Part 7

Still, far or near, by wild or wood, I'll love the generous, wise, and good; But she shall share the dearest mood That Heaven to life may render. What boots it then thus on to stir, And still from love's enjoyment err, When I to Scotland and to her Must all this heart surrender. Then would I were, &c.

OH! TELL ME WHAT SOUND.

AIR--_"Paddy's Resource."_

Oh! tell me what sound is the sweetest to hear-- The sound that can most o'er our being prevail? 'Tis the sweet melting voice of the maid we love dear, When chanting the songs of her own native vale. More thrilling is this than the tone of the gale, Awakening the wind-harp's wild wandering lore; More sweet than the songster that sings in the dale, When the strains of the rest of the warblers are o'er.

Oh! tell me what light, of the earth or the sky, Can the deepest delight to the spirit impart? 'Tis the bright beaming radiance that lives in the eye Of the maid that affection has bound to the heart. More charming is this than the glory of art, More lovely than rays from yon heavens above; It heightens each joy, as it soothes every smart, Enchanting our souls with the magic of love.

Oh! tell me what drop is most melting and meek That aught 'neath the azure of heaven can share? 'Tis the tear-drop that falls o'er the dear maiden's cheek When she breathes o'er her lover her sigh and her prayer! More tender is this--more celestial and fair-- Than the dew-drop that springs from the chamber of morn; A balm that still softens the ranklings of care, And heals every wound that the bosom hath borne.

OUR MARY.[7]

Our Mary liket weel to stray Where clear the burn was rowin', And trouth she was, though I say sae, As fair as ought ere made o' clay, And pure as ony gowan.

And happy, too, as ony lark The clud might ever carry; She shunn'd the ill, and sought the good, E'en mair than weel was understood; And a' fouk liket Mary.

But she fell sick wi' some decay, When she was but eleven; And as she pined frae day to day, We grudged to see her gaun away, Though she was gaun to Heaven.

There's fears for them that's far awa', And fykes for them are flitting, But fears and cares, baith grit and sma', We, by and by, o'er-pit them a'; But death there's nae o'er-pitting.

And nature's bands are hard to break, When thus they maun be broken; And e'en the form we loved to see, We canna lang, dear though it be, Preserve it as a token.

But Mary had a gentle heart-- Heaven did as gently free her; Yet lang afore she reach'd that part, Dear sir, it wad hae made ye start Had ye been there to see her.

Sae changed, and yet sae sweet and fair, And growing meek and meeker, Wi' her lang locks o' yellow hair, She wore a little angel's air, Ere angels cam to seek her.

And when she couldna stray out by, The wee wild-flowers to gather; She oft her household plays wad try, To hide her illness frae our eye, Lest she should grieve us farther.

But ilka thing we said or did, Aye pleased the sweet wee creature; Indeed ye wad hae thought she had A something in her made her glad Ayont the course o' nature.

For though disease, beyont remeed, Was in her frame indented, Yet aye the mair as she grew ill, She grew and grew the lovelier still, And mair and mair contented.

But death's cauld hour cam' on at last, As it to a' is comin'; And may it be, whene'er it fa's, Nae waur to others than it was To Mary, sweet wee woman!

FOOTNOTES:

[7] This exquisite lay forms a portion of "The Cottagers of Glendale," Mr Riddell's longest ballad poem.

MRS MARGARET M. INGLIS.

The writer of spirited and elegant poetry, Mrs Margaret Maxwell Inglis was the youngest daughter of Alexander Murray, a medical practitioner, who latterly accepted a small government situation in the town of Sanquhar, Dumfriesshire. She was born at Sanquhar on the 27th October 1774, and at an early age became the wife of a Mr Finlay, who held a subordinate post in the navy. On the death of her husband, which took place in the West Indies, she resided with the other members of her family in Dumfries; and in 1803, she married Mr John Inglis, only son of John Inglis, D.D., minister of Kirkmabreck, in Galloway. By the death of Mr Inglis in 1826, she became dependent, with three children by her second marriage, on a small annuity arising from an appointment which her late husband had held in the Excise. She relieved the sadness of her widowhood by a course of extensive reading, and of composition both in prose and verse. In 1838 she published, at the solicitation of friends, a duodecimo volume, entitled "Miscellaneous Collection of Poems, chiefly Scriptural Pieces." Of the compositions in this volume, there are several of very superior merit, while the whole are marked by a vein of elegant fancy.

