Part 8

I sing of gentle woodcroft gay, for well I love to rove, With the spaniel at my side and the falcon on my glove; For the noble bird which graced my hand I feel my spirit swell, Array'd in all her hunting-gear--hood, jessy, leash, and bell.

I have watch'd her through the moult, till her castings all were pure, And have steep'd and clean'd each gorge ere 'twas fix'd upon the lure; While now to field or forest glade I can my falcon bring Without a pile of feather wrong, on body, breast, or wing.

When drawn the leash, and slipt the hood, her eye beams black and bright, And from my hand the gallant bird is cast upon her flight; Away she darts, on pinions free, above the mountains far, Until in less'ning size she seems no bigger than a star.

Away, away, in farthest flight I feel no fear or dread, When a whistle or a whoop brings her tow'ring o'er my head; While poised on moveless wing, from her voice a murmur swells, To speak her presence near, above the chiming from her bells.

'Tis Rover's bark--halloo! see the broad-wing'd heron rise, And soaring round my falcon queen, above her quarry flies, With outstretch'd neck the wary game shoots for the covert nigh; But o'er him for a settled stoop my hawk is tow'ring high.

My falcon 's tow'ring o'er him with an eye of fire and pride, Her pinions strong, with one short pull, are gather'd to her side, When like a stone from off the sling, or bolt from out the bow, In meteor flight, with sudden dart, she stoops upon her foe.

The vanquish'd and the vanquisher sink rolling round and round, With wounded wing the quarried game falls heavy on the ground. Away, away, my falcon fair has spread her buoyant wings, While on the ear her silver voice as clear as metal rings.

Though high her soar, and far her flight, my whoop has struck her ear, And reclaiming for the lure, o'er my head she sallies near. No other sport like falconry can make the bosom glow, When flying at the stately game, or raking at the crow.

Who mews a hawk must nurse her as a mother would her child, And soothe the wayward spirit of a thing so fierce and wild; Must woo her like a bride, while with love his bosom swells For the noble bird that bears the hood, the jessy, leash, and bells.

THE SALMON RUN.

AIR--_"The brave old Oak."_

Oh! away to the Tweed, To the beautiful Tweed, My much-loved native stream; Where the fish from his hold, 'Neath some cataract bold, Starts up like a quivering gleam.

From his iron-bound keep, Far down in the deep, He holds on his sovereign sway; Or darts like a lance, Or the meteor's glance, Afar on his bright-wing'd prey.

As he roves through the tide, Then his clear glitt'ring side Is burnish'd with silver and gold; And the sweep of his flight Seems a rainbow of light, As again he sinks down in his hold.

With a soft western breeze, That just thrills through the trees, And ripples the beautiful bay; Throw the fly for a lure-- That 's a rise! strike him sure-- A clean fish--with a burst he 's away.

Hark! the ravel line sweel, From the fast-whirring reel, With a music that gladdens the ear; And the thrill of delight, In that glorious fight, To the heart of the angler is dear.

Hold him tight--for the leap; Where the waters are deep, Give out line in the far steady run; Reel up quick, if he tire, Though the wheel be on fire, For in earnest to work he 's begun.

Aroused up at length, How he rolls in his strength, And springs with a quivering bound; Then away with a dash, Like the lightning's flash, Far o'er the smooth pebbly ground.

Though he strain on the thread, Down the stream with his head, That burst from the run makes him cool; Then spring out for the land, On the rod change the hand, And draw down for the deepening pool.

Mark the gleam of his side, As he shoots through the tide! Are the dyes of the dolphin more fair? Fatigue now begins, For his quivering fins On the shallows are spread in despair.

CHARLES MARSHALL.

The Rev. Charles Marshall, author of "Homely Words and Songs for Working Men and Women," is a native of Paisley. In early life he was engaged in mercantile concerns. At the University of Glasgow he studied for two sessions, and in 1826 completed a philosophical curriculum at the University of Edinburgh. In the following year he was chosen governor of John Watson's Institution, Edinburgh, where he remained for thirteen years. During that time the directors of the institution expressed their approbation of his services by large pecuniary donations, and by increasing his official emoluments. In addition to these expressions of liberality, they afforded him permission to attend the Divinity Hall. In 1840, on the completion of his theological studies, he was licensed as a probationer of the Established Church. In 1841 he accepted a call to the North Extension Church, Dunfermline. At the Disruption in 1843, he adhered to the Free Church. He continues to labour as minister of the Free North Church, Dunfermline.

