Chapter XLVI: Introduction (3)

James Hedderwick, proprietor and editor of the _Glasgow Citizen_, was born at Glasgow on the 18th January 1814. His father, who bore the same Christian name, was latterly Queen's printer in that city. At an early age the subject of this sketch was put to the printing business in his father's office. His tastes, however, being more literary than mechanical, he gradually became dissatisfied with his position, and occupied his leisure hours by contributing, in prose and verse, to sundry periodicals. In his sixteenth year he spent some time in London, in the course of which he attended the Rhetoric class of the London University, and carried off the first prize. When little more than twenty years of age, he obtained the situation of sub-editor of the _Scotsman_ newspaper. He now applied himself assiduously to political writing, but continued, at the same time, to seek recreation in those lighter departments of literature which were more in accordance with his personal tastes. Several of his poetical pieces, contributed to the _Scotsman_, were copied into _Chambers' Edinburgh Journal_, and have since frequently appeared in different periodicals. One of these, entitled "First Grief," was lately quoted in terms of approbation by a writer in _Fraser's Magazine_. Others have found their way, in an anonymous shape, into a London publication entitled "Beautiful Poetry." In 1842 Mr Hedderwick returned to his native city, and started the _Glasgow Citizen_--a weekly newspaper which continues to maintain an honourable position. Previous to leaving Edinburgh he was entertained at a public dinner, attended by men of letters and other leading individuals. The drudgery of newspaper life has left Mr Hedderwick little leisure for contributions to polite literature. While in Edinburgh, however, he wrote one number of "Wilson's Tales of the Border," and has since contributed occasionally to other works. In 1844 he published a small collection of poems, but in too costly a form for general circulation.

MY BARK AT SEA.

Away, away, like a child at play,
Like a living ocean-child,
Through the feathery spray she cleaves her way
To the billows' music wild;
The sea is her wide-spread pleasure ground,
And the waves around her leap,
As with joyous bound, to their mystic sound,
She dances o'er the deep!

Sometimes at rest, on the water's breast,
She lies with folded wing,
But now, wind-chased and wave-caress'd,
She moves a joyous thing!
And away she flies all gleaming bright,
While a wave in lofty pride,
Like a gallant knight, in plumage white,
Is bounding by her side!

For her glorious path the sea she hath,
And she wanders bold and free,
And the tempest's breath and the billows' wrath
Are her mighty minstrelsy!
A queen the crested waves among,
A light and graceful form,
She sweeps along, to the wild-winds' song,
Like the genius of the storm!

SORROW AND SONG.

Weep not over poet's wrong,
Mourn not his mischances;
Sorrow is the source of song,
And of gentle fancies.

Rills o'er rocky beds are borne
Ere they gush in whiteness;
Pebbles are wave-chafed and worn
Ere they shew their brightness.

Sweetest gleam the morning flowers
When in tears they waken;
Earth enjoys refreshing showers
When the boughs are shaken.

Ceylon's glistening pearls are sought
In its deepest waters;
From the darkest mines are brought
Gems for beauty's daughters.

Through the rent and shiver'd rock
Limpid water breaketh;
'Tis but when the chords are struck
That their music waketh.

Flowers, by heedless footstep press'd,
All their sweets surrender;
Gold must brook the fiery test
Ere it shew its splendour.

When the twilight, cold and damp,
Gloom and silence bringeth,
Then the glow-worm lights its lamp,
And the night-bird singeth.

Stars come forth when Night her shroud
Draws as Daylight fainteth;
Only on the tearful cloud
God his rainbow painteth.

Weep not, then, o'er poet's wrong,
Mourn not his mischances;
Sorrow is the source of song
And of gentle fancies.

THE LAND FOR ME.

I 've been upon the moonlit deep
When the wind had died away,
And like an Ocean-god asleep
The bark majestic lay;
But lovelier is the varied scene,
The hill, the lake, the tree,
When bathed in light of Midnight's Queen;
The land! the land! for me.

The glancing waves I 've glided o'er
When gently blew the breeze;
But sweeter was the distant shore,
The zephyr 'mong the trees.
The murmur of the mountain rill,
The blossoms waving free,
The song of birds on every hill;
The land! the land! for me.

The billows I have been among
When they roll'd in mountains dark,
And Night her blackest curtain hung
Around our heaving bark;
But give me, when the storm is fierce,
My home and fireside glee,
Where winds may howl, but dare not pierce;
The land! the land! for me.

And when around the lightning flash'd
I 've been upon the deep,
And to the gulf beneath I 've dash'd
Adown the liquid steep;
But now that I am safe on shore,
There let me ever be;
The sea let others wander o'er;
The land! the land! for me.

THE EMIGRANTS.

The daylight was dying, the twilight was dreary,
And eerie the face of the fast-falling night,
But closing the shutters, we made ourselves cheery
With gas-light and fire-light, and young faces bright.

When, hark! came a chorus of wailing and anguish!
We ran to the door and look'd out through the dark;
Till gazing, at length we began to distinguish
The slow-moving masts of an ocean-bound bark.

Alas! 'twas the emigrants leaving the river,
Their homes in the city, their haunts in the dell;
From kindred and friends they had parted for ever,
But their voices still blended in cries of farewell.

We saw not the eyes that their last looks were taking;
We heard but the shouts that were meant to be cheers,
But which told of the aching of hearts that were breaking,
A past of delight and a future of tears.

And long as we listen'd, in lulls of the night breeze,
On our ears the sad shouting in faint music fell,
Till methought it seem'd lost in the roll of the white seas,
And the rocks and the winds only echoed farewell.

More bright was our home-hearth, more bright and more cosy,
As we shut out the night and its darkness once more;
But pale were the cheeks, that so radiant and rosy,
Were flush'd with delight a few moments before.

So I told how the morning, all lovely and tender,
Sweet dew on the hills, and soft light on the sea,
Would follow the exiles and float with its splendour,
To gild the far land where their homes were to be.

In the eyes of my children were gladness and gleaming,
Their little prayer utter'd, how calm was their sleep!
But I in my dreaming could hear the wind screaming,
And fancy I heard hoarse replies from the deep.