Mrs Inglis died in Edinburgh on the 21st December 1843. Eminently gifted as a musician, she could boast of having been complimented by the poet Burns on the grace with which she had, in his presence, sung his own songs. Of retiring and unobtrusive habits, she mixed sparingly in general society; but among her intimate friends, she was held in estimation for the extent of her information and the unclouded cheerfulness of her disposition. She has left some MSS. of poems and songs, from which we have been privileged to make selections for the present work.

SWEET BARD OF ETTRICK'S GLEN.[8]

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

Sweet bard of Ettrick's glen! Where art thou wandering? Miss'd is thy foot on the mountain and lea. Why round yon craggy rocks Wander thy heedless flocks, While lambies are list'ning and bleating for thee? Cold as the mountain stream, Pale as the moonlight beam, Still is thy bosom, and closed is thine e'e. Wild may the tempest's wave Sweep o'er thy lonely grave; Thou art deaf to the storm--it is harmless to thee.

Like a meteor's brief light, Like the breath of the morning, Thy life's dream hath pass'd as a shadow gone by; Till thy soft numbers stealing O'er mem'ry's warm feeling, Each line is embalm'd with a tear or a sigh. Sweet was thy melody, Rich as the rose's dye, Shedding its odours o'er sorrow or glee; Love laugh'd on golden wing, Pleasure's hand touch'd the string, All taught the strain to sing, Shepherd, by thee.

Cold on Benlomond's brow Flickers the drifted snow, While down its sides the wild cataracts foam; Winter's mad winds may sweep Fierce o'er each glen and steep, Thy rest is unbroken, and peaceful thy home. And when on dewy wing Comes the sweet bird of spring, Chanting its notes on the bush or the tree; The Bird of the Wilderness, Low in the waving grass, Shall, cow'ring, sing sadly its farewell to thee.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] This song was composed by Mrs Inglis, in honour of the Ettrick Shepherd, shortly after the period of his death.

YOUNG JAMIE.[9]

AIR--_"Drummond Castle."_

Leafless and bare were the shrub and the flower, Cauld was the drift that blew over yon mountain, But caulder my heart at his last ling'ring hour, Though warm was the tear-drap that fell frae my e'e. O saft is the tint o' the gowan sae bonny, The blue heather-bell and the rose sweet as ony, But softer the blink o' his bonnie blue e'e, And sweeter the smile o' young Jamie.

Dark lowers the cloud o'er yon mountain sae hie, Faint gloams the sun through the mists o' the ocean, Rough rows the wave on whose bosom I see The wee bit frail bark that bears Jamie frae me. Oh, lang may I look o'er yon wild waste sae dreary, And lang count the hours, now so lonesome and weary, And oft may I see the leaf fade frae the tree, Ere I see the blithe blink o' his bonnie blue e'e.

Cheerless and wae, on yon snaw-cover'd thorn, Mournfu' and lane is the chirp o' the Robin, He looks through the storm, but nae shelter can see; Come, Robin, and join the sad concert wi' me. Oh, lang may I look o'er yon foam-crested billow, And Hope dies away like a storm-broken willow; Sweet Robin, the blossom again ye may see, But I'll ne'er see the blink o' his bonnie blue e'e.

FOOTNOTES:

[9] Printed for the first time.

CHARLIE'S BONNET'S DOWN, LADDIE.

AIR--_"Tullymet."_

Let Highland lads, wi' belted plaids, And bonnets blue and white cockades, Put on their shields, unsheathe their blades, And conquest fell begin; And let the word be Scotland's heir: And when their swords can do nae mair, Lang bowstrings o' their yellow hair Let Hieland lasses spin, laddie. Charlie's bonnet's down, laddie, Kilt yer plaid and scour the heather; Charlie's bonnet's down, laddie, Draw yer dirk and rin.

Mind Wallace wight, auld Scotland's light, And Douglas bright, and Scrymgeour's might, And Murray Bothwell's gallant knight, And Ruthven light and trim-- Kirkpatrick black, wha in a crack Laid Cressingham upon his back, Garr'd Edward gather up his pack, And ply his spurs and rin, laddie. Charlie's bonnet's down, &c.

