Part 8

From his early years, Park had cultivated a taste for literature. The parishioners of Westerkirk have long been commended for their inquisitive turn of mind; many years ago they established a subscription library, to which Mr Telford, the celebrated engineer, who was a native of the parish, bequeathed a legacy of a thousand pounds. The rustic poet suddenly emerged from his obscurity, when he was encouraged to publish a volume entitled "The Vale of Esk, and other Poems," Edin., 1833, 12mo. About the same period he became a contributor of poetry to _Blackwood's Magazine_, and a writer of prose articles in the provincial newspapers. On the death of Dr Brown, in 1837, he took, in conjunction with a son-in-law, a lease of the farm of Holmains, in the parish of Dalton, and now enjoyed greater leisure for the prosecution of his literary tastes. In May 1843, he undertook the editorship of the _Dumfries Standard_ newspaper; but had just commenced his duties, when he was seized with an illness which proved fatal. He died at Holmains on the 5th June 1843. His widow still lives in Eskdalemuir; and of their numerous family, some have emigrated to America.

Park's compositions were not strictly lyrical, but "The Patriot's Song," which we have selected from his volume, seems worthy of a place in the national minstrelsy. His style is smooth and flowing, and he evinces a passionate admiration of the beautiful in nature.

[29] William Brown, D.D., author of "Antiquities of the Jews." Lond., 1825, 2 vols. 8vo.

THE PATRIOT'S SONG.

Shall I leave thee, thou land to my infancy dear, Ere I know aught of toil or of woe, For the clime of the stranger, the solitude drear, And a thousand endearments forego?

Shall I give my lone bosom a prey to its strife? Must I friendship's just claims disallow? No; her breathings can cool the hot fever of life, As the breeze fans the sea-beaten brow.

'Tis said that the comforts of plenty abound In the wide-spreading plains of the west; That there an asylum of peace shall be found Where the care-stricken wanderer may rest.

That nature uncheck'd there displays all her pride In the forest unfading and deep; That the river rolls onward its ocean-like tide, Encircling broad realms in its sweep.

But is there a spot in that far distant land Where fancy or feeling may dwell? Or how shall the heart of the exile expand, Untouch'd by Society's spell?

Though thy children, old Albyn! adversity bear, As forlorn o'er thy mountains they roam, Yet I 've found, what in vain I should seek for elsewhere-- I have found 'mong these mountains a home.

How lovely the beam on thy moorland appears, As it streams from the eye of the morn! And how comely the garment that evening wears When the day of its glories is shorn!

Ah! strong are the ties that the patriot bind, Fair isle of the sea! to thy shore; The turf that he treads, by the best of their kind, By the bravest, was trodden before.

Nor is there a field--not a foot of thy soil, In dale or in mountain-land dun, Unmark'd in the annals of chivalrous toil, Ere concord its conquest had won.

The rill hath a voice from the rock as it pours, It comes from the glen on the gale, For the life-blood of martyrs hath hallow'd thy muirs, And their names are revered in the vale.

How sacred the stone that, remote on the heath, O'er the bones of the righteous was laid, Who triumph'd in death o'er the foes of their faith, When the banner of truth was display'd!

And sweet are the songs of the land of my love, And soothing their tones to the soul, Or lofty and loud, like the thunder above, Or the storm-cloud of passion, they roll.

While summer, beyond the Atlantic's wide waste, A gaudier garb may assume, My country! thou boastest the verdure of taste, And thy glories immortally bloom.

No! I will not forsake thee, thou land of my lay! The scorn of the stranger to brave; O'er thy lea I have revell'd in youth's sunny ray, And thy wild-flowers shall spangle my grave.

THOMAS PRINGLE.