And often, when slumber had cool'd my brow's fever,
A dream-utter'd shriek of despair broke the spell;
'Twas the voice of the emigrants leaving the river,
And startling the night with their cries of farewell.

FIRST GRIEF.

They tell me first and early love
Outlives all after dreams;
But the memory of a first great grief
To me more lasting seems;
The grief that marks our dawning youth
To memory ever clings,
And o'er the path of future years
A lengthen'd shadow flings.

Oh, oft my mind recalls the hour
When to my father's home
Death came--an uninvited guest--
From his dwelling in the tomb!
I had not seen his face before,
I shudder'd at the sight,
And I shudder still to think upon
The anguish of that night!

A youthful brow and ruddy cheek
Became all cold and wan;
An eye grew dim in which the light
Of radiant fancy shone.
Cold was the cheek, and cold the brow,
The eye was fix'd and dim;
And one there mourn'd a brother dead
Who would have died for him!

I know not if 'twas summer then,
I know not if 'twas spring,
But if the birds sang on the trees
I did not hear them sing!
If flowers came forth to deck the earth
Their bloom I did not see;
I look'd upon one wither'd flower,
And none else bloom'd for me!

A sad and silent time it was
Within that house of woe,
All eyes were dull and overcast,
And every voice was low!
And from each cheek at intervals
The blood appear'd to start,
As if recall'd in sudden haste
To aid the sinking heart!

Softly we trod, as if afraid
To mar the sleeper's sleep,
And stole last looks of his pale face
For memory to keep!
With him the agony was o'er,
And now the pain was ours,
As thoughts of his sweet childhood rose
Like odour from dead flowers!

And when at last he was borne afar
From the world's weary strife,
How oft in thought did we again
Live o'er his little life!
His every look--his every word--
His very voice's tone--
Came back to us like things whose worth
Is only prized when gone!

The grief has pass'd with years away
And joy has been my lot;
But the one is oft remember'd,
And the other soon forgot.
The gayest hours trip lightest by,
And leave the faintest trace;
But the deep, deep track that sorrow wears
Time never can efface!

THE LINNET.

Tuck, tuck, feer--from the green and growing leaves;
Ic, ic, ic--from the little song-bird's throat;
How the silver chorus weaves in the sun and 'neath the eaves,
While from dewy clover fields comes the lowing of the beeves,
And the summer in the heavens is afloat!

Wye, wye, chir--'tis the little linnet sings;
Weet, weet, weet--how his pipy treble trills!
In his bill and on his wings what a joy the linnet brings,
As over all the sunny earth his merry lay he flings,
Giving gladness to the music of the rills!

Ic, ic, ir--from a happy heart unbound;
Lug, lug, jee--from the dawn till close of day!
There is rapture in the sound as it fills the sunshine round,
Till the ploughman's careless whistle, and the shepherd's pipe are drown'd,
And the mower sings unheeded 'mong the hay!

Jug, jug, joey--oh, how sweet the linnet's theme!
Peu, peu, poy--is he wooing all the while?
Does he dream he is in heaven, and is telling now his dream,
To soothe the heart of pretty girl basking by the stream,
Or waiting for her lover at the stile?

Pipe, pipe, chow--will the linnet never weary?
Bel bel, tyr--is he pouring forth his vows?
The maiden lone and dreary may feel her heart grow cheery,
Yet none may know the linnet's bliss except his own sweet dearie,
With her little household nestled 'mong the boughs!

WILLIAM BROCKIE.

William Brockie was born in the parish of Smailholm, Roxburghshire. He entered on the world of letters by the publication of a small periodical, entitled _The Galashiels Weekly Journal_. He subsequently edited _The Border Watch_, a newspaper originated at Kelso on behalf of the Free Church. This concern proving unfortunate, he obtained, after a short residence at Prestonkirk, East Lothian, the editorship of the _Shields Gazette_. Compelled to relinquish editorial labour from impaired health, Mr Brockie has latterly established a private academy at South Shields, and has qualified himself to impart instruction in fourteen different languages. Besides a number of pamphlets on a variety of subjects, he has published a "History of South Shields," and a poem, entitled, "The Dusk and the Dawn."

YE 'LL NEVER GANG BACK TO YER MITHER NAE MAIR.

What ails ye, my lassie, my dawtie, my ain?
I 've gien ye my word, and I 'll gie ye 't again.
There 's naething to fear ye--be lichtsome and cheerie;
I 'll never forsake ye, nor leave ye yer lane.
We 're sune to be married--I needna say mair;
Our love will be leal, though our livin' be bare;
In a house o' our ain we 'll be cantie and fain,
An' ye 'll never gang back to yer mither nae mair.

We needna be troubled ere trouble be sprung;
The warld 's afore us--we 're puir, but we 're young;
An' fate will be kind if we 're willint in mind--
Sae keep up yer heart, lass, and dinna be dung.
Folk a' hae their troubles, and we 'll get our share,
But we 'll warsle out through them, and scorn to despair;
Sae cheer up yer heart, for we never shall part,
An' ye 'll never gang back to yer mither nae mair.

While we live for each other, our lot will be blest;
An' though freens sud forget us, they 'll never be miss'd;
We 'll sit down at e'en by the ingle sae bien,
An' the cares o' the world 'ill a' be dismiss'd.
A couple that strive to be honest and fair
May be rich without siller, and guid without lear;
Be gentle and true, an' yese never need rue,
Nor sigh to win back to yer mither nae mair.

ALEXANDER M'LACHLAN.

Alexander M'Lachlan, author of the following song was born at Pinshall, in the parish of St Ninians, Stirlingshire. He has resided, since 1825, at Muirside in the vicinity of his native place.

THE LANG WINTER E'EN.

Sweet summer 's awa, wi' her verdure sae fair;
The ance bonny woodlands are leafless an' bare;
To the cot wee robin returns for a screen
Frae the cauld stormy blast o' the lang winter e'en.

But charms there are still, though nature has nane,
When the hard rackin' toils o' the day by are gane,
Then round the fireside social hearts do convene,
And pleasantly pass the lang winter e'en.

