Chapter XXXVI: Introduction: TO (25)

Labour at Fleurs was a twin to mirth. We were always having festivities. The duke was ingenious in devising reasons for them. Because he was Scotch by origin, he celebrated all the peculiar Scottish festivals; because he was English by residence, he celebrated all the peculiar English festivals; because in his youth the "Old Style" of computing the year was still used, he first of all held Old Year's Day, and New Year's Day, and Twelfth Night, according to the new style, and then repeated the observance all over again, according to the old style. And there was a constant succession, the whole year through, of birth-days, and the commemoration of public holidays and rejoicings.

"It was a merry place in days of yore."

Suppose summer shining in all its pride, and that labour is to enjoy one of its highest festivals at Fleurs. All work ceases at noon; and by two, the people, dressed in holiday attire, muster at the trysting-spot, and march in a body to the castle, preceded by Tam Anderson, the duke's piper, a grave, old-fashioned man, in livery of green coat and black velvet breeches--a fossil specimen he of what the Border minstrel once was, when his art was in its prime. As Tam drones away on his bagpipe "Lumps o' Puddin'," and "Brose and Butter," they take their places at three long tables, covering a large court. Three hundred workpeople and their families are there; for the duke sternly forbids any but his own people to be present. It is in vain for me, whose knowledge of cookery never extended beyond the Edinburgh student's fare of mince collops and Prestonpans beer, to attempt a description of this monster-feast--the mountains of beef and dumplings, the wilderness of pasties and tarts, the orchardfuls of fruit, the oceans of strong ale--the very fragments of which would have been enough to carry a garrison through a twelvemonth's siege. After having "satiated themselves with eating and drinking," like the large-stomached heroes of the antique world, they had an hour's interval for sauntering, that healthy digestion might have time to arrange and stow away the immense load which the vessel had just taken in. Again, however, they marshalled to the piper's warning note, playing, "Fy, let us a' to the bridal!" and this time marched to the spacious, smooth, and beautiful lawn in front of the castle, where _Givan's Band_ awaited their arrival, and the dance speedily began. The merriment now swelled to ecstacy; lads and lasses leaped through and through, as on the wings of zephyrs; a hundred couples bounding at once on the green sward; the old folks chiming in the chorus of universal laughter, and snapping their fingers to the dances in which they had no longer the strength and nimbleness to join; the youngsters getting up mimic reels in sly corners; and the music seeming to stir into delight the branches of the great elms which festooned this ball-room of nature. But was there not something awanting to complete the unity of the scene? Where was the presiding divinity?

" ... _Deus_ nobis hæc otia fecit,
Namque erit ille mihi semper deus."

Oh, for an hour past he has been watching the rustic carnival from yonder portico, with his gracious duchess (much his junior), his true help-meet in everything good, courteous, and benevolent! At length he descends into the circle, with a smile to all, a word of recognition to this one, a light airy jest at the expense of that one, and a responsive _hooch_ to the wild, whirling dancers. As he advances, all the pretty girls draw themselves up to catch his eye, and to have the honour of his hand in the dance. He strolls about, peering gently, until, in some obscure corner, he espies a young, shy, modest damsel, the lowliest there, whom no one is noticing, a lowly worker in the back kitchen, or even in the fields. Her he selects--blushing with surprise and a tumult of nameless emotions--to be Queen of the festival; he pats her on the shoulders, whispers paternal-gallant things in her ear, and calling lustily for "Tullochgorum" from the fiddlers, leads her gracefully through the dance, himself--though upwards of eighty--throwing some steps of the Highland Fling, snapping his fingers, and _hooching_ in unison with the impassioned throng of youths around him--those young stately plants who have grown up under the dew and shelter of his benign protection. When the dance is finished, kissing her on the cheek, he leads his little simple partner back to her seat, and leaves her in a delicious vision of the good old duke, who had distinguished her, sitting solitary and unnoticed, above all her companions, and placed the coronal upon her brow, queen of the festival. As he returns slowly to the castle, there is an involuntary pause in the merry-making. The musicians lay down their bows, the youths stop short in the mazes of the Bacchic dance, the spectators stand up uncovered, the subtle electric chain of love and loyalty passes between duke and people, and a grand universal "hurrah!" rings through the welkin--the outburst of gratitude, reverence, and joy. It is touching, solemn, sublime, this pause and outburst of feeling in the midst of the wild festal scene. Not a maiden there but loves him as she would a father; not a stalwart hind but, if need were, would die in defence of his old chief. "When the ear hears him, then it blesses him; and when the eye sees him, it gives witness to him; because he delivers the poor that cry, and the fatherless, and him that has none to help him. The blessing of him that is ready to perish comes upon him; and he causes the widow's heart to sing for joy. He puts on righteousness, and it clothes him; his judgment is as a robe and a diadem."

But eighty-six years are a heavy load on the shoulders even of a giant. The grasshopper at length becomes a burden to the strongest and most cheerful. News came from the Castle that our old duke was unwell, was confined to his room, then to his bed. One morning--I remember it as if yesterday--as I was walking through the court-yard with one of the farm-servants, the butler looked from a window above, shook his head mournfully, folded his arms across his breast, and bent his eyes towards the ground. We read his meaning at a glance,--"The good Duke James was dead!" For days and days the people gave way to a deep, even a passionate grief, as if each had lost a beloved father, and was left to all the loneliness and privation of an orphan's lot. The body, or rather the coffin which enclosed it, was laid out in state; and they were allowed to take a last farewell of their chief. His valet, a favourite servant, stood at the head, with his handkerchief almost constantly over his eyes, scarcely able to hide his tears. The chamber was dimly lighted, and filled with all the emblems of woe--in this case no mimicry. All walked round, slowly and solemnly--the ancients of the hamlet, the stalwart peasantry, and the women leading the children by the hand--all gazing intently on the spot where the dead lay, as if even yet to catch a glimpse of that piercing eye and benignant smile. The silence was profound, awful, but for a throbbing under-hum as of stifled breath, broken ever and anon by a sharp sob--the "hysterica passio," the "climbing sorrow," which even reverence and self-restraint could no longer keep down. The day of the funeral arrived. His remains were to be borne about twelve miles off, to Bowden, under the shadow of the three-peaked Eildons, for there the ancient vault is where lie "the race of the house of Roxburghe." The long, long line of mourning carriages I well remember; but these only spoke the general respect and commonplace regret of the neighbourhood, which are incident to such an occasion. His _people_ in their hundreds--these were his mourners! The younger and stronger of them, in one way or other, accompanied the death procession to the last resting-place. The women of the place, leading the children, went down, all weeping as they went, to a bend in the Tweed, where there would be a last view of the funeral train. There it was!--darkly marching on the opposite bank, winding round the mouldering hillock which was once Roxburgh Castle, and finally disappearing--disappearing for ever!--behind that pine-covered height! As the last of the train floated and melted away from the horizon, we all sunk to the ground at once, as if struck by some instantaneous current; and such a wail rose that day as Tweed never heard; whilst an echoing voice seemed to cry along his banks, and into the depth of his forests--"The last of the Patriarch-Dukes has departed!"

