Chapter 9

When lasses braw gaed out at e'en, For sport and pastime free; I seem'd like ane in paradise, The moments quick did flee. Like Venuses they all appear'd, Weel pouther'd were their locks; 'Twas easy dune, when at their hame, Wi' the shaking o' their pocks. And sing, Oh waes me!

How happy pass'd my former days, Wi' merry heartsome glee; When smiling Fortune held the cup, And Peace sat on my knee. Nae wants had I but were supplied; My heart wi' joy did knock, When in the neuk I smiling saw A gaucie, weel-fill'd pock. And sing, Oh waes me!

Speak no ae word about reform, Nor petition Parliament; A wiser scheme I 'll now propose, I 'm sure ye 'll gi'e consent: Send up a chiel or twa like me, As a sample o' the flock, Whose hollow cheeks will be sure proof O' a hinging, toom meal pock. And sing, Oh waes me!

And should a sicht sae ghastly-like, Wi' rags, and banes, and skin, Hae nae impression on yon folks, But tell ye 'll stand ahin'; O what a contrast will ye shaw, To the glowrin' Lunnun folk, When in St James' ye tak' your stand, Wi' a hinging, toom meal pock. And sing, Oh waes me!

Then rear your head, and glowr, and stare, Before yon hills o' beef; Tell them ye are frae Scotland come, For Scotia's relief. Tell them ye are the vera best, Waled frae the fattest flock; Then raise your arms, and oh! display A hinging, toom meal pock. And sing, Oh waes me!

ALEXANDER BALFOUR.

Alexander Balfour, a poet, novelist and miscellaneous writer, was born on the 1st March 1767, at Guildie, a small hamlet in the parish of Monikie, Forfarshire. His parents were in humble circumstances; and being a twin, he was supported in early life by a friend of the family, from whom he received such a religious training as exercised a highly beneficial influence on his future character. He was educated at the parish school, and evidenced precocity by essaying composition in his twelfth year. Apprenticed to a weaver, he soon became disgusted with the loom, and returned home to teach a school in his native parish. During the intervals of leisure, he wrote articles for the provincial miscellanies, the _British Chronicle_ newspaper, and _The Bee_, published by Dr Anderson. In his 26th year, he became clerk to a sail-cloth manufacturer in Arbroath; and, on the death of his employer, soon afterwards, he entered into partnership with his widow. On her death, in 1800, he assumed another partner. As government-contractors for supplying the navy with canvas, the firm rapidly attained prosperity; and Balfour found abundant leisure for prosecuting his literary studies, and maintaining a correspondence with several men of letters in the capital. He had married in 1794; and deeming a country residence more advantageous for his rising family, he removed, in 1814, to Trottick, within two miles of Dundee, where he assumed the management of the branch of a London house, which for many years had been connected with his own firm. This step was lamentably unfortunate; the house, in which he had embarked his fortune, shared in the general commercial disasters of 1815, and was involved in complete bankruptcy. Reduced to a condition of dependance, Balfour accepted the situation of manager of a manufacturing establishment at Balgonie, in Fife. In 1818, he resigned this appointment; and proceeding to Edinburgh, was employed as a clerk in the establishment of Mr Blackwood, the eminent publisher. The close confinement of the counting-house, and the revolution of his fortunes, which pressed heavily upon his mind, were too powerful for his constitution. Symptoms of paralysis began to appear, shortly after his removal to the capital; and in October 1819, he was so entirely prostrated, as to require the use of a wheeled chair. His future career was that of a man of letters. During the interval which elapsed between his commercial reverses and the period of his physical debility, he prepared a novel, which he had early projected, depicting the trials and sufferings of an unbeneficed preacher. This work appeared in 1819, under the title of "Campbell, or the Scottish Probationer," in three volumes; and though published anonymously, soon led to the discovery and reputation of the author. Towards the close of the same year, he edited the poetical works of his late friend, Richard Gall, to which he supplied an elegant biographical preface. His next separate publication was "The Farmer's Three Daughters," a novel in three volumes. In 1820, he published "Contemplation," with other poems, in one volume octavo; which, favourably received by the press, also added considerably to his fame. A third novel from his pen, entitled, "The Smuggler's Cave; or, The Foundling of Glenthorn," appeared in 1823 from the unpropitious Minerva press; it consequently failed to excite much attention. To the _Scots Magazine_ he had long been a contributor; and, on the establishment of _Constable's Edinburgh Magazine_ in its stead, his assistance was secured by Mr Thomas Pringle, the original editor. His articles, contributed to this periodical during the nine years of its existence, contain matter sufficient to fill three octavo volumes: they are on every variety of theme, but especially the manners of Scottish rural life, which he has depicted with singular power. Of his numerous contributions in verse, a series entitled, "Characters omitted in Crabbe's Parish Register," was published separately in 1825; and this production has been acknowledged as the most successful effort of his muse. It is scarcely inferior to the more celebrated composition of the English poet.

