Part 10

She look'd upon her bosom Where Willy's picture hung, 'Twas like a rosy blossom On a bed of lilies flung; She kiss'd the red cheeks over, And look'd, and kiss'd again; Then told the winds her lover Was true to Jess M'Lean.

But a blast like bursting thunder Bent down each willow tree, Snapp'd the picture clasp asunder, And flung it in the sea; She started from the willows The image to regain, And low beneath the billows Lies lovely Jess M'Lean.

Her bones are changed to coral Of the purest virgin white, Her teeth are finest pearl, And her eyes are diamonds bright; The breeze oft sweeps the willows In a sad and mournful strain, And moaning o'er the billows Sings the dirge of Jess M'Lean.

[38] Printed for the first time.

HOW EERILY, HOW DREARILY.

How eerily, how drearily, how wearily to pine, When my love 's in a foreign land, far frae thae arms o' mine; Three years hae come an' gane, sin' first he said to me, That he wad stay at hame wi' Jean, wi' her to live an' dee; The day comes in wi' sorrow now, the night is wild an' drear, An' every hour that passes by I water wi' a tear.

I kiss my bonnie baby, I clasp it to my breast, Ah! aft wi' sic a warm embrace, it's father hath me press'd! An' whan I gaze upon its face, as it lies on my knee, The crystal draps upon its cheeks will fa' frae ilka ee; Oh! mony a, mony a burning tear upon its cheeks will fa', For oh! its like my bonnie love, and he is far awa'.

Whan the spring time had gane by, an' the rose began to blaw, An' the harebell an' the violet adorn'd ilk bonnie shaw; 'Twas then my love cam courtin' me, and wan my youthfu' heart, An' mony a tear it cost my love ere he could frae me part; But though he 's in a foreign land far, far across the sea, I ken my Jamie's guileless heart is faithfu' unto me.

Ye wastlin win's upon the main blaw wi' a steady breeze, And waft my Jamie hame again across the roaring seas; Oh! whan he clasps me in his arms in a' his manly pride, I 'll ne'er exchange that ae embrace for a' the warl' beside; Then blaw a steady gale, ye win's, waft him across the sea, And bring my Jamie hame again to his wee bairn an' me.

THE BATTLE OF VITTORIA.[39]

AIR--_"Whistle o'er the lave o 't."_

Sing a' ye bards, wi' loud acclaim, High glory gie to gallant Graham, Heap laurels on our marshal's fame Wha conquer'd at Vittoria. Triumphant freedom smiled on Spain, An' raised her stately form again, Whan the British lion shook his mane On the mountains of Vittoria.

Let blustering Suchet crousely crack, Let Joseph rin the coward's track, An' Jourdan wish his baton back He left upon Vittoria. If e'er they meet their worthy king, Let them dance roun' him in a ring, An' some Scots piper play the spring He blew them at Vittoria.

Gie truth and honour to the Dane, Gie German's monarch heart and brain, But aye in sic a cause as Spain Gie Britain a Vittoria. The English rose was ne'er sae red, The shamrock waved whare glory led, An' the Scottish thistle rear'd its head In joy upon Vittoria.

Loud was the battle's stormy swell, Whare thousands fought an' many fell, But the Glasgow heroes bore the bell At the battle of Vittoria. The Paris maids may ban them a', Their lads are maistly wede awa', An' cauld an' pale as wreathes o' snaw They lie upon Vittoria.

Peace to the souls, then, o' the brave, Let all their trophies for them wave, And green be our Cadogan's grave Upon thy fields, Vittoria. Shout on, my boys, your glasses drain, And fill a bumper up again, Pledge to the leading star o' Spain, The hero of Vittoria.

[39] At the battle of Vittoria, the 71st, or Glasgow Regiment, bore a distinguished part. On this song, celebrating their achievements, being produced at the Glasgow theatre, it was received with rapturous applause; it was nightly called for during the season.

BLINK OVER THE BURN, SWEET BETTY.

AIR--_"Blink over the burn, sweet Betty."_

Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, Blink over the burn to me; Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, An' I 'll gang alang wi' thee; Though father and mither forbade it, Forbidden I wadna be; Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, An' I 'll gang alang wi' thee.