O' warldly wealth I hae got little share,
Yet riches and wealth breed but sorrow and care;
Just gi'e me an hour wi' some auld honest frien',
To crack o'er youth's joys in the lang winter e'en.

The thochts o' our youth are lichtsome and dear,
Like the strains o' the lute they fa' saft on the ear,
But chiefly the bliss I ha'e shared wi' my Jean
In some love-screenin' shade on a lang winter e'en.

THOMAS YOUNG.

The author of "The Four Pilgrims, or, Life's Mission; and other Poems," a volume of respectable poetry, published at Dundee in 1849, Thomas Young, was born at Tulliebeltane, in the parish of Auchtergaven, Perthshire, in 1815. Receiving an ordinary school education, he accepted, in his twentieth year, a situation in the office of the _Dundee Advertiser_, where he continued till 1851, when a change occurred in the proprietorship. He now proceeded to New York, where he remained about eighteen months. Disappointed in obtaining a suitable appointment, he sailed for Australia; but the vessel being unable to proceed further than Rio de Janeiro, he there procured a situation, with an annual salary of £300. The climate of Rio proving unfavourable, he afterwards sailed to Australia, where he readily found occupation at Mount Alexander. He has been successful at the gold diggings.

ANTOINETTE; OR, THE FALLS.

By Niagara's flood
Antoinette stood,
And watch'd the wild waves rush on,
As they leapt below
Into vapoury snow,
Or fell into flakes of foam.

The sun's last beams
Fell in golden gleams
On water and wave-girt isle,
And in tinge all fair
Dipp'd the girl's bright hair
And heighten'd her happy smile.

Away--away!
In wild ecstasy
She threads the abyss's brink,
Where waters--black--
Of the cataract
Into drifted snow-waves sink.

A father's eye
Looketh anxiously
On the freaks of his favour'd child,
Till her spirit appals
His soul, and he calls
"Antoinette" in accents wild.

A bolder heart
Loves the girl's free sport,
And he grasps her by the gown,
Then tosseth her high
In the twilight sky--
But, heavens! she falleth down!

She sinks in the wave;
He swimmeth to save!
Oh, never was mortal arm
More manfully braced,
As it grasps her slim waist,
And struggles in frantic alarm!

In vain does he strike--
The fresh waves break,
And the doom'd ones are downward borne!
Yet the swimmer's eye
Seemeth still to defy
The might of the merciless storm.

More loud than before
Is the cataract's roar,
And the furrow'd wave is bright
With many a pearl
From the shining swirl
Of the water's lucid light.

And down below
Is the woolly snow
Of Niagara's wrathful bed,
But the lip of the bold
Hath never told
The secrets that there lie hid.

A strong arm, press'd
Round a maiden's waist
On the doleful morrow is seen,
And her oozy hair
Laves his forehead bare
With the waft of the wavy stream.

ROBERT WILSON.

Robert Wilson was born in the parish of Carnbee, and county of Fife. He practised for some time as a surgeon in St Andrews. He has contributed many pieces of descriptive verse to the periodicals. In 1856, a duodecimo volume of "Poems" from his pen was published at Boston, U.S. His other publications are a small volume on "The Social Condition of France," "Lectures on the Game Laws," and several _brochures_ on subjects of a socio-political nature. He has latterly resided at Aberdour, Fifeshire.

AWAY, AWAY, MY GALLANT BARK.

Away, away, my gallant bark!
The waves are white and high;
And fast the long becalmèd clouds
Are sailing in the sky.
The merry breeze which wafts them on,
And chafes the billow's spray,
Will urge thee in thy watery flight:
My gallant bark, away!

Now, like the sea-bird's snowy plumes,
Are spread thy wingèd sails,
To soar above the mountain waves,
And scoop their glassy vales;
And, like the bird, thou 'lt calmly rest,
Thy azure journey o'er,
The shadow of thy folded wings
Upon the sunny shore.

Away, away, my gallant bark!
Across the billow's foam;
I leave awhile, for ocean's strife,
The quiet haunts of home;
The green fields of my fatherland
For many a stormy bay;
The blazing hearth for beacon-light:
My gallant bark, away!

LOVE.

What fond, delicious ecstasy does early love impart!
Resistless, as a spring-tide sea, it flows into the heart,
Pervading with its living wave the bosom's inmost core,
That thrills with many a gentle hope it never felt before.

And o'er the stripling's glowing heart, extending far and wide,
Through passion's troubled realm does Love with angel sway preside;
And smiles are shed that cast a light o'er many a future year,
And whispers soft are conjured up of lips that are not near.

With promises of fairyland this daylight world teems,
And sleep comes with forgetfulness or fraught with lovely dreams;
And there is magic in the touch, and music in the sigh,
And, far more eloquent than speech, a language in the eye.

And hope the constant bosom cheers with prospects ever new;
But if the favour'd one prove false, oh! who can then be true?
Our fond illusions disappear, like slumber's shadowy train,
And we ne'er recall those vanish'd hopes, nor feel that love again.

EDWARD POLIN.

A writer of prose and poetry, Edward Polin was born at Paisley on the 29th December 1816. He originally followed the business of a pattern-setter in his native town. Fond of literary pursuits, he extensively contributed to the local journals. He subsequently became sub-editor of the _Edinburgh Weekly Chronicle_. In 1843 he accepted the editorship of the _Newcastle Courant_--a situation which, proving unsuitable, he retained only a few months. Resolved to adventure on the literary field of London, he sailed from Newcastle in August 1843. The vessel being at anchor off Yarmouth, he obtained leave from the captain to bathe. He had left the vessel only a few yards, when his hands were observed to fall into the water. One of the seamen promptly descended with a rope, and he was speedily raised upon the deck. Every effort to restore animation however proved fruitless. This closing event of a hopeful career took place on the 22d August 1843, when the poet had attained only his 27th year. His remains were interred in St George's churchyard, Cripplegate, London.

A young man of no inconsiderable genius, Polin afforded indication of speedily attaining a literary reputation. By those to whom he was intimately known his premature death was deeply lamented. Many of his MS. compositions are in the hands of friends, who may yet give them to the world.

