Chapter XXXIX: Introduction: TO (28)

Thomas Aird, one of the most distinguished of the living Scottish poets, was born in the parish of Bowden, Roxburghshire, in 1802. He received the rudiments of his education at Bowden and Melrose parish schools; and went through a course of literary and philosophical study at the University of Edinburgh. In 1827 he published a little treatise, entitled "Religious Characteristics." After a residence of some years in Edinburgh, in the course of which he contributed occasionally to _Blackwood's Magazine_, and other periodicals, he was, in 1835, on the recommendation of his steadfast friend Professor Wilson, appointed editor of the _Dumfries Herald_, a conservative journal newly started in Dumfries. The paper has prospered under his management, and he is editor still. In 1845 he published "The Old Bachelor in the Old Scottish Village," a collection of tales and sketches of Scottish scenery, character, and life. In 1848 he collected and published his poems. In 1852 he wrote a memoir of his friend, David Macbeth Moir (the well-known "Delta" of _Blackwood's Magazine_), and prefixed it to an edition of Moir's poems, which he edited for behoof of the poet's family, under the generous instructions of the Messrs Blackwood. In 1856 a new edition of Mr Aird's poems appeared, with many fresh pieces, and the old carefully revised; Messrs Blackwood being the publishers.

THE SWALLOW.

The little comer 's coming, the comer o'er the sea,
The comer of the summer, all the sunny days to be;
How pleasant, through the pleasant sleep, thy early twitter heard--
Oh, swallow by the lattice! glad days be thy reward!

Thine be sweet morning, with the bee that 's out for honey-dew,
And glowing be the noontide, for the grasshopper and you;
And mellow shine, o'er days' decline, the sun to light thee home--
What can molest thy airy nest? Sleep till the morrow come.

The river blue, that lapses through the valley, hears thee sing,
And murmurs much beneath the touch of thy light-dipping wing;
The thunder-cloud, over us bow'd, in deeper gloom is seen,
When quick relieved it glances to thy bosom's silvery sheen.

The silent power that brings thee back, with leading-strings of love,
To haunts where first the summer sun fell on thee from above,
Shall bind thee more to come aye to the music of our leaves,
For here thy young, where thou hast sprung, shall glad thee in our eaves.

GENIUS.

Eye of the brain and heart,
O Genius, inner sight,
Wonders from thee familiar start,
In thy decisive light.
Wide and deep the eye must go,
The process of our world to know.
Old mountains grated to the sea,
Sow the young seed of isles to be.
States dissolve, that Nature's plan
May bear the broadening type of man.
Passes ne'er the Past away;
Child of the ages springs to-day.
Life, death, and life! but circling change,
Still working to a higher range!
Make thee all science, Genius, clear
Our world; all Muses, grace and cheer.
And may the ideal thou hast shewn,
With joy peculiar be thine own;
For thee the starry belts of time,
The inner laws, the heavenly chime;
Thine storm and rack--the forests crack,
The sea gives up her secrets hoary;
And Beauty thine, on loom divine,
Weaving the rainbow's woof of glory.

Power of the civic heart,
More than a power to know,
Genius, incarnated in Art,
By thee the nations grow.
Lawgiver thine, and priest, and sage,
Lit up the Oriental age.
Persuasive groves, and musical,
Of love the illumined mountains all.
Eagles and rods, and axes clear,
Forum and amphitheatre;
These in thy plastic forming hand,
Forth leapt to life the classic Land.
Old and new, the worlds of light,
Who bridged the gulf of Middle Night?
See the purple passage rise,
Many arch'd of centuries;
Genius built it long and vast,
And o'er it social knowledge pass'd.
Far in the glad transmitted flame,
Shinar, knit to Britain, came;
Their state by thee our fathers free,
O Genius, founded deep and wide,
Majestic towers the fabric ours,
And awes the world from side to side.

Mart of the ties of blood,
Mart of the souls of men!
O Christ! to see thy Brotherhood
Bought to be sold again,
Front of hell, to trade therein.
Genius face the giant sin;
Shafts of thought, truth-headed clear,
Temper'd all in Pity's tear,
Every point and every tip,
In the blood of Jesus dip;
Pierce till the monster reel and cry,
Pierce him till he fall and die.
Yet cease not, rest not, onward quell,
Power divine and terrible!
See where yon bastion'd Midnight stands,
On half the sunken central lands;
Shoot! let thy arrow heads of flame
Sing as they pierce the blot of shame,
Till all the dark economies
Become the light of blessed skies.
For this, above in wondering love,
To Genius shall it first be given,
To trace the lines of past designs,
All confluent to the finish'd Heaven.

ROBERT WHITE.

Robert White, an indefatigable antiquary, and pleasing writer of lyric poetry, is a native of Roxburghshire. His youth and early manhood were spent at Otterburn, in Redesdale, where his father rented a farm. Possessed of an ardent love of reading, he early became familiar with the English poets, and himself tried metrical composition. While still a young man, he ranked among the poetical contributors to the _Newcastle Magazine_. In 1825 he accepted a situation as clerk to a respectable tradesman in Newcastle, which he retained upwards of twenty years. Latterly he has occupied a post of respectable emolument, and with sufficient leisure for the improvement of his literary tastes.

Besides contributing both in prose and verse to the local journals, and some of the periodicals, Mr White is the author of several publications. In 1829 appeared from his pen "The Tynemouth Nun," an elegantly versified tale; in 1853, "The Wind," a poem; and in 1856, "England," a poem. He has contributed songs to "Whistle Binkie," and "The Book of Scottish Song." At present he has in the press a "History of the Battle of Otterburn," prepared from original sources of information.

MY NATIVE LAND.

Fair Scotland! dear as life to me
Are thy majestic hills;
And sweet as purest melody
The music of thy rills.
The wildest cairn, the darkest dell,
Within thy rocky strand,
Possess o'er me a living spell--
Thou art my native land.

Loved country, when I muse upon
Thy dauntless men of old,
Whose swords in battle foremost shone--
Thy Wallace brave and bold;
And Bruce who, for our liberty,
Did England's sway withstand;
I glory I was born in thee,
Mine own ennobled land!