The cheek o' my love 's like the rose-bud, Blushing red wi' the mornin' dew, Her hair 's o' the loveliest auburn, Her ee 's o' the bonniest blue; Her lips are like threads o' the scarlet, Disclosing a pearly row; Her high-swelling, love-heaving bosom Is white as the mountain snow.

But it isna her beauty that hauds me, A glitterin' chain winna lang bind; 'Tis her heavenly seraph-like sweetness, An' the graces adornin' her mind; She 's dear to my soul as the sunbeam Is dear to the summer's morn, An' she says, though her father forbade it, She 'll ne'er break the vows she has sworn.

Her father's a canker'd auld carle, He swears he will ne'er gie consent; Such carles should never get daughters, Unless they can mak them content; But she says, though her father forbade it, Forbidden she winna be; Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, An' I 'll gang alang wi' thee.

FAREWEEL TO ABERFOYLE.

AIR--_"Highland Plaid."_

My tortured bosom long shall feel The pangs o' this last sad fareweel; Far, far to foreign lands I stray, To spend my hours in deepest wae; Fareweel, my dear, my native soil, Fareweel, the braes o' Aberfoyle!

An' fare-ye-weel, my winsome love, Into whatever lands I rove, Thou 'lt claim the deepest, dearest sigh, The warmest tear ere wet my eye; An' when I 'm wan'rin' mony a mile, I 'll mourn for Kate o' Aberfoyle.

When far upon the raging sea, As thunders roar, and lightnings flee, When sweepin' storms the ship assail, I 'll bless the music o' the gale, An' think, while listenin' a' the while, I hear the storms o' Aberfoyle.

Kitty, my only love, fareweel; What pangs my faithfu' heart will feel, While straying through the Indian groves, Weepin' our woes or early loves; I 'll ne'er mair see my native soil, Fareweel, fareweel, sweet Aberfoyle!

DAVID VEDDER.

David Vedder was the son of a small landowner in the parish of Burness, Orkney, where he was born in 1790. He had the misfortune to lose both his parents ere he had completed his twelfth year, and was led to choose the nautical profession. At the age of twenty-two, he obtained the rank of captain of a vessel, in which he performed several voyages to Greenland. In 1815, he entered the revenue service as first officer of an armed cruiser, and in five years afterwards was raised to the post of tide-surveyor. He first discharged the duties of this office at Montrose, and subsequently at the ports of Kirkcaldy, Dundee, and Leith.

A writer of verses from his boyhood, Vedder experienced agreeable relaxation from his arduous duties as a seaman, in the invocation of the muse. He sung of the grandeur and terrors of the ocean. His earlier compositions were contributed to some of the northern newspapers; but before he attained his majority, his productions found admission into the periodicals. In 1826, he published "The Covenanter's Communion, and other Poems," a work which was very favourably received. His reputation as a poet was extended by the publication, in 1832, of a second volume, under the title of "Orcadian Sketches." This work, a _melange_ of prose and poetry, contains some of his best compositions in verse; and several of the prose sketches are remarkable for fine and forcible description. In 1839, he edited the "Poetical Remains of Robert Fraser," prefaced with an interesting memoir.

Immediately on the death of Sir Walter Scott, Vedder published a memoir of that illustrious person, which commanded a ready and wide circulation. In 1842, he gave to the world an edition of his collected poems, in an elegant duodecimo volume. In 1848, he supplied the letterpress for a splendid volume, entitled "Lays and Lithographs," published by his son-in-law, Mr Frederick Schenck of Edinburgh, the distinguished lithographer. His last work was a new English version of the quaint old story of "Reynard the Fox," which was published with elegant illustrations. To many of the more popular magazines and serials he was in the habit of contributing; articles from his pen adorned the pages of _Constable's Edinburgh Magazine_, the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_, the _Edinburgh Literary Gazette_, the _Christian Herald_, _Tait's Magazine_, and _Chambers's Journal_. He wrote the letterpress for Geikie's volume of "Etchings," and furnished songs for George Thomson's "Musical Miscellany," Blackie's "Book of Scottish Song," and Robertson's "Whistlebinkie." At the time of his death, he was engaged in the preparation of a ballad on the subject of the persecutions of the Covenanters. In 1852, he was placed upon the retired list of revenue officers, and thereafter established his residence in Edinburgh. He died at Newington, in that city, on the 11th February 1854, in his 64th year. His remains were interred in the Southern Cemetery.

