Part 9

Oh merrily and gallantly We sweep across the seas, Like the wild ocean birds which ply Their pinions on the breeze; We quail not at the tempest's voice When the billow dashes o'er us, Firm as a rock, we bear the shock, And join its dreadful chorus.

Across the foaming surge we glide With bosoms true and brave, It is our home--our throne of pride-- It soon may be our grave; Yet fearlessly we rush to meet The foe that comes before us; The fight begun, we man the gun, And join its thundering chorus.

Our lives may be as fierce and free As the waves o'er which we roam, But let not landsmen think that we Forget our native home; And when the winds shall waft us back To the shores from which they bore us, Amid the throng of mirth and song, We'll join the jovial chorus.

HER LIP IS O' THE ROSE'S HUE.

Her lip is o' the rose's hue, Like links o' goud her hair, Her e'e is o' the azure blue, An' love beams ever there; Her step is like the mountain goat's That climbs the stately Ben, Her voice sweet as the mavis' notes That haunt her native glen.

There is a sweet wee hazel bower Where woodbine blossoms twine, There Jeanie, ae auspicious hour, Consented to be mine; An' there we meet whene'er we hae An idle hour to spen', An' Jeanie ne'er has rued the day She met me in the glen.

Oh bricht, bricht are the evenin' beams, An' sweet the pearly dew, An' lovely is the star that gleams In gloamin's dusky brow; But brichter, sweeter, lovelier far, Aboon a' human ken, Is my sweet pearl--my lovely star-- My Jeanie o' the glen.

JOHN HUNTER.

The following compositions are, with permission, transcribed from a small volume of juvenile poems, with the title "Miscellanies, by N. R.," which was printed many years ago, for private circulation only, by Mr John Hunter, now auditor of the Court of Session.

THE BOWER O' CLYDE.

On fair Clydeside thair wonnit ane dame, Ane dame of wondrous courtesie, An' bonny was the kindly flame That stremit frae her saft blue e'e.

Her saft blue e'e, 'mid the hinney dew, That meltit to its tender licht, Was bonnier far than the purest starre That sails thro' the dark blue hevin at nicht.

If ony culd luke and safely see Her dimplit cheek, and her bonny red mou, Nor seek to sip the dew frae her lip, A lifeless lump was he, I trow.

But it wuld haif saften'd the dullest wicht, If ae moment that wicht might see Her bonny breast o' the purest snaw, That heavit wi' luve sae tenderlie.

An' dear, dear was this bonny dame, Dear, dear was she to me, An' my heart was tane, an' my sense was gane, At ae blink o' her bonny blue e'e.

An' sair an' saft I pleadit my luve, Tho' still she hardly wuld seem to hear, An' wuld cauldly blame the words o' flame That I breathit so warmly in her ear.

Yet aye as she turn'd her frae my look, Thair was kindness beamit in her e'e, An' aye as she drew back her lily han', I faund that it tremblit tenderlie.

But the time sune cam, the waesome time, When I maun awa frae my dear, An' oh! that thocht, how aften it brocht The deep-heavit sigh an' the cauld bitter tear!

Then socht I my luve, her cauld heart to muve, Wi' my tears, an' my sighs, an' my prayers, An' I gaed by her side doun the banks o' the Clyde, An' the hours stal awa unawares.

'Twas a still summer nicht, at the fa'ing o' licht, At the gloamin's saft an' schadowie hour, An' we wander'd alane till the daylicht was gane, An' we cam' to a sweet simmer bour.

The mune was up i' the clear blue skye, The mune an' her single wee starre, The winds gaed gently whisperin' bye, Thair was stillness near an' farre.

Alane we sat i' the green summer bour, I tauld her a' that was kind and dear, An' she did na blame the words o' flame That I breathit sae warmly in her ear.

She listenit to the luve-sang warm, Her breast it throbbit and heavit high; She culd hear nae mair, but her gentill arm She lean't upon mine, wi' a tender sigh.

Then warmly I prest wi' my burning lips, Ae kiss on her bonny red mow, An' aften I prest her form to my breast, An' fondly an' warmly I vowit to be true.

