Chapter 8

OH! WAFT ME TO THE FAIRY CLIME.

Oh! waft me to the fairy clime Where Fancy loves to roam, Where Hope is ever in her prime, And Friendship has a home; There will I wander by the streams Where Song and Dance combine, Around my rosy waking dreams Ecstatic joys to twine.

On Music's swell my thoughts will soar Above created things, And revel on the boundless shore Of rapt imaginings. The rolling spheres beyond earth's ken My fancy will explore, And seek, far from the haunts of men, The Poet's mystic lore.

Love will add gladness to the scene, And strew my path with flowers; And Joy with Innocence will lean Amid my rosy bowers. Then waft me to the fairy clime Where Fancy loves to roam, Where Hope is ever in her prime, And Friendship has a home.

THE LOVE-SICK MAID.

The love-sick maid, the love-sick maid, Ah! who will comfort bring to the love-sick maid? Can the doctor cure her woe When she will not let him know Why the tears incessant flow From the love-sick maid?

The flaunting day, the flaunting day, She cannot bear the glare of the flaunting day! For she sits and pines alone, And will comfort take from none; Nay, the very colour's gone From the love-sick maid.

The secret 's out, the secret 's out, A doctor has been found, and the secret 's out! For she finds at e'ening's hour, In a rosy woodland bower, Charms worth a prince's dower To a love-sick maid.

ALEXANDER JAMIESON.

Alexander Jamieson was born in the village of Dalmellington, Ayrshire, on the 29th January 1789. After a course of study at the University of Edinburgh, he obtained licence as a medical practitioner. In 1819, he settled as a surgeon and apothecary in the town of Alloa. A skilful mechanician, he constructed a small printing-press for his own use; he was likewise ardently devoted to the study of botany. He composed verses with remarkable facility, many of which he contributed to the _Stirling Journal_ newspaper. His death was peculiarly melancholy: he had formed one of a pic-nic party, on a fine summer day, to the summit of Bencleugh, one of the Ochils, and descending by a shorter route to visit a patient at Tillicoultry, he missed his footing, and was precipitated about two hundred feet into one of the ravines. He was early next morning discovered by a shepherd, but only survived a few hours afterwards. His death took place on the 26th July 1826. Possessed of varied talents, and excellent dispositions, Jamieson was deeply regretted by his friends. He left a widow, who died lately in Dunfermline. His songs, of which two specimens are adduced, afford evidence of power.

THE MAID WHO WOVE.[11]

_"Russian Air."_

The maid who wove the rosy wreath With every flower--hath wrought a spell, And though her chaplets fragrance breathe And balmy sweets--I know full well, 'Neath every bud, or blossom gay, There lurks a chain--Love's tyranny.

Though round her ruby lips, enshrin'd, Sits stillness, soft as evening skies-- Though crimson'd cheek you seldom find, Or glances from her downcast eyes-- There lurks, unseen, a world of charms, Which ne'er betray young Love's alarms.

O trust not to her silent tongue; Her settled calm, or absent smile; Nor dream that nymph, so fair and young, May not enchain in Love's soft guile; For where Love is--or what's Love's spell-- No mortal knows--no tongue can tell.

FOOTNOTES:

[11] This song was addressed by Mr Jamieson to Miss Jane Morrison of Alloa, the heroine of Motherwell's popular ballad of "Jeanie Morrison," and who had thus the singular good fortune to be celebrated by two different poets. For some account of Miss Morrison, now Mrs Murdoch, see vol. iii. p. 233.

A SIGH AND A SMILE.

WELSH AIR--_"Sir William Watkin Wynne."_

From Beauty's soft lip, like the balm of its roses, Or breath of the morning, a sigh took its flight; Nor far had it stray'd forth, when Pity proposes The wanderer should lodge in this bosom a night.

But scarce had the guest, in that peaceful seclusion, His lodging secured, when a conflict arose, Each feeling was changed, every thought was delusion, Nor longer my breast knew the calm of repose.

They say that young Love is a rosy-cheek'd bowyer, At random the shafts from his silken string fly, But surely the urchin of peace is destroyer, Whose arrows are dipp'd in the balm of a sigh.

