Chapter XXXVII: Introduction: TO (26)

A native of Dumfries, William Dunbar, received his elementary education in that town. Having studied at the University of Edinburgh, he was in 1805 licensed as a probationer of the Established Church. During the vacations of his theological curriculum, and the earlier portion of his probationary career, he resided chiefly in the Hebrides. At this period he composed the popular song, entitled, "The Maid of Islay," the heroine being a Miss Campbell of the island of Islay. In several collections the song has been erroneously ascribed to Joseph Train. Mr Dunbar was, in May 1807, ordained to the parish of Applegarth, Dumfriesshire. Long reputed as one of the most successful cultivators of the honey-bee, Dr Dunbar was, in 1840, invited to prepare a treatise on the subject for the entomological series of the "Naturalist's Library." His observations were published, without his name, in a volume of the series, with the title, "The Natural History of Bees, comprehending the uses and economical management of the British and Foreign Honey-Bee; together with the known wild species. Illustrated by thirty-six plates, coloured from nature, with portrait and memoir of Huber." The publication has been pronounced useful to the practical apiarian and a valuable contribution to the natural history of the honey-bee.

In the fiftieth year of his pastorate, Dr Dunbar enjoys the veneration of a flock, of whom the majority have been reared under his ministerial superintendence.

THE MAID OF ISLAY.

Rising o'er the heaving billow,
Evening gilds the ocean's swell,
While with thee, on grassy pillow,
Solitude! I love to dwell.
Lonely to the sea-breeze blowing,
Oft I chant my love-lorn strain,
To the streamlet sweetly flowing,
Murmur oft a lover's pain.

'Twas for her, the Maid of Islay,
Time flew o'er me wing'd with joy;
'Twas for her, the cheering smile aye
Beam'd with rapture in my eye.
Not the tempest raving round me,
Lightning's flash or thunder's roll;
Not the ocean's rage could wound me,
While her image fill'd my soul.

Farewell, days of purest pleasure,
Long your loss my heart shall mourn!
Farewell, hours of bliss the measure,
Bliss that never can return!
Cheerless o'er the wild heath wand'ring,
Cheerless o'er the wave-worn shore,
On the past with sadness pond'ring,
Hope's fair visions charm no more.

WILLIAM JERDAN.

The well known editor of the _Literary Gazette_, William Jerdan, was born at Kelso, Roxburghshire, on the 16th April 1782. The third son and seventh child of John Jerdan, a small land proprietor and baron-bailie under the Duke of Roxburghe, his paternal progenitors owned extensive possessions in the south-east of Scotland. His mother, Agnes Stuart, a woman of superior intelligence, claimed descent from the Royal House of Stuart. Educated at the parochial school of his native town, young Jerdan entered a lawyer's office, with a view to the legal profession. Towards literary pursuits his attention was directed through the kindly intercourse of the Rev. Dr Rutherford, author of the "View of Ancient History," who then assisted the minister of Kelso, and subsequently became incumbent of Muirkirk. In 1801 he proceeded to London, where he was employed as clerk in a mercantile establishment. Returning to Scotland, he entered the office of a Writer to the Signet; but in 1804 he resumed his connexion with the metropolis. Suffering from impaired health, he was taken under the care of a maternal uncle, surgeon of the _Gladiator_ guard-ship. On the recommendation of this relative, he served as a seaman for a few months preceding February 1806. A third time seeking the literary world of London, he became reporter to the _Aurora_, a morning paper, of temporary duration. In January 1807, he joined the _Pilot_, an evening paper. Subsequently, he was one of the conductors of the _Morning Post_ and a reporter for the _British Press_. Purchasing the copyright of the _Satirist_, he for a short time edited that journal. In May 1813, he became conductor of _The Sun_, an appointment which he retained during a period of four years, but was led to relinquish from an untoward dispute with the publisher. He now entered on the editorship of the _Literary Gazette_, which he conducted till 1850, and with which his name will continue to be associated.

During a period of nearly half a century, Mr Jerdan has occupied a prominent position in connexion with literature and politics. He was the first person who seized Bellingham, the murderer of Percival, in the lobby of the House of Commons. With Mr Canning he was on terms of intimacy. In 1821 he aided in establishing the Royal Society of Literature. He was one of the founders of the Melodist's Club, for the promotion of harmony, and of the Garrick Club, for the patronage of the drama. In the affairs of the Royal Literary Fund he has manifested a deep interest. In 1830 he originated, in concert with other literary individuals, the _Foreign Literary Gazette_, of which he became joint-editor. About the same period, he wrote the biographical portion of Fisher's "National Portrait Gallery." In 1852-3 appeared his "Autobiography," in four volumes; a work containing many curious details respecting persons of eminence. In 1852 Mr Jerdan's services to literature were acknowledged by a pension of £100 on the Civil List, and about the same time he received a handsome pecuniary testimonial from his literary friends.

THE WEE BIRD'S SONG.[6]

I heard a wee bird singing,
In my chamber as I lay;
The casement open swinging,
As morning woke the day.
And the boughs around were twining,
The bright sun through them shining,
And I had long been pining,
For my Willie far away--
When I heard the wee bird singing.

He heard the wee bird singing,
For its notes were wondrous clear;
As if wedding bells were ringing,
Melodious to the ear.
And still it rang that wee bird's song;
Just like the bells--dong-ding, ding-dong;
While my heart beat so quick and strong--
It felt that he was near!
And he heard the wee bird singing.

We heard the wee bird singing,
After brief time had flown;
The true bells had been ringing,
And Willie was my own.
And oft I tell him, jesting, playing,
I knew what the wee bird was saying,
That morn, when he, no longer straying,
Flew back to me alone.
And we love the wee bird singing.

FOOTNOTES:

[6] Here first published.

WHAT MAKES THIS HOUR?

What makes this hour a day to me?
What makes this day a year?
My own love promised we should meet--
But my own love is not here!
Ah! did she feel half what I feel,
Her tryst she ne'er would break;
She ne'er would lift this heart to hope,
Then leave this heart to ache;
And make the hour a day to me,
And make the day a year;
The hour she promised we should meet--
But my own love is not here.

