Part 5

The writer of several good songs, which have been published with music, Joseph Macgregor, followed the profession of an accountant in Edinburgh. Expert as a man of business, he negotiated the arrangement of the city affairs at the period of the municipal bankruptcy. A zealous member of the Liberal party, he took a prominent interest in the Reform Bill movement, and afterwards afforded valuable assistance in the election of Francis Jeffrey as one of the representatives of the city in Parliament. He latterly occupied Ramsay Lodge, the residence of the poet Allan Ramsay, where he died about the year 1845, at a somewhat advanced age. The following songs from his pen are published by the kind permission of Messrs Robertson & Co., musicsellers, Edinburgh.

LADDIE, OH! LEAVE ME.

Down whar the burnie rins whimplin' and cheery, When love's star was smilin', I met wi' my dearie; Ah! vain was its smilin'--she wadna believe me, But said wi' a saucy air, "Laddie, oh! leave me; Leave me, leave me, laddie, oh! leave me."

"I 've lo'ed thee o'er truly to seek a new dearie, I 've lo'ed thee o'er fondly, through life e'er to weary, I 've lo'ed thee o'er lang, love, at last to deceive thee; Look cauldly or kindly, but bid me not leave thee;" Leave thee, leave thee, &c.

"There 's nae ither saft e'e that fills me wi' pleasure, There 's nae ither rose-lip has half o' its treasure, There 's nae ither bower, love, shall ever receive me, Till death break this fond heart--oh! then I maun leave thee;" Leave thee, leave thee, &c.

The tears o'er her cheeks ran like dew frae red roses; What hope to the lover one tear-drop discloses! I kiss'd them, and blest her--at last to relieve me She yielded her hand, and sigh'd, "Oh! never leave me;" Leave me, leave me, &c.

HOW BLYTHELY THE PIPE.

AIR--_"Kinloch of Kinloch."_

How blythely the pipe through Glenlyon was sounding, At morn when the clans to the merry dance hied; And gay were the love-knots, o'er hearts fondly bounding, When Ronald woo'd Flora, and made her his bride. But war's banner streaming soon changed their fond dreaming-- The battle-cry echoed, around and above Broad claymores were glancing, and war-steeds were prancing; Up, Ronald! to arms for home and your love.

All was hush'd o'er the hill, where love linger'd despairing, With her bride-maids still deck'd in their gay festal gear! And she wept as she saw them fresh garlands preparing, Which might laurel Love's brow, or be strew'd o'er his bier! But cheer thee, fond maiden--each wild breeze is laden With victory's slogan, through mountain and grove; Where death streams were gushing, and war-steeds were rushing, Lord Ronald has conquer'd for home and for love!

WILLIAM DUNBAR, D.D.

A native of Dumfries, William Dunbar, received his elementary education in that town. Having studied at the University of Edinburgh, he was in 1805 licensed as a probationer of the Established Church. During the vacations of his theological curriculum, and the earlier portion of his probationary career, he resided chiefly in the Hebrides. At this period he composed the popular song, entitled, "The Maid of Islay," the heroine being a Miss Campbell of the island of Islay. In several collections the song has been erroneously ascribed to Joseph Train. Mr Dunbar was, in May 1807, ordained to the parish of Applegarth, Dumfriesshire. Long reputed as one of the most successful cultivators of the honey-bee, Dr Dunbar was, in 1840, invited to prepare a treatise on the subject for the entomological series of the "Naturalist's Library." His observations were published, without his name, in a volume of the series, with the title, "The Natural History of Bees, comprehending the uses and economical management of the British and Foreign Honey-Bee; together with the known wild species. Illustrated by thirty-six plates, coloured from nature, with portrait and memoir of Huber." The publication has been pronounced useful to the practical apiarian and a valuable contribution to the natural history of the honey-bee.

In the fiftieth year of his pastorate, Dr Dunbar enjoys the veneration of a flock, of whom the majority have been reared under his ministerial superintendence.

THE MAID OF ISLAY.

Rising o'er the heaving billow, Evening gilds the ocean's swell, While with thee, on grassy pillow, Solitude! I love to dwell. Lonely to the sea-breeze blowing, Oft I chant my love-lorn strain, To the streamlet sweetly flowing, Murmur oft a lover's pain.