HEARD YE THE BAGPIPE?

Heard ye the bagpipe, or saw ye the banners That floated sae light o'er the fields o' Kildairlie; Saw ye the broadswords, the shields and the tartan hose, Heard ye the muster-roll sworn to Prince Charlie? Saw ye brave Appin, wi' bonnet and belted plaid, Or saw ye the Lords o' Seaforth and Airlie; Saw ye the Glengarry, M'Leod, and Clandonachil, Plant the white rose in their bonnets for Charlie?

Saw ye the halls o' auld Holyrood lighted up, Kenn'd ye the nobles that revell'd sae rarely; Saw ye the chiefs of Lochiel and Clanronald, Wha rush'd frae their mountains to follow Prince Charlie? But saw ye the blood-streaming fields of Culloden, Or kenn'd ye the banners were tatter'd sae sairly; Heard ye the pibroch sae wild and sae wailing, That mourn'd for the chieftains that fell for Prince Charlie.

Wha, in yon Highland glen, weary and shelterless, Pillows his head on the heather sae barely; Wha seeks the darkest night, wha maunna face the light, Borne down by lawless might--gallant Prince Charlie? Wha, like the stricken deer, chased by the hunter's spear, Fled frae the hills o' his father sae scaredly; But wha, by affection's chart, reigns in auld Scotland's heart-- Wha but the royal, the gallant Prince Charlie?

BRUCE'S ADDRESS.

When the morning's first ray saw the mighty in arms, And the tyrant's proud banners insultingly wave, And the slogan of battle from beauty's fond arms Roused the war-crested chieftain, his country to save; The sunbeam that rose on our mountain-clad warriors, And reflected their shields in the green rippling wave, In its course saw the slain on the fields of their fathers, And shed its last ray on their cold bloody graves.

O'er those green beds of honour our war-song prepare, And the red sword of vengeance triumphantly wave, While the ghosts of the slain cry aloud--Do not spare, Lead to victory and freedom, or die with the brave; For the high soul of freedom no tyrant can fetter, Like the unshackled billows our proud shores that lave; Though oppressed, he will watch o'er the home of his fathers, And rest his wan cheek on the tomb of the brave.

To arms, then! to arms! Let the battle-cry rise, Like the raven's hoarse croak, through their ranks let it sound; Set their knell on the wing of each arrow that flies, Till the shouts of the free shake the mountains around; Let the cold-blooded, faint-hearted changeling now tremble, For the war-shock shall reach to his dark-centered cave, While the laurels that twine round the brows of the victors Shall with rev'rence be strew'd o'er the tombs of the brave.

REMOVED FROM VAIN FASHION.

Removed from vain fashion, From title's proud ken, In a straw-cover'd cottage, Deep hid in yon glen, There dwells a sweet flow'ret, Pure, lovely, and fair, Though rear'd, like the snowdrop, 'Midst hardships' chill air.

No soft voice of kindred, Or parent she knows-- In the desert she blooms, Like the sweet mountain rose, Like the little stray'd lammie That bleats on the lea; She's soft, kind, and gentle, And dear, dear to me.

Though the rich dews of fortune Ne'er water'd this stem, Nor one fostering sunbeam Matured the rich gem-- Oh! give me that pure bosom, Her lot let me share, I'll laugh at distinction, And smile away care.

WHEN SHALL WE MEET AGAIN?

When shall we meet again, Meet ne'er to sever? When shall Peace wreath her chain Round us for ever? When shall our hearts repose, Safe from each breath that blows, In this dark world of woes? Never! oh, never!

Fate's unrelenting hand Long may divide us, Yet in one holy land One God shall guide us. Then, on that happy shore, Care ne'er shall reach us more, Earth's vain delusions o'er, Angels beside us.

There, where no storms can chill, False friends deceive us, Where, with protracted thrill, Hope cannot grieve us; There with the pure in heart, Far from fate's venom'd dart, There shall we meet to part Never! oh, never!

JAMES KING.

