Part 13

Oh! years hae come, an' years hae gane, Sin' first I sought the warld alane, Sin' first I mused wi' heart sae fain On the hills o' Caledonia. But oh! behold the present gloom, My early friends are in the tomb, And nourish now the heather bloom On the hills o' Caledonia.

My father's name, my father's lot, Is now a tale that 's heeded not, Or sang unsung, if no forgot On the hills o' Caledonia. O' our great ha' there 's left nae stane-- A' swept away, like snaw lang gane; Weeds flourish o'er the auld domain On the hills o' Caledonia.

The Ti'ot's banks are bare and high, The stream rins sma' an' mournfu' by, Like some sad heart maist grutten dry On the hills o' Caledonia. The wee birds sing no frae the tree, The wild-flowers bloom no on the lea, As if the kind things pitied me On the hills o' Caledonia.

But friends can live, though cold they lie, An' mock the mourner's tear an' sigh, When we forget them, then they die On the hills o' Caledonia. An' howsoever changed the scene, While mem'ry an' my feeling 's green, Still green to my auld heart an' e'en Are the hills o' Caledonia.

MY MOUNTAIN HAME.

AIR--_"Gala Water."_

My mountain hame, my mountain hame! My kind, my independent mother; While thought and feeling rule my frame, Can I forget the mountain heather? Scotland dear!

I love to hear your daughters dear The simple tale in song revealing, Whene'er your music greets my ear My bosom swells wi' joyous feeling-- Scotland dear!

Though I to other lands may gae, Should Fortune's smile attend me thither, I 'll hameward come, whene'er I may, And look again on the mountain heather-- Scotland dear!

When I maun die, oh! I would lie Where life and me first met together; That my cauld clay, through its decay, Might bloom again in the mountain heather-- Scotland dear!

THOMAS SMIBERT.

A poet and indefatigable prose-writer, Thomas Smibert was born in Peebles on the 8th February 1810. Of his native town his father held for a period the office of chief magistrate. With a view of qualifying himself for the medical profession, he became apprentice to an apothecary, and afterwards attended the literary and medical classes in the University of Edinburgh. Obtaining licence as a surgeon, he commenced practice in the village of Inverleithen, situated within six miles of his native town. He was induced to adopt this sphere of professional labour from an affection which he had formed for a young lady in the vicinity, who, however, did not recompense his devotedness, but accepted the hand of a more prosperous rival. Disappointed in love, and with a practice scarcely yielding emolument sufficient to pay the annual rent of his apothecary's store, he left Inverleithen after the lapse of a year, and returned to Peebles. He now began to turn his attention to literature, and was fortunate in procuring congenial employment from the Messrs Chambers, as a contributor to their popular _Journal_. Of this periodical he soon attained the position of sub-editor; and in evidence of the indefatigable nature of his services in this literary connexion, it is worthy of record that, during the period intervening between 1837 and 1842, he contributed to the _Journal_ no fewer than five hundred essays, one hundred tales, and about fifty biographical sketches. Within the same period he edited a new edition of Paley's "Natural Theology," with scientific notes, and wrote extensively for a work of the Messrs Chambers, entitled "Information for the People." In 1842, he was appointed to the sub-editorship of the _Scotsman_ newspaper. The bequest of a relative afterwards enabled him to relinquish stated literary occupation, but he continued to exhibit to the world pleasing evidences of his learning and industry. He became a frequent contributor to _Hogg's Instructor_, an Edinburgh weekly periodical; produced a work on "Greek History;" and collated a "Rhyming Dictionary." A large, magnificently illustrated volume, the "Clans of the Highlands of Scotland," was his most ambitious and successful effort as a prose-writer. His poetical compositions, which were scattered among a number of the periodicals, he was induced to collect and publish in a volume, with the title, "Io Anche! Poems chiefly Lyrical;" Edinburgh, 1851, 12mo. An historical play from his pen, entitled "Condé's Wife," founded on the love of Henri Quatre for Marguerite de Montmorency, whom the young Prince of Condé had wedded, was produced in 1842 by Mr Murray in the Theatre Royal, Edinburgh, and during a run of nine nights was received with applause.