'Twas for her, the Maid of Islay, Time flew o'er me wing'd with joy; 'Twas for her, the cheering smile aye Beam'd with rapture in my eye. Not the tempest raving round me, Lightning's flash or thunder's roll; Not the ocean's rage could wound me, While her image fill'd my soul.

Farewell, days of purest pleasure, Long your loss my heart shall mourn! Farewell, hours of bliss the measure, Bliss that never can return! Cheerless o'er the wild heath wand'ring, Cheerless o'er the wave-worn shore, On the past with sadness pond'ring, Hope's fair visions charm no more.

WILLIAM JERDAN.

The well known editor of the _Literary Gazette_, William Jerdan, was born at Kelso, Roxburghshire, on the 16th April 1782. The third son and seventh child of John Jerdan, a small land proprietor and baron-bailie under the Duke of Roxburghe, his paternal progenitors owned extensive possessions in the south-east of Scotland. His mother, Agnes Stuart, a woman of superior intelligence, claimed descent from the Royal House of Stuart. Educated at the parochial school of his native town, young Jerdan entered a lawyer's office, with a view to the legal profession. Towards literary pursuits his attention was directed through the kindly intercourse of the Rev. Dr Rutherford, author of the "View of Ancient History," who then assisted the minister of Kelso, and subsequently became incumbent of Muirkirk. In 1801 he proceeded to London, where he was employed as clerk in a mercantile establishment. Returning to Scotland, he entered the office of a Writer to the Signet; but in 1804 he resumed his connexion with the metropolis. Suffering from impaired health, he was taken under the care of a maternal uncle, surgeon of the _Gladiator_ guard-ship. On the recommendation of this relative, he served as a seaman for a few months preceding February 1806. A third time seeking the literary world of London, he became reporter to the _Aurora_, a morning paper, of temporary duration. In January 1807, he joined the _Pilot_, an evening paper. Subsequently, he was one of the conductors of the _Morning Post_ and a reporter for the _British Press_. Purchasing the copyright of the _Satirist_, he for a short time edited that journal. In May 1813, he became conductor of _The Sun_, an appointment which he retained during a period of four years, but was led to relinquish from an untoward dispute with the publisher. He now entered on the editorship of the _Literary Gazette_, which he conducted till 1850, and with which his name will continue to be associated.

During a period of nearly half a century, Mr Jerdan has occupied a prominent position in connexion with literature and politics. He was the first person who seized Bellingham, the murderer of Percival, in the lobby of the House of Commons. With Mr Canning he was on terms of intimacy. In 1821 he aided in establishing the Royal Society of Literature. He was one of the founders of the Melodist's Club, for the promotion of harmony, and of the Garrick Club, for the patronage of the drama. In the affairs of the Royal Literary Fund he has manifested a deep interest. In 1830 he originated, in concert with other literary individuals, the _Foreign Literary Gazette_, of which he became joint-editor. About the same period, he wrote the biographical portion of Fisher's "National Portrait Gallery." In 1852-3 appeared his "Autobiography," in four volumes; a work containing many curious details respecting persons of eminence. In 1852 Mr Jerdan's services to literature were acknowledged by a pension of £100 on the Civil List, and about the same time he received a handsome pecuniary testimonial from his literary friends.

THE WEE BIRD'S SONG.[6]

I heard a wee bird singing, In my chamber as I lay; The casement open swinging, As morning woke the day. And the boughs around were twining, The bright sun through them shining, And I had long been pining, For my Willie far away-- When I heard the wee bird singing.

He heard the wee bird singing, For its notes were wondrous clear; As if wedding bells were ringing, Melodious to the ear. And still it rang that wee bird's song; Just like the bells--dong-ding, ding-dong; While my heart beat so quick and strong-- It felt that he was near! And he heard the wee bird singing.

We heard the wee bird singing, After brief time had flown; The true bells had been ringing, And Willie was my own. And oft I tell him, jesting, playing, I knew what the wee bird was saying, That morn, when he, no longer straying, Flew back to me alone. And we love the wee bird singing.

FOOTNOTES:

[6] Here first published.

WHAT MAKES THIS HOUR?