James King was born in Paisley in 1776. His paternal ancestors, for a course of centuries, were farmers in the vicinity of Gleniffer Braes. Having been only one year at school, he was, at the age of eight, required to assist his father in his trade of muslin-weaving. Joining a circulating library, he soon acquired an acquaintance with books; he early wrote verses, and became the intimate associate of Tannahill, who has honourably mentioned him in one of his poetical epistles. In his fifteenth year he enlisted in a fencible regiment, which was afterwards stationed at Inverness. On its being disembodied in 1798, he returned to the loom at Paisley, where he continued till 1803, when he became a recruit in the Renfrewshire county militia. He accompanied this regiment to Margate, Deal, Dover, Portsmouth, and London, and subsequently to Leith, the French prisoners' depôt at Penicuick, and the Castle of Edinburgh. At Edinburgh his poetical talents recommended him to some attention from Sir Walter Scott, the Ettrick Shepherd, and several others of the poets of the capital.

Accused of exciting disaffection, and promoting an attempt made by a portion of his comrades to resist lawful authority while the regiment was stationed at Perth, King, though wholly innocent of the charge, fearing the vengeance of the adjutant, who was hostile to him, contrived to effect his escape. By a circuitous route, so as to elude the vigilance of parties sent to apprehend him, he reached the district of Galloway, where he obtained employment as a shepherd and agricultural labourer. He subsequently wrought as a weaver at Crieff till 1815, when, on his regiment being disembodied, he was honourably acquitted from the charge preferred against him, and granted his discharge. He now settled as a muslin-weaver, first at Glasgow, and afterwards at Paisley and Charleston. He died at Charleston, near Paisley, on the 27th September 1849, in his seventy-third year.

Of vigorous intellect, lively fancy, and a keen appreciation of the humorous, King was much esteemed among persons of a rank superior to his own. His mind was of a fine devotional cast, and his poetical compositions are distinguished by earnestness of expression and sentiment.

THE LAKE IS AT REST.

The lake is at rest, love, The sun's on its breast, love, How bright is its water, how pleasant to see; Its verdant banks shewing The richest flowers blowing, A picture of bliss and an emblem of thee!

Then, O fairest maiden! When earth is array'd in The beauties of heaven o'er mountain and lea, Let me still delight in The glories that brighten, For they are, dear Anna, sweet emblems of thee.

But, Anna, why redden? I would not, fair maiden, My tongue could pronounce what might tend to betray; The traitor, the demon, That could deceive woman, His soul's all unfit for the glories of day.

Believe me then, fairest, To me thou art dearest; And though I in raptures view lake, stream, and tree, With flower blooming mountains, And crystalline fountains, I view them, fair maid, but as emblems of thee.

LIFE'S LIKE THE DEW.

AIR--_"Scott's Boat Song."_

No sound was heard o'er the broom-cover'd valley, Save the lone stream o'er the rock as it fell, Warm were the sunbeams, and glancing so gaily, That gold seem'd to dazzle along the flower'd vale. At length from the hill I heard, Plaintively wild, a bard, Yet pleasant to me was his soul's ardent flow; "Remember what Morard says, Morard of many days, Life's like the dew on the hill of the roe.

"Son of the peaceful vale, keep from the battle plain, Sad is the song that the bugle-horns sing; Though lovely the standard it waves o'er the mangled slain, Widows' sighs stretching its broad gilded wing. Hard are the laws that bind Poor foolish man and blind; But free thou may'st walk as the breezes that blow, Thy cheeks with health's roses spread, Till time clothes with snow thy head, Fairer than dew on the hill of the roe.

"Wouldst thou have peace in thy mind when thou'rt hoary, Shun vice's paths in the days of thy bloom; Innocence leads to the summit of glory, Innocence gilds the dark shades of the tomb. The tyrant, whose hands are red, Trembles alone in bed; But pure is the peasant's soul, pure as the snow, No horror fiends haunt his rest, Hope fills his placid breast, Hope bright as dew on the hill of the roe."

Ceased the soft voice, for gray mist was descending, Slow rose the bard and retired from the hill, The blackbird's mild notes with the thrush's were blending, Oft scream'd the plover her wild notes and shrill, Yet still from the hoary bard, Methought the sweet song I heard, Mix'd with instruction and blended with woe; And oft as I pass along, Chimes in mine ear his song, "Life's like the dew on the hill of the roe."

ISOBEL PAGAN.