Smibert died at Edinburgh on the 16th January 1854, in his forty-fourth year. With pleasing manners, he was possessed of kindly dispositions, and was much cherished for his intelligent and interesting conversation. In person he was strong built, and his complexion was fair and ruddy. He was not undesirous of reputation both as a poet and prose-writer, and has recorded his regret that he had devoted so much time to evanescent periodical literature. His poetry is replete with patriotic sentiment, and his strain is forcible and occasionally brilliant. His songs indicate a fine fancy and deep pathos.

THE SCOTTISH WIDOW'S LAMENT.

Afore the Lammas tide Had dun'd the birken-tree, In a' our water side Nae wife was bless'd like me. A kind gudeman, and twa Sweet bairns were 'round me here, But they're a' ta'en awa' Sin' the fa' o' the year.

Sair trouble cam' our gate, And made me, when it cam', A bird without a mate, A ewe without a lamb. Our hay was yet to maw, And our corn was to shear, When they a' dwined awa' In the fa' o' the year.

I downa look a-field, For aye I trow I see The form that was a bield To my wee bairns and me; But wind, and weet, and snaw, They never mair can fear, Sin' they a' got the ca' In the fa' o' the year.

Aft on the hill at e'ens, I see him 'mang the ferns-- The lover o' my teens, The faither o' my bairns; For there his plaid I saw, As gloamin' aye drew near, But my a's now awa' Sin' the fa' o' the year.

Our bonnie rigs theirsel', Reca' my waes to mind; Our puir dumb beasties tell O' a' that I hae tyned; For wha our wheat will saw, And wha our sheep will shear, Sin' my a' gaed awa' In the fa' o' the year?

My hearth is growing cauld, And will be caulder still, And sair, sair in the fauld Will be the winter's chill; For peats were yet to ca', Our sheep they were to smear, When my a' passed awa' In the fa' o' the year.

I ettle whiles to spin, But wee, wee patterin' feet Come rinnin' out and in, And then I just maun greet; I ken it 's fancy a', And faster rows the tear, That my a' dwined awa' In the fa' o' the year.

Be kind, O Heaven abune! To ane sae wae and lane, And tak' her hamewards sune In pity o' her maen. Lang ere the March winds blaw, May she, far far frae here, Meet them a' that's awa Sin' the fa' o' the year!

THE HERO OF ST JOHN D'ACRE.[25]

Once more on the broad-bosom'd ocean appearing The banner of England is spread to the breeze, And loud is the cheering that hails the uprearing Of glory's loved emblem, the pride of the seas. No tempest shall daunt her, No victor-foe taunt her, What manhood can do in her cause shall be done-- Britannia's best seaman, The boast of her freemen, Will conquer or die by his colours and gun.

On Acre's proud turrets an ensign is flying, Which stout hearts are banded till death to uphold; And bold is their crying, and fierce their defying, When trench'd in their ramparts, unconquer'd of old. But lo! in the offing, To punish their scoffing, Brave Napier appears, and their triumph is done; No danger can stay him, No foeman dismay him, He conquers or dies by his colours and gun.

Now low in the dust is the Crescent flag humbled, Its warriors are vanquish'd, their freedom is gone; The strong walls have tumbled, the proud towers are crumbled, And England's flag waves over ruin'd St John. But Napier now tenders To Acre's defenders The aid of a friend when the combat is won; For mercy's sweet blossom Blooms fresh in his bosom, Who conquers or dies by his colours and gun.

"All hail to the hero!" his country is calling, And "hail to his comrades!" the faithful and brave, They fear'd not for falling, they knew no appalling, But fought like their fathers, the lords of the wave. And long may the ocean, In calm and commotion, Rejoicing convey them where fame may be won, And when foes would wound us May Napier be round us, To conquer or die by their colours and gun!

