Chapter 13

The sun blinks sweetly on yon shaw, But sweeter far on Woodhouselee, And dear I like his setting beam For sake o' ane sae dear to me. It was na simmer's fairy scenes, In a' their charming luxury, But Beauty's sel' that won my heart, The bonnie lass o' Woodhouselee.

Sae winnin', was her witchin' smile, Sae piercin', was her coal-black e'e, Sae sairly wounded was my heart, That had na wist sic ills to dree; In vain I strave in beauty's chains, I cou'd na keep my fancy free, She gat my heart sae in her thrall, The bonnie lass o' Woodhouselee.

The bonnie knowes, sae yellow a', Where aft is heard the hum of bee, The meadow green, and breezy hill, Where lambkins sport sae merrilie, May charm the weary, wand'rin' swain, When e'enin' sun dips in the sea, But a' my heart, baith e'en and morn, Is wi' the lass o' Woodhouselee.

The flowers that kiss the wimplin' burn, And dew-clad gowans on the lea, The water-lily on the lake, Are but sweet emblems a' of thee; And while in simmer smiles they bloom, Sae lovely, and sae fair to see, I 'll woo their sweets, e'en for thy sake, The bonnie lass o' Woodhouselee.

THE SUN IS SETTING ON SWEET GLENGARRY.

The sun is setting on sweet Glengarry, The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green; O bonnie lassie, ye maun be my dearie, And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.

Doun yon glen ye never will weary, The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green; Bonnie lassie, ye maun be my dearie, And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.

Birds are singing fu' blythe and cheery, The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green; Bonnie lassie, on bank sae briery, And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.

In yonder glen there 's naething to fear ye, The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green; Ye canna be sad, ye canna be eerie, And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.

The water is wimpling by fu' clearly, The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green; Oh! ye sall ever be my dearie, And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.

HER HAIR WAS LIKE THE CROMLA MIST.

_Gaelic Air._

Her hair was like the Cromla mist, When evening sun beams from the west, Bright was the eye of Morna; When beauty wept the warrior's fall, Then low and dark was Fingal's hall, Sad was the lovely Morna.

O! lovely was the blue-eyed maid That sung peace to the warrior's shade, But none so fair as Morna. The hallow'd tears bedew'd the brake, That waved beside dark Orna's lake, Where wander'd lovely Morna.

Sad was the hoary minstrel's song, That died the rustling heath among, Where sat the lovely Morna; It slumber'd on the placid wave, It echoed through the warrior's cave, And sigh'd again to Morna.

The hero's plumes were lowly laid; In Fingal's hall each blue-eyed maid Sang peace and rest to Morna; The harp's wild strain was past and gone, No more it whisper'd to the moan Of lovely, dying Morna.

O LEEZE ME ON THE BONNIE LASS.

AIR--_"Hodgart's Delight."_

O leeze me on the bonnie lass That I lo'e best o' a'; O leeze me on my Marion, The pride o' Lockershaw. O weel I like my Marion, For love blinks in her e'e, And she has vow'd a solemn vow, She lo'es na ane but me.

The flowers grow bonnie on the bank, Where doun the waters fa'; The birds sing bonnie in the bower, Where red, red roses blaw. An' there, wi' blythe and lightsome heart, When day has closed his e'e, I wander wi' my Marion, Wha lo'es na ane but me.

Sic luve as mine an' Marion's, O, may it never fa'! But blume aye like the fairest flower, That grows in Lockershaw. My Marion I will ne'er forget Until the day I dee, For she has vow'd a solemn vow, She lo'es na ane but me.

QUEEN MARY'S ESCAPE FROM LOCHLEVEN CASTLE.

_Highland Boat-air._

Put off, put off, and row with speed, For now 's the time, and the hour of need! To oars, to oars, and trim the bark, Nor Scotland's queen be a warder's mark! Yon light that plays round the castle's moat Is only the warder's random shot! Put off, put off, and row with speed, For now is the time, and the hour of need!

Those pond'rous keys[93] shall the kelpies keep, And lodge in their caverns dark and deep; Nor shall Lochleven's towers or hall, Hold thee, our lovely lady, in thrall; Or be the haunt of traitors, sold, While Scotland has hands and hearts so bold; Then, steersmen, steersmen, on with speed, For now is the time, and the hour of need!

