Part 16

How sweet the dewy bell is spread Where Spango's mossy streams are lavin' The heathery locks o' deepenin' red, Around the mountain brow aye wavin'! Here, on the sunny mountain side, Dear lassie, we 'll lie down thegither; Where Nature spreads luve's crimson bed, Among the bonnie bloomin' heather.

Lang hae I wish'd, my lovely maid, Amang thae fragrant wilds to lead ye; And now, aneath my tartan plaid, How blest I lie wi' you aside me! And art thou happy--dearest, speak-- Wi' me aneath the tartan plaidie? Yes; that dear glance, sae saft and meek, Resigns thee to thy shepherd laddie.

The saftness o' the gentle dove, Its eyes in dying sweetness closin', Is like thae languid eyes o' love, Sae fondly on my heart reposin'. When simmer suns the flowers expand, In a' their silken beauties shinin', They 're no sae saft as thy white hand, Upon my love-warm cheek reclinin'.

While thus, aneath my tartan plaid, Sae warmly to my lips I press ye; That hinnied bloom o' dewy red Is nocht like thy sweet lips, dear lassie! Reclined on love's soft crimson bed, Our hearts sae fondly lock'd thegither; Thus o'er my cheek thy ringlets spread, How happy, happy 'mang the heather!

ROBERT GILFILLAN.

A respectable contributor to the Caledonian minstrelsy, Robert Gilfillan was born in Dunfermline on the 7th July 1798. His parents were in humble circumstances; and owing to the infirmities of his father, he was required, while a mere youth, to engage in manual labour for the support of the family. He found a solace to his toils in the gratification of a turn for verse-making, which he inherited from his mother. In his thirteenth year, he entered on an apprenticeship to a cooper in Leith; and at the age of twenty, became a grocer's assistant in his native town. From his twenty-third till his thirty-ninth year, he acted as clerk to a wine-merchant in Leith. In 1837, he was preferred to the office of Collector of Poor's-rates in Leith, and continued to hold this appointment till his death. This event took place on the 4th December 1850, in his fifty-second year.

A man of amiable and social dispositions, Gilfillan was much cherished among the wits of the capital. A volume of lyrics from his pen passed through two editions; and several of his songs have been set to music, and have attained a well-merited popularity. His style is remarkable for graceful simplicity.

MANOR BRAES.

TUNE--_"Logan Water."_

Where Manor stream rins blithe an' clear, And Castlehill's white wa's appear, I spent ae day, aboon a' days, By Manor stream, 'mang Manor braes. The purple heath was just in bloom, And bonnie waved the upland broom, The flocks on flowery braes lay still, Or, heedless, wander'd at their will.

'Twas there, 'mid Nature's calm repose, Where Manor clearest, saftest flows, I met a maiden fair to see, Wi' modest look and bashfu' e'e; Her beauty to the mind did bring A morn where summer blends wi' spring, So bright, so pure, so calm, so fair, 'Twas bliss to look--to linger there!

Ilk word cam frae her bosom warm, Wi' love to win and sense to charm, So much of nature, nought of art, She 'll live enthroned within my heart! Aboon her head the laverock sang, And 'neath her feet the wild-flowers sprang; Oh, let me dwell, where beauty strays, By Manor stream an' Manor braes.

I speir'd gif ane sae young an' fair Knew aught of love, wi' a' its care? She said her heart frae love was free, But aye she blush'd wi' downcast e'e. The parting cam, as partings come, Wi' looks that speak, though tongues be dumb; Yet I 'll return, ere many days, To live an' love 'mang Manor braes.

FARE THEE WELL.

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

Fare thee well, for I must leave thee; But, oh, let not our parting grieve thee; Happier days may yet be mine, At least I wish them thine--believe me!

We part--but by those dew-drops clear, My love for thee will last for ever; I leave thee--but thy image dear, Thy tender smiles, will leave me never. Fare thee well, &c.

Oh! dry those pearly tears that flow-- One farewell smile before we sever; The only balm for parting woe Is--fondly hope 'tis not for ever. Fare thee well, &c.