A GOOD OLD SONG.

I have wander'd afar, 'neath stranger skies,
And have revell'd amid their flowers;
I have lived in the light of Italian eyes,
And dream'd in Italian bowers,
While the wondrous strains of their sunny clime
Have been trill'd to enchant mine ears,
But, oh, how I longed for the song and the time
When my heart could respond with its tears.
Then sing me a song, a good old song--
Not the foreign, the learn'd, the grand--
But a simple song, a good old song
Of my own dear fatherland.

I have heard, with the great, and the proud, and the gay
All, all they would have me adore
Of that music divine that, enraptured, they say
Can be equall'd on earth never more.
And it may be their numbers indeed are divine,
Though they move not my heart through mine ears,
But a ballad old of the dear "langsyne"
Can alone claim my tribute of tears.

I have come from a far and a foreign clime
To mine own loved haunts once more,
With a yearning for all of my childhood's time
And the dear home-sounds of yore;
And here, if there yet be love for me,
Oh, away with those stranger lays,
And now let my only welcome be
An old song of my boyhood's days.

ALEXANDER BUCHANAN.

Alexander Buchanan was the son of a maltster at Bucklyvie, Stirlingshire, where he was born in 1817. He attended a school in Glasgow, but was chiefly self-taught. In his youth he composed verses, and continued to produce respectable poetry. For a period he carried on business as a draper in Cowcaddens, Glasgow. Retiring from merchandise, he fixed his residence in the village of Govan. His death took place on the 8th February 1852, in his thirty-fifth year. Buchanan has been celebrated, with other local bards, in a small Glasgow publication, entitled, "Lays of St Mungo." Numerous poems from his pen remain in MS. in the possession of his widow, who continues to reside at Govan.

I WANDER'D ALANE.

AIR--_"Lucy's Flittin'."_

I wander'd alane at the break o' the mornin',
The dun clouds o' nicht were a' wearin' awa';
The sun rose in glory, the gray hills adornin',
A' glintin like gowd were their tappits o' snaw;
Adown by my side row'd the rock-bedded Kelvin,
While nature aroun' was beginnin' to green,
An' auld cottar bodies their yardies were delvin',
Kennin' thrift in the morn brocht pleasure at e'en.

I leant me against an auld mossy-clad palin',
An' noo an' then dichted a tear frae my e'e,
I look'd on the bodies, an' envied their toilin'--
Though lowly their lot, they seem'd happy by me;
I thought on my riches, yet feckless the treasure,
I tried to forget, but the labour was vain;
My wifie an' bairn were a' my life's pleasure,
An' they to the grave baith thegither had gane.

The thochts o' her love had awaken'd my sorrow,
The laugh o' my bairnie cam' back on mine ears,
An', piercing my heart wi' the force o' an arrow,
It open'd anew the saft channel o' tears.
I grat an' I sabb'd till I thocht life wad lea' me,
An' happy I then could hae parted wi' life--
For naething on earth sic enjoyment could gie me
As the glee o' my bairn an' smile o' my wife.

Oh, weary the day was when they were ta'en frae me,
Leavin' me lane, the last leaf on the tree;
Nae comfort the cauld look o' strangers can gie me--
I 'm wae, and they a' look as waefu' on me.
I wander me aften to break melancholy,
On ilk thing that 's leevin' the maxim I see,
Not walth to the weary 's like peace to the lowly;
Sae, burden'd wi' grief, I maun gang till I die.

KATIE BLAIR.[8]

I 've met wi' mony maidens fair
In kintras far awa,
I 've met wi' mony here at hame,
Baith bonny dames an' braw;
But nane e'er had the power to charm
My love into a snare
Till ance I saw the witchin' e'e
An' smile o' Katie Blair.

She wons by Kelvin's bonnie banks,
Whar' thick the greenwoods grow,
Whar' waters loupin' drouk the leaves
While merrily they row.
They drouk the lily an' the rose,
An' mony flowerets fair,
Yet they ne'er kiss a flower sae sweet
As winsome Katie Blair.

She is a queen owre a' the flowers
O' garden an' o' lea--
Her ae sweet smile mair cheering is
Than a' their balms to me.
As licht to morn she's a' to me,
My bosom's only care;
An' worthy o' the truest love
Is winsome Katie Blair.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] Printed from the Author's MS.

DAVID TAYLOR.

David Taylor was born, in April 1817, in the parish of Dollar, and county of Clackmannan. In early life his parents, having removed to the village of St Ninians, near Stirling, he was there apprenticed to a tartan manufacturer. He has continued to reside at St Ninians, and has been chiefly employed as a tartan weaver. He has written numerous poems and lyrics, and composed music to some of the more popular songs. Latterly he has occupied himself as a teacher of vocal music.

MY AIN GUDEMAN.

O dear, dear to me
Is my ain gudeman,
For kindly, frank, an' free
Is my ain gudeman.
An' though thretty years ha'e fled,
An' five sin' we were wed,
Nae bitter words I 've had
Wi' my ain gudeman.

I 've had seven bonnie bairns
To my ain gudeman,
An' I 've nursed them i' their turns
For my ain gudeman;
An' ane did early dee,
But the lave frae skaith are free,
An' a blessin' they 're to me
An' my ain gudeman.

I cheerie clamb the hill
Wi' my ain gudeman;
An', if it 's Heaven's will,
Wi' my ain gudeman,
In life's calm afternoon,
I wad toddle cannie doun,
Syne at the foot sleep soun'
Wi' my ain gudeman.

ROBERT CATHCART.

Robert Cathcart was born in 1817, and follows the occupation of a weaver in Paisley. Besides a number of fugitive pieces of some merit, he published, in 1842, a small collection of verses entitled, "The Early Blossom."

MARY

Sweet 's the gloamin's dusky gloom,
Spreadin' owre the lea, Mary;
Sweeter far thy love in bloom,
Whilk blaws alane for me, Mary.
When the woods in silence sleep,
And is hid in dusk the steep,
When the flowers in sorrow weep
I 'll sigh and smile wi' thee, Mary.

