Part 14

The storm grew faint as daylight tinged The lofty billows' crest; And love-lit hopes, with fears yet fringed, Danced in the sea-boy's breast. And perch'd aloft, he cheer'ly sung To the billows' less'ning roar-- "O Ellen, so fair, so free, and young, I 'll see thee yet once more!"

And O what joy beam'd in his eye, When, o'er the dusky foam, He saw, beneath the northern sky, The hills that mark'd his home! His heart with double ardour strung, He sung this ditty o'er-- "O Ellen, so fair, so free, and young, I 'll see thee yet once more!"

Now towers and trees rise on his sight, And many a dear-loved spot; And, smiling o'er the blue waves bright, He saw young Ellen's cot. The scenes on which his memory hung A cheerful aspect wore; He then, with joyous feeling, sung, "I 'll see her yet once more!"

The land they near'd, and on the beach Stood many a female form; But ah! his eye it could not reach His hope in many a storm. He through the spray impatient sprung, And gain'd the wish'd-for shore; But Ellen, so fair, so sweet, and young, Was gone for evermore!

MENIE LORN.

While beaus and belles parade the streets On summer gloamings gay, And barter'd smiles and borrow'd sweets, And all such vain display; My walks are where the bean-field's breath On evening's breeze is borne, With her, the angel of my heart-- My lovely Menie Lorn.

Love's ambuscades her auburn hair, Love's throne her azure eye, Where peerless charms and virtues rare In blended beauty lie. The rose is fair at break of day, And sweet the blushing thorn, But sweeter, fairer far than they, The smile of Menie Lorn.

O tell me not of olive groves, Where gold and gems abound; Of deep blue eyes and maiden loves, With every virtue crown'd. I ask no other ray of joy Life's desert to adorn, Than that sweet bliss, which ne'er can cloy-- The love of Menie Lorn.

THE YOUNG SOLDIER.

AIR--_"The Banks of the Devon."_

O say not o' war the young soldier is weary, Ye wha in battle ha'e witness'd his flame; Remember his daring when danger was near ye, Forgive ye the sigh that he heaves for his hame. Past perils he heeds not, nor dangers yet coming, Frae dark-brooding terror his young heart is free; But it pants for the place whar in youth he was roaming; He turns to the north wi' the tear in his e'e.

'Tis remembrance that saftens what war never daunted, 'Tis the hame o' his birth that gives birth to the tear; The warm fondled hopes his first love had implanted, He langs now to reap in his Jeanie sae dear. An' aften he thinks on the bonnie clear burnie, Whar oft in love's fondness they daff'd their young day; Nae tear then was shedded, for short was the journey 'Tween Jeanie's broom bower and the blaeberry brae.

An' weel does he mind o' that morning, when dressing, In green Highland garb, to cross the wide sea; His auld mither grat when she gi'ed him her blessing-- 'Twas a' that the puir body then had to gi'e. The black downy plume on his bonnie cheek babbit, As he stood at the door an' shook hands wi' them a'; But sair was his heart, an' sair Jeanie sabbit, Whan down the burn-side she convoy'd him awa'.

Now high-headed Alps an' dark seas divide them, Wilds ne'er imagined in love's early dream; Their Alps then the knowes, whare the lambs lay beside them, Their seas then the hazel an' saugh-shaded stream. An' wha couldna sigh when memory 's revealing The scenes that surrounded our life's early hame? The hero whose heart is cauld to that feeling His nature is harsh, and not worthy the name.

THE LAND I LOVE.

The land I lo'e, the land I lo'e, Is the land of the plaid and bonnet blue, Of the gallant heart, the firm and true, The land of the hardy thistle.

Isle of the freeborn, honour'd and blest, Isle of beauty, in innocence dress'd, The loveliest star on ocean's breast Is the land of the hardy thistle.

Fair are those isles of Indian bloom, Whose flowers perpetual breathe perfume; But dearer far are the braes o' broom Where blooms the hardy thistle.

No luscious fig-tree blossoms there, No slaves the scented shrubb'ry rear; Her sons are free as the mountain air That shakes the hardy thistle.

Lovely 's the tint o' an eastern sky, And lovely the lands that 'neath it lie; But I wish to live, and I wish to die In the land of the hardy thistle!