Though dark and dreary lowers the night, Calm and serene may be the morrow; The cup of pleasure ne'er shone bright, Without some mingling drops of sorrow! Fare thee well, for I must leave thee, But, oh, let not our parting grieve thee; Happier days may yet be mine, At least I wish them thine--believe me!

THE FIRST ROSE OF SUMMER.

'Tis the first rose of summer that opes to my view, With its bright crimson bosom all bathed in the dew; It bows to its green leaves with pride from its throne-- 'Tis the queen of the valley, and reigneth alone.

Oh! why, lovely stranger! thus early in bloom, Art thou here to assure us that summer is come? The primrose and harebell appear with the spring, But tidings of summer the young roses bring.

Thou fair gift of nature (I welcome the boon), Was 't the lark of the morning that 'woke thee so soon? Yet I weep, thou sweet floweret! for soon, from the sky, The lark shall repose where thy leaves wither'd lie.

Oh! if beauty could save thee, thou ne'er wouldst decay, But, alas! soon thou 'lt perish and wither away; And thy kindred may blossom, and blossom as fair-- Yet I 'll mourn, lonely rosebud! when thou art not there.

THE EXILE'S SONG.

TUNE--_"My ain Countrie."_

Oh! why left I my hame, Why did I cross the deep? Oh! why left I the land Where my forefathers sleep? I sigh for Scotia's shore, And I gaze across the sea; But I canna get a blink O' my ain countrie!

The palm-tree waveth high, And fair the myrtle springs, And to the Indian maid The bulbul sweetly sings; But I dinna see the broom Wi' its tassels on the lea, Nor hear the lintie's sang O' my ain countrie!

Oh! here no Sabbath bell Awakes the Sabbath morn, Nor song of reapers heard Amang the yellow corn; For the tyrant's voice is here, And the wail of slaverie, But the sun of freedom shines In my ain countrie!

There 's a hope for every woe, And a balm for every pain; But the first joys o' our heart Come never back again. There 's a track upon the deep, And a path across the sea, But the weary ne'er return To their ain countrie!

THE HAPPY DAYS O' YOUTH.

Oh! the happy days o' youth are fast gaun by, And age is coming on, wi' its bleak winter sky; An' whar shall we shelter frae its storms when they blaw, When the gladsome days o' youth are flown awa'?

They said that wisdom cam wi' manhood's riper years, But naething did they tell o' its sorrows an' tears; Oh! I 'd gie a' the wit, gif ony wit be mine, For ae sunny morning o' bonnie langsyne.

I canna dow but sigh, I canna dow but mourn, For the blithe happy days that never can return; When joy was in the heart, an' love was on the tongue, An' mirth on ilka face, for ilka face was young.

Oh! the bonnie weaving broom, whaur aften we did meet, Wi' its yellow flowers that fell like gowd 'mang our feet; The bird would stop its sang, but only for a wee, As we gaed by its nest, 'neath its ain birk-tree.

Oh! the sunny days o' youth, they couldna aye remain-- There was ower meikle joy and ower little pain; Sae fareweel, happy days! an' fareweel, youthfu' glee! The young may court your smiles, but ye 're gane frae me.

'TIS SAIR TO DREAM.

'Tis sair to dream o' them we like, That waking we sall never see; Yet oh! how kindly was the smile My laddie in my sleep gave me! I thought we sat beside the burn That wimples down the flowery glen, Where, in our early days o' love, We met that ne'er sall meet again.

The simmer sun sank 'neath the wave, And gladden'd wi' his parting ray The woodland wild and valley green, Fast fading into gloamin' gray. He talk'd of days o' future joy, And yet my heart was haflins sair; For when his eye it beam'd on me, A withering death-like glance was there!

I thought him dead, and then I thought That life was young and love was free; For o'er our heads the mavis sang, And hameward hied the janty bee! We pledged our love and plighted troth, But cauld, cauld was the kiss he gave; When, starting from my dream, I found His troth was plighted to the grave!

I canna weep, for hope is fled, And nought would do but silent mourn, Were 't no for dreams that should na come, To whisper back my love's return. 'Tis sair to dream o' them we like, That waking we sall never see; Yet, oh! how kindly was the smile My laddie in my sleep gave me!