Alas! can she inconstant prove?
Does sickness force her stay?
Or is it fate, or failing love,
That keeps my love away,
To make the hour a day to me,
And make the day a year?
The hour and day we should have met--
But my own love is not here.

ALEXANDER BALD.

Alexander Bald was born at Alloa, on the 9th June 1783. His father, who bore the same Christian name, was a native of Culross, where he was originally employed in superintending the coal works in that vicinity, under the late Earl of Dundonald. He subsequently became agent for the collieries of John Francis Erskine, afterwards Earl of Mar. A book of arithmetical tables and calculations from his pen, entitled, "The Corn-dealer's Assistant," was long recognised as an almost indispensable guide for tenant farmers.

The subject of this notice was early devoted to literary pursuits. Along with his friend, Mr John Grieve, the future patron of the Ettrick Shepherd, he made a visit to the forest bard, attracted by the merit of his compositions, long prior to his public recognition as a poet. He established a literary association in his native town, entitled, "The Shakspeare Club;" which, at its annual celebrations, was graced by the presence of men of genius and learning. To the _Scots' Magazine_ he became a poetical contributor early in the century. A man of elegant tastes and Christian worth, Mr Bald was a cherished associate of the more distinguished literary Scotsmen of the past generation. During the period of half a century, he has conducted business in his native town as a timber merchant and brick manufacturer. His brother, Mr Robert Bald, is the distinguished mining engineer.

THE LILY OF THE VALE.[7]

TUNE--_'Ye banks and braes o' bonny Doon.'_

The lily of the vale is sweet,
And sweeter still the op'ning rose,
But sweeter far my Mary is
Than any blooming flower that blows.
Whilst spring her fragrant blossoms spreads,
I'll wander oft by Mary's side;
And whisper saft the tender tale,
By Forth, sweet Forth's meandering tide.

There will we walk at early dawn,
Ere yet the sun begins to shine;
At eve oft, too, the lawn we'll tread,
And mark that splendid orb's decline.
The fairest, choicest flowers I'll crop,
To deck my lovely Mary's hair;
And while I live, I vow and swear,
She'll be my chief--my only care.

FOOTNOTES:

[7] This song was originally Published in the _Scots' Magazine_ for October 1806. In the "Book of Scottish Song," it has been attributed to Allan Ramsay.

HOW SWEET ARE THE BLUSHES OF MORN.

How sweet are the blushes of morn,
And sweet is the gay blossom'd grove;
The linnet chants sweet from the thorn,
But sweeter's the smile of my love.

Awhile, my dear Mary, farewell,
Since fate has decreed we should part;
Thine image shall still with me dwell,
Though absent, you'll reign in my heart.

But by winding Devon's green bowers,
At eve's dewy hour as I rove,
I'll grieve for the pride of her flowers,
And the pride of her maidens, my love.

The music shall cease in the grove,
Thine absence the linnet shall mourn;
But the lark, in strains bearing love,
Soft warbling, shall greet thy return.

GEORGE WILSON.

George Wilson was born on the 20th June 1784, in the parish of Libberton, and county of Lanark. Deprived of both his parents early in life, he was brought to the house of his paternal uncle, who rented a sheep-farm in the vicinity of Peebles. At the burgh school of that place he received an ordinary education, and in his thirteenth year hired himself as a cow-herd. Passing through the various stages of rural employment at Tweedside, he resolved to adopt a trade, and in his eighteenth year became apprenticed to his maternal uncle, a cabinetmaker in Edinburgh. On fulfilling his indenture, he accepted employment as a journeyman cabinetmaker; he subsequently conducted business on his own account. In 1831 he removed from Edinburgh to the village of Corstorphine, in the vicinity; where he continues to reside. He published "The Laverock," a volume of poems and songs, in 1829. The following lyrics from his pen evince no inconsiderable vigour, and seem worthy of preservation.

MILD AS THE MORNING.

AIR--_'Bonnie Dundee.'_

Mild as the morning, a rose-bud of beauty,
Young Mary, all lovely, had come from afar,
With tear-streaming eyes, and a grief-burden'd bosom,
To view with sad horror the carnage of war.
She sought her brave brother with sighing and sorrow;
Her loud lamentations she pour'd out in vain;
The hero had fallen, with kinsmen surrounded,
And deep he lay buried 'mong heaps of the slain.

"Oh! Donald, my brother, in death art thou sleeping?
Or groan'st thou in chains of some barbarous foe?
Are none of thy kindred in life now remaining,
To tell a sad tale of destruction and woe?"
A hero who struggled in death's cold embraces,
Whose bosom, deep gash'd, was all clotted with gore--
"Alas! Lady Mary, the mighty M'Donald,
Will lead his brave heroes to battle no more."

She turn'd, and she gazed all around, much confounded;
The tidings of sorrow sunk deep in her heart;
She saw her brave kinsman laid low, deadly wounded,
He wanted that succour, she could not impart--
"Oh! Murdoch, my kinsman," with hands raised to heaven,
"Thy strength, bloom, and beauty, alas! all are o'er;
And oh, my brave brother, my brave gallant brother,
Lies sleeping beside thee, to waken no more."

THE BEACONS BLAZED.

AIR--_'Cope sent a letter frae Dunbar.'_

The beacons blazed, the banners flew,
The war-pipes loud their pibrochs blew,
The trusty clans their claymores drew,
To shield their Royal Charlie.

Come a' ye chiefs, bring a' your clans,
Frae a' your mountains, muirs, and glens,
Bring a' your spears, swords, dirks, and guns,
To shield and save Prince Charlie.

They, like their fathers, bold and brave,
Came at a call, wi' dirk and glaive;
Of danger fearless, sworn to save
Or fa' for Royal Charlie.

Famed Scotia's chiefs, intrepid still,
Led forth their tribes frae strath and hill,
And boldly dared, wi' right guid will,
To shield their Royal Charlie.

The forests and the rocks replied
To shouts which rung both far and wide:
Our prince is come, his people's pride--
Oh, welcome hame, Prince Charlie!