ROBERT L. MALONE.

Robert L. Malone was a native of Anstruther, in Fife, where he was born in 1812. His father was a captain in the navy, and afterwards was employed in the Coast Guard. He ultimately settled at Rothesay, in Bute. Receiving a common school education, Robert entered the navy in his fourteenth year. He served on board the gun-brig _Marshall_, which attended the Fisheries department in the west; next in the Mediterranean ocean; and latterly in South America. Compelled, from impaired health, to renounce the seafaring life, after a service of ten years, he returned to his family at Rothesay, but afterwards settled in the town of Greenock. In 1845, he became a clerk in the Long-room of the Customs at Greenock, an appointment which he retained till nigh the period of his death. A lover of poetry from his youth, he solaced the hours of sickness by the composition of verses. He published, in 1845, a duodecimo volume of poetry, entitled, "The Sailor's Dream, and other Poems," a work which was well received. His death took place at Greenock on the 6th of July 1850, in his thirty-eighth year. Of modest and retiring dispositions, Malone was unambitious of distinction as a poet. His style is bold and animated, and some of his pieces evince considerable power.

THE THISTLE OF SCOTLAND.

AIR--_"Humours o' Glen."_

Though fair blooms the rose in gay Anglia's bowers, And green be thy emblem, thou gem of the sea, The greenest, the sweetest, the fairest of flowers, Is the thistle--the thistle of Scotland, for me!

Far lovelier flowers glow, the woodlands adorning, And breathing perfume over moorland and lea, But there breathes not a bud on the freshness of morning Like the thistle--the thistle of Scotland, for me!

What scenes o' langsyne even thy name can awaken, Thou badge of the fearless, the fair, and the free, And the tenderest chords of the spirit are shaken; The thistle--the thistle of Scotland, for thee!

Still'd be my harp, and forgotten its numbers, And cold as the grave my affections must be, Ere thy name fail to waken my soul from her slumbers; The thistle--the thistle of Scotland, for me!

On the fields of their fame, while proud laurels she gathers, Caledonia plants, wi' the tear in her e'e, Thy soft downy seeds on the graves of our fathers; The thistle--the thistle of Scotland, for me!

HAME IS AYE HAMELY.

AIR--_"Love's Young Dream."_

Oh! hame is aye hamely still, though poor at times it be, An' ye winna find a place like hame in lands beyond the sea; Though ye may wander east an' west, in quest o' wealth or fame, There 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame, Oh! there 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame.

There 's gowd in gowpens got, they say, on India's sunny strand, Then wha would bear to linger here in this bleak, barren land? I 'll hie me ower the heaving wave, and win myself a name, And in a palace or a grave forget my Hieland hame.

'Twas thus resolved the peasant boy, and left his native stream, And Fortune crown'd his every wish, beyond his fondest dream; His good sword won him wealth and power and long and loud acclaim, But could not banish from his thoughts his dear-loved mountain hame.

No! The peasant's heart within the peer beat true to nature still, For on his vision oft would rise the cottage on the hill; And young companions, long forgot, would join him in the game, As erst in life's young morning, around his Hieland hame.

Oh! in the Brahmin, mild and gray, his father's face he saw; He thought upon his mother's tears the day he gaed awa'; And her he loved--his Hieland girl--there 's magic in the name-- They a' combine to wile him back to his far Hieland hame.

He sigh'd for kindred hearts again, and left the sunny lands, And where his father's cottage stood a stately palace stands; And with his grandchild on his knee--the old man's heart on flame-- 'Tis thus he trains his darling boy to cherish thoughts of hame.

Oh! hame is aye hamely, dear, though poor at times it be, Ye winna find a spot like hame in lands beyond the sea; Oh! ye may wander east or west, in quest o' wealth or fame, But there 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame, Oh! there 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame.

PETER STILL.

