Chapter 7

Ah, no! I cannot say "Farewell," 'T would pierce my bosom through; And to this heart 't were death's dread knell, To hear thee sigh "Adieu." Though soul and body both must part, Yet ne'er from thee I 'll sever, For more to me than soul thou art, And oh! I 'll quit thee never.

Whate'er through life may be thy fate, That fate with thee I 'll share, If prosperous, be moderate; If adverse, meekly bear; This bosom shall thy pillow be, In every change whatever, And tear for tear I 'll shed with thee, But oh! forsake thee, never.

One home, one hearth, shall ours be still, And one our daily fare; One altar, too, where we may kneel, And breathe our humble prayer; And one our praise, that shall ascend, To one all-bounteous Giver; And one our will, our aim, our end, For oh! we 'll sunder never.

And when that solemn hour shall come, That sees thee breathe thy last, That hour shall also fix my doom, And seal my eyelids fast. One grave shall hold us, side by side, One shroud our clay shall cover; And one then may we mount and glide, Through realms of love, for ever.

JOHN WILSON.

John Wilson, one of the most heart-stirring of Scottish prose writers, and a narrative and dramatic poet, is also entitled to rank among the minstrels of his country. The son of a prosperous manufacturer, he was born in Paisley, on the 18th of May 1785. The house of his birth, an old building, bore the name of _Prior's Croft_; it was taken down in 1787, when the family removed to a residence at the Town-head of Paisley, which, like the former, stood on ground belonging to the poet's father. His elementary education was conducted at the schools of his native town, and afterwards at the manse of Mearns, a rural parish in Renfrewshire, under the superintendence of Dr Maclatchie, the parochial clergyman. To his juvenile sports and exercises in the moor of Mearns, and his trouting excursions by the stream of the Humbie, and the four parish lochs, he has frequently referred in the pages of _Blackwood's Magazine_. In his fifteenth year he became a student in the University of Glasgow. Under the instructions of Professor Young, of the Greek Chair, he made distinguished progress in classical learning; but it was to the clear and masculine intellect of Jardine, the distinguished Professor of Logic, that he was, in common with Jeffrey, chiefly indebted for a decided impulse in the path of mental cultivation. In 1804 he proceeded to Oxford, where he entered in Magdalen College as a gentleman-commoner. A leader in every species of recreation, foremost in every sport and merry-making, and famous for his feats of agility and strength, he assiduously continued the prosecution of his classical studies. Of poetical genius he afforded the first public indication by producing the best English poem of fifty lines, which was rewarded by the Newdigate prize of forty guineas. On attaining his majority he became master of a fortune of about L30,000, which accrued to him from his father's estate; and, having concluded a course of four years at Oxford, he purchased, in 1808, the small but beautiful property of Elleray, on the banks of the lake Windermere, in Westmoreland. During the intervals of college terms, he had become noted for his eccentric adventures and humorous escapades; and his native enthusiasm remained unsubdued on his early settlement at Elleray. He was the hero of singular and stirring adventures: at one time he joined a party of strolling-players, and on another occasion followed a band of gipsies; he practised cock-fighting and bull-hunting, and loved to startle his companions by his reckless daring. His juvenile excesses received a wholesome check by his espousing, in 1811, Miss Jane Penny, the daughter of a wealthy Liverpool merchant, and a lady of great personal beauty and amiable dispositions, to whom he continued most devotedly attached. He had already enjoyed the intimate society of Wordsworth, and now sought more assiduously the intercourse of the other lake-poets. In the autumn of 1811, on the death of his friend James Grahame, author of "The Sabbath," he composed an elegy to his memory, which attracted the notice of Sir Walter Scott; in the year following he produced "The Isle of Palms," a poem in four cantos.

Hitherto Wilson had followed the career of a man of fortune; and his original patrimony had been handsomely augmented by his wife's dowry. But his guardian (a maternal uncle) had proved culpably remiss in the management of his property, he himself had been careless in pecuniary matters, and these circumstances, along with others, convinced him of the propriety of adopting a profession. His inclinations were originally towards the Scottish Bar; and he now engaged in legal studies in the capital. In 1815 he passed advocate, and, during the terms of the law courts, established his residence in Edinburgh. He was early employed as a counsel at the circuit courts; but his devotion to literature prevented him from giving his heart to his profession, and he did not succeed as a lawyer. In 1816 appeared his "City of the Plague," a dramatic poem, which was followed by his prose tales and sketches, entitled "Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life," "The Foresters," and "The Trials of Margaret Lindsay."