Thee, Scotia's rightful prince we own;
We'll die, or seat thee on the throne,
Where many a Scottish king has shone;
The sires o' Royal Charlie.

No faithful Scot now makes a pause;
Plain truth and justice plead thy cause;
Each fearlessly his weapon draws,
To shield and save Prince Charlie.

Now, lead us on against thy foes;
Thy rightful claim all Europe knows;
We'll scatter death with all our blows,
To shield and save Prince Charlie.

Now, chiefs and clans, your faith display,
By deathless deeds in battle day,
To stretch them pale on beds of clay,
The foes of Royal Charlie.

THE RENDEZVOUS.

Warlike chieftains now assembled,
Fame your daring deeds shall tell,
Fiercest foes have fear'd and trembled,
When you raised your warlike yell.
Bards shall sing when battle rages,
Scotia's sons shall victors be;
Bards shall sing in after ages,
Caledonians aye were free.

Blest be every bold avenger,
Cheer'd the heart that fears no wound;
Dreadful in the day of danger
Be each chieftain ever found.

Let the hills our swords have shielded,
Ring to every hero's praise;
And the tribes who never yielded,
Their immortal trophies raise.

Heroes brave, be ever ready,
At your king and country's call;
When your dauntless chiefs shall lead you,
Let the foe that dares you fall.

Let the harp to strains resounding,
Ring to cheer the dauntless brave;
Let the brave like roes come bounding
On to glory or a grave.

Let your laurels never-fading,
Gleam like your unconquer'd glaive;
Where your thistle springs triumphant,
There let freedom's banner wave.

JOHN YOUNGER.

John Younger, the shoemaker of St Boswells, and author of the Prize Essay on the Sabbath, has some claim to enrolment among the minstrels of his country. He was born on the 5th July 1785, at Longnewton village, in the parish of Ancrum, and county of Roxburgh. So early as his ninth year, he began to work at his father's trade of a shoemaker. In 1810 he married, and commenced shoemaking in the village of St Boswells, where he has continued to reside. Expert in his original profession, he has long been reputed for his skill in dressing hooks for Tweed angling; the latter qualification producing some addition to his emoluments. He holds the office of village postmaster.

A man of superior intellect and varied information, John Younger enjoys the respect of a wide circle of friends. His cottage is the resort of anglers of every rank; and among his correspondents he enumerates the most noted characters of the age. Letter writing is his favourite mode of recreation, and he has preserved copies of his letters in several interesting volumes. He has published a poetical _brochure_ with the title, "Thoughts as they Rise;" also a "Treatise on River Angling." His Prize Essay on the Sabbath, entitled, "The Light of the Week," was published in 1849, and has commanded a wide circulation. Of his lyrical effusions we have selected the following from his MS. collection.

ILKA BLADE O' GRASS GETS ITS AIN DRAP O' DEW.

Oh, dinna be sae sair cast down,
My ain sweet bairnies dear,
Whatever storms in life may blaw,
Take nae sic heart o' fear.
Though life's been aye a checker'd scene
Since Eve's first apple grew,
Nae blade o' grass has been forgot
O' its ain drap o' dew.

The bonnie flowers o' Paradise,
And a' that 's bloom'd sinsyne,
By bank an' brae an' lover's bower,
Adown the course o' time,
Or 'neath the gardener's fostering hand,--
Their annual bloom renew,
Ilk blade o' grass has had as weel
Its ain sweet drap o' dew.

The oaks and cedars of the earth
May toss their arms in air,
Or bend beneath the sweeping blast
That strips the forest bare;
The flower enfolds while storms o'erpass,
Till sunshine spreads anew,
And sips, as does ilk blade o' grass,
Its lucent drap o' dew.

The great may loll in world's wealth
And a' the pomp o' state,
While labour, bent wi' eident cares,
Maun toil baith ear and late.
The poor may gae to bed distrest,
With nae relief in view,
And rising, like ilk blade o' grass,
Shine wi' the pearl o' dew.

Oh, what a gentle hand is His
That cleeds the lilies fair,
And o' the meanest thing in life
Takes mair than mother's care!
Can ye no put your trust in Him,
With heart resign'd and true,
Wha ne'er forgets to gie the grass,
Ilk blade its drap o' dew.

THE MONTH OF JUNE.

O June, ye spring the loveliest flowers
That a' our seasons yield;
Ye deck sae flush the greenwood bowers,
The garden, and the field;
The pathway verge by hedge and tree,
So fresh, so green, and gay,
Where every lovely blue flower's e'e
Is opening to the day.

The river banks and craggy peaks
In wilding blossoms drest;
With ivy o'er their jutting nooks
Ye screen the ouzel's nest;
From precipice, abrupt and bold,
Your tendrils flaunt in air,
With craw-flowers dangling living gold
Ye tuft the steep brown scaur.

Your foliage shades the wild bird's nest
From every prying e'e,
With fairy fingers ye invest
In woven flowers the lea;
Around the lover's blissful hour
Ye draw your leafy screen,
And shade those in your rosy bower,
Who love to muse unseen.

JOHN BURTT.

John Burtt was born about the year 1790, at Knockmarloch, in the parish of Riccarton, and county of Ayr. With a limited school education, he was apprenticed to a weaver in Kilmarnock; but at the loom he much improved himself in general scholarship, especially in classical learning. In his sixteenth year he was decoyed into a ship of war at Greenock, and compelled to serve on board. Effecting his escape, after an arduous servitude of five years, he resumed the loom at Kilmarnock. He subsequently taught an adventure school, first in Kilmarnock, and afterwards at Paisley. The irksome labours of sea-faring life he had sought to relieve by the composition of verses; and these in 1816 he published, under the title of "Horæ Poeticæ; or, the Recreations of a Leisure Hour." In 1817 he emigrated to the United States, where his career has been prosperous. Having studied theology at Princeton College, New Jersey, he became a licentiate of the Presbyterian Church, and was appointed to a ministerial charge at Salem. In 1831 he removed to Philadelphia, where he edited a periodical entitled the _Presbyterian_. Admitted in 1833 to a Presbyterian Church in Cincinnati, he there edited the _Standard_, a religious newspaper. In August 1835, he was promoted to a chair in the Theological Seminary of that place.