O yes! for he whisper'd, "To Beauty's shrine hie thee; There worship to Cupid, and wait yet awhile; A cure she can give, with the balm can supply thee, The wound from a sigh can be cured by a smile."

JOHN GOLDIE.

A short-lived poet and song-writer of some promise, John Goldie was born at Ayr on the 22d December 1798. His father, who bore the same Christian name, was a respectable shipmaster. Obtaining an ample education at the academy of his native town, he became, in his fifteenth year, assistant to a grocer in Paisley; he subsequently held a similar situation in a stoneware and china shop in Glasgow. In 1821 he opened, on his own account, a stoneware establishment at Ayr; but proving unfortunate in business, he abandoned the concerns of trade. From his boyhood being devoted to literature he now resolved on its cultivation as a means of support. Already known as an occasional contributor, both in prose and verse, to the public press, he received the appointment of assistant editor of the _Ayr Courier_, and shortly after obtained the entire literary superintendence of that journal. In 1821, he published a pamphlet of respectable verses; and in the following year appeared as the author of a duodecimo volume of "Poems and Songs," which he inscribed to the Ettrick Shepherd. Of the compositions in the latter publication, the greater portion, he intimates in the preface, "were composed at an early age, chiefly betwixt the years of sixteen and twenty;" and as the production of a very young man, the volume is altogether creditable to his genius and taste.

Deprived of the editorship of the _Courier_, in consequence of a change in the proprietary, Goldie proceeded to London, in the hope of forming a connexion with some of the leading newspapers in the metropolis. Unsuccessful in this effort, he formed the project of publishing _The London Scotsman_, a newspaper to be chiefly devoted to the consideration of Scottish affairs. Lacking that encouragement necessary to the ultimate success of this adventure, he abandoned the scheme after the third publication, and in very reduced circumstances returned to Scotland. He now projected the _Paisley Advertiser_, of which the first number appeared on the 9th October 1824. The editorship of this newspaper he retained till his death, which took place suddenly on the 27th February 1826, in his twenty-eighth year.

Of a vigorous intellect, and possessed of a correct literary taste, Goldie afforded excellent promise of eminence as a journalist. As a poet and song-writer, a rich vein of humour pervades certain of his compositions, while others are marked by a plaintive tenderness. Of sociable and generous dispositions, he was much esteemed by a circle of admiring friends. His personal appearance was pleasing, and his countenance wore the aspect of intelligence.

AND CAN THY BOSOM?

AIR--_"Loudon's Bonnie Woods and Braes."_

And can thy bosom bear the thought To part frae love and me, laddie? Are all those plighted vows forgot, Sae fondly pledged by thee, laddie? Canst thou forget the midnight hour, When in yon love-inspiring bower, You vow'd by every heavenly power You'd ne'er lo'e ane but me, laddie? Wilt thou--wilt thou gang and leave me-- Win my heart and then deceive me? Oh! that heart will break, believe me, Gin' ye part wi' me, laddie.

Aft ha'e ye roos'd my rosy cheek, Aft praised my sparkling e'e, laddie, Aft said nae bliss on earth ye'd seek, But love and live wi' me, laddie. But soon those cheeks will lose their red, Those eyes in endless sleep be hid, And 'neath the turf the heart be laid That beats for love and thee, laddie. Wilt thou--wilt thou gang and leave me-- Win my heart and then deceive me? Oh! that heart will break, believe me, Gin ye part frae me, laddie.

You'll meet a form mair sweet and fair, Where rarer beauties shine, laddie, But, oh! the heart can never bear A love sae true as mine, laddie. But when that heart is laid at rest-- That heart that lo'ed ye last and best-- Oh! then the pangs that rend thy breast Will sharper be than mine, laddie. Broken vows will vex and grieve me, Till a broken heart relieve me-- Yet its latest thought, believe me, Will be love an' thine, laddie.

SWEET'S THE DEW.

Sweet's the dew-deck'd rose in June And lily fair to see, Annie, But there's ne'er a flower that blooms Is half so fair as thee, Annie. Beside those blooming cheeks o' thine The opening rose its beauties tine, Thy lips the rubies far outshine, Love sparkles in thine e'e, Annie.

The snaw that decks yon mountain top Nae purer is than thee, Annie; The haughty mien and pridefu' look Are banish'd far frae thee, Annie. And in thy sweet angelic face Triumphant beams each modest grace; And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace A form sae bright as thine, Annie.