FOOTNOTES:

[25] Admiral Sir Charles Napier.

OH! BONNIE ARE THE HOWES.

Oh! bonnie are the howes And sunny are the knowes That feed the kye and yowes Where my life's morn dawn'd; And brightly glance the rills That spring amang the hills And ca' the merry mills In my ain dear land.

But now I canna see The lammies on the lea, Nor hear the heather bee On this far, far strand. I see nae father's ha', Nae burnie's waterfa', But wander far awa' Frae my ain dear land.

My heart was free and light, My ingle burning bright, When ruin cam' by night Through a foe's fell hand. I left my native air, I gaed to come nae mair; And now I sorrow sair For my ain dear land.

But blithely will I bide Whate'er may yet betide When ane is by my side On this far, far strand. My Jean will soon be here This waefu' heart to cheer, And dry the fa'ing tear For my ain dear land.

OH! SAY NA YOU MAUN GANG AWA'.

Oh! say na you maun gang awa', Oh! say na you maun leave me; The dreaded hour that parts us twa Of peace and hope will reave me.

When you to distant shores are gane How could I bear to tarry, Where ilka tree and ilka stane Would mind me o' my Mary?

I couldna wander near yon woods That saw us oft caressing, And on our heads let fa' their buds In earnest o' their blessing.

Ilk stane wad mind me how we press'd Its half-o'erspreading heather, And how we lo'ed the least the best That made us creep thegither.

I couldna bide, when you are gane, My ain, my winsome dearie, I couldna stay to pine my lane-- I live but when I 'm near ye.

Then say na you maun gang awa', Oh! say na you maun leave me; For ah! the hour that parts us twa Of life itself will reave me.

JOHN BETHUNE.

The younger of two remarkable brothers, whose names are justly entitled to remembrance, John Bethune, was born at the Mount, in the parish of Monimail, Fifeshire, during the summer of 1810. The poverty of his parents did not permit his attendance at a public school; he was taught reading by his mother, and writing and arithmetic by his brother Alexander,[26] who was considerably his senior. After some years' employment as a cow-herd, he was necessitated, in his twelfth year, to break stones on the turnpike-road. At the recommendation of a comrade, he apprenticed himself, early in 1824, to a weaver in a neighbouring village. In his new profession he rapidly acquired dexterity, so that, at the end of one year, he could earn the respectable weekly wages of fifteen shillings. Desirous of assisting his aged parents, he now purchased a loom and settled as a weaver on his own account, with his elder brother as his apprentice. A period of mercantile embarrassments which followed, severely affecting the manufacturing classes, pressed heavily on the subject of this notice; his earnings became reduced to six shillings weekly, and he was obliged to exchange the labours of the shuttle for those of the implements of husbandry. During the period of his apprenticeship, his thoughts had been turned to poetical composition, but it was subsequent to the commercial disasters of 1825 that he began earnestly to direct his attention towards the concerns of literature. Successive periods of bad health unfitting him for continued labour in the fields, were improved by extensive reading and composition. Before he had completed his nineteenth year he had produced upwards of twenty poetical compositions, each of considerable length, and the whole replete with power, both of sentiment and expression. Till considerably afterwards, however, his literary productions were only known to his brother Alexander, or at furthest to his parents. "Up to the latter part of 1835," writes his brother in a biographical sketch, "the whole of his writing had been prosecuted as stealthily as if it had been a crime punishable by law. There being but one apartment in the house, it was his custom to write by the fire, with an old copy-book, upon which his paper lay, resting on his knee, and this, through life, was his only writing-desk. On the table, which was within reach, an old newspaper was kept constantly lying, and as soon as the footsteps of any one were heard approaching the door, copy-book, pens, and ink-stand were thrust under this covering, and before the visitor came in, he had, in general, a book in his hand, and appeared to have been reading."