Hark! the alarum-bell hath rung, And the warder's voice hath treason sung; The echoes to the falconet's roar, Chime swiftly to the dashing oar. Let town, and hall, and battlements gleam, We steer by the light of the tapers' beam; For Scotland and Mary, on with speed, Now, now is the time, and the hour of need!

[93] The keys here alluded to were, at a recent period, found in the lake.

WHEN CHARLIE TO THE HIGHLANDS CAME.

AIR--_"The bonnie Mill-dams o' Balgonie."_

When Charlie to the Highlands came, It was a' joy and gladness, We trow'd na that our hearts sae soon Wad broken be wi' sadness.

Oh! why did Heaven sae on us frown, And break our hearts wi' sorrow; Oh! it will never smile again, And bring a gladsome morrow!

Our dwellings, and our outlay gear, Lie smoking, and in ruin; Our bravest youths, like mountain deer, The foe is oft pursuing.

Our home is now the barren rock, As if by Heaven forsaken; Our shelter and our canopy, The heather and the bracken.

Oh! we maun wander far and near, And foreign lands maun hide in; Our bonnie glens, we lo'ed sae dear, We daurna langer bide in.

LORD RONALD CAME TO HIS LADY'S BOWER.

Lord Ronald came to his lady's bower, When the moon was in her wane; Lord Ronald came at a late, late hour, And to her bower is gane. He saftly stept in his sandal shoon, And saftly laid him doun; "It 's late, it 's late," quoth Ellenore, "Sin ye maun wauken soon.

"Lord Ronald, stay till the early cock Shall flap his siller wing, An' saftly ye maun ope the gate, An' loose the silken string." "O Ellenore, my fairest fair, O Ellenore, my bride! How can ye fear when my merry men a' Are on the mountain side."

The moon was hid, the night was sped, But Ellenore's heart was wae; She heard the cock flap his siller wing, An' she watched the morning ray: "Rise up, rise up, Lord Ronald, dear, The mornin' opes its e'e; Oh, speed thee to thy father's tower, And safe, safe may thou be."

But there was a page, a little fause page, Lord Ronald did espy, An' he has told his baron all, Where the hind and hart did lie. "It is na for thee, but thine, Lord Ronald, Thy father's deeds o' weir; But since the hind has come to my faul', His blood shall dim my spear."

Lord Ronald kiss'd fair Ellenore, And press'd her lily hand; Sic a comely knight and comely dame Ne'er met in wedlock's band: But the baron watch'd, as he raised the latch, And kiss'd again his bride; And with his spear, in deadly ire, He pierced Lord Ronald's side.

The life-blood fled frae fair Ellenore's cheek, She look'd all wan and ghast; She lean'd her down by Lord Ronald's side, An' the blood was rinnin' fast: She kiss'd his lip o' the deadlie hue, But his life she cou'dna stay; Her bosom throbb'd ae deadlie throb, An' their spirits baith fled away.

THE LOVELY MAID OF ORMADALE.

AIR--_"Highland Lassie."_

When sets the sun o'er Lomond's height, To blaze upon the western wave; When peace and love possess the grove, And echo sleeps within the cave; Led by love's soft endearing charms, I stray the pathless winding vale, And hail the hour that gives to me The lovely maid of Ormadale.

Her eyes outshine the star of night, Her cheeks the morning's rosy hue; And pure as flower in summer shade, Low bending in the pearly dew: Nor flower sae fair and lovely pure, Shall fate's dark wintry winds assail; As angel-smile she aye will be Dear to the bowers of Ormadale.

Let fortune soothe the heart of care, And wealth to all its votaries give; Be mine the rosy smile of love, And in its blissful arms to live. I would resign fair India's wealth, And sweet Arabia's spicy gale, For balmy eve and Scotian bower, With thee, loved maid of Ormadale.

A LASSIE CAM' TO OUR GATE.

A lassie cam' to our gate yestreen, An' low she curtsied doun; She was lovelier far, an' fairer to see, Then a' our ladies roun'.

Oh, whare do ye wend, my sweet winsome doo? An' whare may your dwelling be? But her heart, I trow, was liken to break, An' the tear-drap dimm'd her e'e.

