonders of an hour, like the bubbles on the blast.

Shout on, ye little folk, for your sport is quite as sage
As that of older men, e'en the leaders of the age;
This world 's a sapple bowl, and our life a pipe of clay--
Its brightest dreams and hopes are but bubbles blown away.
We 've had our bubbles too; some were dear and tender things,
That left us sad and lone as they fled on rapid wings;
And others yet may rise from the future, like the past,
The wonder of an hour, as the bubbles on the blast.

A SERENADE.

The shadows of evening fall silent around,
The rose with a cor'net of dewdrops is crown'd;
While weary I wander in sorrow's eclipse,
With your love at my heart, your name on my lips;
Your name on my lips, like a melody rare--
Then come, for I 'm lonely in shady Kenmair.

The birds by the river sing plaintive and low,
They seem to be breathing a burden of woe;
They seem to be asking, why am I alone?
And why do you tarry, or where are you gone?
The flowers are sighing sweet breath on the air,
And stars watch thy coming to shady Kenmair.

The gush of the fountain, the roll of the tide,
Recall your sweet image again to my side--
Your low mellow voice, like the tones of a flute;
Your slight yielding form, and small fairy foot;
Your neck like the marble, dark flowing your hair,
And brow like the snowdrop of shady Kenmair.

Come love, to the bank where the violets blow,
Beside the calm waters that slumber below,
While the brier and beech, the hazel and broom,
Fling down from their branches a flood of perfume;
Oh! what is the world, with its splendours or care,
When you are beside me in shady Kenmair!

A SONG OF LITTLE THINGS.

I 'm a very little man,
And I earn a little wage,
And I have a little wife,
In a little hermitage,
Up a quiet little stair,
Where the creeping ivy clings;
In a mansion near the stars
Is my home of little things.

I 've two bonnie little bairns,
Full of prattle and of glee,
And our little dwelling rings
With their laughter, wild and free.
Of the greenwoods, all the day,
I 've a little bird that sings;
It reminds me of my youth,
And the age of little things.

I 've no money in the funds,
And no steamers on the sea;
But my busy little hands
Are a treasure unto me.
I can work, and I can sing,
With a joy unknown to kings;
While peace and plenty smile
On my bonnie little things.

And when my work is done,
In my cosie ingle nook,
With my little ones around,
I can read a little book.
And I thank my lucky stars
For whatever fortune brings;
I 'm richer than a lord--
I 'm content with little things.

MY AIN MOUNTAIN LAND.

Oh! wae 's me on gowd, wi' its glamour and fame,
It tint me my love, and it wiled me frae hame,
Syne dwindled awa' like a neivefu' o' sand,
And left me to mourn for my ain mountain land.

I long for the glens, and the brown heather fells,
The green birken shades, where the wild lintie dwells,
The dash o' the deep, on the gray rocky strand,
That gird the blue hills o' my ain mountain land.

I dream o' the dells where the clear burnies flow,
The bonnie green knowes where the wee gowans grow;
But I wake frae my sleep like a being that 's bann'd,
And shed a saut tear for my ain mountain land.

I ken there 's a lass that looks out on the sea,
Wi' tears in the een that are watchin' for me;
Lang, lang she may wait for the clasp o' my hand,
Or the fa' o' my foot in my ain mountain land.

WHEN I COME HAME AT E'EN.

Give me the hour when bells are rung,
And dinsome wheels are still,
When engines rest, and toilers leave
The workshop, forge, and mill;
With smiling lip, and gladsome e'e,
My gudewife welcomes me;
Our bairnies clap their wee white hands,
And speel upon my knee.
When I come hame at e'en,
When I come hame at e'en,
How dear to me the bairnies' glee,
When I come hame at e'en.

Our lowly bield is neat and clean,
And bright the ingle's glow,
The table 's spread with halesome fare,
The teapot simmers low.
How sweet to toil for joys like these
With strong and eydent hand,
To nurture noble hearts to love,
And guard our fatherland.
When I come hame at e'en, &c.

Let revellers sing of wassail bowls,
Their wines and barley bree;
My ain wee house and winsome wife
Are dearer far to me.
To crack with her of joys to come,
Of days departed long,
When she was like a wee wild rose,
And I a bird of song.
When I come hame at e'en,
When I come hame at e'en,
How dear to me these memories
When I come hame at e'en.

WILLIAM LOGAN.

William Logan, author of the song "Jeanie Gow," was born on the 18th February 1821, in the village of Kilbirnie, and county of Ayr. Intended by his parents for one of the liberal professions, he had the benefit of a superior school education. For a number of years he has held a respectable appointment in connexion with a linen-thread manufactory in his native place.

JEANIE GOW.

Ye hameless glens and waving woods,
Where Garnock winds alang,
How aft, in youth's unclouded morn,
Your wilds I 've roved amang.
There ha'e I heard the wanton birds
Sing blythe on every bough,
There first I met, and woo'd the heart
O' bonnie Jeanie Gow.