For a number of years Bethune had wrought as a day-labourer in the grounds of Inchrye, in the vicinity of his birthplace. On the death of the overseer on that property he was appointed his successor, entering on the duties at the term of Martinmas 1835, his brother accompanying him as his assistant. The appointment yielded £26 yearly, with the right of a cow's pasturage--emoluments which considerably exceeded the average of his previous earnings. To the duties of his new situation he applied himself with his wonted industry, still continuing to dedicate only his evenings and the intervals of toil to literary occupation. But his comparative prosperity was of short duration. During the summer following his appointment at Inchrye the estate changed owners, and the new proprietor dispensed with his services at the next term. In another year the landlord required the little cottage at Lochend, occupied by his parents. Undaunted by these reverses, John Bethune and his brother summoned stout courage; they erected a cottage at Mount Pleasant, near Newburgh, the walls being mostly reared by their own hands. The future career of Bethune was chiefly occupied in literary composition. He became a contributor to the _Scottish Christian Herald_, _Wilson's Tales of the Borders_, and other serial publications. In 1838 appeared "Tales and Sketches of the Scottish Peasantry," the mutual production of the poet and his brother--a work which, published in Edinburgh, was well received. A work on "Practical Economy," on which the brothers had bestowed much pains, and which had received the favourable opinion of persons of literary eminence, was published in May 1839, but failed to attract general interest. This unhappy result deeply affected the health of the poet, whose constitution had already been much shattered by repeated attacks of illness. He was seized with a complaint which proved the harbinger of pulmonary consumption. He died at Mount Pleasant on the 1st September 1839, in his thirtieth year.

With a more lengthened career, John Bethune would have attained a high reputation, both as an interesting poet and an elegant prose-writer. His genius was versatile and brilliant; of human nature, in all its important aspects, he possessed an intuitive perception, and he was practically familiar with the character and habits of the sons of industry. His tales are touching and simple; his verses lofty and contemplative. In sentiment eminently devotional, his life was a model of genuine piety. His Poems, prefaced by an interesting Memoir, were published by his surviving brother in 1840; and from the profits of a second edition, published in the following year, a monument has been erected over his grave in the churchyard of Abdie.

FOOTNOTES:

[26] Alexander Bethune, the elder brother of the poet, and his constant companion and coadjutor in literary work, was born at Upper Rankeillor, in the parish of Monimail, in July 1804. His education was limited to a few months' attendance at a subscription school in his sixth year, with occasional lessons from his parents. Like his younger brother, he followed the occupation of a labourer, frequently working in the quarry or breaking stones on the public road. Early contracting a taste for literature, his leisure hours were devoted to reading and composition. In 1835, several of his productions appeared in _Chambers' Edinburgh Journal_. "Tales and Sketches of the Scottish Peasantry," a volume by the brothers, of which the greater portion was written by Alexander, was published in 1838; their joint-treatise on "Practical Economy" in the year following. In 1843, Alexander published a small volume of tales, entitled "The Scottish Peasant's Fireside," which was favourably received. During the same year he was offered the editorship of the _Dumfries Standard_ newspaper, with a salary of £100 a-year, but he was unable to accept the appointment from impaired health. He died at Mount Pleasant, near Newburgh, on the 13th June 1843, and his remains were interred in his brother's grave in Abdie churchyard. An interesting volume of his Memoirs, "embracing Selections from his Correspondence and Literary Memoirs," was published in 1845 by Mr William M'Combie.

WITHER'D FLOWERS.

Adieu! ye wither'd flow'rets! Your day of glory's past; But your latest smile was loveliest, For we knew it was your last. No more the sweet aroma Of your golden cups shall rise, To scent the morning's stilly breath, Or gloaming's zephyr-sighs.

Ye were the sweetest offerings Which Friendship could bestow-- A token of devoted love In pleasure or in woe! Ye graced the head of infancy, By soft affection twined Into a fairy coronal Its sunny brows to bind.

* * * * *

But ah! a dreary blast hath blown Athwart you in your bloom, And, pale and sickly, now your leaves The hues of death assume. We mourn your vanish'd loveliness, Ye sweet departed flowers; For ah! the fate which blighted you An emblem is of ours.

