Part 12

Whan I 'd plenty to gie, o' my cheer and my crack, Ther war' plenty to come, and wi' joy to partak'; But whanever the water grew scant at the well, I was welcome to drink all alane by mysel'!

Whan I 'd nae need o' aid, there were plenty to proffer; And noo whan I want it, I ne'er get the offer; I could greet whan I think hoo my siller decreast, In the feasting o' those who came only to feast.

The fulsome respec' to my gowd they did gie, I thoucht a' the time was intended for me; But whanever the end o' my money they saw, Their friendship, like it, also flicker'd awa'.

My advice ance was sought for by folks far and near, Sic great wisdom I had ere I tint a' my gear; I 'm as weel able yet to gie counsel, that 's true, But I may jist haud my wheesht, for I 'm naebody noo.

I CANNA SLEEP.

I canna sleep a wink, lassie, When I gang to bed at night, But still o' thee I think, lassie, Till morning sheds its light. I lie an' think o' thee, lassie, And I toss frae side to side, Like a vessel on the sea, lassie, When stormy is the tide.

My heart is no my ain, lassie, It winna bide wi' me; Like a birdie it has gane, lassie, To nestle saft wi' thee. I canna lure it back, lassie, Sae keep it to yoursel'; But oh! it sune will break, lassie, If you dinna use it well.

Where the treasure is, they say, lassie, The spirit lingers there; An' mine has fled away, lassie-- You needna ask me where. I marvel oft if rest, lassie, On my eyes and heart would bide, If I thy troth possess'd, lassie, And thou wert at my side.

WILLIAM M. HETHERINGTON, D.D., LL.D.

An accomplished theologian and historical writer, William Hetherington was born on the Galloway side of the valley of the Nith, about the year 1805. With an average education at the parish school, he entered the University of Edinburgh, where he speedily acquired distinction. Amidst studies of a severer nature, he found relaxation in the composition of verses, celebrating the national manners and the interesting scenes of his nativity. These appeared in 1829, in a duodecimo volume, entitled, "Twelve Dramatic Sketches, founded on the Pastoral Poetry of Scotland." Having obtained licence as a probationer of the Established Church, he was in 1836 ordained to the ministerial charge of the parish of Torphichen in the Presbytery of Linlithgow. He joined the Free Church in 1843, and was afterwards translated to St Andrews. In 1848 he became minister of Free St Paul's Church, Edinburgh.

Besides his poetical work, Dr Hetherington has published, "The Fulness of Time," "History of the Church of Scotland," "The Minister's Family," and several separate lectures on different subjects. He was, during the first four years of its existence, editor of the _Free Church Magazine_. Formerly a frequent contributor to the more esteemed religious periodicals, he has latterly written chiefly for the _British and Foreign Evangelical Review_.

'TIS SWEET WI' BLITHESOME HEART TO STRAY.

'Tis sweet wi' blithesome heart to stray, In the blushing dawn o' infant day; But sweeter than dewy morn can be, Is an hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee; An hour wi' thee, an hour wi' thee, An hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee; The half o' my life I 'd gladly gie For an hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee.

The garish sun has sunk to rest; The star o' gloaming gilds the west; The gentle moon comes smiling on, And her veil o'er the silent earth is thrown: Then come, sweet maid, oh, come wi' me! The whispering night-breeze calls on thee; Oh, come and roam o'er the lily lea, An hour i' the mild moonlight wi' me.

For wealth let warldlings cark and moil, Let pride for empty honours toil, I 'd a' their wealth and honours gie For ae sweet hour, dear maid, wi' thee. An hour wi' thee, an hour wi' thee, An hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee; Earth's stores and titles a' I 'd gie For an hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee.

O SWEET IS THE BLOSSOM.

O sweet is the blossom o' the hawthorn tree, The bonnie milky blossom o' the hawthorn tree, When the saft westlin wind, as it wanders o'er the lea, Comes laden wi' the breath o' the hawthorn tree.

Lovely is the rose in the dewy month o' June, An' the lily gently bending beneath the sunny noon; But dewy rose nor lily fair is half sae sweet to me, As the bonnie milky blossom o' the hawthorn tree.

Oh, blithe at fair an' market fu' aften I hae been, An' wi' a crony frank an' leal, some happy hours I 've seen; But the happiest hours I ere enjoy'd, were shared, my love, wi' thee, In the gloaming 'neath the bonnie, bonnie hawthorn tree.

