Chapter XLVII: Introduction (4)

Ben Cruachan is king of the mountains
That gird in the lovely Loch Awe;
Loch Etive is fed from his fountains,
By the streams of the dark-rushing Awe.
With his peak so high
He cleaves the sky
That smiles on his old gray crown,
While the mantle green,
On his shoulders seen,
In many a fold flows down.

He looks to the north, and he renders
A greeting to Nevis Ben;
And Nevis, in white snowy splendours,
Gives Cruachan greeting again.
O'er dread Glencoe
The greeting doth go
And where Etive winds fair in the glen;
And he hears the call
In his steep north wall,
"God bless thee, old Cruachan Ben."

When the north winds their forces muster,
And ruin rides high on the storm,
All calm, in the midst of their bluster,
He stands with his forehead enorm.
When block on block,
With thundering shock,
Comes hurtled confusedly down,
No whit recks he,
But laughs to shake free
The dust from his old gray crown.

And while torrents on torrents are pouring
Down his sides with a wild, savage glee,
And when louder the loud Awe is roaring,
And the soft lake swells to a sea,
He smiles through the storm,
And his heart grows warm
As he thinks how his streams feed the plains
And the brave old Ben
Grows young again,
And swells with his lusty veins.

For Cruachan is king of the mountains
That gird in the lovely Loch Awe;
Loch Etive is fed from his fountains,
By the streams of the dark-rushing Awe.
Ere Adam was made
He rear'd his head
Sublime o'er the green winding glen;
And when flame wraps the sphere,
O'er earth's ashes shall peer
The peak of the old granite Ben.

THE BRAES OF MAR.

Farewell ye braes of broad Braemar,
From you my feet must travel far,
Thou high-peak'd steep-cliff'd Loch-na-Gar,
Farewell, farewell for ever!
Thou lone green glen where I was born,
Where free I stray'd in life's bright morn.
From thee my heart is rudely torn,
And I shall see thee never!

The braes of Mar with heather glow,
The healthful breezes o'er them blow,
The gushing torrents from them flow,
That swell the rolling river.
Strong hills that nursed the brave and free,
On banks of clear, swift-rushing Dee,
My widow'd eyne no more shall see
Your birchen bowers for ever!

Farewell thou broad and bare Muicdhui
Ye stout old pines of lone Glen Lui,
Thou forest wide of Ballochbuie,
Farewell, farewell for ever!
In you the rich may stalk the deer,
Thou 'lt know the tread of prince and peer;
But oh, the poor man's heart is drear
To part from you for ever!

May God forgive our haughty lords,
For whom our fathers drew their swords;
No tear for us their pride affords,
No bond of love they sever.
Farewell ye braes of broad Braemar,
From bleak Ben Aon to Loch-na-Gar--
The friendless poor is banished far
From your green glens for ever!

MY LOVES.

Name the leaves on all the trees,
Name the waves on all the seas,
Name the notes of all the groves--
Thus thou namest all my loves.

I do love the dark, the fair,
Golden ringlets, raven hair,
Eye that swims in sunny light,
Glance that shoots like lightning bright.

I do love the stately dame
And the sportive girl the same;
Every changeful phase between
Blooming cheek and brow serene.

I do love the young, the old,
Maiden modest, virgin bold,
Tiny beauties, and the tall--
Earth has room enough for all.

Which is better--who can say?--
Lucy grave or Mary gay?
She who half her charms conceals?
She who sparkles while she feels?

Why should I confine my love?
Nature bids us freely rove;
God hath scatter'd wide the fair,
Blooms and beauties everywhere.

Paris was a pedant fool,
Meting beauty by a rule:
Pallas? Juno? Venus?--he
Should have chosen all the three.

I am wise, life's every bliss
Thankful tasting; and a kiss
Is a sweet thing, I declare,
From a dark maid or a fair.

LIKING AND LOVING.

Liking is a little boy
Dreaming of a sea employ,
Sitting by the stream, with joy
Paper frigates sailing:
Love 's an earnest-hearted man,
Champion of beauty's clan,
Fighting bravely in the van,
Pushing and prevailing.

Liking hovers round and round,
Capers with a nimble bound,
Plants his foot on easy ground,
Through the glass to view it:
Love shoots sudden glance for glance,
Spurs the steed, and rests the lance,
With a brisk and bold advance,
Sworn to die or do it.

Liking 's ever on the wing,
From new blooms new sweets to bring;
Nibbling aye, the nimble thing
From the hook is free still:
Love 's a tar of British blue,
Let mad winds their maddest do,
To his haven carded true,
As I am to thee still.

WILLIAM STIRLING, M.P.

William Stirling of Keir, parliamentary representative of the county of Perth, was born on the 8th March 1818, in the mansion of Kenmure, in the vicinity of Glasgow. The only son of the late Archibald Stirling of Keir, his paternal ancestors, for a course of centuries, have been extensive landowners in the counties of Lanark and Perth. The representative of the house, Sir George Stirling, was a conspicuous supporter of the famous Marquis of Montrose. On the side of his mother, who was a daughter of Sir John Maxwell, Bart., of Polloc, he is descended from a family who adhered to the Covenant and the Revolution of 1688.

Mr Stirling took the degrees of B.A. and M.A. at Trinity College, Cambridge. To literary pursuits ardently devoted from his youth, he afforded the first indication of his peculiar tastes in a small poetical _brochure_. "The Songs of the Holy Land," composed chiefly during a visit to Palestine, were printed for private circulation in 1846, but were published with considerable additions in a handsome octavo volume in 1848. Two specimens of these sacred lays are inserted in the present work with the author's permission.

During a residence in Spain, Mr Stirling was led to direct his attention to the state of the Fine Arts in that country; and in 1848 he produced a work of much research and learning, entitled "Annals of the Artists of Spain," in three volumes octavo. In 1852 appeared "The Cloister Life of the Emperor Charles V.," which has already passed through several editions, and has largely increased the reputation of the writer. His latest publication, "Velasquez and his Works" was published in 1855.