In 1827, on the application of Mr Hume, M.P., a treasury donation of one hundred pounds was conferred on Mr Balfour by the premier, Mr Canning, in consideration of his genius. His last novel, "Highland Mary," in four volumes, was published shortly before his death. To the last, he contributed to the periodical publications. He died, after an illness of about two weeks' duration, on the 12th September 1829, in the sixty-third year of his age.

Though confined to his wheel-chair for a period of ten years, and otherwise debarred many of the comforts to which, in more prosperous circumstances, he had been accustomed, Alexander Balfour retained to the close of life his native placidity and gentleness. His countenance wore a perpetual smile. He joined in the amusements of the young, and took delight in the recital of the merry tale and humorous anecdote. His speech, somewhat affected by his complaint, became pleasant from the heartiness of his observations. He was an affectionate husband, and a devoted parent; his habits were strictly temperate, and he was influenced by a devout reverence for religion. A posthumous volume of his writings, under the title of "Weeds and Wild-flowers," was published under the editorial care of Mr D. M. Moir, who has prefixed an interesting memoir. As a lyrical poet, he is not entitled to a first place; his songs are, however, to be remarked for deep and genuine pathos.

THE BONNY LASS O' LEVEN WATER.

Though siller Tweed rin o'er the lea, An' dark the Dee 'mang Highland heather, Yet siller Tweed an' drumly Dee Are not sae dear as Leven Water: When Nature form'd our favourite isle, An' a' her sweets began to scatter, She look'd with fond approving smile, Alang the banks o' Leven Water.

On flowery braes, at gloamin' gray, 'Tis sweet to scent the primrose springin'; Or through the woodlands green to stray, In ilka buss the mavis singin': But sweeter than the woodlands green, Or primrose painted fair by Nature, Is she wha smiles, a rural queen, The bonny lass o' Leven Water!

The sunbeam in the siller dew, That hangs upon the hawthorn's blossom, Shines faint beside her e'en sae blue; An' purer is her spotless bosom. Her smile wad thaw a hermit's breast; There 's love an' truth in ilka feature; For her I 'm past baith wark an' rest, The bonny lass o' Leven Water!

But I 'm a lad o' laigh degree, Her purse-proud daddy 's dour an' saucy; An' sair the carle wad scowl on me, For speakin' to his dawtit lassie: But were I laird o' Leven's glen, An' she a humble shepherd's daughter, I 'd kneel, an' court her for my ain, The bonny lass o' Leven Water!

SLIGHTED LOVE.

The rosebud blushing to the morn, The sna'-white flower that scents the thorn, When on thy gentle bosom worn, Were ne'er sae fair as thee, Mary! How blest was I, a little while, To deem that bosom free frae guile; When, fondly sighing, thou wouldst smile; Yes, sweetly smile on me, Mary!

Though gear was scant, an' friends were few, My heart was leal, my love was true; I blest your e'en of heavenly blue, That glanced sae saft on me, Mary! But wealth has won your heart frae me; Yet I maun ever think of thee; May a' the bliss that gowd can gie, For ever wait on thee, Mary!

For me, nae mair on earth I crave, But that yon drooping willow wave Its branches o'er my early grave, Forgot by love, an' thee, Mary! An' when that hallow'd spot you tread, Where wild-flowers bloom above my head, O look not on my grassy bed, Lest thou shouldst sigh for me, Mary!

