Part 16

O yes, there 's a valley as calm and as sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet; So bland in its beauty, so rich in its green, 'Mid Scotia's dark mountains--the Vale of Killean.

The flocks on its soft lap so peacefully roam, The stream seeks the deep lake as the child seeks its home, That has wander'd all day, to its lullaby close, Singing blithe 'mid the wild-flowers, and fain would repose.

How solemn the broad hills that curtain around This sanctuary of nature, 'mid a wilderness found, Whose echoes low whisper, "Bid the world farewell, And with lowly contentment here peacefully dwell!"

Then build me a cot by that lake's verdant shore, 'Mid the world's wild turmoil I 'll mingle no more, And the tidings evoking the sigh and the tear, Of man's crimes and his follies, no more shall I hear.

Young Morn, as on tiptoe he ushers the day, Will teach fading Hope to rekindle her ray; And pale Eve, with her rapture tear, soft will impart To the soul her own meekness--a rich glow to the heart.

The heavings of passion all rocked to sweet rest, As repose its still waters, so repose shall this breast; And 'mid brightness and calmness my spirit shall rise, Like the mist from the mountain to blend with the skies.

JOHN NEVAY.

John Nevay, the bard of Forfar, was born in that town on the 28th of January 1792. He was educated at the schools of his native place, and considerably improved himself in classical learning, at an early age, under the tuition of Mr James Clarke, sometime master of the Burgh School, and the friend and correspondent of Burns. Fond of solitary rambles in the country, he began, while a mere youth, to portray in verse his impressions of the scenery which he was in the habit of surveying. He celebrated the green fields, the lochs and mountains near the scene of his nativity, and was rewarded with the approving smiles of the family circle. Acquiring facility in the production of verses, he was at length induced to venture on a publication. In 1818 he gave to the world a "Pamphlet of Rhymes," which, obtaining a ready sale, induced him to publish a second small collection of verses in 1821. After an interval devoted to mental improvement, he appeared, in 1834, as the author of "The Peasant, a Poem in Nine Cantos, with other Poems," in one volume, 12mo. In the following year he published "The Child of Nature, and other Poems," in a thin duodecimo volume. In 1853 he printed, by subscription, a third volume, entitled "Rosaline's Dream, in Four Duans, and other Poems," which was accompanied with an introductory essay by the Rev. George Gilfillan. His latest production--"The Fountain of the Rock, a Poem"--appeared in a pamphlet form, in 1855. He has repeatedly written prose tales for the periodicals, and has contributed verses to _Blackwood's Magazine_ and the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_.

From the labour of a long career of honourable industry, John Nevay is now enjoying the pleasures of retirement. He continues to compose verses with undiminished ardour, and has several MS. poems ready for the press. He has also prepared a lengthened autobiography. As a poet, his prevailing themes are the picturesque objects of nature. His lyrical pieces somewhat lack simplicity. His best production--"The Emigrant's Love-letter"--will maintain a place in the national minstrelsy. It was composed during the same week with Motherwell's "Jeanie Morrison," which it so peculiarly resembles both in expression and sentiment.

THE EMIGRANT'S LOVE-LETTER.

My young heart's luve! twal' years ha'e been A century to me; I ha'e na seen thy smile, nor heard Thy voice's melodie. The mony hardships I ha'e tholed Sin' I left Larocklea, I maun na tell, for it would bring The saut tear in thine e'e.

But I ha'e news, an' happy news, To tell unto my love-- What I ha'e won, to me mair dear That it my heart can prove. Its thochts unchanged, still it is true, An' surely sae is thine; Thou never, never canst forget That twa waur ane langsyne.

The simmer sun blinks on the tarn, An' on the primrose brae, Where we, in days o' innocence, Waur wont to daff an' play; An' I amang the mossy springs Wade for the hinny blooms-- To thee the rush tiara wove, Bedeck'd wi' lily plumes.

When on the ferny knowe we sat, A happy, happy pair-- Thy comely cheek laid on my knee, I plaited thy gowden hair. Oh! then I felt the holiest thocht That e'er enter'd my mind-- It, Mary, was to be to thee For ever true an' kind.