Considerably above the middle height, Vedder was otherwise of massive proportions, while his full open countenance was much bronzed by exposure to the weather. Of beneficent dispositions and social habits, he enjoyed the friendship of many of his gifted contemporaries. Thoroughly earnest, his writings partake of the bold and straightforward nature of his character. Some of his prose productions are admirable specimens of vigorous composition; and his poetry, if not characterised by uniformity of power, never descends into weakness. Triumphant in humour, he is eminently a master of the plaintive; his tender pieces breathe a deep-toned cadence, and his sacred lyrics are replete with devotional fervour. His Norse ballads are resonant with the echoes of his birth-land, and his songs are to be remarked for their deep pathos and genuine simplicity.

JEANIE'S WELCOME HAME.

Let wrapt musicians strike the lyre, While plaudits shake the vaulted fane; Let warriors rush through flood and fire, A never-dying name to gain; Let bards, on fancy's fervid wing, Pursue some high or holy theme: Be 't mine, in simple strains, to sing My darling Jeanie 's welcome hame!

Sweet is the morn of flowery May, When incense breathes from heath and wold-- When laverocks hymn the matin lay, And mountain peaks are bathed in gold-- And swallows, frae some foreign strand, Are wheeling o'er the winding stream; But sweeter to extend my hand, And bid my Jeanie welcome hame!

Poor collie, our auld-farrant dog, Will bark wi' joy whene'er she comes; And baudrons, on the ingle rug, Will blithely churm at "auld gray-thrums." The mavis, frae our apple-tree, Shall warble forth a joyous strain; The blackbird's mellow minstrelsy Shall welcome Jeanie hame again!

Like dew-drops on a fading rose, Maternal tears shall start for thee, And low-breathed blessings rise like those Which soothed thy slumb'ring infancy. Come to my arms, my timid dove! I 'll kiss thy beauteous brow once more; The fountain of thy father's love Is welling all its banks out o'er!

I NEITHER GOT PROMISE OF SILLER.

AIR--_"Todlin' hame."_

I neither got promise of siller nor land With the bonnie wee darling who gave me her hand; But I got a kind heart with my sweet blushing bride, And that 's proved the bliss of my ain fireside. My ain fireside, my dear fireside, There 's happiness aye at my ain fireside!

Ambition once pointed my view towards rank, To meadows and manors, and gold in the bank: 'Twas but for an hour; and I cherish with pride My sweet lovely flower at my ain fireside. My ain fireside, my happy fireside, My Jeanie 's the charm of my ain fireside!

Her accents are music; there 's grace in her air; And purity reigns in her bosom so fair; She 's lovelier now than in maidenly pride, Though she 's long been the joy of my ain fireside. My ain fireside, my happy fireside, There 's harmony still at my ain fireside!

Let the minions of fortune and fashion go roam, I 'm content with the sweet, simple pleasures of home; Though their wine, wit, and humour flow like a spring-tide, What are these to the bliss of my dear fireside? My ain fireside, my cheerie fireside, There are pleasures untold at my ain fireside!

THERE IS A PANG FOR EVERY HEART.

AIR--_"Gramachree."_

There is a pang for every heart, A tear for every eye; There is a knell for every ear, For every breast a sigh. There 's anguish in the happiest state, Humanity can prove; But oh! the torture of the soul Is unrequited love!

The reptile haunts the sweetest bower, The rose blooms on the thorn; There 's poison in the fairest flower That greets the opening morn. The hemlock and the night-shade spring In garden and in grove; But oh! the upas of the soul Is unrequited love!

Ah! lady, thine inconstancy Hath made my peace depart; The unwonted coldness of thine eye Hath froze thy lover's heart. Yet with the fibres of that heart Thine image dear is wove; Nor can they sever till I die Of unrequited love!

THE FIRST OF MAY.

AIR--_"The Braes of Balquhidder."_

Now the beams of May morn On the mountains are streaming, And the dews on the corn Are like diamond-drops gleaming; And the birds from the bowers Are in gladness ascending; And the breath of sweet flowers With the zephyrs is blending.