Peter Still was born in the parish of Fraserburgh, Aberdeenshire, on the 1st day of January 1814. At the time of his birth his father rented a farm, but, being unfortunate, he was compelled to seek the support of his family by manual labour. With a limited education at the parish-school of Longside, whither his parents had removed, the subject of this memoir was sent, in his eleventh year, to tend cattle. When somewhat older, he found employment as a farm-servant; but having married in his twentieth year, he afterwards followed the more precarious occupation of a day-labourer. Of a delicate constitution, he suffered much from impaired health, being frequently, for months together, confined to the sick-chamber. During the periods of convalescence from illness, he composed verses, which he gave to the world in three separate publications. His last work--"The Cottar's Sunday, and other Poems"--appeared in 1845, in a handsome duodecimo volume. He closed a life of much privation and suffering at Peterhead, on the 21st March 1848.

Of sound religious principles and devoted Christian feeling, Still meekly submitted to the bitterness of his lot in life. He was fortunate in arresting the attention of some, who occasionally administered to his wants, and contributed, by their patronage, to the increase of his reputation. His verses are largely pervaded with poetical fervour and religious sentiment, while his songs are generally true to nature. In person he was tall and slender, of a long thin countenance, large dark blue eyes, and curling black hair.

JEANIE'S LAMENT.

AIR--_"Lord Gregory."_

I never thocht to thole the waes It 's been my lot to dree; I never thocht to sigh sae sad Whan first I sigh'd for thee. I thocht your heart was like mine ain, As true as true could be; I couldna think there was a stain In ane sae dear to me.

Whan first amang the dewy flowers, Aside yon siller stream, My lowin' heart was press'd to yours, Nae purer did they seem; Nae purer seem'd the draps o' dew, The flowers on whilk they hung, Than seem'd the heart I felt in you As to that heart I clung.

But I was young an' thochtless then, An' easy to beguile; My mither's warnin's had nae weight 'Bout man's deceitfu' smile. But noo, alas! whan she is dead, I 've shed the sad, saut tear, And hung my heavy, heavy head Aboon my father's bier!

They saw their earthly hope betray'd, They saw their Jeanie fade; They couldna thole the heavy stroke, An' baith are lowly laid! Oh, Jamie! but thy name again Shall ne'er be breathed by me, For, speechless through yon gow'ny glen, I 'll wander till I die.

YE NEEDNA' BE COURTIN' AT ME.

AIR--_"John Todd."_

"Ye needna' be courtin' at me, auld man, Ye needna' be courtin' at me; Ye 're threescore an' three, an' ye 're blin' o' an e'e, Sae ye needna' be courtin' at me, auld man, Ye needna' be courtin' at me.

"Stan' aff, noo, an' just lat me be, auld man, Stan' aff, noo, an' just lat me be; Ye 're auld an' ye 're cauld, an' ye 're blin' an' ye 're bald, An' ye 're nae for a lassie like me, auld man, Ye 're nae for a lassie like me."

"Ha'e patience, an' hear me a wee, sweet lass, Ha'e patience, an' hear me a wee; I 've gowpens o' gowd, an' an aumry weel stow'd, An' a heart that lo'es nane but thee, sweet lass, A heart that lo'es nane but thee.

"I 'll busk you as braw as a queen, sweet lass, I 'll busk you as braw as a queen; I 've guineas to spare, an', hark ye, what 's mair, I 'm only twa score an' fifteen, sweet lass, Only twa score an' fifteen."

"Gae hame to your gowd an' your gear, auld man, Gae hame to your gowd an' your gear; There 's a laddie I ken has a heart like mine ain, An' to me he shall ever be dear, auld man, To me he shall ever be dear.

"Get aff, noo, an' fash me nae mair, auld man, Get aff, noo, an' fash me nae mair; There 's a something in love that your gowd canna move-- I 'll be Johnie's although I gang bare, auld man, I 'll be Johnie's although I gang bare."

THE BUCKET FOR ME.

The bucket, the bucket, the bucket for me! Awa' wi' your bickers o' barley bree; Though good ye may think it, I 'll never mair drink it-- The bucket, the bucket, the bucket for me! There 's health in the bucket, there 's wealth in the bucket, There 's mair i' the bucket than mony can see; An' aye whan I leuk in 't, I find there 's a beuk in 't That teaches the essence o' wisdom to me.