One instance is worth a thousand dissertations. And the above thin water-colour sketch of a _real popular life_, though presenting only one or two out of an endless variety of its phases, will give a more distinct conception than a volume of fanciful generalities could, of what I mean by the lyric joyousness of the Scottish people; and is, besides, a sincere, though mean and unworthy tribute to the virtues of a true patriarchal nobleman, about the last of the race, whose name, if the world were not too apt to forget its most excellent ones, would be eternised in the memory of mankind.

It is from this soil--this sensitive and fervid national temperament--that there has sprung up such a harvest of ballads, and songs, and heart-moving, soul-breathing melodies. Hence the hearty old habits and curious suggestive customs of the people: the hospitality, exuberant as Abraham's, who sat in the tent-door bidding welcome even to the passing traveller; the merry-meetings and "rockings" in the evening, where each had to contribute his or her song or tale, and at the same time ply some piece of work; the delight in their native dances, furious and whirling as those of the Bacchantes; the "Guisarding" of the boys at Christmas, relic of old-world plays, when the bloody melodrama finished off into the pious benediction--

"God bless the master of the house,
The mistress also,
And all the pretty babies
That round the table go;"

the "first foot," on New Year's morning, when none must enter a house empty-handed; the "Hogmanay," or first Monday of the new year, when the whole boys and girls invaded the country-side, and levied from the peaceful inhabitants black-mail of cakes, and cheese, and ha'pence--

"Get up, gudewife! and shake your feathers,
Dinna think that we are beggars;
We are bairns come out to play,
Rise up and gie 's our Hogmanay!"--

the "Halloween," whose rites of semi-diablerie have been immortalised by Burns; and the "Kirn," or Harvest Home, the wind-up of the season, the epitome of the lyric joyousness of the whole year. Hence it is that under an exterior, to strangers so reserved, austere, and frigid, they all cherish some romantic thought, or feeling, or dream: they are all inly imbued with an enthusiasm which surmounts every obstacle, and burns the deeper and faster the more it is repressed. Every one of us, calling up the history of our own little circle of cottage mates and schoolfellows, could recount numerous pregnant examples of this national characteristic. And hence, also, after wandering the wide world, and buffeting in all the whirlpools of life, cautiously waiting chances, cannily slipping in when the door opens, and struggling for distinction or wealth in all kinds of adventure, and under the breath of every clime--there are few, indeed, of our people, when twilight begins to gather over their path, but turn towards the light that comes from their old homes; and would fain pass a serene and meditative old age by the burnside where they "paidled" in their youth, and lay down their bones beside their fathers in the kirkyard of yon calm sequestered glen. Scott went down to the nether springs of the national character when he made his "Last Minstrel" sing--

"By Yarrow's stream still let me stray,
Though none should guide my feeble way;
Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break,
Although it chill my wither'd cheek;
Still lay my head by Teviot stone!"

Times have changed, it is true, even within the comparatively short space which has elapsed since the death of the Good Duke James of Roxburghe. Or rather, he was the last lingering representative of an age, of ideas, of a state of manners--lovely, but transitional--which had even then vanished, except the parting ray that fell on that one glistening spot. It was the transition from Mediæval Clanship to Modern Individualism--from that form of society where thousands clustered devotedly round the banner of one, their half-worshipped chief, to the present fashion, where it is, "Every man for himself, and God for us all!" Yet the period of transition was a golden age. It was a golden age--I know it, for I lived in it. There was the old patriarchy--the feeling, undefinable to those who have not experienced the same state of life, as if gods walked upon earth; and with this patriarchal, overshadowing, protecting sway, derived from the old, there was blended the modern recognition of the rights and dignity of man--the humblest man--as an individual. Thrown, as we all now are, into the modern anarchy, hurly-burly, and caricaturism, when fathers are "old governors," and dukes are served solely for their wages and pickings, like Mr Prog, the sausage-vendor, and the gentle look of respect and courtesy has been exchanged for the puppy's stare through a quizzing-glass; is it not something to have lived in the more reverent primitive state, to have tasted its early vernal freshness, and basked in its sunshine of loyal homage, and beautiful and stately repose?

Yet far be it from me to croak as the "laudator temporis acti." Past, present, and future--all are divine--all are parts of a celestial scheme--none to be scorned, all to be loved and improved. But the past is under the sod; the future is behind the clouds; the present alone has its foot upon the green sward. In a higher sense than the epicure's, it is "_our own_." Let us, then, appreciate, exalt, and enjoy it. There are good and glorious signs in our present, amid much that is of earth earthy, and of self selfish. If man has become more isolated, more rigidly defined, and has been stript of most of his old pictorial haloes--he is also beginning to display a plain, honest, equal, fraternal yearning and sympathy, man to man. Our hard material age shews the buddings of a poetry of its own. Streams shall gush from the rock. If there were, in the days of loyal Clanhood, joyousness, and generous susceptibility, festive reliefs to labour, and reverence for greatness; why should not this be so even more, under the influence of common Brotherhood? "Charity never faileth!" Everything dies but charity and joy. Even in the general conflagration, these will be exhaled from earth, only to burst forth afresh in heaven--"a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God."

