Part 11

Fair herald of the fleets That yet shall cross the wave, Till the earth with ocean meets One universal grave, What armaments shall follow thee in joy! Linking each distant land With trade's harmonious band, Or bearing havoc's brand To destroy!

WEEP NOT.

Though this wild brain is aching, Spill not thy tears with mine; Come to my heart, though breaking, Its firmest half is thine. Thou wert not made for sorrow, Then do not weep with me; There is a lovely morrow, That yet will dawn on thee.

When I am all forgotten-- When in the grave I lie-- When the heart that loved thee 's broken, And closed the sparkling eye; Love's sunshine still will cheer thee, Unsullied, pure, and deep; For the God who 's ever near thee, Will never see thee weep.

TO THE CLYDE.

When cities of old days But meet the savage gaze, Stream of my early ways Thou wilt roll. Though fleets forsake thy breast, And millions sink to rest-- Of the bright and glorious west Still the soul.

When the porch and stately arch, Which now so proudly perch O'er thy billows, on their march To the sea, Are but ashes in the shower; Still the jocund summer hour, From his cloud will weave a bower Over thee.

When the voice of human power Has ceased in mart and bower, Still the broom and mountain flower Will thee bless. And the mists that love to stray O'er the Highlands, far away, Will come down their deserts gray To thy kiss.

And the stranger, brown with toil, From the far Atlantic soil, Like the pilgrim of the Nile, Yet may come To search the solemn heaps That moulder by thy deeps, Where desolation sleeps, Ever dumb.

Though fetters yet should clank O'er the gay and princely rank Of cities on thy bank, All sublime; Still thou wilt wander on, Till eternity has gone, And broke the dial stone Of old Time.

REV. T. G. TORRY ANDERSON.

The author of the deservedly popular words and air of "The Araby Maid," Thomas Gordon Torry Anderson was the youngest son of Patrick Torry, D.D., titular bishop of St Andrews, Dunkeld, and Dunblane. His mother, Jane Young, was the daughter of Dr William Young, of Fawsyde, Kincardineshire. Born at Peterhead on the 9th July 1805, he received his elementary education at the parish school of that place. He subsequently prosecuted his studies in Marischal College, Aberdeen, and the University of Edinburgh. In 1827, he received holy orders, and was admitted to the incumbency of St John's Episcopal Church, Portobello. He subsequently became assistant in St George's Episcopal Church, Edinburgh, and was latterly promoted to the pastorate of St Paul's Episcopal Church, Dundee.

Devoted to the important duties of the clerical office, Mr Torry Anderson experienced congenial recreation in the cultivation of music and song, and in the occasional composition of both. He composed, in 1833, the words and air of "The Araby Maid," which speedily obtained a wide popularity. The music and words of the songs, entitled "The Maiden's Vow," and "I Love the Sea," were composed in 1837 and 1854, respectively. To a work, entitled "Poetical Illustrations of the Achievements of the Duke of Wellington and his Companions in Arms," published in 1852, he extensively contributed. During the summer of 1855, he fell into bad health, and was obliged to resign his incumbency. He afterwards resided on his estate of Fawsyde, to which he had succeeded, in 1850, on the death of his uncle, Dr Young. He died at Aberdeen on the 20th of June 1856, in his fifty-first year. He was three times married--first, in 1828, to Mrs Gaskin Anderson of Tushielaw, whose name he adopted to suit the requirements of an entail; secondly, he espoused, in 1838, Elizabeth Jane, daughter of Dr Thomas Sutter, R.N.; and lastly, Mrs Hill, widow of Mr William Hill, R.N., whom he married in 1854. He has left a widow and six children.

THE ARABY MAID.

Away on the wings of the wind she flies, Like a thing of life and light-- And she bounds beneath the eastern skies, And the beauty of eastern night.

Why so fast flies the bark through the ocean's foam, Why wings it so speedy a flight? 'Tis an Araby maid who hath left her home, To fly with her Christian knight.