And the rose-linnet's thrill, Overflowing with gladness, And the wood-pigeon's bill, Though their notes seem of sadness; And the jessamine rich Its soft tendrils is shooting, From pear and from peach The bright blossoms are sprouting.

And the lambs on the lea Are in playfulness bounding, And the voice of the sea Is in harmony sounding; And the streamlet on high In the morning beam dances, For all Nature is joy As sweet summer advances.

Then, my Mary, let 's stray Where the wild-flowers are glowing, By the banks of the Tay In its melody flowing; Thou shalt bathe in May-dew, Like a sweet mountain blossom, For 'tis bright like thy brow, And 'tis pure as thy bosom!

SONG OF THE SCOTTISH EXILE.

Oh! the sunny peaches glow, And the grapes in clusters blush; And the cooling silver streams From their sylvan fountains rush; There is music in the grove, And there 's fragrance on the gale; But there 's nought so dear to me As my own Highland vale.

Oh! the queen-like virgin rose, Of the dew and sunlight born, And the azure violet, Spread their beauties to the morn; So does the hyacinth, And the lily pure and pale; But I love the daisy best In my own Highland vale.

Hark! hark! those thrilling notes! 'Tis the nightingale complains; Oh! the soul of music breathes In those more than plaintive strains; But they 're not so dear to me As the murmur of the rill, And the bleating of the lambs On my own Highland hill.

Oh! the flow'rets fair may glow, And the juicy fruits may blush, And the beauteous birds may sing, And the crystal streamlets rush; And the verdant meads may smile, And the cloudless sun may beam, But there 's nought beneath the skies Like my own Highland home.

THE TEMPEST IS RAGING.

AIR--_"He 's dear to me, though far frae me."_

The tempest is raging And rending the shrouds; The ocean is waging A war with the clouds; The cordage is breaking, The canvas is torn, The timbers are creaking-- The seamen forlorn.

The water is gushing Through hatches and seams; 'Tis roaring and rushing O'er keelson and beams; And nought save the lightning On mainmast or boom, At intervals brightening The palpable gloom.

Though horrors beset me, And hurricanes howl, I may not forget thee, Beloved of my soul! Though soon I must perish In ocean beneath, Thine image I 'll cherish, Adored one! in death.

THE TEMPLE OF NATURE.[40]

Talk not of temples--there is one Built without hands, to mankind given; Its lamps are the meridian sun, And all the stars of heaven; Its walls are the cerulean sky, Its floor the earth so green and fair; The dome is vast immensity-- All nature worships there!

The Alps array'd in stainless snow, The Andean ranges yet untrod, At sunrise and at sunset glow Like altar-fires to God. A thousand fierce volcanoes blaze, As if with hallow'd victims rare; And thunder lifts its voice in praise-- All nature worships there!

The ocean heaves resistlessly, And pours his glittering treasure forth; His waves--the priesthood of the sea-- Kneel on the shell-gemm'd earth, And there emit a hollow sound, As if they murmur'd praise and prayer; On every side 'tis holy ground-- All nature worships there!

The grateful earth her odours yield In homage, Mighty One! to thee; From herbs and flowers in every field, From fruit on every tree, The balmy dew at morn and even Seems like the penitential tear, Shed only in the sight of heaven-- All nature worships there!

The cedar and the mountain pine, The willow on the fountain's brim, The tulip and the eglantine, In reverence bend to Him; The song-birds pour their sweetest lays, From tower, and tree, and middle air; The rushing river murmurs praise-- All nature worships there!

Then talk not of a fane, save one Built without hands, to mankind given; Its lamps are the meridian sun, And all the stars of heaven. Its walls are the cerulean sky, Its floor the earth so green and fair, The dome is vast immensity-- All nature worships there!

[40] This admirable composition was an especial favourite of Dr Thomas Chalmers, who was in the habit of quoting it to his students in the course of his theological prelections.

JOHN M'DIARMID.