Though fair the flowers that bloom around My dwallin' owre the sea-- Though bricht the streams, an' green the bowers, They are na _sae_ to me. I hear the bulbul's mellow leed Upo' the gorgeous paum-- The sweet cheep o' the feather'd bee Amang the fields o' baum.

But there are nae auld Scotland's burds, Sae dear to childhood's days-- The laverock, lintie, shulf, an' yyoite, That taught us luve's sweet lays. Gin' thou e'er wauk'st alane to think On him that's owre the sea, Their cheerfu' saft luve-lilts will tell My heart's luve-thochts to thee.

Lat joy be in thy leal, true heart, An' bricht smile in thine e'e-- The bonnie bark is in the bay, I 'm coming hame to thee; I 'm coming hame to thee, Mary, Wi' mony a pearl fine, An' I will lay them in thy lap, For the kiss o' sweet langsyne.

THOMAS LYLE.

Thomas Lyle, author of the highly popular song, "Kelvin Grove," is a native of Paisley. Attending the philosophical and medical classes in the University of Glasgow, he obtained the diploma of surgeon in the year 1816. He commenced medical practice in Glasgow, where he remained till 1826, when he removed to the parish of Airth in Stirlingshire. The latter locality afforded him abundant opportunities for prosecuting his favourite study of botany; and he frequently proceeded at early dawn to great distances in quest of curious or rare plants, so as to gratify his peculiar tastes without interfering with the duties of his profession, or the conveniences of his patients. At an earlier period of life, having cherished a love for the ancient national music, he was in the habit of collecting and noting such of the older airs as were rapidly passing into oblivion. He was particularly struck with one of these airs, which he deemed worthy of more suitable words than those to which it was commonly sung.[31] At this period he often resorted, in his botanical rambles, to the wooded and sequestered banks of the Kelvin, about two miles north-west of Glasgow;[32] and in consequence, he was led to compose for his favourite tune the words of his beautiful song, "Kelvin Grove." "The Harp of Renfrewshire" was now in the course of being published, in sixpence numbers, under the editorship of his college friend and professional brother, John Sim, and to this work he contributed his new song. In a future number of the work, the song appeared without his name, as was requested, but with some unauthorised alterations. Of these he complained to Mr Sim, who laid the blame on Mr John Murdoch, who had succeeded him in the editorship, and Mr Lyle did not further prosecute inquiry on the subject. On the retirement of Mr Murdoch, the editorship of "The Harp of Renfrewshire" was intrusted to the poet Motherwell, who incautiously ascribed the song to Mr Sim in the index of the work. Sim died in the West Indies before this period;[33] and, in the belief that the song had been composed by him, Mr Purdie, music-seller in Edinburgh, made purchase of the copyright from his representatives, and published the words, with music arranged for the piano by Robert Archibald Smith. Mr Lyle now asserted his title to the authorship, and on Mr Sim's letter regarding the alterations being submitted to Messrs Motherwell and Smith, a decision in favour of his claim was pronounced by these gentlemen. Mr Lyle was shortly after invited by Mr Smith to contribute songs for the "Irish Minstrel," one of his numerous musical publications.

In 1827 Mr Lyle published the results of his researches into the song literature of his country, in a duodecimo volume, entitled "Ancient Ballads and Songs, chiefly from Tradition, Manuscripts, and scarce Works, with Biographical and Illustrative Notices." Of this work, the more interesting portion consists of "Miscellaneous Poems, by Sir William Mure, Knight of Rowallan," together with several songs of various merit by the editor.

Having acted as medical practitioner at Airth during the period of twenty-eight years, Mr Lyle, in the close of 1853, returned to Glasgow, where he soon found himself actively employed by the medical boards of the city during the prevalence of the Asiatic Cholera. At the present time he is one of the city district surgeons. A man of the most retiring dispositions, he has hitherto avoided public reputation, and has written verses, as he has studied botany, solely for his amusement. He will, however, be remembered as the writer of some exquisitely sweet and simple lyrics.

FOOTNOTES:

[31] The former words to this air commenced, "Oh, the shearing's no for you, bonnie lassie, O!"

[32] The wooded scenery of the Kelvin will in a few years be included within the boundaries of the city, which has already extended within a very limited space of the "grove" celebrated in the song.

[33] See vol. iii., p. 226.

KELVIN GROVE.