Thomas Pringle was born on the 5th of January 1789 at Blaiklaw, in Teviotdale, a farm rented by his father, and of which his progenitors had been tenants for a succession of generations. By an accident in infancy, he suffered dislocation of one of his limbs, which rendered the use of crutches necessary for life. Attending the grammar school of Kelso for three years, he entered as a student the University of Edinburgh. From his youth he had devoted himself to extensive reading, and during his attendance at college he formed the resolution of adopting literature as a profession. In 1808 he accepted the appointment of copying-clerk in the General Register House, occupying his intervals of leisure in composition. He published, in 1811--in connexion with his ingenious friend, Robert Story, the present minister of Roseneath--a poem entitled, "The Institute," which obtained a considerable share of public favour. In 1816 he became a contributor to Campbell's "Albyn's Anthology;" and produced an excellent imitation of the poetical style of Sir Walter Scott for Hogg's "Poetic Mirror." Concurring with Hogg in a proposal to establish a new monthly periodical, in order to supersede the _Scots' Magazine_, which had much sunk in the literary scale, he united with him in submitting the scheme to Mr Blackwood, who was then becoming known as an enterprising publisher. By Mr Blackwood the proposal was well received; a periodical was originated under the title of the _Edinburgh Monthly Magazine_, and Pringle relinquished his post in the Register House to undertake the editorship. In April 1817 the first number of the magazine appeared, adorned with contributions from Wilson, Lockhart, the Shepherd, and others of literary reputation. An interesting article on "Gypsies" was Pringle's own contribution, the materials being kindly supplied to him by Sir Walter Scott. The occurrence of serious differences between the editor and publisher, however, soon menaced the continuance of a periodical which had commenced so prosperously; the result was, the withdrawal of Pringle from the concern, and an announcement in the September number that the magazine was discontinued. The discontinuance was merely nominal: a new series, under the title of _Blackwood's Magazine_, appeared in October, under the literary superintendence of Wilson; while, in the August preceding, Pringle had originated, under the publishing auspices of Mr Constable, _The Edinburgh Magazine and Literary Miscellany_, as a new series of the _Scots' Magazine_. In the first number of Mr Blackwood's new series appeared the celebrated "Chaldee MS.," a humorous pasquinade, chiefly directed against Pringle and his literary friend Cleghorn, and which, on account of its evident personalities, was afterwards cancelled.

Besides conducting Constable's magazine, Pringle undertook the editorship of _The Star_, a bi-weekly newspaper; but he was led soon to renounce both these literary appointments. He now published the "Autumnal Excursion, and other Poems;" but finding, in spite of every effort, that he was unable to support himself by literature, he resumed, early in 1819, his humble situation in the Register House.

When his literary affairs were prosperous, Pringle had entered into the married state, but his present emoluments were wholly unequal to the comfortable maintenance of his family. He formed the resolution of emigrating to South Africa, then a favourite colony, and a number of his wife's relatives and his own consented to accompany him. In February 1820 he embarked for the Cape, along with his father and other relatives, in all numbering twenty-four persons. The emigrants landed on the 5th of June, and forthwith took possession of the territory assigned them by the home government, extending to 20,000 acres, situate in the upper part of the valley of Baaviars river, a tributary of the Great Fish river. In this place, which the colonists designated Glen-lynden, Pringle remained about two years, till his friends were comfortably settled. He thereafter proceeded to Cape Town, in quest of literary employment. He was appointed keeper of the Government library, with a salary of L75, and soon after found himself at the head of a flourishing educational establishment. He now established a periodical, which he designated the _South African Commercial Advertiser_, and became editor of a weekly newspaper, originated by an enterprising printer. But misfortune continued to attend his literary adventures: in consequence of certain interferences of the local government, he was compelled to abandon both his periodical and newspaper, while the opposition of the administrative officials led to his seminary being deserted. Leaving the colony for Britain, he arrived in London in July 1826; and failing to obtain from the home government a reparation of his losses in the colony, he was necessitated anew to seek a precarious subsistence from literature. An article which he had written on slavery, in the _New Monthly Magazine_, led to his appointment as secretary to the Anti-slavery Society. This situation, so admirably suited to his talents and predilections, he continued to hold till the office became unnecessary, by the legislative abolition of slavery on the 27th of June 1834. He now became desirous of returning to the Cape, but was meanwhile seized with a pulmonary affection, which proved fatal on the 5th December 1834, in his forty-sixth year. His remains were interred in Bunhill-field Cemetery, where a tombstone, with an inscription by his poetical friend William Kennedy, has been erected to his memory.