In 1852 Mr Stirling was elected, without opposition, member of Parliament for the county of Perth, and was again returned at the general election in April 1857. Recently he has evinced a deep interest in the literary improvement of the industrial population, by delivering lectures to the district Mechanics' Institutions.

RUTH.

The golden smile of morning
On the hills of Moab play'd,
When at the city's western gate
Their steps three women stay'd.
One laden was with years and care,
A gray and faded dame,
Of Judah's ancient lineage,
And Naomi her name;
And two were daughters of the land,
Fair Orpah and sweet Ruth,
Their faces wearing still the bloom,
Their eyes the light of youth;
But all were childless widows,
And garb'd in weeds of woe,
And their hearts were full of sorrow,
And fast their tears did flow.

For the Lord God from Naomi
Her spouse and sons had taken,
And she and these that were their wives,
Are widow'd and forsaken;
And wish or hope her bosom knows
None other but to die,
And lay her bones in Bethlehem,
Where all her kindred lie.
So gives she now upon the way
To Jordan's western waters
Her farewell kisses and her tears
Unto her weeping daughters:
"Sweet daughters mine, now turn again
Unto your homes," she said,
"And for the love ye bear to me,
The love ye bear the dead,
The Lord with you deal kindly,
And give you joy and rest
And send to each a faithful mate
To cheer her widow'd breast."

Then long and loud their weeping was,
And sore was their lament,
And Orpah kiss'd sad Naomi,
And back to Moab went;
But gentle Ruth to Naomi
Did cleave with close embrace,
And earnest spoke, with loving eyes
Up-gazing in her face--
"Entreat me not to leave thee,
Nor sever from thy side,
For where thou goest I will go,
Where thou bidest I will bide,
Thy people still my people,
And thy God my God shall be,
And where thou diest I will die,
And make my grave with thee."

So Naomi, not loath, was won
Unto her gentle will;
And thence, with faces westward set,
They fared o'er plain and hill;
The Lord their staff, till Bethlehem
Rose fair upon their sight,
A rock-built town with towery crown,
In evening's purple light,
Midst slopes in vine and olive clad,
And spread along the brook,
White fields, with barley waving,
That woo'd the reaper's hook.

* * * * *

Now for the sunny harvest field
Sweet Ruth her mother leaves,
And goes a-gleaning after
The maids that bind the sheaves.
And the great lord of the harvest
Is of her husband's race,
And looks upon the lonely one
With gentleness and grace;
And he loves her for the brightness
And freshness of her youth,
And for her unforgetting love,
Her firm enduring truth--
The love and truth that guided Ruth
The border mountains o'er,
Where her people and her own land
She left for evermore.

So he took her to his home and heart,
And years of soft repose
Did recompense her patient faith,
Her meekly-suffer'd woes;
And she became the noblest dame
Of palmy Palestine,
And the stranger was the mother
Of that grand and glorious line
Whence sprang our royal David,
In the tide of generations,
The anointed king of Israel,
The terror of the nations:
Of whose pure seed hath God decreed
Messiah shall be born,
When the day-spring from on high shall light
The golden lands of morn;
Then heathen tongues shall tell the tale
Of tenderness and truth--
Of the gentle deed of Boaz
And the tender love of Ruth.

SHALLUM.

Oh, waste not thy woe on the dead, nor bemoan him
Who finds with his fathers the grave of his rest;
Sweet slumber is his, who at night-fall hath thrown him
Near bosoms that waking did love him the best.

But sorely bewail him, the weary world-ranger,
Shall ne'er to the home of his people return;
His weeping worn eyes must be closed by the stranger,
No tear of true sorrow shall hallow his urn.

And mourn for the monarch that went out of Zion,
King Shallum, the son of Josiah the Just;
For he the cold bed of the captive shall die on,
Afar from his land, nor return to its dust.

THOMAS C. LATTO.

A song-writer of considerable popularity, Thomas C. Latto was born in 1818, in the parish of Kingsbarns, Fifeshire. Instructed in the elementary branches at the parochial seminary, he entered, in his fourteenth year, the United College of St Andrews. Having studied during five sessions at this University, he was in 1838 admitted into the writing-chambers of Mr John Hunter, W.S., Edinburgh, now Auditor of the Court of Session. He subsequently became advocate's clerk to Mr William E. Aytoun, Professor of Rhetoric in the University of Edinburgh. After a period of employment as a Parliament House clerk, he accepted the situation of managing clerk to a writer in Dundee. In 1852 he entered into business as a commission-agent in Glasgow. Subsequently emigrating to the United States, he has for some years been engaged in mercantile concerns at New York.

Latto first became known as a song-writer in the pages of "Whistle-binkie." In 1845 he edited a poem, entitled "The Minister's Kail-yard," which, with a number of lyrics of his own composition, appeared in a duodecimo volume. To the "Book of Scottish Song" he made several esteemed contributions. Verses from his pen have appeared in _Blackwood's_ and _Tait's Magazines_.

THE KISS AHINT THE DOOR.

TUNE--_"There 's nae Luck about the House."_

There 's meikle bliss in ae fond kiss,
Whiles mair than in a score;
But wae betak' the stouin smack
I took ahint the door.

O laddie, whisht! for sic a fricht
I ne'er was in afore;
Fou brawly did my mither hear
The kiss ahint the door.
The wa's are thick--ye needna fear;
But, gin they jeer and mock,
I 'll swear it was a startit cork,
Or wyte the rusty lock.
There 's meikle bliss, &c.

We stappit ben, while Maggie's face
Was like a lowin' coal;
An' as for me, I could hae crept
Into a mouse's hole.
The mither look't--saffs how she look't!--
Thae mithers are a bore,
An' gleg as ony cat to hear
A kiss ahint the door.
Their 's meikle bliss, &c.

The douce gudeman, tho' he was there,
As weel micht been in Rome,
For by the fire he puff'd his pipe,
An' never fash'd his thumb;
But, titterin' in a corner, stood
The gawky sisters four--
A winter's nicht for me they micht
Hae stood ahint the door.
There 's meikle bliss, &c.