GEORGE MACINDOE.

George Macindoe, chiefly known as the author of "A Million o' Potatoes," a humorous ballad, in the Scottish language, was born at Partick, near Glasgow, in 1771. He originally followed the occupation of a silk-weaver, in Paisley, which he early relinquished for the less irksome duties of a hotel-keeper in Glasgow. His hotel was a corner tenement, at the head of King Street, near St Giles' Church, Trongate; and here a club of young men, with which the poet Campbell was connected, were in the habit of holding weekly meetings. Campbell made a practice of retiring from the noisy society of the club to spend the remainder of the evenings in conversation with the intelligent host. After conducting the business of hotel-keeper in Glasgow, during a period of twenty-one years, Macindoe became insolvent, and was necessitated to abandon the concern. He returned to Paisley and resumed the loom, at the same time adding to his finances by keeping a small change-house, and taking part as an instrumental musician at the local concerts. He excelled in the use of the violin. Ingenious as a mechanic, and skilled in his original employment, he invented a machine for figuring on muslin, for which he received premiums from the City Corporation of Glasgow and the Board of Trustees.

Macindoe was possessed of a lively temperament, and his conversation sparkled with wit and anecdote. His person was handsome, and his open manly countenance was adorned with bushy locks, which in old age, becoming snowy white, imparted to him a singularly venerable aspect. He claimed no merit as a poet, and only professed to be the writer of "incidental rhymes." In 1805, he published, in a thin duodecimo volume, "Poems and Songs, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect," which he states, in the preface, he had laid before the public to gratify "the solicitations of friends." Of the compositions contained in this volume, the ballad entitled "A Million o' Potatoes," and the two songs which we have selected for this work, are alone worthy of preservation. In 1813, he published a second volume of poems and songs, entitled "The Wandering Muse;" and he occasionally contributed lyrics to the local periodicals. He died at Glasgow, on the 19th April 1848, in his seventy-seventh year, leaving a numerous family. His remains were interred at Anderston, Glasgow. The following remarks, regarding Macindoe's songs, have been kindly supplied by Mr Robert Chambers:--

"Amidst George Macindoe's songs are two distinguished by more clearness and less vulgarity than the rest. One of these, called 'The Burn Trout,' was composed on a real incident which it describes, namely, a supper, where the chief dish was a salmon, brought from Peebles to Glasgow by my father,[69] who, when learning his business, as a manufacturer, in the western city, about the end of the century, had formed an acquaintance with the poet. The other, entitled 'Cheese and Whisky,' which contains some very droll verses, was written in compliment to my maternal uncle, William Gibson, then also a young manufacturer, but who died about two months ago, a retired captain of the 90th regiment. The jocund hospitable disposition of Gibson--'Bachelor Willie'--and my father's social good-nature, are pleasingly recalled to me by Macindoe's verses, rough as they are.

"_June 1, 1855._"

[69] Mr James Chambers, of Peebles, who died in 1824.

CHEESE AND WHISKY.

TUNE--_"The gude forgi' me for leein'."_

Believe me or doubt me, I dinna care whilk, When Bachelor Willie I 'm seeing, I feast upon whisky, and cheese o' ewe milk, And ne'er was choked for leeing, for leeing, And ne'er was choked for leeing.

Your jams and your jellies, your sugars and teas, If e'er I thought worthy the preeing, Compared wi' gude whisky, and kebbocks o' cheese, May I sup porridge for leeing, for leeing, May I sup porridge for leeing.

When patfou's o' kale, thick wi' barley and pease, Can as weel keep a body frae deeing, As stoupfou's o' whisky, and platefou's o' cheese, I 'll dree to be scrimpit for leeing, for leeing, I 'll dree to be scrimpit for leeing.

Tho' the house where we 're sittin' were a' in a bleeze, I never could think about fleeing, But would guzzle the whisky, and rive at the cheese; Perhaps ye may think that I 'm leeing, I 'm leeing, Perhaps ye may think that I 'm leeing.

THE BURN TROUT.