She hath left her sire and her native land, The land which from childhood she trode, And hath sworn, by the pledge of her beautiful hand, To worship the Christian's God.

Then away, away, oh swift be thy flight, It were death one moment's delay; For behind there is many a blade glancing bright-- Then away--away--away!

They are safe in the land where love is divine, In the land of the free and the brave-- They have knelt at the foot of the holy shrine, Nought can sever them now but the grave.

THE MAIDEN'S VOW.

The maid is at the altar kneeling, Hark the chant is loudly pealing-- Now it dies away!

Her prayers are said at the holy shrine, No other thought but thought divine Doth her sad bosom fill.

The world to her is nothing now, For she hath ta'en a solemn vow To do her father's will.

But why hath one so fair, so young, The joys of life thus from her flung-- Why hath she ta'en the veil?

Her lover fell where the brave should fall, Amidst the fight, when the trumpet's call Proclaim'd the victory.

He fought, he fell, a hero brave-- And though he fill a lowly grave, His name can never die.

The victory's news to the maiden came-- They loudly breathed her lover's name, Who for his country fell.

But vain the loudest trumpet tone Of fame to her, when he was gone To whom the praise was given!

Her sun of life had set in gloom-- Its joys were withered in his tomb-- She vow'd herself to Heaven.

I LOVE THE SEA.

I love the sea, I love the sea, My childhood's home, my manhood's rest, My cradle in my infancy-- The only bosom I have press'd. I cannot breathe upon the land, Its manners are as bonds to me, Till on the deck again I stand, I cannot feel that I am free.

Then tell me not of stormy graves-- Though winds be high, there let them roar; I 'd rather perish on the waves Than pine by inches on the shore. I ask no willow where I lie, My mourner let the mermaid be, My only knell the sea-bird's cry, My winding-sheet the boundless sea!

GEORGE ALLAN.

George Allan was the youngest son of John Allan, farmer at Paradykes, near Edinburgh, where he was born on the 2d February 1806. Ere he had completed his fourteenth year, he became an orphan by the death of both his parents. Intending to prosecute his studies as a lawyer, he served an apprenticeship in the office of a Writer to the Signet. He became a member of that honourable body, but almost immediately relinquished legal pursuits, and proceeded to London, resolved to commence the career of a man of letters. In the metropolis his literary aspirations were encouraged by Allan Cunningham and Mr and Mrs S. C. Hall. In 1829, he accepted an appointment in Jamaica; but, his health suffering from the climate of the West Indies, he returned in the following year. Shortly after his arrival in Britain, he was fortunate in obtaining the editorship of the _Dumfries Journal_, a respectable Conservative newspaper. This he conducted with distinguished ability and success for three years, when certain new arrangements, consequent on a change in the proprietary, rendered his services unnecessary. A letter of Allan Cunningham, congratulating him on his appointment as a newspaper editor, is worthy of quotation, from its shrewd and sagacious counsels:--

"Study to fill your paper," writes Cunningham, "with such agreeable and diversified matter as will allure readers; correct intelligence, sprightly and elegant paragraphs, remarks on men and manners at once free and generous; and local intelligence pertaining to the district, such as please men of the Nith in a far land. These are the staple commodity of a newspaper, and these you can easily have. A few literary paragraphs you can easily scatter about; these attract booksellers, and booksellers will give advertisements where they find their works are noticed. Above all things, write cautiously concerning all localities; if you praise much, a hundred will grumble; if you are severe, one only may complain, but twenty will shake the head. You will have friends on one side of the water desiring one thing, friends on the other side desiring the reverse, and in seeking to please one you vex ten. An honest heart, a clear head, and a good conscience, will enable you to get well through all."