Dear Jeanie then was fair and young,
And bloom'd as sweet a flower
As ever deck'd the garden gay
Or lonely wild wood bower.
The warbling lark at early dawn,
The lamb on mountain brow,
Had ne'er a purer, lighter heart
Than bonnie Jeanie Gow.

Her faither's lowly, clay-built cot
Rose by Glengarnock side,
And Jeanie was his only stay,
His darling and his pride.
Aft ha'e I left the dinsome town,
To which I ne'er could bow,
And stray'd amang the ferny knowes
Wi' bonnie Jeanie Gow.

But, ah! these fondly treasured joys
Were soon wi' gloom o'ercast,
For Jeanie dear was torn awa'
By death's untimely blast.
Ye woods, ye wilds, and warbling birds,
Ye canna cheer me now,
Sin' a' my glee and cherish'd hopes
Ha'e gane wi' Jeanie Gow.

JAMES LITTLE.

James Little was born at Glasgow, on the 24th May 1821. His father, a respectable shoemaker, was a claimant, through his maternal grandmother, of the title and estates of the last Marquis of Annandale. With a very limited elementary education, the subject of this notice, at an early age, was called on to work with his father; but soon afterwards he enlisted as a private soldier. After eight years of military life, chiefly passed in North America and the West Indies, he purchased his discharge, and resumed shoemaking in his native city. In 1852 he proceeded to the United States, but subsequently returned to Glasgow. In 1856 he published a small duodecimo volume of meritorious verses, with the title, "Sparks from Nature's Fire." Several songs from his pen have been published, with music, in the "Lyric Gems of Scotland."

OUR NATIVE HILLS AGAIN.

Oh, swiftly bounds our gallant bark
Across the ocean drear,
While manly cheeks are pale wi' grief,
And wet wi' sorrow's tear.
The flowers that spring upon the Clyde
Will bloom for us in vain;
Nae mair wi' lightsome step we 'll climb
Our native hills again.

Amang their glens our fathers sleep,
Where mony a thistle waves;
And roses fair and gowans meek
Bloom owre their lowly graves.
But we maun dree a sadder fate
Far owre the stormy main;
We lang may look, but never see
Our native hills again.

Yet, 'mid the forests o' the west,
When starnies light the sky,
We'll gather round the ingle's side,
And sing o' days gane by;
And sunny blinks o' joy will come
To soothe us when alane,
And aft, in nightly dreams, we'll climb
Our native hills again.

HERE 'S A HEALTH TO SCOTIA'S SHORE.

_Music by Alexander Hume._

Sing not to me of sunny shores
Or verdant climes where olives bloom,
Where, still and calm, the river pours
Its flood, 'mid groves of rich perfume;
Give me the land where torrents flash,
Where loud the angry cat'racts roar,
As wildly on their course they dash--
Then here's a health to Scotia's shore.

Sing not to me of sunny isles,
Though there eternal summers reign,
Where many a dark-eyed maiden smiles,
And gaudy flow'rets deck the plain;
Give me the land of mountains steep,
Where wild and free the eagles soar,
The dizzy crags, where tempests sweep--
Then here's a health to Scotia's shore.

Sing not to me of sunny lands,
For there full often tyrants sway
Who climb to power with blood-stain'd hands,
While crouching, trembling slaves obey;
Give me the land unconquer'd still,
Though often tried in days of yore,
Where freedom reigns from plain to hill--
Then here's a health to Scotia's shore.

THE DAYS WHEN WE WERE YOUNG.

The happy days of yore!
Will they ever come again,
To shed a gleam of joy on us,
And win the heart from pain?
Or will they only come in dreams,
When nicht's black curtain 's hung?
Yet even then 'tis sweet to mind
The days when we were young.

Fond mem'ry, wi' its mystic power,
Brings early scenes to view--
Again we roam among the hills,
Sae wat wi' morning dew--
Again we climb the broomy knowes,
And sing wi' prattlin' tongue,
For we had nae cares to fash us
In the days when we were young.

How aft, when we were callants,
Hae we sought the ocean's shore,
And launch'd wi' glee our tiny boats,
And heard the billows roar?
And aft amang the glancin' waves
In daring sport we 've sprung,
And swam till we were wearied,
In the days when we were young.

In winter, round the ingle side,
We 've read wi' kindling e'e,
How Wallace Wight, and Bruce the Bold,
Aft made the southrons flee;
Or listen'd to some bonnie sang,
By bonnie lassie sung:
Oh! love and happiness were ours,
In days when we were young.

Oh! his maun be a waefu' heart
That has nae sunny gleams
Of by-gane joys in early days,
Though it be but in dreams:
Wha thinks nae o' his mither's arms,
Sae aft around him flung,
To shield him safe frae earthly harms,
In days when he was young:

Wha thinks nae o' his sisters fair,
That toddled out and in,
And ran about the braes wi' him,
And play'd wi' meikle din;
And his maun be a barren heart,
Where love has never sprung,
Wha thinks nae o' the days gane by
The days when he was young.

