Chapter 9

William Thom, commonly styled "The Inverury Poet," was born at Aberdeen in 1789. His father, who was a shopkeeper, dying during his infancy, he was placed by his mother at a school taught by a female, from whom he received the greater amount of his juvenile education. At the age of ten, he was put to a cotton-factory, where he served an apprenticeship of four years. He was subsequently employed, during a period of nearly twenty years, in the large weaving-factory of Gordon, Barron, & Co. In 1827, he removed to Dundee; and shortly after to the village of Newtyle, in Strathmore, at both of these places working as a hand-loom weaver. Thrown out of employment, in consequence of a stagnation in the manufacturing world, he was subjected, in his person and family, to much penury and suffering. At length, disposing of his articles of household furniture, he purchased a few wares, and taking his wife and children along with him, commenced the precarious life of a pedlar. In his published "Recollections," he has supplied a heart-rending narrative of the privations attendant on his career as a wanderer; his lodgings were frequently in the farmer's barn, and, on one of these occasions, one of his children perished from cold and starvation. The contents of his pack becoming exhausted, he derived the means of subsistence by playing on the flute, and disposing of copies of verses. After wandering over a wide district as a pedlar, flute-player, and itinerant poet, he resumed his original occupation of weaving in Kinross. He subsequently sought employment as a weaver in Aberdeen, where he remained about a year. In 1840 he proceeded to Inverury; and it was while he was resident in this place that his beautiful stanzas, entitled "The Blind Boy's Pranks," appeared in the columns of the _Aberdeen Herald_ newspaper. These verses were copied into many of the public journals: they particularly arrested the attention of Mr Gordon of Knockespock, a landed proprietor in Aberdeenshire, who, ascertaining the indigent circumstances of the author, transmitted to him a handsome donation, and desired to form his personal acquaintance. The poet afterwards accompanied Mr Gordon to London, who introduced him as a man of genius to the fashionable and literary circles of the metropolis. In 1844 he published a small volume of poems and songs, with a brief autobiography, under the title of "Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-loom Weaver." This volume was well received; and on a second visit to London, Thom was entertained at a public dinner by many distinguished literary persons of the metropolis. From admirers, both in India and America, he received pecuniary acknowledgments of his genius. He now attempted to establish himself in London in connexion with the press, but without success. Returning to Scotland, he took up his abode in Dundee; where, after a period of distress and penury, he breathed his last on the 29th February 1848, in his 59th year. His remains were interred in the public cemetery of the town; and it is pleasing to add, that an enthusiastic admirer of his genius has planted flowers upon his grave. Though long in publishing, Thom early wrote verses; in Gordon, Barron, & Co.'s factory in Aberdeen, his fellow-workmen were astonished and interested by the power and vigour of his poems. That he did not publish sooner, is probably attributable to his lengthened career of poverty, and his carelessness regarding intellectual honours.

In respect of pure and simple pathos, some of his lyrics are unequalled among the compositions of any of the national bards. Than "The Mitherless Bairn," it may be questioned whether there is to be found in the language any lyrical composition more delicately plaintive. It is lamentable to think that one who could write so tenderly should, by a dissolute life, have been the author of many of his own misfortunes, and a constant barrier to every attempt for his permanent elevation in the social circle. In person, he was rather below the middle stature; his countenance was thoughtful, but marked with the effects of bodily suffering. Owing to a club-foot, his gait was singularly awkward. He excelled in conversation, and his manner was pleasing and conciliatory.

JEANIE'S GRAVE.

I saw my true-love first on the banks of queenly Tay, Nor did I deem it yielding my trembling heart away; I feasted on her deep, dark eye, and loved it more and more, For, oh! I thought I ne'er had seen a look so kind before!

I heard my true-love sing, and she taught me many a strain, But a voice so sweet, oh! never shall my cold ear hear again. In all our friendless wanderings--in homeless penury-- Her gentle song and jetty eye were all unchanged to me.

I saw my true-love fade--I heard her latest sigh; I wept no friv'lous weeping when I closed her lightless eye: Far from her native Tay she sleeps, and other waters lave The markless spot where Ury creeps around my Jeanie's grave.