Sweetly sang the blackbird, low in the woody glen, And fragrance sweet spread on the gale, light o'er the dewy plain; But thy saft voice an' sighing breath were sweeter far to me, While whispering o' love beneath the hawthorn tree.

Old Time may wave his dusky wing, an' Chance may cast his die, And the rainbow hues of flatterin' Hope may darken in the sky; Gay Summer pass, an' Winter stalk stern o'er the frozen lea, Nor leaf, nor milky blossom deck the hawthorn tree:

But still'd maun be the pulse that wakes this glowing heart o' mine, For me nae mair the spring maun bud, nor summer blossoms shine, An' low maun be my hame, sweet maid, ere I be false to thee, Or forget the vows I breathed beneath the hawthorn tree.

THOMAS WATSON.

Thomas Watson, author of "The Rhymer's Family," a small volume of poems, published in 1847, was born at Arbroath about the year 1807. He some time wrought as a weaver, but has latterly adopted the trade of a house-painter. He continues to reside in his native place.

THE SQUIRE O' LOW DEGREE.

My luve 's a flower in garden fair, Her beauty charms the sicht o' men; And I 'm a weed upon the wolde, For nane reck how I fare or fen'. She blooms in beild o' castle wa', I bide the blast o' povertie; My covert looks are treasures stown-- Sae how culd my luve think o' me?

My luve is like the dawn o' day, She wears a veil o' woven mist; And hoary cranreuch deftly flower'd, Lies paling on her maiden breast; Her kirtle at her jimpy waist, Has studs o' gowd to clasp it wi' She decks her hair wi' pearlis rare-- And how culd my luve think o' me?

My cloak is o' the Friesland gray, My doublet o' the gay Walloon, I wear the spurs o' siller sheen, And yet I am a landless loon; I ride a steed o' Flanders breed, I beare a sword upon my theigh, And that is a' my graith and gear-- Sae how culd my luve think o' me?

My luve's rose lips breathe sweet perfume, Twa pearlie raws pure faire atween, The happie dimples dent her cheeks, And diamonds low in her dark e'en; Her haire is o' the gowden licht, But dark the fringes o' her bree; Her smile wuld warm cauld winter's heart-- But how culd my luve think o' me?

My luve is tended like a queen, She sits among her maidens fair; There 's ane to send, and ane to sew, And ane to kame her gowden hair; The lutestrings luve her fingers sma', Her lips are steept in melodie; My heart is fu'--my e'en rin ower-- Oh, how culd my luve think o' me?

My luve she sits her palfrey white, Mair fair to see than makar's dream O' faery queen on moonbeam bricht, Or mermaid on the saut sea faem. A belted knicht is by her side, I 'm but a squire o' low degree; A baron halds her bridle-rein-- And how culd my luve think o' me?

But I will don the pilgrim's weeds, And boune me till the Holy Land, A' for the sake o' my dear luve, To keep unstain'd my heart and hand. And when this world is gane to wreck, Wi' a' its pride and vanitie, Within the blessed bouris o' heaven, We then may meet--my luve and me.

JAMES MACDONALD.

A respectable writer of lyric poetry, James Macdonald was born in September 1807, in the parish of Fintry, and county of Stirling. His father was employed in the cotton factory of Culcruich. Of unwonted juvenile precocity, he attracted the attention of two paternal uncles, whose circumstances enabled them to provide him with a liberal education. Acquiring the rudiments of learning at Culcruich, he afterwards studied at the grammar school of Stirling, and proceeded, in 1822, to the university of Glasgow. Intended by his relations for the ministry of the Established Church, he attended the Divinity Hall during three sessions. Preferring secular employment, he now abandoned the study of theology, and occupied himself in educational pursuits. After teaching in several boarding establishments, he became corrector of the press in the printing-office of Messrs Blackie of Glasgow. Having suffered on account of bad health, he was induced to accept the appointment of Free Church schoolmaster at Blairgowrie. His health continuing to decline, he removed to the salubrious village of Catrine, in Ayrshire: he died there on the 27th May 1848. Macdonald was a devoted teacher of Sabbath schools; and his only separate publications are two collections of hymns for their use.

BONNIE AGGIE LANG.