"How daur ye tak' sic freedoms here?"
The bauld gudewife began;
Wi' that a foursome yell got up--
I to my heels and ran.
A besom whiskit by my lug,
An' dishclouts half-a-score:
Catch me again, tho' fidgin' fain,
At kissin 'hint the door.
There 's meikle bliss, &c.

THE WIDOW'S AE BIT LASSIE.

TUNE--_"My only Jo and Dearie, O!"_

Oh, guess ye wha I met yestreen
On Kenly banks sae grassy, O!
Wha cam' to bless my waitin' een?--
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!
She brak' my gloamin' dream sae sweet,
Just whaur the wimplin' burnies meet;
The smother'd laugh--I flew to greet
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!

They glintit slee--the moon and she--
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!--
On tremblin' stream an' tremblin' me:
She is a dear wee lassie, O!
How rapture's pulse was beating fast
As Mary to my heart I claspt!
Oh, bliss divine--owre sweet to last--
I 've kiss'd the dear bit lassie, O!

She nestled close, like croodlin' doo--
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!
My cheek to hers, syne mou' to mou'--
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!
Unto my breast again, again,
I prest her guileless heart sae fain;
Sae blest were baith--now she 's my ain,
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!

Ye powers aboon, wha made her mine--
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!
My heart wad break gin I should tyne
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!
Our hearth shall glad the angels' sight;
The lamp o' love shall lowe sae bright
On me and her, my soul's delight,
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!

THE YELLOW-HAIRED LADDIE.

The maidens are smiling in rocky Glencoe,
The clansmen are arming to rush on the foe;
Gay banners are streaming as forth pours the clan,
The yellow-haired laddie is first in the van.

The pibroch is kindling each heart to the war,
The Cameron's slogan is heard from afar;
They close for the struggle where many shall fall,
But the yellow-haired laddie is foremost of all.

He towers like a wave in the fierce rolling tide,
No kinsman of Evan's may stand by his side;
The Camerons gather around him alone--
He heeds not the danger, and fear is unknown.

The plumes of his bonnet are seen through the fight--
A beacon for valour, which fires at the sight;
But he sees not yon claymore--ah! traitorous thrust!
The plumes and the bonnet are laid in the dust.

The maidens are smiling in rocky Glencoe--
The clansmen approach--they have vanquish'd the foe;
But sudden the cheeks of the maidens are pale,
For the sound of the coronach comes on the gale.

The maidens are weeping in rocky Glencoe,
From warriors' eyelids the bitter drops flow;
They come--but, oh! where is their chieftain so dear?
The yellow-haired laddie is low on the bier.

The maidens are wailing in rocky Glencoe--
There 's gloom in the valley, at sunrise 'twill go;
But no sun can the gloom from their hearts chase away--
The yellow-haired laddie lies cauld in the clay.

TELL ME, DEAR.

AIR--_"Loudon's bonnie Woods and Braes."_

Tell me dear! in mercy speak,
Has Heaven heard my prayer, lassie?
Faint the rose is on thy cheek,
But still the rose is there, lassie!
Away, away each dark foreboding,
Heavy days with anguish clouding,
Youthfu' love in sorrow shrouding,
Heaven could ne'er allow, lassie!
Day and night I've tended thee,
Watching, love, thy changing e'e;
Dearest gift that Heaven could gi'e,
Say thou 'rt happy now, lassie!

Willie, lay thy cheek to mine--
Kiss me, oh! my ain laddie!
Never mair may lip o' thine
Press where it hath lain, laddie!
Hark! I hear the angels calling,
Heavenly strains are round me falling,
But the stroke--thy soul appalling--
'Tis my only pain, laddie!
Yet the love I bear to thee
Shall follow where I soon maun be;
I 'll tell how gude thou wert to me--
We part to meet again, laddie!

Lay thine arm beneath my head--
Grieve na sae for me, laddie!
I'll thole the doom that lays me dead,
But no a tear frae thee, laddie!
Aft where yon dark tree is spreading,
When the sun's last beam is shedding,
Where no earthly foot is treading,
By my grave thou 'lt be, laddie!
Though my sleep be wi' the dead,
Frae on high my soul shall speed,
And hover nightly round thy head,
Although thou wilt na see, laddie.

WILLIAM CADENHEAD.

William Cadenhead was born at Aberdeen on the 6th April 1819. With a limited education at school, he was put to employment in a factory in his ninth year. His leisure hours were devoted to mental culture, and ramblings in the country. The perusal of Beattie's _Minstrel_ inspired him with the love of poetry, and at an early age his compositions in verse were admitted in the Poet's Corner of the _Aberdeen Herald_. In 1819 he published a small poetical work, entitled "The Prophecy," which, affording decided evidence of power, established his local reputation. Having contributed verses for some years to several periodicals and the local journals, he published a collection of these in 1853, with the title, "Flights of Fancy, and Lays of Bon-Accord." "The New Book of Bon-Accord," a guide-book to his native town on an original plan, appeared from his pen in 1856. For three years he has held a comfortable and congenial appointment as confidential clerk to a merchant in his native city. He continues to contribute verses to the periodicals.

DO YOU KNOW WHAT THE BIRDS ARE SINGING?

Do you know what the birds are singing?
Can you tell their sweet refrains,
When the green arch'd woods are ringing
With a thousand swelling strains?
To the sad they sing of sadness,
To the blythe, of mirth and glee,
And to me, in my fond love's gladness,
They sing alone of thee!
They sing alone of thee, love,
Of thee, through the whole day long,
And each its own dear charm extols,
And each with its own sweet song!

Do you know what the soft winds whisper
When they sigh through blooming trees--
When each bough is a choral lisper
Of the woodland melodies?
To some they seem to be grieving
For the summer's short-lived glee;
But to me they are always weaving
Sweet songs in praise of thee!
Sweet songs in praise of thee, love,
And telling the flowers below,
How far thy charms outshine them all,
Though brightly their soft leaves glow!