Whan whisky I swiggit, my wifie aye beggit, An' aft did she sit wi' the tear in her e'e; But noo--wad you think it?--whan water I drink it Right blithesome she smiles on the bucket an' me. The bucket 's a treasure nae mortal can measure, It 's happit my wee bits o' bairnies an' me; An' noo roun' my ingle, whare sorrows did mingle, I 've pleasure, an' plenty, an' glances o' glee.

The bucket 's the bicker that keeps a man sicker, The bucket 's a shield an' a buckler to me; In pool or in gutter nae langer I 'll splutter, But walk like a freeman wha feels he is free.

Ye drunkards, be wise noo, an' alter your choice noo-- Come cling to the bucket, an' prosper like me; Ye 'll find it is better to swig "caller water," Than groan in a gutter without a bawbee!

ROBERT NICOLL.

One of the most gifted and hopeful of modern Scottish song writers, Robert Nicoll, was born at Little Tulliebeltane, in the parish of Auchtergaven, Perthshire, on the 7th January 1814. Of a family of nine children, he was the second son. His father, who bore the same Christian name, rented a farm at the period of his birth and for five years afterwards, when, involved in an affair of cautionary, he was reduced to the condition of an agricultural labourer. Young Nicoll received the rudiments of his education from his mother, a woman of superior shrewdness and information; subsequently to his seventh year he tended cattle in the summer months, to procure the means of attending the parish school during the other portion of the year. From his childhood fond of reading, books were his constant companions--in the field, on the highway, and during the intervals of leisure in his father's cottage. In his thirteenth year, he wrote verses and became the correspondent of a newspaper. Apprenticed to a grocer and wine-merchant in Perth, and occupied in business from seven o'clock morning till nine o'clock evening, he prosecuted mental culture by abridging the usual hours of rest. At the age of nineteen he communicated a tale to _Johnstone's Magazine_, an Edinburgh periodical, which was inserted, and attracted towards him the notice of Mr Johnstone, the ingenious proprietor. By this gentleman he was introduced, during a visit he made to the capital, to some men of letters, who subsequently evinced a warm interest in his career.

In 1834, Nicoll opened a small circulating library in Dundee, occupying his spare time in reading and composition, and likewise taking part in public meetings convened for the support of Radical or extreme liberal opinions. To the liberal journals of the town he became a frequent contributor both in prose and verse, and in 1835 appeared as the author of a volume of "Poems and Lyrics." This publication was highly esteemed by his friends, and most favourably received by the press. Abandoning business in Dundee, which had never been prosperous, he meditated proceeding as a literary adventurer to London, but was induced by Mr Tait, his friendly publisher, and some other well-wishers, to remain in Edinburgh till a suitable opening should occur. In the summer of 1836 he was appointed editor of the _Leeds Times_ newspaper, with a salary of £100. The politics of this journal were Radical, and to the exposition and advocacy of these opinions he devoted himself with equal ardour and success. But the unremitting labour of conducting a public journal soon began materially to undermine the energies of a constitution which, never robust, had been already impaired by a course of untiring literary occupation. The excitement of a political contest at Leeds, during a general parliamentary election, completed the physical prostration of the poet; he removed from Leeds to Knaresborough, and from thence to Laverock Bank, near Edinburgh, the residence of his friend Mr Johnstone. His case was hopeless; after lingering a short period in a state of entire prostration, he departed this life in December 1837, in his twenty-fourth year. His remains, attended by a numerous assemblage, were consigned to the churchyard of North Leith.

Possessed of strong poetical genius, Robert Nicoll has attained a conspicuous and honoured niche in the temple of the national minstrelsy. Several of his songs, especially "Bonnie Bessie Lee" and "Ordé Braes," have obtained an equal popularity with the best songs of Burns. Since the period of his death, four different editions of his "Poems" have been called for. The work has latterly been published by the Messrs Blackie of Glasgow in a handsome form, prefaced by an interesting memoir. Nicoll's strain is eminently smooth and simple; and, though many of his lyrics published after his decease had not the benefit of his revision, he never falls into mediocrity. Of extensive sympathies, he portrays the loves, hopes, and fears of the human heart; while he depicts nature only in her loveliness. His sentiments breathe a devoted and simple piety, the index of an unblemished life. In person Nicoll was rather above the middle height, with a slight stoop. His countenance, which was of a sanguine complexion, was thoughtful and pleasing; his eyes were of a deep blue, and his hair dark brown. In society he was modest and unobtrusive, but was firm and uncompromising in the maintenance of his opinions. His political views were founded on the belief that the industrial classes had suffered oppression from the aristocracy. The solace of his hours of leisure were the songs and music of his country. He married shortly prior to his decease, but was not long survived by his widow. A monument to his memory, towards which nearly £100 has lately been subscribed, is about to be erected on the Ordé Braes, in his native parish.