Wha could behold thy rosy cheek And no feel love's sharp pang, Annie; What heart could view thy smiling looks, And plot to do thee wrang, Annie? Thy name in ilka sang I'll weave, My heart, my soul, wi' thee I'll leave, And never, till I cease to breathe, I'll cease to think on thee, Annie.

ROBERT POLLOK.

Robert Pollok, author of the immortal poem, "The Course of Time," was the son of a small farmer in the parish of Eaglesham, Renfrewshire, where he was born on the 19th October 1798. With a short interval of employment in the workshop of a cabinetmaker, he was engaged till his seventeenth year in services about his father's farm. Resolving to prepare for the ministry in the Secession Church, he took lessons in classical learning at the parish school of Fenwick, Ayrshire, and in twelve months fitted himself for the university. He attended the literary and philosophical classes in Glasgow College, during five sessions, and subsequently studied in the Divinity Hall of the United Secession Church. He wrote verses in his boyhood, in his eighteenth year composed a poetical essay, and afterwards produced respectable translations from the Classics as college exercises. His great poem, "The Course of Time," was commenced in December 1824, and finished within the space of nineteen months. On the 24th March 1827, the poem was published by Mr Blackwood; and on the 2d of the following May the author received his license as a probationer. The extraordinary success of his poem had excited strong anticipations in respect of his professional career, but these were destined to disappointment. Pollok only preached four times. His constitution, originally robust, had suffered from over exertion in boyhood, and more recently from a course of sedulous application in preparing for license, and in the production of his poem. To recruit his wasted strength, a change of climate was necessary, and that of Italy was recommended. The afflicted poet only reached Southampton, where he died a few weeks after his arrival, on the 18th September 1827. In Millbrook churchyard, near Southampton, where his remains were interred, a monument has been erected to his memory.

Besides his remarkable poem, Pollok published three short tales relative to the sufferings of the Covenanters. He had projected a large work respecting the influences which Christianity had exercised upon literature. Since his death, several short poetical pieces from his pen have, along with a memoir, been published by his brother. In person he was of the ordinary height, and of symmetrical form. His complexion was pale brown; his features small, and his eyes dark and piercing. "He was," writes Mr Gabriel Neil, who enjoyed his friendship, "of plain simple manners, with a well-cultivated mind; he loved debate, and took pleasure in good-humoured controversy." The copyright of "The Course of Time" continues to produce emolument to the family.

THE AFRICAN MAID.

On the fierce savage cliffs that look down on the flood, Where to ocean the dark waves of Gabia haste, All lonely, a maid of black Africa stood, Gazing sad on the deep and the wide roaring waste.

A bark for Columbia hung far on the tide, And still to that bark her dim wistful eye clave; Ah! well might she gaze--in the ship's hollow side, Moan'd her Zoopah in chains--in the chains of a slave.

Like the statue of Sorrow, forgetting to weep, Long dimly she follow'd the vanishing sail, Till it melted away where clouds mantle the deep; Then thus o'er the billows she utter'd her wail:--

"O my Zoopah come back! wilt thou leave me to woe? Come back, cruel ship, and take Monia too! Ah ye winds, wicked winds! what fiend bids ye blow To waft my dear Zoopah far, far from my view?

* * * * *

"Great Spirit! why slumber'd the wrath of thy clouds, When the savage white men dragg'd my Zoopah away? Why linger'd the panther far back in his woods? Was the crocodile full of the flesh of his prey?

"Ah cruel white monsters! plague poison their breath, And sleep never visit the place of their bed! On their children and wives, on their life and their death, Abide still the curse of an African maid!"

J. C. DENOVAN.

J. C. Denovan was born at Edinburgh in 1798. Early evincing a predilection for a seafaring life, he was enabled to enter a sloop of war, with the honorary rank of a midshipman. After accomplishing a single voyage, he was necessitated, by the death of his father, to abandon his nautical occupation, and to seek a livelihood in Edinburgh. He now became, in his sixteenth year, apprentice to a grocer; and he subsequently established himself as a coffee-roaster in the capital. He died in 1827. Of amiable dispositions, he was an agreeable and unassuming member of society. He courted the Muse to interest his hours of leisure, and his poetical aspirations received the encouragement of Sir Walter Scott and other men of letters.