To the moral and religious reformation of the industrial classes, as well as the improvement of their physical condition, Mr Marshall has long been earnestly devoted. In 1853 he published a small volume of prose and poetry, addressed to industrial females, with the title, "Lays and Lectures to Scotia's Daughters of Industry." This work rapidly passed through various editions. In 1856 he appeared as the author of a similar publication, entitled "Homely Words and Songs for Working Men and Women," to which his former work has been added as a second part. For terse and homely counsels, and vigorous and manly sentiments, adapted to the peculiar feelings and condition of the Scottish peasantry, these _brochures_ are without a parallel. Mr Marshall proposes to add to the series two other parts, addressed to "Husbands and Fathers," and to "Young Men."

THE BLESSING ON THE WARK.

I like to spring in the morning bricht, Before the mill bell rings; When waukening blithe in gowden licht, My joyfu' spirit sings.

I like to hear, when the pearly tear Gems morning's floweret cup, The trumpet summons of chanticleer Pipe "drowsy mortals up."

I tread as lightly as silent puss, While a' the household sleep; And gird me to clean and redd the house Before the bairnies cheep.

I like to dress and mak me clean As ony winsome bride; And think na shame, though my face be seen, At morn or eventide.

I like to handle, before I rin, The word o' truth and love; And seek, or the daily wark begin, Gude counsel from above.

Then skipping wi' lichtsome heart, I hie To earn my bit o' bread; The wark spins on, and the time rins by, Wi' pleasant, blessed speed.

JEWEL OF A LAD.

AIR--_"Fye, gae rub her owre wi' strae."_

As sunshine to the flowers in May, As wild flowers to the hinny bee, As fragrant scent o' new mown hay, So my true love is sweet to me.

As costly jewels to the bride, As beauty to the bridegroom's e'e-- To sailors, as fair wind and tide, So my true love is dear to me.

As rain-draps to the thirsty earth, As waters to the willow-tree, As mother's joy at baby's birth, So my true love is dear to me.

Though owning neither wealth nor lan', He 's ane o' Heaven's pedigree; His love to God, his love to man, His goodness makes him dear to me.

The lass that weds a warly fool May laugh, and sing, and dance a wee; But earthly love soon waxes cool, And foolish fancies turn ajee.

My laddie's heart is fu' o' grace, His loving e'e blinks bonnily, A heavenly licht illumes his face; Nae wonder though he 's dear to me.

TWILIGHT JOYS.

Musing, we sat in our garden bower, In the balmy month of June, Enjoying the pensive gloamin' hour When our daily task was done.

We spake of the friends of our early days, Some living, some dead and gane, And fancy skimm'd o'er the flow'ry braes Of our morning life again.

A bless'd, a lightsome hour was that, And joyful were we to see The sunny face of ilk bonnie brat, So full of frolicsome glee.

They ran, they row'd, they warsl'd, they fell, Whiles whirl'd in a fairy ring-- Our hearts ran o'er like a gushing well, And we bless'd each happy thing.

In our wee dwelling the lamp of love, Trimm'd daily by faith and prayer, Flings light on earth, on heaven above, Sheds glory everywhere.

This golden lamp shines clear and bright, When the world looks dark and doure, It brightens our morning, noon, and night, And gladdens our gloamin' hour.

WILLIAM WILSON.

William Wilson was born on the 25th December 1801, in the village of Crieff, Perthshire. His parents being of the industrial class and in indigent circumstances, he was early devoted to a life of manual labour. While employed in a factory at Dundee, some of his poetical compositions were brought under the notice of Mrs Grant, of Laggan, who interested herself in his behalf, and enabled him to begin business as a coal merchant. He married early in life, and continued after marriage to write as ardent poetry about his wife as he had done before marriage. On her death, he married a lady of respectable connexions in the county of Roxburgh. In December 1833, he emigrated to America, and has since been in business as a publisher at Poughkeepsie, in the state of New York. He has repeatedly delivered lectures to scientific institutions, and is well known to the higher class of literary men in America. Many of his earlier poems were contributed to the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_; and he has published several of his own and other songs, with music of his own composition.