On the establishment of _Blackwood's Magazine_, in 1817, Wilson was one of the staff of contributors, along with Hogg, Lockhart, and others; and on a difference occurring between the publisher and Messrs Pringle and Cleghorn, the original editors, a few months after the undertaking was commenced, he exercised such a marked influence on the fortunes of that periodical, that he was usually regarded as its editor, although the editorial labour and responsibility really rested on Mr Blackwood himself. In 1820 he was elected by the Town-Council of Edinburgh to the Chair of Moral Philosophy in the University, which had become vacant by the death of Dr Thomas Brown. In the twofold capacity of Professor of Ethics and principal contributor to a popular periodical, he occupied a position to which his genius and tastes admirably adapted him. He possessed in a singular degree the power of stimulating the minds and drawing forth the energies of youth; and wielding in periodical literature the vigour of a master intellect, he riveted public attention by the force of his declamation, the catholicity of his criticism, and the splendour of his descriptions. _Blackwood's Magazine_ attained a celebrity never before reached by any monthly periodical; the essays and sketches of "Christopher North," his literary _nom-de-guerre_, became a monthly treasure of interest and entertainment. His celebrated "Noctes Ambrosianae," a series of dialogues on the literature and manners of the times, appeared in _Blackwood_ from 1822 till 1835. In 1825 his entire poetical works were published in two octavo volumes; and, on his ceasing his regular connexion with _Blackwood's Magazine_, his prose contributions were, in 1842, collected in three volumes, under the title of "Recreations of Christopher North."

Illustrious as a man of letters, and esteemed as a poet, the private life of Professor Wilson was for many years as destitute of particular incident, as his youth had been remarkable for singular and stirring adventure. Till within a few years of his death, he resided during the summer months at Elleray, where he was in the habit of sumptuously entertaining his literary friends. His splendid regattas on the lake Windermere, from which he derived his title of "Admiral of the Lake," have been celebrated in various periodical papers. He made frequent pedestrian tours to the Highlands, in which Mrs Wilson, who was of kindred tastes, sometimes accompanied him. On the death of this excellent woman, which took place in March 1837, he suffered a severe shock, from which he never recovered. In 1850 he was elected first president of the Edinburgh Philosophical Institution; and in the following year a civil-list pension of L300 was, on the recommendation of the premier, Lord John Russell, conferred on him by the Queen. In 1852 he felt necessitated, from a continuance of impaired health, to resign his professorship in the University. He died in his house in Gloucester Place, Edinburgh, on the 3d of April 1854. His remains, at a public funeral, were consigned to the Dean Cemetery, and upwards of a thousand pounds have been raised to erect a suitable monument to his memory.

Besides the works already enumerated, Professor Wilson contributed an admirable essay on the genius of Burns for Blackie's edition of his works, and an elegant dissertation on Highland scenery, preliminary to the "Caledonia Illustrata." Of his whole works, a complete edition is in the course of publication, under the editorial care of his distinguished son-in-law, Professor Ferrier, of St Andrews. Than Professor Wilson no Scotsman, Scott and Jeffrey not excepted, has exercised a wider and deeper influence upon the general intellect of his countrymen. With a vast and comprehensive genius, he has gathered from every department of nature the deep and genial suggestions of wisdom; he has found philosophy in the wilds, and imbibed knowledge by the mountain stream. Under canvas, in his sporting-jacket, or with the angler's rod, he is still the eloquent "old Christopher;" his contemplations are always lofty, and his descriptions gorgeous. As a poet, he is chiefly to be remarked for meek serenity and gentle pathos. His tales somewhat lack incident, and are deficient in plot; but his other writings, whether critical or philosophical, are marked by correctness of taste, boldness of imagery, and dignity of sentiment. Lion-hearted in the exposure of absolute error, or vain pretext, he is gentle in judging human frailty; and irresistible in humour, is overpowering in tenderness. As a contributor to periodical literature, he will find admirers while the English language is understood.

