Chapter 13

The silver moon is beaming, On Clyde her light is streaming; And, while the world is dreaming, We 'll talk of love, my dear. None, my Jean, will share this bosom, Where thine image loves to blossom; And no storm will ever sever That dear flow'r, or part us ever.

OH! OUR CHILDHOOD'S ONCE DELIGHTFUL HOURS.

AIR--_"Oh! the days are past when beauty bright."_

Oh! our childhood's once delightful hours Ne'er come again-- Their sunny glens, their blooming bowers, And primrose plain! With other days, Ambitious rays May flash upon our mind; But give me back the morn of life, With fond thoughts twined; As it sweetly broke on bower and hill, And youth's gay mind!

Oh! our childhood's days are ne'er forgot On life's dark sea, And memory hails that sacred spot Where'er we be; It leaves all joys, And fondly sighs As youth comes on the mind, And looks upon the morn of life With fond thoughts, &c.

When age will come, with locks of gray, To quench youth's spark, And its stream runs cold along the way Where all seems dark, 'Twill smiling gaze, As memory's blaze Breaks on its wavering mind; But 'twill never bring the morn of life, With fond thoughts, &c.

COULD WE BUT LOOK BEYOND OUR SPHERE.

Could we but look beyond our sphere, And trace, along the azure sky, The myriads that were inmates here Since Abel's spirit soar'd on high-- Then might we tell of those who see Our wand'rings from eternity!

But human frailty cannot gaze On such a cloud of splendid light As heaven's sacred court displays, Of blessed spirits clothed in white, Who from the fears of death are free, And look from an eternity.

They look, but ne'er return again To tell the secrets of their home; And kindliest tears for them are vain-- For never, never shall they come, Till Time's pale light begin to flee Before a bright eternity!

Could we but gaze beyond our sphere, Within the golden porch of heaven, And see those spirits which appear Like stars upon the robe of even! But no! unseen to us they see Our wanderings from eternity!

The crimes of men which Heaven saw, And pitied with a parent's eye, Could ne'er a kindred spirit draw In mercy from its home on high; They look, but all they know or see Is silent as eternity!

At noonday hour, or midnight deep, No bright inhabitant draws nigh; And though a parent's offspring weep, No whisper echoes from the sky; Though friends may gaze, yet all they see Is known but in eternity!

Yet we may look beyond our sphere On One who shines among the throng; And we by faith may also hear The triumphs of a glorious song; And while we gaze on Him, we see The path to this eternity!

IN THE MORNING OF LIFE.

In the morning of life, when its sweet sunny smile Shines bright on our path, we may dream we are blest; We may look on the world as a gay fairy isle, Where sorrow 's unknown, and the weary have rest!

But the brightness that shone, and the hopes we enjoy'd, Are clouded ere noon, and soon vanish away; While the dark beating tempest, on life's stormy tide, Obscures all the sweets of the morning's bright ray!

Then where are those bowers, in some gay, happy plain, Where hope ne'er deceives, and where love is aye true; Where the brightness of morning shines on but to gain A sunshine as bright and as promising too?

Oh! ask for it not in this valley of sighs, Where we smile but to weep, and we ne'er can find rest; For the world we would wish shines afar in the skies, Where sorrow 's unknown--'tis the home of the blest!

ON THE DEATH OF A PROMISING CHILD.

Oh! weep not thus, though the child thou hast loved, Still, still as the grave, in silence sleeps on; 'Midst the tears that are shed, his eye is unmoved, And the beat of that bosom for ever is gone: Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!

The world to him, with its sorrows and sighs, Has fled like a dream when the morn appears; While the spirit awakes in the light of the skies, No more to revisit this valley of tears: Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!

Few, few were his years; but, had they been more, The sunshine which smiled might have vanish'd away, And he might have fallen on some far friendless shore, Or been wreck'd amidst storms in some desolate bay: Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!

