Part 10

O mark, Eliza, how the flowers Around us sweetly spring; And list how in these woodland bowers The birds with rapture sing; Behold that vale whose streamlet clear Flows on in waving line; Can Paradise more bright appear? A shepherd's life be mine!

Now, dearest, not the morning bright, That dawns o'er hill and lea, Nor eve, with all its golden light, Can charm me without thee. To feel the magic of thy smile-- To catch that glance of thine-- To talk to thee of love the while, A shepherd's life be mine!

HER I LOVE BEST.

Thou morn full of beauty That chases the night, And wakens all Nature With gladness and light, When warbles the linnet Aloof from its nest, O scatter thy fragrance Round her I love best!

Ye hills, dark and lofty, That near her ascend, If she in her pastime Across thee shall wend, Let every lone pathway In wild flowers be drest, To welcome the footsteps Of her I love best!

Thou sun, proudly sailing O'er depths of the sky, Dispensing beneath thee Profusion and joy, Until in thy splendour Thou sink'st to the west, Oh, gaze not too boldly On her I love best!

Ye wild roving breezes, I charge you, forbear To wantonly tangle The braids of her hair; Breathe not o'er her rudely, Nor sigh on her breast, Nor kiss you the sweet lip Of her I love best!

Thou evening, that gently Steals after the day, To robe with thy shadow The landscape in gray, O fan with soft pinion My dearest to rest! And calm be the slumber Of her I love best!

Ye angels of goodness, That shield us from ill, The purest of pleasures Awarding us still, As near her you hover, Oh, hear my request! Pour blessings unnumber'd On her I love best!

THE KNIGHT'S RETURN.

Fair Ellen, here again I stand-- All dangers now are o'er; No sigh to reach my native land Shall rend my bosom more. Ah! oft, beyond the heaving main, I mourn'd at Fate's decree; I wish'd but to be back again To Scotland and to thee.

O Ellen, how I prized thy love In foreign lands afar! Upon my helm I bore thy glove Through thickest ranks of war: And as a pledge, in battle-field, Recall'd thy charms to me; I breath'd a prayer behind my shield For Scotland and for thee.

I scarce can tell how eagerly My eyes were hither cast, When, faintly rising o'er the sea, These hills appear'd at last. My very breast, as on the shore I bounded light and free, Declared by throbs the love I bore To Scotland and to thee.

Oh, long, long has the doom been mine In other climes to roam; Yet have I seen no form like thine, No sweeter spot than home; Nor ask'd I e'er another heart To feel alone for me: O Ellen, never more I'll part From Scotland and from thee!

THE BONNIE REDESDALE LASSIE.

The breath o' spring is gratefu', As mild it sweeps alang, Awakening bud an' blossom The broomy braes amang, And wafting notes o' gladness Frae ilka bower and tree; Yet the bonnie Redesdale lassie Is sweeter still to me.

How bright is summer's beauty! When, smilin' far an' near, The wildest spots o' nature Their gayest livery wear; And yellow cups an' daisies Are spread on ilka lea; But the bonnie Redesdale lassie Mair charming is to me.

Oh! sweet is mellow autumn! When, wide oure a' the plain, Slow waves in rustlin' motion The heavy-headed grain; Or in the sunshine glancin', And rowin' like the sea; Yet the bonnie Redesdale lassie Is dearer far to me!

As heaven itsel', her bosom Is free o' fraud or guile; What hope o' future pleasure Is centred in her smile! I wadna lose for kingdoms The love-glance o' her e'e; Oh! the bonnie Redesdale lassie Is life and a' to me!

THE MOUNTAINEER'S DEATH.

I pray for you, of your courtesy, before we further move, Let me look back and see the place that I so dearly love. I am not old in years, yet still, where'er I chanced to roam, The strongest impulse of my heart was ever link'd with home: There saw I first the light of heaven--there, by a mother's knee, In time of infancy and youth, her love supported me: All that I prize on earth is now my aching sight before, And glen and brae, and moorland gray, I'll witness never more.

Beneath yon trees, that o'er the cot their deep'ning shadows fling, My father first reveal'd to me the exile of our king; Upon yon seat beside the door he gave to me his sword, With charge to draw it only for our just and rightful lord. And I remember when I went, unfriended and alone, Amidst a world I never loved--ay! yonder is the stone At which my mother, bending low, for me did heaven implore-- Stone, seat and tree are dear to me--I'll see them never more!