Do you know what the streamlet trilleth
As it glides or leaps along,
While the cool green nook it filleth
With the gushes of its song?
Do you think it sings its dreaming
Of its distant home, the sea?
Oh, no, but the voice of its streaming
Is still of thee, of thee!
Is still of thee, of thee, love,
Till echoes and woodland fays--
Yea, Nature all is eloquent
And vocal in thy praise.

AN HOUR WITH AN OLD LOVE.

Lat me look into thy face, Jeanie,
As I 've look'd in days gane by,
When you gae me kiss for kiss, Jeanie,
And answer'd sigh for sigh;
When in our youth's first flame, Jeanie,
Although poor and lane together,
We had wealth in our ain love, Jeanie,
And were a' to ane anither!

Oh, blessin's on thy lips, Jeanie,
They ance were dear to me,
As the honey-savour'd blossoms
To the nectar-hunting bee!
It kens whar dwalls the banquets
O' the sweetest dewy wine--
And as the chosen flower to it,
Sae were thy lips to mine.

I see thy very thochts, Jeanie,
Deep in thy clear blue e'e,
As ye 'll see the silver fishes flash,
When ye sail the midnicht sea;
And ye needna close the lids, Jeanie,
Though the thochts they are nae mine,
For I see there 's nae repentant ane,
That they ance were sae langsyne.

Oh, lat me hear thy voice, Jeanie--
Ay, that 's the very chime,
Whase silver echoes haunted me
Through a' my youthfu' prime.
Speak on! thy gentle words, Jeanie,
Awake a blessed train
Of memories that I thocht had slept
To never wake again!

God's blessin's on your heart, Jeanie,
And your face sae angel fair!
May the ane be never pierced wi' grief,
Nor the ither blanch'd wi' care;
And he wha has your love, Jeanie,
May he be dear to thee,
As I may aiblins ance have been--
And as thou 'rt still to me!

ALLAN GIBSON.

A poet of sentiment and moral feeling, Allan Gibson was removed from the scene at the threshold of a promising career. He was born at Paisley on the 2d October 1820. In his boyhood he devoted himself to the perusal of works of history and romance; and he acquired a familiarity with the more distinguished British poets. It was his delight to stray amidst rural scenes, and to imbibe inspiration among the solitudes of nature. His verses were composed at such periods. They are prefaced by prose reflections, and abound in delicate colouring and gentle pathos. Several detached specimens of his prose writing are elegant and masterly. He followed an industrial occupation, but was unfortunate in business. After an illness of two years, he died on the 9th August 1849, at the early age of twenty-nine. He was possessed of much general talent; was fond of society, fluent in conversation, and eloquent as a public speaker. His habits were sober and retiring. He left a widow and four children. A thin 8vo volume of his "Literary Remains" was published in 1850, for the benefit of his family.

THE LANE AULD MAN.

He sorrowfu' sat by the ingle cheek,
Its hearth was cauld to his weary feet,
For a' were gane, an' nae mair would meet
By the side o' the lane auld man.

To the wreck o' his hopes fond memory clung
When flowers o' his heart on his hearthstane sprung;
But death's cauld hand had cruelly wrung
The heart o' the lane auld man.

A leafless tree in life's wintry blast,
He stood alane o' his kin the last,
For ane by ane frae his side they pass'd,
An' left him a lane auld man.

His bonnie bairns, o' his heart the prize,
Wi' their bounding step and sunny eyes,
Hae left his hearth for hame in the skies;
Alack for the lane auld man!

The weel lo'ed form o' his ain auld wife,
Wha sooth'd the cares o' a lang bleak life,
Has gane to rest wi' her weans frae strife,
An' heeds na her lane auld man.

Owre the turf on their breast he lo'ed to weep,
And sair he lang'd wi' the lost to meet,
Till death did close, in his ain calm sleep,
The een o' the lane auld man.

Whar yew-trees bend owre the dark kirk-yard,
An' gowans peep frae the lang green-sward,
The moss-clad stanes o' the cauld grave guard
The last o' the lane auld man.

THE WANDERER'S RETURN.

Shadows of glory the twilight is parting,
The day-star is seeking its home in the west,
The herd from the field to the fold is departing,
As, Lochwinnoch, sad on thy summits I rest.
And far o'er the scene, while the evening is veiling
Thy waters that spread their still breast on the lea,
On his broad truant wing the lone heron is sailing,
To rest with his mate by the rock on the sea.

But, houseless and homeless, around thee I wander,
The faces are gone I have panted to see,
And cold is the hearth to the feet of the stranger,
Which once had a seat in its circle for me.
Here youth's golden hours of my being were number'd,
When joy in my bosom was breathing its lay;
If care on the light of my happiness linger'd,
Hope hasted the heartless intruder away.

Then sweetly the brow of the beaming-eyed future
Was smiling my welcome to life's rosy way,
And fondly I sigh'd in her Eden to meet her,
And bask in the bowers where her happiness lay.
While fancy on light airy pinion was mounting,
I strain'd my young vision in rapture to see
The land of my dreams, with its love-mirror'd fountains,
And breath'd in the balm of the south's sunny sea.

Then, far on the track of ambition, I follow'd
The footsteps of fortune through perilous climes,
And trod the bright scenes which my childhood had hallow'd
But found not the charms which fond fancy enshrines.
The gold I have won, can it purchase the treasure
Of hearts' warm affections left bleeding behind,
Restore me the ties which are parted for ever,
And gild the dark gloom of my desolate mind?

The gold I have won! but, unblest and beguiling,
It came like the sun when unclouded and gay;
Its light on the cold face of winter is smiling,
But cheers not the earth with the warmth of its ray.
Again fare-thee-well, for the heart-broken rover
Now bids thee a long and a lasting adieu;
Yet o'er thee the dreams of my spirit will hover,
And burn as it broods on life's dismal review.

THOMAS ELLIOTT.