Let us haste to Kelvin Grove, bonnie lassie, O! Through its mazes let us rove, bonnie lassie, O! Where the rose in all her pride, Paints the hollow dingle side, Where the midnight fairies glide, bonnie lassie, O!

Let us wander by the mill, bonnie lassie, O! To the cove beside the rill, bonnie lassie, O! Where the glens rebound the call Of the roaring water's fall, Through the mountains rocky hall, bonnie lassie, O!

O Kelvin banks are fair, bonnie lassie, O! When in summer we are there, bonnie lassie, O! There the May pink's crimson plume Throws a soft but sweet perfume Round the yellow banks of broom, bonnie lassie, O!

Though I dare not call thee mine, bonnie lassie, O! As the smile of fortune 's thine, bonnie lassie, O! Yet with fortune on my side, I could stay thy father's pride, And win thee for my bride, bonnie lassie, O!

But the frowns of fortune lower, bonnie lassie, O! On thy lover at this hour, bonnie lassie, O! Ere yon golden orb of day Wake the warblers on the spray, From this land I must away, bonnie lassie, O!

Then farewell to Kelvin grove, bonnie lassie, O! And adieu to all I love, bonnie lassie, O! To the river winding clear, To the fragrant-scented breer, Even to thee of all most dear, bonnie lassie, O!

When upon a foreign shore, bonnie lassie, O! Should I fall midst battle's roar, bonnie lassie, O! Then, Helen! shouldst thou hear Of thy lover on his bier, To his memory shed a tear, bonnie lassie, O!

THE TRYSTING HOUR.

The night-wind's Eolian breezes, Chase melody over the grove, The fleecy clouds wreathing in tresses, Float rosy the woodlands above; Then tarry no longer, my true love, The stars hang their lamps in the sky, 'Tis lovely the landscape to view, love, When each bloom has a tear in its eye.

So stilly the evening is closing, Bright dew-drops are heard as they fall, Eolian whispers reposing Breathe softly, I hear my love call; Yes, the light fairy step of my true love The night breeze is wafting to me; Over heathbell and violet blue, love, Perfuming the shadowy lea.

HARVEST SONG.[34]

The harvest morning breaks Breathing balm, and the lawn Through the mist in rosy streaks Gilds the dawn, While fairy troops descend, With the rolling clouds that bend O'er the forest as they wend Fast away, when the day Chases cloudy wreaths away From the land.

The harvest breezes swell, And the song pours along, From the reapers in the dell, Joyous throng! The tiny gleaners come, Picking up their harvest home, As they o'er the stubble roam, Dancing here, sporting there, All the balmy sunny air Is full of song.

The harvest evening falls, While each flower round the bower, Breathing odour, now recalls The lover's hour. The moon enthroned in blue Lights the rippling lake anew, And the wailing owls' whoo! whoo! From the glen again, again, Wakes the stillness of the scene On my adieu.

FOOTNOTES:

[34] Contributed by Mr Lyle to the present work.

JAMES HOME.

James Home, the author of "Mary Steel," and other popular songs, was born, early in the century, on the farm of Hollybush, about a mile south of Galashiels. During a period of about thirty years, he has been engaged in the humble capacity of a dry-stone mason in Peeblesshire. He resides in the hamlet of Rachan Mill in that county, where, in addition to his ordinary employment, he holds the office of postmaster.

Home has not ventured on a publication, and latterly has abandoned the composition of verses. In youth he was, writes a correspondent, "an enthusiast in love, music, and poetry." A number of his songs and poetical pieces, which he had addressed to friends, have long been popular in the south of Scotland. His song entitled "This Lassie o' Mine" has enjoyed an uncommon measure of general favour. His compositions are replete with pathos; he has skilfully told the lover's tale; and has most truthfully depicted the joys and sorrows, hopes and fears of human life. Some of his best pieces appear in the "Unknown Poets" of Mr Alexander Campbell,--a work which only reached a single number. Of mild dispositions, modest manners, and industrious habits, Home is much respected in private life. Of a somewhat sanguine complexion, his countenance betokens superior intellectual power. He enjoys the comfort of a suitable partner in life, and is a respected office-bearer of the Free Church congregation at Broughton.

MARY STEEL.