Yon hawthorn bower beside the burn I never shall forget; Ah! there my dear departed maid and I in rapture met: What tender aspirations we breathed for other's weal! How glow'd our hearts with sympathy which none but lovers feel! And when above our hapless Prince the milk-white flag was flung, While hamlet, mountain, rock, and glen with martial music rung, We parted there; from her embrace myself I wildly tore; Our hopes were vain--I came again, but found her never more.

Oh! thank you for your gentleness--now stay one minute still; There is a lone and quiet spot on yonder rising hill; I mark it, and the sight revives emotions strong and deep-- There, lowly laid, my parents in the dust together sleep. And must I in a land afar from home and kindred lie? Forbid it, heaven! and hear my prayer--'tis better now to die! My limbs grow faint--I fain would rest--my eyes are darkening o'er; Slow flags my breath; now, this is death--adieu, for evermore!

WILLIAM CAMERON.

William Cameron was born on the 3d December 1801, in the parish of Dunipace, and county of Stirling. His father was employed successively in woollen factories at Dumfries, Dalmellington, and Dunipace. He subsequently became proprietor of woollen manufactories at Slamannan, Stirlingshire, and at Blackburn and Torphichen, in the county of Linlithgow. While receiving an education with a view to the ministry, the death of his father in 1819 was attended with an alteration in his prospects, and he was induced to accept the appointment of schoolmaster at the village of Armadale, parish of Bathgate. In 1836 he resigned this situation, and removed to Glasgow, where he has since prosperously engaged in mercantile concerns. Of the various lyrics which have proceeded from his pen, "Jessie o' the Dell" is an especial favourite. The greater number of his songs, arranged with music, appear in the "Lyric Gems of Scotland," a respectable collection of minstrelsy published in Glasgow.

SWEET JESSIE O' THE DELL.

O bright the beaming queen o' night Shines in yon flow'ry vale, And softly sheds her silver light O'er mountain, path, and dale. Short is the way, when light 's the heart That 's bound in love's soft spell; Sae I 'll awa' to Armadale, To Jessie o' the Dell, To Jessie o' the Dell, Sweet Jessie o' the Dell; The bonnie lass o' Armadale, Sweet Jessie o' the Dell.

We 've pu'd the primrose on the braes Beside my Jessie's cot, We 've gather'd nuts, we 've gather'd slaes, In that sweet rural spot. The wee short hours danced merrily, Like lambkins on the fell; As if they join'd in joy wi' me And Jessie o' the Dell.

There's nane to me wi' her can vie, I 'll love her till I dee; For she's sae sweet and bonnie aye, And kind as kind can be. This night in mutual kind embrace, Oh, wha our joys may tell; Then I 'll awa' to Armadale, To Jessie o' the Dell.

MEET ME ON THE GOWAN LEA.

Meet me on the gowan lea, Bonnie Mary, sweetest Mary; Meet me on the gowan lea, My ain, my artless Mary.

Before the sun sink in the west, And nature a' hae gane to rest, There to my fond, my faithful breast, Oh, let me clasp my Mary. Meet me on the gowan lea, Bonnie Mary, sweetest Mary; Meet me on the gowan lea, My ain, my artless Mary.

The gladsome lark o'er moor and fell, The lintie in the bosky dell, Nae blyther than your bonnie sel', My ain, my artless Mary. Meet me, &c.

We 'll join our love notes to the breeze That sighs in whispers through the trees, And a' that twa fond hearts can please Will be our sang, dear Mary. Meet me, &c.

There ye shall sing the sun to rest, While to my faithfu' bosom prest; Then wha sae happy, wha sae blest, As me and my dear Mary. Meet me, &c.

MORAG'S FAIRY GLEN.

Ye ken whar yon wee burnie, love, Rins roarin' to the sea, And tumbles o'er it's rocky bed, Like spirit wild and free. The mellow mavis tunes his lay, The blackbird swells his note, And little robin sweetly sings Above the woody grot. There meet me, love, by a' unseen, Beside yon mossy den, Oh, meet me, love, at dewy eve, In Morag's fairy glen; Oh, meet me, love, at dewy eve, In Morag's fairy glen.

