Chapter XV: Introduction: TO (4)

A female contemporary of the Baroness Nairn, of kindred tastes, and of equal indifference to a poetical reputation, was Mrs Agnes Lyon of Glammis. She was the eldest daughter of John Ramsay L'Amy, of Dunkenny, in Forfarshire, and was born at Dundee about the commencement of the year 1762. She was reputed for her beauty, and had numerous suitors for her hand; but she gave the preference to the Rev. Dr James Lyon, minister of Glammis, to whom she was married on the 25th of January 1786. Of a highly cultivated mind and most lively fancy, she had early improved a taste for versifying, and acquired the habit of readily clothing her thoughts in the language of poetry. She became the mother of ten children; and she relieved the toils of their upbringing, as well as administered to the improvement of their youthful minds, by her occasional exercises in verse. Her four volumes of MS. poetry contain lyrics dated as having been written from the early period of her marriage to nearly the time of her decease. The topics are generally domestic, and her strain is lively and humorous; in pathetic pieces she is tender and singularly touching. Possessed of a correct musical ear, she readily parodied the more popular songs, or adapted words to their airs, with the view of interesting her friends, or producing good humour and happiness in the family circle. She had formed the acquaintance of Neil Gow, the celebrated violinist, and composed, at his particular request, the words to his popular tune "Farewell to Whisky,"--the only lyric from her pen which has hitherto been published. In all the collections of Scottish song, it appears as anonymous. In the present work, it is printed from a copy in one of her MS. volumes.

Mrs Lyon died on the 14th September 1840, having survived her husband about two years, and seen the greater number of her children carried to the grave. Entirely free of literary ambition, she bequeathed her MSS. to the widow of one of her sons, to whom she was devotedly attached, accompanied by a request, inscribed in rhyme at the beginning of the first volume, that the compositions might not be printed, unless in the event of a deficiency in the family funds. Their origin is thus described:--

"Written off-hand, as one may say,
Perhaps upon a rainy day,
Perhaps while at the cradle rocking.
Instead of knitting at a stocking,
She 'd catch a paper, pen, and ink,
And easily the verses clink.
Perhaps a headache at a time
Would make her on her bed recline,
And rather than be merely idle,
She 'd give her fancy rein and bridle.
She neither wanted lamp nor oil,
Nor found composing any toil;
As for correction's iron wand,
She never took it in her hand;
And can, with conscience clear, declare,
She ne'er neglected house affair,
Nor put her little babes aside,
To take on Pegasus a ride.
Rather let pens and paper flame,
Than any mother have the shame
(Except at any _orra time_)
To spend her hours in making rhyme."

In person, Mrs Lyon was of the middle height, and of a slender form. She had a fair complexion, her eyes were of light blue, and her countenance wore the expression of intelligence. She excelled in conversation; and a retentive memory enabled her to render available the fruits of extensive reading. In old age, she retained much of the buoyant vivacity of youth, and her whole life was adorned by the most exemplary piety.

NEIL GOW'S FAREWELL TO WHISKY.[62]

TUNE--_"Farewell to Whisky."_

You 've surely heard of famous Neil,
The man who play'd the fiddle weel;
He was a heartsome merry chiel',
And weel he lo'ed the whisky, O!
For e'er since he wore the tartan hose
He dearly liket _Athole brose_![63]
And grieved he was, you may suppose,
To bid "farewell to whisky," O!

Alas! says Neil, I'm frail and auld,
And whiles my hame is unco cauld;
I think it makes me blythe and bauld,
A wee drap Highland whisky, O!
But a' the doctors do agree
That whisky 's no the drink for me;
I 'm fley'd they'll gar me tyne my glee,
By parting me and whisky, O!

But I should mind on "auld lang syne,"
How Paradise our friends did tyne,
Because something ran in their mind--
Forbid--like Highland whisky, O!
Whilst I can get good wine and ale,
And find my heart, and fingers hale,
I 'll be content, though legs should fail,
And though forbidden whisky, O!

I 'll tak' my fiddle in my hand,
And screw its strings whilst they can stand,
And mak' a lamentation grand
For guid auld Highland whisky, O!
Oh! all ye powers of music, come,
For deed I think I 'm mighty glum,
My fiddle-strings will hardly bum,
To say, "farewell to whisky," O!

[62] In the Author's MS., the following sentences occur prefatory to this song:--"Everybody knows Neil Gow. When he was poorly, the physicians forbade him to drink his favourite liquor. The words following were composed, at his particular desire, to a lamentation he had just made." Mrs Lyon became acquainted with Gow when she was a young lady, attending the concerts in Dundee, at which the services of the great violinist were regularly required. The song is very inaccurately printed in some of the collections.

[63] A beverage composed of honey dissolved in whisky.

SEE THE WINTER CLOUDS AROUND.[64]

See the winter clouds around;
See the leaves lie on the ground;
Pretty little Robin comes,
Seeking for his daily crumbs!

In the window near the tree,
Little Robin you may see;
There his slender board is fix'd,
There his crumbs are bruised and mix'd.

View his taper limbs, how neat!
And his eyes like beads of jet;
See his pretty feathers shine!
Little Robin haste and dine.

When sweet Robin leaves the space,
Other birds will fill his place;
See the Tit-mouse, pretty thing!
See the Sparrow's sombre wing!

Great and grand disputes arise,
For the crumbs of largest size,
Which the bravest and the best
Bear triumphant to their nest.

What a pleasure thus to feed
Hungry mouths in time of need!
For whether it be men or birds,
Crumbs are better far than words.

[64] These simple stanzas, conveying such an excellent _morale_ at the close, were written, almost without premeditation, for the amusement and instruction of a little girl, the author's grandchild, who had been on a visit at the manse of Glammis. The allusion to the _board_ in the second verse refers to a little piece of timber which the amiable lady of the house had affixed on the outside of one of the windows, for holding a few crumbs which she daily spread on it for _Robin_, who regularly came to enjoy the bounty of his benefactress. This lyric, and those following, are printed for the first time.