I haena a hame, quo' the bonnie lassie-- I haena a hame, nor ha'; Fain here wad I rest my weary feet, For the night begins to fa'.

I took her into our tapestry ha', An' we drank the ruddy wine; An' aye I strave, but fand my heart Fast bound wi' Love's silken twine.

I ween'd she might be the fairies' queen She was sae jimp and sma'; And the tear that dimm'd her bonnie blue e'e Fell ower twa heaps o' snaw.

Oh, whare do ye wend, my sweet winsome doo? An' whare may your dwelling be? Can the winter's rain an' the winter's wind Blaw cauld on sic as ye?

I haena a hame, quo' the bonnie lassie-- I haena a ha' nor hame; My father was ane o' "Charlie's" men, An' him I daurna name.

Whate'er be your kith, whate'er be your kin, Frae this ye mauna gae; An' gin ye 'll consent to be my ain, Nae marrow ye shall hae.

Sweet maiden, tak' the siller cup, Sae fu' o' the damask wine, An' press it to your cherrie lip, For ye shall aye be mine.

An' drink, sweet doo, young Charlie's health, An' a' your kin sae dear; Culloden has dimm'd mony an e'e Wi' mony a saut, saut tear.

THE THISTLE AND THE ROSE.

There grew in bonnie Scotland A thistle and a brier, And aye they twined and clasp'd, Like sisters, kind and dear. The rose it was sae bonnie, It could ilk bosom charm; The thistle spread its thorny leaf, To keep the rose frae harm.

A bonnie laddie tended The rose baith ear' and late; He water'd it, and fann'd it, And wove it with his fate; And the leal hearts of Scotland Pray'd it might never fa', The thistle was sae bonny green, The rose sae like the snaw.

But the weird sisters sat Where Hope's fair emblems grew; They drapt a drap upon the rose O' bitter, blasting dew; And aye they twined the mystic thread,-- But ere their task was done, The snaw-white shade it disappear'd, And wither'd in the sun!

A bonnie laddie tended The rose baith ear' an' late; He water'd it, and fann'd it, And wove it with his fate; But the thistle tap it wither'd, Winds bore it far awa', And Scotland's heart was broken, For the rose sae like the snaw!

THE COVENANTER'S LAMENT.

TUNE--_"The Martyr's Grave."_

There 's nae Covenant now, lassie! There 's nae Covenant now! The Solemn League and Covenant Are a' broken through! There 's nae Renwick now, lassie, There 's nae gude Cargill, Nor holy Sabbath preaching Upon the Martyrs' Hill!

It 's naething but a sword, lassie! A bluidy, bluidy ane! Waving owre poor Scotland, For her rebellious sin. Scotland 's a' wrang, lassie, Scotland 's a' wrang-- It 's neither to the hill nor glen, Lassie, we daur gang.

The Martyrs' Hill 's forsaken, In simmer's dusk sae calm; There 's nae gathering now, lassie, To sing the e'ening psalm! But the martyr's grave will rise, lassie, Aboon the warrior's cairn; An' the martyr soun' will sleep, lassie, Aneath the waving fern!

BONNIE LASSIE.

Bonnie lassie, blythesome lassie, Sweet 's the sparkling o' thine e'e; Aye sae wyling, aye beguiling, Ye hae stown my heart frae me.

Fondly wooing, fondly sueing, Let me love, nor love in vain; Fate shall never fond hearts sever, Hearts still bound by true love's chain.

Fancy dreaming, hope bright beaming, Shall each day life's feast renew; Ours the treasure, ours the pleasure, Still to live and love more true.

Mirth and folly, joys unholy, Never shall our thoughts employ; Smiles inviting, hearts uniting, Love and bliss without alloy.

Bonnie lassie, blythesome lassie, Sweet 's the sparkling o' thine e'e; Aye sae wyling, aye beguiling, Ye hae stown my heart frae me.

ANDREW MERCER.