METRICAL TRANSLATIONS

FROM

The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.

METRICAL TRANSLATIONS

FROM

The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.

WILLIAM ROSS.

William Ross, the Bard of Gairloch, and the Burns of the Gaelic Highlands, was born at Broadford, in the island of Skye, in 1762. He received his school education at Forres, whither his parents removed during his youth, and obtained his training as a poet among the wilds of Highland scenery, which he visited with his father, who followed the calling of a pedlar. Acquiring a knowledge of the classics and of general learning, he was found qualified for the situation of parish school-master of Gairloch. He died at Gairloch in 1790, at the early age of twenty-eight. Ross celebrated the praises of whisky (_uisg-bea_) in several lyrics, which continue popular among the Gael; but the chief theme of his inspiration was "Mary Ross," a fair Hebridean, whose coldness and ultimate desertion are understood to have proved fatal to the too susceptible poet.

THE HIGHLAND MAY.

I.

Let the maids of the Lowlands Vaunt their silks and their Hollands, In the garb of the Highlands Oh give me my dear! Such a figure for grace! For the Loves such a face! And for lightness the pace That the grass shall not stir. * * * * *

II.

Lips of cherry confine Teeth of ivory shine, And with blushes combine To keep us in thrall. Thy converse exceeding All eloquent pleading, Thy voice never needing To rival the fall Of the music of art,-- Steal their way to the heart, And resistless impart Their enchantment to all.

III.

When _Beltane_ is over, And summer joys hover, With thee a glad rover I 'll wander along, Where the harp-strings of nature Are strung by each creature, And the sleep shall be sweeter That lulls to their song, There, bounding together, On the lawn of the heather, And free from the tether, The heifers shall throng.

IV.

There shall pasture the ewes, There the spotted goats browse, And the kids shall arouse In their madness of play; They shall butt, they shall fight, They shall emulate flight, They shall break with delight O'er the mountains away. And there shall my Mary With her faithful one tarry, And never be weary In the hollows to stray.

V.

While a concert shall cheer us, For the bushes are near us; And the birds shall not fear us, We 'll harbour so still.

* * * * *

Strains the mavis his throat, Lends the cuckoo her note, And the world is forgot By the side of the hill.

THE CELT AND THE STRANGER.

The dawn it is breaking; but lonesome and eerie Is the hour of my waking, afar from the glen.[50] Alas! that I ever came a wanderer hither, Where the tongue of the stranger is racking my brain!

Cleft in twain is my heart, all my pleasure betraying; The half is behind, but the better is straying The shade of the hills and the copses away in, And the truant I call to the Lowlands in vain.

I know why it wanders,--it is to be treading Where long I frequented the haunts of my dear, The meadow so dewy, the glades so o'erspreading, With the gowans to lean on, the mavis to cheer.

It is to be tending where heifers are wending, And the birds, with the music of love, are contending; And rapture, its passion to innocence lending, Is a dance in my soul, and a song in my ear.

[50] This song was written in Edinburgh.

CORMAC'S CURE.

The following is a portion of the poet's "Lament for his Lost Love," on her departure to England with her husband. Cormac, an Irish harper, was long entertained in his professional character by Macleod of Lewis; and had the temerity to make love to the chief's daughter. On the discovery, and its apprehended consequences to his safety, he is said to have formed the desperate resolution of slaying the father, and carrying away the lady. His hand was stayed, as he raised the deadly weapon, by the sudden appearance of Macleod's son; who, with rare and commendable temper, advised him to look for a love among the hundred maidens of his own degree who were possessed of equal charms. With the same uncommon self-command, poor Cormac formed the resolution of drowning his love in the swell of his own music. Ross applies the story to his own case.

Thus sung the minstrel Cormac, his anguish to beguile, And laid his hand upon his harp, and struck the strings the while-- "Since they have taught my lady fair on her poet's gifts to frown, In deeper swellings of the lay, I 'll learn my love to drown."