Come when the sun, in robes of gold, Sinks o'er yon hills to rest, An' fragrance floating in the breeze Comes frae the dewy west. And I will pu' a garland gay, To deck thy brow sae fair; For many a woodbine cover'd glade An' sweet wild flower is there.

There 's music in the wild cascade, There 's love amang the trees, There 's beauty in ilk bank and brae, An' balm upon the breeze; There 's a' of nature and of art, That maistly weel could be; An' oh, my love, when thou art there, There 's bliss in store for me.

OH! DINNA CROSS THE BURN, WILLIE.

Oh! dinna cross the burn, Willie, Dinna cross the burn, For big 's the spate, and loud it roars; Oh, dinna cross the burn. Your folks a' ken you 're here the nicht, And sair they wad you blame; Sae bide wi' me till mornin' licht-- Indeed, you 're no gaun hame. The thunder-storm howls in the glen, The burn is rising fast; Bide only twa-three hours, and then The storm 'll a' be past. Oh, dinna cross, &c.

Then bide, dear Willie, here the nicht, Oh, bide till mornin' here; My faither, he 'll see a' things richt, And ye 'll hae nocht to fear. See, dark 's the lift, no moon is there, The rains in torrents pour; And see the lightning's dreadful glare, Hear how the thunders roar! Oh, dinna cross, &c.

Away he rode, no kind words could His mad resolve o'erturn; He plunged into the foaming flood, But never cross'd the burn! And now though ten long years have pass'd Since that wild storm blew by-- Oh! still the maniac hears the blast, And still her crazy cry, Oh, dinna cross, &c.

ALEXANDER TAIT.

Alexander Tait is a native of Peebles. Abandoning in 1829 the occupation of a cotton-weaver, he has since been engaged in the work of tuition. He has taught successively in the parishes of Lasswade, Tweedsmuir, Meggat, Pennycuick, Yarrow, and Peebles. To the public journals, both in prose and verse, he has been an extensive contributor.

E'ENING'S DEWY HOUR.

AIR--_'Roslin Castle.'_

When rosy day, far in the west, has vanish'd frae the scene, And gloamin' spreads her mantle gray owre lake and mountain green; When yet the darklin' shades o' mirk but haflens seem to lower, How dear to love and beauty is the e'ening's dewy hour!

When down the burnie's wimpling course, amid the hazel shade, The robin chants his vesper sang, the cushat seeks the glade; When bats their drowsy vigils wheel round eldrich tree and tower, Be 't mine to meet the lass I lo'e at e'ening's dewy hour!

When owre the flower-bespangled sward the flocks have ceased to stray, And maukin steals across the lawn beneath the twilight gray; Then, oh! how dear, frae men apart, in glen or woodland bower, To meet the lass we dearly lo'e at e'ening's dewy hour!

The ruddy morn has charms enow, when, from the glowin' sky, The sun on rival beauties smiles wi' gladness in his eye; But, oh! the softer shaded scene has magic in its power, Which cheers the youthful lover's heart at e'ening's dewy hour!

CHARLES FLEMING.

A handloom weaver in Paisley, of which place he is a native, Charles Fleming has, from early youth, devoted his leisure hours to the pursuits of elegant literature. He has long been a contributor to the public journals.

WATTY M'NEIL.

When others are boasting 'bout fetes and parades, Whar silken hose shine, and glitter cockades, In the low-thatched cot mair pleasure I feel To discourse wi' the aul'-farint Watty M'Neil.

The gentles may hoot, and slip by his door; His mien it is simple, his haudin' is poor: Aft fashion encircles a heart no sae leal-- Far, far will ye ride for a Watty M'Neil.

His welcome is touching, yet nought o' the faun-- A warmth is express'd in the shake o' his han'; His cog and his bed, or ought in his biel, The lonely will share frae kind Watty M'Neil.

He kens a' 'bout Scotland, its friends and its foes, How Leslie did triumph o'er gallant Montrose; And the Covenant's banner ower Philiphaugh's fiel' Waved glorious--'twas noble, says Watty M'Neil.