LIZZIE FREW.

'Twas a balmy summer gloamin',
When the sun had gane to rest,
And his gowden beams were glintin'
Owre the hills far in the west;
And upon the snawy gowan
Saftly fell the pearly dew,
When I met my heart's best treasure,
Gentle, winsome Lizzy Frew.

Light she tripp'd amang the bracken,
While her glossy waving hair
Play'd around her gentle bosom,
Dancing in the summer air.
Love laugh'd in her een sae paukie,
Smiles play'd round her rosy mou',
And my heart was led a captive
By the charms o' Lizzie Frew.

Thochts o' her can mak' me cheerie,
As I toil the lee-lang day;
And at nicht, though e'er sae wearie,
Gladly out wi' her I stray.
I ask nae for a greater pleasure,
Than to ken her heart is true--
I ask nae for a greater treasure,
Than my gentle Lizzie Frew.

COLIN RAE BROWN.

The son of a respectable shipowner and captain in the merchant service, Colin Rae Brown was born at Greenock on the 19th of December 1821. Having completed his education in Glasgow, whither the family removed in 1829, he entered a mercantile warehouse. In 1842, he formed a connexion with the publishing house of Messrs Murray and Sons, Glasgow, and undertook the management of a branch of the business at Greenock. On the establishment in Glasgow of the _North British Daily Mail_, he accepted an offer by the proprietor to become the publisher of that newspaper. When the _Mail_ passed into the hands of other proprietors, Mr Brown established, in conjunction with a partner, the Fine Art Gallery in St Vincent Street, with which he continues to be connected. In 1848 he published a volume of lyrics, which was well received; a second poetical work from his pen, which appeared in 1855, with the title, "Lays and Lyrics," has met with similar success. A number of songs from both volumes have been published separately with music. On the abolition of the stamp-duty on newspapers in 1855, Mr Brown originated the _Bulletin_ and _Workman_, a daily and a weekly newspaper, both published in Glasgow.

CHARLIE 'S COMIN'.

Charlie 's comin' o'er the sea,
Soon, he 'll set the country free
From those that bear the rule and gree
In bonnie Caledonia!

Gentle breezes, softly blow,
We burn until we meet the foe,
And strike the bold decisive blow
For king and Caledonia!

Noble hearts are beating high,
All will fight, none basely fly,
For if they conquer not, they 'll die
For ancient Caledonia!

Oh, that Charlie were but here!
The base usurper then might fear--
As loud the din fell on his ear
Of joy in Caledonia!

Heard ye not that distant hum?
And now the pipe, and now the drum,
Proclaim the news that Charlie 's come
To gladden Caledonia!

Tyrants, tremble, Charlie 's here!
Now, indeed, ye 've cause to fear;
Hielan' hearts be of good cheer,
And on for Caledonia!

THE WIDOW'S DAUGHTER.

Why gaze on that pale face,
Childless one, childless one?
Why seek this lonely place?
She hath gone, she hath gone.

Thy daughter is not here,
Widow'd one, widow'd one--
Nay, wipe away that tear,
She hath won, she hath won!

Her home is far away,
She 's at rest, she 's at rest,
In everlasting day,
With the blest, with the blest.

No pains, no sorrows there,
All are past, all are past;
That sigh summ'd up her care,
'Twas her last, 'twas her last.

'Tis not her there you see,
Sister dear, sister dear;
That earth holds nought for thee,
Draw not near, draw not near.

The place is cold and dark,
Haste away, haste away;
Corruption is at work--
Soulless clay! soulless clay!

The lamp hath ceased to burn,
Quench'd the flame, quench'd the flame;
Let dust to dust return,
Whence it came, whence it came.

To thy chamber, sister dear;
There to God, there to God,
Bend humble and sincere,
'Neath His rod, 'neath His rod.

Prayer heals the broken heart--
He is kind, He is kind;
Each bruised and bleeding part
He will bind, He will bind.

Weep not for her that 's gone--
Time will fly, time will fly--
Thou 'lt meet thy cherish'd one
'Yond the sky! 'yond the sky!

ROBERT LEIGHTON.

Robert Leighton, author of "Rhymes and Poems by Robin," a duodecimo volume of verses, published in 1855, was born at Dundee in 1822. He has been chiefly employed in mercantile concerns. The following lyric, which has attained some popularity, was one of his earliest poetical efforts, being composed in his sixteenth year.

MY MUCKLE MEAL POCK.

There 's some can be happy and bide whar they are,
There 's ithers ne'er happy unless they gang far;
But aft do I think I 'm an easy auld stock,
While I 'm joggin' about wi' my muckle meal pock.