O'ER THE MIST-SHROUDED CLIFFS.[8]

AIR--_'Banks of the Devon.'_

O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the gray mountain straying,
Where the wild winds of winter incessantly rave;
What woes wring my heart while intently surveying
The storm's gloomy path on the breast of the wave?
Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail,
Ere ye toss me afar from my loved native shore;
Where the flower which bloom'd sweetest in Coila's green vale,
The pride of my bosom--my Mary 's no more.

No more by the banks of the streamlet we 'll wander,
And smile at the moon's rimpled face in the wave;
No more shall my arms cling with fondness around her,
For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her grave.
No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast--
I haste with the storm to a far distant shore,
Where, unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest,
And joy shall revisit my bosom no more.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] This song has been erroneously assigned to Burns.

O! LASSIE, I LO'E DEAREST!

O! lassie, I lo'e dearest!
Mair fair to me than fairest,
Mair rare to me than rarest,
How sweet to think o' thee.
When blythe the blue e'ed dawnin'
Steals saftly o'er the lawnin',
And furls night's sable awnin',
I love to think o' thee.

An' while the honey'd dew-drap
Still trembles at the flower-tap,
The fairest bud I pu't up,
An' kiss'd for sake o' thee.
An' when by stream or fountain,
In glen, or on the mountain,
The lingering moments counting,
I pause an' think o' thee.

When the sun's red rays are streamin',
Warm on the meadow beamin',
Or o'er the loch wild gleamin',
My heart is fu' o' thee.
An' tardy-footed gloamin',
Out o'er the hills slow comin',
Still finds me lanely roamin',
And thinkin' still o' thee.

When soughs the distant billow,
An' night blasts shake the willow,
Stretch'd on my lanely pillow,
My dreams are a' o' thee.
Then think when frien's caress thee,
Oh, think when cares distress thee,
Oh, think when pleasures bless thee,
O' him that thinks o' thee.

CHARLES JAMES FINLAYSON.

Charles James Finlayson was born on the 27th August 1790, in the parish of Larbert, and county of Stirling. Owing to the death of his father during his childhood, and the poverty of the family, he was never at school. While a cow-herd to a farmer, he taught himself letters in the fields. With a fine ear for music and an excellent voice, he took delight in singing such scraps of old ballads as he had learned from the cottage matrons. The small gratuities which he procured for holding the horses of the farmers at the annual Falkirk _trysts_, put him in possession of all the printed ballad literature which that town could supply. In his eleventh year he entered, in a humble capacity, the Carron Iron Works; where he had some opportunity of improving himself in scholarship, and gratifying his taste for books. He travelled from Carron to Glasgow, a distance of twenty-three miles, to procure a copy of Ossian. Improving his musical predilections, he was found qualified, while still a young man, to officiate as precentor, or leader of the psalmody, in the church of his native parish. Resigning this appointment, and his situation in the Carron Works, he for some time taught church music in the neighbouring towns. On an invitation from the Kirk-session and congregation, he became precentor in the Old Kirk, Edinburgh; and in this office gained the active friendship of the respected clergyman, Dr Macknight.

Having attained a scientific acquaintance with the theory and practice of his art, Mr Finlayson resigned his appointment in the capital, and proceeded to the provinces as an instructor in vocal music. He visited the principal towns in the east and southern districts of Scotland, and was generally successful. During his professional visit to Dumfries in 1820, he became one of the founders of the Burns' Club in that town. After a short absence in Canada, he settled in Kircudbright as a wine and spirit merchant. In 1832 he was appointed to the office of postmaster. Having retired from business a few years since, he enjoys the fruits of a well-earned competency. He has contributed songs to Blackie's "Book of Scottish Song," and other collections. His song beginning "Oh, my love 's bonnie!" has been translated into German, and published with music at Leipsic.

THE BARD STRIKES HIS HARP.

The bard strikes his harp, the wild woods among,
And echo repeats to the breezes his strain;
Enraptured, the small birds around his seat throng,
And the lambkins, delighted, stand mute on the plain.
He sings of the pleasures his young bosom knew,
When beauty inspired him, and love was the theme;
While his harp, ever faithful, awakes them anew,
And a tear dims his eye as he breathes the loved name.

The hearths that bade welcome, the tongues that gave praise,
Are now cold to his sorrows, and mute to his wail!
E'en the oak, his sole shelter, rude winter decays,
And the wild flowers he sung are laid scentless and pale.
Too oft thus in misery, the minstrel must pine;
Neglected by those whom his song wont to cheer,
They think not, alas! as they view his decline,
That his heart still can feel, and his eye shed a tear.

Yet sweet are the pleasures that spring from his woes,
And which souls that are songless can never enjoy;
They know not his joy, for each sweet strain that flows
Twines a wreath round his name time can never destroy.
Sing on, then, sweet bard! though thus lonely ye stray,
Yet ages unborn, thy name shall revere;
While the names that neglect thee have melted away,
As the snowflakes which fall in the stream disappear.

PH[OE]BUS, WI' GOWDEN CREST.

Ph[oe]bus, wi' gowden crest, leaves ocean's heaving breast
An' frae the purple east smiles on the day;
Laverocks wi' blythesome strain, mount frae the dewy plain,
Greenwood and rocky glen echo their lay;
Wild flowers, wi' op'ning blooms, woo ilka breeze that comes,
Scattering their rich perfumes over the lea;
But summer's varied dye, lark's song, and breezes' sigh,
Only bring sorrow and sadness to me.

Blighted, like autumn's leaf, ilk joy is changed to grief--
Day smiles around, but no pleasure can gie;
Night on his sable wings, sweet rest to nature brings--
Sleep to the weary, but waukin' to me.
Aften has warldly care wrung my sad bosom sair;
Hope's visions fled me, an' friendship's untrue;
But a' the ills o' fate never could thus create
Anguish like parting, dear Annie, frae you.