Andrew Mercer was born at Selkirk, in 1775. By his father, who was a respectable tradesman, he was destined for the pulpit of the United Secession Church. He became a student in the University of Edinburgh, in 1790, and was the class-fellow and friend of John Leyden, and of Dr Alexander Murray, the future philologist. At the house of Dr Robert Anderson, he formed the intimacy of Thomas Campbell; he also numbered among his early associates Thomas Brown and Mungo Park. Abandoning theological study, he cultivated a taste for the fine arts; and he endeavoured to establish himself in the capital in the twofold capacity of a miniature-painter, and a man of letters. With respect to both avocations, he proved unfortunate. In 1804, a periodical entitled the _North British Magazine_ was originated and supported by his friends, on his behalf; but the publication terminated at the end of thirteen months. At a subsequent period, he removed to Dunfermline, where he was engaged in teaching, and in drawing patterns for the manufacturers. In 1828, he published a "History of Dunfermline," in a duodecimo volume; and, at an interval of ten years, a volume of poems, entitled "Summer Months among the Mountains." A man of considerable ingenuity and scholarship, he lacked industry and steadiness of application. His latter years were clouded by poverty. He died at Dunfermline on the 11th of June 1842, in his 67th year.

THE HOUR OF LOVE.

When the fair one and the dear one-- Her lover by her side-- Strays or sits as fancy flits, Where yellow streamlets glide; Gleams illuming--flowers perfuming Where'er her footsteps rove; Time beguiling with her smiling, Oh! that 's the hour of love.

When the fair one and the dear one, Amid a moonlight scene, Where grove and glade, and light and shade, Are all around serene; Heaves the soft sigh of ecstasy, While coos the turtle-dove, And in soft strains appeals--complains, Oh! that 's the hour of love.

Should the fair one and the dear one The sigh of pity lend For human woe, that presses low A stranger, or a friend, Tears descending, sweetly blending, As down her cheeks they rove; Beauty's charms in pity's arms-- Oh! that 's the hour of love.

When the fair one and the dear one Appears in morning dreams, In flowing vest by fancy drest, And all the angel beams; The heavenly mien, and look serene, Confess her from above; While rising sighs and dewy eyes Say, that 's the hour of love!

JOHN LEYDEN, M.D.

John Leyden was born on the 8th September 1775, at Denholm, a hamlet in the parish of Cavers, Roxburghshire. His ancestors, for several generations, were farmers, but his father followed the humble occupation of a shepherd. Of four brothers and two sisters, John was the eldest. About a year after his birth, his father removed to Henlawshiel, a solitary cottage,[94] about three miles from Denholm, on the margin of the heath stretching down from the "stormy Ruberslaw." He received the rudiments of knowledge from his paternal grandmother; and discovering a remarkable aptitude for learning, his father determined to afford him the advantages of a liberal education. He was sent to the parish school of Kirkton, and afterwards placed under the tutorship of a Cameronian clergyman, in Denholm, reputed as a classical scholar. In 1790, he entered the University of Edinburgh, where he soon acquired distinction for his classical attainments and devotedness to general learning. His last session of college attendance was spent at St Andrews, where he became a tutor. By the Presbytery of St Andrews, in May 1798, he was licensed as a probationer of the Scottish Church. On obtaining his licence, he returned to the capital, where his reputation as a scholar had secured him many friends. He now accepted the editorship of the _Scots Magazine_, to which he had formerly been a contributor, and otherwise employed himself in literary pursuits. In 1799, he published, in a duodecimo volume, "An Historical and Philosophical Sketch of the Discoveries and Settlements of the Europeans in Northern and Central Africa, at the Close of the Eighteenth Century." "The Complaynt of Scotland," a curious political treatise of the sixteenth century, next appeared under his editorial care, with an ingenious introduction, and notes. In 1801, he contributed the ballad of "The Elf-king," to Lewis' "Tales of Wonder;" and, about the same period, wrote several ballads for the "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border." The dissertation on "Fairy Superstition," in the second volume of the latter work, slightly altered by Scott, proceeded from his pen. In 1802, he edited a small volume, entitled, "Scottish Descriptive Poems," consisting of a new edition of Wilson's "Clyde," and a reprint of "Albania,"--a curious poem, in blank verse, by an anonymous writer of the beginning of the eighteenth century.

A wide circle of influential friends were earnestly desirous of his promotion. In 1800, the opposition of the aged incumbent prevented his appointment as assistant and successor in the ministerial charge of his native parish. A proposal to appoint him Professor of Rhetoric in the University of Edinburgh also failed. He now resolved to proceed to Africa, to explore the interior, under the auspices of the African Association; but some of his friends meanwhile procured him an appointment as a surgeon in the East India Company's establishment at Madras. During his course at the University, he had attended some of the medical classes; and he now resumed the study of medicine, with such an amount of success, that in six weeks he qualified himself for a surgeon's diploma. About the same time, the degree of M.D. was conferred on him by the University of St Andrews.

