Part 14

The sea--the deep, deep sea-- That awful mystery! Was there a time of old ere it was born, Or e'er the dawn of light, Coeval with the night-- Say, slept it on, for ever and forlorn?

Till the Great Spirit's word Its sullen waters heard, And their wild voices, through the void profound, Gave deep responsive roar; But silent never more Shall be their solemn, drear, and dirge-like sound!

Earth's echoes faint and die; Sunk down into a sigh, Scamander's voice scarce whispers on its way; And desert silence reigns Upon the mighty plains Where battles' thunders peal'd--and where are they?

But still from age to age Upon its pilgrimage, When many a glorious strain the world hath flown; And while her echoes sleep In darkness, the great deep, Unwearied and unchanged, goes sounding on.

ERSKINE CONOLLY.

Erskine Conolly was born at Crail, Fifeshire, on the 12th of June 1796. At the burgh school of his native town, he received an ordinary elementary education, and was afterwards apprenticed to Mr Cockburn, bookseller in Anstruther. He subsequently commenced business as a bookseller in the small town of Colinsburgh; but after a trial of several years, not having succeeded according to his expectations, he removed to Edinburgh, where he was employed as a clerk by Mr Thomas Megget, writer to the signet. At a future period, he entered into partnership with Mr James Gillon, writer and messenger in Edinburgh; and after his partner's death, carried on the business on his own account. He died at Edinburgh on the 7th January 1843. Of highly sociable dispositions, and with talents of a superior order, Conolly was much beloved among a wide circle of friends. Unambitious of fame as a poet, though he frequently wrote verses, he never ventured on a publication. His popular song of "Mary Macneil," appeared in the _Edinburgh Intelligencer_ of the 23d December 1840; it is much to be remarked for deep feeling and genuine tenderness.

MARY MACNEIL.

AIR--_"Kinloch of Kinloch."_

The last gleam o' sunset in ocean was sinkin', Owre mountain an' meadowland glintin' fareweel; An' thousands o' stars in the heavens were blinkin', As bright as the een o' sweet Mary Macneil. A' glowin' wi' gladness she lean'd on her lover, Her een-tellin' secrets she thought to conceal; And fondly they wander'd whar nane might discover The tryst o' young Ronald an' Mary Macneil.

Oh! Mary was modest, an' pure as the lily, That dew-draps o' mornin' in fragrance reveal; Nae fresh bloomin' flow'ret in hill or in valley Could rival the beauty of Mary Macneil. She moved, and the graces play'd sportive around her; She smiled, and the hearts o' the cauldest wad thrill; She sang, and the mavis cam listenin' in wonder, To claim a sweet sister in Mary Macneil.

But ae bitter blast on its fair promise blawin', Frae spring a' its beauty an' blossoms will steal; An' ae sudden blight on the gentle heart fa'in', Inflicts the deep wound nothing earthly can heal. The simmer saw Ronald on glory's path hiein'; The autumn, his corse on the red battle fiel'; The winter, the maiden found heartbroken, dyin'; An' spring spread the green turf owre Mary Macneil!

THERE 'S A THRILL OF EMOTION.

There 's a thrill of emotion, half-painful, half-sweet, When the object of untold affection we meet, But the pleasure remains, though the pang is as brief, As the touch and recoil of the sensitive leaf.

There 's a thrill of distress, between anger and dread, When a frown o'er the fair face of beauty is spread; But she smiles, and away the disturber is borne, Like sunbeams dispelling the vapours of morn.

There 's a thrill of endearment, all raptures above, When the pure lip imprints the first fond kiss of love, Which, like songs of our childhood, to memory clings, The longest, the last of terrestrial things.

GEORGE MENZIES.

George Menzies was born in the parish of Arbuthnot, Kincardineshire, on the 21st January 1797. His father was an agricultural labourer. On completing his education at a country school, he became, in his fourteenth year, apprentice to a gardener. He prosecuted his vocation in different districts; acted some time as clerk to the contractors of the Forth and Clyde Canal; laboured as a weaver in several towns in the counties of Forfar and Kincardine; and conducted unendowed schools in various localities. In 1833, he emigrated to Canada, where he taught in different seminaries, and afterwards formed a connexion with a succession of public journals. He ultimately became proprietor and editor of the _Woodstock Herald_ newspaper. After a short illness, he died at Woodstock, Canada West, on the 4th March 1847, in his fifty-first year.