CONTENTS.

PAGE
FRANCIS BENNOCH, 1
Truth and honour, 7
Our ship, 8
Auld Peter Macgowan, 10
The flower of Keir, 11
Constancy, 12
My bonnie wee wifie, 13
The bonnie bird, 14
Come when the dawn, 15
Good-morrow, 16
Oh, wae's my life, 17
Hey, my bonnie wee lassie, 18
Bessie, 20
Courtship, 21
Together, 22
Florence Nightingale, 23

JOSEPH MACGREGOR, 25
Laddie, oh! leave me, 25
How blythely the pipe, 26

WILLIAM DUNBAR, D.D., 28
The maid of Islay, 29

WILLIAM JERDAN, 30
The wee bird's song, 32
What makes this hour? 33

ALEXANDER BALD, 34
The lily of the vale, 35
How sweet are the blushes of morn, 35

GEORGE WILSON, 37
Mild as the morning, 37
The beacons blazed, 38
The rendezvous, 40

JOHN YOUNGER, 42
Ilka blade o' grass gets its ain drap o' dew, 43
The month of June, 44

JOHN BURTT, 46
O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs, 47
O! lassie I lo'e dearest, 47

CHARLES JAMES FINLAYSON, 49
The bard strikes his harp, 50
Ph[oe]bus, wi' gowden crest, 51
Oh, my love 's bonnie, 52

WILLIAM DOBIE, 54
The dreary reign of winter's past, 55

ROBERT HENDRY, M.D., 57
Oh, let na gang yon bonnie lassie, 58

HEW AINSLIE, 60
The hameward sang, 61
Dowie in the hint o' hairst, 62
On wi' the tartan, 63
The rover o' Lochryan, 64
The last look o' hame, 65
The lads an' the land far awa', 66
My bonnie wee Bell, 67

WILLIAM THOMSON, 68
The maiden to her reaping-hook, 68

ALEXANDER SMART, 71
When the bee has left the blossom, 73
Oh, leave me not, 74
Never despair, 75

JOHN DUNLOP, 77
The year that 's awa', 78
Oh, dinna ask me, 78
Love flies the haunts of pomp and power, 79
War, 80

WILLIAM BLAIR, 82
The Highland maid, 82
The Neapolitan war-song, 84

ARCHIBALD MACKAY, 85
Our auld Scots sangs, 85
My laddie lies low, 87
Jouk and let the jaw gae by, 88
Victorious be again, boys, 89

WILLIAM AIR FOSTER, 91
Fareweel to Scotia, 91
The falcon's flight, 92
The salmon run, 94

CHARLES MARSHALL, 97
The blessing on the wark, 98
Jewel of a lad, 99
Twilight joys, 100

WILLIAM WILSON, 102
Oh, blessing on her starlike een, 102
Oh! blessing on thee, land, 104
The faithless, 105
My soul is ever with thee, 106
Auld Johnny Graham, 107
Jean Linn, 108
Bonnie Mary, 109

MRS MARY MACARTHUR, 111
The missionary, 111

JOHN RAMSAY, 114
Farewell to Craufurdland, 114

JAMES PARKER, 116
The mariner's song, 116
Her lip is o' the rose's hue, 117

JOHN HUNTER, 119
The bower o' Clyde, 119
Mary, 122
In distant years, 123

ROBERT CHAMBERS, 124
Young Randal, 126
The ladye that I love, 127
Thou gentle and kind one, 128
Lament for the old Highland warriors, 129

THOMAS AIRD, 131
The swallow, 132
Genius, 133

ROBERT WHITE, 136
My native land, 137
A shepherd's life, 138
Her I love best, 140
The knight's return, 141
The bonnie Redesdale lassie, 143
The mountaineer's death, 144

WILLIAM CAMERON, 146
Sweet Jessie o' the dell, 146
Meet me on the gowan lea, 147
Morag's fairy glen, 148
Oh! dinna cross the burn, Willie, 150

ALEXANDER TAIT, 151
E'ening's dewy hour, 151

CHARLES FLEMING, 153
Watty M'Neil, 153

WILLIAM FERGUSON, 155
I'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May, 155
Wooing song, 156
I'm wandering wide, 158

THOMAS DICK, 160
How early I woo'd thee, 160

HUGH MILLER, 161
Sister Jeanie, haste, we 'll go, 166
Oh, softly sighs the westlin' breeze, 167

ALEXANDER MACANSH, 171
The mother and child, 172
Change, 173
The tomb of the Bruce, 174

JAMES PRINGLE, 176
The ploughman, 176

WILLIAM ANDERSON, 178
Woodland song, 180
The wells o' Weary, 181
I'm naebody noo, 182
I canna sleep, 183

WILLIAM M. HETHERINGTON, D.D., LL.D., 185
'Tis sweet wi' blythesome heart to stray, 186
Oh, sweet is the blossom, 187

THOMAS WATSON, 189
The squire o' low degree, 189

JAMES MACDONALD, 192
Bonnie Aggie Lang, 193
The pride o' the glen, 194
Mary, 196

JAMES BALLANTINE, 198
Naebody's bairn, 200
Castles in the air, 201
Ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew, 202
Wifie, come hame, 203
The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest, 204
Creep afore ye gang, 205
Ae guid turn deserves anither, 205
The nameless lassie, 206
Bonnie Bonaly, 207
Saft is the blink o' thine e'e, lassie, 208
The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win, 209
The widow, 209

MISS ELIZA A. H. OGILVY, 211
Craig Elachie, 212

JOHN FINLAY, 215
The noble Scottish game, 216
The merry bowling-green, 218

THOMAS TOD STODDART, 220
Angling song, 221
Let ither anglers, 222
The British oak, 223
Peace in war, 224

ALEXANDER MACLAGAN, 226
Curling song, 229
The auld meal mill, 230
The thistle, 232
The Scotch blue bell, 233
The rockin', 235
The widow, 237
The Highland plaid, 238
The flower o' Glencoe, 239