Nor less thy martyrs I revere,
Who spent their latest breath
To seal the cause they held so dear,
And conquer'd even in death.
Their graves evince, o'er hill and plain,
No bigot's stern command
Shall mould the faith thy sons maintain,
My dear devoted land.

And thou hast ties around my heart,
Attraction deeper still--
The gifted poet's sacred art,
The minstrel's matchless skill.
Yea; every scene that Burns and Scott
Have touch'd with magic hand
Is in my sight a hallow'd spot,
Mine own distinguish'd land!

Oh! when I wander'd far from thee,
I saw thee in my dreams;
I mark'd thy forests waving free,
I heard thy rushing streams.
Thy mighty dead in life came forth,
I knew the honour'd band;
We spoke of thee--thy fame--thy worth--
My high exalted land!

Now if the lonely home be mine
In which my fathers dwelt,
And I can worship at the shrine
Where they in fervour knelt;
No glare of wealth, or honour high,
Shall lure me from thy strand;
Oh, I would yield my parting sigh
In thee, my native land!

A SHEPHERD'S LIFE.

Eliza fair, the mirth of May
Resounds from glen and tree;
Yet thy mild voice, I need not say,
Is dearer far to me.
And while I thus a garland cull,
To grace that brow of thine,
My cup of pure delight is full--
A shepherd's life be mine!

Believe me, maid, the means of wealth,
Howe'er profuse they be,
Produce not pleasure that in health
Is shared by you and me!
'Tis when elate with thoughts of joy
We find a heart like thine,
That objects grateful glad the eye--
A shepherd's life be mine!

O mark, Eliza, how the flowers
Around us sweetly spring;
And list how in these woodland bowers
The birds with rapture sing;
Behold that vale whose streamlet clear
Flows on in waving line;
Can Paradise more bright appear?
A shepherd's life be mine!

Now, dearest, not the morning bright,
That dawns o'er hill and lea,
Nor eve, with all its golden light,
Can charm me without thee.
To feel the magic of thy smile--
To catch that glance of thine--
To talk to thee of love the while,
A shepherd's life be mine!

HER I LOVE BEST.

Thou morn full of beauty
That chases the night,
And wakens all Nature
With gladness and light,
When warbles the linnet
Aloof from its nest,
O scatter thy fragrance
Round her I love best!

Ye hills, dark and lofty,
That near her ascend,
If she in her pastime
Across thee shall wend,
Let every lone pathway
In wild flowers be drest,
To welcome the footsteps
Of her I love best!

Thou sun, proudly sailing
O'er depths of the sky,
Dispensing beneath thee
Profusion and joy,
Until in thy splendour
Thou sink'st to the west,
Oh, gaze not too boldly
On her I love best!

Ye wild roving breezes,
I charge you, forbear
To wantonly tangle
The braids of her hair;
Breathe not o'er her rudely,
Nor sigh on her breast,
Nor kiss you the sweet lip
Of her I love best!

Thou evening, that gently
Steals after the day,
To robe with thy shadow
The landscape in gray,
O fan with soft pinion
My dearest to rest!
And calm be the slumber
Of her I love best!

Ye angels of goodness,
That shield us from ill,
The purest of pleasures
Awarding us still,
As near her you hover,
Oh, hear my request!
Pour blessings unnumber'd
On her I love best!

THE KNIGHT'S RETURN.

Fair Ellen, here again I stand--
All dangers now are o'er;
No sigh to reach my native land
Shall rend my bosom more.
Ah! oft, beyond the heaving main,
I mourn'd at Fate's decree;
I wish'd but to be back again
To Scotland and to thee.

O Ellen, how I prized thy love
In foreign lands afar!
Upon my helm I bore thy glove
Through thickest ranks of war:
And as a pledge, in battle-field,
Recall'd thy charms to me;
I breath'd a prayer behind my shield
For Scotland and for thee.

I scarce can tell how eagerly
My eyes were hither cast,
When, faintly rising o'er the sea,
These hills appear'd at last.
My very breast, as on the shore
I bounded light and free,
Declared by throbs the love I bore
To Scotland and to thee.

Oh, long, long has the doom been mine
In other climes to roam;
Yet have I seen no form like thine,
No sweeter spot than home;
Nor ask'd I e'er another heart
To feel alone for me:
O Ellen, never more I'll part
From Scotland and from thee!

THE BONNIE REDESDALE LASSIE.

The breath o' spring is gratefu',
As mild it sweeps alang,
Awakening bud an' blossom
The broomy braes amang,
And wafting notes o' gladness
Frae ilka bower and tree;
Yet the bonnie Redesdale lassie
Is sweeter still to me.

How bright is summer's beauty!
When, smilin' far an' near,
The wildest spots o' nature
Their gayest livery wear;
And yellow cups an' daisies
Are spread on ilka lea;
But the bonnie Redesdale lassie
Mair charming is to me.

Oh! sweet is mellow autumn!
When, wide oure a' the plain,
Slow waves in rustlin' motion
The heavy-headed grain;
Or in the sunshine glancin',
And rowin' like the sea;
Yet the bonnie Redesdale lassie
Is dearer far to me!

As heaven itsel', her bosom
Is free o' fraud or guile;
What hope o' future pleasure
Is centred in her smile!
I wadna lose for kingdoms
The love-glance o' her e'e;
Oh! the bonnie Redesdale lassie
Is life and a' to me!

THE MOUNTAINEER'S DEATH.

I pray for you, of your courtesy, before we further move,
Let me look back and see the place that I so dearly love.
I am not old in years, yet still, where'er I chanced to roam,
The strongest impulse of my heart was ever link'd with home:
There saw I first the light of heaven--there, by a mother's knee,
In time of infancy and youth, her love supported me:
All that I prize on earth is now my aching sight before,
And glen and brae, and moorland gray, I'll witness never more.

Beneath yon trees, that o'er the cot their deep'ning shadows fling,
My father first reveal'd to me the exile of our king;
Upon yon seat beside the door he gave to me his sword,
With charge to draw it only for our just and rightful lord.
And I remember when I went, unfriended and alone,
Amidst a world I never loved--ay! yonder is the stone
At which my mother, bending low, for me did heaven implore--
Stone, seat and tree are dear to me--I'll see them never more!