O BLESSING ON HER STARLIKE E'EN.

O blessing on her starlike e'en, Wi' their glance o' love divine; And blessing on the red, red lip, Was press'd yestreen to mine!

Her braided locks that waved sae light, As she danced through the lofty ha', Were like the cluds on the brow o' night, Or the wing o' the hoodie craw.

O mony a jimp an' gentle dame, In jewell'd pomp was there; But she was first among them a', In peerless beauty rare!

Her bosom is a holy shrine, Unstain'd by mortal sin, An' spotless as the snaw-white foam, On the breast o' the siller linn.

Her voice--hae ye heard the goudspink's note, By bowery glen or brake? Or listen'd ye e'er to the mermaid's lay, By sea or mountain lake?

Hae ye dreamt ye heard, i' the bowers o' heaven, The angel's melodie? Or fancied ye listen'd the sang o' the spheres As they swung on their path on hie?

Far sweeter to me was her lay o' love, At the gloamin' hour yestreen; An', oh! were I king o' the warld wide, I would mak' that maiden my queen.

OH! BLESSING ON THEE, LAND.

Oh! blessing on thee, land Of love and minstrel song; For Freedom found a dwelling-place Thy mountain cliffs among! And still she loves to roam Among thy heath-clad hills; And blend her wild-wood harp's sweet strain With the voice of mountain rills.

Her song is on the gale, Her step upon the wold; And morning diamonds brightly gem Her braided locks of gold. Far up the pine-wood glen, Her sylph-like form is seen, By hunter in the hazy dawn, Or wandering bard at e'en.

My own dear native home, The birthplace of the brave, O never may thy soil be trod By tyrant or by slave! Then, blessing on thee, land Of love and minstrel song; For Freedom found a dwelling-place, Thy mountain cliffs among!

THE FAITHLESS.

We part,--yet wherefore should I weep, From faithless thing like thee to sever? Or let one tear mine eyelids steep, While thus I cast thee off for ever? I loved thee--need I say how well? Few, few have ever loved so dearly; As many a sleepless hour can tell, And many a vow breath'd too sincerely.

But late, beneath its jetty lash, I loved to mark thy blue eyes' splendour, Which wont, all witchingly, to flash On me its light so soft and tender; Now, from that glance I turn away, As if its thrilling gaze could wound me; Though not, as once, in love's young day, When thoughtless passion's fetters bound me.

The dimpling smile, with sweetness fraught, The bosom, 'mid its snow, upheaving; Who, that had seen them, could have thought That things so fair could be deceiving? The moon, the sky, the wave, the wind, In all their fitful moods of changing, Are nought to wavering woman's mind, For ever shifting, ever ranging!

Farewell! I'd rather launch my bark Upon the angry ocean billow, 'Mid wintry winds, and tempests dark, Than make thy faithless breast my pillow. Thy broken vow now cannot bind, Thy streaming tears no more can move me, And thus I turn from thee, to find A heart that may more truly love me.

MY SOUL IS EVER WITH THEE.

My soul is ever with thee, My thoughts are ever with thee, As the flower to the sun, as the lamb to the lea, So turns my fond spirit to thee.

'Mid the cares of the lingering day, When troubles around me be, Fond Fancy for aye will be flitting away-- Away, my beloved, to thee.

When the night-pall darkly spread O'er shadows, tower, and tree, Then the visions of my restless bed Are all, my beloved, of thee.

When I greet the morning beams, When the midnight star I see, Alone--in crowded halls--my dreams-- My dreams are for ever of thee.

As spring to the leafless spray, As calm to the surging sea, To the weary, rest--to the watcher, day-- So art thou, loved Mary, to me.

AULD JOHNNY GRAHAM.

Dear Aunty, what think ye o' auld Johnny Graham? The carle sae pawkie an' slee! He wants a bit wifie to tend his bein hame, An' the body has ettled at me.

Wi' bonnet sae vaunty, an owerlay sae clean, An' ribbon that waved 'boon his bree, He cam' doun the cleugh at the gloamin' yestreen, An' rappit, an' soon speert for me.

