Chapter XXXIV: Introduction: TO (23)

One of the most gifted and hopeful of modern Scottish song writers, Robert Nicoll, was born at Little Tulliebeltane, in the parish of Auchtergaven, Perthshire, on the 7th January 1814. Of a family of nine children, he was the second son. His father, who bore the same Christian name, rented a farm at the period of his birth and for five years afterwards, when, involved in an affair of cautionary, he was reduced to the condition of an agricultural labourer. Young Nicoll received the rudiments of his education from his mother, a woman of superior shrewdness and information; subsequently to his seventh year he tended cattle in the summer months, to procure the means of attending the parish school during the other portion of the year. From his childhood fond of reading, books were his constant companions--in the field, on the highway, and during the intervals of leisure in his father's cottage. In his thirteenth year, he wrote verses and became the correspondent of a newspaper. Apprenticed to a grocer and wine-merchant in Perth, and occupied in business from seven o'clock morning till nine o'clock evening, he prosecuted mental culture by abridging the usual hours of rest. At the age of nineteen he communicated a tale to _Johnstone's Magazine_, an Edinburgh periodical, which was inserted, and attracted towards him the notice of Mr Johnstone, the ingenious proprietor. By this gentleman he was introduced, during a visit he made to the capital, to some men of letters, who subsequently evinced a warm interest in his career.

In 1834, Nicoll opened a small circulating library in Dundee, occupying his spare time in reading and composition, and likewise taking part in public meetings convened for the support of Radical or extreme liberal opinions. To the liberal journals of the town he became a frequent contributor both in prose and verse, and in 1835 appeared as the author of a volume of "Poems and Lyrics." This publication was highly esteemed by his friends, and most favourably received by the press. Abandoning business in Dundee, which had never been prosperous, he meditated proceeding as a literary adventurer to London, but was induced by Mr Tait, his friendly publisher, and some other well-wishers, to remain in Edinburgh till a suitable opening should occur. In the summer of 1836 he was appointed editor of the _Leeds Times_ newspaper, with a salary of £100. The politics of this journal were Radical, and to the exposition and advocacy of these opinions he devoted himself with equal ardour and success. But the unremitting labour of conducting a public journal soon began materially to undermine the energies of a constitution which, never robust, had been already impaired by a course of untiring literary occupation. The excitement of a political contest at Leeds, during a general parliamentary election, completed the physical prostration of the poet; he removed from Leeds to Knaresborough, and from thence to Laverock Bank, near Edinburgh, the residence of his friend Mr Johnstone. His case was hopeless; after lingering a short period in a state of entire prostration, he departed this life in December 1837, in his twenty-fourth year. His remains, attended by a numerous assemblage, were consigned to the churchyard of North Leith.

Possessed of strong poetical genius, Robert Nicoll has attained a conspicuous and honoured niche in the temple of the national minstrelsy. Several of his songs, especially "Bonnie Bessie Lee" and "Ordé Braes," have obtained an equal popularity with the best songs of Burns. Since the period of his death, four different editions of his "Poems" have been called for. The work has latterly been published by the Messrs Blackie of Glasgow in a handsome form, prefaced by an interesting memoir. Nicoll's strain is eminently smooth and simple; and, though many of his lyrics published after his decease had not the benefit of his revision, he never falls into mediocrity. Of extensive sympathies, he portrays the loves, hopes, and fears of the human heart; while he depicts nature only in her loveliness. His sentiments breathe a devoted and simple piety, the index of an unblemished life. In person Nicoll was rather above the middle height, with a slight stoop. His countenance, which was of a sanguine complexion, was thoughtful and pleasing; his eyes were of a deep blue, and his hair dark brown. In society he was modest and unobtrusive, but was firm and uncompromising in the maintenance of his opinions. His political views were founded on the belief that the industrial classes had suffered oppression from the aristocracy. The solace of his hours of leisure were the songs and music of his country. He married shortly prior to his decease, but was not long survived by his widow. A monument to his memory, towards which nearly £100 has lately been subscribed, is about to be erected on the Ordé Braes, in his native parish.

ORDÉ BRAES.

There 's nae hame like the hame o' youth,
Nae ither spot sae fair;
Nae ither faces look sae kind
As the smilin' faces there.
An' I ha'e sat by mony streams,
Ha'e travell'd mony ways;
But the fairest spot on the earth to me
Is on bonnie Ordé Braes.

An ell-lang wee thing then I ran
Wi' the ither neeber bairns,
To pu' the hazel's shining nuts,
An' to wander 'mang the ferns;
An' to feast on the bramble-berries brown,
An' gather the glossy slaes,
By the burnie's side, an' aye sinsyne
I ha'e loved sweet Ordé Braes.

The memories o' my father's hame,
An' its kindly dwellers a',
O' the friends I loved wi' a young heart's love
Ere care that heart could thraw,
Are twined wi' the stanes o' the silver burn,
An' its fairy crooks an' bays,
That onward sang 'neath the gowden broom
Upon bonnie Ordé Braes.

Aince in a day there were happy hames
By the bonnie Ordé's side:
Nane ken how meikle peace an' love
In a straw-roof'd cot can bide.
But thae hames are gane, an' the hand o' time
The roofless wa's doth raze;
Laneness an' sweetness hand in hand
Gang ower the Ordé Braes.

Oh! an' the sun were shinin' now,
An', oh! an' I were there,
Wi' twa three friends o' auld langsyne,
My wanderin' joy to share.
For though on the hearth o' my bairnhood's hame
The flock o' the hills doth graze,
Some kind hearts live to love me yet
Upon bonnie Ordé Braes.

THE MUIR O' GORSE AND BROOM.

I winna bide in your castle ha's,
Nor yet in your lofty towers;
My heart is sick o' your gloomy hame,
An' sick o' your darksome bowers;
An' oh! I wish I were far awa'
Frae their grandeur an' their gloom,
Where the freeborn lintie sings its sang
On the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom.

Sae weel as I like the healthfu' gale,
That blaws fu' kindly there,
An' the heather brown, an' the wild blue-bell
That wave on the muirland bare;
An' the singing birds, an' the humming bees,
An' the little lochs that toom
Their gushing burns to the distant sea
O'er the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom.