The author of a small volume of very meritorious poems and lyrics, Thomas Elliott is descended from a branch of the old Border family of that name, which settled in the north of Ireland subsequent to the Revolution. His father was a shoemaker at Bally-ho-bridge, a hamlet in county Fermanagh, province of Ulster, where the poet was born on the 22d December 1820. Entering school at the age of five years, he was not removed till he had acquired a considerable acquaintance with the ordinary branches of popular education. In his fifteenth year he apprenticed himself to his father. The family removed to Belfast in 1836, and there he had opportunities of occupying his leisure hours in extensive and varied reading. After a few years of somewhat desultory employment, he visited Glasgow in 1847, and there, following his original trade, he has continued to reside.

Elliott assigns the commencement of his poetical efforts to the year 1842, when he was led to satirise a pedagogue teacher of music, who had given him offence. His poetical volume, entitled "Doric Lays and Attic Chimes," appeared in 1856, and has been well received. Several of his lyrics have been published with music in "The Lyric Gems of Scotland," a collection of songs published at Glasgow.

UP WITH THE DAWN.

Up with the dawn, ye sons of toil,
And bare the brawny arm,
To drive the harness'd team afield,
And till the fruitful farm;
To dig the mine for hidden wealth,
Or make the woods to ring
With swinging axe and sturdy stroke,
To fell the forest king.

With ocean car and iron steed
Traverse the land and sea,
And spread our commerce round the globe
As winds that wander free.
Subdue the earth, and conquer fate,
Outspeed the flight of time;
Old earth is rich, and man is young,
Nor near his jocund prime.

Work, and the clouds of care will fly,
Pale want will pass away;
Work, and the leprosy of crime
And tyrants must decay.
Leave the dead ages in their urns;
The present time be ours,
To grapple bravely with our lot,
And strew our path with flowers.

CLYDE BOAT SONG.

_Music by A. Hume._

Leave the city's busy throng--
Dip the oar, and wake the song,
While on Cathkin Braes the moon
Rises with a star aboon:
Hark! the boom of evening bells
Trembles through the dewy dells.
Row, lads, row; row, lads, row,
While the golden eventide
Lingers o'er the vale of Clyde,
Row, lads, row; row, lads, row,
O'er the tide, up the Clyde,
Row, lads, row.

Life 's a river, deep and old,
Stemm'd by rowers, brave and bold;
Now in shadow, then in light,
Onward aye, a thing of might;
Sons of Albyn's ancient land,
Row with strong and steady hand,
Row, lads, row; row, lads, row;
Gaily row, and cheery sing,
Till the woodland echoes ring;
Row, lads, row; row lads, row,
O'er the tide, up the Clyde,
Row, lads, row.

Hammers on the anvil rest,
Dews upon the gowan's breast;
Young hearts heave with tender thought,
Low winds sigh, with odours fraught,
Stars bedeck the blue above,
Earth is full of joy and love;
Row, lads, row; row, lads, row;
Let your oars in concert beat
Merry time, like dancers' feet;
Row, lads, row; row, lads, row,
With the tide, down the Clyde,
Row, lads, row.

DIMPLES AND A'.

I love a sweet lassie, mair gentle and true
Than ony young, wood-loving, wild cushie doo;
Her cheeks they are dimpled, her jimp waist is sma',
She says she 's my ain lassie, dimples and a'--
Dimples and a', dimples and a'--
That bonnie wee lass wi' her dimples and a'.

Her brown wavy hair has a dark gowden tinge,
Her bonnie black e'e has a long jetty fringe,
Her footstep is light as the thistle doun's fa',
Her wee hand is lily-white, dimpled and a'--
Dimpled and a', dimpled and a'--
And I ken it 's my ain hand, dimples and a'.

I 'll wed my dear lassie, and gie her my name,
I 'll get a bit housie, and bring my love hame;
When winter is eerie, and stormy winds blaw,
She 'll mak' me fu' cheerie wi' dimples and a'--
Dimples and a', dimples and a'--
My ain bonnie wifie, wi' her dimples and a'.

When the day's wark is done, and stars blink above,
I 'll rest in her smile, and be bless'd wi' her love;
She 'll sing a' the cares o' this world awa'
Frae our cosie ingle, wi' dimples and a'.
Dimples and a', dimples and a'--
Our ain cosie ingle, wi' dimples and a'.

BUBBLES ON THE BLAST.

A wee bit laddie sits wi' a bowl upon his knees,
And from a cutty pipe 's puffing bubbles on the breeze;
Oh, meikle is the mirth of the weans on our stair,
To see the bubbles sail like balloons alang the air.
Some burst before they rise, others mount the gentle wind,
And leave the little band in their dizzy joy behind;
And such are human pomp and ambition at the last--
The wonder of an hour, like thae bubbles on the blast.

How breathless is the watch of that merry little throng,
To mark the shining globes as they float in pride along!
'Tis thus life's bubbles come, ever flashing from afar--
Now a revolution, and again a woeful war;
A hero or a bard, in their glory or their might;
A bonnie bird of song, or a nightingale of light;
Or yellow golden age, with its speculations vast--
All wonders of an hour, like the bubbles on the blast.

Shout on, ye little folk, for your sport is quite as sage
As that of older men, e'en the leaders of the age;
This world 's a sapple bowl, and our life a pipe of clay--
Its brightest dreams and hopes are but bubbles blown away.
We 've had our bubbles too; some were dear and tender things,
That left us sad and lone as they fled on rapid wings;
And others yet may rise from the future, like the past,
The wonder of an hour, as the bubbles on the blast.

A SERENADE.

The shadows of evening fall silent around,
The rose with a cor'net of dewdrops is crown'd;
While weary I wander in sorrow's eclipse,
With your love at my heart, your name on my lips;
Your name on my lips, like a melody rare--
Then come, for I 'm lonely in shady Kenmair.

The birds by the river sing plaintive and low,
They seem to be breathing a burden of woe;
They seem to be asking, why am I alone?
And why do you tarry, or where are you gone?
The flowers are sighing sweet breath on the air,
And stars watch thy coming to shady Kenmair.

The gush of the fountain, the roll of the tide,
Recall your sweet image again to my side--
Your low mellow voice, like the tones of a flute;
Your slight yielding form, and small fairy foot;
Your neck like the marble, dark flowing your hair,
And brow like the snowdrop of shady Kenmair.