When Colin Cormac's guilty grasp was closing with the spear, Rush'd in the chieftain's heir, and cried, "What frenzied mood is here! Sure many a May of ruby ray, as blushful on the brow, As rosy on the lip, is there--then, why so frantic thou?"

The heart-struck minstrel heard the word; and though his flame, uncured, Still fired his soul, in haste the shores of danger he abjured: But aye he rung his harp, though now it knew another strain, And loud arose its warblings as the sounding of the main.

Yes! 'twas an organ peal that soar'd the vocal lift along, As chorus'd to the high-strung harp his words of mightier song, Lest, hapless chance! should rise, above the swelling of the tide, A remnant of the ambitious love that sought a noble bride.

But I, alas! no language find, of Sassenach or Gael, Nor note of music in the land, my cureless woe to quail. And art thou gone, without a word, without a kindly look Of smiling comfort, on the bard whose life thy beauty shook?

Not so it fared with Cormac; for thus the tale is told, That never, to the last, he brook'd desertion's bitter cold. His comrades sorrow'd round him; his dear vouchsafed a kiss-- He almost thought he heard her sigh, "_Come back again to bliss!_"

THE LAST LAY OF LOVE.

This was composed when Ross was dying, and probably when he was aware of his approaching end. He died of consumption, precipitated by the espousals of his mistress to another lover.

Reft the charm of the social shell By the touch of the sorrowful mood; And already the worm, in her cell, Is preparing the birth of her brood.

She blanches the hue of my cheek, And exposes my desperate love; Nor needs it that death should bespeak The hurt no remeid can remove.

The step, 'twas a pleasure to trace, Even that has withdrawn from the scene; And, now, not a breeze can displace A leaf from its summit of green

So prostrate and fallen to lie, So far from the branch where it hung, As, in dust and in helplessness, I, From the hope to which passion had clung.

Yet, benison bide! where thy choice Deems its bliss and its treasure secure, May the months in thy blessings rejoice, While their rise and their wane shall endure!

For me, a poor warrior, in blood By thy arrow-shot steep'd, I am prone, The glow of ambition subdued, The weapons of rivalry gone.

Yet, cruel to mock me, the base Who scoff at the name of the bard, To scorn the degree of my race, Their toil and their travail, is hard.

Since one, a bold yeoman ne'er drew A furrow unstraight or unpaid; And the other, to righteousness true, Hung even the scales of his trade.

And I--ah! they should not compel To waken the theme of my praise; I can boast over hundreds, to tell Of a chief in the conflict of lays.

And now it is over--the heart That bounded, the hearing that thrill'd, In the song-fight shall never take part, And weakness gives warning to yield.

As the discord that raves 'neath the cloud That is raised by the dash of the spray When waters are battling aloud, Bewilderment bears me away.

And to measure the song in its charm, Or to handle the viol with skill, Or beauty with carols to warm, Gone for ever, the power and the will.

No never, no never, ascend To the mountain-pass glories, shall I, In the cheer of the chase to unbend; Enough, it is left but to die.

And yet, shall I go to my rest, Where the dead of my brothers repair-- To the hall of the bards, not unblest, That their worthies before me are there?

LACHLAN MACVURICH.

This bard, known by his territorial designation of "Strathmassie," lived during nearly eighty years of the last century, and died towards its close. His proper patronymic was Macpherson. He was a favourite tenant of the chief of Cluny, and continued to enjoy the benefit of his lease of a large farm in Badenoch, after the misfortunes of the family, and forfeiture of their estate. He was very intimate with his clansman, James Macpherson, who has identified his own fame so immortally with that of Ossian. Lachlan had the reputation of being his Gaelic tutor, and was certainly his fellow-traveller during the preparation of his work. In the specimens of his poetical talents which are preserved, "Strathmassie" evinces the command of good Gaelic, though there is nothing to indicate his power of being at all serviceable to his namesake in that fabrication of imagery, legends, and sentiments, which, in the opinion of many, constitutes all that we have in the name of Ossian.

THE EXILE OF CLUNY.