Yon hawthorn bower beside the burn I never shall forget;
Ah! there my dear departed maid and I in rapture met:
What tender aspirations we breathed for other's weal!
How glow'd our hearts with sympathy which none but lovers feel!
And when above our hapless Prince the milk-white flag was flung,
While hamlet, mountain, rock, and glen with martial music rung,
We parted there; from her embrace myself I wildly tore;
Our hopes were vain--I came again, but found her never more.

Oh! thank you for your gentleness--now stay one minute still;
There is a lone and quiet spot on yonder rising hill;
I mark it, and the sight revives emotions strong and deep--
There, lowly laid, my parents in the dust together sleep.
And must I in a land afar from home and kindred lie?
Forbid it, heaven! and hear my prayer--'tis better now to die!
My limbs grow faint--I fain would rest--my eyes are darkening o'er;
Slow flags my breath; now, this is death--adieu, for evermore!

WILLIAM CAMERON.

William Cameron was born on the 3d December 1801, in the parish of Dunipace, and county of Stirling. His father was employed successively in woollen factories at Dumfries, Dalmellington, and Dunipace. He subsequently became proprietor of woollen manufactories at Slamannan, Stirlingshire, and at Blackburn and Torphichen, in the county of Linlithgow. While receiving an education with a view to the ministry, the death of his father in 1819 was attended with an alteration in his prospects, and he was induced to accept the appointment of schoolmaster at the village of Armadale, parish of Bathgate. In 1836 he resigned this situation, and removed to Glasgow, where he has since prosperously engaged in mercantile concerns. Of the various lyrics which have proceeded from his pen, "Jessie o' the Dell" is an especial favourite. The greater number of his songs, arranged with music, appear in the "Lyric Gems of Scotland," a respectable collection of minstrelsy published in Glasgow.

SWEET JESSIE O' THE DELL.

O bright the beaming queen o' night
Shines in yon flow'ry vale,
And softly sheds her silver light
O'er mountain, path, and dale.
Short is the way, when light 's the heart
That 's bound in love's soft spell;
Sae I 'll awa' to Armadale,
To Jessie o' the Dell,
To Jessie o' the Dell,
Sweet Jessie o' the Dell;
The bonnie lass o' Armadale,
Sweet Jessie o' the Dell.

We 've pu'd the primrose on the braes
Beside my Jessie's cot,
We 've gather'd nuts, we 've gather'd slaes,
In that sweet rural spot.
The wee short hours danced merrily,
Like lambkins on the fell;
As if they join'd in joy wi' me
And Jessie o' the Dell.

There's nane to me wi' her can vie,
I 'll love her till I dee;
For she's sae sweet and bonnie aye,
And kind as kind can be.
This night in mutual kind embrace,
Oh, wha our joys may tell;
Then I 'll awa' to Armadale,
To Jessie o' the Dell.

MEET ME ON THE GOWAN LEA.

Meet me on the gowan lea,
Bonnie Mary, sweetest Mary;
Meet me on the gowan lea,
My ain, my artless Mary.

Before the sun sink in the west,
And nature a' hae gane to rest,
There to my fond, my faithful breast,
Oh, let me clasp my Mary.
Meet me on the gowan lea,
Bonnie Mary, sweetest Mary;
Meet me on the gowan lea,
My ain, my artless Mary.

The gladsome lark o'er moor and fell,
The lintie in the bosky dell,
Nae blyther than your bonnie sel',
My ain, my artless Mary.
Meet me, &c.

We 'll join our love notes to the breeze
That sighs in whispers through the trees,
And a' that twa fond hearts can please
Will be our sang, dear Mary.
Meet me, &c.

There ye shall sing the sun to rest,
While to my faithfu' bosom prest;
Then wha sae happy, wha sae blest,
As me and my dear Mary.
Meet me, &c.

MORAG'S FAIRY GLEN.

Ye ken whar yon wee burnie, love,
Rins roarin' to the sea,
And tumbles o'er it's rocky bed,
Like spirit wild and free.
The mellow mavis tunes his lay,
The blackbird swells his note,
And little robin sweetly sings
Above the woody grot.
There meet me, love, by a' unseen,
Beside yon mossy den,
Oh, meet me, love, at dewy eve,
In Morag's fairy glen;
Oh, meet me, love, at dewy eve,
In Morag's fairy glen.

Come when the sun, in robes of gold,
Sinks o'er yon hills to rest,
An' fragrance floating in the breeze
Comes frae the dewy west.
And I will pu' a garland gay,
To deck thy brow sae fair;
For many a woodbine cover'd glade
An' sweet wild flower is there.

There 's music in the wild cascade,
There 's love amang the trees,
There 's beauty in ilk bank and brae,
An' balm upon the breeze;
There 's a' of nature and of art,
That maistly weel could be;
An' oh, my love, when thou art there,
There 's bliss in store for me.

OH! DINNA CROSS THE BURN, WILLIE.

Oh! dinna cross the burn, Willie,
Dinna cross the burn,
For big 's the spate, and loud it roars;
Oh, dinna cross the burn.
Your folks a' ken you 're here the nicht,
And sair they wad you blame;
Sae bide wi' me till mornin' licht--
Indeed, you 're no gaun hame.
The thunder-storm howls in the glen,
The burn is rising fast;
Bide only twa-three hours, and then
The storm 'll a' be past.
Oh, dinna cross, &c.

Then bide, dear Willie, here the nicht,
Oh, bide till mornin' here;
My faither, he 'll see a' things richt,
And ye 'll hae nocht to fear.
See, dark 's the lift, no moon is there,
The rains in torrents pour;
And see the lightning's dreadful glare,
Hear how the thunders roar!
Oh, dinna cross, &c.

Away he rode, no kind words could
His mad resolve o'erturn;
He plunged into the foaming flood,
But never cross'd the burn!
And now though ten long years have pass'd
Since that wild storm blew by--
Oh! still the maniac hears the blast,
And still her crazy cry,
Oh, dinna cross, &c.

ALEXANDER TAIT.

Alexander Tait is a native of Peebles. Abandoning in 1829 the occupation of a cotton-weaver, he has since been engaged in the work of tuition. He has taught successively in the parishes of Lasswade, Tweedsmuir, Meggat, Pennycuick, Yarrow, and Peebles. To the public journals, both in prose and verse, he has been an extensive contributor.