WITHIN THE TOWERS OF ANCIENT GLAMMIS.[65]

TUNE--_"Merry in the Hall."_

Within the towers of ancient Glammis
Some merry men did dine,
And their host took care they should richly fare
In friendship, wit, and wine.
But they sat too late, and mistook the gate,
(For wine mounts to the brain);
O, 'twas merry in the hall, when the beards wagg'd all;
O, we hope they 'll be back again;
We hope they 'll be back again!

Sir Walter tapp'd at the parson's door,
To find the proper way,
But he dropt his switch, though there was no ditch,
And on the steps it lay.
So his wife took care of this nice affair,
And she wiped it free from stain;
For the knight was gone, nor the owner known,
So he ne'er got the switch again;
So he ne'er got the switch again.

This wondrous little whip[66] remains
Within the lady's sight,
(She crambo makes, with some mistakes,
But hopes for further light).
So she ne'er will part with this switch so smart,
These thirty years her ain;
Till the knight appear, it must just lie here,
He will ne'er get his switch again;
He will ne'er get his switch again!

[65] This lively lyrical rhapsody, written in April 1821, celebrates an amusing incident connected with the visit of Sir Walter Scott to the Castle of Glammis, in 1793. Sir Walter was hospitably entertained in the Castle, by Mr Peter Proctor, the factor, in the absence of the noble owner, the Earl of Strathmore, who did not reside in the family mansion; and the conjecture may be hazarded, that he dropt his whip at the manse door on the same evening that he drank an English pint of wine from the _lion beaker_ of Glammis, the prototype of the _silver bear_ of Tully-Veolan, "the _poculum potatorium_ of the valiant baron."--(See _Note_ to Waverley, and Lockhart's Life of Sir Walter Scott).

[66] The whip is now in the custody of Mr George Lyon, of Stirling, the author's son.

MY SON GEORGE'S DEPARTURE.[67]

TUNE--_"Peggy Brown."_

The parting kiss, the soft embrace,
I feel them at my heart!
'Twere joy to clasp you in those arms,
But agony to part.
But let us tranquillise our minds,
And hope the time may be,
When I shall see that face again,
So loved, so dear to me!

Five tedious years have roll'd along,
And griefs have had their sway,
Though many comforts fill'd my cup,
Yet thou wert far away.
On pleasant days, when friends are met,
Our sports are scarce begun,
When I shall sigh, because I miss
My George, my eldest son!

I owe my grateful thanks to Heaven,
I 've seen thee well and gay,
I 've heard the music of thy voice,
I 've heard thee sweetly play.
O try and cheer us with your strains
Ere many twelvemonths be,
And let us hear that voice again,
So loved, so dear to me!

[67] This lay of affection is dated September 1820, when the author received a visit from her eldest son, who was then settled as a merchant in London. Mr George Lyon, the subject of the song, and the only surviving member of the family, is now resident at Snowdoun House, Stirling.

ROBERT LOCHORE.

Robert Lochore was descended from a branch of a Norman family of that name, long established in the neighbourhood of Biggar, and of which the representative was the House of Lochore de Lochore in Fifeshire. He was born at Strathaven, in the county of Lanark, on the 7th of July 1762, and, in his thirteenth year, was apprenticed to a shoemaker in Glasgow. He early commenced business in the city on his own account. In carrying on public improvements he ever evinced a deep interest, and he frequently held public offices of trust. He was founder of the "Annuity Society,"--an institution attended with numerous benefits to the citizens of Glasgow.

Mr Lochore devoted much of his time to private study. He was particularly fond of poetical composition, and wrote verses with facility, many of his letters to his intimate friends being composed in rhyme. His poetry was of the descriptive order; his lyrical effusions were comparatively rare. Several poetical tales and songs of his youth, contributed to different periodicals, he arranged, about the beginning of the century, in a small volume. The greater number of his compositions remain in MS. in the possession of his family. He died in Glasgow, on the 27th April 1852, in his ninetieth year. Of a buoyant and humorous disposition, he composed verses nearly to the close of his long life; and, latterly, found pleasure in recording, for the amusement of his family, his recollections of the past. He was universally beloved as a faithful friend, and was deeply imbued with a sense of religion.

NOW, JENNY LASS.

TUNE--_"Garryowen."_

Now, Jenny lass, my bonnie bird,
My daddy 's dead, an' a' that;
He 's snugly laid aneath the yird,
And I 'm his heir, an' a' that;
I 'm now a laird, an' a' that;
I 'm now a laird, an' a' that;
His gear an' land 's at my command,
And muckle mair than a' that.

He left me wi' his deein' breath,
A dwallin' house, an' a' that;
A burn, a byre, an' wabs o' claith--
A big peat-stack, an' a' that.
A mare, a foal, an' a' that;
A mare, a foal, an' a' that;
Sax guid fat kye, a cauf forby,
An' twa pet ewes, an' a' that.

A yard, a meadow, lang braid leas,
An' stacks o' corn, an' a' that--
Enclosed weel wi' thorns an' trees,
An' carts, an' cars, an' a' that;
A pleugh, an' graith, an' a' that;
A pleugh, an' graith, an' a' that;
Guid harrows twa, cock, hens, an' a'--
A grecie, too, an' a' that.

I 've heaps o' claes for ilka days,
For Sundays, too, an' a' that;
I 've bills an' bonds on lairds an' lands,
And siller, gowd, an' a' that.
What think ye, lass, o' a' that?
What think ye, lass, o' a' that?
What want I noo, my dainty doo,
But just a wife to a' that.

Now, Jenny dear, my errand here
Is to seek ye to a' that;
My heart 's a' loupin', while I speer
Gin ye 'll tak me, wi' a' that.
Mysel', my gear, an' a' that;
Mysel', my gear, an' a' that;
Come, gie 's your loof to be a proof,
Ye 'll be a wife to a' that.