I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel, When the lark begins to sing, And a thousan', thousan' joyfu' hearts Are welcoming the spring: When the merle and the blackbird build their nest In the bushy forest tree, And a' things under the sky seem blest, My thoughts shall be o' thee.

I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel, When the simmer spreads her flowers, And the lily blooms and the ivy twines In beauty round the bowers; When the cushat coos in the leafy wood, And the lambs sport o'er the lea, And every heart 's in its happiest mood, My thoughts shall be o' thee.

I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel, When har'st blithe days begin, And shearers ply, in the yellow ripe field, The foremost rig to win; When the shepherd brings his ewes to the fauld, Where light-hair'd lasses be, And mony a tale o' love is tauld, My thoughts shall be o' thee.

I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel, When the winter winds rave high, And the tempest wild is pourin' doun Frae the dark and troubled sky: When a hopeless wail is heard on land, And shrieks frae the roaring sea, And the wreck o' nature seems at hand, My thoughts shall be o' thee!

OH, HAST THOU FORGOTTEN?

Oh, hast thou forgotten the birk tree's shade, And this warm, true heart o' mine, Mary? Oh, hast thou forgotten the promise thou made, When so fondly 't was pressed to thine, Mary?

Oh, hast thou forgotten, what I ne'er can forget, The hours we have spent together? Those hours which, like stars in my memory, yet Shine on as brightly as ever!

Oh, hast thou forgotten that moment of bliss, So fraught with the heart's full feeling? As we clung to each other in the last embrace, The soul of love revealing!

Oh, hast thou forgotten that sacred spot, Where the farewell word was spoken? Is the sigh, and the tear, and all forgot, The vow and the promise broken?

Then for ever farewell, thou false fair one; Though other arms caress thee, Though a fairer youth thy heart should gain, And a smoother tongue should bless thee:--

Yet never again on thy warm young cheek Will breathe a soul more warm than mine, And never again will a lover speak Of love more pure to thine.

THE MAID OF MY HEART.

AIR--_"The Last Rose of Summer."_

When the maid of my heart, with the dark rolling eye, The only beloved of my bosom is nigh, I ask not of Heaven one bliss to impart, Save that which I feel with the maid of my heart.

When around and above us there 's nought to be seen, But the moon on the sky and the flower on the green, And all is at rest in the glen and the hill, Save the soul-stirring song of the breeze and the rill.

Then the maid of my heart to my bosom is press'd, Then all I hold dear in this world is possess'd; Then I ask not of Heaven one bliss to impart, Save that which I feel with the maid of my heart.

SONG OF THE EMIGRANT.

Oh! the land of hills is the land for me, Where the maiden's step is light and free; Where the shepherd's pipe, and the hunter's horn, Awake the joys of the rosy morn.

There 's a voice in the wind, when it comes from the lake, That tells how the foamy billows break; There 's a voice in the wind, when it comes from the wood, That tells of dreary solitude.

But, oh! when it comes from the mountain fells, Where the Spirit of Song and Freedom dwells, Where in youth's warm day I woke that strain I ne'er in this world can wake again.

The warm blood leaps in its wonted course, And fresh tears gush from their briny source, As if I had hail'd in the passing wind The all I have loved and left behind.

THIS LASSIE O' MINE.[35]

TUNE--_"Wattie's Ramble."_

O, saw ye this sweet bonnie lassie o' mine? Or saw ye the smile on her cheek sae divine? Or saw ye the kind love that speaks in her e'e? Sure naebody e'er was sae happy as me.

It 's no that she dances sae light on the green, It 's no the simplicity marked in her mien-- But, O! it 's the kind love that speaks in her e'e That keeps me aye happy as happy can be.

To meet her alane 'mang the green leafy trees, When naebody kens, an' when naebody sees; To breathe out the soul in a saft melting kiss-- On earth sure there 's naething is equal to this.

I have felt every bliss which the soul can enjoy, When friends circle round, and nought to annoy; I have felt every joy which illumines the breast When the full flowing bowl is most warmly caress'd.

But, O! there 's a sweet and a heavenly charm In life's early day, when the bosom is warm, When soul meets with soul in a saft melting kiss, On earth sure there 's naething is equal to this.