Before his departure for the East, Leyden finished his longest poem, the "Scenes of Infancy," the publication of which he entrusted to his friend, Dr Thomas Brown. His last winter in Britain he passed in London, enjoying the society of many distinguished men of letters, to whom he was introduced by his former friend, Mr Richard Heber. He sailed for India[95] on the 7th April 1803, and arrived at Madras on the 19th August. In Hindostan, his talents and extraordinary capabilities in forming an acquaintance with the native tongues gained him numerous friends. He was successively appointed surgeon to the commissioners for surveying the provinces in Mysore, recently conquered from Tippoo Sultan; professor of Hindostan in the College of Calcutta; judge of the twenty-four pargunnahs of Calcutta; a commissioner of the Court of Requests in Calcutta; and assay-master of the mint. His literary services being required by the Governor-General, he left Calcutta for Madras, and afterwards proceeded along with the army in the expedition against Java. On the capture of the town of Batavia, having gone to examine the library of the place, in which he expected to find some curious Indian MSS., he caught a malignant fever from the tainted air of the apartment. He survived only three days, terminating a life of much promise, on the 28th of August 1811, in the thirty-sixth year of his age.

In John Leyden an unconquerable perseverance was united to remarkable native genius, and a memory of singular retentiveness. Eminent as a linguist, he was an able and accurate philologist; in a knowledge of the many languages of India he stood unrivalled. During his residence in the East, he published a "Dissertation on the Languages and Literature of the Indo-Chinese Nations," in the tenth volume of the "Asiatic Researches," and he left numerous MSS. on subjects connected with oriental learning. He was early a votary of the Muse; and, in youth, was familiar with the older Scottish bards. In April 1795, he appeared in the _Edinburgh Literary Magazine_ as author of an elegy "On the Death of a Sister;" and subsequently became a regular contributor of verses to the periodicals of the capital. His more esteemed poetical productions are the "Scenes of Infancy," and the ballads which he composed for the "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border." Of the latter, the supernatural machinery is singularly striking; in the former poem, much smooth and elegant versification is combined with powerful and vigorous description. There are, indeed, occasional repetitions and numerous digressions; but amidst these marks of hasty composition, every sentence bears evidence of a masculine intellect and powerful imagination. His lyrical effusions are pervaded with simplicity and tenderness.

Like some other sons of genius, Leyden was of rather eccentric habits. He affected to despise artificial manners; and, though frequenting polished circles in Edinburgh, then in London, and afterwards in Madras and Calcutta, he persevered in an indomitable aversion to the use of the English tongue, which he so well knew how to write with precision and power. He spoke the broadest provincial Scotch with singular pertinacity. His voice was extremely dissonant, but, seemingly unconscious of the defect, he talked loud; and if engaged in argument, raised his voice to a pitch which frequently proved more powerful than the strength of his reasoning. He was dogmatical in maintaining his opinions, and prone to monopolise conversation; his gesticulations were awkward and even offensive. Peculiar as were his habits, few of the distinguished persons who sought his acquaintance ever desired to renounce his friendship.[96] In his domestic habits, he was temperate often to abstinence; he was frugal, but not mean--careful, but not penurious. He was generous towards his aged parents; was deeply imbued with a sense of religion, and was the foe of vice in every form. He was of a slight figure, and of middle stature; his countenance was peculiarly expressive of intelligence. His hair was auburn, his eyes dark, and his complexion clear and sanguine. He was considerably robust, and took delight in practising gymnastics; he desired fame, not less for feats of running and leaping, than in the sedate pursuits of literature. His premature death was the subject of general lamentation; in the "Lord of the Isles," Scott introduced the following stanza in tribute to his memory:--

"His bright and brief career is o'er, And mute his tuneful strain; Quench'd is his lamp of varied lore, That loved the light of song to pour; A distant and a deadly shore Has Leyden's cold remains."

[94] We lately visited the spot. Not a vestige of the cottage remains. A wilder and more desolate locality hardly ever nourished the youthful imagination of a poet.