Syne Jenny laid her neive in his--
Said, she 'd tak him wi' a' that;
An' he gied her a hearty kiss,
An' dauted her, an' a' that.
They set a day, an' a' that;
They set a day, an' a' that;
Whan she 'd gang hame to be his dame,
An' haud a rant, an' a' that.

MARRIAGE, AND THE CARE O'T.

TUNE--_"Whistle o'er the lave o't."_

Quoth Rab to Kate, My sonsy dear,
I 've woo'd ye mair than half a-year,
An' if ye 'd wed me, ne'er cou'd speer
Wi' blateness, an' the care o't.
Now to the point: sincere I 'm we 't;
Will ye be my half-marrow sweet?
Shake han's, and say a bargain be 't,
An' ne'er think on the care o't.

Na, na, quo' Kate, I winna wed,
O' sic a snare I 'll aye be rede;
How mony, thochtless, are misled
By marriage, an' the care o't!
A single life 's a life o' glee,
A wife ne'er think to mak' o' me,
Frae toil an' sorrow I 'll keep free,
An' a' the dool an' care o't.

Weel, weel, said Robin, in reply,
Ye ne'er again shall me deny,
Ye may a toothless maiden die,
For me, I 'll tak' nae care o't.
Fareweel, for ever!--aff I hie;--
Sae took his leave without a sigh:
Oh! stop, quo' Kate, I 'm yours, I 'll try
The married life, an' care o't.

Rab wheel't about, to Kate cam' back,
An' gae her mou' a hearty smack,
Syne lengthen'd out a lovin' crack
'Bout marriage, an' the care o't.
Though as she thocht she didna speak,
An' lookit unco mim an' meek,
Yet blythe was she wi' Rab to cleek
In marriage, wi' the care o't.

MARY'S TWA LOVERS.

TUNE--_"Bessie Bell and Mary Gray."_

Dear Aunty, I 've been lang your care,
Your counsels guid ha'e blest me;
Now in a kittle case ance mair
Wi' your advice assist me:
Twa lovers frequent on me wait,
An' baith I frankly speak wi';
Sae I 'm put in a puzzlin' strait
Whilk o' the twa to cleek wi'.

There 's sonsy James, wha wears a wig,
A widower fresh and canty,
Though turn'd o' sixty, gaes fu' trig,
He 's rich, and rowes in plenty.
Tam 's twenty-five, hauds James's pleugh,
A lad deserves regardin';
He 's clever, decent, sober too,
But he 's no worth ae fardin'.

Auld James, 'tis true, I downa see,
But 's cash will answer a' things;
To be a lady pleases me,
And buskit be wi' braw things.
Tam I esteem, like him there 's few,
His gait and looks entice me;
But, aunty, I 'll now trust in you,
And fix as ye advise me.

Then aunt, wha spun, laid down her roke,
An' thus repliet to Mary:
Unequal matches in a yoke
Draw thrawart and camstrarie.
Since gentle James ye dinna like,
Wi 's gear ha'e nae connexion;
Tam 's like yoursel', the bargain strike,
Grup to him wi' affection.

THE FORLORN SHEPHERD.[68]

TUNE--_"Banks of the Dee."_

Ye swains wha are touch'd wi' saft sympathy's feelin',
For victims wha 're doom'd sair affliction to dree,
If a heart-broken lover, despairin' an' wailin',
Claim pity, your pity let fa' upon me.
Like you I was blest with content, an' was cheerie,--
My pipe wont to play to the cantiest glee,
When smilin' an' kind was my Mary, sweet Mary,
While Mary was guileless, an' faithfu' to me.

She promised, she vow'd, she wad be my half-marrow,
The day too was set, when our bridal should be;
How happy was I, but I tell you wi' sorrow,
She 's perjured hersel', ah! an' ruined me.
For Ned o' Shawneuk, wi' the charms o' his riches,
An' sly winnin' tales, tauld sae pawky an' slee,
Her han' has obtain'd, an' clad her like a duchess,
Sae baith skaith an' scorn ha'e come down upon me.

Ye braes ance enchantin', o' you I 'm now wearie,
An' thou, ance dear haunt, 'neath the aul' thornie tree,
Where in rapture I sat an' dawtit fause Mary,
Fareweel! ye 'll never be seen mair by me.
Awa' as a pilgrim, far distant I 'll wander,
'Mang faces unkent, till the day that I dee.
Ye shepherds, adieu! but tell Mary to ponder,
To think on her vows, an' to think upon me.

[68] This song is here printed for the first time.

JOHN ROBERTSON.

John Robertson, author of "The Toom Meal Pock," a humorous song which has long been popular in the west of Scotland, was the son of an extensive grocer in Paisley, where he was born about the year 1770. He received the most ample education which his native town could afford, and early cultivated a taste for the elegant arts of music and drawing. Destined for one of the liberal professions, the unfortunate bankruptcy of his father put an effectual check on his original aspirations. For a period he was engaged as a salesman, till habits of insobriety rendered his services unavailable to his employer. As a last resort, he enlisted in the regiment of local militia; and his qualifications becoming known to the officers, he was employed as a regimental clerk and schoolmaster. He had written spirited verses in his youth; and though his muse had become mournful, she continued to sing. His end was melancholy: the unfortunate circumstances of his life preyed upon his mind, and in a paroxysm of phrensy he committed suicide. He died in the vicinity of Portsmouth, in the beginning of April 1810, about six weeks before the similar death of his friend, Robert Tannahill. A person of much ingenuity and scholarship, Robertson, with ordinary steadiness, would have attained a good position in life.

THE TOOM MEAL POCK.

Preserve us a'! what shall we do,
Thir dark, unhallow'd times;
We 're surely dreeing penance now,
For some most awfu' crimes.
Sedition daurna now appear,
In reality or joke;
For ilka chiel maun mourn wi' me,
O' a hinging, toom meal pock,
And sing, Oh waes me!