The brave chief of Cluny, after lingering long on the heights of Benalder, where he entertained his unfortunate prince during some of the last days of the adventurer's wandering, at length took shipping for France, amidst the tears and regrets of a clan that loved him with the fondest devotion. "Strathmassie" seems to have caught, in the following verses, some characteristic traits of his chief, in whom peaceful dispositions were remarkably blended with the highest courage in warfare.

Oh, many a true Highlander, many a liegeman, Is blank on the roll of the brave in our land; And bare as its heath is the dark mountain region, Of its own and its prince's defenders unmann'd. The hound's death abhorr'd, some have died by the cord, And the axe with the best of our blood is defiled, And e'en to the visions of hope unrestored, Some have gone from among us, for ever exiled.

He is gone from among us, our chieftain of Cluny; At the back of the steel, a more valiant ne'er stood; Our father, our champion, bemoan we, bemoan we! In battle, the brilliant; in friendship, the good. When the sea shut him from us, then the cross of our trial Was hung on the mast and was swung in the wind: "Woe the worth we have sepulchred!" now is the cry all; "Save the shade of a memory, is nothing behind."

What symbols may match our brave chief's animation? When his wrath was awake, 'twas a furnace in glow; As a surge on the rock struck his bold indignation, As the breach to the wall was his arm to the foe. So the tempest comes down, when it lends in its fury To the frown of its darkness the rattling of hail; So rushes the land-flood in turmoil and hurry, So bickers the hill-flame when fed by the gale.

Yet gentle as Peace was the flower of his race, Rare was shade on his face, as dismay in his heart; The brawl and the scuffle he deem'd a disgrace, But the hand to the brand was as ready to start. Who could grapple with him in firmness of limb And sureness of sinew? and--for the stout blow-- 'Twas the scythe to the swathe in the meadows of death, Where numbers were levell'd as fast and as low.

Ever loyal to reason, we 've seen him appeasing With a wave of one hand the confusion of strife; With the other unsheathing his sword, and, unbreathing, Following on for the right in the havoc of life. To the wants of the helpless, the wail of the weak, His hand aye was open, his arm was aye strong; And under yon sun, not a tongue can bespeak His word or his deed that was blemish'd with wrong.

JAMES M'LAGGAN.

James M'Laggan was the son of a small farmer at Ballechin, in the parish of Logierait, Perthshire, where he was born in 1728. Educated at the University of St Andrews, he received license as a probationer of the Established Church. Through the influence of the Duke of Atholl, he was appointed to the Chapel of Ease, at Amulree, in Perthshire, and subsequently to the chaplainship of the 42d Regiment, his commission to the latter office bearing date the 15th of June 1764. His predecessor in the chaplainship was Dr Adam Ferguson, author of the "History of the Roman Republic," who was also a native of the parish of Logierait.

Than Mr M'Laggan, few could have been better qualified for the duties of chaplain to a Highland regiment. He was intimately conversant with the language, character, and partialities of the Gael, and was possessed of much military ardour, as well as Christian devotedness. He accompanied the regiment to America, and was present in several skirmishes during the War of Independence. Anecdotes are still recounted of the humour and spirit with which he maintained an influence over the minds of his flock; and Stewart, in his "History of the Highlands," has described him as having essentially contributed to form the character of the Highland soldier, then in the novitiate of his loyalty and efficiency in the national service. In 1776, while stationed with his regiment in Glasgow, he had the freedom of the city conferred on him by the corporation. After discharging the duties of military chaplain during a period of twenty-four years, he was in 1788 presented by the Duke of Atholl to the parish of Blair-Athole, Perthshire. He died in 1805, in the seventy-seventh year of his age.

A pious and exemplary clergyman, Mr M'Laggan is still kindly remembered in the scene of his parochial ministrations. An accomplished Gaelic scholar, and with a strong admiration of the poetry of the Gael, he recovered, from the recitation of many aged persons, large portions of the poetry of Ossian, prior to the publication of the collections of Macpherson.[51] He composed some spirited Gaelic lyrics during the period of his connexion with the army, but the greater portion of his poetry still remains in MS. A collection of Gaelic songs under his editorial superintendence was published anonymously.