E'ENING'S DEWY HOUR.

AIR--_'Roslin Castle.'_

When rosy day, far in the west, has vanish'd frae the scene,
And gloamin' spreads her mantle gray owre lake and mountain green;
When yet the darklin' shades o' mirk but haflens seem to lower,
How dear to love and beauty is the e'ening's dewy hour!

When down the burnie's wimpling course, amid the hazel shade,
The robin chants his vesper sang, the cushat seeks the glade;
When bats their drowsy vigils wheel round eldrich tree and tower,
Be 't mine to meet the lass I lo'e at e'ening's dewy hour!

When owre the flower-bespangled sward the flocks have ceased to stray,
And maukin steals across the lawn beneath the twilight gray;
Then, oh! how dear, frae men apart, in glen or woodland bower,
To meet the lass we dearly lo'e at e'ening's dewy hour!

The ruddy morn has charms enow, when, from the glowin' sky,
The sun on rival beauties smiles wi' gladness in his eye;
But, oh! the softer shaded scene has magic in its power,
Which cheers the youthful lover's heart at e'ening's dewy hour!

CHARLES FLEMING.

A handloom weaver in Paisley, of which place he is a native, Charles Fleming has, from early youth, devoted his leisure hours to the pursuits of elegant literature. He has long been a contributor to the public journals.

WATTY M'NEIL.

When others are boasting 'bout fetes and parades,
Whar silken hose shine, and glitter cockades,
In the low-thatched cot mair pleasure I feel
To discourse wi' the aul'-farint Watty M'Neil.

The gentles may hoot, and slip by his door;
His mien it is simple, his haudin' is poor:
Aft fashion encircles a heart no sae leal--
Far, far will ye ride for a Watty M'Neil.

His welcome is touching, yet nought o' the faun--
A warmth is express'd in the shake o' his han';
His cog and his bed, or ought in his biel,
The lonely will share frae kind Watty M'Neil.

He kens a' 'bout Scotland, its friends and its foes,
How Leslie did triumph o'er gallant Montrose;
And the Covenant's banner ower Philiphaugh's fiel'
Waved glorious--'twas noble, says Watty M'Neil.

Then gang and see Watty ere laid in the mools,
He 's a help to the wise folk, a lesson to fools;
Contentment and innocence mingle sae weel
Mid the braw lyart haffits o' Watty M'Neil.

WILLIAM FERGUSON.

The author of several esteemed and popular songs, William Ferguson, follows the avocation of a master plumber in Nicolson Street, Edinburgh. Born within the shadow of the Pentlands, near the scene of Ramsay's "Gentle Shepherd," he has written verses from his youth. He has contributed copiously to "Whistle Binkie," and "The Book of Scottish Song."

I 'LL TEND THY BOWER, MY BONNIE MAY.

I 'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May,
In spring time o' the year;
When saft'ning winds begin to woo
The primrose to appear;
When daffodils begin to dance,
And streams again flow free;
And little birds are heard to pipe,
On the sprouting forest tree.

I 'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May,
When summer days are lang,
When nature's heart is big wi' joy,
Her voice laden wi' sang;
When shepherds pipe on sunny braes,
And flocks roam at their will,
And auld and young, in cot an' ha',
O' pleasure drink their fill.

I 'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May,
When autumn's yellow fields,
That wave like seas o' gowd, before
The glancin' sickle yields;
When ilka bough is bent wi' fruit--
A glorious sight to see!--
And showers o' leaves, red, rustling, sweep
Out owre the withering lea.

I 'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May,
When, through the naked trees,
Cauld, shivering on the bare hill-side,
Sweeps wild the frosty breeze;
When tempests roar, and billows rise,
Till nature quakes wi' fear,
And on the land, and on the sea,
Wild winter rules the year.

WOOING SONG.

The spring comes back to woo the earth,
Wi' a' a lover's speed;
The wee birds woo their lovin' mates,
Around our very head!
But I 've nae skill in lover-craft--
For till I met wi' you,
I never sought a maiden's love,
I never tried to woo.

I 've gazed on many a comely face,
And thought it sweet an' fair;
But wi' the face the charm would flee,
And never move me mair.
But miles away, your bonnie face
Is ever in my view,
Wi' a' its charms, half wilin' me,
Half daurin' me to woo.

At hame, a-field, you 're a' my theme;
I doat my time away;
I dream o'er a' your charms by night,
And worship them by day.
But when they glad my langin' e'en,
As they are gladden'd now,
My courage flees like frighted bird;
I daurna mint to woo.

My head thus lying on your lap,
Your hand aneath my cheek;
Love stounds my bosom through and through,
But yet I canna speak.
My coward heart wi' happiness,
Wi' bliss is brimin' fu';
But, oh! its fu'ness mars my tongue,
I haena power to woo.

I prize your smile, as husbandman
The summer's opening bloom,
And could you frown, I dread it mair,
Than he the autumn's gloom.
My life hangs on that sweet, sweet lip,
On that calm, sunny brow;
And, oh! my dead hangs on them baith,
Unless you let me woo.

Oh! lift me to your bosom, then,
Lay your warm cheek to mine;
And let me round that lovesome waist
My arms enraptured twine;
That I may breathe my very soul,
In ae lang lovin' vow;
And a' the while in whispers low,
You 'll learn me, love, to woo!

I 'M WANDERING WIDE.

I 'm wand'ring wide this wintry night,
But yet my heart 's at hame,
Fu' cozie by my ain fire-cheek,
Beside my winsome dame.
The weary winds howl lang an' loud;
But 'mid their howling drear,
Words sweeter far than honey blabs
Fa' saftly on my ear.

I 'm wand'ring wide this wintry night,
I 'm wand'ring wide an' far;
But love, to guide me back again,
Lights up a kindly star.
The lift glooms black aboon my head,
Nae friendly blink I see;
But let it gloom--twa bonnie e'en
Glance bright to gladden me.

I 'm wand'ring wide this wintry night,
I 'm wand'ring wide and late,
And ridgy wreaths afore me rise,
As if to bar my gate;
Around me swirls the sleety drift,
The frost bites dour an' keen;
But breathings warm, frae lovin' lips,
Come ilka gust atween.

