Part 15

Fareweel, and for ever, My first luve and last; May thy joys be to come-- Mine live in the past. In sorrow and sadness This hour fa's on me; But light, as thy luve, may It fleet over thee!

WAE BE TO THE ORDERS.

Oh! wae be to the orders that march'd my luve awa', And wae be to the cruel cause that gars my tears down fa', Oh! wae be to the bluidy wars in Hie Germanie, For they hae ta'en my luve, and left a broken heart to me.

The drums beat in the mornin', afore the screich o' day, And the wee, wee fifes play'd loud and shrill, while yet the morn was gray; The bonnie flags were a' unfurl'd, a gallant sight to see, But waes me for my sodger lad that march'd to Germanie.

Oh! lang, lang is the travel to the bonnie Pier o' Leith, Oh! dreich it is to gang on foot wi' the snaw drift in the teeth! And oh, the cauld wind froze the tear that gather'd in my e'e, When I gaed there to see my luve embark for Germanie.

I look'd owre the braid blue sea, sae lang as could be seen A wee bit sail upon the ship that my sodger lad was in; But the wind was blawin' sair an' snell, and the ship sail'd speedilie, And the waves and cruel wars hae twinn'd my winsome luve frae me.

I never think o' dancin', and I downa try to sing, But a' the day I speir what news kind neibour bodies bring; I sometimes knit a stocking, if knittin' it may be, Syne for every loop that I cast on, I 'm sure to let doun three.

My father says I 'm in a pet, my mither jeers at me, And bans me for a dautit wean, in dorts for aye to be; But little weet they o' the cause that drumles sae my e'e, Oh! they hae nae winsome love like mine, in the wars o' Germanie.

THE MIDNIGHT WIND.

Mournfully, oh, mournfully This midnight wind doth sigh, Like some sweet plaintive melody Of ages long gone by: It speaks a tale of other years-- Of hopes that bloom'd to die-- Of sunny smiles that set in tears, And loves that mouldering lie.

Mournfully, oh, mournfully This midnight wind doth moan; It stirs some chord of memory, In each dull heavy tone: The voices of the much-loved dead Seem floating thereupon-- All, all my fond heart cherished, Ere death hath made it lone.

Mournfully, oh, mournfully This midnight wind doth swell, With its quaint pensive minstrelsy, Hope's passionate farewell. To the dreamy joys of early years, Ere yet grief's canker fell On the heart's bloom--ay, well may tears Start at that parting knell!

HE IS GONE! HE IS GONE!

He is gone! he is gone! Like the leaf from the tree, Or the down that is blown By the wind o'er the lea. He is fled--the light-hearted! Yet a tear must have started To his eye when he parted From love-stricken me!

He is fled! he is fled! Like a gallant so free-- Plumed cap on his head, And sharp sword by his knee; While his gay feathers flutter'd, Surely something he mutter'd-- He at least must have utter'd A farewell to me!

He 's away! he 's away! To far lands o'er the sea, And long is the day Ere home he can be; But where'er his steed prances Amid thronging lances, Sure he 'll think of the glances That love stole from me!

He is gone! he is gone! Like the leaf from the tree, But his heart is of stone If it ne'er dream of me; For I dream of him ever-- His buff-coat and beaver, And long sword, oh! never Are absent from me!

DAVID MACBETH MOIR.