When love plays in rosy beams
Roun' the hawthorn-tree, Mary,
Then thine e'e a language gleams
Whilk tells o' love for me, Mary.
When thy sigh blends wi' my smile,
Silence reigns o'er us the while,
Then my heart, 'mid flutt'ring toil,
Tells thy love's bloom'd for me, Mary.

When our hands are join'd in love,
Ne'er to part again, Mary,
Till death ance mair his arrows prove
And tak us for his ain, Mary;
Then our joys are crown'd wi' bliss!
In a hallow'd hour like this,
We in rapture join to kiss
And taste o' heaven again, Mary.

WILLIAM JAMIE.

William Jamie was born on the 25th December 1818, in the parish of Marykirk, Kincardineshire. He received his education at the parish school of Maryculter, Aberdeenshire, whither his father removed during his boyhood. After working for some time with his father as a blacksmith, he engaged for several years in the work of tuition. From early manhood a writer of verses, he published, in 1844, at Laurencekirk, a small volume of poems, entitled, "The Muse of the Mearns," which passed through two editions. Of his various subsequent publications may be enumerated, "The Emigrant's Family, and other Poems;" "The Musings of a Wanderer," and a prose tale, entitled, "The Jacobite's Son." Since 1851 he has resided at Pollockshaws, in the vicinity of Glasgow. On the sale of his poetical works he is wholly dependent for subsistence.

AULD SCOTIA'S SANGS.

Although the lays o' ither lands
Ha'e mony an artfu' air,
They want the stirrin' melody
An auld man lo'es to hear.
Auld Scotia's sangs hae winnin' charms
Which maks the bosom fain;
And to her sons, that 's far awa',
Wi' thochts o' hame again.

Sweet bygane scenes, and native charms,
They fondly bring to min'
The trystin'-tree and bonny lass,
Wi a' love's dreams langsyne.
Oh! lilt me owre some tender strain,
For weel I lo'e to hear--
Be 't bonny "Broom o' Cowdenknowes,"
And "Bush aboon Traquair."

Or "Banks and braes o' bonny Doon,"
Whaur Robin tuned his lyre;
And "Roslin Castle's" ruined wa's--
Oh! sing, and I'll admire!
For I hae heard auld Scotia's sangs
Sung owre and owre wi' glee;
And the mair I hear their artless strains
They dearer grow to me.

Enchanting strains again they bring,
Fond memory glints alang
To humble bards wha woke the lyre,
And wove the patriot's sang.
Oh! leeze me on our ain auld sangs,
The sangs o' youth and glee;
They tell o' Bruce and glorious deeds,
Which made our country free.

JOHN CRAWFORD.

A poet possessing, in an eminent degree, the lyrical simplicity and power of the Bard of Coila, John Crawford was, in the year 1816, born at Greenock, in the same apartment which, thirty years before, had witnessed the death of Burns' "Highland Mary," his mother's cousin. With only a few months' attendance at school, he was, in boyhood, thrown on his own resources for support. Selecting the profession of a house-painter, he left Greenock in his eighteenth year, and has since prosecuted his vocation in the town of Alloa. Of strong native genius, he early made himself acquainted with general literature, while he has sought recreation in the composition of verses. In 1850 he published a small duodecimo volume of lyrics, entitled, "Doric Lays; being snatches of Song and Ballad." This little work was much commended by Lord Jeffrey, and received the strong approbation of the late amiable Miss Mitford. "There is," wrote the latter to a correspondent, "an originality in his writings very rare in a follower of Burns.... This is the true thing--a flower springing from the soil, not merely cut and stuck into the earth. Will you tell Mr Crawford how much pleasure he has given to a poor invalid?"

Crawford is an occasional contributor to the public journals. He is at present preparing an historical and descriptive work, to be entitled, "Memorials of the Town and Parish of Alloa." The following poetical epistle in tribute to his genius is from the pen of Mr Scott Riddell.

The days, when write wad minstrel men
To ane anither thus, are gone,
And days ha'e come upon us when
Bards praise nae anthems but their own:
But I will love the fashion old
While breath frae heaven this breast can draw,
And joy when I my tale have told
Anent the Bard of Alloa.

Thou, Crawford, sung hast mony a lay.
Far mair through nature's power than art's,
Pouring them frae thine ain, that they
Might reach and gladden other hearts;
Therefore our hearts shall honour thee,
And say't alike in cot and ha'--
Sublime thro' pure simplicity
Is he--the Bard of Alloa.

Though far o'er earth these lays shall roam,
And make to mankind their appeal;
'Tis not because they 'll lack a home,
While Scottish hearts, as wont, can feel:
The swains shall sing them on the hill,
The maidens in the greenwood-shaw,
And mothers bless, wi' warm guid-will,
The gifted Bard of Alloa.

E'en weans, wi' their shauchled shoon,
And clouted hose, and pinafores,
Will lilt, methinks, these lays, sae soon
As they can staucher 'boot the doors:
Sae shall they sing anent themsells
To nature true, as its ain law;
For minstrel nane on earth excels
In this the Bard of Alloa.

Fresh as the moorland's early dews,
And glowing as the woodland rose,
Of hearts, his thought gives forth the hues,
As richly bright as heaven's ain bow 's--
With me, my native land, rejoice,
And let the bard thy bosom thaw,
As Spring's sweet breathing comes the voice
Of him wha sings frae Alloa.

Then rest thee, Crawford, on the lawn,
And thus, if song thy soul shall sway,
I'll bless thee, while thy toil-worn han'
Pu's for itsel' a flower or twa;
'Tis idle--gowd-gear hearts will say--
But maist for whilk will tear-drops fa'
When death has come, and flowers shall bloom
Aboon the Bard of Alloa?

Oh, sing, ye bards, to nature true,
And glory shall your brows adorn,
And else than this, by none or few,
The poet's wreath will long be worn.
Cauld fa' the notes o' him wha sings
O' scenes whilk man yet never saw--
Pour then, frae nature's ain heart-strings,
Your strains like him of Alloa.