Move noiseless, gentle Ury! around my Jeanie's bed, And I 'll love thee, gentle Ury! where'er my footsteps tread; For sooner shall thy fairy wave return from yonder sea, Than I forget yon lowly grave, and all it hides from me.

THEY SPEAK O' WILES.

AIR--_"Gin a bodie meet a bodie."_

They speak o' wiles in woman's smiles, An' ruin in her e'e; I ken they bring a pang at whiles That 's unco sair to dree; But mind ye this, the half-ta'en kiss, The first fond fa'in' tear, Is, heaven kens, fu' sweet amends, An' tints o' heaven here.

When two leal hearts in fondness meet, Life's tempests howl in vain; The very tears o' love are sweet When paid with tears again. Shall hapless prudence shake its pow, Shall cauldrife caution fear, Oh, dinna, dinna droun the lowe, That lichts a heaven here!

What though we 're ca'd a wee before The stale "three score an' ten," When Joy keeks kindly at your door, Aye bid her welcome ben. About yon blissfu' bowers above Let doubtfu' mortals speir; Sae weel ken we that "heaven is love," Since love makes heaven here.

THE MITHERLESS BAIRN.[30]

When a' ither bairnies are hush'd to their hame By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame, Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin'? 'Tis the puir doited loonie--the mitherless bairn!

The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed, Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head; His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn, An' litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn.

Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover there, O' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair; But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern, That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn!

Yon sister that sang o'er his saftly-rock'd bed Now rests in the mools whare her mammie is laid; The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn, An' kens na' the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn.

Her spirit that pass'd in yon hour o' his birth, Still watches his wearisome wanderings on earth; Recording in heaven the blessings they earn, Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn!

Oh! speak him na' harshly--he trembles the while, He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile; In their dark hour o' anguish, the heartless shall learn That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn!

[30] An Inverury correspondent writes: "Thom gave me the following narrative as to the origin of 'The Mitherless Bairn;' I quote his own words--'When I was livin' in Aberdeen, I was limping roun' the house to my garret, when I heard the greetin' o' a wean. A lassie was thumpin' a bairn, when out cam a big dame, bellowin', "Ye hussie, will ye kick a mitherless bairn!" I hobbled up the stair, and wrote the sang afore sleepin'.'"

THE LASS O' KINTORE.

AIR--_"Oh, as I was kiss'd yestreen."_

At hame or afield I am cheerless an' lone, I 'm dull on the Ury, an' droop by the Don; Their murmur is noisy, and fashious to hear, An' the lay o' the lintie fa's dead on my ear. I hide frae the morn, and whaur naebody sees; I greet to the burnie, an' sich to the breeze; Though I sich till I 'm silly, an' greet till I dee, Kintore is the spot in this world for me. But the lass o' Kintore, oh! the lass o' Kintore, Be warned awa' frae the lass o' Kintore; There 's a love-luring look that I ne'er kent afore Steals cannily hame to the heart at Kintore.

They bid me forget her, oh! how can it be? In kindness or scorn she 's ever wi' me; I feel her fell frown in the lift's frosty blue, An' I weel ken her smile in the lily's saft hue. I try to forget her, but canna forget, I 've liked her lang, an' I aye like her yet; My poor heart may wither, may waste to its core, But forget her, oh never! the lass o' Kintore! Oh the wood o' Kintore, the holmes o' Kintore! The love-lichtin' e'e that I ken at Kintore; I 'll wander afar, an' I 'll never look more On the gray glance o' Peggy, or bonnie Kintore!

MY HAMELESS HA'.

Oh! how can I be cheerie in this hameless ha'? The very sun glints eerie on the gilded wa'; An' aye the nicht sae drearie, Ere the dowie morn daw, Whan I canna win to see you, My Jamie, ava'.

Though mony miles between us, an' far, far frae me, The bush that wont to screen us frae the cauld warl's e'e, Its leaves may waste and wither, But its branches winna fa'; An' hearts may haud thegither, Though frien's drap awa'.

Ye promised to speak o' me to the lanesome moon, An' weird kind wishes to me, in the lark's saft soun'; I doat upon that moon Till my very heart fills fu', An' aye yon birdie's tune Gars me greet for you.