Menzies was possessed of good talents and indomitable energy. He wrote respectable verses, though not marked by any decided originality. In 1822, he published, at Forfar, a small volume of poems, entitled, "Poetical Trifles," of which a second and enlarged edition appeared five years afterwards. The whole of his poems, with an account of his life, in a duodecimo volume, were published at Montrose in 1854.

THE BRAES OF AUCHINBLAE.

As clear is Luther's wave, I ween, As gay the grove, the vale as green; But, oh! the days that we have seen Are fled, and fled for aye, Mary!

Oh! we have often fondly stray'd In Fordoun's green embow'ring glade, And mark'd the moonbeam as it play'd On Luther's bonnie wave, Mary!

Since then, full many a year and day With me have slowly pass'd away, Far from the braes of Auchinblae, And far from love and thee, Mary!

And we must part again, my dear, It is not mine to linger here; Yes, we must part--and, oh! I fear, We meet not here again, Mary!

For on Culloden's bloody field, Our hapless Prince's fate is seal'd-- Last night to me it was reveal'd Sooth as the word of heaven, Mary!

And ere to-morrow's sun shall shine Upon the heights of Galloquhine, A thousand victims at the shrine Of tyranny shall bleed, Mary!

Hark! hark! they come--the foemen come-- I go; but wheresoe'er I roam, With thee my heart remains at home-- Adieu, adieu for aye, Mary!

FARE THEE WEEL.

Fare thee weel, my bonnie lassie; Fare thee weel for ever, Jessie! Though I ne'er again may meet thee, Tell na me that I 'll forget thee.

By yon starry heavens I vow it! By my love!--(I mayna rue it)-- By this hour in which we sever! I will love but thee for ever.

Should the hand of death arrest me, Think my latest prayer hath blest thee; As the parting pang draws nearer, I will love thee aye the dearer.

Still my bosom's love I 'll cherish-- 'Tis a spark that winna perish; Though I ne'er again may meet thee, Tell na me that I 'll forget thee.

JOHN SIM.

John Sim was born in Paisley, on the 6th of April 1797. His father, James Sim, was engineer in the factory of James Carlile and Sons, and was highly valued by his employers. In the Grammar-school, John made rapid progress in classical learning; and in 1814 entered the University of Glasgow, with a view to the medical profession. He obtained his diploma as surgeon on the 6th of April 1818. He commenced the practice of medicine in the village of Auchinleck, Ayrshire; but removed in a few months to his native town. His professional success was not commensurate with his expectations; and in the hope of bettering his circumstances, he proceeded to the West Indies. He sailed from Greenock on the 19th January 1819, for Trinidad; but had only been resident in that island about eight months when he was seized with a fatal illness. The precise date of his death is unknown.

Sim was a young man of high promise. Early wedded to the muse, he was selected as the original editor of the "Harp of Renfrewshire." He published a small volume of poems and songs. His songs are somewhat imitative, but are remarkable for sweetness of expression, and are pervaded by genial sentiment.

NAE MAIR WE 'LL MEET.

AIR--_"We 'll meet beside the dusky glen."_

Nae mair we 'll meet again, my love, by yon burn side-- Nae mair we 'll wander through the grove, by yon burn side-- Ne'er again the mavis lay will we hail at close o' day, Nor ne'er again we 'll stray down by yon burn side.

Yet mem'ry oft will fondly brood on yon burn side, O'er haunts which we sae saft hae trod, by yon burn side; Still the walk wi' me thou 'lt share, though thy foot can never mair Bend to earth the gowan fair, down by yon burn side.

Now far removed from every care, 'boon yon burn side, Thou bloom'st, my love, an angel fair, 'boon yon burn side; And if angels pity know, sure the tear for me will flow, Who must linger here below, down by yon burn side.