FOOTNOTES:

[35] This song was formerly introduced in this work (vol. ii. p. 70) as the composition of the Ettrick Shepherd. The error is not ours; we found the song in the latest or posthumous edition of the Shepherd's songs, p. 201 (Blackie, Glasgow), and we had no reason to suspect the authenticity. We have since ascertained that a copy of the song, having been handed to the Shepherd by the late Mr Peter Roger, of Peebles, Hogg, with the view of directing attention to the real author, introduced it shortly after in his _Noctes Bengerianæ_, in the "Edinburgh Literary Journal" (vol. i. p. 258). Being included in this periodical paper, the editor of his posthumous works had assumed that the song was the Shepherd's own composition. So much for uncertainty as to the authorship of our best songs!

JAMES TELFER.

James Telfer, an ingenious prose writer and respectable poet, was born about the commencement of the century, near the source of the river Jed, in the parish of Southdean, and county of Roxburgh. Passionate in his admiration of Hogg's "Queen's Wake," he early essayed imitations of some of the more remarkable portions of that poem. In 1824 he published at Jedburgh a volume of "Border Ballads and Miscellaneous Poems," which he inscribed to the Bard of Ettrick. "Barbara Gray," an interesting prose tale, appeared from his pen in 1835, printed at Newcastle. A collected edition of his best productions in prose and verse was published at London in 1852, with the title of "Tales and Sketches." He has long been a contributor to the provincial journals.

Some of Mr Telfer's ballads are respectable specimens of this class of compositions; and his tales in prose are written with much vigour, the narrative of "Barbara Gray" being especially interesting. For many years he has taught an adventure school at Saughtree, Liddisdale; and with emoluments not much beyond twenty pounds a-year, he has contrived to support a family. He has long maintained a literary correspondence with his ingenious friend, Mr Robert White of Newcastle; and his letters, some of which we have seen, abound with curious and interesting speculations.

OH, WILL YE WALK THE WOOD WI' ME?[36]

"Oh, will ye walk the wood wi' me? Oh, will ye walk the green? Or will ye sit within mine arms, My ain kind Jean?"

"It 's I 'll not walk the wood wi' thee, Nor yet will I the green; And as for sitting in your arms, It 's what I dinna mean."

"Oh! slighted love is ill to thole, And weel may I compleen; But since that better mayna be, I e'en maun thol 't for Jean."

"Gang up to May o' Mistycleugh, Ye saw her late yestreen; Ye'll find in her a lightsome love Ye winna find in Jean."

"Wi' bonny May o' Mistycleugh I carena to be seen; Her lightsome love I'd freely gie For half a blink frae Jean."

"Gang down to Madge o' Miryfaulds, I ken for her ye green; Wi' her ye 'll get a purse o' gowd-- Ye 'll naething get wi' Jean."

"For doity Madge o' Miryfaulds I dinna care a preen; The purse o' gowd I weel could want, If I could hae my Jean."

"Oh, yes! I 'll walk the wood wi' thee; Oh, yes! I 'll walk the green; But first ye 'll meet me at the kirk, And mak' me aye your Jean."

FOOTNOTES:

[36] Portions of the first and second verses of this song are fragments of an older ditty.--_Note by the Author._

I MAUN GAE OVER THE SEA.

"Sweet summer now is by, And cauld winter is nigh, The wan leaves they fa' frae the tree; The hills are white wi' snaw, And the frosty winds blaw, And I maun gie over the sea, Mary, And I maun gie over the sea.

"But winter will gang by, And summer come wi' joy, And Nature again will be free; And wooers you will find, And mair ye 'll never mind The laddie that 's over the sea, Mary, The laddie that 's over the sea."

"Oh, Willie, since it 's sae, My heart is very wae To leave a' my friends and countrie; But wi' thee I will gang, Though the way it be lang, And wi' thee I 'll cross the saut sea, Willie, And wi' thee I 'll cross the saut sea."

"The way is vera far, And terrible is war, And great are the hardships to dree; And if I should be slain, Or a prisoner ta'en, My jewel, what would come o' thee, Mary? My jewel, what would come o' thee?

"Sae at hame ye maun bide, And should it sae betide That a bride to another ye be, For ane that lo'ed ye dear Ye 'll whiles drap a tear; I 'll aften do the same for thee, Mary, I 'll aften do the same for thee."