Like a rosebud of promise, when fresh in the morn, Was the child of thy heart while he lingered here; But now from thy love, from thine arms he is torn, Yet to bloom in a lovelier, happier sphere: Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!

How happy the pilgrim whose journey is o'er, Who, musing, looks back on its dangers and woes; Then rejoice at his rest, for sorrow no more Can start on his dreams, or disturb his repose: Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!

Who would not recline on the breast of a friend, When the night-cloud has lower'd o'er a sorrowful day? Who would not rejoice at his journey's end, When perils and toils encompass'd his way? Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!

THE DYING HOUR.

Why does the day, whose date is brief, Smile sadly o'er the western sea? Why does the brown autumnal leaf Hang restless on its parent tree? Why does the rose, with drooping head, Send richer fragrance from the bow'r? Their golden time of life had fled-- It was their dying hour!

Why does the swan's melodious song Come thrilling on the gentle gale? Why does the lamb, which stray'd along, Lie down to tell its mournful tale? Why does the deer, when wounded, fly To the lone vale, where night-clouds low'r? Their time was past--they lived to die-- It was their dying hour!

Why does the dolphin change its hues, Like that aerial child of light? Why does the cloud of night refuse To meet the morn with beams so bright? Why does the man we saw to-day, To-morrow fade like some sweet flow'r? All earth can give must pass away-- It was their dying hour!

THE MIDNIGHT WIND.

I 've listen'd to the midnight wind, Which seem'd, to fancy's ear, The mournful music of the mind, The echo of a tear; And still methought the hollow sound Which, melting, swept along, The voice of other days had found, With all the powers of song.

I 've listen'd to the midnight wind, And thought of friends untrue-- Of hearts that seem'd so fondly twined, That nought could e'er undo; Of cherish'd hopes, once fondly bright-- Of joys which fancy gave-- Of youthful eyes, whose lovely light Were darken'd in the grave.

I 've listen'd to the midnight wind When all was still as death; When nought was heard before, behind-- Not e'en the sleeper's breath. And I have sat at such an hour And heard the sick man's sigh; Or seen the babe, like some sweet flow'r, At that lone moment die.

I 've listen'd to the midnight wind, And wept for others' woe; Nor could the heart such music find To bid its tear-drops flow. The melting voice of one we loved, Whose voice was heard no more, Seem'd, when those fancied chords were moved, Still breathing as before.

I 've listen'd to the midnight wind, And sat beside the dead, And felt those movings of the mind Which own a secret dread. The ticking clock, which told the hour, Had then a sadder chime; And these winds seem'd an unseen pow'r, Which sung the dirge of time.

I 've listen'd to the midnight wind, When, o'er the new-made grave Of one whose heart was true and kind, Its rudest blasts did rave. Oh! there was something in the sound-- A mournful, melting tone-- Which led the thoughts to that dark ground Where he was left alone.

I 've listen'd to the midnight wind, And courted sleep in vain, While thoughts like these have oft combined To rack the wearied brain. And even when slumber, soft and deep, Has seen the eyelid close, The restless soul, which cannot sleep, Has stray'd till morning rose.

ROBERT DAVIDSON.

Robert Davidson was born in the parish of Morebattle, Roxburghshire, in 1779. The son of humble parents, he was sent to tend cattle in his tenth year. He had received at the parish school a limited education; and he devoted his leisure time on the hills to miscellaneous reading. Learning scraps of old ballads from the cottage matrons, as they sung them at their distaffs, he early began to essay imitations of these olden ditties. As a farm-servant and an agricultural labourer, he continued through life to seek repose from toil in the perusal of poetry and the composition of verses. "My simple muse," he afterwards wrote, "oft visited me at the plough, and made the labour to seem lighter and the day shorter." In 1811, and in 1824, he published small collections of verses. At the recommendation of some influential friends, he published, in 1848, a compact little volume of his best pieces, under the title, "Leaves from a Peasant's Cottage-Drawer;" and to which was prefixed a well-written autobiographical sketch. He was often oppressed by poverty; and, latterly, was the recipient of parochial relief. He died in the parish of Hounam, on the 6th April 1855; and his remains rest in the church-yard of his native parish. Many of his poems are powerful, both in expression and sentiment; and several of his songs are worthy of a place in the national minstrelsy. In private life he was sober, prudent, and industrious.