On terminating his connexion with the _Dumfries Journal_, Allan proceeded to Edinburgh, where he was immediately employed by the Messrs Chambers as a literary assistant. In a letter addressed to a friend, about this period, he thus expresses himself regarding his enterprising employers:--

"They are never idle. Their very recreations are made conducive to their business, and they go through their labours with a spirit and cheerfulness, which shew how consonant these are with their dispositions." "Mr Robert Chambers," he adds, "is the most mild, unassuming, kind-hearted man I ever knew, and is perfectly uneasy if he thinks there is any one uncomfortable about him. The interest which he has shewn in my welfare has been beyond everything I ever experienced, and the friendly yet delicate way in which he is every other day asking me if I am all comfortable at home, and bidding me apply to him when I am in want of anything, equally puzzles me to understand or express due thanks for."

Besides contributing many interesting articles to _Chambers's Edinburgh Journal_, and furnishing numerous communications to the _Scotsman_ newspaper, Allan wrote a "Life of Sir Walter Scott," in an octavo volume, which commanded a wide sale, and was much commended by the public press. In preparing that elegant work, the "Original National Melodies of Scotland," the ingenious editor, Mr Peter M'Leod, was favoured by him with several songs, which he set forth in that publication, with suitable music. In 1834, some of his relatives succeeded, by political influence, in obtaining for him a subordinate situation in the Stamp Office,--one which at once afforded him a certain subsistence, and did not necessarily preclude the exercise of his literary talents. But a constitutional weakness of the nervous system did not permit of his long enjoying the smiles of fortune. He died suddenly at Janefield, near Leith, on the 15th August 1835, in his thirtieth year. In October 1831, he had espoused Mrs Mary Hill, a widow, eldest daughter of Mr William Pagan, of Curriestanes, and niece of Allan Cunningham, who, with one of their two sons, still survives. Allan was a man of singularly gentle and amiable dispositions, a pleasant companion, and devoted friend. In person he was tall and rather thin, with a handsome, intelligent countenance. An enthusiast in the concerns of literature, it is to be feared that he cut short his career by overstrained application. His verses are animated and vigorous, and are largely imbued with the national spirit.[20]

FOOTNOTES:

[20] We are indebted to William Pagan, Esq. of Clayton, author of "Road Reform," for much of the information contained in this memoir. Mr Pagan kindly procured for our use the whole of Mr Allan's papers and MSS.

IS YOUR WAR-PIPE ASLEEP?[21]

Is your war-pipe asleep, and for ever, M'Crimman? Is your war-pipe asleep, and for ever? Shall the pibroch, that welcom'd the foe to Benaer, Be hush'd when we seek the dark wolf in his lair, To give back our wrongs to the giver? To the raid and the onslaught our chieftains have gone, Like the course of the fire-flaught the clansmen pass'd on, With the lance and the shield 'gainst the foe they have boon'd them, And have ta'en to the field with their vassals around them; Then raise your wild slogan-cry--on to the foray! Sons of the heather-hill, pinewood, and glen, Shout for M'Pherson, M'Leod, and the Moray, Till the Lomonds re-echo the challenge again!

II.--(M'CRIMMAN.)

Youth of the daring heart! bright be thy doom As the bodings which light up thy bold spirit now, But the fate of M'Crimman is closing in gloom, And the breath of the gray wraith hath pass'd o'er his brow; Victorious, in joy, thou'lt return to Benaer, And be clasp'd to the hearts of thy best beloved there, But M'Crimman, M'Crimman, M'Crimman, never-- Never! Never! Never!

III.--(CLANSMEN.)

Wilt thou shrink from the doom thou canst shun not, M'Crimman? Wilt thou shrink from the doom thou canst shun not? If thy course must be brief, let the proud Saxon know That the soul of M'Crimman ne'er quail'd when a foe Bared his blade in the land he had won not! Where the light-footed roe leaves the wild breeze behind, And the red heather-bloom gives its sweets to the wind, There our broad pennon flies, and the keen steeds are prancing, 'Mid the startling war-cries, and the war-weapons glancing, Then raise your wild slogan-cry--on to the foray! Sons of the heather-hill, pinewood, and glen; Shout for M'Pherson, M'Leod, and the Moray, Till the Lomonds re-echo the challenge again!