Farewell, those beaming eyes, stars in life's wintry skies--
Aft has adversity fled frae your ray;
Farewell, that angel smile, stranger to woman's wile,
That ever could beguile sorrow away;
Farewell, ilk happy scene, wild wood, an' valley green,
Where time, on rapture's wing, over us flew;
Farewell, that peace of heart, thou only could'st impart--
Farewell, dear Annie--a long, long adieu!

OH, MY LOVE'S BONNIE.

Oh! my love's bonnie, bonnie, bonnie;
Oh! my love's bonnie and dear to me;
The smile o' her face, and her e'e's witchin' grace,
Are mair than the wealth o' this warld can gie.

Her voice is as sweet as the blackbird at gloamin',
When echo repeats her soft notes to the ear,
And lovely and fresh as the wild roses blooming,
That dip in the stream o' the Carron so clear.

But poortith 's a foe to the peace o' this bosom,
That glows sae devoutly, dear lassie, for thee;
Alas! that e'er poortith should blight love's young blossom,
When riches nae lasting contentment can gie.

Yet hope's cheerfu' sun shall aboon my head hover,
And guide a lone wanderer, when far frae thee;
For ne'er, till it sets, will I prove a false lover,
Or think o' anither, dear lassie, but thee.

WILLIAM DOBIE.

An accomplished antiquary, and writer of verses, William Dobie was born in 1790, in the village of Beith, Ayrshire. Educated at the parish school, he was in his thirteenth year apprenticed to a mechanical profession. At the close of his apprenticeship, he commenced business in his native district. In 1822, the munificence of a wealthy relative enabled him to retire from his occupation, which had proved unsuitable to his tastes. For several years he resided in London. He subsequently made a tour through Britain, and visited the Continent. His "Perambulations in Kintyre," a manuscript volume, is frequently quoted by Mr Cosmo Innes, in his "Origines Parochiales Scotiæ," a valuable work printed for the Bannatyne Club. In 1840 he prepared a history of the parish of Kilbirnie, for the "New Statistical Account." He afterwards published an account of the church and churchyard of Kilbirnie, in an interesting pamphlet. Recently Mr Dobie has superintended the erection of a monument to Sir William Wallace, on Barnweil Hill, near Kilmarnock, which has been reared at the entire cost of William Patrick, Esq., of Roughwood. The greater number of the many spirited inscriptions on the monument are the composition of Mr Dobie.

THE DREARY REIGN OF WINTER 'S PAST.

AIR--_'Loch Errochside.'_

The dreary reign of Winter 's past,
The frost, the snow, the surly blast,
To polar hills are scouring fast;
For balmy Spring 's returning.
Adown Glen-Garnock's lonely vale,
The torrent's voice has ceased to wail;
But soft low notes, borne on the gale,
Dispel dull gloom and mourning.

With toil and long fatigue depress'd,
Exhausted nature sunk oppress'd,
Till waken'd from her slumbering rest,
By balmy Spring returning.
Now in flower'd vesture, green and gay,
Lovelier each succeeding day;
Soon from her face shall pass away,
Each trace of Winter's mourning.

Lo, at her mild benign command,
Life rouses up on every hand;
While bursts of joy o'er all the land,
Hail balmy Spring returning.
E'en murmuring stream and raving linn,
And solemn wood in softened din,
All join great Nature's praise to hymn,
That fled is Winter's mourning.

While all on earth, and in the skies,
In transports fervently rejoice,
Shall man refuse to raise his voice,
And welcome Spring returning?
If such ingrates exist below,
They ne'er can feel the sacred glow,
That Nature and the Muse bestow,
To cheer the gloom of mourning.

ROBERT HENDRY, M.D.

A man of unobtrusive literary merit, and no inconsiderable poetical ability, Robert Hendry was born at Paisley on the 7th October 1791. Descended from a respectable family in Morayshire, his paternal great-grandfather fixed his residence in Glasgow. His grandfather, after serving as a lieutenant under the Duke of Cumberland in Holland, quitted the army, and settled as a silk manufacturer in Paisley. Under the name of "The Hollander," this gentleman had the distinction of being lampooned by Alexander Wilson, during the days of his hot youth, prior to his embarkation for America. Of his two sons, the elder removed to London, where he became senior Alderman, and died on the eve of his nomination as Lord Mayor.

The grandson of "The Hollander," by his second son, the subject of this memoir, was, in his twelfth year, apprenticed to his maternal uncle, a medical practitioner. On the completion of a course of philosophical and medical study at the University of Glasgow, he obtained his diploma, and settled as a surgeon in his native town. Amidst due attention to his professional duties, he became ardently devoted to literary pursuits. Besides conducting several local periodicals, he contributed to some of the more important serials. During the year 1826, which proved so disastrous to the manufacturing interests in Paisley, he devised a scheme for the relief of the unemployed, and his services were appropriately acknowledged by the magistrates. He afterwards sought the general improvement of the burgh, and among many other fiscal and sanitary reforms, succeeded in introducing into the place a supply of excellent water. Declining the provostship offered him by the Town Council, he retired a few years since to the village of Helensburgh, where he continues to reside.

Dr Hendry was an intimate acquaintance of Tannahill; and afterwards ranked among his friends the poet Motherwell and Robert Archibald Smith. He has at various time contributed verses to the periodicals. Latterly his attention has been more especially directed to scientific pursuits.

OH, LET NA GANG YON BONNIE LASSIE.

Oh, let na gang yon bonnie lassie
Cam' to see you a' yestreen;
A winning gate 's about that lassie,
Something mair than meets the een.
Had she na baked the Christmas pasty,
Think ye it had been sae fine?
Or yet the biscuit sae delicious
That we crumpit to the wine?

Her ringlets are the gift o' nature,
Flowing gracefu' o'er her brow;
The turn, the hue o' ilka feature,
Form, and colour, nature drew.
She 's meikle sought, and meikle thought o',
Lang unwedded canna be;
Wi' kindness court the comely creature,
Cast the glaumrie o'er her e'e.