FAREWELL TO CALEDONIA.

Adieu! a lang and last adieu, My native Caledonia! For while your shores were in my view, I steadfast gazed upon ye, O! Your shores sae lofty, steep, an' bold, Fit emblem of your sons of old, Whose valour, more than mines of gold, Has honour'd Caledonia.

I think how happy I could be, To live and die upon ye, O! Though distant many miles from thee, My heart still hovers o'er ye, O! My fancy haunts your mountains steep, Your forests fair, an' valleys deep, Your plains, where rapid rivers sweep To gladden Caledonia.

Still mem'ry turns to where I spent Life's cheerfu' morn sae bonnie, O! Though by misfortune from it rent, It 's dearer still than ony, O! In vain I 'm told our vessel hies To fertile fields an' kindly skies; But still they want the charm that ties My heart to Caledonia.

My breast had early learn'd to glow At name of Caledonia; Though torn an' toss'd wi' many a foe, She never bow'd to ony, O! A land of heroes, famed an' brave-- A land our fathers bled to save, Whom foreign foes could ne'er enslave-- Adieu to Caledonia!

ON VISITING THE SCENES OF EARLY DAYS.

Ye daisied glens and briery braes, Haunts of my happy early days, Where oft I 've pu'd the blossom'd slaes And flow'rets fair, Before my heart was scathed wi' waes Or worldly care.

Now recollection's airy train Shoots through my heart with pleasing pain, And streamlet, mountain, rock, or plain, Like friends appear, That, lang, lang lost, now found again, Are doubly dear.

But many a dauted object 's fled; Low lies my once paternal shed; Rank hemlocks wild, and weeds, o'erspread The ruin'd heap; Unstirr'd by cheerful tongue or tread, The echoes sleep.

Yon bonnie burn, whose limpid streams, When warm'd with summer's glowing beams, Have often laved my tender limbs, When my employ Was chasing childhood's airy whims From joy to joy.

Upon yon green, at gloamin' gray, I 've often join'd in cheerful play, Wi' comrades guileless, blithe, and gay, Whose magic art, Remember'd at this distant day, Still warms the heart.

Ah, cronies dear! for ever lost! Abroad on life's rough ocean toss'd, By adverse winds and currents cross'd, By watching worn, Some landed on that silent coast, Ne'er to return!

Howe'er the path of life may lie, If poorly low, or proudly high, When scenes of childhood meet our eye, Their charms we own, And yield the tribute of a sigh To days long gone.

TO WANDER LANG IN FOREIGN LANDS.

AIR--_"Auld Langsyne."_

To wander lang in foreign lands, It was my destinie; I joyful was at my return, My native hills to see. My step grew light, my heart grew fain, I thought my cares to tine, Until I fand ilk weel-kenn'd spot Sae alter'd sin' langsyne.

I sigh'd to see the flow'ry green Skaith'd by the ruthless pleugh; Likewise the bank aboon the burn, Where broom and hawthorns grew. A lonely tree, whose aged trunk The ivy did entwine, Still mark'd the spot where youngsters met, In cheerful sports langsyne.

I mixed with the village train, Yet still I seem'd alane; Nae kindly hand did welcome me, For a' my friends were gane. Those friends who oft in foreign lands Did haunt this heart o' mine, And brought to mind the happy days I spent wi' them langsyne.

In youthfu' prime, at fortune's ca', I braved the billows' roar; I 've now seen thirty simmer suns Blink on a distant shore; And I have stood where honour call'd, In the embattled line, And there left many gallant lads, The cronies o' langsyne.