MRS JANE C. SIMPSON, 241
Gentleness, 242
He loved her for her merry eye, 244
Life and death, 245
Good-night, 246

ANDREW PARK, 248
Hurrah for the Highlands, 249
Old Scotland, I love thee! 250
Flowers of summer, 251
Home of my fathers, 252
What ails my heart? 253
Away to the Highlands, 254
I'm away, 255
There is a bonnie, blushing flower, 256
The maid of Glencoe, 257

MARION PAUL AIRD, 258
The fa' o' the leaf, 258
The auld kirkyard, 260
Far, far away, 261

WILLIAM SINCLAIR, 263
The royal Breadalbane oak, 264
Evening, 265
Mary, 266
Absence, 267
Is not the earth, 269
Oh! love the soldier's daughter dear! 270
The battle of Stirling, 272

WILLIAM MILLER, 274
Ye cowe a', 274

ALEXANDER HUME, 276
My ain dear Nell, 276
The pairtin', 278

METRICAL TRANSLATIONS FROM THE MODERN GAELIC MINSTRELSY.

PAGE

JOHN MACDONALD, D.D., 281
The missionary of St Kilda, 282

DUNCAN KENNEDY, 284
The return of peace, 285

ALLAN M'DOUGALL, 287
The song of the carline, 288

KENNETH MACKENZIE, 290
The song of the kilt, 290

JOHN CAMPBELL, 292
The storm blast, 293

JAMES M'GREGOR, D.D., 294
Light in the Highlands, 295

THE

MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL.

FRANCIS BENNOCH.[1]

Francis Bennoch, the son of a farmer on the property of the Duke of Buccleuch, and of a mother whose family have been tenants on the same estate for nearly two hundred years, was born at Drumcrool, in the parish of Durrisdeer, and county of Dumfries, on the 25th June 1812. At the age of sixteen, in February 1828, he arrived in London, and entered a house of business in the city. During the nine ensuing years, he assiduously pursued his avocation, and strove to make himself master of the elements and practice of trade. In 1837 he commenced on his own responsibility, and every succeeding year has advanced him in mercantile prosperity and position. Now, at the head of the firm of Bennoch, Twentyman, & Rigg, wholesale traders and manufacturers, there is no name in the city more universally respected.

In the corporate body of the city of London Mr Bennoch for some years took a prominent part as a citizen, a common councilman, and lastly as the deputy of a ward. An independent man and a reformer of abuses, he has so managed his opposition to measures, and even to men, as to win the warm approval of his own friends, and the respect of the leaders of all parties. His plans for bridging the Thames may be referred to in proof of his patriotic devotedness to improvement.

Influenced in his youth by the genius of the locality in which he was born, to which the Ayrshire Ploughman had left a legacy of immortal song, succeeded by Allan Cunningham, and a number of distinguished followers, it was not, however, till he had been two years a denizen of the metropolis that Mr Bennoch's Scottish feeling sought to vent itself in verse. The love of country is as inherent and vehement in the children of the North as in the Swiss mountaineers; wheresoever they wander from it, their hearts yearn towards the fatherland--

"Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
Land of their sires"--

with the same cherished and enduring affection which excites in the _Rans des Vaches_ so overpowering a sympathy. And the pastoral is perhaps even more replete with the poetical elements than the "stern and wild." It is amid such scenes as the Doon, the Tweed, the Teviot, the Ettrick, the Gala, and the Nith adorn, that the jaded senses are prone to seek recreation, and the spirit, tired with work or worn with cares, flees rejoicingly from the world to the repose of its first breathing and time-sweetened, boyish delights. Thus we find young Bennoch, amid the clatter of the great city, turning to the quiet of his native valley to sing the charms of the Nith, where he

"Had paidlet i' the burn,
And pu'd the gowans fine."

It was in the _Dumfries Courier_ that his first poetic essay found its way to print. That journal was then edited by the veteran M'Diarmid, himself an honour to the literature of Scotland, and no mean judge of its poetry. A cheer from such a quarter was worth the winning, and our aspirant fairly won it, by the five stanzas of which the following is the last:--

"The flowers may fade upon your banks,
The breckan on the brae,
But, oh! the love I ha'e for thee
Shall never pass away.
Though age may wrinkle this smooth brow,
And youth be like a dream,
Still, still my voice to heaven shall rise
For blessings on your stream!"

But banks and braes, and straths and streams, and woods and waves, though very dear to memory, merely come up to the painted beauties of descriptive verse. They must be warmed through

"The dearest theme
That ever waked the poet's dream,"

and love must fill the vision, before the soul can soar above the delicious but inanimate charms of earth, into the glowing region of human feeling and passion.

"In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed;
In war, he mounts the warrior's steed;
In halls, in gay attire is seen;
In hamlets, dances on the green.
Love rules the court, the camp, the grove,
And man below, and saints above:
For love is heaven, and heaven is love!"

Nor was this essential inspiration wanting in the breast of the young bard. The climate of Caledonia is cold, but that the hearts of her sons are susceptible of tropic warmth is shewn by a large proportion of her lyric treasures. Heroism, pathos, satire, and a peculiar quaint humour, present little more than an equal division, and the attributes of the wholly embodied Scottish muse attest the truth of the remark on the characteristic heat and fire which pervade her population, and excite them to daring in war and ardour in gentler pursuits. Thus Bennoch sung his Mary, Jessie, Bessie, Isabel, and other belles, but above all his Margaret:--

"The moon is shining, Margaret,
Serenely bright above,
And, like my dearest Margaret,
Her every look is love!
The trees are waving, Margaret,
And balmy is the air,
Where flowers are breathing, Margaret,
Come, let us wander there.

* * * * *

Yes! there 's a hand, dear Margaret,
A heart it gives to thee;
When heaven is false, my Margaret,
Then I may faithless be."