When lasses braw gaed out at e'en,
For sport and pastime free;
I seem'd like ane in paradise,
The moments quick did flee.
Like Venuses they all appear'd,
Weel pouther'd were their locks;
'Twas easy dune, when at their hame,
Wi' the shaking o' their pocks.
And sing, Oh waes me!

How happy pass'd my former days,
Wi' merry heartsome glee;
When smiling Fortune held the cup,
And Peace sat on my knee.
Nae wants had I but were supplied;
My heart wi' joy did knock,
When in the neuk I smiling saw
A gaucie, weel-fill'd pock.
And sing, Oh waes me!

Speak no ae word about reform,
Nor petition Parliament;
A wiser scheme I 'll now propose,
I 'm sure ye 'll gi'e consent:
Send up a chiel or twa like me,
As a sample o' the flock,
Whose hollow cheeks will be sure proof
O' a hinging, toom meal pock.
And sing, Oh waes me!

And should a sicht sae ghastly-like,
Wi' rags, and banes, and skin,
Hae nae impression on yon folks,
But tell ye 'll stand ahin';
O what a contrast will ye shaw,
To the glowrin' Lunnun folk,
When in St James' ye tak' your stand,
Wi' a hinging, toom meal pock.
And sing, Oh waes me!

Then rear your head, and glowr, and stare,
Before yon hills o' beef;
Tell them ye are frae Scotland come,
For Scotia's relief.
Tell them ye are the vera best,
Waled frae the fattest flock;
Then raise your arms, and oh! display
A hinging, toom meal pock.
And sing, Oh waes me!

ALEXANDER BALFOUR.

Alexander Balfour, a poet, novelist and miscellaneous writer, was born on the 1st March 1767, at Guildie, a small hamlet in the parish of Monikie, Forfarshire. His parents were in humble circumstances; and being a twin, he was supported in early life by a friend of the family, from whom he received such a religious training as exercised a highly beneficial influence on his future character. He was educated at the parish school, and evidenced precocity by essaying composition in his twelfth year. Apprenticed to a weaver, he soon became disgusted with the loom, and returned home to teach a school in his native parish. During the intervals of leisure, he wrote articles for the provincial miscellanies, the _British Chronicle_ newspaper, and _The Bee_, published by Dr Anderson. In his 26th year, he became clerk to a sail-cloth manufacturer in Arbroath; and, on the death of his employer, soon afterwards, he entered into partnership with his widow. On her death, in 1800, he assumed another partner. As government-contractors for supplying the navy with canvas, the firm rapidly attained prosperity; and Balfour found abundant leisure for prosecuting his literary studies, and maintaining a correspondence with several men of letters in the capital. He had married in 1794; and deeming a country residence more advantageous for his rising family, he removed, in 1814, to Trottick, within two miles of Dundee, where he assumed the management of the branch of a London house, which for many years had been connected with his own firm. This step was lamentably unfortunate; the house, in which he had embarked his fortune, shared in the general commercial disasters of 1815, and was involved in complete bankruptcy. Reduced to a condition of dependance, Balfour accepted the situation of manager of a manufacturing establishment at Balgonie, in Fife. In 1818, he resigned this appointment; and proceeding to Edinburgh, was employed as a clerk in the establishment of Mr Blackwood, the eminent publisher. The close confinement of the counting-house, and the revolution of his fortunes, which pressed heavily upon his mind, were too powerful for his constitution. Symptoms of paralysis began to appear, shortly after his removal to the capital; and in October 1819, he was so entirely prostrated, as to require the use of a wheeled chair. His future career was that of a man of letters. During the interval which elapsed between his commercial reverses and the period of his physical debility, he prepared a novel, which he had early projected, depicting the trials and sufferings of an unbeneficed preacher. This work appeared in 1819, under the title of "Campbell, or the Scottish Probationer," in three volumes; and though published anonymously, soon led to the discovery and reputation of the author. Towards the close of the same year, he edited the poetical works of his late friend, Richard Gall, to which he supplied an elegant biographical preface. His next separate publication was "The Farmer's Three Daughters," a novel in three volumes. In 1820, he published "Contemplation," with other poems, in one volume octavo; which, favourably received by the press, also added considerably to his fame. A third novel from his pen, entitled, "The Smuggler's Cave; or, The Foundling of Glenthorn," appeared in 1823 from the unpropitious Minerva press; it consequently failed to excite much attention. To the _Scots Magazine_ he had long been a contributor; and, on the establishment of _Constable's Edinburgh Magazine_ in its stead, his assistance was secured by Mr Thomas Pringle, the original editor. His articles, contributed to this periodical during the nine years of its existence, contain matter sufficient to fill three octavo volumes: they are on every variety of theme, but especially the manners of Scottish rural life, which he has depicted with singular power. Of his numerous contributions in verse, a series entitled, "Characters omitted in Crabbe's Parish Register," was published separately in 1825; and this production has been acknowledged as the most successful effort of his muse. It is scarcely inferior to the more celebrated composition of the English poet.

In 1827, on the application of Mr Hume, M.P., a treasury donation of one hundred pounds was conferred on Mr Balfour by the premier, Mr Canning, in consideration of his genius. His last novel, "Highland Mary," in four volumes, was published shortly before his death. To the last, he contributed to the periodical publications. He died, after an illness of about two weeks' duration, on the 12th September 1829, in the sixty-third year of his age.

Though confined to his wheel-chair for a period of ten years, and otherwise debarred many of the comforts to which, in more prosperous circumstances, he had been accustomed, Alexander Balfour retained to the close of life his native placidity and gentleness. His countenance wore a perpetual smile. He joined in the amusements of the young, and took delight in the recital of the merry tale and humorous anecdote. His speech, somewhat affected by his complaint, became pleasant from the heartiness of his observations. He was an affectionate husband, and a devoted parent; his habits were strictly temperate, and he was influenced by a devout reverence for religion. A posthumous volume of his writings, under the title of "Weeds and Wild-flowers," was published under the editorial care of Mr D. M. Moir, who has prefixed an interesting memoir. As a lyrical poet, he is not entitled to a first place; his songs are, however, to be remarked for deep and genuine pathos.