Possess maun he a poet's heart,
And he maun ha'e a poet's mind
Wha deftly plays the generous part
That warms the cauld, and charms the kind.
Nor scorn, ye frozen anes, the powers
Whilk hinder other hearts to fa'
Into a sordid sink--like yours--
But bless the Bard of Alloa.

Ah! little ye may trow or ken
The mony cares, and waes, and toils,
'Mang hearts and hames o' lowly men
Whilk nought save poetry beguiles;
It lifts fu' mony fortune 'boon,
When she begins her face to thraw,
That ne'er sae sweet a harp could tune
As his that sounds frae Alloa.

And as for me, ere this I'd lain
Where mark'd my head a mossy stane,
Had it not made the joys my ain
When a' life's other joys were gane.
If 'mang the mountains lone and gray,
Unknown, my early joys I sung,
When cares and woes wad life belay,
How could my harp away be flung?

The dearest power in life below,
Is life's ain native power of song,
As he alone can truly know,
To whom it truly may belong.
Lighten'd hath it fu' mony a step,
And lessen'd hath it mony a hill,
And lighted up the rays o' hope,
Ay, and it up shall light them still.

Lo! avarice cauld can gowd secure,
Ambition win the wreath o' fame,
Wealth gies reputed wit and power,
And crowns wi' joy the owner's aim.
But be my meed the generous heart,
For nought can charm this heart o' mine,
Like those who own the undying art
That gies a claim to Ossian's line.

Hale be thy heart, dear Crawford--hale
Be every heart belonging thee,--
The day whan fortune gies ye kale
Out through the reek, may ye ne'er see.
Ilk son o' song is dear to me;
And though thy face I never saw,
I'll honour till the day I dee
The gifted Bard o' Alloa.

MY AULD WIFIE JEAN.

AIR--_"There 'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame."_

My couthie auld wifie, aye blythsome to see,
As years slip awa' aye the dearer to me;
For ferlies o' fashion I carena ae preen
When I cleek to the kirk wi' my auld wifie Jean.

The thoughts o' the past are aye pleasin' to me,
And mair sae when love lights my auld wifie's e'e;
For then I can speak o' the days I ha'e seen
When care found nae hame i' the heart o' my Jean.

A hantle we've borne since that moment o' bliss,
Frae thy lips, breathin' balm, when I stole the first kiss,
When I read a response to my vows in thy e'en.
An, blushin', I prest to my bosom my Jean.

Like a rose set in snaw was the bloom on thy cheek,
Thy hair, wi' its silken snood, glossy and sleek,
When the Laird o' Drumlochie, sae lithless and lean,
Wad ha'e gane a lang mile for ae glisk o' my Jean.

Thy mither was dead, and thy faither was fain
That the lang-luggit lairdie wad ca' thee his ain;
But auld age and frailty could ne'er gang atween
The vows I had niffer'd wi' bonnie young Jean.

I canna weel work, an' ye 're weary an' worn,
The gudes and the ills lang o' life we ha'e borne;
But we ha'e a hame, an' we 're cozie and bein,
And the thrift I've to thank o' my auld wifie Jean.

Baith beddin' an' cleadin' o' a' kind ha'e we,
A sowp for the needy we 've aye had to gie,
A bite and a drap for baith fremit an' frien',
Was aye the warst wish o' my auld wifie Jean.

The puir beildless body has scugg'd the cauld blast,
'Yont our hallan he 's houft till the gurl gaed past,
An' a bite aff our board, aye sae tidy an' clean,
He 's gat wi' gudewill frae my auld wifie Jean.

Our hopes we ha'e set where our bairnies ha'e gaen;
Though lyart we've grown since they frae us were ta'en;
The thoughts o' them yet brings the tears to our e'en,
And aft I 've to comfort my auld wifie Jean.

The paughty and proud ha'e been laid i' the dust,
Since the first hairst I shore, since the first clod I cuist;
And soon we'll lie laigh; but aboon we 've a Frien',
And bright days are comin' for me an' my Jean.

THE LAND O' THE BONNET AND PLAID.

Hurra! for the land o' the broom-cover'd brae,
The land o' the rowan, the haw, and the slae;
Where waves the blue harebell in dingle and glade--
The land o' the pibroch, the bonnet, and plaid.

Hurra! for the hills o' the cromlech and cairn,
Where blossoms the thistle by hillocks o' fern;
There Freedom in triumph an altar has made
For holiest rites in the land o' the plaid.

A coronal wreath, where the wild flowers bloom,
To garnish the martyr and patriot's tomb:
Shall their names ever perish--their fame ever fade
Who ennobled the land o' the bonnet and plaid?

Oh, hame o' my bairnhood, ye hills o' my love!
The haunt o' the freeman for aye may ye prove;
And honour'd forever be matron and maid
In the land o' the heather, the bonnet, and plaid.

Hurra! for the land o' the deer and the rae,
O' the gowany glen and the bracken-clad brae,
Where blooms our ain thistle, in sunshine and shade--
Dear badge o' the land o' the bonnet and plaid.

SING ON, FAIRY DEVON.[9]

Sing on, fairy Devon,
'Mong gardens and bowers,
Where love's feast lies spread
In an Eden o' flowers.
What visions o' beauty
My mind has possess'd,
In thy gowany dell
Where a seraph might rest.

Sing on, lovely river,
To hillock and tree
A lay o' the loves
O' my Jessie and me;
For nae angel lightin',
A posie to pu',
Can match the fair form
O' the lassie I lo'e.

Sweet river, dear river,
Sing on in your glee,
In thy pure breast the mind
O' my Jessie I see.
How aft ha'e I wander'd,
As gray gloamin' fell,
Rare dreamin's o' heaven
My lassie to tell.

Sing on, lovely Devon,
The sang that ye sung
When earth in her beauty
Frae night's bosom sprung,
For lanesome and eerie
This warld aye would be
Did clouds ever fa'
Atween Jessie and me.

FOOTNOTES:

[9] Written for the present work.

ANN O' CORNYLEE.