In the volume whence the preceding quotations are taken (second edition, 1843), the principal poem is "The Storm," in which occur many passages of singular vigour, and slighter touches of genuine poetry. Thus--

"The sea, by day so smooth and bright,
Is far more lovely seen by night,
When o'er old Ocean's wrinkled brow,
The night has hung her silver bow,
And stars in myriads ope their eyes
To guide the footsteps of the wise,
And in the deep reflected lie,
Till Ocean seems a second sky;
And ships, like wing'd aerial cars,
Are voyaging among the stars."

This is--

"Ere winter comes with icy chain,
And clanks his fetters o'er the ground."

The impersonation of Winter himself is very striking--

"Loud, loud were the shouts of his boisterous mirth,
As he scatter'd dismay o'er the smiling earth;
The clouds were rent as the storm was driven;
He howl'd and laugh'd in the face of heaven."

The temperament and inclination cherished by the love of song, naturally seek the companionship of similar tastes and congenial enjoyments. Thus, in the midst of the turmoil and distractions of orders and sales, invoices and shipments, Mr Bennoch has always found leisure to pay his court to literature, and cultivate the society of those whose talents adorn it. Conjoined with this, a skilful appreciation of works of art has led him to intimate relations with many of the leading artists of our time. The interesting Biography of Haydon affords a glimpse at the character of some of these relations. Wherever disappointed and however distressed, poor Haydon "claimed kindred here, and had his claim allowed." To his mercantile friend in Wood Street he never applied in vain. To a very considerable extent his troubles were solaced, his difficulties surmounted, his dark despair changed to golden hope, and the threat of the gaol brightened into another free effort of genius to redeem itself from the thralls of law and grinding oppression. Had his generous friend not been absent from England at the fatal time, it is very probable that the dreadful catastrophe would have been averted; but he only landed from the continent to receive the shocking intelligence that all was over. Friendship could but shed the unavailing tear, but it did not forget or neglect the dear family interests for which (in some measure) the despairing sacrifice was made. It is to be hoped that such an unhappy event has been somewhat compensated by the social intercourse with talent ever hospitably cherished, not only in his pleasant home in Blackheath Park, but amid the precious hours that could be snatched from most active engagements in Wood Street. At either, authors and artists are constantly met; and the brief snatches alluded to are often so heartily occupied as to rival, if not surpass, the slower motions of the more prolonged entertainments. Both may boast of "the feast of reason and the flow of soul," and a crowning increase to these enjoyments is derived from the circumstance, that Mr Bennoch's connexions with the Continent, and more especially with the United States, contribute very frequently to engraft upon these "re-unions" a variety of eminent foreigners and intellectual citizens of America. It is a trite saying, that few men can be good or useful abroad who are not happy at home. Mr Bennoch has been fortunate in wedded life. She who is the theme of many of his sweetest and most touching verses, is a woman whom a poet may love and a wise man consult; in whom the sociable gentleman finds an ever cheerful companion, and the husband a loving and devoted friend.

Among the latest of Mr Bennoch's movements in literary affairs, may be mentioned his services on behalf of the late estimable Mary Russell Mitford. Through his intervention the public was gratified by the issue of "Atherton," and other tales, and also by a collected edition of her dramatic works, which she dedicated to him as an earnest of her affectionate regard.

Mr Bennoch is a member of the Society of Arts, the Royal Society of Antiquaries, the Royal Society of Literature, and the Scottish Literary Institute.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The present Memoir has been prepared at our request by the veteran William Jerdan, late of the _Literary Gazette_.

TRUTH AND HONOUR.

If wealth thou art wooing, or title, or fame,
There is that in the doing brings honour or shame;
There is something in running life's perilous race,
Will stamp thee as worthy, or brand thee as base.
Oh, then, be a man--and, whatever betide,
Keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide.

If a king--be thy kingship right royally shewn,
And trust to thy subjects to shelter thy throne;
Rely not on weapons or armies of might,
But on that which endureth,--laws loving and right.
Though a king, be a man--and, whatever betide,
Keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide.

If a noble--remember, though ancient thy blood,
The heart truly noble is that which is good;
Should a stain of dishonour encrimson thy brow,
Thou art slave to the peasant that sweats at the plough.
Be noble as man--and, whatever betide,
Keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide.

If lover or husband--be faithful and kind,
For doubting is death to the sensitive mind;
Love's exquisite passion a breath may destroy;
The sower in faith, reapeth harvests of joy.
Love dignifies man--and, whatever betide,
Keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide.

If a father--be firm, yet forgiving, and prove
How the child honours him who rebuketh with love.
If rich, or if poor, or whate'er thou may'st be,
Remember the truthful alone are the free.
Erect in thy manhood, whatever betide,
Keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide.

Then, though sickness may come, or misfortunes may fall,
There is that in thy bosom surviveth them all;
Truth, honour, love, friendship, no tempests can pale,
They are beacons of light in adversity's gale.
Oh, the manlike is godlike--no ill shall betide
While truth 's thy companion, and honour thy guide.

OUR SHIP.[2]

A song, a song, brave hearts, a song,
To the ship in which we ride,
Which bears us along right gallantly,
Defying the mutinous tide.
Away, away, by night and day,
Propelled by steam and wind,
The watery waste before her lies,
And a flaming wake behind.
Then a ho and a hip to the gallant ship
That carries us o'er the sea,
Through storm and foam, to a western home
The home of the brave and free.

With a fearless bound to the depths profound,
She rushes with proud disdain,
While pale lips tell the fears that swell,
Lest she never should rise again.
With a courser's pride she paws the tide,
Unbridled by bit I trow,
While the churlish sea she dashes with glee
In a cataract from her prow.
Then a ho and a hip, &c.

She bears not on board a lawless horde,
Piratic in thought or deed,
Yet the sword they would draw in defence of law,
In the nation's hour of need.
Professors and poets, and merchant men
Whose voyagings never cease;
From shore to shore, the wide world o'er,
Their bonds are the bonds of peace.
Then a ho and a hip, &c.

She boasts the brave, the dutiful,
The aged and the young,
And woman bright and beautiful,
And childhood's prattling tongue.
With a dip and a rise, like a bird she flies,
And we fear not the storm or squall;
For faithful officers rule the helm,
And heaven protects us all.
Then a ho and a hip to the gallant ship
That carries us o'er the sea,
Through storm and foam, to a western home,
The home of the brave and free.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] Composed on board the steamship Niagara, on her voyage to New York, in August 1849.