THE BONNY LASS O' LEVEN WATER.

Though siller Tweed rin o'er the lea,
An' dark the Dee 'mang Highland heather,
Yet siller Tweed an' drumly Dee
Are not sae dear as Leven Water:
When Nature form'd our favourite isle,
An' a' her sweets began to scatter,
She look'd with fond approving smile,
Alang the banks o' Leven Water.

On flowery braes, at gloamin' gray,
'Tis sweet to scent the primrose springin';
Or through the woodlands green to stray,
In ilka buss the mavis singin':
But sweeter than the woodlands green,
Or primrose painted fair by Nature,
Is she wha smiles, a rural queen,
The bonny lass o' Leven Water!

The sunbeam in the siller dew,
That hangs upon the hawthorn's blossom,
Shines faint beside her e'en sae blue;
An' purer is her spotless bosom.
Her smile wad thaw a hermit's breast;
There 's love an' truth in ilka feature;
For her I 'm past baith wark an' rest,
The bonny lass o' Leven Water!

But I 'm a lad o' laigh degree,
Her purse-proud daddy 's dour an' saucy;
An' sair the carle wad scowl on me,
For speakin' to his dawtit lassie:
But were I laird o' Leven's glen,
An' she a humble shepherd's daughter,
I 'd kneel, an' court her for my ain,
The bonny lass o' Leven Water!

SLIGHTED LOVE.

The rosebud blushing to the morn,
The sna'-white flower that scents the thorn,
When on thy gentle bosom worn,
Were ne'er sae fair as thee, Mary!
How blest was I, a little while,
To deem that bosom free frae guile;
When, fondly sighing, thou wouldst smile;
Yes, sweetly smile on me, Mary!

Though gear was scant, an' friends were few,
My heart was leal, my love was true;
I blest your e'en of heavenly blue,
That glanced sae saft on me, Mary!
But wealth has won your heart frae me;
Yet I maun ever think of thee;
May a' the bliss that gowd can gie,
For ever wait on thee, Mary!

For me, nae mair on earth I crave,
But that yon drooping willow wave
Its branches o'er my early grave,
Forgot by love, an' thee, Mary!
An' when that hallow'd spot you tread,
Where wild-flowers bloom above my head,
O look not on my grassy bed,
Lest thou shouldst sigh for me, Mary!

GEORGE MACINDOE.

George Macindoe, chiefly known as the author of "A Million o' Potatoes," a humorous ballad, in the Scottish language, was born at Partick, near Glasgow, in 1771. He originally followed the occupation of a silk-weaver, in Paisley, which he early relinquished for the less irksome duties of a hotel-keeper in Glasgow. His hotel was a corner tenement, at the head of King Street, near St Giles' Church, Trongate; and here a club of young men, with which the poet Campbell was connected, were in the habit of holding weekly meetings. Campbell made a practice of retiring from the noisy society of the club to spend the remainder of the evenings in conversation with the intelligent host. After conducting the business of hotel-keeper in Glasgow, during a period of twenty-one years, Macindoe became insolvent, and was necessitated to abandon the concern. He returned to Paisley and resumed the loom, at the same time adding to his finances by keeping a small change-house, and taking part as an instrumental musician at the local concerts. He excelled in the use of the violin. Ingenious as a mechanic, and skilled in his original employment, he invented a machine for figuring on muslin, for which he received premiums from the City Corporation of Glasgow and the Board of Trustees.

Macindoe was possessed of a lively temperament, and his conversation sparkled with wit and anecdote. His person was handsome, and his open manly countenance was adorned with bushy locks, which in old age, becoming snowy white, imparted to him a singularly venerable aspect. He claimed no merit as a poet, and only professed to be the writer of "incidental rhymes." In 1805, he published, in a thin duodecimo volume, "Poems and Songs, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect," which he states, in the preface, he had laid before the public to gratify "the solicitations of friends." Of the compositions contained in this volume, the ballad entitled "A Million o' Potatoes," and the two songs which we have selected for this work, are alone worthy of preservation. In 1813, he published a second volume of poems and songs, entitled "The Wandering Muse;" and he occasionally contributed lyrics to the local periodicals. He died at Glasgow, on the 19th April 1848, in his seventy-seventh year, leaving a numerous family. His remains were interred at Anderston, Glasgow. The following remarks, regarding Macindoe's songs, have been kindly supplied by Mr Robert Chambers:--

"Amidst George Macindoe's songs are two distinguished
by more clearness and less vulgarity than the rest. One
of these, called 'The Burn Trout,' was composed on a
real incident which it describes, namely, a supper,
where the chief dish was a salmon, brought from Peebles
to Glasgow by my father,[69] who, when learning his
business, as a manufacturer, in the western city, about
the end of the century, had formed an acquaintance with
the poet. The other, entitled 'Cheese and Whisky,'
which contains some very droll verses, was written in
compliment to my maternal uncle, William Gibson, then
also a young manufacturer, but who died about two
months ago, a retired captain of the 90th regiment. The
jocund hospitable disposition of Gibson--'Bachelor
Willie'--and my father's social good-nature, are
pleasingly recalled to me by Macindoe's verses, rough
as they are.

"_June 1, 1855._"

[69] Mr James Chambers, of Peebles, who died in 1824.

CHEESE AND WHISKY.

TUNE--_"The gude forgi' me for leein'."_

Believe me or doubt me, I dinna care whilk,
When Bachelor Willie I 'm seeing,
I feast upon whisky, and cheese o' ewe milk,
And ne'er was choked for leeing, for leeing,
And ne'er was choked for leeing.

Your jams and your jellies, your sugars and teas,
If e'er I thought worthy the preeing,
Compared wi' gude whisky, and kebbocks o' cheese,
May I sup porridge for leeing, for leeing,
May I sup porridge for leeing.