* * * * * And though, like you, sweet flowers of earth, We wither and depart, And leave behind, to mourn our loss, Full many an aching heart; Yet when the winter of the grave Is past, we hope to rise, Warm'd by the Sun of Righteousness, To blossom in the skies.

A SPRING SONG.

There is a concert in the trees, There is a concert on the hill, There 's melody in every breeze, And music in the murmuring rill. The shower is past, the winds are still, The fields are green, the flow'rets spring, The birds, and bees, and beetles fill The air with harmony, and fling The rosied moisture of the leaves In frolic flight from wing to wing, Fretting the spider as he weaves His airy web from bough to bough; In vain the little artist grieves Their joy in his destruction now.

Alas! that, in a scene so fair, The meanest being e'er should feel The gloomy shadow of despair Or sorrow o'er his bosom steal. But in a world where woe is real, Each rank in life, and every day, Must pain and suffering reveal, And wretched mourners in decay-- When nations smile o'er battles won, When banners wave and streamers play, The lonely mother mourns her son Left lifeless on the bloody clay; And the poor widow, all undone, Sees the wild revel with dismay.

Even in the happiest scenes of earth, When swell'd the bridal-song on high, When every voice was tuned to mirth, And joy was shot from eye to eye, I 've heard a sadly-stifled sigh; And, 'mid the garlands rich and fair, I 've seen a cheek, which once could vie In beauty with the fairest there, Grown deadly pale, although a smile Was worn above to cloak despair. Poor maid! it was a hapless wile Of long-conceal'd and hopeless love To hide a heart, which broke the while With pangs no lighter heart could prove.

The joyous spring and summer gay With perfumed gifts together meet, And from the rosy lips of May Breathe music soft and odours sweet; And still my eyes delay my feet To gaze upon the earth and heaven, And hear the happy birds repeat Their anthems to the coming even; Yet is my pleasure incomplete; I grieve to think how few are given To feel the pleasures I possess, While thousand hearts, by sorrow riven, Must pine in utter loneliness, Or be to desperation driven.

Oh! could we find some happy land, Some Eden of the deep blue sea, By gentle breezes only fann'd, Upon whose soil, from sorrow free, Grew only pure felicity! Who would not brave the stormiest main Within that blissful isle to be, Exempt from sight or sense of pain? There is a land we cannot see, Whose joys no pen can e'er portray; And yet, so narrow is the road, From it our spirits ever stray-- Shed light upon that path, O God! And lead us in the appointed way.

There only joy shall be complete, More high than mortal thoughts can reach, For there the just and good shall meet, Pure in affection, thought, and speech; No jealousy shall make a breach, Nor pain their pleasure e'er alloy; There sunny streams of gladness stretch, And there the very air is joy. There shall the faithful, who relied On faithless love till life would cloy, And those who sorrow'd till they died O'er earthly pain and earthly woe, See Pleasure, like a whelming tide, From an unbounded ocean flow.

ALLAN STEWART.

Allan Stewart, a short-lived poet of no inconsiderable merit, was born in the village of Houston, Renfrewshire, on the 30th January 1812. His father prosecuted the humble vocation of a sawyer. Deprived of his mother in early life, the loss was in some degree repaired by the kind attentions of his maternal aunt, Martha Muir, whose letters on religious subjects have been published. Receiving an ordinary education at school, he followed the trade of a weaver in Paisley. His leisure hours were employed in reading, and in the composition of verses. He died of typhus fever, at Paisley, on the 12th November 1837, in his twenty-sixth year. His "Poetical Remains" were published in 1838, in a thin duodecimo volume, with a well-written biographical sketch from the pen of his friend, Mr Charles Fleming.

Stewart was a person of modest demeanour, and of a thoughtful and somewhat melancholy cast. His verses are generally of a superior order; his songs abound in sweetness of expression and elegance of sentiment.

THE SEA-BOY.

AIR--_"The Soldier's Tear."_