Then how can I be cheerie in the stranger's ha'? A gowden prison drearie, my luckless fa'! 'Tween leavin' o' you, Jamie, An' ills that sorrow me, I 'm wearie o' the warl', An' carena though I dee.

WILLIAM GLEN.[31]

William Glen, whose name simply has hitherto been known to the lovers of Scottish song, is entitled to an honourable place in the song-literature of his country. His progenitors were persons of consideration in the county of Renfrew.[32] His father, Alexander Glen, a Glasgow merchant in the Russian trade, married Jane Burns, sister of the Rev. Dr Burns, minister of Renfrew; and of a family of three sons, the poet was the eldest. He was born in Queen Street, Glasgow, on the 14th of November 1789. In 1803, when the regiment of Glasgow Volunteer Sharp-shooters was formed, he joined the corps as a lieutenant. He afterwards followed the mercantile profession, and engaged in the West India trade. For some time he resided in one of the West India islands. In 1814 he became one of the managers of the "Merchants' House" of Glasgow, and also a director of the "Chamber of Commerce and Manufactures." During the same year, being unfortunate in merchandise, he was induced to abandon the concerns of business. He afterwards derived the means of support from an uncle who resided in Russia; but his circumstances were ultimately much clouded by misfortune. During the last eight years of his career, his summers were spent at Reinagour, in the parish of Aberfoyle, where he resided with an uncle of his wife. After several years of delicate health, he died in Edwin Place, Gorbals, Glasgow, in December 1826. His widow and daughter continue to reside at Craigmuick, parish of Aberfoyle.

William Glen was about six feet in height; his person, which was originally slender, afterwards became portly. He was of a fair complexion, and his countenance generally wore a smile. His manners were pleasing, and he cherished a keen relish for congenial society. In 1815 he published a thin duodecimo volume of verses, entitled "Poems, chiefly Lyrical;" but the majority of his metrical compositions seem to have been confined to his repositories. A quarto volume of his MSS., numbered "Volume Third," is now in the possession of Mr Gabriel Neil of Glasgow, who has kindly made it available in the preparation of this work. Interspersed with the poetry in the MS. volume, are pious reflections on the trials and disappointments incident to human life; with some spirited appeals to those fair ones who at different times had attracted the poet's fancy. Of his songs inserted in the present work, seven have been printed from the MS. volume, and the two last from the printed volume. Four of the songs have not been previously published. The whole are pervaded by simplicity and exquisite pathos. The song, "Waes me for Prince Charlie," is one of the most touching and popular of modern Jacobite ditties.

[31] To Mr James C. Roger, of Glasgow, we have to acknowledge our obligations for much diligent inquiry on the subject of this memoir.

[32] Allanus Glen, _armiger_, is witness to an instrument conveying the fishing of Crockat-shot to the "Monks of Pasly," in 1452. James Glen, the successor of this person, obtained from Robert, abbot of Paisley, the lands of Bar, Bridge-end, and Lyntehels, within the Lordship of Paisley. James Glen of Bar joined the troops of Queen Mary at the battle of Langside, for which act he was forfeited by the Regent, but was restored in 1573 by the treaty of Perth. Archibald Glen, a younger son of the proprietor of Bar, was minister of Carmunnock, and died in February 1614. Of two sons, Robert, the eldest, succeeded him in the living of Carmunnock; the other, named Thomas, was a prosperous trader in the Saltmarket of Glasgow; he died in 1735. His son Alexander was the poet's father.

WAES ME FOR PRINCE CHARLIE.[33]

TUNE--_"Johnnie Faa."_

A wee bird cam to our ha' door, He warbled sweet an' clearly, An' aye the owercome o' his sang Was, "Waes me for Prince Charlie." Oh! whan I heard the bonnie soun', The tears cam drappin' rarely; I took my bannet aff my head, For weel I lo'ed Prince Charlie.

Quoth I, "My bird, my bonnie, bonnie bird, Is that a sang ye borrow? Are thae some words ye 've learnt by heart, Or a lilt o' dule an' sorrow?" "Oh, no, no, no!" the wee bird sang, "I 've flown sin' mornin' early, But sic' a day o' wind and rain!-- Oh! waes me for Prince Charlie.