As a poet, Pringle is chiefly remarkable for elegance of versification, perspicuity of sentiment, and deep and generous feeling. A thorough patriot, some of his best songs on subjects connected with Scottish scenery were written on the plains of Africa. Beneficent in disposition, and conciliatory in private intercourse, he was especially uncompromising in the maintenance of his political opinions; and to this peculiarity may be traceable some of his earlier misfortunes. In person he was under the middle height; his countenance was open and benignant, with a well developed forehead. He was much influenced by sincere religious convictions. His poetical works, with a memoir by Mr Leitch Ritchie, have been published by Mr Moxon for the benefit of his widow.

FAREWELL TO BONNIE TEVIOTDALE.

Our native land--our native vale-- A long, a last adieu; Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale, And Cheviot's mountains blue!

Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds, Ye streams renown'd in song; Farewell, ye braes and blossom'd meads, Our hearts have loved so long!

Farewell, the blithsome broomy knowes, Where thyme and harebells grow; Farewell, the hoary, haunted howes, O'erhung with birk and sloe!

The mossy cave and mouldering tower, That skirt our native dells; The martyr's grave and lover's bower, We bid a sad farewell!

Home of our love--our fathers' home-- Land of the brave and free-- The sail is flapping on the foam That bears us far from thee!

We seek a wild and distant shore, Beyond the western main; We leave thee to return no more, Nor view thy cliffs again!

Our native land--our native vale-- A long, a last adieu! Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale, And Scotland's mountains blue!

THE EXILE'S LAMENT.

By the lone Mankayana's margin gray A Scottish maiden sung; And mournfully pour'd her melting lay In Teviot's border-tongue: O bonnie grows the broom on Blaiklaw knowes, And the birk in Clifton dale; And green are the hills o' the milk-white ewes, By the briery banks o' Cayle!

Here bright are the skies; and these valleys of bloom May enchant the traveller's eye; But all seems dress'd in death-like gloom, To the exile who comes to die! O bonnie grows the broom, &c.

Far round and round spreads the howling waste, Where the wild beast roams at will; And yawning cleughs, by woods embraced, Where the savage lurks to kill! O bonnie grows the broom, &c.

Full oft over Cheviot's uplands green My dreaming fancy strays; But I wake to weep 'mid the desolate scene That scowls on my aching gaze! O bonnie grows the broom, &c.

Oh light, light is poverty's lowliest state, On Scotland's peaceful strand, Compared with the heart-sick exile's fate, In this wild and weary land! O bonnie grows the broom, &c.

LOVE AND SOLITUDE.

I love the free ridge of the mountain, When dawn lifts her fresh dewy eye; I love the old ash by the fountain, When noon's summer fervours are high: And dearly I love when the gray-mantled gloaming Adown the dim valley glides slowly along, And finds me afar by the pine-forest roaming, A-list'ning the close of the gray linnet's song.

When the moon from her fleecy cloud scatters Over ocean her silvery light, And the whisper of woodlands and waters Comes soft through the silence of night-- I love by the ruin'd tower lonely to linger, A-dreaming to fancy's wild witchery given, And hear, as if swept by some seraph's pure finger, The harp of the winds breathing accents of heaven.

Yet still, 'mid sweet fancies o'erflowing, Oft bursts from my lone breast the sigh-- I yearn for the sympathies glowing, When hearts to each other reply! Come, friend of my bosom! with kindred devotion, To worship with me by wild mountain and grove; O come, my Eliza, with dearer emotion, With rapture to hallow the chaste home of love!