Oh! if I had a dwallin' there,
Biggit laigh by a burnie's side,
Where ae aik tree, in the summer time,
Wi' its leaves that hame might hide;
Oh! I wad rejoice frae day to day,
As blithe as a young bridegroom;
For dearer than palaces to me
Is the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom!

In a lanely cot on a muirland wild,
My mither nurtured me;
O' the meek wild-flowers I playmates made,
An' my hame wi' the wandering bee.
An', oh! if I were far awa'
Frae your grandeur an' your gloom,
Wi' them again, an' the bladden gale,
On the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom.

THE BONNIE HIELAND HILLS.

Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills,
Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills,
The bonnie hills o' Scotland O!
The bonnie Hieland hills.

There are lands on the earth where the vine ever blooms,
Where the air that is breathed the sweet orange perfumes;
But mair dear is the blast the lane shepherd that chills
As it wantons along o'er our ain Hieland hills.
Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills.

There are rich garden lands wi' their skies ever fair;
But o' riches or beauty we mak na our care;
Wherever we wander ae vision aye fills
Our hearts to the burstin'--our ain Hieland hills.
Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills.

In our lone and deep valleys fair maidens there are,
Though born in the midst o' the elements' war;
O sweet are the damsels that sing by our rills,
As they dash to the sea frae our ain Hieland hills.
Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills.

On the moss-cover'd rock wi' their broadswords in hand,
To fight for fair freedom, their sons ever stand;
A storm-nursed bold spirit each warm bosom fills,
That guards frae a' danger our ain Hieland hills.
Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills,
Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills;
The bonnie hills o' Scotland O!
The bonnie Hieland hills.

THE BONNIE ROWAN BUSH.

The bonnie rowan bush
In yon lane glen,
Where the burnie clear doth gush
In yon lane glen;
My head is white and auld,
An' my bluid is thin an' cauld;
But I lo'e the bonnie rowan bush
In yon lane glen.

My Jeanie first I met
In yon lane glen,
When the grass wi' dew was wet
In yon lane glen;
The moon was shining sweet,
An' our hearts wi' love did beat,
By the bonnie, bonnie rowan bush
In yon lane glen.

Oh! she promised to be mine,
In yon lane glen;
Her heart she did resign,
In yon lane glen;
An' mony a happy day
Did o'er us pass away,
Beside the bonnie rowan bush
In yon lane glen.

Sax bonnie bairns had we
In yon lane glen--
Lads an' lassies young an' spree,
In yon lane glen;
An' a blither family
Than ours there cou'dna be,
Beside the bonnie rowan bush
In yon lane glen.

Now my auld wife's gane awa'
Frae yon lane glen,
An' though summer sweet doth fa'
On yon lane glen--
To me its beauty's gane,
For, alake! I sit alane
Beside the bonnie rowan bush
In yon lane glen.

BONNIE BESSIE LEE.

Bonnie Bessie Lee had a face fu' o' smiles,
And mirth round her ripe lip was aye dancing slee;
And light was the footfa', and winsome the wiles,
O' the flower o' the parochin, our ain Bessie Lee!
Wi' the bairns she would rin, and the school laddies paik,
And o'er the broomy braes like a fairy would flee,
Till auld hearts grew young again wi' love for her sake--
There was life in the blithe blink o' bonnie Bessie Lee!

She grat wi' the waefu', and laughed wi' the glad,
And light as the wind 'mang the dancers was she;
And a tongue that could jeer, too, the little limmer had,
Whilk keepit aye her ain side for bonnie Bessie Lee!
She could sing like the lintwhite that sports 'mang the whins,
An' sweet was her note as the bloom to the bee--
It has aft thrilled my heart whaur our wee burnie rins,
Where a' thing grew fairer wi' bonnie Bessie Lee.[27]

And she whiles had a sweetheart, and sometimes had twa,
A limmer o' a lassie; but atween you and me,
Her warm wee bit heartie she ne'er threw awa',
Though mony a ane had sought it frae bonnie Bessie Lee.
But ten years had gane since I gazed on her last--
For ten years had parted my auld hame and me--
And I said to mysel', as her mither's door I passed,
Will I ever get anither kiss frae bonnie Bessie Lee?

But Time changes a' thing--the ill-natured loon!
Were it ever sae rightly, he 'll no let it be;
And I rubbit at my e'en, and I thought I would swoon,
How the carle had come roun' about our ain Bessie Lee!
The wee laughing lassie was a gudewife grown auld,
Twa weans at her apron, and ane on her knee,
She was douce too, and wise-like--and wisdom's sae cauld;
I would rather hae the ither ane than this Bessie Lee.

FOOTNOTES:

[27] The last four lines of this stanza are not the production of Nicoll, but have been contributed for the present work by Mr Alexander Wilson, of Perth. The insertion of the lines prevents the occurrence of a half stanza, which has hitherto interfered with the singing of this popular song.

ARCHIBALD STIRLING IRVING.

Archibald Stirling Irving was born in Edinburgh on the 18th of December 1816. His father, John Irving, Writer to the Signet, was the intimate early friend of Sir Walter Scott, and is "the prosperous gentleman" referred to in the general Introduction to the Waverley Novels. Having a delicate constitution, young Irving was unable to follow any regular profession, but devoted himself, when health permitted, to the concerns of literature. He made himself abundantly familiar with the Latin classics, and became intimately conversant with the more distinguished British poets. Possessed of a remarkably retentive memory, he could repeat some of the longest poems in the language. Receiving a handsome annuity from his father, he resided in various of the more interesting localities of Scottish scenery, some of which he celebrated in verse. He published anonymously, in 1841, a small volume of "Original Songs," of which the song selected for the present work may be regarded as a favourable specimen. He died at Newmills, near Ardrossan, on the 20th September 1851, in his thirty-fifth year. Some time before his death, he exclusively devoted himself to serious reflection and Scriptural reading. He married in October 1850, and his widow still survives.