Have ye an ear can be delighted?
Like a seraph she can sing,
Wi' charming grace and witching manner,
Thrilling o'er the music string.
Her tell the tale that moves to pity,
But wi' heart and feeling speak;
Then watch the turn o' ilka feature,
Kiss the tear that weets her cheek.

She sooms na aye in silk or satin,
Flaunting like a modern belle;
Her robe and plaid 's the simple tartan,
Sweet and modest like hersel'.
The shapely robe adorns her person
That her eident hand wad sew;
The plaid sae graceful flung around her,
'Twas her tastefu' manner threw.

She 'll mak' a thrifty loving woman
To a kind weel-doing man,
Forby a tender-hearted mother--
Win the lassie if ye can.
For weel she 's worth your heart and treasure;
May your bridal day be near--
Then half a score o' bairns hereafter--
May ye live a hunder year.

HEW AINSLIE.

Hew Ainslie was born on the 5th April 1792, at Bargeny Mains, in the parish of Dailly, and county of Ayr. Receiving the rudiments of education from a private teacher in his father's house, he entered the parish school of Ballantrae in his tenth year, and afterwards became a pupil in the academy of Ayr. A period of bad health induced him to forego the regular prosecution of learning, and, having quitted the academy, he accepted employment as an assistant landscape gardener on the estate of Sir Hew Dalrymple Hamilton. At the age of sixteen he entered the writing chambers of a legal gentleman in Glasgow, but the confinement of the office proving uncongenial, he took a hasty departure, throwing himself on the protection of some relatives at Roslin, near Edinburgh. His father's family soon after removed to Roslin, and through the kindly interest of Mr Thomas Thomson, Deputy-Clerk Register, he procured a clerkship in the General Register House, Edinburgh. For some months he acted as amanuensis to Professor Dugald Stewart, in transcribing his last work for the press.

Having entered into the married state, and finding the salary of his office in the Register House unequal to the comfortable maintenance of his family, he resolved to emigrate to the United States, in the hope of bettering his circumstances. Arriving at New York in July 1822, he made purchase of a farm in that State, and there resided the three following years. He next made a trial of the Social System of Robert Owen, at New Harmony, but abandoned the project at the close of a year. In 1827 he entered into partnership with Messrs Price & Wood, brewers, in Cincinnati, and set up a branch of the establishment at Louisville. Removing to New Albany, Indiana, he there built a large brewery for a joint-stock company, and in 1832 erected in that place similar premises on his own account. The former was ruined by the great Ohio flood of 1832, and the latter perished by fire in 1834. He has since followed the occupation of superintending the erection of mills and factories; and has latterly fixed his abode in Jersey, a suburb of New York.

Early imbued with the love of song, Mr Ainslie composed verses when a youth on the mountains of Carrick. A visit to his native country in 1820 revived the ardour of his muse; and shortly before his departure to America, he published the whole of his rhyming effusions in a duodecimo volume, with the title, "Pilgrimage to the Land of Burns." A second volume from his pen, entitled, "Scottish Songs, Ballads, and Poems," was in 1855 published at New York.

THE HAMEWARD SANG.

Each whirl of the wheel,
Each step brings me nearer
The hame of my youth--
Every object grows dearer.
Thae hills and thae huts,
And thae trees on that green,
Losh! they glower in my face
Like some kindly auld frien'.

E'en the brutes they look social,
As gif they would crack;
And the sang o' the birds
Seems to welcome me back.
Oh, dear to our hearts
Is the hand that first fed us,
And dear is the land
And the cottage that bred us.

And dear are the comrades
With whom we once sported,
And dearer the maiden
Whose love we first courted.
Joy's image may perish,
E'en grief die away;
But the scenes of our youth
Are recorded for aye.

DOWIE IN THE HINT O' HAIRST.

Its dowie in the hint o' hairst,
At the wa'-gang o' the swallow,
When the wind grows cauld, and the burns grow bauld,
And the wuds are hingin' yellow;
But oh, its dowier far to see
The wa-gang o' her the heart gangs wi',
The dead-set o' a shinin' e'e--
That darkens the weary warld on thee.

There was mickle love atween us twa--
Oh, twa could ne'er be fonder;
And the thing on yird was never made,
That could hae gart us sunder.
But the way of heaven's aboon a' ken,
And we maun bear what it likes to sen'--
It's comfort, though, to weary men,
That the warst o' this warld's waes maun en'.

There's mony things that come and gae,
Just kent, and just forgotten;
And the flowers that busk a bonnie brae,
Gin anither year lie rotten.
But the last look o' that lovely e'e,
And the dying grip she gae to me,
They're settled like eternitie--
Oh, Mary! that I were wi' thee.

ON WI' THE TARTAN.

Can you lo'e, my dear lassie,
The hills wild and free;
Whar' the sang o' the shepherd
Gars a' ring wi' glee?
Or the steep rocky glens,
Where the wild falcons bide?
Then on wi' the tartan,
And, fy, let us ride!

Can ye lo'e the knowes, lassie,
That ne'er war in rigs?
Or the bonnie loune lee,
Where the sweet robin bigs?
Or the sang o' the lintie,
Whan wooin' his bride?
Then on wi' the tartan,
And, fy, let us ride!

Can ye lo'e the burn, lassie,
That loups amang linns?
Or the bonnie green howmes,
Where it cannilie rins,
Wi' a cantie bit housie,
Sae snug by its side?
Then on wi' the tartan,
And, fy, let us ride!

THE ROVER O' LOCHRYAN.

The Rover o' Lochryan, he's gane,
Wi' his merry men sae brave;
Their hearts are o' the steel, an' a better keel
Ne'er bowl'd owre the back o' a wave.
Its no when the loch lies dead in his trough
When naething disturbs it ava;
But the rack and the ride o' the restless tide,
Or the splash o' the gray sea-maw.

Its no when the yawl an' the light skiffs crawl
Owre the breast o' the siller sea;
That I look to the west for the bark I lo'e best,
An' the rover that's dear to me,
But when that the clud lays its cheek to the flud,
An' the sea lays its shouther to the shore;
When the win' sings high, and the sea-whaup's cry,
As they rise frae the whitening roar.