Come love, to the bank where the violets blow,
Beside the calm waters that slumber below,
While the brier and beech, the hazel and broom,
Fling down from their branches a flood of perfume;
Oh! what is the world, with its splendours or care,
When you are beside me in shady Kenmair!

A SONG OF LITTLE THINGS.

I 'm a very little man,
And I earn a little wage,
And I have a little wife,
In a little hermitage,
Up a quiet little stair,
Where the creeping ivy clings;
In a mansion near the stars
Is my home of little things.

I 've two bonnie little bairns,
Full of prattle and of glee,
And our little dwelling rings
With their laughter, wild and free.
Of the greenwoods, all the day,
I 've a little bird that sings;
It reminds me of my youth,
And the age of little things.

I 've no money in the funds,
And no steamers on the sea;
But my busy little hands
Are a treasure unto me.
I can work, and I can sing,
With a joy unknown to kings;
While peace and plenty smile
On my bonnie little things.

And when my work is done,
In my cosie ingle nook,
With my little ones around,
I can read a little book.
And I thank my lucky stars
For whatever fortune brings;
I 'm richer than a lord--
I 'm content with little things.

MY AIN MOUNTAIN LAND.

Oh! wae 's me on gowd, wi' its glamour and fame,
It tint me my love, and it wiled me frae hame,
Syne dwindled awa' like a neivefu' o' sand,
And left me to mourn for my ain mountain land.

I long for the glens, and the brown heather fells,
The green birken shades, where the wild lintie dwells,
The dash o' the deep, on the gray rocky strand,
That gird the blue hills o' my ain mountain land.

I dream o' the dells where the clear burnies flow,
The bonnie green knowes where the wee gowans grow;
But I wake frae my sleep like a being that 's bann'd,
And shed a saut tear for my ain mountain land.

I ken there 's a lass that looks out on the sea,
Wi' tears in the een that are watchin' for me;
Lang, lang she may wait for the clasp o' my hand,
Or the fa' o' my foot in my ain mountain land.

WHEN I COME HAME AT E'EN.

Give me the hour when bells are rung,
And dinsome wheels are still,
When engines rest, and toilers leave
The workshop, forge, and mill;
With smiling lip, and gladsome e'e,
My gudewife welcomes me;
Our bairnies clap their wee white hands,
And speel upon my knee.
When I come hame at e'en,
When I come hame at e'en,
How dear to me the bairnies' glee,
When I come hame at e'en.

Our lowly bield is neat and clean,
And bright the ingle's glow,
The table 's spread with halesome fare,
The teapot simmers low.
How sweet to toil for joys like these
With strong and eydent hand,
To nurture noble hearts to love,
And guard our fatherland.
When I come hame at e'en, &c.

Let revellers sing of wassail bowls,
Their wines and barley bree;
My ain wee house and winsome wife
Are dearer far to me.
To crack with her of joys to come,
Of days departed long,
When she was like a wee wild rose,
And I a bird of song.
When I come hame at e'en,
When I come hame at e'en,
How dear to me these memories
When I come hame at e'en.

WILLIAM LOGAN.

William Logan, author of the song "Jeanie Gow," was born on the 18th February 1821, in the village of Kilbirnie, and county of Ayr. Intended by his parents for one of the liberal professions, he had the benefit of a superior school education. For a number of years he has held a respectable appointment in connexion with a linen-thread manufactory in his native place.

JEANIE GOW.

Ye hameless glens and waving woods,
Where Garnock winds alang,
How aft, in youth's unclouded morn,
Your wilds I 've roved amang.
There ha'e I heard the wanton birds
Sing blythe on every bough,
There first I met, and woo'd the heart
O' bonnie Jeanie Gow.

Dear Jeanie then was fair and young,
And bloom'd as sweet a flower
As ever deck'd the garden gay
Or lonely wild wood bower.
The warbling lark at early dawn,
The lamb on mountain brow,
Had ne'er a purer, lighter heart
Than bonnie Jeanie Gow.

Her faither's lowly, clay-built cot
Rose by Glengarnock side,
And Jeanie was his only stay,
His darling and his pride.
Aft ha'e I left the dinsome town,
To which I ne'er could bow,
And stray'd amang the ferny knowes
Wi' bonnie Jeanie Gow.

But, ah! these fondly treasured joys
Were soon wi' gloom o'ercast,
For Jeanie dear was torn awa'
By death's untimely blast.
Ye woods, ye wilds, and warbling birds,
Ye canna cheer me now,
Sin' a' my glee and cherish'd hopes
Ha'e gane wi' Jeanie Gow.

JAMES LITTLE.

James Little was born at Glasgow, on the 24th May 1821. His father, a respectable shoemaker, was a claimant, through his maternal grandmother, of the title and estates of the last Marquis of Annandale. With a very limited elementary education, the subject of this notice, at an early age, was called on to work with his father; but soon afterwards he enlisted as a private soldier. After eight years of military life, chiefly passed in North America and the West Indies, he purchased his discharge, and resumed shoemaking in his native city. In 1852 he proceeded to the United States, but subsequently returned to Glasgow. In 1856 he published a small duodecimo volume of meritorious verses, with the title, "Sparks from Nature's Fire." Several songs from his pen have been published, with music, in the "Lyric Gems of Scotland."

OUR NATIVE HILLS AGAIN.

Oh, swiftly bounds our gallant bark
Across the ocean drear,
While manly cheeks are pale wi' grief,
And wet wi' sorrow's tear.
The flowers that spring upon the Clyde
Will bloom for us in vain;
Nae mair wi' lightsome step we 'll climb
Our native hills again.

Amang their glens our fathers sleep,
Where mony a thistle waves;
And roses fair and gowans meek
Bloom owre their lowly graves.
But we maun dree a sadder fate
Far owre the stormy main;
We lang may look, but never see
Our native hills again.

Yet, 'mid the forests o' the west,
When starnies light the sky,
We'll gather round the ingle's side,
And sing o' days gane by;
And sunny blinks o' joy will come
To soothe us when alane,
And aft, in nightly dreams, we'll climb
Our native hills again.