MARY GRAY'S SONG.

I walk'd by mysel' owre the sweet braes o' Yarrow, When the earth wi' the gowans o' July was dress'd; But the sang o' the bonnie burn sounded like sorrow, Round ilka house cauld as a last-simmer's nest.

I look'd through the lift o' the blue smiling morning, But never a wee cloud o' mist could I see, On its way up to heaven, the cottage adorning, Hanging white owre the green o' its sheltering tree.

By the outside I kenn'd that the inn was forsaken, That nae tread o' footsteps was heard on the floor; Oh, loud craw'd the cock whare was nane to awaken, And the wild raven croak'd on the seat by the door!

Sic silence--sic lonesomeness, oh, were bewildering! I heard nae lass singing when herding her sheep; I met nae bright garlands o' wee rosy children, Dancing onto the school-house, just waken'd frae sleep.

I pass'd by the school-house, when strangers were coming, Whose windows with glad faces seem'd all alive; Ae moment I hearken'd, but heard nae sweet humming, For a night o' dark vapour can silence the hive.

I pass'd by the pool where the lasses at daw'ing, Used to bleach their white garments wi' daffin and din; But the foam in the silence o' nature was fa'ing, And nae laughing rose loud through the roar of the linn.

I gaed into a small town, when sick o' my roaming, Whare ance play'd the viol, the tabor, and flute; 'Twas the hour loved by labour, the saft smiling gloaming, Yet the green round the cross-stane was empty and mute.

To the yellow-flower'd meadow, and scant rigs o' tillage, The sheep a' neglected had come frae the glen; The cushat-dow coo'd in the midst o' the village, And the swallow had flown to the dwellings o' men!

Sweet Denholm! not thus when I lived in thy bosom Thy heart lay so still the last night o' the week; Then nane was sae weary that love would nae rouse him, And grief gaed to dance with a laugh on his cheek.

Sic thoughts wet my een, as the moonshine was beaming On the kirk-tower that rose up sae silent and white; The wan ghastly light on the dial was streaming, But the still finger tauld not the hour of the night.

The mirk-time pass'd slowly in siching and weeping, I waken'd, and nature lay silent in mirth; Owre a' holy Scotland the Sabbath was sleeping, And heaven in beauty came down on the earth.

The morning smiled on--but nae kirk-bell was ringing, Nae plaid or blue bonnet came down frae the hill; The kirk-door was shut, but nae psalm tune was singing, And I miss'd the wee voices sae sweet and sae shrill.

I look'd owre the quiet o' death's empty dwelling, The laverock walk'd mute 'mid the sorrowful scene, And fifty brown hillocks wi' fresh mould were swelling Owre the kirkyard o' Denholm, last simmer sae green.

The infant had died at the breast o' its mither; The cradle stood still at the mitherless bed; At play the bairn sunk in the hand o' its brither; At the fauld on the mountain the shepherd lay dead.

Oh! in spring-time 'tis eerie, when winter is over, And birds should be glinting owre forest and lea, When the lint-white and mavis the yellow leaves cover, And nae blackbird sings loud frae the tap o' his tree.

But eerier far, when the spring-land rejoices, And laughs back to heaven with gratitude bright, To hearken, and naewhere hear sweet human voices When man's soul is dark in the season o' light!

THE THREE SEASONS OF LOVE.

With laughter swimming in thine eye, That told youth's heart-felt revelry; And motion changeful as the wing Of swallow waken'd by the spring; With accents blithe as voice of May, Chanting glad Nature's roundelay; Circled by joy like planet bright That smiles 'mid wreaths of dewy light, Thy image such, in former time, When thou, just entering on thy prime, And woman's sense in thee combined Gently with childhood's simplest mind, First taught'st my sighing soul to move With hope towards the heaven of love!