Though noo I be auld, abune four score and aucht,
Though my pow it be bauld and my craig be na straucht,
Yet frae mornin' till e'en--aye as steady 's a rock--
I gang joggin' about wi' my muckle meal pock.

Just our ain parish roond, and nae mair I gang through,
And when at the end I begin it anew;
There isna' a door but wad blythely unlock,
To welcome me ben wi' my muckle meal pock.

There isna' a hoose but I micht mak' my hame,
There isna' an auld wife wad think me to blame,
Though I open'd the door without gieing a knock,
And cam' ben to the fire wi' my muckle meal pock.

As ony newspaper they say I 'm as gweed,
And better, say some, for they hinna to read;
The lads and the lasses around me a' flock,
And there 's no ane forgets that I hae a meal pock.

The gudeman he speaks about corn and lan',
"Hoo 's the markets," says he, "are they risen or fa'en?
Or is this snawie weather the roads like to chock?"
But the gudewife aye spiers for my muckle meal pock.

To be usefu' to her I haud sticks on the fire,
Or whan to the milkin' she gangs to the byre,
She 'll gie me a hand o' the cradle to rock,
And for that she 's aye gude to my muckle meal pock.

Though my friends a' be gane whar I yet hae to gang,
And o' followin' them noo I canna be lang,
Yet while I am here I will lauch and I 'll joke,
For I 'll aye find a friend in my muckle meal pock.

JAMES HENDERSON.

A poet of much elegance and power, James Henderson was born on the 2d November 1824, on the banks of the river Carron, in the village of Denny and county of Stirling. In his tenth year, he proceeded to Glasgow, where he was employed in mercantile concerns. Strongly influenced by sentiments of patriotism, and deeply imbued with the love of nature in its ever varying aspects, he found relaxation from business in the composition of verses. In 1848 he published a thin octavo volume, entitled "Glimpses of the Beautiful, and other Poems," which was much commended by the periodical and newspaper press. Having proceeded to India in 1849, he became a commission agent in Calcutta. He visited Britain in 1852, but returned to India the same year. Having permanently returned from the East in 1855, he has since settled in Glasgow as an East India merchant.

THE WANDERER'S DEATHBED.

Afar from the home where his youthful prime
And his happy hours were pass'd,
On the distant shore of a foreign clime
The wanderer breathed his last.
And they dug his grave where the wild flowers wave,
By the brooklet's glassy brim;
And the song-bird there wakes its morning prayer,
And the dirge of its evening hymn.

He left the land of his childhood fair,
With hope in his glowing breast,
With visions bright as the summer's light,
And dreams by his fancy blest.
But death look'd down with a chilling frown
As he stood on that distant shore,
And he leant his head on the stranger's bed,
Till the last sad pang was o'er.

Strange faces, fill'd with a soulless look,
O'er the wanderer's deathbed hung;
And the words were cold as the wintry wold,
That fell from each heedless tongue.
Nor mournful sigh, nor tearful eye
The solace of pity gave,
While the moments pass'd till he breathed his last,
To sleep in the silent grave.

Afar from the home where his youthful prime
And his happy hours were pass'd,
On the distant shore of a foreign clime
The wanderer breathed his last.
And they dug his grave where the wild flowers wave,
By the brooklet's glassy brim;
And the song-bird there wakes its morning prayer,
And the dirge of its evening hymn.

THE SONG OF TIME.

I fleet along, and the empires fall,
And the nations pass away,
Like visions bright of the dreamy night,
That die with the dawning day.
The lordly tower, and the battled wall,
The hall, and the holy fane,
In ruin lie while I wander by,
Nor rise from their wreck again.

I light the rays of the orient blaze,
The glow of the radiant noon;
I wing my flight with the sapphire night,
And glide with the gentle moon.
O'er earth I roam, and the bright expanse
Where the proud bark bounds away;
And I join the stars in their choral dance
Round the golden orb of day.

I fleet along, and the empires fall,
And the nations pass away,
Like visions bright of the dreamy night,
That die with the dawning day.
The sceptre sinks in the regal hall,
And still'd is the monarch's tread,
The mighty stoop as the meanest droop,
And sleep with the nameless dead.

THE HIGHLAND HILLS.

The Highland hills! there are songs of mirth,
And joy, and love on the gladsome earth;
For Spring, in her queenly robes, hath smiled
In the forest glade and the woodland wild.
Then come with me from the haunts of men
To the glassy lake in the mountain glen,
Where sunshine sleeps on the dancing rills
That chainless leap from the Highland hills.

The Highland hills! when the sparkling rays
Of the silver dews greet the orient blaze,
When noon comes forth with her gorgeous glow,
While the fountains leap and the rivers flow,
Thou wilt roam with me where the waterfalls
Bid echo wake in the rocky halls,
Till the grandeur wild to thy heart instils
A deep delight 'mid the Highland hills.