THE WILD-ROSE BLOOMS.

TUNE--_"Caledonia."_

The wild-rose blooms in Drummond woods,
The trees are blossom'd fair,
The lake is smiling to the sun,
And Mary wand'ring there.
The powers that watch'd o'er Mary's birth
Did nature's charms despoil;
They stole for her the rose's blush,
The sweet lake's dimpled smile.

The lily for her breast they took,
Nut-brown her locks appear;
But when they came to make her eyes,
They robb'd the starry sphere.
But cruel sure was their design,
Or mad-like their device--
For while they filled her eyes with fire,
They made her heart of ice.

ALEXANDER A. RITCHIE.[28]

Alexander Abernethy Ritchie, author of "The Wells o' Wearie," was born in the Canongate, Edinburgh, in 1816. In early youth he evinced a lively appreciation of the humorous and the pathetic, and exhibited remarkable artistic talent, sketching from nature with fidelity and ease. His parents being in humble circumstances, he was apprenticed as a house-painter, and soon became distinguished for his skill in the decorative branch of his profession. On the expiry of his apprenticeship, he cultivated painting in a higher department of the art, and his pictures held a highly respectable place at the annual exhibitions of the Scottish Academy. Among his pictures which became favourites may be mentioned the "Wee Raggit Laddie," "The Old Church Road," "The Gaberlunzie," "Tak' your Auld Cloak about ye," and "The Captive Truant." His illustrations of his friend, Mr James Ballantine's works, "The Gaberlunzie's Wallet" and "The Miller of Deanhaugh," and of some other popular works, evince a lively fancy and keen appreciation of character. He executed a number of water-colour sketches of the more picturesque and interesting lanes and alleys of Edinburgh; and contributed to the _Illustrated London News_ representations of remarkable events as they occurred in the Scottish capital. He died suddenly at St John's Hill, Canongate, Edinburgh, in 1850, in the thirty-fourth year of his age. Ritchie was possessed of a vast fund of humour, and was especially esteemed for the simplicity of his manners and his kindly dispositions. He excelled in reading poetry, whether dramatic or descriptive, and sung his own songs with intense feeling. He lived with his aged mother, whom he regarded with dutiful affection, and who survives to lament his loss. Shortly before his death he composed the following hymn, which has been set to appropriate music:--

Father of blissfulness,
Grant me a resting-place
Now my sad spirit is longing for rest.
Lord, I beseech Thee,
Deign Thou to teach me
Which path to heaven is surest and best:
Lonely and dreary,
Laden and weary,
Oh! for a home in the land of the blest!

Father of holiness,
Look on my lowliness;
From this sad bondage, O Lord, set me free;
Grant that, 'mid love and peace,
Sorrow and sin may cease,
While in the Saviour my trust it shall be.
When Death's sleep comes o'er me,
On waking--before me
The portals of glory all open I 'll see.

FOOTNOTES:

[28] We are indebted to Mr James Ballantine, of Edinburgh, for the particulars contained in this memoir.

THE WELLS O' WEARIE.

AIR--_"Bonnie House o' Airlie."_

Sweetly shines the sun on auld Edinbro' toun,
And mak's her look young and cheerie;
Yet I maun awa' to spend the afternoon
At the lanesome Wells o' Wearie.

And you maun gang wi' me, my winsome Mary Grieve,
There 's nought in the world to fear ye;
For I ha'e ask'd your minnie, and she has gi'en ye leave
To gang to the Wells o' Wearie.

Oh, the sun winna blink in thy bonnie blue e'en,
Nor tinge the white brow o' my dearie,
For I 'll shade a bower wi' rashes lang and green
By the lanesome Wells o' Wearie.

But, Mary, my love, beware ye dinna glower
At your form in the water sae clearly,
Or the fairy will change you into a wee, wee flower,
And you 'll grow by the Wells o' Wearie.

Yestreen as I wander'd there a' alane,
I felt unco douf and drearie,
For wanting my Mary, a' around me was but pain
At the lanesome Wells o' Wearie.

Let fortune or fame their minions deceive,
Let fate look gruesome and eerie;
True glory and wealth are mine wi' Mary Grieve,
When we meet by the Wells o' Wearie.

Then gang wi' me, my bonnie Mary Grieve,
Nae danger will daur to come near ye;
For I ha'e ask'd your minnie, and she has gi'en ye leave,
To gang to the Wells o' Wearie.

ALEXANDER LAING.

One of the simplest and most popular of the living national song-writers, Alexander Laing, was born at Brechin on the 14th May 1787. His father, James Laing, was an agricultural labourer. With the exception of two winters' schooling, he was wholly self-taught. Sent to tend cattle so early as his eighth year, he regularly carried books and writing-materials with him to the fields. His books were procured by the careful accumulation of the halfpence bestowed on him by the admirers of his juvenile tastes. In his sixteenth year, he entered on the business of a flax-dresser, in his native town--an occupation in which he was employed for a period of fourteen years. He afterwards engaged in mercantile concerns, and has latterly retired from business. He now resides at Upper Tenements, Brechin, in the enjoyment of a well-earned competency.

Mr Laing early wrote verses. In 1819, several songs from his pen appeared in the "Harp of Caledonia"--a respectable collection of minstrelsy, edited by John Struthers. He subsequently became a contributor to the "Harp of Renfrewshire" and the "Scottish Minstrel," edited by R. A. Smith. His lyrics likewise adorn the pages of Robertson's "Whistle Binkie" and the "Book of Scottish Song." He published, in 1846, a collected edition of his poems and songs, in a duodecimo volume, under the designation of "Wayside Flowers." A second edition appeared in 1850. He has been an occasional contributor to the local journals; furnished a number of anecdotes for the "Laird of Logan," a humorous publication of the west of Scotland; and has compiled some useful elementary works for the use of Sabbath-schools. His lyrics are uniformly pervaded by graceful simplicity, and the chief themes of his inspiration are love and patriotism. Than his song entitled "My Ain Wife," we do not know a lay more beautifully simple. His "Hopeless Exile" is the perfection of tenderness.

AE HAPPY HOUR.