Then gang and see Watty ere laid in the mools, He 's a help to the wise folk, a lesson to fools; Contentment and innocence mingle sae weel Mid the braw lyart haffits o' Watty M'Neil.

WILLIAM FERGUSON.

The author of several esteemed and popular songs, William Ferguson, follows the avocation of a master plumber in Nicolson Street, Edinburgh. Born within the shadow of the Pentlands, near the scene of Ramsay's "Gentle Shepherd," he has written verses from his youth. He has contributed copiously to "Whistle Binkie," and "The Book of Scottish Song."

I 'LL TEND THY BOWER, MY BONNIE MAY.

I 'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May, In spring time o' the year; When saft'ning winds begin to woo The primrose to appear; When daffodils begin to dance, And streams again flow free; And little birds are heard to pipe, On the sprouting forest tree.

I 'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May, When summer days are lang, When nature's heart is big wi' joy, Her voice laden wi' sang; When shepherds pipe on sunny braes, And flocks roam at their will, And auld and young, in cot an' ha', O' pleasure drink their fill.

I 'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May, When autumn's yellow fields, That wave like seas o' gowd, before The glancin' sickle yields; When ilka bough is bent wi' fruit-- A glorious sight to see!-- And showers o' leaves, red, rustling, sweep Out owre the withering lea.

I 'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May, When, through the naked trees, Cauld, shivering on the bare hill-side, Sweeps wild the frosty breeze; When tempests roar, and billows rise, Till nature quakes wi' fear, And on the land, and on the sea, Wild winter rules the year.

WOOING SONG.

The spring comes back to woo the earth, Wi' a' a lover's speed; The wee birds woo their lovin' mates, Around our very head! But I 've nae skill in lover-craft-- For till I met wi' you, I never sought a maiden's love, I never tried to woo.

I 've gazed on many a comely face, And thought it sweet an' fair; But wi' the face the charm would flee, And never move me mair. But miles away, your bonnie face Is ever in my view, Wi' a' its charms, half wilin' me, Half daurin' me to woo.

At hame, a-field, you 're a' my theme; I doat my time away; I dream o'er a' your charms by night, And worship them by day. But when they glad my langin' e'en, As they are gladden'd now, My courage flees like frighted bird; I daurna mint to woo.

My head thus lying on your lap, Your hand aneath my cheek; Love stounds my bosom through and through, But yet I canna speak. My coward heart wi' happiness, Wi' bliss is brimin' fu'; But, oh! its fu'ness mars my tongue, I haena power to woo.

I prize your smile, as husbandman The summer's opening bloom, And could you frown, I dread it mair, Than he the autumn's gloom. My life hangs on that sweet, sweet lip, On that calm, sunny brow; And, oh! my dead hangs on them baith, Unless you let me woo.

Oh! lift me to your bosom, then, Lay your warm cheek to mine; And let me round that lovesome waist My arms enraptured twine; That I may breathe my very soul, In ae lang lovin' vow; And a' the while in whispers low, You 'll learn me, love, to woo!

I 'M WANDERING WIDE.

I 'm wand'ring wide this wintry night, But yet my heart 's at hame, Fu' cozie by my ain fire-cheek, Beside my winsome dame. The weary winds howl lang an' loud; But 'mid their howling drear, Words sweeter far than honey blabs Fa' saftly on my ear.

I 'm wand'ring wide this wintry night, I 'm wand'ring wide an' far; But love, to guide me back again, Lights up a kindly star. The lift glooms black aboon my head, Nae friendly blink I see; But let it gloom--twa bonnie e'en Glance bright to gladden me.

I 'm wand'ring wide this wintry night, I 'm wand'ring wide and late, And ridgy wreaths afore me rise, As if to bar my gate; Around me swirls the sleety drift, The frost bites dour an' keen; But breathings warm, frae lovin' lips, Come ilka gust atween.

I 'm wand'ring wide this wintry night, I 'm wand'ring wide an' wild, Alang a steep and eerie track, Where hills on hills are piled; The torrent roars in wrath below, The tempest roars aboon; But fancy broods on brighter scenes, And soughs a cheerin' tune.

I 'm wand'ring wide this wintry night, I 'm wand'ring wide my lane, And mony a langsome, lanesome mile, I 'll measure e'er it 's gane; But lanesome roads or langsome miles, Can never daunton me, When I think on the welcome warm That waits me, love, frae thee.