The Highland hills! when the noonday smiles
On the slumbering lakes and their fairy isles,
We 'll clamber high where the heather waves
By the warrior's cairn and the foemen's graves;
And I 'll sing to thee, in "the bright day's prime,"
Of the days of old and of ancient time,
And thy heart, unknown to the care that chills,
Shall gladly joy in the Highland hills.

The Highland hills! in the twilight dim
To their heath-clad crests shall thy footsteps climb,
And there shalt thou gaze o'er the ocean far,
Till the beacon blaze of the evening star,
And the lamp of night, with its virgin beams,
Look down on the deep and the shining streams,
Till beauty's spell on thy spirit thrills
With joy and love in the Highland hills.

MY NATIVE LAND.

Sublime is Scotia's mountain land,
And beautiful and wild;
By tyranny's unhallow'd hand
Unsullied, undefiled.
The free and fearless are her sons,
The good and brave her sires;
And, oh! her every spirit glows
With freedom's festal fires!

When dark oppression far and wide
Its gory deluge spread,
While nations, ere they pass'd away,
For hope and vengeance bled,
She from her rocky bulwarks high
The banner'd eagle hurl'd,
And trampled on triumphant Rome,
The empress of the world.

She gave the Danish wolf a grave
Deep in her darkest glens,
And chased the vaunting Norman hound
Back to his lowland dens;
And though the craven Saxon strove
Her regal lord to be,
Her hills were homes to nurse the brave,
The fetterless, and free.

Peace to the spirits of the dead,
The noble, and the brave;
Peace to the mighty who have bled
Our Fatherland to save!
We revel in the pure delight
Of deeds achieved by them,
To crown their worth and valour bright
With glory's diadem.

JAMES MACLARDY.

The writer of several good songs, James Maclardy was born in Glasgow on the 22d August 1824. His father, who afterwards removed to Paisley, was a journeyman shoemaker in humble circumstances. With the scanty rudiments of education, young Maclardy was early cast upon the world. For a course of years he led a sort of rambling life, repeatedly betaking himself to the occupation of a pedlar, and sometimes being dependent for subsistence on his skill as a ballad singer. Adopting his father's profession, he became more fortunate, and now took delight in improving himself in learning, and especially in perusing the works of the poets. After practising his craft in various localities, he has latterly settled in Glasgow, where he holds a situation of respectable emolument.

THE SUNNY DAYS ARE COME, MY LOVE.

The sunny days are come, my love,
The gowan 's on the lea,
And fragrant flow'rs wi' hiney'd lips,
Invite the early bee;
The scented winds are whisp'ring by,
The lav'rock 's on the wing,
The lintie on the dewy spray
Gars glen and woodland ring.

The sunny days are come, my love,
The primrose decks the brae,
The vi'let in its rainbow robe
Bends to the noontide ray;
The cuckoo in her trackless bower
Has waken'd from her dream;
The shadows o' the new-born leaves
Are waving in the stream.

The sunny days are come, my love,
The swallow skims the lake,
As o'er its glassy bosom clear
The insect cloudlets shake.
The heart of nature throbs with joy
At love and beauty's sway;
The meanest creeping thing of earth
Shares in her ecstasy.

Then come wi' me my bonny Bell,
And rove Gleniffer o'er,
And ye shall lend a brighter tint
To sunshine and to flower;
And ye shall tell the heart ye 've won
A blessing or a wae--
Awake a summer in my breast,
Or bid hope's flowers decay.

For spring may spread her mantle green,
O'er mountain, dell, and lea,
And summer burst in every hue
Wi' smiles and melody,
To me the sun were beamless, love,
And scentless ilka flower,
Gin ye were no this heart's bright sun,
Its music and its bower.

OH, MY LOVE WAS FAIR.

Oh, my love was fair as the siller clud
That sleeps in the smile o' dawn;
An' her een were bricht as the crystal bells
That spangle the blossom'd lawn:
An' warm as the sun was her kind, kind heart,
That glow'd 'neath a faemy sea;
But I fear'd, by the tones o' her sweet, sweet voice,
That my love was nae for me.

Oh, my love was gay as the summer time,
When the earth is bricht an' gled,
An' fresh as the spring when the young buds blaw,
In their sparkling pearl-draps cled:
An' her hair was like chains o' the sunset sheen
That hangs 'tween the lift an' sea;
But I fear'd, by the licht that halo'd her face,
That my love was nae for me.

Oh, my love was sweet as the violet flower
That waves by the moss-grown stane,
An' her lips were rich as the rowans red
That hang in forest lane;
An' her broo was a dreamy hill o' licht,
That struck ane dumb to see;
But I fear'd, by signs that canna be named,
That my love was nae for me.

Oh, my love was mild as the autumn gale
That fans the temples o' toil,
An' the sweets o' a thousand summers cam'
On her breath an' sunny smile:
An' spotless she gaed on the tainted earth,
O' a mortal blemish free,
While my heart forgot, in its feast o' joy,
That my love was nae for me.