I 've gather'd walth o' weel-won gear, Yet still I fortune blame; I lang wi' strangers pass'd my days, And now I 'm ane at hame. I have nae friend but what my gowd Can draw to mammon's shrine; But how unlike the guileless hearts That wish'd me weel langsyne!

PETER ROGER.

Peter Roger, blacksmith, formerly at Glenormiston, and latterly at Peebles, though more the enthusiastic lover of, than a contributor to, the national minstrelsy, is entitled to remembrance. His numerous communications addressed to the editor of this work, have supplied much information, which has been found useful in the preparation of these volumes. Roger was born at Clovenford, in the parish of Stow, in 1792. For thirty-seven years he wrought as blacksmith at Glenormiston, on the banks of the Tweed, near Innerleithen. In 1852, he removed to Peebles, where he had purchased a small cottage and garden. He died suddenly, at Peebles, on the 3d April 1856, in his 64th year. The following sketch of his character has been supplied, at our request, by his intimate acquaintance, the Rev. James Murray, minister of Old Cumnock:--

"Roger was in many respects a very remarkable man.... He possessed, in an eminent degree, an exquisite natural sympathy with all things beautiful and good. He was an excellent botanist, well-skilled in music, and passionately fond of poetry. His conversation was very interesting; and his slight tendency to dogmatise in the presence of a stranger, entirely disappeared in the society of his friends. He might almost be said to revere any one possessed of intellectual gifts and accomplishments, whether natural or acquired; and as he lived many years in a cottage situated on the way-side between Peebles and Innerleithen, he was frequently visited by those who passed by. Occasionally the Ettrick Shepherd would stop his gig to have a few minutes' _crack_ with his 'friend Peter,' as he called him. At another time it would be his minister, the Rev. Mr Leckie, or some other worthy pastor, or some surgeon of the district upon his widely-extended rounds--Dr Craig, for example; or Mr Thomas Smibert; or Mr Adam Dickson, a young genius nipt in the bud--whose appearance would be the welcome signal for the 'tinkling' of Peter's hammer to know a brief respite. And I could mention others of his acquaintance, almost self-taught like himself, whose intelligence might enable them 'to stand before kings.'

"My own intimacy with Peter extends back to the time of my boyhood; and I can honestly say, that an evening spent under his roof, in company with him and his pious and amiable sister Peggy, who survives him, was among the greatest treats I ever experienced. There, at his door, in paper cap and leather apron, his shirt sleeves turned up, and his bare, brawny arms crossed upon his chest, and 'his brow wet with honest sweat,' would the hard-headed and warm-hearted blacksmith await the coming of him whom he expected. And, first, whilst his sister was attending to the preparation of some creature-comforts--for he was a man of some substance, and hospitable withal--you would be conducted into his little garden, sloping down to the very brink of the Tweed, and embosomed amid natural hazel wood, the lingering remains of a once goodly forest, to see some favourite flower, or to hear him trill, with a skill and execution which would have done little dishonour to _Picus_ himself, some simple native melody upon his Scotch flute. The _in-door_ entertainment consisted of varied conversation, embracing the subjects of literature, politics, and theology, largely interspersed with the reading of MS. poems by his numerous poetical friends. But the best part of the treat came last. Gradually you would notice a serious shade, not gloomy but chastened, steal over his massive features. His conversation would glide most naturally, and without any intentional effort that was apparent, into a serious strain; and then Peggy would bring down the family Bible, and, after having selected a suitable psalm, he would sing it to some plaintive air--and he could sing well; and the prayer which closed the usual exercises was such a manly, pathetic, and godly outpouring of a spirit chastened with the simplest and purest piety, as made the heart glad.

"Peter did nothing by halves, but everything with the energy of a man working at a forge. He embraced the temperance movement as soon as he heard of it, and continued to the end of his days a most rigid total abstainer from the use of all ardent spirits. Altogether, he was one of those self-taught, large-hearted, pious, and intellectual men of whom Scotland may well be proud."