AULD PETER MACGOWAN.

AIR--_'The Brisk Young Lad.'_

Auld Peter MacGowan cam down the craft,
An' rubbit his han's an' fidged an' laugh't;
O little thought he o' his wrinkled chaft,
When he wanted me to lo'e;
He patted my brow an' smooth'd my chin,
He praised my e'en an' sleek white skin,
Syne fain wad kiss; but the laugh within
Came rattlin' out, I trew.
O sirs, but he was a canty carle,
Wi' rings o' gowd, an' a brooch o' pearl,
An' aye he spoke o' his frien' the Earl,
And thought he would conquer lo'e.

He boasted o' gear an' acres wide,
O' his bawsand youd that I should ride
When I was made his bonny wee bride,
Returning lo'e for lo'e;
That I a lady to kirk should gang,
Ha'e writ my virtues in a sang;
But I snapp'd my thumb, and said, "gae hang,
Gin that's the best ye can do."
O sirs, but he was a silly auld man,
Nae mair he spak' o' his gear an' lan';
An' through the town like lightning ran,
The tale o' auld Peter's lo'e.

An' sae the auld carle spiel'd up the craft,
And raved and stamp'd like ane gane daft,
Till tears trickled owre his burning chaft,
Sin' he couldna win my lo'e.
"Far better be single," the folk a' said,
"Than a warming pan in an auld man's bed;"
He will be cunning wha gars me wed,
Wi' ane that I never can lo'e;
Na, na! he maun be a fine young lad,
A canty lad, an' a dainty lad;
Oh, he maun be a spirited lad,
Wha thinks to win my lo'e.

THE FLOWER OF KEIR.

O what care I where love was born;
I know where oft he lingers,
Till night's black curtain 's drawn aside,
By morning's rosy fingers.
If you would know, come, follow me,
O'er mountain, moss, and river,
To where the Nith and Scar agree
To flow as one for ever.

Pass Kirk-o'-Keir and Clover lea,
Through loanings red with roses;
But pause beside the spreading tree,
That Fanny's bower encloses.
There, knitting in her shady grove,
Sits Fanny singing gaily;
Unwitting of the chains of love,
She 's forging for us daily.

Like light that brings the blossom forth,
And sets the corn a-growing,
Melts icy mountains in the north,
And sets the streams a-flowing;
So Fanny's eyes, so bright and wise,
Shed loving rays to cheer us,
Her absence gives us wintry skies,
'Tis summer when she 's near us!

O, saw ye ever such a face,
To waken love and wonder;
A brow with such an arch of grace,
And blue eyes shining under!
Her snaring smiles, sweet nature's wiles,
Are equall'd not by many;
Her look it charms, her love it warms,
The flower of Keir is Fanny.

CONSTANCY.

Oh! I have traversed lands afar,
O'er mountains high, and prairies green;
Still above me like a star,
Serene and bright thy love has been;
Still above me like a star,
To gladden, guide, and keep me free
From every ill. Oh, life were chill,
Apart, my love, apart from thee.

Other eyes might beam as bright,
And other cheeks as rosy be;
Other arms as pure and white,
And other lips as sweet to pree;
But ruddy lips, or beaming eyes,
However fond and fair to see,
I could not, would not love or prize
Apart, my love, apart from thee.

Other friendships I have known,
Friendships dear, and pure, and kind;
Liking soon to friendship grown,
Love is friendship's ore refined.
Oh, what is life, with love denied?
A scentless flower, a leafless tree;
My song with love,--my love with pride,
Are full,--my love, are full of thee.

MY BONNIE WEE WIFIE.

My bonnie wee wifie, I 'm waefu' to leave thee,
To leave thee sae lanely, and far frae me;
Come night and come morning, I 'll soon be returning;
Then, oh, my dear wifie, how happy we 'll be!
Oh, cauld is the night, and the way dreigh and dreary,
The snaw 's drifting blindly o'er moorland an' lea;
All nature looks eerie. How can she be cheery,
Since weel she maun ken I am parted frae thee?

Oh, wae is the lammie, that 's lost its dear mammy,
An' waefu' the bird that sits chirping alane;
The plaints they are making, their wee bit hearts breaking,
Are throbbings o' pleasure compared wi' my pain.
The sun to the simmer, the bark to the timmer,
The sense to the soul, an' the light to the e'e,
The bud to the blossom, sae thou 'rt to my bosom;
Oh, wae 's my heart, wifie, when parted frae thee.

There 's nae guid availing in weeping or wailing,
Should friendship be failing wi' fortune's decay;
Love in our hearts glowing, its riches bestowing,
Bequeaths us a treasure life takes not away.
Let nae anxious feeling creep o'er thy heart, stealing
The bloom frae thy cheek when thou 'rt thinking of me;
Come night and come morning, I 'll then be returning;
Nae mair, cozie wifie, we parted shall be.

THE BONNIE BIRD.

Oh, where snared ye that bonnie, bonnie bird?
Oh, where wiled ye that winsome fairy?
I fear me it was where nae truth was heard,
And far frae the shrine o' guid St Mary.

I didna snare the bonnie, bonnie bird,
Nor try ony wiles wi' the winsome fairy,
But won her young heart where the angels heard,
In the bowery glen of Inverary.

And what want ye wi' sic a bonnie bird?
I fear me its plumes ye will ruffle sairly;
Or bring it low down to the lane kirkyard,
Where blossoms o' grace are planted early.

As life I love my bonnie, bonnie bird,
Its plumage shall never be ruffled sairly;
To the day o' doom I will keep my word,
An' cherish my bonnie bird late an' early.

Oh, whence rings out that merry, merry peal?
The laugh and the sang are cherish'd rarely;
It is--it is the bonny, bonny bird,
Wi' twa sma' voices a' piping early.

For he didna snare that bonny, bonny bird,
Nor did he beguile the winsome fairy,
He had made her his ain, where the angels heard,
At the holy shrine o' the blest St Mary.