Now years have given my Mary's face A thoughtful and a quiet grace: Though happy still, yet chance distress Hath left a pensive loveliness; Fancy hath tamed her fairy gleams, And thy heart broods o'er home-born dreams! Thy smiles, slow-kindling now and mild, Shower blessings on a darling child; Thy motion slow and soft thy tread, As if round thy hush'd infant's bed! And when thou speak'st, thy melting tone, That tells thy heart is all my own, Sounds sweeter from the lapse of years, With the wife's love, the mother's fears!

By thy glad youth and tranquil prime Assured, I smile at hoary Time; For thou art doom'd in age to know The calm that wisdom steals from woe; The holy pride of high intent, The glory of a life well spent. When, earth's affections nearly o'er, With Peace behind and Faith before, Thou render'st up again to God, Untarnish'd by its frail abode, Thy lustrous soul, then harp and hymn From bands of sister seraphim, Asleep will lay thee, till thine eye Open in immortality.

PRAYER TO SLEEP.

O gentle Sleep! wilt thou lay thy head For one little hour on thy lover's bed, And none but the silent stars of night Shall witness be to our delight?

Alas! 'tis said that the couch must be Of the eider-down that is spread for thee, So I in my sorrow must lie alone, For mine, sweet Sleep! is a couch of stone.

Music to thee I know is dear; Then the saddest of music is ever here, For Grief sits with me in my cell, And she is a syren who singeth well.

But thou, glad Sleep! lov'st gladsome airs, And wilt only come to thy lover's prayers, When the bells of merriment are ringing, And bliss with liquid voice is singing.

Fair Sleep! so long in thy beauty woo'd, No rival hast thou in my solitude, Be mine, my love! and we two will lie Embraced for ever, or awake to die!

Dear Sleep, farewell! hour, hour, hour, hour, Will slowly bring on the gleam of morrow; But thou art Joy's faithful paramour, And lie wilt thou not in the arms of Sorrow.

DAVID WEBSTER.

David Webster was born in Dunblane, on the 25th September 1787. He was the second of a family of eight children born to his parents, who occupied the humbler condition of life. By his father, he was destined for the Church, but the early death of this parent put a check on his juvenile aspirations. He was apprenticed to a weaver in Paisley, and continued, with occasional intermissions, to prosecute the labours of the loom. His life was much chequered by misfortune. Fond of society, he was led to associate with some dissolute persons, who professed to be admirers of his genius, and was enticed by their example to neglect the concerns of business, and the duties of the family-hearth, for the delusive pleasures of the tavern. From his youth he composed verses. In 1835, he published, in numbers, a volume of poems and songs, with the title, "Original Scottish Rhymes." His style is flowing and graceful, and many of his pieces are marked by keen satire and happy humour. The songs inserted in the present work are favourable specimens of his manner. He died on the 22d January 1837, in his fiftieth year.[26]

[26] The present memoir is condensed from a well written biographical sketch of Webster, obligingly prepared for our use by Mr Charles Fleming, of Paisley.

TAK IT, MAN, TAK IT.

TUNE--_"Brose and Butter."_

When I was a miller in Fife, Losh! I thought that the sound o' the happer Said, Tak hame a wee flow to your wife, To help to be brose to your supper. Then my conscience was narrow and pure, But someway by random it racket; For I lifted twa neivefu' or mair, While the happer said, Tak it, man, tak it. Hey for the mill and the kill, The garland and gear for my cogie, Hey for the whisky and yill, That washes the dust frae my craigie.

Although it 's been lang in repute For rogues to mak rich by deceiving, Yet I see that it does not weel suit Honest men to begin to the thieving; For my heart it gaed dunt upon dunt, Oh! I thought ilka dunt it would crack it; Sae I flang frae my neive what was in 't, Still the happer said, Tak it, man, tak it. Hey for the mill, &c.

A man that 's been bred to the plough, Might be deaved wi' its clamorous clapper; Yet there 's few but would suffer the sough After kenning what 's said by the happer. I whiles thought it scoff'd me to scorn, Saying, Shame, is your conscience no checkit? But when I grew dry for a horn, It changed aye to Tak it, man, tak it. Hey for the mill, &c.

The smugglers whiles cam wi' their pocks, Cause they kent that I liked a bicker; Sae I bartered whiles wi' the gowks, Gaed them grain for a soup o' their liquor. I had lang been accustom'd to drink, And aye when I purposed to quat it, That thing wi' its clappertie clink Said aye to me, Tak it, man, tak it. Hey for the mill, &c.