I 'm wand'ring wide this wintry night,
I 'm wand'ring wide an' wild,
Alang a steep and eerie track,
Where hills on hills are piled;
The torrent roars in wrath below,
The tempest roars aboon;
But fancy broods on brighter scenes,
And soughs a cheerin' tune.

I 'm wand'ring wide this wintry night,
I 'm wand'ring wide my lane,
And mony a langsome, lanesome mile,
I 'll measure e'er it 's gane;
But lanesome roads or langsome miles,
Can never daunton me,
When I think on the welcome warm
That waits me, love, frae thee.

THOMAS DICK.

A native of Paisley, Thomas Dick was originally engaged as a weaver in that town. He afterwards became a bookseller, and has since been employed in teaching and other avocations. He is the author of a number of songs which appear in "Whistle Binkie," and "The Book of Scottish Song;" and also of several tales which have been published separately, and in various periodicals.

HOW EARLY I WOO'D THEE.

AIR--_'Neil Gow's Lament for his Brother.'_

How early I woo'd thee, how dearly I lo'ed thee;
How sweet was thy voice, how enchanting thy smile;
The joy 'twas to see thee, the bliss to be wi' thee,
I mind, but to feel now their power to beguile.
I gazed on thy beauty, and a' things about thee,
Seem'd too fair for earth, as I bent at thy shrine;
But fortune and fashion, mair powerfu' than passion,
Could alter the bosom that seem'd sae divine!

Anither may praise thee, may fondle and fraize thee;
And win thee wi' words, when his heart's far awa';
But, oh, when sincerest, when warmest, and dearest,
His vows--will my truth be forgot by thee a'?
'Midst pleasure and splendour thy fancy may wander,
But moments o' solitude ilk ane maun dree;
Then feeling will find thee, and mem'ry remind thee,
O' him wha through life gaes heart-broken for thee.

HUGH MILLER.

The celebrated geologist, and editor of the _Witness_ newspaper, Hugh Miller, was born at Cromarty on the 10th October 1802. In his fifth year he had the misfortune to lose his father, who, being the captain of a small trading vessel, perished in a storm at sea. His widowed mother was aided by two industrious unmarried brothers in providing for her family, consisting of two daughters, and the subject of this Memoir. With a rudimentary training in a private school, taught by a female, he became a pupil in the grammar school. Perceiving his strong aptitude for learning, and vigorous native talent, his maternal uncles strongly urged him to study for one of the liberal professions; but, diffident of success in more ambitious walks, he resolved to follow the steps of his progenitors in a life of manual labour. In his sixteenth year he apprenticed himself to a stone-mason. The profession thus chosen proved the pathway to his future eminence; for it was while engaged as an operative stone-hewer in the old red sandstone quarries of Cromarty, that he achieved those discoveries in that formation which fixed a new epoch in geological science. Poetical composition in evening hours relieved the toils of labour, and varied the routine of geological inquiry. In the prosecution of an ornamental branch of his profession--that of cutting and lettering grave-stones--he in 1828 proceeded to Inverness. Obtaining the friendship of Mr Robert Carruthers, the ingenious editor of the _Inverness Courier_, the columns of that journal were adorned by his poetical contributions. In 1829 these were issued from the _Courier_ office, in a duodecimo volume, with the title, "Poems Written in the Leisure Hours of a Journeyman Mason." By the press the work was received with general favour; and the author, in evidence that his powers as a prose-writer were not inferior to his efforts as a poet, soon re-appeared in the columns of the _Courier_, as the contributor of various letters on the Northern Fisheries. These letters proved so attractive that their republication in the form of a pamphlet was forthwith demanded.

The merits of the Cromarty stone-mason began to attract some general attention. Sir Thomas Dick Lauder, who had an occasional residence in Morayshire, afforded him patronage; and the venerable Principal Baird of Edinburgh, to whom he was introduced, recommended him to quit the mallet, and seek literary employment in the capital. Such gratifying encouragement and friendly counsel, though not immediately acted upon, were not without advantage in stimulating his enterprise. Before relinquishing, however, a craft at which he could at least earn a sufficiency for his immediate wants, he resolved to test his capabilities as a writer by a further literary attempt.

Cromarty and its vicinity abounded in legends of curious interest, respecting the times of religious persecutions, and of the rebellions in the cause of the Stuarts, and these Miller had carefully stored up from the recitations of the aged. The pen of Scott had imparted a deep interest to the traditions of other localities; and it seemed not unlikely that the legends of Cromarty, well told, would attract some share of attention. Success attended this further adventure, proportioned to its unquestionable merit--the "Scenes and Legends of the North of Scotland," which emanated from the publishing house of the Messrs Black of Edinburgh, confirmed and widely extended the reputation of the author.

From handling the workman's tools, a sudden transition to the constant use of the pen of the _litterateur_ is, under the most favourable circumstances, not to be desired. It was the lot of Hugh Miller to engage in an intermediate employment, and to acquire, in a manner peculiarly appropriate, that knowledge of business, and acquaintance with the transactions of life, which are so necessary to those who, through the medium of the press, seek to direct public opinion. Shortly after the publication of his "Scenes and Legends," a branch of the Commercial Bank was opened at Cromarty, and the accountantship was offered to him by the agent. Entering on the duties, after a short preliminary training in the Bank's offices at Edinburgh and Linlithgow, he subsequently added to his domestic comfort by uniting himself in marriage with Miss Lydia Fraser, a young lady of literary tastes, to whom he had for some time borne an attachment. His official emoluments amounted to nearly a hundred pounds a-year; these were considerably augmented by his contributing legendary tales for _The Tales of the Border_, and writing occasional articles to _Chambers' Edinburgh Journal_. The _veto_ controversy was now extensively agitating the Established Church, and, having long supported the popular view, he at length resolved to come forward more conspicuously as the advocate of what he strongly regarded as the rights of the people. He embodied his sentiments in the shape of a letter to Lord Brougham, and, having transmitted his MS. to Mr Robert Paul, the manager of the Commercial Bank, it was by that gentleman submitted to Dr Candlish. Perceiving the consummate ability of the writer, that able divine not only urged the publication of his letter, but recommended his immediate nomination as the editor of the _Witness_ newspaper, which had just been projected by some of the Edinburgh clergy. The offer of the editorship was accordingly made, and, being accepted, the first number of the newspaper was, early in 1840, issued under his superintendence.