Or ere we part, my heart leaps hie to sing ae bonnie sang, Aboot my ain sweet lady-love, my darling Aggie Lang; It is na that her cheeks are like the blooming damask rose, It is na that her brow is white as stainless Alpine snows, It is na that her locks are black as ony raven's wing, Nor is 't her e'e o' winning glee that mak's me fondly sing.

But, oh! her heart, a bonnie well, that gushes fresh an' free O' maiden love, and happiness, and a' that sweet can be; Though saft the sang o' simmer winds, the warbling o' the stream, The carolling o' joyous birds, the murmur o' a dream, I 'd rather hear a'e gentle word frae Aggie's angel tongue, For weel I ken her heart is mine--the fountain whar it sprung.

Yestreen I met her in a glen about the gloamin' hour; The moon was risen o'er the trees, the dew begemm'd ilk flower, The weary wind was hush'd asleep, an' no a sough cam' nigh, E'en frae the waukrife stream that ran in silver glintin' by; I press'd her milk-white han' in mine--she smiled as angels smile, But ah! frae me her tale o' love this warld manna wile.

I saw the silver light o' heaven fa' on her bonnie brow, An' glitter on the honey-blabs upon her cherry mou'; I saw the lily moonbeams steal the redness o' the rose, An' sleep upon her downy cheek in beautiful repose. The moon rose high, the stream gaed by, but aye she smiled on me, An' what she wadna breathe in words she tauld it wi' here e'e.

I 've sat within a palace hall amid the grand an' gay, I 've listen'd to the carnival o' merry birds in May, I 've been in joyous companies, the wale o' mirth an' glee, An' danced in nature's fairy bowers by mountain, lake, and lea; But never has this heart o' mine career'd in purer pride, As in that moonlit glen an' bower, wi' Aggie by my side.

THE PRIDE O' THE GLEN.

Oh, bonnie 's the lily that blooms in the valley, And fair is the cherry that grows on the tree; The primrose smiles sweet as it welcomes the simmer, And modest 's the wee gowan's love-talking e'e; Mair dear to my heart is that lown cosy dingle, Whar late i' the gloamin', by the lanely "Ha' den," I met with the fairest ere bounded in beauty, By the banks o' the Endrick, the pride o' the glen.

She 's pure as the spring cloud that smiles in the welkin, An blithe as the lambkin that sports on the lea; Her heart is a fount rinnin' owre wi' affection, And a warld o' feeling is the love o' her e'e. The prince may be proud o' his vast hoarded treasures, The heir o' his grandeur and high pedigree; They kenna the happiness dwalt in my bosom, When alane wi' the angel o' luve and o' le.

I 've seen the day dawn in a shower-drappin' goud, The grass spread wi' dew, like a wide siller sea; The clouds shinin' bricht in a deep amber licht, And the earth blushin' back to the glad lift on hie. I 've dream'd o' a palace wi' gem-spangled ha's, And proud wa's a' glitterin' in rich diamond sheen Wi' towers shinin' fair, through the rose-tinted air, And domes o' rare pearls and rubies atween.

I 've sat in a garden, 'mid earth's gayest flowers, A' gaudily shawin' their beauteous dyes, And breathin' in calm the air's fragrant balm, Like angels asleep on the plains o' the skies; Yet the garden, and palace, and day's rosy dawning, Though in bless'd morning dreams they should aft come again, Can ne'er be sae sweet as the bonnie young lassie, That bloom'd by the Endrick, the pride of the glen.

The exile, in sleep, haunts the land o' his fathers, The captive's ae dream is his hour to be free; The weary heart langs for the morning rays comin', The oppress'd, for his sabbath o' sweet liberty. But my life's only hope, my heart's only prayer, Is the day that I 'll ca' the young lassie my ain; Though a' should forsake me, wi' her I 'll be happy, On the banks o' the Endrick, the pride o' the glen.

MARY.

The winter's cauld and cheerless blast May rob the feckless tree, Mary, And lay the young flowers in the dust, Whar' ance they bloom'd in glee, Mary. It canna chill my bosom's hopes-- It canna alter thee, Mary; The summer o' thy winsome face Is aye the same to me, Mary.

The gloom o' life, its cruel strife, May wear me fast awa', Mary; An' lea'e me like a cauld, cauld corpse, Amang the drifting snaw, Mary. Yet 'mid the drift, wert thou but nigh, I 'd fauld my weary e'e, Mary; And deem the wild and raging storm, A laverock's sang o' glee, Mary.