When patfou's o' kale, thick wi' barley and pease,
Can as weel keep a body frae deeing,
As stoupfou's o' whisky, and platefou's o' cheese,
I 'll dree to be scrimpit for leeing, for leeing,
I 'll dree to be scrimpit for leeing.

Tho' the house where we 're sittin' were a' in a bleeze,
I never could think about fleeing,
But would guzzle the whisky, and rive at the cheese;
Perhaps ye may think that I 'm leeing, I 'm leeing,
Perhaps ye may think that I 'm leeing.

THE BURN TROUT.

TUNE--_"The gude forgi' me for leein'."_

Brither Jamie cam west, wi' a braw burn trout,
An' speer'd how acquaintance were greeing;
He brought it frae Peebles, tied up in a clout,
An' said it wad just be a preeing, a preeing,
An' said it wad just be a preeing.

In the burn that rins by his grandmother's door
This trout had lang been a dweller,
Ae night fell asleep a wee piece frae the shore,
An' was kill'd wi' a stane by the miller, the miller,
An' was kill'd wi' a stane by the miller.

This trout it was gutted an' dried on a nail
That grannie had reested her ham on,
Weel rubbed wi' saut, frae the head to the tail,
An' kipper'd as 't had been a sa'mon, a sa'mon,
An' kipper'd as 't had been a sa'mon.

This trout it was boil'd an' set ben on a plate,
Nae fewer than ten made a feast o't;
The banes and the tail, they were gi'en to the cat,
But we lickit our lips at the rest o't, the rest o't,
But we lickit our lips at the rest o't.

When this trout it was eaten, we were a' like to rive,
Sae ye maunna think it was a wee ane,
May ilk trout in the burn grow muckle an' thrive,
An' Jamie bring west aye a preeing, a preeing,
An' Jamie bring west aye a preeing.

ALEXANDER DOUGLAS.

Alexander Douglas was the son of Robert Douglas, a labourer in the village of Strathmiglo in Fife, where he was born on the 17th June 1771. Early discovering an aptitude for learning, he formed the intention of studying for the ministry,--a laudable aspiration, which was unfortunately checked by the indigence of his parents. Attending school during winter, his summer months were employed in tending cattle to the farmers in the vicinity; and while so occupied, he read the Bible in the fields, and with a religious sense, remarkable for his years, engaged in daily prayer in some sequestered spot, for the Divine blessing to grant him a saving acquaintance with the record. At the age of fourteen he was apprenticed to a linen weaver in his native village, with whom he afterwards proceeded to Pathhead, near Kirkcaldy. He now assiduously sought to acquaint himself with general literature, especially with the British poets; and his literary ardour was stimulated by several companions of kindred inclinations. He returned to Strathmiglo, and while busily plying the shuttle began to compose verses for his amusement. These compositions were jotted down during the periods of leisure. Happening to quote a stanza to Dr Paterson of Auchtermuchty, his medical attendant, who was struck with its originality, he was induced to submit his MSS. to the inspection of this gentleman. A cordial recommendation to publish his verses was the result; and a large number of subscribers being procured, through the exertions of his medical friend, he appeared, in 1806, as the author of an octavo volume of "Poems," chiefly in the Scottish dialect. The publication yielded a profit of one hundred pounds.

Douglas was possessed of a weakly constitution; he died on the 21st November 1821. He was twice married, and left a widow, who still survives. Three children, the issue of the first marriage, died in early life. A man of devoted piety and amiable dispositions, Douglas had few pretensions as a poet; some of his songs have however obtained a more than local celebrity, and one at least seems not undeserving of a place among the modern national minstrelsy.

FIFE, AN' A' THE LAND ABOUT IT.[70]

TUNE--_"Roy's Wife o' Aldivalloch."_

Fife, an' a' the land about it,
Fife, an' a' the land about it;
May health, an' peace, an' plenty glad,
Fair Fife, an' a' the land about it.

We 'll raise the song on highest key,
Through every grove till echo shout it;
The sweet enchantin' theme shall be,
Fair Fife, an' a' the land about it.
Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.

Her braid an' lang extended vales
Are clad wi' corn, a' wavin' yellow;
Her flocks an' herds crown a' her hills;
Her woods resound wi' music mellow.
Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.

Her waters pastime sweet afford
To ane an' a' wha like to angle;
The seats o' mony a laird an' lord,
Her plains, as stars the sky, bespangle.
Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.

In ilka town an' village gay,
Hark! Thrift, her wheel an' loom are usin';
While to an' frae each port an' bay,
See wealthy Commerce briskly cruisin'.
Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.

Her maids are frugal, modest, fair,
As lilies by her burnies growin';
An' ilka swain may here repair,
Whase heart wi' virt'ous love is glowin'.
Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.

In peace, her sons like lammies mild,
Are lightsome, friendly, an' engagin';
In war, they 're loyal, bauld, an' wild,
As lions roused, an' fiercely ragin'.
Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.

May auld an' young hae meat an' claes;
May wark an' wages aye be plenty;
An' may the sun to latest days
See Fife an' a' her bairnies canty.

Fife, an' a' the land about it,
Fife, an' a' the land about it;
May health, an' peace, an' plenty glad,
Fair Fife, an' a' the land about it.

[70] A song of this title was composed by Robert Fergusson.

WILLIAM M'LAREN.

William M'Laren, a poet of some merit, and an associate and biographer of Robert Tannahill, was born at Paisley about 1772. He originally followed the occupation of a handloom weaver, but was more devoted to the pursuits of literature than the business of his trade. Possessing a considerable share of poetical talent, he composed several volumes of verses, which were published by him on his own account, and very frequently to considerable pecuniary advantage. In 1817, he published, in quarto, a poetical tale, entitled, "Emma; or, The Cruel Father;" and another narrative poem in 1827, under the title of "Isabella; or, The Robbers." Many of his songs and lyrical pieces were contributed to provincial serials. His genius as a poet was exceeded by his skill as a prose writer; he composed in prose with elegance and power. In 1815, he published a memoir of Tannahill--an eloquent and affectionate tribute to the memory of his departed friend--to which is appended an _éloge_ on Robert Burns, delivered at an anniversary of that poet's birthday. In 1818, he published, with a memoir, the posthumous poetical works of his relative, the poet Scadlock. His other prose writings consist of pamphlets on a diversity of subjects.