AIR--_"The Cock Laird."_

The dark gray o' gloamin',
The lone leafy shaw,
The coo o' the cushat,
The scent o' the haw;
The brae o' the burnie,
A' bloomin' in flower,
An' twa' faithfu' lovers,
Make ae happy hour.

A kind winsome wifie,
A clean canty hame,
An' smilin' sweet babies
To lisp the dear name;
Wi' plenty o' labour,
An' health to endure,
Make time to row round aye
The ae happy hour.

Ye lost to affection,
Whom avarice can move
To woo an' to marry
For a' thing but love;
Awa' wi' your sorrows,
Awa' wi' your store,
Ye ken na the pleasure
O' ae happy hour.

LASS, GIN YE WAD LO'E ME.

AIR--_"Lass, gin I come near you."_

"Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me,
Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me,
Ye'se be ladye o' my ha',
Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me.
A canty but, a cosie ben,
Weel plenish'd ye may trow me;
A brisk, a blithe, a kind gudeman--
Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me!"

"Walth, there 's little doubt ye ha'e,
An' bidin' bein an' easy;
But brisk an' blithe ye canna be,
An' you sae auld an' crazy.
Wad marriage mak' you young again?
Wad woman's love renew you?
Awa', ye silly doitet man,
I canna, winna lo'e you!"

"Witless hizzie, e'en 's you like,
The ne'er a doit I 'm carin';
But men maun be the first to speak,
An' wanters maun be speerin'.
Yet, lassie, I ha'e lo'ed you lang,
An' now I'm come to woo you;
I 'm no sae auld as clashes gang,
I think you 'd better lo'e me."

"Doitet bodie! auld or young,
Ye needna langer tarry,
Gin ane be loutin' o'er a rung,
He 's no for me to marry.
Gae hame an' ance bethink yoursel'
How ye wad come to woo me,
An' mind me i' your latter-will,
Bodie, gin ye lo'e me!"

LASS OF LOGIE.

AIR--_"Lass of Arranteenie."_

I 've seen the smiling summer flower
Amang the braes of Yarrow;
I 've heard the raving winter wind
Amang the hills of Barra;
I 've wander'd Scotland o'er and o'er,
Frae Teviot to Strathbogie;
But the bonniest lass that I ha'e seen
Is bonnie Jean of Logie.

Her lips were like the heather bloom,
In meekest dewy morning;
Her cheeks were like the ruddy leaf,
The bloomy brier adorning;
Her brow was like the milky flower
That blossoms in the bogie;
And love was laughing in her een--
The bonnie lass of Logie.

I said, "My lassie, come wi' me,
My hand, my hame are ready;
I ha'e a lairdship of my ain,
And ye shall be my ladye.
I 've ilka thing baith out and in,
To make you blithe and vogie;"
She hung her head and sweetly smiled--
The bonnie lass of Logie!

But she has smiled, and fate has frown'd,
And wrung my heart with sorrow;
The bonnie lass sae dear to me
Can never be my marrow.
For, ah! she loves another lad--
The ploughman wi' his cogie;
Yet happy, happy may she be,
The bonnie lass of Logie!

MY AIN WIFE.

AIR--_"John Anderson, my Jo."_

I wadna gi'e my ain wife
For ony wife I see;
For, Oh! my dainty ain wife,
She 's aye sae dear to me.
A bonnier yet I 've never seen,
A better canna be;
I wadna gi'e my ain wife
For ony wife I see.

Though beauty is a fadin' flower,
As fadin' as it 's fair,
It looks fu' well in ony wife,
An' mine has a' her share.
She ance was ca'd a bonnie lass--
She 's bonnie aye to me;
I wadna gi'e my ain wife
For ony wife I see.

Oh, couthy is my ingle-cheek,
An' cheery is my Jean;
I never see her angry look,
Nor hear her word on ane.
She 's gude wi' a' the neebours roun',
An' aye gude wi' me;
I wadna gi'e my ain wife
For ony wife I see.

But Oh, her looks sae kindly,
They melt my heart outright,
When ower the baby at her breast
She hangs wi' fond delight.
She looks intill its bonnie face,
An' syne looks to me;
I wadna gi'e my ain wife
For ony wife I see.

THE MAID O' MONTROSE.

AIR--_"O tell me the Way for to Woo."_

O sweet is the calm dewy gloaming,
When saftly by Rossie-wood brae,
The merle an' mavis are hymning
The e'en o' the lang summer's day!
An' sweet are the moments when o'er the blue ocean,
The full moon arising in majesty glows;
An' I, breathing o'er ilka tender emotion,
Wi' my lovely Mary, the Maid o' Montrose.

The fopling sae fine an' sae airy,
Sae fondly in love wi' himsel',
Is proud wi' his ilka new dearie,
To shine at the fair an' the ball;
But gie me the grove where the broom's yellow blossom
Waves o'er the white lily an' red smiling rose,
An' ae bonnie lassie to lean on my bosom--
My ain lovely Mary, the Maid o' Montrose.

O what is the haill warld's treasure,
Gane nane o' its pleasures we prove?
An' where can we taste o' true pleasure,
Gin no wi' the lassie we love?
O sweet are the smiles an' the dimples o' beauty,
Where lurking the loves an' the graces repose;
An' sweet is the form an' the air o' the pretty,
But sweeter is Mary, the Maid o' Montrose.

O Mary, 'tis no for thy beauty,
Though few are sae bonnie as thee;
O Mary, 'tis no for thy beauty,
Though handsome as woman can be.
The rose bloom is gane when the chill autumn's low'ring;
The aik's stately form when the wild winter blows;
But the charms o' the mind are the ties mair enduring--
These bind me to Mary, the Maid o' Montrose.

JEAN OF ABERDEEN.

AIR--_"Miss Forbes's Farewell to Banff."_

Ye 've seen the blooming rosy brier,
On stately Dee's wild woody knowes;
Ye 've seen the op'ning lily fair,
In streamy Don's gay broomy howes:
An' ilka bonnie flower that grows,
Amang their banks and braes sae green--
These borrow a' their finest hues
Frae lovely Jean of Aberdeen.