Its then that I look to the thickening rook,
An' watch by the midnight tide;
I ken the wind brings my rover hame,
An' the sea that he glories to ride.
Oh, merry he sits 'mang his jovial crew,
Wi' the helm heft in his hand,
An' he sings aloud to his boys in blue,
As his e'e's upon Galloway's land:

"Unstent and slack each reef an' tack,
Gae her sail, boys, while it may sit;
She has roar'd through a heavier sea afore,
An' she'll roar through a heavier yet.
When landsmen sleep, or wake an' creep,
In the tempest's angry moan,
We dash through the drift, and sing to the lift
O' the wave that heaves us on."

THE LAST LOOK O' HAME.

Bare was our burn brae,
December's blast had blawn,
The last flower was dead,
An' the brown leaf had fa'n:
It was dark in the deep glen,
Hoary was our hill;
An' the win' frae the cauld north,
Cam' heavy and chill:

When I said fare-ye-weel,
To my kith and my kin;
My barque it lay ahead,
An' my cot-house ahin';
I had nought left to tine,
I'd a wide warl' to try;
But my heart it wadna lift,
An' my e'e it wadna dry.

I look'd lang at the ha',
Through the mist o' my tears,
Where the kind lassie lived,
I had run wi' for years;
E'en the glens where we sat,
Wi' their broom-covered knowes,
Took a haud on this heart
That I ne'er can unloose.

I hae wander'd sin' syne,
By gay temples and towers,
Where the ungather'd spice
Scents the breeze in their bowers;
Oh! sic scenes I could leave
Without pain or regret;
But the last look o' hame
I ne'er can forget.

THE LADS AN' THE LAND FAR AWA'.

AIR--_'My ain fireside.'_

When I think on the lads an' the land I hae left,
An' how love has been lifted, an' friendship been reft;
How the hinnie o' hope has been jumbled wi' ga',
Then I sigh for the lads an' the land far awa'.

When I think on the days o' delight we hae seen,
When the flame o' the spirit would spark in the e'en;
Then I say, as in sorrow I think on ye a',
Where will I find hearts like the hearts far awa?

When I think on the nights we hae spent hand in hand,
Wi' mirth for our sowther, and friendship our band,
This world gets dark; but ilk night has a daw',
And I yet may rejoice in the land far awa'!

MY BONNIE WEE BELL.

My bonnie wee Bell was a mitherless bairn,
Her aunty was sour, an' her uncle was stern;
While her cousin was aft in a cankersome mood;
But that hinder'd na Bell growing bonnie and gude.

When we ran to the schule, I was aye by her han',
To wyse off the busses, or help owre a stran';
An' as aulder we grew, a' the neighbours could tell
Hoo my liking grew wi' thee, my bonnie wee Bell.

Thy cousin gangs dinkit, thy cousin gangs drest,
In her silks and her satins, the brawest and best;
But the gloss o' a cheek, the glint o' an e'e,
Are jewels frae heaven, nae tocher can gie.

Some goud, an' some siller, my auld gutcher left,
An' in houses an' mailins I'll soon be infeft;
I've a vow in the heaven, I've an aith wi' thysel',
I'll make room in this world for thee, bonnie Bell.

WILLIAM THOMSON.

William Thomson was born in 1797, in the village of Kennoway, Fifeshire. He has constantly resided in his native place. After obtaining an ordinary education at the parish school, he engaged in the business of a manufacturer. Relinquishing this occupation, he became a grocer and general merchant; and since 1824, he has held the office of Postmaster. He composed verses at an early period. In 1825, some of his verses appeared in the _Paisley Advertiser_, and the favour with which they were received induced him to offer some poetical compositions to the _Fife Herald_, a newspaper which had just been established in the capital of his native county. Under the signature of _Theta_, he has since been a regular contributor of verses to that journal. He has likewise contributed articles in prose and poetry to other newspapers and some of the periodicals.

THE MAIDEN TO HER REAPING HOOK.

The soldier waves the shining sword, the shepherd boy his crook,
The boatman plies the splashing oar, but well I love the hook.
When swift I haste at sunny morn, unto the spreading plain,
And view before me, like a sea, the fields of golden grain,
And listen to the cheerful sound of harvest's echoing horn,
Or join the merry reaper band, that gather in the corn;
How sweet the friendly welcoming, how gladsome every look,
Ere we begin, with busy hands, to wield the Reaping Hook.

My Reaping Hook! my Reaping Hook! I love thee better far,
Than glancing spear and temper'd sword, bright instruments of war;
As thee I grasp with willing hand, and feel a reaper's glee,
When, waving in the rustling breeze, the ripen'd field I see;
Or listen to the harmless jest, the bandsman's cheerful song,
The hearty laugh, the rustic mirth, while mingling 'mid the throng;
With joy I see the well-fill'd sheaf, and mark each rising stook,
As thee I ply with agile arm, my trusty Reaping Hook!

They tell of glorious battle-fields, strew'd thick with heaps of slain!
Alas! the triumphs of the sword bring only grief and pain;
But thou, my shining Reaping Hook, the symbol art of peace,
And fill'st a thousand families with smiles and happiness;
While conquering warrior's burning brand, amid his gory path,
The emblem is of pain and woe, of man's destructive wrath.
Soon therefore may the spear give place unto the shepherd's crook,
And the conqueror's flaming sword be turn'd into a Reaping Hook!

ALEXANDER SMART.