"On hills that are by right his ain, He roves a lanely stranger; On every side he 's press'd by want, On every side is danger. Yestreen I saw him in a glen, My heart maist burstit fairly, For sadly changed indeed was he-- Oh! waes me for Prince Charlie.

"Dark night cam on, the tempest roar'd Loud o'er the hills an' valleys; An' whare wast that your Prince lay down, Whase hame should been a palace? He row'd him in a Highland plaid, Which cover'd him but sparely, An' slept beneath a bush o' broom-- Oh! waes me for Prince Charlie."

But now the bird saw some red-coats, An' he shook his wings wi' anger: "Oh! this is no a land for me, I 'll tarry here nae langer." He hover'd on the wing a while, Ere he departed fairly; But weel I mind the farewell strain Was, "Waes me for Prince Charlie."

[33] This song is understood to be a favourite with her present Majesty.

MARY OF SWEET ABERFOYLE.[34]

The sun hadna peep'd frae behint the dark billow, The slow sinking moon half illumined the scene; As I lifted my head frae my care-haunted pillow, An' wander'd to muse on the days that were gane. Sweet hope seem'd to smile o'er ideas romantic, An' gay were the dreams that my soul would beguile; But my eyes fill'd wi' tears as I view'd the Atlantic, An' thought on my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.

Though far frae my hame in a tropical wildwood, Yet the fields o' my forefathers rose on my view; An' I wept when I thought on the days of my childhood, An' the vision was painful the brighter it grew. Sweet days! when my bosom with rapture was swelling, Though I knew it not then, it was love made me smile; Oh! the snaw wreath is pure where the moonbeams are dwelling, Yet as pure is my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.

Now far in the east the sun slowly rising, Brightly gilded the top of the tall cabbage tree; And sweet was the scene such wild beauties comprising, As might have fill'd the sad mourner with rapture and glee. But my heart felt nae rapture, nae pleasant emotion, The saft springs o' pleasure had lang, lang been seal'd; I thought on my home 'cross a wide stormy ocean, And wept for my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.

The orange was bathed in the dews o' the morning, An' the bright draps bespangled the clustering vine; White were the blossoms the lime-tree adorning, An' brown was the apple that grew on the pine. Were I as free as an Indian chieftain, Sic beautiful scenes might give pleasure the while; But the joy o' a slave is aye waverin' an' shiftin', An' a slave I 'm to Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.

When the mirk cloud o' fortune aboon my head gathers, An' the golden shower fa's whare it ne'er fell before; Oh! then I 'll revisit the land of my fathers, An' clasp to this bosom the lass I adore. Hear me, ye angels, who watch o'er my maiden, (Like ane o' yoursels she is free frae a' guile), Pure as was love in the garden o' Eden, Sae pure is my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.

[34] This song was composed while the author resided in the West Indies. It is here printed for the first time.

THE BATTLE-SONG.[35]

Raise high the battle-song To the heroes of our land; Strike the bold notes loud and long To Great Britain's warlike band. Burst away like a whirlwind of flame, Wild as the lightning's wing; Strike the boldest, sweetest string, And deathless glory sing-- To their fame.

See Corunna's bloody bed! 'Tis a sad, yet glorious scene; There the imperial eagle fled, And there our chief was slain. Green be the turf upon the warrior's breast, High honour seal'd his doom, And eternal laurels bloom Round the poor and lowly tomb Of his rest.

Strong was his arm of might, When the war-flag was unfurl'd; But his soul when peace shone bright, Beam'd love to all the world. And his name, through endless ages shall endure; High deeds are written fair, In that scroll, which time must spare, And thy fame 's recorded there-- Noble Moore.

Yonder 's Barossa's height Rising full upon my view, Where was fought the bloodiest fight That Iberia ever knew, Where Albion's bold sons to victory were led. With bay'nets levell'd low, They rush'd upon the foe, Like an avalanche of snow From its bed.

Sons of the "Lonely Isle," Your native courage rose, When surrounded for a while By the thousands of your foes. But dauntless was your chief, that meteor of war, He resistless led ye on, Till the bloody field was won, And the dying battle-groan Sunk afar.