What makes this hour a day to me? What makes this day a year? My own love promised we should meet-- But my own love is not here! Ah! did she feel half what I feel, Her tryst she ne'er would break; She ne'er would lift this heart to hope, Then leave this heart to ache; And make the hour a day to me, And make the day a year; The hour she promised we should meet-- But my own love is not here.

Alas! can she inconstant prove? Does sickness force her stay? Or is it fate, or failing love, That keeps my love away, To make the hour a day to me, And make the day a year? The hour and day we should have met-- But my own love is not here.

ALEXANDER BALD.

Alexander Bald was born at Alloa, on the 9th June 1783. His father, who bore the same Christian name, was a native of Culross, where he was originally employed in superintending the coal works in that vicinity, under the late Earl of Dundonald. He subsequently became agent for the collieries of John Francis Erskine, afterwards Earl of Mar. A book of arithmetical tables and calculations from his pen, entitled, "The Corn-dealer's Assistant," was long recognised as an almost indispensable guide for tenant farmers.

The subject of this notice was early devoted to literary pursuits. Along with his friend, Mr John Grieve, the future patron of the Ettrick Shepherd, he made a visit to the forest bard, attracted by the merit of his compositions, long prior to his public recognition as a poet. He established a literary association in his native town, entitled, "The Shakspeare Club;" which, at its annual celebrations, was graced by the presence of men of genius and learning. To the _Scots' Magazine_ he became a poetical contributor early in the century. A man of elegant tastes and Christian worth, Mr Bald was a cherished associate of the more distinguished literary Scotsmen of the past generation. During the period of half a century, he has conducted business in his native town as a timber merchant and brick manufacturer. His brother, Mr Robert Bald, is the distinguished mining engineer.

THE LILY OF THE VALE.[7]

TUNE--_'Ye banks and braes o' bonny Doon.'_

The lily of the vale is sweet, And sweeter still the op'ning rose, But sweeter far my Mary is Than any blooming flower that blows. Whilst spring her fragrant blossoms spreads, I'll wander oft by Mary's side; And whisper saft the tender tale, By Forth, sweet Forth's meandering tide.

There will we walk at early dawn, Ere yet the sun begins to shine; At eve oft, too, the lawn we'll tread, And mark that splendid orb's decline. The fairest, choicest flowers I'll crop, To deck my lovely Mary's hair; And while I live, I vow and swear, She'll be my chief--my only care.

FOOTNOTES:

[7] This song was originally Published in the _Scots' Magazine_ for October 1806. In the "Book of Scottish Song," it has been attributed to Allan Ramsay.

HOW SWEET ARE THE BLUSHES OF MORN.

How sweet are the blushes of morn, And sweet is the gay blossom'd grove; The linnet chants sweet from the thorn, But sweeter's the smile of my love.

Awhile, my dear Mary, farewell, Since fate has decreed we should part; Thine image shall still with me dwell, Though absent, you'll reign in my heart.

But by winding Devon's green bowers, At eve's dewy hour as I rove, I'll grieve for the pride of her flowers, And the pride of her maidens, my love.

The music shall cease in the grove, Thine absence the linnet shall mourn; But the lark, in strains bearing love, Soft warbling, shall greet thy return.

GEORGE WILSON.

George Wilson was born on the 20th June 1784, in the parish of Libberton, and county of Lanark. Deprived of both his parents early in life, he was brought to the house of his paternal uncle, who rented a sheep-farm in the vicinity of Peebles. At the burgh school of that place he received an ordinary education, and in his thirteenth year hired himself as a cow-herd. Passing through the various stages of rural employment at Tweedside, he resolved to adopt a trade, and in his eighteenth year became apprenticed to his maternal uncle, a cabinetmaker in Edinburgh. On fulfilling his indenture, he accepted employment as a journeyman cabinetmaker; he subsequently conducted business on his own account. In 1831 he removed from Edinburgh to the village of Corstorphine, in the vicinity; where he continues to reside. He published "The Laverock," a volume of poems and songs, in 1829. The following lyrics from his pen evince no inconsiderable vigour, and seem worthy of preservation.

MILD AS THE MORNING.