LOVELY JEAN.

AIR--_"Miss Forbes' Farewell."_

'Mang a' the lassies young an' braw, An' fair as summer's rosy beam, There 's ane the bonniest o' them a', That dwells by Manor's mountain stream. Oft hae I gazed on her sweet face, An' ilka time new beauties seen; For aye some new discover'd grace Endears to me my lovely Jean.

An' oh! to list her ev'ning sang, When a' alane she gently strays The yellow waving broom amang, That blooms on Manor's flow'ry braes-- Her voice sae saft, sae sweet and clear, Afar in yonder bower sae green, The mavis quits her lay to hear A bonnier sang frae lovely Jean.

But it 's no her peerless face nor form, It 's no her voice sae sweet and clear, That keeps my love to her sae warm, An' maks her every day mair dear; It 's just the beauties o' her mind, Her easy, winning, modest mien, Her truth and constancy, which bind My heart and soul to lovely Jean.

JOHN MALCOLM.

John Malcolm was the second son of the Rev. John Malcolm, minister of the parish of Firth and Stennis, Orkney, where he was born about 1795. Through a personal application to the Duke of Kent, he was enabled to proceed as a volunteer to join the army in Spain. Arriving at the period when the army under General Graham (afterwards Lord Lynedoch) was besieging St Sebastian, he speedily obtained a lieutenancy in the 42d Regiment, in which he served to the close of the Pyrenees' campaign. Wounded at the battle of Toulouse, by a musket-ball penetrating his right shoulder, and otherwise debilitated, he retired from active service on half-pay, and with a pension for his wound. He now fixed his abode in Edinburgh, and devoted himself to literary pursuits. He contributed to _Constable's Magazine_, and other periodicals. For one of the earlier volumes of "Constable's Miscellany," he wrote a narrative of the Peninsular War. As a poet, he became known by some stanzas on the death of Lord Byron, which appeared in the _Edinburgh Weekly Journal_. In 1828, he published "Scenes of War, and other Poems;" and subsequently contributed numerous poetical pieces to the pages of the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_. A small volume of prose sketches also appeared from his pen, under the title of "Tales of Field and Flood." In 1831 he undertook the editorship of the _Edinburgh Observer_ newspaper, which he held till the period of his death. He died at Edinburgh, of a pulmonary complaint, in September 1835.

Fond of conversation, and abounding in humorous anecdote, Malcolm was especially esteemed for his gentle and amiable deportment. His poetry, which is often vigorous, is uniformly characterised by sweetness of versification.

THE MUSIC OF THE NIGHT.

The music of the night, Upon its lonely flight Into the west, where sink its ebbing sands; That muffled music seems Like voices heard in dreams, Sigh'd back from long-lost years and distant lands.

Amid the stillness round, As 'twere the shade of sound, Floats on the low sweet strain of lulling tones; Such as from trembling wire Of sweet AEolian lyre, With winds awake in murmurs and in moans.

Oh! melting on the ear, What solemn chords are there! The torrent's thunder sunk into a sigh; And thine, majestic main! Great Nature's organ strain, Deep pealing through the temple of the sky.

And songs unsung by day-- The nightingale's lone lay. From lady's bower, the lover's serenade; And dirge of hermit-bird From haunts of ruin heard, The only voice that wails above the dead.

To them that sail the deep, When winds have sunk to sleep, The dreamy murmurs of the night steal on; Say, does their mystic hum, So vague and varied, come From distant shores unseen, and lands unknown?

In them might fancy's ear Earth's dying echoes hear, Our home's sweet voices swooning on the floods; Or songs of festal halls, Or sound of waterfalls, Or Indian's dismal war-whoop through the woods.

Joy breathes in morning song, And happy things among Her choral bowers wake matins of delight; But dearer unto me The dirge-like harmony Of vesper voices, and of wailing night.

THE SEA.