ORDÉ BRAES.

There 's nae hame like the hame o' youth, Nae ither spot sae fair; Nae ither faces look sae kind As the smilin' faces there. An' I ha'e sat by mony streams, Ha'e travell'd mony ways; But the fairest spot on the earth to me Is on bonnie Ordé Braes.

An ell-lang wee thing then I ran Wi' the ither neeber bairns, To pu' the hazel's shining nuts, An' to wander 'mang the ferns; An' to feast on the bramble-berries brown, An' gather the glossy slaes, By the burnie's side, an' aye sinsyne I ha'e loved sweet Ordé Braes.

The memories o' my father's hame, An' its kindly dwellers a', O' the friends I loved wi' a young heart's love Ere care that heart could thraw, Are twined wi' the stanes o' the silver burn, An' its fairy crooks an' bays, That onward sang 'neath the gowden broom Upon bonnie Ordé Braes.

Aince in a day there were happy hames By the bonnie Ordé's side: Nane ken how meikle peace an' love In a straw-roof'd cot can bide. But thae hames are gane, an' the hand o' time The roofless wa's doth raze; Laneness an' sweetness hand in hand Gang ower the Ordé Braes.

Oh! an' the sun were shinin' now, An', oh! an' I were there, Wi' twa three friends o' auld langsyne, My wanderin' joy to share. For though on the hearth o' my bairnhood's hame The flock o' the hills doth graze, Some kind hearts live to love me yet Upon bonnie Ordé Braes.

THE MUIR O' GORSE AND BROOM.

I winna bide in your castle ha's, Nor yet in your lofty towers; My heart is sick o' your gloomy hame, An' sick o' your darksome bowers; An' oh! I wish I were far awa' Frae their grandeur an' their gloom, Where the freeborn lintie sings its sang On the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom.

Sae weel as I like the healthfu' gale, That blaws fu' kindly there, An' the heather brown, an' the wild blue-bell That wave on the muirland bare; An' the singing birds, an' the humming bees, An' the little lochs that toom Their gushing burns to the distant sea O'er the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom.

Oh! if I had a dwallin' there, Biggit laigh by a burnie's side, Where ae aik tree, in the summer time, Wi' its leaves that hame might hide; Oh! I wad rejoice frae day to day, As blithe as a young bridegroom; For dearer than palaces to me Is the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom!

In a lanely cot on a muirland wild, My mither nurtured me; O' the meek wild-flowers I playmates made, An' my hame wi' the wandering bee. An', oh! if I were far awa' Frae your grandeur an' your gloom, Wi' them again, an' the bladden gale, On the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom.

THE BONNIE HIELAND HILLS.

Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills, Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills, The bonnie hills o' Scotland O! The bonnie Hieland hills.

There are lands on the earth where the vine ever blooms, Where the air that is breathed the sweet orange perfumes; But mair dear is the blast the lane shepherd that chills As it wantons along o'er our ain Hieland hills. Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills.

There are rich garden lands wi' their skies ever fair; But o' riches or beauty we mak na our care; Wherever we wander ae vision aye fills Our hearts to the burstin'--our ain Hieland hills. Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills.

In our lone and deep valleys fair maidens there are, Though born in the midst o' the elements' war; O sweet are the damsels that sing by our rills, As they dash to the sea frae our ain Hieland hills. Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills.

On the moss-cover'd rock wi' their broadswords in hand, To fight for fair freedom, their sons ever stand; A storm-nursed bold spirit each warm bosom fills, That guards frae a' danger our ain Hieland hills. Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills, Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills; The bonnie hills o' Scotland O! The bonnie Hieland hills.

THE BONNIE ROWAN BUSH.