Ye 've seen the dew-ey'd bloomy haw,
When morning gilds the welkin high;
Ye 've heard the breeze o' summer blaw,
When e'ening steals alang the sky.
But brighter far is Jeanie's eye,
When we 're amang the braes alane,
An' softer is the bosom-sigh
Of lovely Jean of Aberdeen.

Though I had a' the valleys gay,
Around the airy Bennochie;
An' a' the fleecy flocks that stray
Amang the lofty hills o' Dee;
While Mem'ry lifts her melting ee,
An' Hope unfolds her fairy scene,
My heart wi' them I'd freely gie
To lovely Jean of Aberdeen.

THE HOPELESS EXILE.

AIR--_"Alas! for Poor Teddy Macshane."_

Oh! where has the exile his home?
Oh! where has the exile his home?
Where the mountain is steep,
Where the valley is deep,
Where the waves of the Ohio foam;
Where no cheering smile
His woes may beguile--
Oh! there has the exile his home.

Oh! when will the exile return?
Oh! when will the exile return?
When our hearts heave no sigh,
When our tears shall be dry,
When Erin no longer shall mourn;
When his name we disown,
When his mem'ry is gone--
Oh! then will the exile return!

GLEN-NA-H'ALBYN.[29]

AIR--_"O rest thee, my Darling."_

On the airy Ben-Nevis the wind is awake,
The boat 's on the shallow, the ship on the lake;
Ah! now in a moment my country I leave;
The next I am far away--far on the wave!
Oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, Glen-na-h'Albyn!
Oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, Glen-na-h'Albyn!

I was proud of the power and the fame of my chief,
And to build up his House was the aim of my life;
And now in his greatness he turns me away,
When my strength is decay'd and my locks worn gray.
Oh! fare thee well!

Farewell the gray stones of my ancestors' graves,
I go to my place 'neath the foam of the waves;
Or to die unlamented on Canada's shore,
Where none of my fathers were gathered before!
Oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, Glen-na-h'Albyn!
Oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, Glen-na-h'Albyn!

FOOTNOTES:

[29] "Glen-na-h'Albyn, or Glen-more-na-h'Albyn, the great Glen of Caledonia, is a name applied to the valley which runs in a direction from north-east to south-west, the whole breadth of the kingdom, from the Moray Firth at Inverness to the Sound of Mull below Fort-William, and is almost filled with lakes."

ALEXANDER CARLILE.

Alexander Carlile was born at Paisley in the year 1788. His progenitors are said to have been remarkable for their acquaintance with the arts, and relish for elegant literature. His eldest brother, the late Dr Carlile of Dublin attained much eminence as a profound thinker and an accomplished theologian. Having received a liberal education, first at the grammar-school of Paisley, and afterwards in the University of Glasgow, the subject of this sketch settled as a manufacturer in his native town. Apart from the avocations of business, much of his time has been devoted to the concerns of literature; he has contributed to the more esteemed periodicals, and composed verses for several works on the national minstrelsy. At an early period he composed the spirited and popular song, beginning "Oh, wha's at the window, wha, wha?" which has since obtained a place in all the collections. His only separate publication, a duodecimo volume of "Poems," appeared in 1855, and has been favourably received. Mr Carlile is much devoted to the interests of his native town, and has sedulously endeavoured to promote the moral and social welfare of his fellow-townsmen. His unobtrusive worth and elegant accomplishments have endeared him to a wide circle of friends. His latter poetical compositions have been largely pervaded by religious sentiment.

WHA'S AT THE WINDOW?[30]

Oh, wha's at the window, wha, wha?
Oh, wha's at the window, wha, wha?
Wha but blithe Jamie Glen,
He 's come sax miles and ten,
To tak' bonnie Jeannie awa, awa,
To tak' bonnie Jeannie awa.

He has plighted his troth, and a', and a',
Leal love to gi'e, and a', and a',
And sae has she dune,
By a' that 's abune,
For he lo'es her, she lo'es him, 'bune a', 'bune a',
He lo'es her, she lo'es him, 'bune a'.

Bridal-maidens are braw, braw,
Bridal-maidens are braw, braw,
But the bride's modest e'e,
And warm cheek are to me
'Bune pearlins, and brooches, and a', and a',
'Bune pearlins, and brooches, and a'.

It 's mirth on the green, in the ha', the ha',
It 's mirth on the green, in the ha', the ha';
There 's quaffing and laughing,
There 's dancing and daffing,
And the bride's father 's blithest of a', of a',
The bride's father 's blithest of a'.

It 's no that she 's Jamie's ava, ava,
It 's no that she 's Jamie's ava, ava,
That my heart is sae eerie
When a' the lave 's cheerie,
But it 's just that she 'll aye be awa, awa,
It 's just that she 'll aye be awa.

FOOTNOTES:

[30] The title of this song seems to have been suggested by that of a ballad recovered by Cromek, and published in his "Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song," p. 219. The first line of the old ballad runs thus: "Oh, who is this under my window."--ED.

MY BROTHERS ARE THE STATELY TREES.

My brothers are the stately trees
That in the forests grow;
The simple flowers my sisters are,
That on the green bank blow.
With them, with them, I am a child
Whose heart with mirth is dancing wild.

The daisy, with its tear of joy,
Gay greets me as I stray;
How sweet a voice of welcome comes
From every trembling spray!
How light, how bright, the golden-wing'd hours
I spend among those songs and flowers!

I love the Spirit of the Wind,
His varied tones I know;
His voice of soothing majesty,
Of love and sobbing woe;
Whate'er his varied theme may be,
With his my spirit mingles free.

I love to tread the grass-green path,
Far up the winding stream;
For there in nature's loneliness,
The day is one bright dream.
And still the pilgrim waters tell
Of wanderings wild by wood and dell.

Or up the mountain's brow I toil
Beneath a wid'ning sky,
Seas, forests, lakes, and rivers wide,
Crowding the wondering eye.
Then, then, my soul on eagle's wings,
To cloudless regions upwards springs!