COME AWA', COME AWA'.

Come awa', come awa', An' o'er the march wi' me, lassie; Leave your southren wooers a', My winsome bride to be, lassie! Lands nor gear I proffer you, Nor gauds to busk ye fine, lassie; But I 've a heart that 's leal and true, And a' that heart is thine, lassie!

Come awa', come awa', And see the kindly north, lassie, Out o'er the peaks o' Lammerlair, And by the Links o' Forth, lassie! And when we tread the heather-bell, Aboon Demayat lea, lassie, You 'll view the land o' flood and fell, The noble north countrie, lassie!

Come awa', come awa', And leave your southland hame, lassie; The kirk is near, the ring is here, And I 'm your Donald Graeme, lassie! Rock and reel and spinning-wheel, And English cottage trig, lassie; Haste, leave them a', wi' me to speel The braes 'yont Stirling brig, lassie!

Come awa', come awa', I ken your heart is mine, lassie, And true love shall make up for a' For whilk ye might repine, lassie! Your father he has gi'en consent, Your step-dame looks na kind, lassie; O that our feet were on the bent, An' the lowlands far behind, lassie!

Come awa', come awa', Ye 'll ne'er hae cause to rue, lassie; My cot blinks blithe beneath the shaw, By bonnie Avondhu, lassie! There 's birk and slae on ilka brae, And brackens waving fair, lassie, And gleaming lochs and mountains gray-- Can aught wi' them compare, lassie? Come awa', come awa', &c.

DEAREST LOVE, BELIEVE ME!

Dearest love, believe me, Though all else depart, Nought shall e'er deceive thee In this faithful heart. Beauty may be blighted-- Youth must pass away; But the vows we plighted Ne'er shall know decay.

Tempests may assail us From affliction's coast, Fortune's breeze may fail us When we need it most; Fairest hopes may perish, Firmest friends may change, But the love we cherish Nothing shall estrange.

Dreams of fame and grandeur End in bitter tears; Love grows only fonder With the lapse of years; Time, and change, and trouble, Weaker ties unbind, But the bands redouble True affection twined.

WILLIAM KNOX.

William Knox, a short-lived poet of considerable merit, was born at Firth, in the parish of Lilliesleaf, Roxburghshire, on the 17th August 1789. His father, Thomas Knox, espoused Barbara Turnbull, the widow of a country gentleman, Mr Pott of Todrig, in Selkirkshire; and of this marriage, William was the eldest son. He was educated at the parish school of Lilliesleaf, and, subsequently, at the grammar school of Musselburgh. In 1812, he became lessee of the farm of Wrae, near Langholm, Dumfriesshire; but his habits were not those of a thriving farmer, and, at the expiry of five years, he was led to abandon his lease. His parents had, meanwhile, removed to the farm of Todrig, and he returned thither to the shelter of the parental roof. In 1820, the family, who had fallen into straitened circumstances, proceeded to Edinburgh, where they opened a lodging-house. William now devoted his attention to literature, contributing extensively to the public journals. From his youth he had composed verses. In 1818, he published "The Lonely Hearth, and other Poems," 12mo; in 1824, "The Songs of Israel," 12mo; and in April 1825, a third duodecimo volume of lyrics, entitled "The Harp of Zion." His poetical merits attracted the notice of Sir Walter Scott, who afforded him kindly countenance and occasional pecuniary assistance. He likewise enjoyed the friendly encouragement of Professor Wilson, and other men of letters.

Of amiable and benevolent dispositions, Knox fell a victim to the undue gratification of his social propensities; he was seized with paralysis, and died at Edinburgh on the 12th of November 1825, at the early age of thirty-six. His poetry, always smooth and harmonious, is largely pervaded with pathetic and religious sentiment. Some of his Scriptural paraphrases are exquisite specimens of sacred verse. A new edition of his poetical works was published at London, in 1847. Besides his poetical works, he published "A Visit to Dublin," and a Christmas tale entitled "Marianne, or the Widower's Daughter." He left several compositions in prose and verse, but these have not been published by his executors.

