Part 13

Creep awa', my bairnie, creep afore ye gang; Cock ye baith your lugs to your auld grannie's sang; Gin ye gang as far ye will think the road lang, Creep awa', my bairnie--creep afore ye gang.

Creep awa', my bairnie, ye 're ower young to learn To tot up and down yet, my bonnie wee bairn; Better creepin' cannie, as fa'in' wi' a bang, Duntin' a' your wee brow--creep afore ye gang.

Ye 'll creep, an' ye 'll hotch, an' ye 'll nod to your mither, Watchin' ilka stap o' your wee donsy brither; Rest ye on the floor till your wee limbs grow strang, An' ye 'll be a braw cheil' yet--creep afore ye gang.

The wee burdie fa's when it tries ower soon to flee; Folks are sure to tumble when they climb ower hie; They wha dinna walk right are sure to come to wrang-- Creep awa', my bairnie--creep afore ye gang.

AE GUDE TURN DESERVES ANITHER.

Ye mauna be proud, although ye be great, The puirest bodie is still your brither; The king may come in the cadger's gate-- Ae gude turn deserves anither.

The hale o' us rise frae the same cauld clay, Ae hour we bloom, ae hour we wither; Let ilk help ither to climb the brae-- Ae gude turn deserves anither.

The highest among us are unco wee, Frae Heaven we get a' our gifts thegither; Hoard na, man, what ye get sae free!-- Ae gude turn deserves anither.

Life is a weary journey alane, Blithe 's the road when we wend wi' ither; Mutual gi'ing is mutual gain-- Ae gude turn deserves anither.

THE NAMELESS LASSIE.

There 's nane may ever guess or trow my bonnie lassie's name, There 's nane may ken the humble cot my lassie ca's her hame; Yet though my lassie's nameless, an' her kin o' low degree, Her heart is warm, her thochts are pure, and, oh! she 's dear to me.

She 's gentle as she 's bonnie, an' she 's modest as she 's fair, Her virtues, like her beauties a', are varied as they 're rare; While she is light an' merry as the lammie on the lea-- For happiness an' innocence thegither aye maun be!

Whene'er she shews her blooming face, the flowers may cease to blaw, An' when she opes her hinnied lips, the air is music a'; But when wi' ither's sorrows touch'd, the tear starts to her e'e, Oh! that 's the gem in beauty's crown, the priceless pearl to me.

Within my soul her form 's enshrined, her heart is a' my ain, An' richer prize or purer bliss nae mortal e'er can gain; The darkest paths o' life I tread wi' steps o' bounding glee, Cheer'd onward by the love that lichts my nameless lassie's e'e.

BONNIE BONALY.

Bonnie Bonaly's wee fairy-led stream, Murmurs and sobs like a child in a dream; Falling where silver light gleams on its breast, Gliding through nooks where the dark shadows rest, Flooding with music its own tiny valley, Dances in gladness the stream o' Bonaly.

Proudly Bonaly's gray-brow'd castle towers, Bounded by mountains, and bedded in flowers; Here hangs the blue bell, and there waves the broom; Nurtured by art, rarest garden sweets bloom; Heather and thyme scent the breezes that dally, Playing amang the green knolls o' Bonaly.

Pentland's high hills raise their heather-crown'd crest, Peerless Edina expands her white breast, Beauty and grandeur are blent in the scene, Bonnie Bonaly lies smiling between; Nature and Art, like fair twins, wander gaily; Friendship and love dwell in bonnie Bonaly.

SAFT IS THE BLINK O' THINE E'E, LASSIE.

Oh, saft is the blink o' thine e'e, lassie, Saft is the blink o' thine e'e; An' a bonnie wee sun glimmers in its blue orb, As kindly it glints upon me.

The ringlets that twine round thy brow, lassie, Are gowden, as gowden may be; Like the wee curly cluds that play round the sun, When he 's just going to drap in the sea.

Thou hast a bonnie wee mou', lassie, As sweet as a body may pree; And fondly I 'll pree that wee hinny mou', E'en though thou shouldst frown upon me.