The stars--the stars! I know each one,
With all its soul of love,
They beckon me to come and live
In their tearless homes above;
And then I spurn earth's songs and flowers,
And pant to breathe in heaven's own bowers.

THE VALE OF KILLEAN.

O yes, there 's a valley as calm and as sweet
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;
So bland in its beauty, so rich in its green,
'Mid Scotia's dark mountains--the Vale of Killean.

The flocks on its soft lap so peacefully roam,
The stream seeks the deep lake as the child seeks its home,
That has wander'd all day, to its lullaby close,
Singing blithe 'mid the wild-flowers, and fain would repose.

How solemn the broad hills that curtain around
This sanctuary of nature, 'mid a wilderness found,
Whose echoes low whisper, "Bid the world farewell,
And with lowly contentment here peacefully dwell!"

Then build me a cot by that lake's verdant shore,
'Mid the world's wild turmoil I 'll mingle no more,
And the tidings evoking the sigh and the tear,
Of man's crimes and his follies, no more shall I hear.

Young Morn, as on tiptoe he ushers the day,
Will teach fading Hope to rekindle her ray;
And pale Eve, with her rapture tear, soft will impart
To the soul her own meekness--a rich glow to the heart.

The heavings of passion all rocked to sweet rest,
As repose its still waters, so repose shall this breast;
And 'mid brightness and calmness my spirit shall rise,
Like the mist from the mountain to blend with the skies.

JOHN NEVAY.

John Nevay, the bard of Forfar, was born in that town on the 28th of January 1792. He was educated at the schools of his native place, and considerably improved himself in classical learning, at an early age, under the tuition of Mr James Clarke, sometime master of the Burgh School, and the friend and correspondent of Burns. Fond of solitary rambles in the country, he began, while a mere youth, to portray in verse his impressions of the scenery which he was in the habit of surveying. He celebrated the green fields, the lochs and mountains near the scene of his nativity, and was rewarded with the approving smiles of the family circle. Acquiring facility in the production of verses, he was at length induced to venture on a publication. In 1818 he gave to the world a "Pamphlet of Rhymes," which, obtaining a ready sale, induced him to publish a second small collection of verses in 1821. After an interval devoted to mental improvement, he appeared, in 1834, as the author of "The Peasant, a Poem in Nine Cantos, with other Poems," in one volume, 12mo. In the following year he published "The Child of Nature, and other Poems," in a thin duodecimo volume. In 1853 he printed, by subscription, a third volume, entitled "Rosaline's Dream, in Four Duans, and other Poems," which was accompanied with an introductory essay by the Rev. George Gilfillan. His latest production--"The Fountain of the Rock, a Poem"--appeared in a pamphlet form, in 1855. He has repeatedly written prose tales for the periodicals, and has contributed verses to _Blackwood's Magazine_ and the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_.

From the labour of a long career of honourable industry, John Nevay is now enjoying the pleasures of retirement. He continues to compose verses with undiminished ardour, and has several MS. poems ready for the press. He has also prepared a lengthened autobiography. As a poet, his prevailing themes are the picturesque objects of nature. His lyrical pieces somewhat lack simplicity. His best production--"The Emigrant's Love-letter"--will maintain a place in the national minstrelsy. It was composed during the same week with Motherwell's "Jeanie Morrison," which it so peculiarly resembles both in expression and sentiment.

THE EMIGRANT'S LOVE-LETTER.

My young heart's luve! twal' years ha'e been
A century to me;
I ha'e na seen thy smile, nor heard
Thy voice's melodie.
The mony hardships I ha'e tholed
Sin' I left Larocklea,
I maun na tell, for it would bring
The saut tear in thine e'e.

But I ha'e news, an' happy news,
To tell unto my love--
What I ha'e won, to me mair dear
That it my heart can prove.
Its thochts unchanged, still it is true,
An' surely sae is thine;
Thou never, never canst forget
That twa waur ane langsyne.

The simmer sun blinks on the tarn,
An' on the primrose brae,
Where we, in days o' innocence,
Waur wont to daff an' play;
An' I amang the mossy springs
Wade for the hinny blooms--
To thee the rush tiara wove,
Bedeck'd wi' lily plumes.

When on the ferny knowe we sat,
A happy, happy pair--
Thy comely cheek laid on my knee,
I plaited thy gowden hair.
Oh! then I felt the holiest thocht
That e'er enter'd my mind--
It, Mary, was to be to thee
For ever true an' kind.

Though fair the flowers that bloom around
My dwallin' owre the sea--
Though bricht the streams, an' green the bowers,
They are na _sae_ to me.
I hear the bulbul's mellow leed
Upo' the gorgeous paum--
The sweet cheep o' the feather'd bee
Amang the fields o' baum.

But there are nae auld Scotland's burds,
Sae dear to childhood's days--
The laverock, lintie, shulf, an' yyoite,
That taught us luve's sweet lays.
Gin' thou e'er wauk'st alane to think
On him that's owre the sea,
Their cheerfu' saft luve-lilts will tell
My heart's luve-thochts to thee.

Lat joy be in thy leal, true heart,
An' bricht smile in thine e'e--
The bonnie bark is in the bay,
I 'm coming hame to thee;
I 'm coming hame to thee, Mary,
Wi' mony a pearl fine,
An' I will lay them in thy lap,
For the kiss o' sweet langsyne.

THOMAS LYLE.