HERE 'S A HEALTH TO SCOTIA'S SHORE.

_Music by Alexander Hume._

Sing not to me of sunny shores
Or verdant climes where olives bloom,
Where, still and calm, the river pours
Its flood, 'mid groves of rich perfume;
Give me the land where torrents flash,
Where loud the angry cat'racts roar,
As wildly on their course they dash--
Then here's a health to Scotia's shore.

Sing not to me of sunny isles,
Though there eternal summers reign,
Where many a dark-eyed maiden smiles,
And gaudy flow'rets deck the plain;
Give me the land of mountains steep,
Where wild and free the eagles soar,
The dizzy crags, where tempests sweep--
Then here's a health to Scotia's shore.

Sing not to me of sunny lands,
For there full often tyrants sway
Who climb to power with blood-stain'd hands,
While crouching, trembling slaves obey;
Give me the land unconquer'd still,
Though often tried in days of yore,
Where freedom reigns from plain to hill--
Then here's a health to Scotia's shore.

THE DAYS WHEN WE WERE YOUNG.

The happy days of yore!
Will they ever come again,
To shed a gleam of joy on us,
And win the heart from pain?
Or will they only come in dreams,
When nicht's black curtain 's hung?
Yet even then 'tis sweet to mind
The days when we were young.

Fond mem'ry, wi' its mystic power,
Brings early scenes to view--
Again we roam among the hills,
Sae wat wi' morning dew--
Again we climb the broomy knowes,
And sing wi' prattlin' tongue,
For we had nae cares to fash us
In the days when we were young.

How aft, when we were callants,
Hae we sought the ocean's shore,
And launch'd wi' glee our tiny boats,
And heard the billows roar?
And aft amang the glancin' waves
In daring sport we 've sprung,
And swam till we were wearied,
In the days when we were young.

In winter, round the ingle side,
We 've read wi' kindling e'e,
How Wallace Wight, and Bruce the Bold,
Aft made the southrons flee;
Or listen'd to some bonnie sang,
By bonnie lassie sung:
Oh! love and happiness were ours,
In days when we were young.

Oh! his maun be a waefu' heart
That has nae sunny gleams
Of by-gane joys in early days,
Though it be but in dreams:
Wha thinks nae o' his mither's arms,
Sae aft around him flung,
To shield him safe frae earthly harms,
In days when he was young:

Wha thinks nae o' his sisters fair,
That toddled out and in,
And ran about the braes wi' him,
And play'd wi' meikle din;
And his maun be a barren heart,
Where love has never sprung,
Wha thinks nae o' the days gane by
The days when he was young.

LIZZIE FREW.

'Twas a balmy summer gloamin',
When the sun had gane to rest,
And his gowden beams were glintin'
Owre the hills far in the west;
And upon the snawy gowan
Saftly fell the pearly dew,
When I met my heart's best treasure,
Gentle, winsome Lizzy Frew.

Light she tripp'd amang the bracken,
While her glossy waving hair
Play'd around her gentle bosom,
Dancing in the summer air.
Love laugh'd in her een sae paukie,
Smiles play'd round her rosy mou',
And my heart was led a captive
By the charms o' Lizzie Frew.

Thochts o' her can mak' me cheerie,
As I toil the lee-lang day;
And at nicht, though e'er sae wearie,
Gladly out wi' her I stray.
I ask nae for a greater pleasure,
Than to ken her heart is true--
I ask nae for a greater treasure,
Than my gentle Lizzie Frew.

COLIN RAE BROWN.

The son of a respectable shipowner and captain in the merchant service, Colin Rae Brown was born at Greenock on the 19th of December 1821. Having completed his education in Glasgow, whither the family removed in 1829, he entered a mercantile warehouse. In 1842, he formed a connexion with the publishing house of Messrs Murray and Sons, Glasgow, and undertook the management of a branch of the business at Greenock. On the establishment in Glasgow of the _North British Daily Mail_, he accepted an offer by the proprietor to become the publisher of that newspaper. When the _Mail_ passed into the hands of other proprietors, Mr Brown established, in conjunction with a partner, the Fine Art Gallery in St Vincent Street, with which he continues to be connected. In 1848 he published a volume of lyrics, which was well received; a second poetical work from his pen, which appeared in 1855, with the title, "Lays and Lyrics," has met with similar success. A number of songs from both volumes have been published separately with music. On the abolition of the stamp-duty on newspapers in 1855, Mr Brown originated the _Bulletin_ and _Workman_, a daily and a weekly newspaper, both published in Glasgow.

CHARLIE 'S COMIN'.

Charlie 's comin' o'er the sea,
Soon, he 'll set the country free
From those that bear the rule and gree
In bonnie Caledonia!

Gentle breezes, softly blow,
We burn until we meet the foe,
And strike the bold decisive blow
For king and Caledonia!

Noble hearts are beating high,
All will fight, none basely fly,
For if they conquer not, they 'll die
For ancient Caledonia!

Oh, that Charlie were but here!
The base usurper then might fear--
As loud the din fell on his ear
Of joy in Caledonia!

Heard ye not that distant hum?
And now the pipe, and now the drum,
Proclaim the news that Charlie 's come
To gladden Caledonia!

Tyrants, tremble, Charlie 's here!
Now, indeed, ye 've cause to fear;
Hielan' hearts be of good cheer,
And on for Caledonia!

THE WIDOW'S DAUGHTER.

Why gaze on that pale face,
Childless one, childless one?
Why seek this lonely place?
She hath gone, she hath gone.

Thy daughter is not here,
Widow'd one, widow'd one--
Nay, wipe away that tear,
She hath won, she hath won!

Her home is far away,
She 's at rest, she 's at rest,
In everlasting day,
With the blest, with the blest.

No pains, no sorrows there,
All are past, all are past;
That sigh summ'd up her care,
'Twas her last, 'twas her last.

'Tis not her there you see,
Sister dear, sister dear;
That earth holds nought for thee,
Draw not near, draw not near.