COME WHEN THE DAWN.

Come when the dawn of the morning is breaking,
Gold on the mountain-tops, mist on the plain,
Come when the clamorous birds are awaking
Man unto duty and pleasure again;
Bright let your spirits be,
Breathing sweet liberty,
Drinking the rapture that gladdens the brain.

High o'er the swelling hills shepherds are climbing,
Down in the meadows the mowers are seen,
Haymakers singing, and village bells chiming;
Lasses and lads lightly trip o'er the green,
Flying, pursuing,
Toying, and wooing--
Nature is now as she ever has been.

Then when the toils of the day are all over,
Gathered, delighted, set round in a ring--
Youth, with its mirthfulness--age, with its cheerfulness,
Brimful of happiness, cheerily sing,
"Bright may our spirits be--
Happy and ever free.
Blest are the joys that from innocence spring."

GOOD MORROW.[3]

Good morrow, good morrow! warm, rosy, and bright,
Glow the clouds in the east, laughing heralds of light;
Whilst still as the glorious colours decay,
Full gushes of music seem tracking their way.
Hark! hark!
Is it the sheep-bell among the ling,
Or the early milkmaid carolling?
Hark! hark!
Or is it the lark,
As he bids the sun good-morrow?--
Good-morrow;
Though every day brings sorrow.

The daylight is dying, the night drawing near,
The workers are silent; yet ringing and clear,
From the leafiest tree in the shady bowers,
Comes melody falling in silvery showers.
Hark! hark!
Is it the musical chime on the hill,
That sweetly ringeth when all is still?
Hark! hark!
Oh, sweeter than lark,
Is the nightingale's song of sorrow,
Of sorrow;
But pleasure will come to-morrow.

FOOTNOTES:

[3] One of the stanzas of this song is the composition of the late Mary Russell Mitford and appears in her tale of Atherton. The other stanza was composed by Mr Bennoch, at the urgent request of his much loved friend.

OH, WAE'S MY LIFE.

Oh, wae's my life, and sad my heart,
The saut tears fill my e'e, Willie,
Nae hope can bloom this side the tomb,
Since ye hae gane frae me, Willie.
O' warl's gear I couldna' boast,
But now I'm poor indeed, Willie;
The last fond hope I leant upon,
Has fail'd me in my need, Willie.

For wealth or fame ye've left your Jean,
Forgat your plighted vow, Willie;
Can honours proud dispel the cloud,
That darkens on your brow, Willie?
Oh, was I then a thing sae mean,
For nought but beauty prized, Willie;
Caress'd a'e day, then flung away,
A fading flower despised, Willie?

Sin' love has fled, and hope is dead,
Soon my poor heart maun break, Willie;
As your ain life, oh, guard your wife--
I 'll love her for your sake, Willie.
Through my despair, oh, mony a prayer,
Will rise for her and ye, Willie;
That ye may prove to her, in love,
Mair faithfu' than to me, Willie.

HEY, MY BONNIE WEE LASSIE.

Hey, my bonnie wee lassie,
Blythe and cheerie wee lassie,
Will ye wed a canty carle,
Bonnie, bonnie wee lassie?

I ha'e sheep, an' I ha'e kye,
I ha'e wheat, an' I ha'e rye,
An' heaps o' siller, lass, forbye,
That ye shall spen' wi' me, lassie!
Hey, my bonnie wee lassie,
Blythe and cheerie wee lassie,
Will ye wed a canty carle,
Bonnie, bonnie wee lassie?

Ye shall dress in damask fine,
My goud and gear shall a' be thine,
And I to ye be ever kin'.
Say,--will ye marry me, lassie?
Hey, my bonnie wee lassie,
Blythe and cheerie wee lassie,
Will ye wed a canty carle,
Bonnie, smiling wee lassie?

Gae hame, auld man, an' darn your hose,
Fill up your lanky sides wi' brose,
An' at the ingle warm your nose;
But come na courtin' me, carle.
Oh, ye tottering auld carle,
Silly, clavering auld carle,
The hawk an' doo shall pair, I trew,
Before I pair wi' ye, carle!

Your heart is cauld an' hard as stanes,
Ye ha'e nae marrow in your banes,
An' siller canna buy the brains
That pleasure gie to me, carle!
Oh, ye tottering auld carle,
Silly, clavering auld carle,
The hound an' hare may seek ae lair,
But I'll no sleep wi' ye, carle.

I winna share your gowd wi' ye,
Your withering heart, an' watery e'e;
In death I'd sooner shrouded be
Than wedded to ye, auld carle!
Oh, ye tottering auld carle,
Silly, clavering auld carle,
When roses blaw on leafs o' snaw,
I'll bloom upon your breast, carle.

But there's a lad, an' I'm his ain,
May heaven blessings on him rain!
Though plackless, he is unco fain,
And he's the man for me, carle!
Oh, youth an' age can ne'er agree;
Though rich, you're no the man for me.
Gae hame, auld carle, prepare to dee;
Pray heaven to be your bride, carle.

BESSIE.

Oh, mony a year has come and gane,
An' mony a weary day,
Sin' frae my hame, my mountain hame,
I first was lured away,
To wander over unco lands,
Far, far ayont the sea;
But no to find a land like this,
The hame o' Bess an' me!

I've traversed mony a dreary land,
Across the braid, braid sea;
But, oh, my native mountain hame,
My thochts were aye wi' thee.
As certain as the sun wad rise,
And set ahint the sea,
Sae constant, Bessie, were my prayers,
At morn an' nicht for thee;

When I return'd unto my hame,
The hills were clad wi' snow;
Though they look'd cold and cheerless, love,
My heart was in a glow.
Though keen the wintry north wind blew,
Like summer 'twas to me;
For, Bess, my frame was warm wi' love,
Of country, kindred, thee!

Nae flower e'er hail'd wi' sweeter smiles
Returning sunny beams,
Than I then hailed my native hame,
Its mountains, woods, and streams.
Now we are met, my bonnie Bess,
We never mair will part;
Although to a' we seem as twa,
We only hae ae heart!