Thomas Lyle, author of the highly popular song, "Kelvin Grove," is a native of Paisley. Attending the philosophical and medical classes in the University of Glasgow, he obtained the diploma of surgeon in the year 1816. He commenced medical practice in Glasgow, where he remained till 1826, when he removed to the parish of Airth in Stirlingshire. The latter locality afforded him abundant opportunities for prosecuting his favourite study of botany; and he frequently proceeded at early dawn to great distances in quest of curious or rare plants, so as to gratify his peculiar tastes without interfering with the duties of his profession, or the conveniences of his patients. At an earlier period of life, having cherished a love for the ancient national music, he was in the habit of collecting and noting such of the older airs as were rapidly passing into oblivion. He was particularly struck with one of these airs, which he deemed worthy of more suitable words than those to which it was commonly sung.[31] At this period he often resorted, in his botanical rambles, to the wooded and sequestered banks of the Kelvin, about two miles north-west of Glasgow;[32] and in consequence, he was led to compose for his favourite tune the words of his beautiful song, "Kelvin Grove." "The Harp of Renfrewshire" was now in the course of being published, in sixpence numbers, under the editorship of his college friend and professional brother, John Sim, and to this work he contributed his new song. In a future number of the work, the song appeared without his name, as was requested, but with some unauthorised alterations. Of these he complained to Mr Sim, who laid the blame on Mr John Murdoch, who had succeeded him in the editorship, and Mr Lyle did not further prosecute inquiry on the subject. On the retirement of Mr Murdoch, the editorship of "The Harp of Renfrewshire" was intrusted to the poet Motherwell, who incautiously ascribed the song to Mr Sim in the index of the work. Sim died in the West Indies before this period;[33] and, in the belief that the song had been composed by him, Mr Purdie, music-seller in Edinburgh, made purchase of the copyright from his representatives, and published the words, with music arranged for the piano by Robert Archibald Smith. Mr Lyle now asserted his title to the authorship, and on Mr Sim's letter regarding the alterations being submitted to Messrs Motherwell and Smith, a decision in favour of his claim was pronounced by these gentlemen. Mr Lyle was shortly after invited by Mr Smith to contribute songs for the "Irish Minstrel," one of his numerous musical publications.

In 1827 Mr Lyle published the results of his researches into the song literature of his country, in a duodecimo volume, entitled "Ancient Ballads and Songs, chiefly from Tradition, Manuscripts, and scarce Works, with Biographical and Illustrative Notices." Of this work, the more interesting portion consists of "Miscellaneous Poems, by Sir William Mure, Knight of Rowallan," together with several songs of various merit by the editor.

Having acted as medical practitioner at Airth during the period of twenty-eight years, Mr Lyle, in the close of 1853, returned to Glasgow, where he soon found himself actively employed by the medical boards of the city during the prevalence of the Asiatic Cholera. At the present time he is one of the city district surgeons. A man of the most retiring dispositions, he has hitherto avoided public reputation, and has written verses, as he has studied botany, solely for his amusement. He will, however, be remembered as the writer of some exquisitely sweet and simple lyrics.

FOOTNOTES:

[31] The former words to this air commenced, "Oh, the shearing's no for you, bonnie lassie, O!"

[32] The wooded scenery of the Kelvin will in a few years be included within the boundaries of the city, which has already extended within a very limited space of the "grove" celebrated in the song.

[33] See vol. iii., p. 226.

KELVIN GROVE.

Let us haste to Kelvin Grove, bonnie lassie, O!
Through its mazes let us rove, bonnie lassie, O!
Where the rose in all her pride,
Paints the hollow dingle side,
Where the midnight fairies glide, bonnie lassie, O!

Let us wander by the mill, bonnie lassie, O!
To the cove beside the rill, bonnie lassie, O!
Where the glens rebound the call
Of the roaring water's fall,
Through the mountains rocky hall, bonnie lassie, O!

O Kelvin banks are fair, bonnie lassie, O!
When in summer we are there, bonnie lassie, O!
There the May pink's crimson plume
Throws a soft but sweet perfume
Round the yellow banks of broom, bonnie lassie, O!

Though I dare not call thee mine, bonnie lassie, O!
As the smile of fortune 's thine, bonnie lassie, O!
Yet with fortune on my side,
I could stay thy father's pride,
And win thee for my bride, bonnie lassie, O!

But the frowns of fortune lower, bonnie lassie, O!
On thy lover at this hour, bonnie lassie, O!
Ere yon golden orb of day
Wake the warblers on the spray,
From this land I must away, bonnie lassie, O!

Then farewell to Kelvin grove, bonnie lassie, O!
And adieu to all I love, bonnie lassie, O!
To the river winding clear,
To the fragrant-scented breer,
Even to thee of all most dear, bonnie lassie, O!

When upon a foreign shore, bonnie lassie, O!
Should I fall midst battle's roar, bonnie lassie, O!
Then, Helen! shouldst thou hear
Of thy lover on his bier,
To his memory shed a tear, bonnie lassie, O!

THE TRYSTING HOUR.

The night-wind's Eolian breezes,
Chase melody over the grove,
The fleecy clouds wreathing in tresses,
Float rosy the woodlands above;
Then tarry no longer, my true love,
The stars hang their lamps in the sky,
'Tis lovely the landscape to view, love,
When each bloom has a tear in its eye.

So stilly the evening is closing,
Bright dew-drops are heard as they fall,
Eolian whispers reposing
Breathe softly, I hear my love call;
Yes, the light fairy step of my true love
The night breeze is wafting to me;
Over heathbell and violet blue, love,
Perfuming the shadowy lea.

HARVEST SONG.[34]

The harvest morning breaks
Breathing balm, and the lawn
Through the mist in rosy streaks
Gilds the dawn,
While fairy troops descend,
With the rolling clouds that bend
O'er the forest as they wend
Fast away, when the day
Chases cloudy wreaths away
From the land.

The harvest breezes swell,
And the song pours along,
From the reapers in the dell,
Joyous throng!
The tiny gleaners come,
Picking up their harvest home,
As they o'er the stubble roam,
Dancing here, sporting there,
All the balmy sunny air
Is full of song.

The harvest evening falls,
While each flower round the bower,
Breathing odour, now recalls
The lover's hour.
The moon enthroned in blue
Lights the rippling lake anew,
And the wailing owls' whoo! whoo!
From the glen again, again,
Wakes the stillness of the scene
On my adieu.

FOOTNOTES:

[34] Contributed by Mr Lyle to the present work.

JAMES HOME.

James Home, the author of "Mary Steel," and other popular songs, was born, early in the century, on the farm of Hollybush, about a mile south of Galashiels. During a period of about thirty years, he has been engaged in the humble capacity of a dry-stone mason in Peeblesshire. He resides in the hamlet of Rachan Mill in that county, where, in addition to his ordinary employment, he holds the office of postmaster.