TUNE--_"The gude forgi' me for leein'."_

Brither Jamie cam west, wi' a braw burn trout, An' speer'd how acquaintance were greeing; He brought it frae Peebles, tied up in a clout, An' said it wad just be a preeing, a preeing, An' said it wad just be a preeing.

In the burn that rins by his grandmother's door This trout had lang been a dweller, Ae night fell asleep a wee piece frae the shore, An' was kill'd wi' a stane by the miller, the miller, An' was kill'd wi' a stane by the miller.

This trout it was gutted an' dried on a nail That grannie had reested her ham on, Weel rubbed wi' saut, frae the head to the tail, An' kipper'd as 't had been a sa'mon, a sa'mon, An' kipper'd as 't had been a sa'mon.

This trout it was boil'd an' set ben on a plate, Nae fewer than ten made a feast o't; The banes and the tail, they were gi'en to the cat, But we lickit our lips at the rest o't, the rest o't, But we lickit our lips at the rest o't.

When this trout it was eaten, we were a' like to rive, Sae ye maunna think it was a wee ane, May ilk trout in the burn grow muckle an' thrive, An' Jamie bring west aye a preeing, a preeing, An' Jamie bring west aye a preeing.

ALEXANDER DOUGLAS.

Alexander Douglas was the son of Robert Douglas, a labourer in the village of Strathmiglo in Fife, where he was born on the 17th June 1771. Early discovering an aptitude for learning, he formed the intention of studying for the ministry,--a laudable aspiration, which was unfortunately checked by the indigence of his parents. Attending school during winter, his summer months were employed in tending cattle to the farmers in the vicinity; and while so occupied, he read the Bible in the fields, and with a religious sense, remarkable for his years, engaged in daily prayer in some sequestered spot, for the Divine blessing to grant him a saving acquaintance with the record. At the age of fourteen he was apprenticed to a linen weaver in his native village, with whom he afterwards proceeded to Pathhead, near Kirkcaldy. He now assiduously sought to acquaint himself with general literature, especially with the British poets; and his literary ardour was stimulated by several companions of kindred inclinations. He returned to Strathmiglo, and while busily plying the shuttle began to compose verses for his amusement. These compositions were jotted down during the periods of leisure. Happening to quote a stanza to Dr Paterson of Auchtermuchty, his medical attendant, who was struck with its originality, he was induced to submit his MSS. to the inspection of this gentleman. A cordial recommendation to publish his verses was the result; and a large number of subscribers being procured, through the exertions of his medical friend, he appeared, in 1806, as the author of an octavo volume of "Poems," chiefly in the Scottish dialect. The publication yielded a profit of one hundred pounds.

Douglas was possessed of a weakly constitution; he died on the 21st November 1821. He was twice married, and left a widow, who still survives. Three children, the issue of the first marriage, died in early life. A man of devoted piety and amiable dispositions, Douglas had few pretensions as a poet; some of his songs have however obtained a more than local celebrity, and one at least seems not undeserving of a place among the modern national minstrelsy.

FIFE, AN' A' THE LAND ABOUT IT.[70]

TUNE--_"Roy's Wife o' Aldivalloch."_

Fife, an' a' the land about it, Fife, an' a' the land about it; May health, an' peace, an' plenty glad, Fair Fife, an' a' the land about it.

We 'll raise the song on highest key, Through every grove till echo shout it; The sweet enchantin' theme shall be, Fair Fife, an' a' the land about it. Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.

Her braid an' lang extended vales Are clad wi' corn, a' wavin' yellow; Her flocks an' herds crown a' her hills; Her woods resound wi' music mellow. Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.

Her waters pastime sweet afford To ane an' a' wha like to angle; The seats o' mony a laird an' lord, Her plains, as stars the sky, bespangle. Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.

In ilka town an' village gay, Hark! Thrift, her wheel an' loom are usin'; While to an' frae each port an' bay, See wealthy Commerce briskly cruisin'. Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.

Her maids are frugal, modest, fair, As lilies by her burnies growin'; An' ilka swain may here repair, Whase heart wi' virt'ous love is glowin'. Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.

In peace, her sons like lammies mild, Are lightsome, friendly, an' engagin'; In war, they 're loyal, bauld, an' wild, As lions roused, an' fiercely ragin'. Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.