Oh, my love was leal, an' my cup o' bliss
Was reaming to the brim,
When, ae gloaming chill, to her sacred bower
Cam' a grisly carl fu' grim,
Wha dash'd the cup frae my raptured lips
Wi' a wild, unearthly glee;
Sae the ghaistly thought was then confirm'd,
That my love was nae for me.

Oh, my love was young, an' the grim auld carl
Held her fast in his cauld embrace,
An' suck'd the red frae her hiney'd mou',
An' the blush frae her peachy face:
He stifled the sound o' her charm'd throat,
An' quench'd the fires o' her e'e;
But fairer she blooms in her heavenly bower,
For my love was nae for me.

Sae I tyned my love an' I tyned my heart,
An' I tyned baith wealth an' fame;
Syne I turn'd a sad, weary minstrel wicht,
Wi' the cauld warld for my hame.
Yet my minstrelsy 's but a lanely lay,
My wealth my aumous fee;
Oh, wad that I were wi' the grim auld carl,
For this warld is nae for me.

ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON.

The author of "Harebell Chimes," a volume of interesting verses, Andrew James Symington, was born at Paisley, on the 27th of July 1825. His father was a scion of the noble house of Douglas, and his mother claimed descent from the old Highland family of Macalister. On the completion of his education at the grammar school, the subject of this sketch entered the warehouse of his father, who carried on business as a muslin manufacturer. By the death of his father in 1841, he succeeded, along with an elder brother, to the full management of the concern. In 1848 the establishment was removed from Paisley to Glasgow, where it continues to be prosperously carried on.

Eminently devoted to literary and artistic studies, Mr Symington has cultivated the personal intercourse of artists and men of letters. He has contributed to some of the leading periodicals. His volume of "Harebell Chimes," published in 1849, contains poetry of a high order; it was especially commended by the late Samuel Rogers, with whom the author had the privilege of corresponding. In 1855, a small volume entitled "Genivieve, and other Poems," was printed by Mr Symington for circulation among his friends.

DAY DREAM.

Close by the marge of Leman's lake,
Upon a thymy plot,
In blissful rev'rie, half awake,
Earth's follies all forgot,
I conjured up a faery isle
Where sorrow enter'd not,
Withouten shade of sin or guile--
A lovely Eden spot.

With trellis'd vines, in cool arcade,
And leaves of tender green,
All trembling in the light and shade,
As sunbeams glanced between:
The mossy turf, bespangled gay
With fragrant flowery sheen--
Bell, primrose, pink, and showers of May--
The fairest ever seen.

Near where a crystal river ran
Into the rich, warm light,
A domed palace fair began
To rise in marble white.
'Twas fill'd, as if by amulet,
With mirrors dazzling bright--
With antique vase and statuette,
A palace of delight.

And "Mignon" in a snow-white dress,
With circlet on her hair,
Appear'd in all her loveliness,
Like angel standing there.
She struck the cithern in her hand,
And sang with 'witching air
Her own sweet song, "Know'st thou the land?"
To music wild and rare.

It died away--the palace changed,
Dream-like, into a bower!
Around, the soft-eyed dun-deer ranged,
Secure from hunter's power.
Wild thyme and eye-bright tinged the ground,
With daisy, starry flower,
While crimson flower-bells cluster'd round
The rose-twined faery bower.

Therein "Undine," lovely sprite!
Sat gazing on sunrise,
And sang of "morning, clear and bright"--
The tears came in her eyes:
She look'd upon the lovely isle,
And now up to the skies,
Then in a silv'ry misty veil
She vanish'd from mine eyes.

A music, as of forest trees
Bent 'neath the storm-blast's sway,
Rose swelling--dying in the breeze,
A strange, wild lullaby.
The islet with its flowery turf
Then waxed dim and gray;
I look'd--no islet gemm'd the surf--
The dream had fled away.

FAIR AS A STAR OF LIGHT.

Fair as a star of light,
Like diamond gleaming bright,
Through darkness of the night,
Is my love to me.
As bell of lily white,
In streamlet mirror'd bright,
All quiv'ring with delight,
Is my love to me--
My love to me.

A flowing magic thrill
Which floodeth heart and will
With gushes musical,
Is my love to me.
Bright as the tranced dream,
Which flitteth in a gleam,
Before morn's golden beam,
Is my love to me--
My love to me.

Like living crystal well,
In cool and shady dell,
Unto the parch'd gazelle,
Is my love to me.
And dearer than things fair,
However rich and rare,
In earth, or sea, or air,
Is my love to me--
My love to me.

NATURE MUSICAL.

There is music in the storm, love,
When the tempest rages high;
It whispers in the summer breeze
A soft, sweet lullaby.
There is music in the night,
When the joyous nightingale,
Clear warbling, filleth with his song
The hillside and the vale.
Then sing, sing, sing,
For music breathes in everything.