I bade him come ben whare my minny sae thrang Was birlin' her wheel eidentlie, An', foul fa' the carle, he was na' that lang, Ere he tauld out his errand to me.

"Hech, Tibby, lass! a' yon braid acres o' land, Wi' ripe craps that wave bonnilie, An' meikle mair gear shall be at yer command, Gin' ye will look kindly on me.

"Yon herd o' fat owsen that rout i' the glen, Sax naigies that nibble the lea; The kye i' the sheugh, and the sheep i' the pen, I'se gie a', dear Tibby, to thee.

"An', lassie, I've goupins o' gowd in a stockin', An' pearlin's wad dazzle yer e'e; A mettl'd, but canny young yaud, for the yokin', When ye wad gae jauntin' wi' me.

"I 'll hap ye, and fend ye, and busk ye, and tend ye, And mak' ye the licht o' my e'e; I 'll comfort and cheer ye, and daut ye and dear ye, As couthy as couthy can be.

"I 've lo'ed ye, dear lassie, since first, a bit bairn, Ye ran up the knowe to meet me; An' deckit my bonnet wi' blue bells an' fern, Wi' meikle glad laughin' an' glee.

"An' noo woman grown, an' mensefu', an' fair, An' gracefu' as gracefu' can be-- Will ye tak' an' auld carle wha ne'er had a care For woman, dear Tibby, but thee?"

Sae, Aunty, ye see I 'm a' in a swither, What answer the bodie to gie-- But aften I wish he wad tak' my auld mither, And let puir young Tibby abee.

JEAN LINN.

Oh, haud na' yer noddle sae hie, ma doo! Oh, haud na' yer noddle sae hie! The days that hae been, may be yet again seen, Sae look na sae lightly on me, ma doo! Sae look na' sae lightly on me!

Oh, geck na' at hame hodden gray, Jean Linn! Oh, geck na' at hame hodden gray! Yer gutcher an mine wad thocht themsels fine, In cleedin' sae bein, bonnie May, bonnie May-- In cleedin' sae bein, bonnie May.

Ye mind when we won in Whinglen, Jean Linn-- Ye mind when we won in Whinglen, Your daddy, douce carle, was cotter to mine, An' our herd was yer bonnie sel', then, Jean Linn, An' our herd was yer bonnie sel', then.

Oh, then ye were a' thing to me, Jean Linn, Oh, then ye were a' thing to me! An' the moments scour'd by, like birds through the sky, When tentin' the owsen wi' thee, Jean Linn, When tentin' the owsen wi' thee.

I twined ye a bower by the burn, Jean Linn, I twined ye a bower by the burn, But dreamt na that hour, as we sat in that bower, That fortune wad tak' sic a turn, Jean Linn. That fortune wad tak' sic a turn.

Ye busk noo in satins fu' braw, Jean Linn! Ye busk noo in satins fu' braw! Yer daddy's a laird, mine 's i' the kirkyard, An' I 'm yer puir ploughman, Jock Law, Jean Linn, An' I 'm yer puir ploughman, Jock Law.

BONNIE MARY.

When the sun gaes down, when the sun gaes down, I 'll meet thee, bonnie Mary, when the sun gaes down; I 'll row my apron up, an' I 'll leave the reeky town, And meet thee by the burnie, when the sun gaes down.

By the burnie there 's a bower, we will gently lean us there, An' forget in ither's arms every earthly care, For the chiefest o' my joys, in this weary mortal roun', Is the burnside wi' Mary when the sun gaes down. When the sun gaes down, &c.

There the ruin'd castle tower on the distant steep appears, Like a hoary auld warrior faded with years; An' the burnie stealing by wi' a fairy silver soun', Will soothe us wi' its music when the sun gaes down. When the sun gaes down, &c.

The burnside is sweet when the dew is on the flower, But 'tis like a little heaven at the trystin' hour; And with pity I would look on the king who wears the crown, When wi' thee by the burnie, when the sun gaes down. When the sun gaes down, &c.

When the sun gaes down, when the sun gaes down, I 'll meet thee by the burnie, when the sun gaes down; Come in thy petticoatie, and thy little drugget gown, And I 'll meet thee, bonnie Mary, when the sun gaes down.

MRS MARY MACARTHUR.