But the warst thing I did in my life, Nae doubt but ye 'll think I was wrang o 't, Od! I tauld a bit bodie in Fife A' my tale, and he made a bit sang o 't; I have aye had a voice a' my days, But for singing I ne'er got the knack o 't; Yet I tried whiles, just thinking to please The greedy wi' Tak it, man, tak it. Hey the mill, &c.

Now, miller and a' as I am, This far I can see through the matter, There 's men mair notorious to fame, Mair greedy than me or the muter; For 'twad seem that the hale race o' men, Or wi' safety the half we may mak it, Had some speaking happer within, That said to them, Tak it, man, tak it. Hey for the mill, &c.

OH, SWEET WERE THE HOURS.

AIR--_"Gregor Arora."_

Oh, sweet were the hours That I spent wi' my Flora, In yon gay shady bowers, Roun' the linn o' the Cora!

Her breath was the zephyrs That waft frae the roses, And skim o'er the heath As the summer day closes.

I told her my love-tale, Which seem'd to her cheering; Then she breathed on the soft gale Her song so endearing.

The rock echoes ringing Seem'd charm'd wi' my story; And the birds, sweetly singing, Replied to my Flora.

The sweet zephyr her breath As it wafts frae the roses, And skims o'er the heath As the summer day closes.

PATE BIRNIE.[27]

Our minstrels a', frae south to north, To Edin cam to try their worth, And ane cam frae the banks o' Forth, Whase name was Patie Birnie. This Patie, wi' superior art, Made notes to ring through head and heart, Till citizens a' set apart Their praise to Patie Birnie. Tell auld Kinghorn, o' Picish birth, Where, noddin', she looks o'er the Firth, Aye when she would enhance her worth, To sing o' Patie Birnie.

His merits mak _Auld Reekie_[28] ring, Mak rustic poets o' him sing; For nane can touch the fiddle-string Sae weel as Patie Birnie. He cheers the sage, the sour, the sad, Maks youngsters a rin louping mad, Heads grow giddy, hearts grow glad, Enchanted wi' Pate Birnie.

The witching tones o' Patie's therm, Mak farmer chiels forget their farm, Sailors forget the howling storm, When dancing to Pate Birnie. Pate maks the fool forget his freaks, Maks baxter bodies burn their bakes, And gowkies gie their hame the glaiks, And follow Patie Birnie.

When Patie taks his strolling rounds, To feasts or fairs in ither towns, Wark bodies fling their trantlooms doun, To hear the famous Birnie. The crabbit carles forget to snarl, The canker'd cuiffs forget to quarrel, And gilphies forget the stock and horle, And dance to Patie Birnie.

[27] Pate Birnie was a celebrated fiddler or violinist who resided in Kinghorn, Fifeshire.

[28] An old designation for the city of Edinburgh, often used by the Scottish poets.

WILLIAM PARK.

William Park was not born in lawful wedlock. His grandfather, Andrew Park, occupied for many years the farm of Efgill, in the parish of Westerkirk, and county of Dumfries. He had two sons, William and James, who were both men of superior intelligence, and both of them writers of verses. William, the poet's father, having for a brief period served as a midshipman, emigrated to the island of Grenada, where he first acted as the overseer of an estate, but was afterwards appointed to a situation in the Customs at St George's, and became the proprietor and editor of a newspaper, called the _St George's Chronicle_. In the year 1795, he was slain when bravely heading an encounter with a body of French insurgents. His son, the subject of this memoir, was born at Crooks, in the parish of Westerkirk, on the 22d of February 1788, and was brought up under the care of his grandfather. He received an ordinary training at the parochial school; and when his grandfather relinquished his farm to a higher bidder, he was necessitated to seek employment as a cow-herd. In 1805, he proceeded as a farm-servant to the farm of Cassock, in the parish of Eskdalemuir. In 1809, he entered the service of the Rev. Dr Brown,[29] minister of Eskdalemuir, and continued to occupy the position of _minister's man_ till the death of that clergyman, many years afterwards.