There is music by the shore, love,
When foaming billows dash;
It echoes in the thunder peal,
When vivid lightnings flash.
There is music by the shore,
In the stilly noon of night,
When the murmurs of the ocean fade
In the clear moonlight.

There is music in the soul, love,
When it hears the gushing swell,
Which, like a dream intensely soft,
Peals from the lily-bell.
There is music--music deep
In the soul that looks on high,
When myriad sparkling stars sing out
Their pure sphere harmony.

There is music in the glance, love,
Which speaketh from the heart,
Of a sympathy in souls
That never more would part.
There is music in the note
Of the cooing turtle-dove;
There is music in the voice
Of dear ones whom we love.

There is music everywhere, love,
To the pure of spirit given;
And sweetest music heard on earth
But whispers that of heaven.
Oh, all is music there--
'Tis the language of the sky--
Sweet hallelujahs there resound
Eternal harmony.
Then sing, sing, sing,
For music breathes in everything.

ISABELLA CRAIG.

Isabella Craig is a native of Edinburgh, where she has continued to reside. Her educational advantages were limited. To the columns of the _Scotsman_ newspaper she has for several years contributed verses. In 1856 she published a collection of her poetical compositions, in a duodecimo volume, with the title, "Poems by Isa." She contributes to the periodicals.

OUR HELEN.

Is our Helen very fair?
If you only knew her
You would doubt it not, howe'er
Stranger eyes may view her.
We who see her day by day
Through our household moving,
Whether she be fair or nay
Cannot see for loving.

O'er our gentle Helen's face
No rich hues are bright'ning,
And no smiles of feigned grace
From her lips are light'ning;
She hath quiet, smiling eyes,
Fair hair simply braided,
All as mild as evening skies
Ere sunlight hath faded.

Our kind, thoughtful Helen loves
Our approving praises,
But her eye that never roves
Shrinks from other gazes.
She, so late within her home
But a child caressing,
Now a woman hath become,
Ministering, blessing.

All her duty, all her bliss,
In her home she findeth,
Nor too narrow deemeth this--
Lowly things she mindeth;
Yet when deeper cares distress,
She is our adviser;
Reason's rules she needeth less,
For her heart is wiser.

For the sorrows of the poor
Her kind spirit bleedeth,
And, because so good and pure,
For the erring pleadeth.
Is our Helen very fair?
If you only knew her
You would doubt it not, howe'er
Stranger eyes may view her.

GOING OUT AND COMING IN.

In that home was joy and sorrow
Where an infant first drew breath,
While an aged sire was drawing
Near unto the gate of death.
His feeble pulse was failing,
And his eye was growing dim;
He was standing on the threshold
When they brought the babe to him.

While to murmur forth a blessing
On the little one he tried,
In his trembling arms he raised it,
Press'd it to his lips and died.
An awful darkness resteth
On the path they both begin,
Who thus met upon the threshold,
Going out and coming in.

Going out unto the triumph,
Coming in unto the fight--
Coming in unto the darkness,
Going out unto the light;
Although the shadow deepen'd
In the moment of eclipse,
When he pass'd through the dread portal
With the blessing on his lips.

And to him who bravely conquers,
As he conquer'd in the strife,
Life is but the way of dying--
Death is but the gate of life;
Yet awful darkness resteth
On the path we all begin,
Where we meet upon the threshold,
Going out and coming in.

MY MARY AN' ME.

We were baith neebor bairns, thegither we play'd,
We loved our first love, an' our hearts never stray'd;
When I got my young lassie her first vow to gie,
We promised to wait for each ither a wee.

My mother was widow'd when we should hae wed,
An' the nicht when we stood roun' my father's death-bed,
He charged me a husband and father to be,
While my young orphan sisters clung weepin' to me.

I kent nae, my Mary, what high heart was thine,
Nor how brightly thy love in a dark hour wad shine,
Till in doubt and in sorrow, ye whisper'd to me,
"Win the blessing o' Heaven for thy Mary and thee."

An' years hae flown by deeply laden wi' care,
But Mary has help'd me their burden to bear,
She gave me my shield in misfortune and wrong,
'Twas she that aye bade me be steadfast and strong.

Her meek an' quiet spirit is aye smooth as now,
Her saft shinin' hair meekly shades her white brow,
A few silver threads 'mang its dark faulds I see,
They tell me how lang she has waited on me.

Her cheek has grown paler, for she too maun toil,
Her sma' hands are thinner, less mirthfu' her smile;
She aft speaks o' heaven, and if she should dee,
She tells me that there she 'll be waitin' on me.

A SONG OF SUMMER.

I will sing a song of summer,
Of bright summer as it dwells,
Amid leaves and flowers and sunshine,
In lone haunts and grassy dells.
Lo! the hill encircled valley
Is like an emerald cup,
To its inmost depths all glowing,
With sunlight brimming up.
Here I 'd dream away the day time,
And let happy thoughts have birth,
And forget there 's aught but glory,
Aught but beauty on the earth.