At one period, M'Laren established himself as a manufacturer in Ireland; but, rendering himself obnoxious by the bold expression of his political opinions, he found it necessary to make a hasty departure for Scotland. He latterly opened a change-house in Paisley, and his circumstances became considerably prosperous. He died in 1832, leaving a family. He is remembered as a person of somewhat singular manners, and of undaunted enterprise and decision of character. He was shrewd and well-informed, without much reading; he purchased no books, but was ingenious and successful in recommending his own.[71]

[71] Mr James Bowie, of Paisley, to whom we are under obligations for supplying curious and interesting information regarding several of the bards of the west, kindly furnished the particulars of the above memoir.

NOW SUMMER SHINES WITH GAUDY PRIDE.

Now summer shines with gaudy pride,
By flowery vale and mountain side,
And shepherds waste the sunny hours
By cooling streams, and bushy bowers;
While I, a victim to despair,
Avoid the sun's offensive glare,
And in sequester'd wilds deplore
The perjured vows of Ella More.

Would Fate my injured heart provide
Some cave beyond the mountain tide,
Some spot where scornful Beauty's eye
Ne'er waked the ardent lover's sigh;
I 'd there to woods and rocks complain,
To rocks that skirt the angry main;
For angry main, and rocky shore,
Are kinder far than Ella More.

AND DOST THOU SPEAK SINCERE, MY LOVE?

TUNE--_"Lord Gregory."_

And dost thou speak sincere, my love?
And must we ever part?
And dost thou unrelenting see
The anguish of my heart?
Have e'er these doating eyes of mine,
One wandering wish express'd?
No; thou alone hast ever been
Companion of my breast.

I saw thy face, angelic fair,
I thought thy form divine,
I sought thy love--I gave my heart,
And hoped to conquer thine.
But, ah! delusive, cruel hope!
Hope now for ever gone!
My Mary keeps the heart I gave,
But with it keeps her own.

When many smiling summer suns
Their silver light has shed,
And wrinkled age her hoary hairs
Waves lightly o'er my head;
Even then, in life's declining hour,
My heart will fondly trace
The beauties of thy lovely form,
And sweetly smiling face.

SAY NOT THE BARD HAS TURN'D OLD.

Though the winter of age wreathes her snow on his head,
And the blooming effulgence of summer has fled,
Though the voice, that was sweet as the harp's softest string,
Be trem'lous, and low as the zephyrs of spring,
Yet say not the Bard has turn'd old.

Though the casket that holds the rich jewel we prize
Attracts not the gaze of inquisitive eyes;
Yet the gem that 's within may be lovely and bright
As the smiles of the morn, or the stars of the night;
Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.

When the tapers burn clear, and the goblet shines bright,
In the hall of his chief, on a festival night,
I have smiled at the glance of his rapturous eye,
While the brim of the goblet laugh'd back in reply;
Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.

When he sings of the valorous deeds that were done,
By his clan or his chief, in the days that are gone,
His strains then are various--now rapid, now slow,
As he mourns for the dead or exults o'er the foe;
Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.

When summer in gaudy profusion is dress'd,
And the dew-drop hangs clear on the violet's breast,
I list with delight to his rapturous strain,
While the borrowing echo returns it again;
Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.

But not summer's profusion alone can inspire
His soul in the song, or his hand on the lyre,
But rapid his numbers and wilder they flow,
When the wintry winds rave o'er his mountains of snow;
Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.

I have seen him elate when the black clouds were riven,
Terrific and wild, by the thunder of heaven,
And smile at the billows that angrily rave,
Incessant and deep o'er the mariner's grave;
Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.

When the eye that expresses the warmth of his heart,
Shall fail the benevolent wish to impart--
When his blood shall be cold as the wintry wave,
And silent his harp as the gloom of the grave,
Then say that the Bard has turn'd old.

HAMILTON PAUL.

A man of fine intellect, a poet, and an elegant writer, Hamilton Paul has claims to remembrance. On the 10th April 1773, he was born in a small cottage on the banks of Girvan Water, in the parish of Dailly, and county of Ayr. In the same dwelling, Hugh Ainslie, another Scottish bard, was afterwards born. Receiving his elementary education at the parish school, he became a student in the University of Glasgow. Thomas Campbell, author of "The Pleasures of Hope," was a college contemporary; and their mutual love of poetry drew them closely to each other; they competed for academical rewards offered for the best compositions in verse, till frequent adjudication as to the equality of their merits, induced them to forbear contesting on the same subjects. At least on one occasion the verses of Paul were preferred to those of the Bard of Hope. The following lines, exhibiting a specimen of his poetical powers at this period, are from a translation of Claudian's "Epithalamium on the Marriage of Honorius and Maria," for which, in the Latin class, he gained a prize along with his friend:--

"Maria, now the maid of heavenly charms,
Decreed to bliss the youthful monarch's arms;
Inflames Augustus with unwonted fires,
And in his breast awakens new desires.
In love a novice, while his bosom glows
With restless heat, the cause he scarcely knows;
The rural pastimes suited to his age,
His late delight, no more his care engage;
No more he wills to give his steed the reins
In eager chase, and urge him o'er the plains;
No more he joys to bend the twanging bow,
To hurl the javeline, or the dart to throw;
His alter'd thoughts to other objects rove,
To wounds inflicted by the god of love.
How oft, expressive of the inward smart,
Did groans convulsive issue from his heart!
How oft did blushes own the sacred flame,
How oft his hand unbidden wrote her name!
Now presents worthy of the plighted fair,
And nuptial robes his busy train prepare--
Robes wherewith Livia was herself attired,
And those bright dames that to the beds aspired
Of emperors. Yet the celestial maid
Requires no earthly ornamental aid
To give her faultless form a single grace,
Or add one charm to her bewitching face."