OH DERMOT, DEAR LOVED ONE!

Thou hast left me, dear Dermot! to cross the wide seas, And thy Norah lives grieving in sadness forlorn, She laments and looks back on the past happy days When thy presence had left her no object to mourn Those days that are past, Too joyous to last, A pang leaves behind them, 'tis Heaven's decree; No joy now is mine, In sadness I pine, Till Dermot, dear Dermot, returns back to me.

O Dermot, dear Dermot! why, why didst thou leave The girl who holds thee so dear in her heart? Oh! couldst thou hold a thought that would cause her to grieve, Or think for one moment from Norah to part? Couldst thou reconcile To leave this dear isle, In a far unknown country, where dangers there be? Oh! for thy dear sake This poor heart will break, If thou, dear beloved one, return not to me.

In silence I 'll weep till my Dermot doth come, Alone will I wander by moon, noon, and night, Still praying of Heaven to send him safe home To her who 'll embrace him with joy and delight. Then come, like a dove, To thy faithful love, Whose heart will entwine thee, fond, joyous, and free; From danger's alarms Speed to her open arms, O Dermot, dear loved one! return back to me.

JOHN IMLAH.

John Imlah, one of the sweetest and most patriotic of Scottish song-writers, was born in North Street, Aberdeen, about the close of the year 1799. His progenitors were farmers in the parish of Fyvie, but his father followed the profession of an innkeeper. Of seven sons, born in succession to his parents, the poet was the youngest. On completing an ordinary education at the grammar-school, he was apprenticed to a pianoforte maker in Aberdeen. Excelling as a piano-tuner he, in this capacity, sought employment in London, and was fortunate in procuring an engagement from the Messrs Broadwood. For the first six months of the year he performed the duties of a tuner in the metropolis, and during the remaining six months prosecuted his vocation in Scotland. Attached to his native country, he took delight in celebrating her strains. He composed songs from his boyhood. In 1827, he published "May Flowers," a duodecimo volume of lyrics, chiefly in the Scottish dialect, which he followed by a second volume of "Poems and Songs" in 1841. He contributed to Macleod's "National Melodies" and the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_. On the 9th January 1846, his death took place at Jamaica, whither he had gone on a visit to one of his brothers.

Imlah was a person of amiable dispositions and agreeable manners. Of his numerous lyrics, each is distinguished by a rich fancy, and several of his songs will maintain a lasting place in the national minstrelsy.

KATHLEEN.

AIR--_"The Humours of Glen."_

O distant but dear is that sweet island, wherein My hopes with my Kathleen and kindred abide; And far though I wander from thee, emerald Erin! No space can the links of my love-chain divide. Fairest spot of the earth! brightest gem of the ocean! How oft have I waken'd my wild harp in thee! While, with eye of expression, and heart of emotion, Listen'd, Kathleen mavourneen, cuishlih ma chree!

The bloom of the moss-rose, the blush of the morning, The soft cheek of Kathleen discloses their dye; What ruby can rival the lip of mavourneen? What sight-dazzling diamond can equal her eye? Her silken hair vies with the sunbeam in brightness, And white is her brow as the surf of the sea; Thy footstep is like to the fairy's in lightness, Of Kathleen mavourneen, cuishlih ma chree!

Fair muse of the minstrel! beloved of my bosom! As the song of thy praise and my passion I breathed, Thy fair fingers oft, with the triad leaf'd blossom, Sweet Erin's green emblem, my wild harp have wreathed; While with soft melting murmurs the bright river ran on, That by thy bower follows the sun to the sea; And oh! soon dawn the day I review the sweet Shannon And Kathleen mavourneen, cuishlih ma chree!

HIELAN' HEATHER.

AIR--_"O'er the Muir amang the Heather."_

Hey for the Hielan' heather! Hey for the Hielan' heather! Dear to me, an' aye shall be, The bonnie braes o' Hielan' heather!

The moss-muir black an' mountain blue, Whare mists at morn an' gloamin' gather; The craigs an' cairns o' hoary hue, Whare blooms the bonnie Hielan' heather! Hey for the Hielan' heather!