GAELIC AIR--_"Soraiadh slan do'un Ailleagan."_

I 'll twine a gowany garland
Wi' lilies frae the spring;
The fairest flowers by Clutha's side
In a' their bloom I 'll bring.
I 'll wreath a flowery wreath to shade
My lassie's scornfu' e'e--
For oh, I canna bide the frown
O' Ann o' Cornylee.

Nae gilded ha', nae downie bed
My lowly lot maun cheer,
A sheilin' on the banks o' Gryfe
Is a' my worldly gear;
A lanely cot, wi' moss o'ergrown,
Is a' I ha'e to gie;
A leal heart, sinking 'neath the scorn
O' Ann o' Cornylee.

The linty 'mang the yellow broom,
The laverock in the lift
Ha'e never sang the waes o' love
O' hope and joy bereft;
Nor has the mavis ever sang
The ills I ha'e to dree,
For lovin' o' a paughty maid,
Fair Ann o' Cornylee.

MY MARY DEAR.[10]

TUNE--_"Annie Laurie."_

The gloamin' star was showerin'
Its siller glories doun,
And nestled in its mossy lair
The lintie sleepit soun';
The lintie sleepit soun',
And the starnies sparklet clear,
When on a gowany bank I sat
Aside my Mary dear.

The burnie wanders eerie
Roun' rock and ruin'd tower,
By mony a fairy hillock
And mony a lanely bower;
Roun' mony a lanely bower,
Love's tender tale to hear,
Where I in whisper'd vows ha'e woo'd
And won my Mary dear.

Oh, hallow'd hours o' happiness
Frae me for ever ta'en!
Wi' summer's flowery loveliness
Ye come na back again!
Ye come na back again,
The waefu' heart to cheer,
For lang the greedy grave has closed
Aboon my Mary dear.

FOOTNOTES:

[10] Written for the present work.

THE WAES O' EILD.

(_For an old Gaelic air._)

The cranreuch 's on my heid,
The mist 's now on my een,
A lanesome life I lead,
I'm no what I ha'e been.
Ther 're runkles on my broo,
Ther 're furrows on my cheek,
My wither'd heart fills fu'
Whan o' bygane days I speak.
For I 'm weary,
I 'm weary,
I 'm weary o' care--
Whare my bairnies ha'e gane,
Oh, let me gang there.

I ance was fu' o' glee,
And wha was then sae gay,
Whan dreamin' life wad be
But ae lang simmer day?
My feet, like lichtnin', flew
Roun' pleasure's dizzy ring,
They gimply staucher noo
Aneath a feckless thing.
For I 'm weary,
I 'm weary,
I 'm weary o' care--
Whare my first luve lies cauld,
Oh, let me lie there.

The ourie breath o' eild
Has blown ilk frien' frae me;
They comena near my beild
I ha'e dauted on my knee;
They hand awa their heids,
My frailties no to see;
My blessing on them, ane and a'--
I 've naething else to gie.
For I 'm weary,
I 'm weary,
I 'm weary and worn--
To the friens o' my youth
I maun soon, soon return.

JOHN STUART BLACKIE.[11]

John Stuart Blackie, Professor of Greek in the University of Edinburgh, was born at Glasgow in the year 1809. His father, who had originally come from Kelso, removed from Glasgow to Aberdeen, as agent for the Commercial Bank in that city, while his son was still very young. At the grammar school of Aberdeen, then under the rectorship of Dr Melvin, the boy began his classical education, and subsequently, according to the ridiculous Scottish custom, the folly of which he has done his best to expose, he became, in his twelfth year, a student in Marischal College. He was a student of arts for five years in Aberdeen and Edinburgh--and then he attended theological classes for three years. In 1829 he proceeded to the Continent, and studied at Gottingen and Berlin, where he mastered the German language, and dived deep into the treasures of German literature. From Germany he went to Rome, where he spent fifteen months, devoting himself to the Italian language and literature, and to the study of archæology. His first publication testifies to his success in both studies. It is entitled, "Osservazioni sopra un antico sarcophago." It was written in Italian, and published in the _Annali del Instituto Archæologico, Roma_, 1831.

Mr Blackie had given up the idea of entering the Church, and on his return to Scotland he studied law, and passed advocate in 1834. The study of law was never very congenial to him, and the practice of the profession was still less so. Accordingly, at this period he occupied himself with literary work, principally writing for Reviews. It was at this time that his translation of "Faust" appeared. It is entitled, "Faust: a Tragedy, by J. W. Goethe. Translated into English Verse, with Notes, and Preliminary Remarks, by John S. Blackie, Fellow of the Society for Archæological Correspondence, Rome." Mr Blackie had taken upon him a very difficult task in attempting to translate the great work of the great German, and we need not wonder that he did not succeed entirely. We believe, with Mr Lewes, that the perfect accomplishment of this task is impossible, and that Goethe's work is fully intelligible only to the German scholar. But, at the same time, Mr Blackie fully succeeded in the aim which he set before him. He says in the preface, "The great principle on which the excellence of a poetical translation depends, seems to be, that it should not be a mere _transposing_, but a _re-casting_, of the original. On this principle, it has been my first and chief endeavour to make my translation spirited--to seize, if possible, the very soul and living power of the German, rather than to give a careful and anxious transcription of every individual line, or every minute expression." If this is what a translator should do, there can be no question that the "Faust" of Blackie is all that can be desired--full of spirit and life, harmonious from beginning to end, and reading exactly like an original. The best proof of its success is that Mr Lewes, in his biography of Goethe, prefers it, as a whole, to any of the other poetical translations of Goethe. The preliminary remarks are very characteristic, written with that intense enthusiasm which still animates all his writings. The notes at the end are full of curious information regarding the witchcraft and astrology of the Middle Ages, gathered with assiduous labour from the stores of the Advocates' Library.