The circumstances of the young poets were far from affluent. Campbell particularly felt the pressure of poverty. He came hastily one morning to the lodgings of his friend to request his opinion of some verses; they were immediately printed, and the copies sold to his fellow-students for a halfpenny each. So Paul sometimes told his friends, quoting the following lines as all he could remember of the production:--

"Loud shriek'd afar the angry sprite,
That rode upon the storm of night,
And loud the waves were heard to roar
That lash'd on Jura's rocky shore."

After several sessions of attendance at college, Paul became tutor to a family in Argyleshire, and Campbell obtained a similar situation in the island of Mull. They entered into a humorous correspondence in prose and verse. "Your verses on the Unfortunate Lady," writes Campbell to his friend, "I read with sweet pleasure; for there is a joy in grief, when peace dwelleth in the breast of the sad.... Morose as I am in judging of poetry, I could find nothing inelegant in the whole piece. I hope you will in your next (since you are such a master of the plaintive) send me some verses consolatory to a hermit; for my sequestered situation sometimes stamps a firm belief on my mind that I am actually an anchorite. In return for your welcome poetical effusion, I have nothing at present but a chorus of the Jepthes of Buchanan, written soon after my arrival in Mull:--

"Glassy Jordan, smooth meandering
Jacob's grassy meads between,
Lo! thy waters, gently wandering,
Lave thy valleys rich and green.

"When the winter, keenly show'ring,
Strips fair Salem's holy shade,
Then thy current, broader flowing,
Lingers 'mid the leafless glade.

"When, O! when shall light returning
Gild the melancholy gloom,
And the golden star of morning
Jordan's solemn vault illume?

"When shall Freedom's holy charmer
Cheer my long benighted soul?
When shall Israel, proud in armour,
Burst the tyrant's base control?" &c.

"The similarity of the measure with that of your last made me think of sending you this piece. I am much hurried at present with my comedy, the 'Clouds of Aristophanes.' I have already finished my translation of the Choephoroe of Æschylus. I dreamt a dream about your being before Parnassus upon your trial for sedition and contumacy. I thought Thalia, Clio, &c. addressed you. Their speeches shall be nonsensified into rhyme, and shall be part of some other scrawl from your affectionate friend,

"THOMAS THE HERMIT."

In another epistle Campbell threatens to "send a formal message to the kind nymphs of Parnassus, telling them that, whereas Hamilton Paul, their favourite and admired laureate of the north, has been heard to express his admiration of certain nymphs in a certain place; and that the said Hamilton Paul has ungratefully and feloniously neglected to speak with due reverence of the ladies of Helicon; that said Hamilton Paul shall be deprived of all aid in future from these goddesses, and be sent to draw his inspiration from the dry fountain of earthly beauty; and that, furthermore, all the favours taken from the said Hamilton Paul shall accrue to the informer and petitioner!"

After two years' residence in the Highlands, both the poets returned to Glasgow to resume their academical studies: Campbell to qualify himself as a man of letters, and Paul to prepare for the ministry of the Scottish Church. "It would have been impossible, even during the last years of their college life," writes Mr Deans,[72] "to have predicted which of the two students would ultimately arrive at the greatest eminence. They were both excellent classical scholars; they were both ingenious poets; and Campbell does not appear to have surpassed his companion either in his original pieces or his translations; they both exhibited great versatility of talent; they were both playful and witty; and seem to have been possessed of great facilities in sport. During his latter years, when detailing the history of those joyous days, Mr Paul dwelt on them with peculiar delight, and seemed animated with youthful emotion when recalling the curious frolics and innocent and singular adventures in which Campbell and he had performed a principal part."

While resident at Inverary, Mr Paul composed several poems, which were much approved by his correspondent. Among these, a ballad entitled "The Maid of Inverary," in honour of Lady Charlotte Campbell, afterwards Lady Bury, was set to music, and made the subject of elaborate criticism. On his return to the university, he composed with redoubled ardour, contributing verses on every variety of topic to the newspapers and periodicals. Several of his pieces, attracting the notice of some of the professors, received their warm commendation.

Obtaining licence to preach, the poet returned to his native county. During a probation of thirteen years, he was assistant to six parish ministers, and tutor in five different families. He became joint-proprietor and editor of the _Ayr Advertiser_, which he conducted for a period of three years. At Ayr he was a member of every literary circle; was connected with every club; chaplain to every society; a speaker at every meeting; the poet of every curious occurrence; and the welcome guest at every table. Besides editing his newspaper, he gave private instructions in languages, and preached on Sabbath. His metrical productions became widely known, and his songs were sung at the cottage hearths of the district. His presence at the social meeting was the sure indication of a prevalent good humour.

In 1813, Mr Paul attained the summit of his professional ambition; he was ordained to the pastoral office in the united parishes of Broughton, Glenholm, and Kilbucho, in Peeblesshire. Amidst due attention to his clerical duties, he still found leisure to engage in literary pursuits, and continued to contribute to the public journals both in prose and poetry. Of the poet Burns he was an enthusiastic admirer; he was laureate of the "Burns' Allowa' Club," and of the Glasgow Ayrshire Friendly Society, whose annual meetings were held on the Bard's anniversary; and the odes which he composed for these annual assemblages attracted wide and warm admiration. He therefore recommended himself as a suitable editor of the works of Burns, when a new edition was contemplated by Messrs Wilson and M'Cormick, booksellers in Ayr. In the performance of his editorial task, he was led, in an attempt to palliate the immoralities of Burns, to make some indiscreet allusions respecting his own clerical brethren; for this imprudence he narrowly escaped censure from the ecclesiastical courts. His memoir, though commended in _Blackwood's Magazine_, conducted by Professor Wilson, was severely censured by Dr Andrew Thomson in the _Christian Instructor_.