Thou hast a lily-white hand, lassie, As fair as a body may see; An' saft is the touch o' that wee genty hand, At e'en when thou partest wi' me.

Thy thoughts are sae haly and pure, lassie, Thy heart is sae kind and sae free; My bosom is flooded wi' sunshine an' joy, Wi' ilka blithe blink o' thine e'e.

THE MAIR THAT YE WORK, AYE THE MAIR WILL YE WIN.

Be eident, be eident, fleet time rushes on, Be eident, be eident, bricht day will be gone; To stand idle by is a profitless sin: The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.

The earth gathers fragrance while nursing the flower, The wave waxes stronger while feeding the shower, The stream gains in speed as it sweeps o'er the linn: The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.

There 's nought got by idling, there 's nought got for nought, Health, wealth, and contentment, by labour are bought; In raising yoursel', ye may help up your kin: The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.

Let every man aim in his heart to excel, Let every man ettle to fend for himsel'; Aye nourish ye stern independence within: The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.

THE WIDOW.

The widow is feckless, the widow 's alane, Yet nae ane e'er hears the puir widow complain; For, ah! there 's a Friend that the world wots na o', Wha brightens her ken, and wha lightens her wo.

She looks a' around her, and what sees she there But quarrels and cavils, but sorrow and care? She looks in within, and she feels in her breast A dawning o' glory, a foretaste o' rest.

The hope o' hereafter her lane bosom cheers, She langs sair to meet him wha left her in tears; And life's flickerin' licht, as it wanes fast awa', But fades to gie place to a far brichter daw.

The God o' high heaven is her comfort and guide, When earthly friends leave her, He stands by her side; He soothes a' her sorrows, an' hushes her fears, An' fountains o' joy rise frae well-springs o' tears.

Then, oh! shew the widow the smile on your face, She 's aft puir in gear, but she 's aft rich in grace; Be kind to the widow, her Friend is on high, You 'll meet wi' the widow again in the sky.

MRS ELIZA A. H. OGILVY.

The accomplished author of some poetical works, Mrs Eliza A. H. Ogilvy, is the daughter of Abercromby Dick, Esq., who for many years held an appointment in the civil service of the Honourable East India Company. Her childhood was passed in Scotland, under the care of her paternal uncle, Sir Robert Dick of Tullymett, who, at the head of his division, fell at the battle of Sobraon. After a period of residence in India, to which she had gone in early youth, she returned to Britain. In 1843, she was united in marriage to David Ogilvy, Esq., a cadet of the old Scottish family of Inverquharity. Several years of her married life have been spent in Italy; at present she resides with her husband and children at Sydenham, Kent. "A Book of Scottish Minstrelsy," being a series of ballads founded on legendary tales of the Scottish Highlands, appeared from her pen in 1846, and was well received by the press. She has since published "Traditions of Tuscany," and "Poems of Ten Years."

CRAIG ELACHIE.

Blue are the hills above the Spey, The rocks are red that line his way; Green is the strath his waters lave, And fresh the turf upon the grave Where sleep my sire and sisters three, Where none are left to mourn for me: Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

The roofs that shelter'd me and mine Hold strangers of a Sassenach line; Our hamlet thresholds ne'er can shew The friendly forms of long ago; The rooks upon the old yew-tree Would e'en have stranger notes to me: Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

The cattle feeding on the hills, We tended once o'er moors and rills, Like us have gone; the silly sheep Now fleck the brown sides of the steep, And southern eyes their watchers be, And Gael and Sassenach ne'er agree: Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

Where are the elders of our glen, Wise arbiters for meaner men? Where are the sportsmen, keen of eye, Who track'd the roe against the sky; The quick of hand, of spirit free? Pass'd, like a harper's melody: Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

Where are the maidens of our vale, Those fair, frank daughters of the Gael? Changed are they all, and changed the wife, Who dared, for love, the Indian's life; The little child she bore to me Sunk in the vast Atlantic sea: Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

Bare are the moors of broad Strathspey, Shaggy the western forests gray; Wild is the corri's autumn roar, Wilder the floods of this far shore; Dark are the crags of rushing Dee, Darker the shades of Tennessee: Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