THOMAS DICK.

A native of Paisley, Thomas Dick was originally engaged as a weaver in that town. He afterwards became a bookseller, and has since been employed in teaching and other avocations. He is the author of a number of songs which appear in "Whistle Binkie," and "The Book of Scottish Song;" and also of several tales which have been published separately, and in various periodicals.

HOW EARLY I WOO'D THEE.

AIR--_'Neil Gow's Lament for his Brother.'_

How early I woo'd thee, how dearly I lo'ed thee; How sweet was thy voice, how enchanting thy smile; The joy 'twas to see thee, the bliss to be wi' thee, I mind, but to feel now their power to beguile. I gazed on thy beauty, and a' things about thee, Seem'd too fair for earth, as I bent at thy shrine; But fortune and fashion, mair powerfu' than passion, Could alter the bosom that seem'd sae divine!

Anither may praise thee, may fondle and fraize thee; And win thee wi' words, when his heart's far awa'; But, oh, when sincerest, when warmest, and dearest, His vows--will my truth be forgot by thee a'? 'Midst pleasure and splendour thy fancy may wander, But moments o' solitude ilk ane maun dree; Then feeling will find thee, and mem'ry remind thee, O' him wha through life gaes heart-broken for thee.

HUGH MILLER.

The celebrated geologist, and editor of the _Witness_ newspaper, Hugh Miller, was born at Cromarty on the 10th October 1802. In his fifth year he had the misfortune to lose his father, who, being the captain of a small trading vessel, perished in a storm at sea. His widowed mother was aided by two industrious unmarried brothers in providing for her family, consisting of two daughters, and the subject of this Memoir. With a rudimentary training in a private school, taught by a female, he became a pupil in the grammar school. Perceiving his strong aptitude for learning, and vigorous native talent, his maternal uncles strongly urged him to study for one of the liberal professions; but, diffident of success in more ambitious walks, he resolved to follow the steps of his progenitors in a life of manual labour. In his sixteenth year he apprenticed himself to a stone-mason. The profession thus chosen proved the pathway to his future eminence; for it was while engaged as an operative stone-hewer in the old red sandstone quarries of Cromarty, that he achieved those discoveries in that formation which fixed a new epoch in geological science. Poetical composition in evening hours relieved the toils of labour, and varied the routine of geological inquiry. In the prosecution of an ornamental branch of his profession--that of cutting and lettering grave-stones--he in 1828 proceeded to Inverness. Obtaining the friendship of Mr Robert Carruthers, the ingenious editor of the _Inverness Courier_, the columns of that journal were adorned by his poetical contributions. In 1829 these were issued from the _Courier_ office, in a duodecimo volume, with the title, "Poems Written in the Leisure Hours of a Journeyman Mason." By the press the work was received with general favour; and the author, in evidence that his powers as a prose-writer were not inferior to his efforts as a poet, soon re-appeared in the columns of the _Courier_, as the contributor of various letters on the Northern Fisheries. These letters proved so attractive that their republication in the form of a pamphlet was forthwith demanded.

The merits of the Cromarty stone-mason began to attract some general attention. Sir Thomas Dick Lauder, who had an occasional residence in Morayshire, afforded him patronage; and the venerable Principal Baird of Edinburgh, to whom he was introduced, recommended him to quit the mallet, and seek literary employment in the capital. Such gratifying encouragement and friendly counsel, though not immediately acted upon, were not without advantage in stimulating his enterprise. Before relinquishing, however, a craft at which he could at least earn a sufficiency for his immediate wants, he resolved to test his capabilities as a writer by a further literary attempt.

Cromarty and its vicinity abounded in legends of curious interest, respecting the times of religious persecutions, and of the rebellions in the cause of the Stuarts, and these Miller had carefully stored up from the recitations of the aged. The pen of Scott had imparted a deep interest to the traditions of other localities; and it seemed not unlikely that the legends of Cromarty, well told, would attract some share of attention. Success attended this further adventure, proportioned to its unquestionable merit--the "Scenes and Legends of the North of Scotland," which emanated from the publishing house of the Messrs Black of Edinburgh, confirmed and widely extended the reputation of the author.