Whare monie a wild bird wags its wing, Baith sweet o' sang an' fair o' feather; While cavern'd cliffs wi' echo ring, Amang the hills o' Hielan' heather! Hey for the Hielan' heather!

Whare, light o' heart an' light o' heel, Young lads and lasses trip thegither; The native Norlan rant and reel Amang the halesome Hielan' heather! Hey for the Hielan' heather!

The broom an' whin, by loch an' lin, Are tipp'd wi' gowd in simmer weather; How sweet an' fair! but meikle mair The purple bells o' Hielan' heather! Hey for the Hielan' heather!

Whare'er I rest, whare'er I range, My fancy fondly travels thither; Nae countrie charms, nae customs change My feelings frae the Hielan' heather! Hey, for the Hielan' heather!

FAREWELL TO SCOTLAND.

AIR--_"Kinloch."_

Loved land of my kindred, farewell--and for ever! Oh! what can relief to the bosom impart; When fated with each fond endearment to sever, And hope its sweet sunshine withholds from the heart! Farewell, thou fair land! which, till life's pulse shall perish, Though doom'd to forego, I shall never forget, Wherever I wander, for thee will I cherish The dearest regard and the deepest regret.

Farewell, ye great Grampians, cloud-robed and crested! Like your mists in the sunbeam ye melt in my sight; Your peaks are the king-eagle's thrones--where have rested The snow-falls of ages--eternally white. Ah! never again shall the falls of your fountains Their wild murmur'd music awake on mine ear; No more the lake's lustre, that mirrors your mountains, I'll pore on with pleasure--deep, lonely, yet dear.

Yet--yet Caledonia! when slumber comes o'er me, Oh! oft will I dream of thee, far, far, away; But vain are the visions that rapture restore me, To waken and weep at the dawn of the day. Ere gone the last glimpse, faint and far o'er the ocean, Where yet my heart dwells--where it ever shall dwell, While tongue, sigh and tear, speak my spirit's emotion, My country--my kindred--farewell, oh farewell!

THE ROSE OF SEATON VALE.

A bonnie Rose bloom'd wild and fair, As sweet a bud I trow As ever breathed the morning air, Or drank the evening dew. A Zephyr loved the blushing flower, With sigh and fond love tale; It woo'd within its briery bower The rose of Seaton Vale.

With wakening kiss the Zephyr press'd This bud at morning light; At noon it fann'd its glowing breast, And nestled there at night. But other flowers sprung up thereby, And lured the roving gale; The Zephyr left to droop and die The Rose of Seaton Vale.

A matchless maiden dwelt by Don, Loved by as fair a youth; Long had their young hearts throbb'd as one Wi' tenderness and truth. Thy warmest tear, soft Pity, pour-- For Ellen's type and tale Are in that sweet, ill-fated flower, The Rose of Seaton Vale.

KATHERINE AND DONALD.

Young Donald dearer loved than life The proud Dunallan's daughter; But, barr'd by feudal hate and strife, In vain he loved and sought her. She loved the Lord of Garry's glen, The chieftain of Clanronald; A thousand plaided Highlandmen Clasp'd the claymore for Donald.

On Scotland rush'd the Danish hordes, Dunallan met his foemen; Beneath him bared ten thousand swords Of vassal, serf, and yeomen. The fray was fierce--and at its height Was seen a visor'd stranger, With red lance foremost in the fight, Unfearing Dane and danger.

"Be praised--brave knight! thy steel hath striven The sharpest in the slaughter; Crave what thou wilt of me--though even My fair--my darling daughter!" He lifts the visor from his face-- The chieftain of Clanronald! And foes enclasp in friends' embrace, Dunallan and young Donald.

Dunallan's halls ring loud with glee-- The feast-cup glads Glengarry; The joy that should for ever be When mutual lovers marry. The shout and shell the revellers raise, Dunallan and Clanronald; And minstrel measures pour to praise Fair Kath'rine and brave Donald!

GUID NIGHT, AN' JOY BE WI' YOU A'.

Guid night, and joy be wi' you a'! Since it is sae that I maun gang; Short seem'd the gate to come, but ah! To gang again as wearie lang. Sic joyous nights come nae sae thrang That I sae sune sou'd haste awa'; But since it's sae that I maun gae, Guid night, and joy be wi' ye a'!