As a controversial writer, and the able exponent of his peculiar views of ecclesiastical polity, Hugh Miller at once attained a first rank among contemporary editors. Many persons who were unconcerned about the Scottish Church question, or by whom his sentiments on that subject were disapproved, could not withhold an expressed admiration of the singular power with which his views were supported, and of the classic style in which they were conveyed. For some years prior to undertaking the editorship, he had devoted much of his spare time to the preparation of a geological work; and he now, in the columns of his newspaper, in a series of chapters, presented to the public that valuable contribution to geological science, since so well known as his work on "The Old Red Sandstone." To the scientific world, by opening up the fossil treasures of a formation hitherto understood to be peculiarly destitute of organic remains, this publication claimed an especial interest, which was enhanced by the elegance of the diction. His subsequent publications fully sustained his fame. A work on the physical and social aspects of the sister kingdom, entitled "First Impressions of England and its People," was followed by "The Footprints of the Creator," the latter being a powerful reply to the work entitled "Vestiges of the Natural History of Creation." In 1854 he published a most interesting narrative of his early struggles and experiences, with the title, "My Schools and Schoolmasters." "The Testimony of the Rocks," a work on which he bestowed intense labour, and which may be regarded as his masterpiece, was published in March 1857, about three months subsequent to his demise; but all the sheets had undergone his final revision.

For some years his health had been declining; in early manhood he suffered severely from a pulmonary affection, known as the "mason's disease," and he never thoroughly recovered. A singular apprehension of personal danger, inconsistent with the general manliness of his character, induced him for many years never to go abroad without fire-arms. He studied with pertinacious constancy, seldom enjoying the salutary relaxations of society. He complained latterly that his sleep was distracted by unpleasant dreams, while he was otherwise a prey to painful delusions. The eye of affection discovered that the system had been overtaxed; but eminent medical counsel deemed that cessation from literary toil would produce an effectual cure. The case was much more serious; a noble intellect was on the very brink of ruin. On the night of the 24th December 1856, he retired to rest sooner than was his usual, as the physician had prescribed. With redoubled vehemence he had experienced the distractions of disordered reason; he rose in a frenzy from his bed, and, having written a short affectionate letter to his wife, pointed his revolver pistol to his breast. He fired in the region of the heart, and his death must have been instantaneous. The melancholy event took place in his residence of Shrub Mount, Portobello, and his remains now rest in the Grange Cemetery, Edinburgh. As a geologist it is not our province to pronounce his eulogy; he was one of the most elegant and powerful prose-writers of the century, and he has some claims, as the following specimens attest, to a place among the national poets.

SISTER JEANIE, HASTE, WE 'LL GO.[11]

Sister Jeanie, haste, we 'll go
To where the white-starr'd gowans grow,
Wi' the puddock-flower, o' gowden hue,
The snawdrap white, and the bonnie vi'let blue.

Sister Jeanie, haste, we 'll go
To where the blossom'd lilacs grow,
To where the pine-tree, dark an' high,
Is pointing its tap at the cloudless sky.

Jeanie, mony a merry lay
Is sung in the young-leaved woods to-day;
Flits on light wing the dragon-flee,
And hums on the flowerie the big red bee.

Down the burnie wirks its way
Aneath the bending birken spray,
An' wimples roun' the green moss-stane,
An' mourns, I kenna why, wi' a ceaseless mane.

Jeanie, come! thy days o' play
Wi' autumn tide shall pass away;
Sune shall these scenes, in darkness cast,
Be ravaged wild by the wild winter blast.

Though to thee a spring shall rise,
An' scenes as fair salute thine eyes;
An' though, through many a cloudless day,
My winsome Jean shall be heartsome and gay;

He wha grasps thy little hand
Nae langer at thy side shall stand,
Nor o'er the flower-besprinkled brae
Lead thee the lounnest an' the bonniest way.

Dost thou see yon yard sae green,
Speckled wi' mony a mossy stane?
A few short weeks o' pain shall fly,
An' asleep in that bed shall thy puir brother lie.

Then thy mither's tears awhile
May chide thy joy an' damp thy smile;
But soon ilk grief shall wear awa',
And I 'll be forgotten by ane an' by a'.

Dinna think the thought is sad;
Life vex'd me aft, but this maks glad;
When cauld my heart and closed my e'e,
Bonnie shall the dreams o' my slumbers be.

FOOTNOTES:

[11] These verses were composed when the author was suffering from a severe pulmonary complaint which he feared would bring him to an early grave. They were addressed to his sister, a girl of five years, who at this period was his companion in his walks.

OH, SOFTLY SIGHS THE WESTLIN' BREEZE.

Oh, softly sighs the westlin' breeze
Through floweries pearl'd wi' dew;
An' brightly lemes the gowden sky,
That skirts the mountain blue.
An' sweet the birken trees amang,
Swells many a blithesome lay;
An' loud the bratlin burnie's voice
Comes soundin' up the brae.

But, ah! nae mair the sweets o' spring
Can glad my wearied e'e;
Nae mair the summer's op'ning bloom
Gies ought o' joy to me.
Dark, dark to me the pearly flowers,
An' sad the mavis sang,
An' little heart hae I to roam
These leafy groves amang.

She 's gane! she 's gane! the loveliest maid!
An' wae o'erpress'd I pine;
The grass waves o'er my Myra's grave!
Ah! ance I ca'd her mine.
What ither choice does fate afford,
Than just to mourn and dee,
Sin' gane the star that cheer'd my sky,
The beam that bless'd my e'e?

At gloamin' hour alang the burn,
Alane she lo'ed to stray,
To pu' the rose o' crimson bloom,
An' haw-flower purple gray.
Their siller leaves the willows waved
As pass'd that maiden by;
An' sweeter burst the burdies' sang
Frae poplar straight an' high.

Fu' aften have I watch'd at e'en
These birken trees amang,
To bless the bonnie face that turn'd
To where the mavis sang;
An' aft I 've cross'd that grassy path,
To catch my Myra's e'e;
Oh, soon this winding dell became
A blissful haunt to me.