The translation of "Faust" established Mr Blackie's reputation as a German scholar; and, for some time after this, he was chiefly occupied in reviewing German books for the _Foreign Quarterly Review_. He was also a contributor to _Blackwood_, _Tait_, and the _Westminster Review_. The subjects on which he principally wrote were poetry, history or religion; and among his articles may be mentioned a genial one on Uhland, a deeply earnest article on Jung Stillung, whose life he seems to have studied very thoroughly, and several on the later campaigns of Napoleon. To this last subject he then gave very great attention, as almost every German and English book on the subject that appeared is reviewed by him; and the article which describes Napoleon's Leipzig campaign is one of the clearest military monographs that has been written. During this time, Mr Blackie was still pursuing his Latin and Greek studies; and one article, on a classical subject, deserves especial notice. It is a thorough criticism of all the dramas of Euripides, in which he takes a view of the dramatist exactly the reverse of that maintained by Walter Savage Landor--asserting that he was a bungler in the tragic art, and far too much addicted to foisting his stupid moralisings into his plays. Another article in the _Westminster_, on the Prussian Constitution, is worthy of remark for its thoroughness. The whole machinery of the Prussian bureaucracy is explained in a way very satisfactory to an English reader.

In 1841, Mr Blackie was appointed Professor of Humanity in Marischal College, Aberdeen--a post which he held for eleven years. To this new labour he gave himself with all his heart, and was eminently successful. The Aberdeen students were remarkable for their accurate knowledge of the grammatical forms and syntax of Latin, acquired under the careful training of Dr Melvin; but their reading, both classical and general, was restricted, and they were wanting in literary impulses. Professor Blackie strove to supply both deficiencies. He took his students over a great deal of ground, opening up to them the beauties of the authors read, and laying the foundation of higher criticism. Then he formed a class-library, delivered lectures on Roman literature in all its stages, and introduced the study of general history. From this period dates the incessant activity which he has displayed in educational, and especially University reform. At the time he commenced his work, the subject was a very disagreeable one to Scottish ears, and he had to bear the apathy not only of his fellow-countrymen, but also of his fellow-professors. He has never, however, bated a jot of heart, and he is now beginning to reap his reward. Several of the reforms which he advocated at the commencement of his agitation, and which were at first met with something approaching to contempt, have been adopted, and he has lived to see entrance examinations introduced into several Universities, and the test abolished. Many of the other reforms which he then proposed are on a fair way to accomplishment, and the subject is no longer treated with that indifference which met his early appeals. His principal publications on this subject are: 1. An appeal to the Scottish people on the improvement of their scholastic and academical institutions; 2. A plea for the liberties of the Scottish Universities; 3. University reform; with a letter to Professor Pillans.

Mr Blackie delivered public lectures on education in Edinburgh, Glasgow, and Aberdeen, and wrote various articles on it in the newspapers. He gave himself also to the study of the philosophy of education. His most noteworthy contributions in this direction are, his review of Beneche's masterly work on education, in the _Foreign Quarterly_, and two lectures "On the Studying and Teaching of Languages."

During the whole of this period, his main strength was devoted to Latin and Greek philology. Some of the results of this labour were published in the _Classical Museum_. One of the contributions to that journal was published separately--"On the Rhythmical Declamation of the Ancients." It is a clear exposition of the principles of accentuation, drawing accurately the distinction between accent and quantity, and between the accents of common talk and the musical accents that occur in poetry. It is the best monograph on the subject, of which we know. Another article, "On Prometheus," clears Æschylus from the charge of impiety, because he appears to make Zeus act tyrannically towards Prometheus in the "Prometheus Vinctus." He also gave the results of some of his classical studies, in lectures in Edinburgh and Glasgow on Roman history and Greek literature. The principal works on which he was engaged at this time were translations of Horace and Æschylus. Translations of several odes of Horace have appeared in various publications. The translation of all the dramas of Æschylus appeared in 1850. It was dedicated to the Chevalier Bunsen and Edward Gerhard, Royal Archæologist, "the friends of his youth, and the directors of his early studies." This work is now universally admitted to be the best complete translation of Æschylus in English.

In 1852 he was elected to the chair of Greek in Edinburgh University. In that position he has carried on the same agitation in behalf of educational and university reform, which characterised his stay in Aberdeen. His last _brochure_ on the subject is a letter to the Town Council of Edinburgh "On the Advancement of Learning in Scotland." Having made this matter a work of his life, he takes every opportunity to urge it, and, notwithstanding that he has got many gratuitous rebuffs, continues on his way cheerily, now delivering a lecture or speech on the subject, now writing letters in reply to this or that assailant, and now giving a more complete exposition of his views in the _North British Review_.

His first publication after his election to the Greek professorship was "The Pronunciation of Greek; Accent and Quantity. A Philological Inquiry:" 1852. In this work he sought to shew what authority there is for the modern Greek pronunciation of Greek, advocating a return, in the reading of prose, to that pronunciation of Greek which was the only one known in Europe anterior to the time of Erasmus. This method is consistently carried out in the Greek classes. In 1853 he travelled in Greece, living in Athens for two months and a-half, and acquiring a fluent use of the living Greek language. On his return, he gave the results of his journey in various articles, especially in one in the _North British_ on Modern Greek Literature, and in another in the _Westminster_ on Greece. He also expressed some of them in an introductory lecture "On the Living Language of Greece." Since that time he has written principally in _Blackwood_ and the _North British_, discussing subjects of general literature, and introducing any new German book which he considers of especial interest. Among his papers may be mentioned his reviews, in the _North British_, of his friend Bunsen's "Signs of the Times," and of Perthos' Life. His articles more especially relating to his own department are Æschylus and Homer, in the _Encyclopædia Britannica_, an article on accents in the _Cambridge Philological_, and an essay on Plato in the "Edinburgh Essays."

In 1857 was published the work which brings him into the list of Scottish poets--"Lays and Legends of Ancient Greece, with other Poems." The Lays and Legends are the work of the scholar, who, believing verse to be the proper vehicle for an exposition of these beautiful myths, gives them that form, instead of writing learned dissertations about them. The miscellaneous poems shew more of the inner man than any of his other works--deep religious feeling, great simplicity, earnestness, and manliness, confidence in the goodness of men, and delight in everything that is pure, beautiful, and honest, with thorough detestation of all falsehood.

FOOTNOTES:

[11] The present Memoir has been contributed by James Donaldson, Esq., Edinburgh.

SONG OF BEN CRUACHAN.