The son of the Rev. Hugh M'Diarmid, minister of the Gaelic church, Glasgow, John M'Diarmid was born in 1790. He received in Edinburgh a respectable elementary education; but, deprived of his father at an early age, he was left unaided to push his fortune in life. For some time he acted as clerk in connexion with a bleachfield at Roslin, and subsequently held a situation in the Commercial Bank in Edinburgh. He now attended some classes in the University, while his other spare time was devoted to reading and composition. During two years he was employed in the evenings as amanuensis to Professor Playfair. At one of the College debating societies he improved himself as a public speaker, and subsequently took an active part in the discussions of the "Forum." Fond of verse-making, he composed some spirited lines on the battle of Waterloo, when the first tidings of the victory inspired a thrilling interest in the public mind; the consequence was, the immediate establishment of his reputation. His services were sought by several of the leading publishers, and the accomplished editor of the _Edinburgh Review_ offered to receive contributions from his pen. In 1816 he compiled some works for the bookselling firm of Oliver and Boyd, and towards the end of the same year, in concert with his friends Charles Maclaren and William Ritchie, originated the _Scotsman_ newspaper. In January 1817, he accepted the editorship of the _Dumfries and Galloway Courier_--a journal which, established in 1809 by Dr Duncan of Ruthwell, chiefly with the view of advocating his scheme of savings' banks, had hitherto been conducted by that ingenious and philanthropic individual.

As editor of a provincial newspaper, M'Diarmid was possessed of the promptitude and business-habits which, in connexion with literary ability, are essential for such an office. The _Dumfries Courier_, which had formerly occupied a neutrality in politics, became, under his management, a powerful organ of the liberal party. But the editor was more than a politician; the columns of his journal were enriched with illustrations of the natural history of the district, and sent forth stirring appeals on subjects of social reformation and agricultural improvement. Devoted to his duties as a journalist, he continued to cherish his literary enthusiasm. In 1817 he published an edition of Cowper, with an elegant memoir of the poet's life. "The Scrap-Book," a work of selections and original contributions in prose and verse, appeared in 1820, and was speedily followed by a second volume. In 1823 he composed a memoir of Goldsmith for an edition of the "Vicar of Wakefield," which was published in Edinburgh. The _Dumfries Magazine_ was originated under his auspices in 1825, and during the three years of its existence was adorned with contributions from his pen. In 1830 he published "Sketches from Nature," a volume chiefly devoted to the illustration of scenery and character in the districts of Dumfries and Galloway. "The Picture of Dumfries," an illustrated work, appeared in 1832. A description of Moffat, and a life of Nicholson, the Galloway poet, complete the catalogue of his publications. In 1820 he was offered the editorship of the _Caledonian Mercury_, the first established of the Scottish newspapers, but preferred to remain in Dumfries. He ultimately became sole proprietor of the _Courier_, which, under his superintendence, acquired a celebrity rarely attained by a provincial newspaper. In 1847 he was entertained at a public dinner by his fellow-townsmen. His death took place at Dumfries, on the 18th November 1852, in his sixty-third year.

A man of social and generous dispositions, M'Diarmid was esteemed among a wide circle of friends; he was in habits of intimacy with Sir Walter Scott, Jeffrey, Wilson, Lockhart, the Ettrick Shepherd, Dr Thomas Gillespie, and many others of his distinguished contemporaries. To his kindly patronage, many young men of genius were indebted for positions of honour and emolument. An elegant prose-writer, his compositions in verse are pervaded by a graceful smoothness and lively fancy.

NITHSIDE.

AIR--_"There 's a bonnie brier bush in our kail-yard."_

When the lark is in the air, the leaf upon the tree, The butterfly disporting beside the hummel bee; The scented hedges white, the fragrant meadows pied, How sweet it is to wander by bonnie Nithside!

When the blackbird piping loud the mavis strives to drown, And schoolboys seeking nests find each nursling fledged or flown, To hop 'mong plots and borders, array'd in all their pride, How sweet at dewy morn to roam by bonnie Nithside!

When the flies are on the stream, 'neath a sky of azure hue, And anglers take their stand by the waters bright and blue; While the coble circles pools, where the monarch salmon glide, Surpassing sweet on summer days is bonnie Nithside!

When the corncraik's voice is mute, as her young begin to flee, And seek with swifts and martins some home beyond the sea; And reapers crowd the harvest-field, in man and maiden pride, How exquisite the golden hours on bonnie Nithside!