Knox was short in stature, but handsomely formed; his complexion was fair, and his hair of a light colour. Subject to a variation of spirits in private, he was generally cheerful in society. He sang or repeated his own songs with much enthusiasm, and was keenly alive to his literary reputation. Possessing a fund of humour, he excelled in relating curious anecdotes.

THE DEAR LAND OF CAKES.

O brave Caledonians! my brothers, my friends, Now sorrow is borne on the wings of the winds; Care sleeps with the sun in the seas of the west, And courage is lull'd in the warrior's breast. Here social pleasure enlivens each heart, And friendship is ready its warmth to impart; The goblet is fill'd, and each worn one partakes, To drink plenty and peace to the dear land of cakes.

Though the Bourbon may boast of his vine-cover'd hills, Through each bosom the tide of depravity thrills; Though the Indian may sit in his green orange bowers, There slavery's wail counts the wearisome hours. Though our island is beat by the storms of the north, There blaze the bright meteors of valour and worth; There the loveliest rose-bud of beauty awakes From that cradle of virtue, the dear land of cakes.

O valour! thou guardian of freedom and truth, Thou stay of old age, and thou guidance of youth! Still, still thy enthusiast transports pervade The breast that is wrapt in the green tartan plaid. And ours are the shoulders that never shall bend To the rod of a tyrant, that scourge of a land; Ours the bosoms no terror of death ever shakes, When call'd in defence of the dear land of cakes.

Shall the ghosts of our fathers, aloft on each cloud, When the rage of the battle is dreadful and loud, See us shrink from our standard with fear and dismay, And leave to our foemen the pride of the day? No, by heavens we will stand to our honour and trust! Till our heart's blood be shed on our ancestors' dust, Till we sink to the slumber no war-trumpet breaks, Beneath the brown heath of the dear land of cakes.

O, peace to the ashes of those that have bled For the land where the proud thistle raises its head! O, peace to the ashes of those gave us birth, In a land freedom renders the boast of the earth! Though their lives are extinguish'd, their spirit remains, And swells in their blood that still runs in our veins; Still their deathless achievements our ardour awakes, For the honour and weal of the dear land of cakes.

Ye sons of old Scotia, ye friends of my heart, From our word, from our trust, let us never depart; Nor e'er from our foe till with victory crown'd, And the balm of compassion is pour'd in his wound; And still to our bosom be honesty dear, And still to our loves and our friendships sincere; And, till heaven's last thunder the firmament shakes, May happiness beam on the dear land of cakes.

THE LAMENT.

She was mine when the leaves of the forest were green, When the rose-blossoms hung on the tree; And dear, dear to me were the joys that had been, And I dreamt of enjoyments to be.

But she faded more fast than the blossoms could fade, No human attention could save; And when the green leaves of the forest decay'd, The winds strew'd them over her grave.

TO MARY.

Farewell! and though my steps depart From scenes for ever dear, O Mary! I must leave my heart And all my pleasures here; And I must cherish in my mind, Where'er my lot shall be, A thought of her I leave behind-- A hopeless thought of thee.

O Mary! I can ne'er forget The charm thy presence brought; No hour has pass'd since first we met, But thou hast shared my thought. At early morn, at sultry noon, Beneath the spreading tree, And, wandering by the evening moon, Still, still I think of thee.

Yea, thou hast come to cheer my dream, And bid me grieve no more, But at the morn's returning gleam, I sorrow'd as before; Yet thou shalt still partake my care, And when I bend the knee, And pour to Heaven a fervent prayer, I will remember thee.

Farewell! and when my steps depart, Though many a grief be mine, And though I may conceal my own, I 'll weep to hear of thine. Though from thy memory soon depart Each little trace of me, 'Tis only in the grave this heart Can cease to think of thee.

WILLIAM THOM.