Great rock, by which the Grant hath sworn, Since first amid the mountains born; Great rock, whose sterile granite heart Knows not, like us, misfortune's smart, The river sporting at thy knee, On thy stern brow no change can see: Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

Stand fast on thine own Scottish ground, By Scottish mountains flank'd around, Though we uprooted, cast away From the warm bosom of Strathspey, Flung pining by this western sea, The exile's hopeless lot must dree: Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

Yet strong as thou the Grant shall rise, Cleft from his clansmen's sympathies; In these grim wastes new homes we 'll rear, New scenes shall wear old names so dear; And while our axes fell the tree, Resound old Scotia's minstrelsy: Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

Here can no treacherous chief betray For sordid gain our new Strathspey; No fearful king, no statesmen pale, Wrench the strong claymore from the Gael. With arm'd wrist and kilted knee, No prairie Indian half so free: Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

JOHN FINLAY.

John Finlay was born at Glasgow in 1808, and is one of the partners in the respectable firm of R. G. Finlay & Co., manufacturers in that city. Amidst due attention to the active prosecution of business, he has long been keenly devoted to the principal national games--curling, angling, bowling, quoiting, and archery--in all of which he has frequently carried off prizes at the various competitions throughout the country. To impart humorous sociality to the friendly meetings of the different societies of which he is a member, Mr Finlay was led to become a song-writer. There is scarcely a characteristic of any of his favourite games which he has not celebrated in racy verse. Some of his songs have obtained celebrity in certain counties where the national sports are peculiarly cultivated.

THE NOBLE SCOTTISH GAME.

AIR--_"Castles in the Air."_

The King is on the throne wi' his sceptre an' his croon, The elements o' cauld are the courtiers staunin' roun'; He lifts his icy haun', an' he speaks wi' awe profound, He chills the balmy air, and he binds the yielding ground; He calms the raging winds when they moan and loudly rave, He stops the rinnin' stream, and he stills the dancin' wave; He calls the curlers on to the field of hope and fame, An' the spreading lake resounds wi' the noble Scottish game!

The hedges an' the trees are a' hung wi' pearls braw, An' the rinks are glancing clear 'mang the heaps o' shinin' snaw; The wee birds in the blast are a' tremblin' wi' the cauld; The sheep are lyin' close in the safely guarded fauld; The farmer leaves the plough, an' the weaver leaves the loom, Auld age gangs totterin' by wi' the youth in manhood's bloom; The miseries o' life are a' banish'd far frae hame, When the curlers meet to play at the brave old Scottish game!

It makes the auld folk young, an' the crimson tide to flow, It gars the pale face shine wi' a fresh and ruddy glow; The rich forget their state and the charms o' wealth and power, When the bosom swells wi' joy in the bright triumphant hour. The wise may laugh an' sneer, and the unco guid may gloom At the happy, happy man, wi' his curlin' stanes and broom; The melody to charm is the sport we love to name, Ah! there 's music in the stanes, at the rare old Scottish game!

The warm and glowin' clime will subdue the manly form; The curler's happy hame is the land o' mist an' storm, Where the dreary winter reigns wi' a wide extended sway, An' the heathy moors are clad in a robe o' white array, Till the gentle breath o' spring blaws the icy fields awa', To woo the springin' flowers, and to melt the frozen snaw. When the curlin' days are o'er, a' the joys o' life are tame-- There 's naething warms the heart like the noble Scottish game!

THE MERRY BOWLING-GREEN.

AIR--_"Castles in the Air."_

The gloomy days are gone With the blasts o' winter keen; The flowers are blooming fair, And the trees are budding green; The lark is in the sky, With his music ringing loud, Raining notes of joy From the sunny Summer cloud-- Springing at the dawn With the blushing light of day, And quivering with delight In the morning's golden ray; But there 's rapture dearer far In the warm and social power Of the merry bowling-green, In the happy evening hour!