Our song Balgowan share, Home of the chieftain's rest; For thou art a lily fair In Caledonia's breast. Breathe, sweetly breathe, a soft love-soothing strain, For beauty there doth dwell, In the mountain, flood, or fell, And throws her witching spell O'er the scene.

But not Balgowan's charms Could hire the chief to stay; For the foe were up in arms, In a country far away. He rush'd to battle, and he won his fame; Ages may pass by, Fleet as the summer's sigh, But thy name shall never die-- Gallant Graeme.[36]

Strike again the boldest strings, To our great commander's praise; Who to our memory brings "The deeds of other days." Peal for a lofty spirit-stirring strain; The blaze of hope illumes Iberia's deepest glooms, And the eagle shakes his plumes There in vain.

High is the foemen's pride, For they are sons of war; But our chieftain rolls the tide, Of battle back afar. A braver hero in the field ne'er shone; Let bards with loud acclaim, Heap laurels on his fame, "Singing glory" to the name Of Wellington.

Could I with soul of fire Guide my wild unsteady hand, I would strike the quivering wire, Till it rung throughout the land. Of all its warlike heroes would I sing; Were powers to soar thus given, By the blast of genius driven, I would sweep the highest heaven With my wing.

Yet still this trembling flight May point a bolder way, Ere the lonely beam of night Steals on my setting day. Till then, sweet harp, hang on the willow tree; And when I come again, Thou wilt not sound in vain, For I 'll strike thy highest strain-- Bold and free.

[35] Printed for the first time, from the author's MS. volume.

[36] The "gallant Graeme," Lord Lynedoch, on hearing this song at a Glasgow theatre, was so moved by the touching reference of the poet to his achievements, and the circumstances of his joining the army, that he openly burst into tears.

THE MAID OF ORONSEY.[37]

Oh! stopna, bonnie bird, that strain, Frae hopeless love itsel' it flows; Sweet bird, oh! warble it again, Thou'st touch'd the string o' a' my woes; Oh! lull me with it to repose, I 'll dream of her who 's far away, And fancy, as my eyelids close, Will meet the maid of Oronsey.

Couldst thou but learn frae me my grief, Sweet bird, thou 'dst leave thy native grove, And fly to bring my soul relief, To where my warmest wishes rove; Soft as the cooings of the dove, Thou 'dst sing thy sweetest, saddest lay, And melt to pity and to love The bonnie maid of Oronsey.

Well may I sigh and sairly weep, The song sad recollections bring; Oh! fly across the roaring deep, And to my maiden sweetly sing; 'Twill to her faithless bosom fling Remembrance of a sacred day; But feeble is thy wee bit wing, And far 's the isle of Oronsey.

Then, bonnie bird, wi' mony a tear, I 'll mourn beside this hoary thorn, And thou wilt find me sitting here, Ere thou canst hail the dawn o' morn; Then high on airy pinions borne, Thou 'lt chant a sang o' love an' wae, An' soothe me, weeping at the scorn, Of the sweet maid of Oronsey.

And when around my weary head, Soft pillow'd where my fathers lie, Death shall eternal poppies spread, An' close for aye my tearfu' eye; Perch'd on some bonnie branch on high, Thou 'lt sing thy sweetest roundelay, And soothe my "spirit, passing by" To meet the maid of Oronsey.

[37] Printed for the first time.

JESS M'LEAN.[38]

Her eyes were red with weeping, Her lover was no more, Beneath the billows sleeping, Near Ireland's rocky shore; She oft pray'd for her Willy, But it was all in vain, And pale as any lily Grew lovely Jess M'Lean.

She sat beside some willows That overhung the sea, And as she view'd the billows, She moan'd most piteously; The storm in all its rigour Swept the bosom of the main, And shook the sylph-like figure Of lovely Jess M'Lean.

Her auburn hair was waving In ringlets on the gale, And the tempest join'd its raving, To the hapless maiden's wail; Wild was the storm's commotion, Yet careless of the scene, Like the spirit of the ocean Sat lovely Jess M'Lean.