My heart can lie in ruin's dust, And fortune's winter dree, Mary; While o'er it shines the diamond ray, That glances frae thine e'e, Mary. The rending pangs and waes o' life, The dreary din o' care, Mary, I 'll welcome, gin they lea'e but thee, My lanely lot to share, Mary.

As o'er yon hill the evening star Is wilin' day awa', Mary; Sae sweet and fair art thou to me, At life's sad gloamin' fa', Mary. It gars me greet wi' vera joy, Whene'er I think on thee, Mary, That sic a heart sae true as thine, Should e'er ha'e cared for me, Mary.

JAMES BALLANTINE.

James Ballantine, one of the most successful of living Scottish song writers, was born in 1808 at the West Port of Edinburgh. Of this locality, now considerably changed in its character, but still endeared to him by the associations of his boyhood, he has given a graphic description in a poem, in which he records some of the cherished recollections of the days when amid its "howffs," and "laigh" half-doored shops he "gat schulin' and sport." He lost his father, who was a brewer, when he was only ten years old, and, being the youngest of the family, which consisted of three daughters and himself, his early training devolved upon his mother, who contrived to obtain for her children the advantage of an ordinary education. James Ballantine must, however, be considered as a self-taught man. Beyond the training which he received in early life, he owes his present position to his own indefatigable exertions.

By his father's death, the poet was necessitated, while yet a mere boy, to exert himself for his own support and the assistance of the family. He was, accordingly, apprenticed to a house-painter in the city, and very soon attained to considerable proficiency in his trade. On growing up to manhood, he made strenuous exertions to obtain the educational advantages which were not within his reach at an earlier period of life, and about his twentieth year he attended the University of Edinburgh for the study of anatomy, with a view to his professional improvement. At a subsequent period he turned his attention to the art of painting on glass, and he has long been well-known as one of the most distinguished of British artists in that department. At the period Mr Ballantine began his career as a glass-painter, the art had greatly degenerated in character; and the position to which it has of late years attained is chiefly owing to his good taste and archæological researches. When the designs and specimens of glass-painting for the windows of the House of Lords were publicly competed for, the Royal Commissioners of the Fine Arts adjudged those produced by Mr Ballantine as the best which were exhibited, and the execution of the work was intrusted to him. A few years ago he published a work on stained glass, which has been translated and published in Germany, where it retains its popularity. Mr Ballantine has thus never allowed his literary pursuits to interfere with the exercise of his chosen avocations; "he has," in the words of Lord Cockburn, "made the business feed the Muses, and the Muses grace the business."

Although Mr Ballantine began at a very early age to woo the Muse, some of his most popular pieces having been produced about his sixteenth year, he made his first appearance in print in the pages of "Whistle Binkie." In 1843 his well-known work, "The Gaberlunzie's Wallet," was published in monthly numbers, illustrated by the late Alexander Ritchie. This production was enriched with some of his best lyrics. His second work, "The Miller of Deanhaugh," likewise contains a number of songs and ballads. In 1856 Messrs Constable & Co., of Edinburgh, published an edition of his poems, including many of those which had been previously given to the world. This volume contains the happiest effusions of his genius, and will procure him a prominent place in his country's literature. Mr Ballantine is the poet of the affections, a lover of the beautiful and tender among the humbler walks of life, and an exponent of the lessons to be drawn from familiar customs, common sayings, and simple character.

NAEBODY'S BAIRN.

She was Naebody's bairn, she was Naebody's bairn, She had mickle to thole, she had mickle to learn, Afore a kind word or kind look she could earn, For naebody cared about Naebody's bairn.

Though faither or mither ne'er own'd her ava, Though rear'd by the fremmit for fee unco sma', She grew in the shade like a young lady-fern, For Nature was bounteous to Naebody's bairn.

Though toited by some, and though lightlied by mair, She never compleened, though her young heart was sair, And warm virgin tears that might melted cauld airn Whiles glist in the blue e'e o' Naebody's bairn.

Though nane cheer'd her childhood, an' nane hail'd her birth, Heaven sent her an angel to gladden the earth; And when the earth doom'd her in laigh nook to dern, Heaven couldna but tak again Naebody's bairn.