AIR--_'Bonnie Dundee.'_

Mild as the morning, a rose-bud of beauty, Young Mary, all lovely, had come from afar, With tear-streaming eyes, and a grief-burden'd bosom, To view with sad horror the carnage of war. She sought her brave brother with sighing and sorrow; Her loud lamentations she pour'd out in vain; The hero had fallen, with kinsmen surrounded, And deep he lay buried 'mong heaps of the slain.

"Oh! Donald, my brother, in death art thou sleeping? Or groan'st thou in chains of some barbarous foe? Are none of thy kindred in life now remaining, To tell a sad tale of destruction and woe?" A hero who struggled in death's cold embraces, Whose bosom, deep gash'd, was all clotted with gore-- "Alas! Lady Mary, the mighty M'Donald, Will lead his brave heroes to battle no more."

She turn'd, and she gazed all around, much confounded; The tidings of sorrow sunk deep in her heart; She saw her brave kinsman laid low, deadly wounded, He wanted that succour, she could not impart-- "Oh! Murdoch, my kinsman," with hands raised to heaven, "Thy strength, bloom, and beauty, alas! all are o'er; And oh, my brave brother, my brave gallant brother, Lies sleeping beside thee, to waken no more."

THE BEACONS BLAZED.

AIR--_'Cope sent a letter frae Dunbar.'_

The beacons blazed, the banners flew, The war-pipes loud their pibrochs blew, The trusty clans their claymores drew, To shield their Royal Charlie.

Come a' ye chiefs, bring a' your clans, Frae a' your mountains, muirs, and glens, Bring a' your spears, swords, dirks, and guns, To shield and save Prince Charlie.

They, like their fathers, bold and brave, Came at a call, wi' dirk and glaive; Of danger fearless, sworn to save Or fa' for Royal Charlie.

Famed Scotia's chiefs, intrepid still, Led forth their tribes frae strath and hill, And boldly dared, wi' right guid will, To shield their Royal Charlie.

The forests and the rocks replied To shouts which rung both far and wide: Our prince is come, his people's pride-- Oh, welcome hame, Prince Charlie!

Thee, Scotia's rightful prince we own; We'll die, or seat thee on the throne, Where many a Scottish king has shone; The sires o' Royal Charlie.

No faithful Scot now makes a pause; Plain truth and justice plead thy cause; Each fearlessly his weapon draws, To shield and save Prince Charlie.

Now, lead us on against thy foes; Thy rightful claim all Europe knows; We'll scatter death with all our blows, To shield and save Prince Charlie.

Now, chiefs and clans, your faith display, By deathless deeds in battle day, To stretch them pale on beds of clay, The foes of Royal Charlie.

THE RENDEZVOUS.

Warlike chieftains now assembled, Fame your daring deeds shall tell, Fiercest foes have fear'd and trembled, When you raised your warlike yell. Bards shall sing when battle rages, Scotia's sons shall victors be; Bards shall sing in after ages, Caledonians aye were free.

Blest be every bold avenger, Cheer'd the heart that fears no wound; Dreadful in the day of danger Be each chieftain ever found.

Let the hills our swords have shielded, Ring to every hero's praise; And the tribes who never yielded, Their immortal trophies raise.

Heroes brave, be ever ready, At your king and country's call; When your dauntless chiefs shall lead you, Let the foe that dares you fall.

Let the harp to strains resounding, Ring to cheer the dauntless brave; Let the brave like roes come bounding On to glory or a grave.

Let your laurels never-fading, Gleam like your unconquer'd glaive; Where your thistle springs triumphant, There let freedom's banner wave.

JOHN YOUNGER.

John Younger, the shoemaker of St Boswells, and author of the Prize Essay on the Sabbath, has some claim to enrolment among the minstrels of his country. He was born on the 5th July 1785, at Longnewton village, in the parish of Ancrum, and county of Roxburgh. So early as his ninth year, he began to work at his father's trade of a shoemaker. In 1810 he married, and commenced shoemaking in the village of St Boswells, where he has continued to reside. Expert in his original profession, he has long been reputed for his skill in dressing hooks for Tweed angling; the latter qualification producing some addition to his emoluments. He holds the office of village postmaster.