Alexander Smart was born at Montrose on the 26th April 1798. His father was a respectable shoemaker in the place. A portion of his school education was conducted under the care of one Norval, a teacher in the Montrose Academy, whose mode of infusing knowledge he has not unjustly satirised in his poem, entitled "Recollections of Auld Lang Syne." Norval was a model among the tyrant pedagogues of the past; and as an illustration of Scottish school life fifty years since, we present our author's reminiscences of the despot. "Gruesome in visage and deformed in body, his mind reflected the grim and tortuous aspects of his person. The recollection of his monstrous cruelties,--his cruel flagellations,--is still unaccountably depressing. One day of horrors I shall never cease to remember. Every Saturday he caused the pupils to repeat a prayer which he had composed for their use; and in hearing which he stood over each with a paper ruler, ready, in the event of omission of word or phrase, to strike down the unfortunate offender, who all the while drooped tremblingly before him. On one of these days of extorted prayer, I was found at fault in my grammar lesson, and the offence was deemed worthy of peculiar castigation. The school was dismissed at the usual time, but, along with a few other boys who were to become witnesses of my punishment and disgrace, I was detained in the class-room, and dragged to the presence of the tyrant. Despite of his every effort, I resisted being bound to the bench, and flogged after the fashion of the times. So the punishment was commuted into 'palmies.' Horrible commutation! Sixty lashes with leather thongs on my right hand, inflicted with all the severity of a tyrant's wrath, made me scream in the anguish of desperation. My pitiless tormentor, unmoved by the sight of my hand sorely lacerated, and swollen to twice its natural size, threatened to cut out my tongue if I continued to complain; and so saying, laid hold on a pair of scissors, and inflicted a deep cut on my lip. The horrors of the day fortunately emancipated me from the further control of the despot."

At another seminary Smart completed his education. He was now apprenticed to a watchmaker in his native town, his hours of leisure being sedulously devoted to the perusal of the more distinguished British poets. It was his delight to repeat his favourite passages in solitary rambles on the sea beach. In 1819, on the completion of his apprenticeship, he proceeded to Edinburgh, where, during a period of six months, he wrought at his trade. But the sedentary life of a watchmaker proving injurious to his health, he was led to seek employment in a printing-office. Soon after, he became editor, printer, and publisher of the _Montrose Chronicle_, a newspaper which was originated in his native town, but which proved unsuccessful. He thereafter held an appointment in the office of the _Dundee Courier_. Returning to Edinburgh, he accepted employment as a pressman in a respectable printing-office, and afterwards attained the position of press overseer in one of the most important printing establishments of the city.

In his twentieth year Smart adventured on the composition of verses, but being dissatisfied with his efforts, he consigned them to oblivion. He subsequently renewed his invocation of the Muse, and in 1834 published a small duodecimo volume of poems and songs, entitled "Rambling Rhymes." This publication attracted considerable attention, and secured for the author the personal favour of Lord Jeffrey. He also received the commendation of Thomas Campbell, Charles Dickens, Thomas Babington Macaulay, Charles Mackay, and other literary and poetical celebrities. A new and enlarged edition of his volume appeared in 1845, and was dedicated by permission to Lord Jeffrey.

Smart was one of the principal contributors to "Whistle Binkie." At different periods he has composed excellent prose essays and sketches, some of which have appeared in _Hogg's Instructor_. Those papers entitled "Burns and his Ancestors," "Leaves from an Autobiography," and "Scenes from the Life of a Sufferer," may be especially enumerated. Of a peculiarly nervous temperament, he has more than once experienced the miseries of mental aberration. Latterly he has completely recovered his health, and living in Edinburgh with his wife and family, he divides his time between the mechanical labours of the printing-office and the more congenial pursuits of literature.

WHEN THE BEE HAS LEFT THE BLOSSOM.

When the bee has left the blossom,
And the lark has closed his lay,
And the daisy folds its bosom
In the dews of gloaming gray;
When the virgin rose is bending,
Wet with evening's pensive tear,
And the purple light is blending
With the soft moon rising clear;

Meet me then, my own true maiden,
Where the wild flowers shed their bloom
And the air with fragrance laden,
Breathes around a rich perfume.
With my true love as I wander,
Captive led by beauty's power,
Thoughts and feelings sweet and tender
Hallow that delightful hour.

Give ambition dreams of glory,
Give the poet laurell'd fame,
Let renown in song and story
Consecrate the hero's name;
Give the great their pomp and pleasure,
Give the courtier place and power;
Give to me my bosom's treasure,
And the lonely gloaming hour.

OH, LEAVE ME NOT.

Oh, leave me not! the evening hour,
So soft, so still, is all our own;
The dew descends on tree and flower,
They breathe their sweets for thee alone.
Oh, go not yet! the evening star,
The rising moon, all bid thee stay;
And dying echoes, faint and far,
Invite our lingering steps to stray.

Far from the city's noisy din,
Beneath the pale moon's trembling light,
That lip to press, those smiles to win,
Will lend a rapture to the night.
Let fortune fling her favours free
To whom she will, I'll ne'er repine:
Oh, what is all the world to me,
While thus I clasp and call thee mine!

NEVER DESPAIR.

Never despair! when the dark cloud is lowering,
The sun, though obscured, never ceases to shine;
Above the black tempest his radiance is pouring
While faithless and faint-hearted mortals repine.
The journey of life has its lights and its shadows,
And Heaven in its wisdom to each sends a share;
Though rough be the road, yet with reason to guide us,
And courage to conquer, we'll never despair!

Never despair! when with troubles contending,
Make labour and patience a sword and a shield,
And win brighter laurels, with courage unbending,
Than ever were gained on the blood-tainted field.
As gay as the lark in the beam of the morning,
When young hearts spring upward to do and to dare,
The bright star of promise their future adorning,
Will light them along, and they'll never despair!

The oak in the tempest grows strong by resistance,
The arm at the anvil gains muscular power,
And firm self-reliance, that seeks no assistance,
Goes onward, rejoicing, through sunshine and shower;
For life is a struggle, to try and to prove us,
And true hearts grow stronger by labour and care,
While Hope, like a seraph, still whispers above us,--
Look upward and onward, and never despair!

JOHN DUNLOP.

The author of some popular songs, and of four volumes of MS. poetry, John Dunlop is entitled to a place in the catalogue of Caledonian lyrists. The younger son of Colin Dunlop of Carmyle, he was born in November 1755, in the mansion of the paternal estate, in the parish of Old Monkland, and county of Lanark. Commencing his career as a merchant in Glasgow, he was in 1796 elevated to the Lord Provostship of the city. He afterwards accepted the office of Collector of Customs at Borrowstounness, and subsequently occupied the post of Collector at Port-Glasgow. His death took place at Port-Glasgow, in October 1820.