She cam smiling sweetly as young mornin' daw, Like lown simmer gloamin' she faded awa, And lo! how serenely that lone e'ening starn Shines on the greensward that haps Naebody's bairn!

CASTLES IN THE AIR.

The bonnie, bonnie bairn sits pokin' in the ase, Glowerin' in the fire wi' his wee round face; Laughin' at the fuffin low--what sees he there? Ha! the young dreamer 's biggin' castles in the air!

His wee chubby face, an' his towzy curly pow, Are laughin' an noddin' to the dancin' lowe, He 'll brown his rosy cheeks, and singe his sunny hair, Glowerin' at the imps wi' their castles in the air.

He sees muckle castles towerin' to the moon, He sees little sodgers puin' them a' doun; Warlds whomlin' up an' doun, blazin' wi' a flare, Losh! how he loups, as they glimmer in the air.

For a' sae sage he looks, what can the laddie ken? He 's thinkin' upon naething, like mony mighty men, A wee thing mak's us think, a sma' thing mak's us stare,-- There are mair folks than him biggin' castles in the air.

Sic a night in winter may weel mak' him cauld; His chin upon his buffy hand will soon mak' him auld; His brow is brent sae braid, oh, pray that Daddy Care Wad let the wean alane wi' his castles in the air.

He 'll glower at the fire, an' he 'll keek at the light; But mony sparkling stars are swallow'd up by night; Aulder e'en than his are glamour'd by a glare, Hearts are broken--heads are turn'd--wi' castles in the air.

ILKA BLADE O' GRASS KEPS ITS AIN DRAP O' DEW.

Confide ye aye in Providence, for Providence is kind, An' bear ye a' life's changes wi' a calm an' tranquil mind, Though press'd an' hemm'd on every side, hae faith an' ye 'll win through, For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

Gin reft frae friends, or crost in love, as whiles nae doubt ye 've been, Grief lies deep-hidden in your heart, or tears flow frae your e'en, Believe it for the best, and trow there 's good in store for you, For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

In lang, lang days o' simmer when the clear and cludless sky Refuses ae wee drap o' rain to Nature parch'd and dry, The genial night, wi balmy breath, gaurs verdure spring anew, An' ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

Sae lest 'mid fortune's sunshine we should feel ower proud an' hie, An' in our pride forget to wipe the tear frae poortith's e'e, Some wee dark cluds o' sorrow come, we ken na whence or hoo, But ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

WIFIE, COME HAME.

Wifie, come hame, My couthie wee dame! Oh, but ye 're far awa, Wifie, come hame! Come wi' the young bloom o' morn on thy broo, Come wi' the lown star o' love in thine e'e, Come wi' the red cherries ripe on thy mou', A' glist wi' balm, like the dew on the lea. Come wi' the gowd tassels fringin' thy hair, Come wi' thy rose cheeks a' dimpled wi' glee, Come wi' thy wee step, and wifie-like air, Oh, quickly come, and shed blessings on me!

Wifie, come hame, My couthie wee dame! Oh, my heart wearies sair, Wifie, come hame! Come wi' our love pledge, our dear little dawtie, Clasping my neck round, an' clamb'rin' my knee; Come let me nestle and press the wee pettie, Gazing on ilka sweet feature o' thee. Oh, but the house is a cauld hame without ye, Lanely and eerie 's the life that I dree; Oh, come awa', an' I 'll dance round about ye, Ye 'll ne'er again win frae my arms till I dee.

THE BIRDIE SURE TO SING IS AYE THE GORBEL O' THE NEST.

Oh, dinna look ye pridefu' doon on a' aneath your ken, For he wha seems the farthest but aft wins the farthest ben; And whiles the doubie o' the school tak's lead o' a' the rest, The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.

The cauld gray misty morn aft brings a sultry sunny day, The trees wha's buds are latest are the langest to decay; The heart sair tried wi' sorrow aye endures the sternest test-- The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.

The wee, wee stern that glints in heaven, may be a lowin' sun, Though like a speck o' light, scarce seen amid the welkin dun; The humblest sodger on the field may win the warrior's crest-- The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.

Then dinna be impatient wi' your bairnie when he 's slow, And dinna scorn the humble, though the world deem them low; The hindmost and the feeblest aft become the first and best-- The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.

CREEP AFORE YE GANG.