A man of superior intellect and varied information, John Younger enjoys the respect of a wide circle of friends. His cottage is the resort of anglers of every rank; and among his correspondents he enumerates the most noted characters of the age. Letter writing is his favourite mode of recreation, and he has preserved copies of his letters in several interesting volumes. He has published a poetical _brochure_ with the title, "Thoughts as they Rise;" also a "Treatise on River Angling." His Prize Essay on the Sabbath, entitled, "The Light of the Week," was published in 1849, and has commanded a wide circulation. Of his lyrical effusions we have selected the following from his MS. collection.

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

Oh, dinna be sae sair cast down, My ain sweet bairnies dear, Whatever storms in life may blaw, Take nae sic heart o' fear. Though life's been aye a checker'd scene Since Eve's first apple grew, Nae blade o' grass has been forgot O' its ain drap o' dew.

The bonnie flowers o' Paradise, And a' that 's bloom'd sinsyne, By bank an' brae an' lover's bower, Adown the course o' time, Or 'neath the gardener's fostering hand,-- Their annual bloom renew, Ilk blade o' grass has had as weel Its ain sweet drap o' dew.

The oaks and cedars of the earth May toss their arms in air, Or bend beneath the sweeping blast That strips the forest bare; The flower enfolds while storms o'erpass, Till sunshine spreads anew, And sips, as does ilk blade o' grass, Its lucent drap o' dew.

The great may loll in world's wealth And a' the pomp o' state, While labour, bent wi' eident cares, Maun toil baith ear and late. The poor may gae to bed distrest, With nae relief in view, And rising, like ilk blade o' grass, Shine wi' the pearl o' dew.

Oh, what a gentle hand is His That cleeds the lilies fair, And o' the meanest thing in life Takes mair than mother's care! Can ye no put your trust in Him, With heart resign'd and true, Wha ne'er forgets to gie the grass, Ilk blade its drap o' dew.

THE MONTH OF JUNE.

O June, ye spring the loveliest flowers That a' our seasons yield; Ye deck sae flush the greenwood bowers, The garden, and the field; The pathway verge by hedge and tree, So fresh, so green, and gay, Where every lovely blue flower's e'e Is opening to the day.

The river banks and craggy peaks In wilding blossoms drest; With ivy o'er their jutting nooks Ye screen the ouzel's nest; From precipice, abrupt and bold, Your tendrils flaunt in air, With craw-flowers dangling living gold Ye tuft the steep brown scaur.

Your foliage shades the wild bird's nest From every prying e'e, With fairy fingers ye invest In woven flowers the lea; Around the lover's blissful hour Ye draw your leafy screen, And shade those in your rosy bower, Who love to muse unseen.

JOHN BURTT.

John Burtt was born about the year 1790, at Knockmarloch, in the parish of Riccarton, and county of Ayr. With a limited school education, he was apprenticed to a weaver in Kilmarnock; but at the loom he much improved himself in general scholarship, especially in classical learning. In his sixteenth year he was decoyed into a ship of war at Greenock, and compelled to serve on board. Effecting his escape, after an arduous servitude of five years, he resumed the loom at Kilmarnock. He subsequently taught an adventure school, first in Kilmarnock, and afterwards at Paisley. The irksome labours of sea-faring life he had sought to relieve by the composition of verses; and these in 1816 he published, under the title of "Horæ Poeticæ; or, the Recreations of a Leisure Hour." In 1817 he emigrated to the United States, where his career has been prosperous. Having studied theology at Princeton College, New Jersey, he became a licentiate of the Presbyterian Church, and was appointed to a ministerial charge at Salem. In 1831 he removed to Philadelphia, where he edited a periodical entitled the _Presbyterian_. Admitted in 1833 to a Presbyterian Church in Cincinnati, he there edited the _Standard_, a religious newspaper. In August 1835, he was promoted to a chair in the Theological Seminary of that place.

O'ER THE MIST-SHROUDED CLIFFS.[8]

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

O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the gray mountain straying, Where the wild winds of winter incessantly rave; What woes wring my heart while intently surveying The storm's gloomy path on the breast of the wave? Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail, Ere ye toss me afar from my loved native shore; Where the flower which bloom'd sweetest in Coila's green vale, The pride of my bosom--my Mary 's no more.