The lights and shades of life, Like an April day, are seen, 'Mid the melting sunny showers, On the lively bowling-green. The Spring and Autumn meet When the old and young are there, And mirth and wisdom chase From the heart the thoughts of care. When the creaking wheels of life Are revolving weak and slow, And the dashing tide of hope May be ebbing dark and low, The sons of wealth and toil Feel the sweet and soothing power Of the merry bowling-green, In the charming leisure hour!

The streams of life run on Till they fall into the sea; And the flowers are left behind, With their fragrance on the lea. The circling flight of time Will soon make the young folk old; And pleasure dances on Till the springs of life grow cold. We 'll taste the joys of life As the hours are gliding fast, And learn to live and love From the follies of the past; And remember with delight, When misfortunes intervene, The happy days we 've spent On the merry bowling-green.

THOMAS TOD STODDART.

Thomas Tod Stoddart, well-known through his ingenious works on angling, was born on the 14th February 1810 in Argyle Square, Edinburgh. In the chamber of his birth Dr Robertson is said to have written the "History of Scotland." His father, a rear-admiral in the navy, shared in several distinguished services: he was present at Lord Howe's victory at the landing in Egypt; at the battles of the Nile and Copenhagen, and in many desperate encounters between Russia and Sweden. Young Stoddart was educated at a Moravian establishment at Fairfield, near Manchester, and subsequently passed through a course of philosophy and law in the University of Edinburgh. Early devoted to verse-making, he composed a tragedy in his ninth year; and at the age of sixteen was the successful competitor in Professor Wilson's class, for a poem on "Idolatry." He was an early contributor to the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_.

Mr Stoddart studied for the Bar, and passed advocate in 1833. Finding the legal profession uncongenial, he soon relinquished it; and entering upon the married state in 1836, he has since resided at Kelso. For many years he has divided his time between the pursuits of literature, and the recreation of angling. In 1831, he published "The Deathwake, or Lunacy, a Poem;" in 1834, "The Art of Angling;" in 1836, "Angling Reminiscences;" in 1839, "Songs and Poems;" and in 1844, "Abel Massinger; or the Aëronaut, a Romance." The second of these publications has been remodelled, and under the title of "The Angler's Companion," has exhausted several impressions, and continues in general favour. The volume of "Songs" having been sold out, a new edition, along with a tragedy, entitled "The Crown Jewel," and "The Aëronaut," both still in MS., may be expected. Living at Kelso, Mr Stoddart has every opportunity of prosecuting his favourite pastime in the Tweed, and enjoying scenery calculated to foster the poetic temperament.

ANGLING SONG.

Bring the rod, the line, the reel! Bring, oh, bring the osier creel! Bring me flies of fifty kinds, Bring me showers, and clouds, and winds, All things right and tight, All things well and proper, Trailer red and bright, Dark and wily dropper; Casts of midges bring, Made of plover hackle, With a gaudy wing, And a cobweb tackle.

Lead me where the river flows, Shew me where the alder grows, Reel and rushes, moss and mead, To them lead me--quickly lead, Where the roving trout Watches round an eddy, With his eager snout Pointed up and ready, Till a careless fly, On the surface wheeling, Tempts him, rising sly From his safe concealing.

There, as with a pleasant friend, I the happy hours will spend, Urging on the subtle hook, O'er the dark and chancy nook, With a hand expert Every motion swaying, And on the alert When the trout are playing; Bring me rod and reel, Flies of every feather, Bring the osier creel, Send me glorious weather!

LET ITHER ANGLERS.

Let ither anglers choose their ain, An' ither waters tak' the lead; O' Hieland streams we covet nane, But gie to us the bonnie Tweed! An' gie to us the cheerfu' burn That steals into its valley fair-- The streamlets that at ilka turn, Sae saftly meet an' mingle there.

The lanesome Tala and the Lyne, An' Manor wi' its mountain rills, An' Etterick, whose waters twine Wi' Yarrow, frae the forest hills; An' Gala, too, an' Teviot bright, An' mony a stream o' playfu' speed; Their kindred valleys a' unite Amang the braes o' bonnie Tweed.

There 's no a hole abune the Crook, Nor stane nor gentle swirl aneath, Nor drumlie rill, nor fairy brook, That daunders through the flowrie heath, But ye may fin' a subtle troot, A' gleamin' ower wi' starn an' bead, An' mony a sawmon sooms aboot, Below the bields o' bonnie Tweed.