BONNIE PEGGY.[46]

AIR--_"Bonnie lassie, O."_

Oh, we aft hae met at e'en, bonnie Peggy, O! On the banks of Cart sae green, bonnie Peggy, O! Where the waters smoothly rin, Far aneath the roarin' linn, Far frae busy strife and din, bonnie Peggy, O! When the lately crimson west, bonnie Peggy, O! In her darker robe was dress'd, bonnie Peggy, O! And a sky of azure blue, Deck'd with stars of golden hue, Rose majestic to the view, bonnie Peggy, O! When the sound of flute or horn, bonnie Peggy, O! On the gale of ev'ning borne, bonnie Peggy, O! We have heard in echoes die, While the wave that rippled by, Sung a soft and sweet reply, bonnie Peggy, O!

Then how happy would we rove, bonnie Peggy, O! Whilst thou, blushing, own'd thy love, bonnie Peggy, O! Whilst thy quickly throbbing breast To my beating heart I press'd, Ne'er was mortal half so blest, bonnie Peggy, O! Now, alas! these scenes are o'er, bonnie Peggy, O! Now, alas! we meet no more, bonnie Peggy, O! Oh! never again, I ween, Will we meet at summer e'en On the banks of Cart sae green, bonnie Peggy, O! Yet had'st thou been true to me, bonnie Peggy, O! As I still hae been to thee, bonnie Peggy, O! Then with bosom, oh, how light, Had I hail'd the coming night, And yon evening star so bright, bonnie Peggy, O!

[46] This song is much in the strain of the popular song of "Kelvin Grove," which, it may here be remarked, has often been erroneously ascribed to Sim. It was contributed to the "Harp of Renfrewshire," then under his editorial care, by his townsman, class-fellow, and professional brother, Mr Thomas Lyle, surgeon, Glasgow, and was published in that work (p. 144) by Mr John Murdoch, the successor of Sim in the editorship, with a number of alterations by that gentleman. Of these alterations Mr Lyle complained to Mr Sim, and received a letter from him attributing them to Mr Murdoch. On the completion of the work, Sim was mentioned in the index as the author of the song--by the poet Motherwell, the third and last editor, who, not unnaturally, assigned to the original editor those songs which appeared anonymously in the earlier portion of the volume. The song being afterwards published with music by Mr Purdie, musicseller in Edinburgh, Mr Lyle was induced to adopt measures for establishing his title to the authorship. In the absence of the original MS., the claim was sufficiently made out by the production of Mr Sim's letter on the subject of the alterations. (See Memoir of Mr Lyle, _postea_.)

NOW, MARY, NOW THE STRUGGLE 'S O'ER.[47]

_Gaelic Air._

Now, Mary, now the struggle 's o'er-- The war of pride and love; And, Mary, now we meet no more, Unless we meet above.

Too well thou know'st how much I loved! Thou knew'st my hopes how fair! But all these hopes are blighted now, They point but to despair.

Thus doom'd to ceaseless, hopeless love, I haste to India's shore; For here how can I longer stay, And call thee mine no more?

Now, Mary, now the struggle 's o'er; And though I still must love, Yet, Mary, here we meet no more, Oh, may we meet above!

[47] This song was addressed to a young lady to whom the author was attached, and who had agreed to marry him on an improvement in his worldly circumstances. A desire speedily to gain her hand is said to have been the cause of his proceeding to the West Indies. The prediction in the song was sadly realised.

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

William Motherwell was born in High Street, Glasgow, on the 13th October 1797. For thirteen generations, his paternal ancestors were owners of the small property of Muirsmill, on the banks of the Carron, Stirlingshire. His father, who bore the same Christian name, carried on the business of an ironmonger in Glasgow. His mother, whose maiden name was Elizabeth Barnet, was the daughter of a prosperous farmer in the parish of Auchterarder, Perthshire, from whom she inherited a considerable fortune. Of a family of six, William was the third son. His parents removed to Edinburgh early in the century; and in April 1805, he became a pupil of Mr William Lennie, a successful private teacher in Crichton Street. In October 1808, he entered the High-school of Edinburgh; but was soon after placed at the Grammar-school of Paisley, being entrusted to the care of an uncle in that place. In his fifteenth year, he became clerk in the office of the Sheriff-clerk of Paisley, and in this situation afforded evidence of talent by the facility with which he deciphered the more ancient documents. With the view of obtaining a more extended acquaintance with classical literature, he attended the Latin and Greek classes in the University of Glasgow, during the session of 1818-19, and had the good fortune soon thereafter to receive the appointment of Sheriff-clerk-depute of the county of Renfrew.