David Macbeth Moir was born at Musselburgh on the 5th January 1798. His elementary education was conducted at a private seminary and the Grammar-school of that town. He subsequently attended the medical classes in the University of Edinburgh, and in his eighteenth year obtained a surgeon's diploma. In partnership with Dr Brown, a respectable physician of long standing, he entered on medical practice in his native place. He wrote good poetry in his fifteenth year, and about the same age contributed some prose essays to the _Cheap Magazine_, a small periodical published in Haddington. In 1816 he published a poem entitled "The Bombardment of Algiers." For a succession of years after its commencement in 1817, he wrote numerous articles for _Constable's Edinburgh Magazine_. Soon after the establishment of _Blackwood's Magazine_, he became one of its more conspicuous contributors; and his poetical contributions, which were generally subscribed by his literary _nom de guerre_, the Greek letter Delta ([Greek: Delta]), long continued a source of much interest to the readers of that periodical. In 1824 he published a collection of his poetical pieces, under the title of "Legend of Genevieve, with other Tales and Poems." "The Autobiography of Mansie Wauch," originally supplied in a series of chapters to _Blackwood_, and afterwards published in a separate form, much increased his reputation as an author. In 1831 appeared his "Outlines of the Ancient History of Medicine;" a work which was followed, in 1832, by a pamphlet entitled, "Practical Observations on Malignant Cholera;" and a further publication, with the title, "Proofs of the Contagion of Malignant Cholera." A third volume of poems from his pen, entitled "Domestic Verses," was published in 1843. In the early part of 1851 he delivered, at the Philosophical Institution of Edinburgh, a course of six lectures on the "Poetical Literature of the Past Half-century," which, afterwards published in an elegant volume by the Messrs Blackwood, commanded a large share of public attention. In a state of somewhat impaired health, he proceeded to Dumfries on the 1st day of July 1851, hoping to derive benefit from a change of scene and climate. But his end was approaching; he died at Dumfries on the 6th of the same month, having reached only his 53d year. His remains were interred, at a public funeral, in the burying-ground of Musselburgh, where a monument has been erected to his memory. Indefatigable in the discharge of his professional duties, Moir regularly devoted a portion of his time to the gratification of his literary tastes. A pleasant prose writer, he will be remembered for his inimitable drollery in the adventures of "Mansie Wauch." As a poet, his style is perspicuous and simple; and his characteristics are tenderness, dignity, and grace. He is occasionally humorous, but he excels in the plaintive and elegiac. Much of his poetry breathes the odour of a genuine piety. He was personally of an agreeable presence. Tall in stature, his countenance, which was of sanguine hue, wore a serious aspect, unless kindled up by the recital of some humorous tale. His mode of utterance was singularly pleasing, and his dispositions were pervaded by a generous benignity. He loved society, but experienced his chief happiness in the social intercourse of his own family circle. He had married in 1829; and his amiable widow, with eight children, still survive. A collected edition of his best poems, in two duodecimo volumes, has been published since his death, by the Messrs Blackwood, under the editorial superintendence of Thomas Aird, who has prefixed an interesting memoir.

CASA WAPPY.[49]

And hast thou sought thy heavenly home, Our fond, dear boy-- The realms where sorrow dare not come, Where life is joy? Pure at thy death as at thy birth, Thy spirit caught no taint from earth, Even by its bliss we mete our dearth, Casa Wappy!

Despair was in our last farewell, As closed thine eye; Tears of our anguish may not tell When thou didst die; Words may not paint our grief for thee, Sighs are but bubbles on the sea Of our unfathom'd agony, Casa Wappy!

Thou wert a vision of delight To bless us given; Beauty embodied to our sight, A type of heaven. So dear to us thou wert, thou art Even less thine own self than a part Of mine and of thy mother's heart, Casa Wappy!

Thy bright, brief day knew no decline-- 'Twas cloudless joy; Sunrise and night alone were thine, Beloved boy! This morn beheld thee blithe and gay; That found thee prostrate in decay; And ere a third shone, clay was clay, Casa Wappy!

Gem of our hearth, our household pride, Earth's undefiled, Could love have saved, thou hadst not died, Our dear, sweet child! Humbly we bow to fate's decree; Yet had we hoped that time should see Thee mourn for us, not us for thee, Casa Wappy!

Do what I may, go where I will, Thou meet'st my sight; There dost thou glide before me still, A form of light. I feel thy breath upon my cheek, I see thee smile, I hear thee speak, Till, oh! my heart is like to break, Casa Wappy!

* * * * *

The nursery shews thy pictured wall, Thy bat, thy bow, Thy cloak and bonnet, club and ball; But where art thou? A corner holds thine empty chair; Thy playthings, idly scatter'd there, But speak to us of our despair, Casa Wappy!