The author of a sweet pastoral lyric, which has been praised both by Robert Burns and Allan Cunningham, Isobel Pagan claims a biographical notice. She was born in the parish of New Cumnock, Ayrshire, about the year 1741. Deserted by her relations in youth, and possessing only an imperfect education, she was led into a course of irregularities which an early moral training would have probably prevented. She was lame and singularly ill-favoured, but her manners were spirited and amusing. Her chief employment was the composition of verses, and these she sung as a mode of subsistence. She published, in 1805, a volume of doggerel rhymes, and was in the habit of satirising in verse those who had offended her. Her one happy effort in song-making has preserved her name. She lived chiefly in the neighbourhood of Muirkirk. She died on the 3d November 1821, in her eightieth year, and her remains were interred in the churchyard of Muirkirk. A tombstone marks her grave.

CA' THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES.[10]

Ca' the yowes to the knowes, Ca' them where the heather grows, Ca' them where the burnie rows, My bonnie dearie.

As I gaed down the water-side, There I met my shepherd lad, He row'd me sweetly in his plaid, An' he ca'd me his dearie.

"Will ye gang down the water-side, And see the waves sae sweetly glide Beneath the hazels spreading wide? The moon it shines fu' clearly.

"Ye shall get gowns and ribbons meet, Cauf-leather shoon to thy white feet, And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep, And ye shall be my dearie."

"If ye'll but stand to what ye've said, I'se gang wi' you, my shepherd lad, And ye may row me in your plaid, And I shall be your dearie."

"While water wimples to the sea, While day blinks in the lift sae hie, Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my e'e, Ye shall be my dearie."

FOOTNOTES:

[10] Of this song a new version was composed by Burns, the original chorus being retained. Burns' version commences--"Hark the mavis' evening sang."

JOHN MITCHELL.

John Mitchell, the Paisley bard, died in that place on the 12th August 1856, in his seventieth year. He was born at Paisley in 1786. The labour of weaving he early sought to relieve by the composition of verses. He contributed pieces, both in prose and verse, to the _Moral and Literary Observer_, a small Paisley periodical of the year 1823, and of which he was the publisher. In 1838, he appeared as the author of "A Night on the Banks of the Doon, and other Poems," a volume which was followed in 1840 by "The Wee Steeple's Ghaist, and other Poems and Songs," the latter being dedicated to Professor Wilson. In the year 1840, he likewise produced, jointly with a Mr Dickie, the "Philosophy of Witchcraft," a work which, published by Messrs Oliver and Boyd, was well received. His next publication appeared in 1845, with the title, "One Hundred Original Songs." His last work, "My Gray Goose Quill, and other Poems and Songs," was published in 1852.

Mitchell employed himself latterly in forwarding the sale of his publications, and succeeded by this course in securing a comfortable maintenance. He wrote verses with much readiness, and occasionally with considerable power. His songs, which we have selected for the present work, are distinguished by graceful simplicity and elegant pathos. Had Mitchell written less, and more carefully, he had reached a higher niche in the Temple of National Song. His manners were eccentric, and he was not unconscious of his poetical endowments.

BEAUTY.

What wakes the Poet's lyre? 'Tis Beauty; What kindles his poetic fire? 'Tis Beauty; What makes him seek, at evening's hour, The lonely glen, the leafy bower, When dew hangs on each little flower? Oh! it is Beauty.

What melts the soldier's soul? 'Tis Beauty; What can his love of fame control? 'Tis Beauty; For oft, amid the battle's rage, Some lovely vision will engage His thoughts and war's rough ills assuage: Such power has Beauty.

What tames the savage mood? 'Tis Beauty; What gives a polish to the rude? 'Tis Beauty; What gives the peasant's lowly state A charm which wealth cannot create, And on the good alone will wait? 'Tis faithful Beauty.

Then let our favourite toast Be Beauty; Is it not king and peasant's boast? Yes, Beauty; Then let us guard with tender care The gentle, th' inspiring fair, And Love will a diviner air Impart to Beauty.

TO THE EVENING STAR.

Star of descending Night! Lovely and fair, Robed in thy mellow light, Subtle and rare; Whence are thy silvery beams, That o'er lone ocean gleams, And in our crystal streams Dip their bright hair?

Far in yon liquid sky, Where streamers play And the red lightnings fly, Hold'st thou thy way; Clouds may envelop thee, Winds rave o'er land and sea, O'er them thy march is free As thine own ray.