May auld an' young hae meat an' claes; May wark an' wages aye be plenty; An' may the sun to latest days See Fife an' a' her bairnies canty.

Fife, an' a' the land about it, Fife, an' a' the land about it; May health, an' peace, an' plenty glad, Fair Fife, an' a' the land about it.

[70] A song of this title was composed by Robert Fergusson.

WILLIAM M'LAREN.

William M'Laren, a poet of some merit, and an associate and biographer of Robert Tannahill, was born at Paisley about 1772. He originally followed the occupation of a handloom weaver, but was more devoted to the pursuits of literature than the business of his trade. Possessing a considerable share of poetical talent, he composed several volumes of verses, which were published by him on his own account, and very frequently to considerable pecuniary advantage. In 1817, he published, in quarto, a poetical tale, entitled, "Emma; or, The Cruel Father;" and another narrative poem in 1827, under the title of "Isabella; or, The Robbers." Many of his songs and lyrical pieces were contributed to provincial serials. His genius as a poet was exceeded by his skill as a prose writer; he composed in prose with elegance and power. In 1815, he published a memoir of Tannahill--an eloquent and affectionate tribute to the memory of his departed friend--to which is appended an _eloge_ on Robert Burns, delivered at an anniversary of that poet's birthday. In 1818, he published, with a memoir, the posthumous poetical works of his relative, the poet Scadlock. His other prose writings consist of pamphlets on a diversity of subjects.

At one period, M'Laren established himself as a manufacturer in Ireland; but, rendering himself obnoxious by the bold expression of his political opinions, he found it necessary to make a hasty departure for Scotland. He latterly opened a change-house in Paisley, and his circumstances became considerably prosperous. He died in 1832, leaving a family. He is remembered as a person of somewhat singular manners, and of undaunted enterprise and decision of character. He was shrewd and well-informed, without much reading; he purchased no books, but was ingenious and successful in recommending his own.[71]

[71] Mr James Bowie, of Paisley, to whom we are under obligations for supplying curious and interesting information regarding several of the bards of the west, kindly furnished the particulars of the above memoir.

NOW SUMMER SHINES WITH GAUDY PRIDE.

Now summer shines with gaudy pride, By flowery vale and mountain side, And shepherds waste the sunny hours By cooling streams, and bushy bowers; While I, a victim to despair, Avoid the sun's offensive glare, And in sequester'd wilds deplore The perjured vows of Ella More.

Would Fate my injured heart provide Some cave beyond the mountain tide, Some spot where scornful Beauty's eye Ne'er waked the ardent lover's sigh; I 'd there to woods and rocks complain, To rocks that skirt the angry main; For angry main, and rocky shore, Are kinder far than Ella More.

AND DOST THOU SPEAK SINCERE, MY LOVE?

TUNE--_"Lord Gregory."_

And dost thou speak sincere, my love? And must we ever part? And dost thou unrelenting see The anguish of my heart? Have e'er these doating eyes of mine, One wandering wish express'd? No; thou alone hast ever been Companion of my breast.

I saw thy face, angelic fair, I thought thy form divine, I sought thy love--I gave my heart, And hoped to conquer thine. But, ah! delusive, cruel hope! Hope now for ever gone! My Mary keeps the heart I gave, But with it keeps her own.

When many smiling summer suns Their silver light has shed, And wrinkled age her hoary hairs Waves lightly o'er my head; Even then, in life's declining hour, My heart will fondly trace The beauties of thy lovely form, And sweetly smiling face.

SAY NOT THE BARD HAS TURN'D OLD.

Though the winter of age wreathes her snow on his head, And the blooming effulgence of summer has fled, Though the voice, that was sweet as the harp's softest string, Be trem'lous, and low as the zephyrs of spring, Yet say not the Bard has turn'd old.

Though the casket that holds the rich jewel we prize Attracts not the gaze of inquisitive eyes; Yet the gem that 's within may be lovely and bright As the smiles of the morn, or the stars of the night; Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.

When the tapers burn clear, and the goblet shines bright, In the hall of his chief, on a festival night, I have smiled at the glance of his rapturous eye, While the brim of the goblet laugh'd back in reply; Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.