Frae Holylee to Clovenford, A chancier bit ye canna hae, So gin ye tak' an' angler's word, Ye 'd through the whins an' ower the brae, An' work awa' wi' cunnin' hand Yer birzy hackles black and reid; The saft sough o' a slender wand Is meetest music for the Tweed!

THE BRITISH OAK.

The oak is Britain's pride! The lordliest of trees, The glory of her forest side, The guardian of her seas! Its hundred arms are brandish'd wide, To brave the wintry breeze.

Our hearts shall never quail Below the servile yoke, Long as our seamen trim the sail, And wake the battle smoke-- Long as they stem the stormy gale, On planks of British oak!

Then in its native mead, The golden acorn lay; And watch with care the bursting seed, And guard the tender spray; England will bless us for the deed, In some far future day!

Oh! plant the acorn tree Upon each Briton's grave; So shall our island ever be, The island of the brave-- The mother-nurse of liberty, And empress o'er the wave!

PEACE IN WAR.

Peace be upon their banners! When our war-ships leave the bay-- When the anchor is weigh'd, And the gales Fill the sails, As they stray-- When the signals are made, And the anchor is weigh'd, And the shores of England fade Fast away!

Peace be upon their banners, As they cross the stormy main! May they no aggressors prove, But unite, Britain's right To maintain; And, unconquer'd, as they move, May they no aggressors prove; But to guard the land we love, Come again!

Long flourish England's commerce! May her navies ever glide, With concord in their lead, Ranging free Every sea, Far and wide; And at their country's need, With thunders in their lead, May the ocean eagles speed To her side!

ALEXANDER MACLAGAN.[12]

Alexander Maclagan was born at Bridgend, Perth, on the 3d of April 1811. His father, Thomas Maclagan, was bred to farming, but early abandoning this occupation, he settled in Perth as a manufacturer. Unfortunate in business, he removed to Edinburgh, with a young family of three children; the subject of the present memoir being the eldest. Catherine Stuart, the poet's mother, was descended from the Stuarts of Breadalbane, a family of considerable rank in that district. At the period of his father's removal to Edinburgh, Alexander was only in his fifth year. Not more successful in his pursuits in Edinburgh, where three additional children were born to him, Thomas Maclagan was unable to bestow upon his son Alexander the liberal education which his strong natural capacity demanded; but acquiring the common rudiments of knowledge at several schools in the Old Town, he was at the early age of ten years taken thence, and placed in a jeweller's shop, where he remained two years. Being naturally strong, and now of an age to undertake more laborious employment, his father, rather against the son's inclinations, bound him apprentice to a plumber in Edinburgh, with whom he served six years. About this time he produced many excellent drawings, which received the approbation of the managers of the Edinburgh School of Design, but the arduous duties of his occupation precluded the possibility of his following his natural bent. His leisure time was chiefly devoted to the cultivation of literature. So early as his thirteenth year he entered the Edinburgh Mechanics' Library as a member; and from this early age he dates his taste for poetry.

In 1829, while yet an apprentice, Maclagan became connected with the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_, edited by Mr Glassford Bell. As a contributor to that publication, he was introduced to the Ettrick Shepherd, Professor Wilson, William Tennant, and William Motherwell, who severally commended his verses. On the expiry of his apprenticeship he worked for some time as a journeyman plumber. He was married in his eighteenth year; and he has three surviving children. In 1831, he commenced on his own account, in a shop at the head of the Mound, Edinburgh; but finding he had inadequate capital, he proceeded to London in quest of employment in some managing department of his trade. In the metropolis he was well received by Allan Cunningham, and was, through his recommendation, offered an appointment under Mr Cubitt, the well known builder. A strike among Mr Cubitt's workmen unfortunately interfered with the completion of the arrangement, and the poet, much disappointed, returned to Edinburgh. He now accepted an engagement as manager of a plumbery establishment in Dunfermline, where he continued two years. He afterwards devoted himself to literary and educational pursuits.