We 'll be sae loving a' the nicht,
Sae happy a' the day,
That though our bodies time may change,
Our love shall ne'er decay:
As gently as yon lovely stream
Declining years shall run,
An' life shall pass frae our auld clay,
As snow melts 'neath the sun.

COURTSHIP.

Yestreen on Cample's bonnie flood
The summer moon was shining;
While on a bank in Chrichope wood
Two lovers were reclining:
They spak' o' youth, an' hoary age,
O' time how swiftly fleeting,
Of ilka thing, in sooth, but ane,--
The reason of their meeting!

When Willie thoucht his heart was firm,
An' might declare its feeling,
A glance frae Bessy's starry een
Sent a' his senses reeling;
For aye when he essay'd to speak,
An' she prepared to hear him,
The thought in crimson dyed his cheek,
But words would no come near him!

'Tis ever thus that love is taught
By his divinest teacher;
He silent adoration seeks,
But shuns the prosy preacher.
Now read me right, ye gentle anes,
Nor deem my lesson hollow;
The deepest river silent rins,
The babbling brook is shallow.

TOGETHER.

Together, dearest, we have play'd,
As girl and boy together;
Through storm and calm, in sun and shade,
In spring and wintry weather.
Oh! every pang that stinging came
But made our love the dearer;
If danger lower'd--'twas all the same,
We only clung the nearer.

In riper years, when all the world
Lay bathed in light before us,
And life in rainbow hues unfurl'd
Its glowing banner o'er us,
Amid the beauty storms would rise
And flowers collapsing wither,
While open friends turned hidden foes--
Yet were we blest together.

But now the battle's fought and won,
And care with life is flying,
While, setting slowly like the sun,
Ambition's fires are dying.
We gather hope with fading strength,
And go, we know not whither,
Contented if in death at last
We sleep in peace together.

FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE.

With lofty song we love to cheer
The hearts of daring men;
Applauded thus, they gladly hear
The trumpet's call again.
But now we sing of lowly deeds
Devoted to the brave,
Where she, who stems the wound that bleeds,
A hero's life may save:
And heroes saved exulting tell
How well her voice they knew;
How sorrow near it could not dwell,
But spread its wings and flew.

Neglected, dying in despair,
They lay till woman came
To soothe them with her gentle care,
And feed life's flickering flame.
When wounded sore, on fever's rack,
Or cast away as slain,
She called their fluttering spirits back
And gave them strength again.
'Twas grief to miss the passing face
That suffering could dispel;
But joy to turn and kiss the place
On which her shadow fell.[4]

When words of wrath profaning rung,
She moved with pitying grace;
Her presence still'd the wildest tongue,
And holy[5] made the place.
They knew that they were cared for then,
Their eyes forgot their tears;
In dreamy sleep they lost their pain,
And thought of early years--
Of early years, when all was fair,
Of faces sweet and pale.
They woke: the angel bending there
Was--Florence Nightingale!

FOOTNOTES:

[4] She would speak to one and to another, and nod and smile to many more, but she could not do it to all; but we could kiss her shadow as it fell, and lay our heads on the pillow again, content.--_Soldier's Letter from the Crimea._

[5] "Before she came there was cussin' and swearin', but after that it was as holy as a church."--_Ibid._

JOSEPH MACGREGOR.

The writer of several good songs, which have been published with music, Joseph Macgregor, followed the profession of an accountant in Edinburgh. Expert as a man of business, he negotiated the arrangement of the city affairs at the period of the municipal bankruptcy. A zealous member of the Liberal party, he took a prominent interest in the Reform Bill movement, and afterwards afforded valuable assistance in the election of Francis Jeffrey as one of the representatives of the city in Parliament. He latterly occupied Ramsay Lodge, the residence of the poet Allan Ramsay, where he died about the year 1845, at a somewhat advanced age. The following songs from his pen are published by the kind permission of Messrs Robertson & Co., musicsellers, Edinburgh.

LADDIE, OH! LEAVE ME.

Down whar the burnie rins whimplin' and cheery,
When love's star was smilin', I met wi' my dearie;
Ah! vain was its smilin'--she wadna believe me,
But said wi' a saucy air, "Laddie, oh! leave me;
Leave me, leave me, laddie, oh! leave me."

"I 've lo'ed thee o'er truly to seek a new dearie,
I 've lo'ed thee o'er fondly, through life e'er to weary,
I 've lo'ed thee o'er lang, love, at last to deceive thee;
Look cauldly or kindly, but bid me not leave thee;"
Leave thee, leave thee, &c.

"There 's nae ither saft e'e that fills me wi' pleasure,
There 's nae ither rose-lip has half o' its treasure,
There 's nae ither bower, love, shall ever receive me,
Till death break this fond heart--oh! then I maun leave thee;"
Leave thee, leave thee, &c.

The tears o'er her cheeks ran like dew frae red roses;
What hope to the lover one tear-drop discloses!
I kiss'd them, and blest her--at last to relieve me
She yielded her hand, and sigh'd, "Oh! never leave me;"
Leave me, leave me, &c.

HOW BLYTHELY THE PIPE.

AIR--_"Kinloch of Kinloch."_

How blythely the pipe through Glenlyon was sounding,
At morn when the clans to the merry dance hied;
And gay were the love-knots, o'er hearts fondly bounding,
When Ronald woo'd Flora, and made her his bride.
But war's banner streaming soon changed their fond dreaming--
The battle-cry echoed, around and above
Broad claymores were glancing, and war-steeds were prancing;
Up, Ronald! to arms for home and your love.

All was hush'd o'er the hill, where love linger'd despairing,
With her bride-maids still deck'd in their gay festal gear!
And she wept as she saw them fresh garlands preparing,
Which might laurel Love's brow, or be strew'd o'er his bier!
But cheer thee, fond maiden--each wild breeze is laden
With victory's slogan, through mountain and grove;
Where death streams were gushing, and war-steeds were rushing,
Lord Ronald has conquer'd for home and for love!

WILLIAM DUNBAR, D.D.