FOOTNOTES:

[21] In Blackie's "Book of Scottish Song," this song is attributed to the Rev. George Allan, D.D. It is also inserted among the songs of the Ettrick Shepherd, published by the Messrs Blackie. The latter blunder is accounted for by the fact that a copy of the song, which was sent to the Shepherd by Mr H. S. Riddell, as a specimen of Mr Allan's poetical talents, had been found among his papers subsequent to his decease. This song, with the two immediately following, appeared in M'Leod's "National Melodies," but they are here transcribed from the author's MSS.

I WILL THINK OF THEE YET.

I will think of thee yet, though afar I may be, In the land of the stranger, deserted and lone, Though the flowers of this earth are all wither'd to me, And the hopes which once bloom'd in my bosom are gone, I will think of thee yet, and the vision of night Will oft bring thine image again to my sight, And the tokens will be, as the dream passes by, A sigh from the heart and a tear from the eye.

I will think of thee yet, though misfortune fall chill O'er my path, as yon storm-cloud that lours on the lea, And I'll deem that this life is worth cherishing still, While I know that one heart still beats warmly for me. Yes! Grief and Despair may encompass me round, 'Till not e'en the shadow of peace can be found; But mine anguish will cease when my thoughts turn to you And the wild mountain land which my infancy knew.

I will think of thee; oh! if I e'er can forget The love that grew warm as all others grew cold, 'Twill but be when the sun of my reason hath set, Or memory fled from her care-haunted hold; But while life and its woes to bear on is my doom, Shall my love, like a flower in the wilderness, bloom; And thine still shall be, as so long it hath been, A light to my soul when no other is seen.

LASSIE, DEAR LASSIE.

Lassie, dear lassie, the dew 's on the gowan, And the brier-bush is sweet whar the burnie is rowin', But the best buds of Nature may blaw till they weary, Ere they match the sweet e'e or the cheek o' my dearie!

I wander alane, when the gray gloamin' closes, And the lift is spread out like a garden o' roses; But there 's nought which the earth or the sky can discover Sae fair as thysell to thy fond-hearted lover!

The snaw-flake is pure frae the clud when it 's shaken, And melts into dew ere it fa's on the bracken, Oh sae pure is the heart I hae won to my keepin'! But warm as the sun-blink that thaw'd it to weepin'!

Then come to my arms, and the bosom thou 'rt pressing Will tell by its throbs a' there's joy in confessing, For my lips could repeat it a thousand times over, And the tale still seem new to thy fond-hearted lover.

WHEN I LOOK FAR DOWN ON THE VALLEY BELOW ME.[22]

When I look far down on the valley below me, Where lowly the lot of the cottager's cast, While the hues of the evening seem ling'ring to shew me How calmly the sun of this life may be pass'd, How oft have I wish'd that kind Heaven had granted My hours in such spot to have peacefully run, Where, if pleasures were few, they were all that I wanted, And Contentment 's a blessing which wealth never won.

I have mingled with mankind, and far I have wander'd, Have shared all the joys youth so madly pursues; I have been where the bounties of Nature were squander'd Till man became thankless and learn'd to refuse! Yet _there_ I still found that man's innocence perish'd, As the senses might sway or the passions command; That the scenes where alone the soul's treasures were cherish'd, Were the peaceful abodes of my own native land.

Then why should I leave this dear vale of my choice And the friends of my bosom, so faithful and true, To mix in the great world, whose jarring and noise Must make my soul cheerless though sorrows were few? Ah! too sweet would this life of probation be render'd, Our feelings ebb back from Eternity's strand, And the hopes of Elysium in vain would be tender'd, Could we have all we wish'd in our dear native land.