Mrs Mary Waugh, the widow of Mr James Macarthur, merchant, Glasgow, published in 1842 a duodecimo volume of verses, with the title, "The Necropolis, and other Poems." One of the compositions in that publication, entitled "The Missionary," is inserted in the present work, as being worthy of a place among the productions of the national Muse. In early life Mrs Macarthur lived in the south of Scotland; she has for many years been resident in Glasgow.

THE MISSIONARY.

He left his native land, and, far away Across the waters sought a world unknown, Though well he knew that he in vain might stray In search of one so lovely as his own.

He left his home, around whose humble hearth His parents, kindred, all he valued, smil'd-- Friends who had known and loved him from his birth, And who still loved him as a fav'rite child.

He left the scenes by youthful hopes endear'd, The woods, the streams, that sooth'd his infant ear; The plants, the trees that he himself had rear'd, And every charm to love and fancy dear.

All these he left, with sad but willing heart, Though unallur'd by honours, wealth, or fame; In them not even his wishes claim'd a part, And the world knew not of his very name.

Canst thou not guess what taught his steps to stray? 'Twas love, but not such love as worldlings own, That often smiles its sweetest to betray, And stabs the breast that offered it a throne!

'Twas love to God, and love to all mankind! His Master bade the obedient servant go, And try if he in distant realms could find Some who His name and saving grace would know.

'Twas this that nerved him when he saw the tears His aged mother at their parting shed; 'Twas this that taught her how to calm her fears, And beg a heavenly blessing on his head.

'Twas this that made his father calmly bear A godly sorrow, deep, but undismay'd, And bade him humbly ask of God in prayer, His virtuous son to counsel, guide, and aid.

And when he rose to bless, and wish him well, And bent a head with age and sorrow gray-- E'en when he breath'd a fond and last farewell, Half sad, half joyful, dashed his tears away.

"And go," he said, "though I with mortal eyes Shall ne'er behold thy filial reverence more; But when from earth to heaven our spirits rise, The Hand that gave him shall my child restore.

"I bid thee go, though human tears will steal From eyes that see the course thou hast to run; And God forgive me if I wrongly feel, Like Abraham call'd to sacrifice his son!"

And he is gone, with ardent steps he prest Across the hills to where the vessel lay, And soon I ween upon the ocean's breast They saw the white sails bearing him away.

And did he go unfriended, poor, alone? Did none of those who, in a favour'd land The shelter of the gospel tree had known, Desire to see its peaceful shade expand?

'Tis not for me to answer questions here-- Let ev'ry heart its own responses give, And those to whom their fellow-men are dear, Bestow the bread by which their souls may live!

JOHN RAMSAY.

The author of "Woodnotes of a Wanderer," John Ramsay, was born at Kilmarnock in 1802. With a limited school education, he was early apprenticed in a carpet manufactory in his native place. He afterwards traded for some years as a retail grocer. During his connexion with the carpet factory, he composed some spirited verses, which were inserted in the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_; and having subsequently suffered misfortune in business, he resolved to repair his losses by publishing a collected edition of his poetical writings, and personally pushing the sale. For the long period of fifteen years, he travelled over the country, vending his volume of "Woodnotes." This creditable enterprise has been rewarded by his appointment to the agency of a benevolent society in Edinburgh.

FAREWELL TO CRAUFURDLAND.

Thou dark stream slow wending thy deep rocky way, By foliage oft hid from the bright eye of day, I 've view'd thee with pleasure, but now must with pain, Farewell! for I never may see you again.

Ye woods, whence fond fancy a spirit would bring, That trimm'd the bright pinions of thought's hallow'd wing, Your beauties will gladden some happier swain; Farewell! for I never may see you again.

I 've roam'd you, unknown to care's life-sapping sigh, When prospects seem'd fair and my young hopes were high; These prospects were false, and those hopes have proved vain; Farewell! for I never may see you again.

Soon distance shall bid my reft heart undergo Those pangs that alone the poor exile can know-- Away! like a craven why should I complain? Farewell! for I never may see you again.

JAMES PARKER.

James Parker, author of a duodecimo volume of poetry, entitled "Poems of Past Years," was born in Glasgow, and originally followed the trade of a master baker. He now holds a respectable appointment in the navy. He has contributed verses to the periodicals.

THE MARINER'S SONG.