* * * * *

We mourn for thee when blind, blank night The chamber fills; We pine for thee when morn's first light Reddens the hills; The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea-- All--to the wallflower and wild pea-- Are changed--we saw the world through thee, Casa Wappy!

* * * * *

Snows muffled earth when thou didst go, In life's spring-bloom, Down to the appointed house below-- The silent tomb. But now the green leaves of the tree, The cuckoo, and "the busy bee," Return, but with them bring not thee, Casa Wappy!

'Tis so! but can it be--(while flowers Revive again)-- Man's doom in death--that we and ours For aye remain? Oh! can it be that o'er the grave The grass, renew'd, should yearly wave, Yet God forget our child to save? Casa Wappy!

It cannot be; for were it so Thus man could die, Life were a mockery--thought were woe, And truth a lie-- Heaven were a coinage of the brain-- Religion frenzy--virtue vain, And all our hopes to meet again, Casa Wappy!

Then be to us, O dear, lost child! With beam of love, A star--death's uncongenial wild-- Smiling above! Soon, soon thy little feet have trod The skyward path, the seraph's road, That led thee back from man to God, Casa Wappy!

Yet, 'tis sweet balm to our despair, Fond, fairest boy, That heaven is God's, and thou art there With him in joy! There past are death and all its woes, There beauty's stream for ever flows, And pleasure's day no sunset knows, Casa Wappy!

Farewell, then--for a while farewell, Pride of my heart! It cannot be that long we dwell Thus torn apart-- Time's shadows like the shuttle flee; And dark howe'er life's night may be, Beyond the grave I 'll meet with thee, Casa Wappy!

[49] This touching elegiac poem (which is not unsuitable for music) was written by Mr Moir on the death of his favourite child, Charles Bell--familiarly called by him "Casa Wappy"--who died in February 1838, at the age of four and a half years.

FAREWELL, OUR FATHERS' LAND.

Farewell, our fathers' land, Valley and fountain! Farewell, old Scotland's strand, Forest and mountain! Then hush the drum and hush the flute, And be the stirring bagpipe mute-- Such sounds may not with sorrow suit-- And fare thee well, Lochaber!

This plume and plaid no more will see, Nor philabeg, nor dirk at knee, Nor even the broadswords which Dundee Bade flash at Killiecrankie. Farewell, our fathers' land, &c.

Now when of yore, on bank and brae, Our loyal clansmen marshall'd gay; Far downward scowls Bennevis gray, On sheep-walks spreading lonely. Farewell, our fathers' land, &c.

For now we cross the stormy sea, Ah! never more to look on thee, Nor on thy dun deer, bounding free, From Etive glens to Morven. Farewell, our fathers' land, &c.

Thy mountain air no more we 'll breathe; The household sword shall eat the sheath, While rave the wild winds o'er the heath Where our gray sires are sleeping. Then farewell, our fathers' land, &c.

HEIGH-HO!

A pretty young maiden sat on the grass-- Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!-- And by a blithe young shepherd did pass, In the summer morning so early. Said he, "My lass, will you go with me, My cot to keep and my bride to be; Sorrow and want shall never touch thee, And I will love you rarely?"

"O! no, no, no!" the maiden said-- Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!-- And bashfully turn'd aside her head, On that summer morning so early. "My mother is old, my mother is frail, Our cottage it lies in yon green dale; I dare not list to any such tale, For I love my kind mother rarely."

The shepherd took her lily-white hand-- Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!-- And on her beauty did gazing stand, On that summer morning so early. "Thy mother I ask thee not to leave Alone in her frail old age to grieve; But my home can hold us all, believe-- Will that not please thee fairly?"

"O! no, no, no! I am all too young"-- Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!-- "I dare not list to a young man's tongue, On a summer morning so early." But the shepherd to gain her heart was bent; Oft she strove to go, but she never went; And at length she fondly blush'd consent-- Heaven blesses true lovers so fairly.

ROBERT FRASER.