The place is cold and dark,
Haste away, haste away;
Corruption is at work--
Soulless clay! soulless clay!

The lamp hath ceased to burn,
Quench'd the flame, quench'd the flame;
Let dust to dust return,
Whence it came, whence it came.

To thy chamber, sister dear;
There to God, there to God,
Bend humble and sincere,
'Neath His rod, 'neath His rod.

Prayer heals the broken heart--
He is kind, He is kind;
Each bruised and bleeding part
He will bind, He will bind.

Weep not for her that 's gone--
Time will fly, time will fly--
Thou 'lt meet thy cherish'd one
'Yond the sky! 'yond the sky!

ROBERT LEIGHTON.

Robert Leighton, author of "Rhymes and Poems by Robin," a duodecimo volume of verses, published in 1855, was born at Dundee in 1822. He has been chiefly employed in mercantile concerns. The following lyric, which has attained some popularity, was one of his earliest poetical efforts, being composed in his sixteenth year.

MY MUCKLE MEAL POCK.

There 's some can be happy and bide whar they are,
There 's ithers ne'er happy unless they gang far;
But aft do I think I 'm an easy auld stock,
While I 'm joggin' about wi' my muckle meal pock.

Though noo I be auld, abune four score and aucht,
Though my pow it be bauld and my craig be na straucht,
Yet frae mornin' till e'en--aye as steady 's a rock--
I gang joggin' about wi' my muckle meal pock.

Just our ain parish roond, and nae mair I gang through,
And when at the end I begin it anew;
There isna' a door but wad blythely unlock,
To welcome me ben wi' my muckle meal pock.

There isna' a hoose but I micht mak' my hame,
There isna' an auld wife wad think me to blame,
Though I open'd the door without gieing a knock,
And cam' ben to the fire wi' my muckle meal pock.

As ony newspaper they say I 'm as gweed,
And better, say some, for they hinna to read;
The lads and the lasses around me a' flock,
And there 's no ane forgets that I hae a meal pock.

The gudeman he speaks about corn and lan',
"Hoo 's the markets," says he, "are they risen or fa'en?
Or is this snawie weather the roads like to chock?"
But the gudewife aye spiers for my muckle meal pock.

To be usefu' to her I haud sticks on the fire,
Or whan to the milkin' she gangs to the byre,
She 'll gie me a hand o' the cradle to rock,
And for that she 's aye gude to my muckle meal pock.

Though my friends a' be gane whar I yet hae to gang,
And o' followin' them noo I canna be lang,
Yet while I am here I will lauch and I 'll joke,
For I 'll aye find a friend in my muckle meal pock.

JAMES HENDERSON.

A poet of much elegance and power, James Henderson was born on the 2d November 1824, on the banks of the river Carron, in the village of Denny and county of Stirling. In his tenth year, he proceeded to Glasgow, where he was employed in mercantile concerns. Strongly influenced by sentiments of patriotism, and deeply imbued with the love of nature in its ever varying aspects, he found relaxation from business in the composition of verses. In 1848 he published a thin octavo volume, entitled "Glimpses of the Beautiful, and other Poems," which was much commended by the periodical and newspaper press. Having proceeded to India in 1849, he became a commission agent in Calcutta. He visited Britain in 1852, but returned to India the same year. Having permanently returned from the East in 1855, he has since settled in Glasgow as an East India merchant.

THE WANDERER'S DEATHBED.

Afar from the home where his youthful prime
And his happy hours were pass'd,
On the distant shore of a foreign clime
The wanderer breathed his last.
And they dug his grave where the wild flowers wave,
By the brooklet's glassy brim;
And the song-bird there wakes its morning prayer,
And the dirge of its evening hymn.

He left the land of his childhood fair,
With hope in his glowing breast,
With visions bright as the summer's light,
And dreams by his fancy blest.
But death look'd down with a chilling frown
As he stood on that distant shore,
And he leant his head on the stranger's bed,
Till the last sad pang was o'er.

Strange faces, fill'd with a soulless look,
O'er the wanderer's deathbed hung;
And the words were cold as the wintry wold,
That fell from each heedless tongue.
Nor mournful sigh, nor tearful eye
The solace of pity gave,
While the moments pass'd till he breathed his last,
To sleep in the silent grave.

Afar from the home where his youthful prime
And his happy hours were pass'd,
On the distant shore of a foreign clime
The wanderer breathed his last.
And they dug his grave where the wild flowers wave,
By the brooklet's glassy brim;
And the song-bird there wakes its morning prayer,
And the dirge of its evening hymn.

THE SONG OF TIME.

I fleet along, and the empires fall,
And the nations pass away,
Like visions bright of the dreamy night,
That die with the dawning day.
The lordly tower, and the battled wall,
The hall, and the holy fane,
In ruin lie while I wander by,
Nor rise from their wreck again.

I light the rays of the orient blaze,
The glow of the radiant noon;
I wing my flight with the sapphire night,
And glide with the gentle moon.
O'er earth I roam, and the bright expanse
Where the proud bark bounds away;
And I join the stars in their choral dance
Round the golden orb of day.

I fleet along, and the empires fall,
And the nations pass away,
Like visions bright of the dreamy night,
That die with the dawning day.
The sceptre sinks in the regal hall,
And still'd is the monarch's tread,
The mighty stoop as the meanest droop,
And sleep with the nameless dead.

THE HIGHLAND HILLS.

The Highland hills! there are songs of mirth,
And joy, and love on the gladsome earth;
For Spring, in her queenly robes, hath smiled
In the forest glade and the woodland wild.
Then come with me from the haunts of men
To the glassy lake in the mountain glen,
Where sunshine sleeps on the dancing rills
That chainless leap from the Highland hills.

The Highland hills! when the sparkling rays
Of the silver dews greet the orient blaze,
When noon comes forth with her gorgeous glow,
While the fountains leap and the rivers flow,
Thou wilt roam with me where the waterfalls
Bid echo wake in the rocky halls,
Till the grandeur wild to thy heart instils
A deep delight 'mid the Highland hills.