From his boyhood fond of literature, Motherwell devoted his spare hours to reading and composition. He evinced poetical talent so early as his fourteenth year, when he produced the first draught of his beautiful ballad of "Jeanie Morrison." Many of his earlier sketches, both in prose and verse, were inconsiderately distributed among his friends. In 1818, he made some contributions in verse to the "Visitor," a small work published at Greenock; and in the following year became the third and last editor of the "Harp of Renfrewshire," an esteemed collection of songs, to which he supplied an interesting introductory essay and many valuable notes. Pursuing his researches on the subject of Scottish song and ballad, he appeared in 1827 as the editor of an interesting quarto volume, entitled "Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern,"--a work which considerably extended his reputation, and secured him the friendly correspondence of Sir Walter Scott. In 1828, he originated the _Paisley Magazine_, which was conducted by him during its continuance of one year; it contains several of his best poetical compositions, and a copy is now extremely rare. During the same year, he was appointed editor of the _Paisley Advertiser_, a Conservative newspaper; and this office he exchanged, in January 1830, for the editorship of the _Glasgow Courier_, a more influential journal in the same political interests.

On his removal to Glasgow, Motherwell rapidly extended the circle of his literary friends, and began to exercise no unimportant influence as a public journalist. To _The Day_, a periodical published in the city in 1832, he contributed many poetical pieces with some prose sketches; and about the same time furnished a preface of some length to a volume of Scottish Proverbs, edited by his ingenious friend, Andrew Henderson. Towards the close of 1832, he collected his best poetical compositions into a small volume, with the title of "Poems, Narrative and Lyrical." In 1835, he became the coadjutor of the Ettrick Shepherd in annotating an edition of Burns' Works, published by Messrs Fullarton of Glasgow; but his death took place before the completion of this undertaking. He died of apoplexy, after a few hours' illness, on the 1st of November 1835, at the early age of thirty-eight. His remains were interred in the Necropolis, where an elegant monument, with a bust by Fillans, has been erected to his memory.

Motherwell was of short stature, but was well-formed. His head was large and forehead ample, but his features were somewhat coarse; his cheek-bones were prominent, and his eyes small, sunk in his head, and surmounted by thick eye-lashes. In society he was reserved and often taciturn, but was free and communicative among his personal friends. He was not a little superstitious, and a firm believer in the reality of spectral illusions. Desultory in some of his literary occupations, he was laborious in pruning and perfecting his poetical compositions. His claims as a poet are not inconsiderable; "Jeanie Morrison" is unsurpassed in graceful simplicity and feeling, and though he had not written another line, it had afforded him a title to rank among the greater minstrels of his country. Eminent pathos and earnestness are his characteristics as a song-writer. The translations of Scandinavian ballads which he has produced are perhaps the most vigorous and successful efforts of the kind which have appeared in the language. An excellent edition of his poetical works, with a memoir by Dr M'Conechy, was published after his death by Mr David Robertson of Glasgow.

JEANIE MORRISON.[48]

I 've wander'd east, I 've wander'd west, Through mony a weary way, But never, never can forget The luve o' life's young day! The fire that 's blawn on Beltane e'en, May weel be black gin Yule; But blacker fa' awaits the heart Where first fond luve grows cule.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thochts o' bygane years Still fling their shadows owre my path, And blind my een wi' tears; They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears; And sair and sick I pine, As memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o' langsyne.

'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 'Twas then we twa did part; Sweet time--sad time! twa bairns at schule, Twa bairns, and but ae heart! 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, To leir ilk ither lear; And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed, Remember'd evermair.

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, When sitting on that bink, Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof, What our wee heads could think. When baith bent doun owre ae braid page, Wi' ae buik on our knee, Thy lips were on thy lesson--but My lesson was in thee.

Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads, How cheeks brent red wi' shame, Whene'er the schule-weans, laughin', said We cleek'd thegither hame? And mind ye o' the Saturdays (The schule then skailt at noon) When we ran aff to speel the braes-- The broomy braes o' June?

My head rins round and round about, My heart flows like a sea, As ane by ane the thoughts rush back O' schule-time and o' thee. Oh, mornin' life! oh, mornin' luve! Oh, lichtsome days and lang, When hinnied hopes around our hearts, Like simmer blossoms sprang!

Oh, mind ye, luve, how aft we left The deavin', dinsome toun, To wander by the green burnside, And hear its waters croon? The simmer leaves hung owre our heads, The flowers burst round our feet, And in the gloamin o' the wood, The throssil whusslit sweet.

The throssil whusslit in the wood, The burn sang to the trees, And we, with nature's heart in tune, Concerted harmonies; And on the knowe abune the burn, For hours thegither sat In the silentness o' joy, till baith Wi' very gladness grat.

Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trickled doun your cheek, Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane Had ony power to speak! That was a time, a blessed time, When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gush'd all feelings forth, Unsyllabled--unsung!

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I hae been to thee As closely twined wi' earliest thochts, As ye hae been to me! Oh, tell me gin their music fills Thine heart, as it does mine; Oh, say gin e'er your heart grows grit Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?

I 've wander'd east, I 've wander'd west, I 've borne a weary lot; But in my wanderings, far or near, Ye never were forgot. The fount that first burst frae this heart, Still travels on its way; And channels deeper as it rins, The luve o' life's young day.

Oh, dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sinder'd young, I 've never seen your face, nor heard The music o' your tongue; But I could hug all wretchedness, And happy could I die, Did I but ken your heart still dream'd O' bygane days and me!

[48] The heroine of this song, Miss Jane Morrison, now Mrs Murdoch, still survives. Her father, Mr Ebenezer Morrison, was a respectable brewer and corn-merchant in Alloa. In the autumn of 1807, when in her seventh year, she became a pupil of Mr Lennie, and for several months occupied the same class-room with young Motherwell. Of the flame which she had excited in the susceptible heart of her boy-lover, she was totally unconscious. Mr Lennie, however, in a statement published by the editor of Motherwell's poems, refers to the strong impression which she made on the young poet; he describes her as "a pretty girl, and of good capacity." "Her hair," he adds, "was of a lightish brown, approaching to fair; her eyes were dark, and had a sweet and gentle expression; her temper was mild, and her manners unassuming." In 1823, Miss Morrison became the wife of Mr John Murdoch, commission-agent in Glasgow, who died in 1829. She has since resided in different places, but has now (Whitsunday 1856) fixed her abode in the vicinity of Stirling. She never met the poet in after-life, and has only an imperfect recollection of his appearance as a boy. The ballad of "Jeanie Morrison" had been published for several years before she became aware that she was the heroine. It remains to be added, somewhat in justification of the poet's juvenile passion, that Mrs Murdoch is a person of the most gentle and amiable manners, and retains, in a very remarkable degree, that personal beauty for which she was celebrated in youth.

WEARIE'S WELL.

In a saft simmer gloamin', In yon dowie dell, It was there we twa first met, By Wearie's cauld well. We sat on the broom bank, And look'd in the burn, But sidelang we look'd on Ilk ither in turn.

The corncraik was chirming His sad eerie cry, And the wee stars were dreaming Their path through the sky; The burn babbled freely Its love to ilk flower, But we heard and we saw nought In that blessed hour.

We heard and we saw nought, Above or around; We felt that our luve lived, And loathed idle sound. I gazed on your sweet face Till tears fill'd my e'e, And they drapt on your wee loof-- A warld's wealth to me.

Now the winter snaw 's fa'ing On bare holm and lea, And the cauld wind is strippin' Ilk leaf aff the tree. But the snaw fa's not faster, Nor leaf disna part Sae sune frae the bough, as Faith fades in your heart.

You 've waled out anither Your bridegroom to be; But can his heart luve sae As mine luvit thee? Ye 'll get biggings and mailins, And mony braw claes; But they a' winna buy back The peace o' past days.