Robert Fraser was born in the village of Pathhead, Fifeshire, on the 24th of June 1798. Receiving a respectable education at the various schools of the place, he became apprenticed in his fourteenth year to a wine-merchant in Kirkcaldy, with whom he continued during a period of four years. In 1819 he commenced business with a partner as an ironmonger in Kirkcaldy, and for a considerable time was prosperous in merchandise. His spare hours were devoted to literature, more especially to classical learning and the acquisition of the modern languages. He was latterly familiar with all the languages of Europe. He contributed both in prose and verse to the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_, and other periodicals. A series of misfortunes led to his renouncing business, and in 1838 he accepted the editorship of the _Fife Herald_ newspaper, when he removed his residence to Cupar-Fife. He died at Cupar, after a lingering illness, on the 22d May 1839. His "Poetical Remains," with a memoir from the pen of the poet Vedder, were published a few months after his decease. Though not entitled to a high rank, his poetry is pervaded by gracefulness, and some of his lyrics evince considerable power.

OH, I LO'ED MY LASSIE WEEL.

Oh, I lo'ed my lassie weel, How weel I canna tell; Lang, lang ere ithers trow'd, Lang ere I wist mysel'. At the school amang the lave, If I wrestled or I ran, I cared na' for the prize, If she saw me when I wan.

Oh, I lo'ed my lassie weel, When thae gleesome days were gane; 'Mang a' the bonnie an' the gude, To match her saw I nane. Though the cauld warl' o'er me cam, Wi' its cumber an' its toil, My day-tide dool was a' forgot, In her blithe e'enin' smile.

Oh, I lo'ed, nor lo'ed in vain; An' though mony cam to woo, Wha to won her wad been fain, Yet to me she aye was true. She grat wi' very joy When our waddin' day was set; An' though twal' gude years sinsyne hae fled, She 's my darling lassie yet.

JAMES HISLOP.

James Hislop, a short-lived poet of considerable promise, was born of humble parents in the parish of Kirkconnel, Dumfriesshire, in July 1798. Under the care of his grandfather, a country weaver, and a man of piety and worth, he taught himself to read. When little more than a child, he became a cow-herd on the farm of Dalblair, in the neighbourhood of his birth-place. About the age of thirteen, he obtained a year's schooling, which was nearly the whole amount of his regular education. He had already read many books on the hillside. In his fourteenth year, he became a shepherd and tended his first flock at Boghead, parish of Auchinleck, Ayrshire, in the immediate vicinity of Airsmoss, the scene of the skirmish, in 1680, between a body of the soldiers of Charles II. and a small party of Covenanters, when their minister, the famous Richard Cameron, was slain. The traditions which still floated among the peasantry around the tombstone of this indomitable pastor of the persecuted Presbyterians, essentially fostered in his mind the love of poetry; and he afterwards turned them to account in his poem of "The Cameronian's Dream." Some years having passed at this place, he removed to Corsebank, on the stream Crawick, and afterwards to Carcoe, in the neighbourhood of Sanquhar. Instead of a course of indiscriminate reading, he now followed a system of regular study; and ere his twentieth year, was not only a respectable classical scholar, but tolerably conversant with some of the modern languages and the exact sciences. He opened an evening school for the instruction of his humble pastoral associates; and about the close of 1819, was induced to remove to Greenock, there to make the attempt of earning a livelihood by teaching. In October of the same year, he began to contribute verses to the _Edinburgh Magazine_, which excited no inconsiderable attention, and especially called forth the kindly criticisms of the amiable editor, the Rev. Mr Morehead. Visiting Edinburgh, he was introduced by this gentleman to Mr Jeffrey and the Rev. Mr Alison, who had both been interested by his poetry.