Nae mair a wasting form within,
A wretched heart I bore;
Nae mair unkent, unloved, and lone,
The warl' I wander'd o'er.
Not then like now my life was wae,
Not then this heart repined,
Nor aught of coming ill I thought,
Nor sigh'd to look behind.

Cheer'd by gay hope's enliv'ning ray,
An' warm'd wi' minstrel fire,
Th' expected meed that maiden's smile,
I strung my rustic lyre.
That lyre a pitying Muse had given
To me, for, wrought wi' toil,
She bade, wi' its simple tones,
The weary hours beguile.

Lang had it been my secret pride,
Though nane its strains might hear;
For ne'er till then trembled its chords
To woo a list'ning ear.
The forest echoes to its voice
Fu' sad, had aft complain'd,
Whan, mingling wi' its wayward strain,
Murmur'd the midnight wind.

Harsh were its tones, yet Myra praised
The wild and artless strain;
In pride I strung my lyre anew,
An' waked its chords again.
The sound was sad, the sparkling tear
Arose in Myra's e'e,
An' mair I lo'ed that artless drap,
Than a' the warl' could gie.

To wean the heart frae warldly grief,
Frae warldly moil an' care,
Could maiden smile a lovelier smile,
Or drap a tend'rer tear?
But now she 's gane,--dark, dark an' drear,
Her lang, lang sleep maun be;
But, ah! mair drear the years o' life
That still remain to me!

Whan o'er the raging ocean wave
The gloom o' night is spread,
If lemes the twinkling beacon-light,
The sailor's heart is glad;
In hope he steers, but, 'mid the storm,
If sinks the waning ray,
Dees a' that hope, an' fails his saul,
O'erpress'd wi' loads o' wae.

ALEXANDER MACANSH.

The author of "The Social Curse, and other Poems," Alexander Macansh, was born at Dunfermline in 1803. At the age of eleven apprenticed to a flaxdresser, he followed this occupation during a period of thirty-eight years, of which the greater portion was spent in Harribrae factory, in his native town. During the intervals of his occupation, which demanded his attention about fourteen hours daily, he contrived to become familiar with British and continental authors, and with the more esteemed Latin classics. He likewise formed an intimate acquaintance with mathematical science. Of decided poetical tastes, he contributed verses to _Tait's Magazine_, the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_, and the _Scotsman_ newspaper. In 1850, he published, by subscription, his volume of poems, entitled "The Social Curse, and other Poems," which has secured him a local reputation. Continuing to reside in Dunfermline, he has, for several years, possessed a literary connexion with some of the provincial newspapers, and has delivered lectures on science to the district institutions. To Mr Joseph Paton, of Dunfermline, so well known for his antiquarian pursuits, he has been indebted for generous support and kindly encouragement. Mr Macansh labours under severe physical debility.

THE MOTHER AND CHILD.

The mother, with her blooming child,
Sat by the river pool,
Deep in whose waters lay the sky,
So stilly beautiful.
She held her babe aloft, to see
Its infant image look
Up joyous, laughing, leaping from
The bosom of the brook.

And as it gazed upon the stream,
The wondering infant smiled,
And stretched its little hands, and tried
To clasp the shadow'd child,
Which, in that silent underwold,
With eager gesture strove
To meet it with a brother-kiss,
A brother-clasp of love.

Laugh on, laugh on, my happy child,
('Twas thus the mother sung;)
The shrew, Experience, has not yet
With envious gesture flung
Aside the enchanted veil which hides
Life's pale and dreary look;
An angel lurks in every stream,
A heaven in every brook.

Laugh on, laugh on, my happy child,
Ere drop the tears of woe
Upon that mirror, scattering all
Those glorious shapes, and show
A fleeting shadow, which thou think'st
An angel, breathing, living--
A shallow pebbly brook which thou
Hast fondly deem'd a heaven.

CHANGE.

Change! change! the mournful story
Of all that 's been before;
The wrecks of perish'd glory
Bestrewing every shore:
The shatter'd tower and palace,
In every vale and glen,
In broken language tell us
Of the fleeting power of men.

Change! change! the plough is sweeping
O'er some scene of household mirth,
The sickle hand is reaping
O'er some ancient rural hearth--
Where the mother and the daughter
In the evenings used to spin,
And where little feet went patter,
Full often out and in.

Change! change! for all things human,
Thrones, powers of amplest wing,
Have their flight, and fall in common
With the meanest mortal thing--
With beauty, love, and passion,
With all of earthly trust,
With life's tiniest wavelet dashing,
Curling, breaking into dust.

Where arose in marble grandeur
The wall'd cities of the past,
The sullen winds now wander
O'er a ruin-mounded waste.
Low lies each lofty column;
The owl in silence wings
O'er floors, where, slow and solemn,
Paced the sandal'd feet of kings.

Still change! Go thou and view it,
All desolately sunk,
The circle of the Druid,
The cloister of the monk;
The abbey boled and squalid,
With its bush-maned, staggering wall;
Ask by whom these were unhallow'd--
Change, change hath done it all.

THE TOMB OF THE BRUCE.

Yon old temple pile, where the moon dimly flashes
O'er gray roof, tall window, sloped buttress, and base,
O'erarches the ashes, the now silent ashes,
Of the noblest, the bravest, of Scotia's race.
How hallow'd yon spot where a hero is lying,
Embalm'd in the holiness worship bedews,
The lamb watching over the sleep of the lion,
Religion enthroned on the tomb of the Bruce!

Far other and fiercer the moments that crown'd him,
Than those that now creep o'er yon old temple pile,
And sterner the music that storm'd around him,
Than the anthem that peals through the long-sounding aisle,
When his bugle's fierce tones with the war-hum was blending,
And, with claymores engirdled, and banners all loose,
His rough-footed warriors, to battle descending,
Peal'd up to the heavens the war-cry of Bruce.

I hear him again, with deep voice proclaiming--
Let our country be free, or with freedom expire;
I see him again, with his great sword o'erflaming
The plume-nodding field, like a banner of fire.
Still onward it blazes, that red constellation,
In its passage no pause, to its flashing no truce:
Oh, the pillar of glory that led forth our nation
From shackles and chains, was the sword of the Bruce.