FOOTNOTES:

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

I WILL WAKE MY HARP WHEN THE SHADES OF EVEN.[23]

I will wake my harp when the shades of even Are closing around the dying day, When thoughts that wear the hues of Heaven Are weaning my heart from the world away; And my strain will tell of a land and home Which my wand'ring steps have left behind, Where the hearts that throb and the feet that roam Are free as the breath of their mountain wind.

I will wake my harp when the star of Vesper Hath open'd its eye on the peaceful earth, When not a leaf is heard to whisper That a dew-drop falls, or a breeze hath birth. And you, dear friends of my youthful years, Will oft be the theme of my lonely lay, And a smile for the past will gild the tears That tell how my heart is far away.

I will wake my harp when the moon is holding Her star-tent court in the midnight sky, When the spirits of love, their wings unfolding, Bring down sweet dreams to each fond one's eye. And well may I hail that blissful hour, For my spirit will then, from its thrall set free, Return to my own lov'd maiden's bower, And gather each sigh that she breathes for me.

Thus, still when those pensive hours are bringing The feelings and thoughts which no lips can tell, I will charm each cloud from my soul by singing Of all I have left and lov'd so well. Oh! Fate may smile, and Sorrow may cease, But the dearest hope we on earth can gain Is to come, after long sad years, in peace, And be join'd with the friends of our love, again.

FOOTNOTES:

[23] Printed for the first time.

THOMAS BRYDSON.

Thomas Brydson was born in Glasgow in 1806. On completing the usual course of study at the Universities of Glasgow and Edinburgh, he became a licentiate of the Established Church. He assisted in the Middle Church, Greenock, and in the parish of Kilmalcolm, Renfrewshire, and was, in 1839, ordained minister of Levern Chapel, near Paisley. In 1842, he was translated to the full charge of Kilmalcolm, where he continued to minister with much acceptance till his death, which took place suddenly on the 28th January 1855.

A man of fine fancy and correct taste, Mr Brydson was, in early life, much devoted to poetical composition. In 1829, he published a duodecimo volume of "Poems;" and a more matured collection of his poetical pieces in 1832, under the title of "Pictures of the Past." He contributed, in prose and verse, to the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_; the _Republic of Letters_, a Glasgow publication; and some of the London annuals. Though fond of correspondence with his literary friends, and abundantly hospitable, he latterly avoided general society, and, in a great measure, confined himself to his secluded parish of Kilmalcolm. Among his parishioners he was highly esteemed for the unction and fervour which distinguished his public ministrations, as well as for the gentleness of his manners and the generosity of his heart. Of domestic animals he was devotedly fond. He took delight in pastoral scenery, and in solitary musings among the hills. His poetry is pervaded by elegance of sentiment and no inconsiderable vigour of expression.

ALL LOVELY AND BRIGHT.

All lovely and bright, 'mid the desert of time, Seem the days when I wander'd with you, Like the green isles that swell in this far distant clime, On the deeps that are trackless and blue.

And now, while the torrent is loud on the hill, And the howl of the forest is drear, I think of the lapse of our own native rill-- I think of thy voice with a tear.

The light of my taper is fading away, It hovers, and trembles, and dies; The far-coming morn on her sea-paths is gray, But sleep will not come to mine eyes.

Yet why should I ponder, or why should I grieve O'er the joys that my childhood has known? We may meet, when the dew-flowers are fragrant at eve, As we met in the days that are gone.

CHARLES DOYNE SILLERY.

Though a native of Ireland, Charles Doyne Sillery has some claim to enrolment among the minstrels of Caledonia. His mother was a Scotchwoman, and he was himself brought up and educated in Edinburgh. He was born at Athlone, in Ireland, on the 2d of March 1807. His father, who bore the same Christian and middle names, was a captain of the Royal Artillery.[24] He distinguished himself in the engagements of Talavera on the 27th and 28th of July 1809; but from his fatigues died soon after. His mother, Catherine Fyfe, was the youngest daughter of Mr Barclay Fyfe, merchant in Leith. She subsequently became the wife of James Watson, Esq., now of Tontley Hall, Berkshire.