The Greenock school adventure was unfortunate, and the poet returned to the pastoral scenes of Carcoe. At this period he composed "The Cameronian's Dream," which appeared in the _Edinburgh Magazine_ for February 1821, and attracted much attention. He now commenced teaching in Edinburgh; but soon obtained, through the recommendation of Mr Jeffrey, the appointment of schoolmaster in the "Doris" frigate, about to sail for South America. At sea, he continued to apply himself to mental improvement; and on his return from a three years' cruise along the coasts of the Western world, he published, in the pages of the _Edinburgh Magazine_, a series of papers, under the title of "Letters from South America," describing the scenes which he had surveyed. In 1825 he proceeded to London, and there formed the acquaintance of Allan Cunningham, Joanna Baillie, and J. G. Lockhart. For some time, he reported to one of the London newspapers; but this employment proving uncongenial, was speedily abandoned. The fidelity with which he had reported a sermon of the famous Edward Irving, gained him the personal acquaintance of that extraordinary individual, who presented him with some tokens of his regard. In 1826, he was appointed teacher of an extensive free school in the neighbourhood of London--an office which, at the end of a year, he exchanged for that of schoolmaster on board the "Tweed" man-of-war, ordered to the Mediterranean and the Cape of Good Hope. While the vessel was cruising off the Cape de Verd islands, Hislop, along with the midshipmen, made a visit of pleasure to the island of St Jago. Sleeping a night on shore, they were all seized with fever, which, in the case of six of the party, including poor Hislop, proved fatal. After lingering for twelve days, he died on the 4th December 1827, in his twenty-ninth year.

Of a clear head, a warm heart, and exemplary steadiness of character, Hislop was much beloved; and a wide circle of hopeful friends deeply lamented his premature decease. By Allan Cunningham, his genius has been described as "elegant rather than vigorous, sweet and graceful rather than lofty, although he was occasionally lofty, too." As the author of "The Cameronian's Dream," he is entitled to a place among the bards of his country.

THE CAMERONIAN'S DREAM.

In a dream of the night, I was wafted away To the muirlands of mist where the martyrs lay; Where Cameron's sword and his Bible are seen Engraved on the stone where the heather grows green.

'Twas a dream of those ages of darkness and blood, When the minister's home was the mountain and wood, And in Wellwood's dark valley the standard of Zion, All bloody and torn, 'mong the heather was lying.

'Twas morning, and summer's young sun from the east Lay in lovely repose on the green mountain's breast; On Wardlaw and Cairntable, the clear shining dew Glisten'd sheen 'mong the heath-bells and mountain-flowers blue.

And far up in heaven, in a white sunny cloud, The song of the lark was melodious and loud; And in Glenmuir's wild solitudes, lengthen'd and deep, Were the whistling of plovers and bleating of sheep.

And Wellwood's sweet valley breathed music and gladness, The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and redness; Its daughters were happy to hail the returning, And drink the delights of July's sweet morning.

But, ah! there were hearts cherish'd far other feelings-- Illumed by the light of prophetic revealings-- And drank from the scenery of beauty but sorrow, For they knew that their blood would bedew it to-morrow.

'Twas the few faithful ones who with Cameron were lying, Conceal'd 'mong the mist where the heath-fowl were crying; For the horsemen of Earlshall around them were hovering, And their bridle-reins rung through the thin misty covering.

Their faces grew pale, and their swords were unsheath'd, But the vengeance that darken'd their brow was unbreathed; With eyes raised to heaven, in calm resignation, They sung their last song to the God of salvation.

The hills with the sweet mournful music were ringing, The curlew and plover in concert were singing; But the melody died 'midst derision and laughter, As the host of ungodly rush'd on to the slaughter.

Though in mist and in darkness and fire they were shrouded, Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and unclouded; Their dark eyes flash'd lightning, as, proud and unbending, They stood like the rock which the thunder was rending.

The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were gleaming, The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was streaming, The heavens grew black, and the thunder was rolling, As in Wellwood's dark muirlands the mighty were falling.

When the righteous had fallen, and the combat was ended, A chariot of fire through the dark cloud descended; Its drivers were angels on horses of whiteness, And its burning wheels turn'd upon axles of brightness.

A seraph unfolded its door, bright and shining, All dazzling like gold of the seventh refining; And the souls that came forth out of great tribulation, Have mounted the chariot and steeds of salvation.

On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding; Through the path of the thunder the horsemen are riding; Glide swiftly, bright spirits! the prize is before ye-- A crown never fading, a kingdom of glory!

HOW SWEET THE DEWY BELL IS SPREAD.