But now he is sleeping in darkness; the thunder
Of battle to him is now silent and o'er,
And the sword, that, like threads, sever'd shackles asunder,
Shall gleam in the vanguard of Scotland no more.
Yet, oh, though his banner for ever be furled,
Though his great sword be rusted and red with disuse,
Can freemen, when tyrants would handcuff the world--
Can freemen be mute at the Tomb of the Bruce?

JAMES PRINGLE.

James Pringle was born in the parish of Collessie, Fifeshire, on the 11th December 1803. At the parochial school of Kettle having received an ordinary education, he was in his seventeenth year apprenticed to a mill-wright. For many years he has prosecuted this occupation in the district of his nativity. His present residence is in the Den of Lindores, in the parish of Abdie. From his youth he has cherished an enthusiastic love of poetry, and composed verses. In 1853, he published a duodecimo volume, entitled "Poems and Songs on Various Subjects."

THE PLOUGHMAN.

Blithe be the mind of the ploughman,
Unruffled by passion or guile;
And fair be the face of the woman
Who blesses his love with a smile.

His clothing, though russet and homely,
With royalty's robe may compare;
His cottage, though simple, is comely,
For peace and contentment are there.

Let monarchs exult in their splendour,
When courtiers obsequiously bow;
But are not their greatness and grandeur
Sustain'd by the toils of the plough?

The soldier may glory discover
In havock which warfare hath made;
For the shout of his fame rises over
The vanquish'd, the bleeding, the dead.

Though pride, in her trappings so dainty,
May sneer with contemptuous air;
Fertility, pleasure, and plenty,
Still follow the track of the share.

And long may the heart of the ploughman
In virtue and vigour beat high;
His calling, though simple and common,
Our wants and our comforts supply.

WILLIAM ANDERSON.

William Anderson, an accomplished biographical and genealogical writer, and author of "Landscape Lyrics," a volume of descriptive poetry, was born at Edinburgh on the 10th December 1805. His father, James Anderson, supervisor of Excise at Oban, Argyleshire, died there in 1812. His mother was the daughter of John Williams, author of "The Mineral Kingdom," a work much valued by geologists. His brother, Mr John Anderson, surgeon, Royal Lanarkshire Militia, was the author of the "Historical and Genealogical Memoirs of the House of Hamilton."

Mr Anderson received his education at Edinburgh, and in 1820 was apprenticed to a merchant in Leith; but not liking the employment, he was afterwards placed in the office of a writer in Edinburgh, with the view of studying the law. Having a strong bent towards literature, he began to write poetry, and in 1828 became a regular contributor to the press. In 1830 he published a volume of poems designated, "Poetical Aspirations," and soon after issued a thin volume of prose and verse, entitled, "Odd Sketches." Proceeding to London in 1831, he formed the acquaintance of Maginn, Allan Cunningham, and other eminent men of letters. Towards the close of that year he joined the _Aberdeen Journal_, and in 1835 edited for a short time the _Advertiser_, another newspaper published in that city. He returned to London in 1836, and resided there for several years, contributing to different periodicals. His "Landscape Lyrics" appeared in 1839, in a quarto volume. In 1840 he commenced writing the lives of distinguished Scotsmen, and the result of his researches appeared in 1842, in a valuable work, entitled, "The Popular Scottish Biography." Previous to the appearance of this volume, he published at London, "The Gift for All Seasons," an annual, which contained contributions from Campbell, Sheridan Knowles, the Countess of Blessington, Miss Pardoe, and other writers of reputation. In 1842 he returned to Scotland, to edit _The Western Watchman_, a weekly journal published at Ayr. In 1844 he became connected with the _Witness_ newspaper; but in the following year removed to Glasgow, to assist in the establishment of the first Scottish daily newspaper. With that journal, the _Daily Mail_, he continued two years, till severe nocturnal labour much affecting his health, obliged him temporarily to abandon literary pursuits. He has been a contributor to _Tait's Magazine_, and was intrusted with the literary superintendence of Major De Renzy's "Poetical Illustrations and Achievements of the Duke of Wellington," a work to which he contributed several poems. He has edited Lord Byron's works, in two octavo volumes, with numerous notes, and a copious Memoir of the poet. Besides a number of smaller works, he is the editor of five volumes, forming a series, entitled, "Treasury of Discovery, Enterprise, and Adventure;" "Treasury of the Animal World;" "Treasury of Ceremonies, Manners, and Customs;" "Treasury of Nature, Science, and Art;" and "Treasury of History and Biography." "The Young Voyager," a poem descriptive of the search after Franklin, with illustrations, intended for children, appeared in 1855. He contributed the greater number of the biographical notices of Scotsmen inserted in "The Men of the Time" for 1856. A large and important national work, devoted to the biography, history, and antiquities of Scotland, has engaged his attention for some years, and is in a forward state for publication.

As a writer of verses, Mr Anderson is possessed of considerable power of fancy, and a correct taste. His song, beginning "I'm naebody noo," has been translated into the German language.

WOODLAND SONG.

Will you go to the woodlands with me, with me,
Will you go to the woodlands with me--
When the sun 's on the hill, and all nature is still,
Save the sound of the far dashing sea?

For I love to lie lone on the hill, on the hill,
I love to lie lone on the hill,
When earth, sea, and sky, in loveliness vie,
And all nature around me is still.

Then my fancy is ever awake, awake,
My fancy is never asleep;
Like a bird on the wing, like a swan on the lake,
Like a ship far away on the deep.

And I love 'neath the green boughs to lie, to lie;
I love 'neath the green boughs to lie;
And see far above, like the smiling of love,
A glimpse now and then of the sky.

When the hum of the forest I hear, I hear,
When the hum of the forest I hear,--
'Tis solitude's prayer, pure devotion is there,
And its breathings I ever revere.

I kneel myself down on the sod, the sod,
I kneel myself down on the sod,
'Mong the flowers and wild heath, and an orison breathe
In lowliness up to my God.

Then peace doth descend on my mind, my mind,
Then peace doth descend on my mind;
And I gain greater scope to my spirit and hope,
For both then become more refined.

Oh! whatever my fate chance to be, to be,
My spirit shall never repine,
If a stroll on the hill, if a glimpse of the sea,
If the hum of the forest be mine.