Home has not ventured on a publication, and latterly has abandoned the composition of verses. In youth he was, writes a correspondent, "an enthusiast in love, music, and poetry." A number of his songs and poetical pieces, which he had addressed to friends, have long been popular in the south of Scotland. His song entitled "This Lassie o' Mine" has enjoyed an uncommon measure of general favour. His compositions are replete with pathos; he has skilfully told the lover's tale; and has most truthfully depicted the joys and sorrows, hopes and fears of human life. Some of his best pieces appear in the "Unknown Poets" of Mr Alexander Campbell,--a work which only reached a single number. Of mild dispositions, modest manners, and industrious habits, Home is much respected in private life. Of a somewhat sanguine complexion, his countenance betokens superior intellectual power. He enjoys the comfort of a suitable partner in life, and is a respected office-bearer of the Free Church congregation at Broughton.

MARY STEEL.

I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel,
When the lark begins to sing,
And a thousan', thousan' joyfu' hearts
Are welcoming the spring:
When the merle and the blackbird build their nest
In the bushy forest tree,
And a' things under the sky seem blest,
My thoughts shall be o' thee.

I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel,
When the simmer spreads her flowers,
And the lily blooms and the ivy twines
In beauty round the bowers;
When the cushat coos in the leafy wood,
And the lambs sport o'er the lea,
And every heart 's in its happiest mood,
My thoughts shall be o' thee.

I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel,
When har'st blithe days begin,
And shearers ply, in the yellow ripe field,
The foremost rig to win;
When the shepherd brings his ewes to the fauld,
Where light-hair'd lasses be,
And mony a tale o' love is tauld,
My thoughts shall be o' thee.

I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel,
When the winter winds rave high,
And the tempest wild is pourin' doun
Frae the dark and troubled sky:
When a hopeless wail is heard on land,
And shrieks frae the roaring sea,
And the wreck o' nature seems at hand,
My thoughts shall be o' thee!

OH, HAST THOU FORGOTTEN?

Oh, hast thou forgotten the birk tree's shade,
And this warm, true heart o' mine, Mary?
Oh, hast thou forgotten the promise thou made,
When so fondly 't was pressed to thine, Mary?

Oh, hast thou forgotten, what I ne'er can forget,
The hours we have spent together?
Those hours which, like stars in my memory, yet
Shine on as brightly as ever!

Oh, hast thou forgotten that moment of bliss,
So fraught with the heart's full feeling?
As we clung to each other in the last embrace,
The soul of love revealing!

Oh, hast thou forgotten that sacred spot,
Where the farewell word was spoken?
Is the sigh, and the tear, and all forgot,
The vow and the promise broken?

Then for ever farewell, thou false fair one;
Though other arms caress thee,
Though a fairer youth thy heart should gain,
And a smoother tongue should bless thee:--

Yet never again on thy warm young cheek
Will breathe a soul more warm than mine,
And never again will a lover speak
Of love more pure to thine.

THE MAID OF MY HEART.

AIR--_"The Last Rose of Summer."_

When the maid of my heart, with the dark rolling eye,
The only beloved of my bosom is nigh,
I ask not of Heaven one bliss to impart,
Save that which I feel with the maid of my heart.

When around and above us there 's nought to be seen,
But the moon on the sky and the flower on the green,
And all is at rest in the glen and the hill,
Save the soul-stirring song of the breeze and the rill.

Then the maid of my heart to my bosom is press'd,
Then all I hold dear in this world is possess'd;
Then I ask not of Heaven one bliss to impart,
Save that which I feel with the maid of my heart.

SONG OF THE EMIGRANT.

Oh! the land of hills is the land for me,
Where the maiden's step is light and free;
Where the shepherd's pipe, and the hunter's horn,
Awake the joys of the rosy morn.

There 's a voice in the wind, when it comes from the lake,
That tells how the foamy billows break;
There 's a voice in the wind, when it comes from the wood,
That tells of dreary solitude.

But, oh! when it comes from the mountain fells,
Where the Spirit of Song and Freedom dwells,
Where in youth's warm day I woke that strain
I ne'er in this world can wake again.

The warm blood leaps in its wonted course,
And fresh tears gush from their briny source,
As if I had hail'd in the passing wind
The all I have loved and left behind.

THIS LASSIE O' MINE.[35]

TUNE--_"Wattie's Ramble."_

O, saw ye this sweet bonnie lassie o' mine?
Or saw ye the smile on her cheek sae divine?
Or saw ye the kind love that speaks in her e'e?
Sure naebody e'er was sae happy as me.

It 's no that she dances sae light on the green,
It 's no the simplicity marked in her mien--
But, O! it 's the kind love that speaks in her e'e
That keeps me aye happy as happy can be.

To meet her alane 'mang the green leafy trees,
When naebody kens, an' when naebody sees;
To breathe out the soul in a saft melting kiss--
On earth sure there 's naething is equal to this.

I have felt every bliss which the soul can enjoy,
When friends circle round, and nought to annoy;
I have felt every joy which illumines the breast
When the full flowing bowl is most warmly caress'd.

But, O! there 's a sweet and a heavenly charm
In life's early day, when the bosom is warm,
When soul meets with soul in a saft melting kiss,
On earth sure there 's naething is equal to this.

FOOTNOTES:

[35] This song was formerly introduced in this work (vol. ii. p. 70) as the composition of the Ettrick Shepherd. The error is not ours; we found the song in the latest or posthumous edition of the Shepherd's songs, p. 201 (Blackie, Glasgow), and we had no reason to suspect the authenticity. We have since ascertained that a copy of the song, having been handed to the Shepherd by the late Mr Peter Roger, of Peebles, Hogg, with the view of directing attention to the real author, introduced it shortly after in his _Noctes Bengerianæ_, in the "Edinburgh Literary Journal" (vol. i. p. 258). Being included in this periodical paper, the editor of his posthumous works had assumed that the song was the Shepherd's own composition. So much for uncertainty as to the authorship of our best songs!

JAMES TELFER.