Not a speck of cloud is floating
In the deep blue overhead,
'Neath the trees the daisied verdure
Like a broider'd couch is spread.
The rustling leaves are dancing
With the light wind's music stirr'd,
And in gushes through the stillness
Comes the song of woodland bird.
Here I 'd dream away the day-time,
And let gentlest thoughts have birth,
And forget there 's aught but gladness,
Aught but peace upon the earth.

ROBERT DUTHIE.

The writer of some spirited lyrics, Robert Duthie was born in Stonehaven on the 2d of February 1826. Having obtained an ordinary elementary education, he was apprenticed, in his fourteenth year, to his father, who followed the baking business. He afterwards taught a private school in his native town; but, on the death of his father, in 1848, he resumed his original profession, with the view of supporting his mother and the younger members of the family. Devoting his leisure hours to literature and poetry, he is a frequent contributor to the provincial journals; and some of his lyrical productions promise to secure him a more extended reputation.

SONG OF THE OLD ROVER.

I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat on the wild sea waves,
And the tempest around me is swelling;
The winds have come forth from their ice-ribb'd caves,
And the waves from their rocky dwelling;
But my trim-built bark
O'er the waters dark
Bounds lightly along,
And the mermaid lists to my echoing song.
Hurrah! hurrah! how I love to lave
In the briny spray of the wild sea wave!

I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat on the foaming deep,
And the storm-bird above me is screaming;
While forth from the cloud where the thunders sleep
The lightning is fearfully gleaming;
But onward I dash,
For the fitful flash
Illumes me along,
And the thunders chorus my echoing song.
Hurrah! hurrah! how I love to brave
The dangers that frown on the wild sea wave!

I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat where my well-served shot
Lays the war-dogs bleeding around me;
But ne'er do I yield on the tentless field
Till the wreath of the victor hath crown'd me;
Then I, a true child
Of the ocean wild,
With a tuneful tongue
Bear away with my prize and my conquering song.
Hurrah! hurrah! shot and storm, let them rave--
I 'm at home, dashing on through the wild sea wave!

I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat on my ocean home--
The home of the hurrying billow;
But the time is at hand when no longer I 'll roam,
But in peace lay me down on its pillow:
The petrel will scream
My requiem hymn,
And the thunders prolong
The deep-chorus'd note of my last echo'd song,
As I sink to repose in my rock-bound grave
That is down in the depths of the wild sea wave.

BOATMAN'S SONG.

Hurrah! hurrah! for the boundless sea,
The home of the rover, the bold and free;
Land hath its charms, but those be mine,
To row my boat through the sparkling brine--
To lave in the pearls that kiss the prow
Of the bounding thing as we onward go--
To nerve the arm and bend the oar,
Bearing away from the vacant shore.
Pull away, pull away o'er the glassy sea--
'Tis the tempest's path, and the path for me;
Land hath its charms, but no charms like thine:
Hurrah! let us dash through the sparkling brine.

Gloomily creeping the mists appear
In denser shade on the mountains drear;
And the twilight steals o'er the stilly deep,
By the zephyrs hush'd to its evening sleep;
Nor a ripple uprears a whiten'd crest,
To wrinkle the blue of its placid breast;
But all is still, save the lisping waves
Washing the shells in the distant caves.
Pull away, pull away o'er the sleeping sea--
'Tis the tempest's path, and the path for me--
'Tis the home of my heart where I 'd ever rove!
Hurrah! hurrah! for the home I love.

Oh, I love the sound of the tempest's roar,
And I love the splash of the bending oar,
Playing amid the phosphoric fire,
Seen as the eddying sparks retire.
'Tis a fairy home, and I love to roam
Through its sleeping calm or its lashing foam.
The land hath its charms, but the sea hath more;
Then away let us row from the vacant shore.
Pull away, pull away o'er the mighty sea--
'Tis the tempest's path, and the path for me;
'Tis the home of the rover, the bold and free:
Hurrah! hurrah! for the boundless sea.

LISETTE.

When we meet again, Lisette,
Let the sun be sunk to rest
Beneath the glowing wavelets
Of the widely spreading west;
Let half the world be hush'd
In the drowsiness of sleep,
And howlets scream the music
Of the revels that they keep.

Let the gentle lady-moon,
With her coldly drooping beams,
Be dancing in the ripple
Of the ever-laughing streams,
Where the little elves disport
In the stilly noon of night,
And lave their limbs of ether
In the mellow flood of light.

When we meet again, Lisette,
Let it be in yonder pile,
Beneath the massy fretting
Of its darkly-shaded aisle,
Where, through the crumbling arches
The quaint old carvings loom,
And saint and seraph keep their watch
O'er many an ancient tomb.

ALEXANDER STEPHEN WILSON.