An' oh! that hour, that hallowit hour, My fond heart will never forget; Though drear is the dule I haif suffer'd sin syne, That hour gars my heart beat warmly yet.

The parting time cam, an' the parting time past, An' it past nae without the saut tear, An' awa' to anither an' farre awa' land I gaed, an' I left my ain dear.

I gaed, an' though ither and brichter maids Wuld smile wi' fond luve i' their e'e, I but thocht o' the sweet green hour by the Clyde, An' that thocht was enough for me.

MARY.

Oh! Mary, while thy gentle cheek Is on my breast reclining, And while these arms around thy form Are fondly thus entwining; It seems as if no earthly power Our beating hearts could sever, And that in ecstasy of bliss We thus could hang for ever!

Yet ah! too well, too well we know, The fiat fate hath spoken-- The spell that bound our souls in one, The world's cold breath hath broken. The hours--the days--whose heavenly light Hath beam'd in beauty o'er us, When Love his sunshine shed around, And strew'd his flowers before us,

Must now be but as golden dreams, Whose loveliness hath perish'd; Wild dreams of hope, in human hearts Too heavenly to be cherish'd. Yet, oh! where'er our lot is cast, The love that once hath bound us-- The thought that looks to days long past, Will breathe a halo round us.

IN DISTANT YEARS.

In distant years! when other arms Around thy form are prest, Oh! heave one fond regretful sigh For him thy love once blest! Oh! drop one tear from that dark eye, That was his guiding light, And cast the same deep tender glance, That thrills his soul to-night.

And oh! believe, though dark his fate, And devious his career, The music of that gentle voice Will tremble in his ear; And breathing o'er his troubled soul, Storm-tost and tempest riven, Will still fierce passion's wild control, And win him back to Heaven.

ROBERT CHAMBERS.

Robert Chambers, well known for his connexion with the publishing house of W. & R. Chambers, Edinburgh, and as the author of several meritorious works of a national character, was born in 1802 at Peebles, where his parents occupied a respectable position. Robert was the second of a family of six children, his elder brother William being about two years his senior. In consequence of misfortunes in business, James Chambers, the father of these youths, found it desirable to remove to Edinburgh with his family in 1813. While still in childhood Robert manifested a remarkable aptitude for learning, as well as a taste for music and poetry--a taste inherited from his father, who was a good performer on several instruments, and possessed a taste for both literature and science. Before completing his twelfth year, he had passed through a complete classical course at the grammar school of his native burgh, had perused no small portion of the books within his reach including those of a circulating library, and mastered much of the general information contained in a copy of the "Encyclopædia Britannica," of which his father possessed a copy of the then latest edition. Left very much to their own resources, William became an apprentice to a bookseller in 1814; and Robert, at the age of sixteen, threw himself on the world, as a dealer in old books, a step in accordance with his natural tastes, and which proved fortunate. How the two lads struggled on obscurely, but always improving their circumstances; how they were cheered onward by the counsels of their widowed mother; how they finally went into partnership for the purpose of prosecuting literary undertakings--need not here be detailed. Robert, in 1822-3, began to write the "Traditions of Edinburgh," which first brought him prominently into notice. This amusing work was followed by the "Popular Rhymes of Scotland." Next came his "Picture of Scotland," an interesting topographical work in two volumes; "Histories of the Scottish Rebellions;" three volumes of "Scottish Ballads and Songs;" and "Biography of Distinguished Scotsmen," in four volumes. Besides various popular works, he produced, for private circulation, a volume of poetical pieces, distinguished for their fine taste and feeling. William having started _Chambers's Edinburgh Journal_ in February 1832, Robert became an efficient coadjutor, and mainly helped to give the work its extensive popularity. In the more early volumes, in particular, there appear many admirable essays, humorous and pathetic, from his pen. Besides these professional avocations, Mr Robert Chambers takes part in the proceedings of the scientific and other learned bodies in Edinburgh. Among his latest detached works is a volume, of a geological character, on the "Ancient Sea Margins of Scotland;" also, "Tracings of Iceland," the result of a visit to that interesting island in the summer of 1855. Living respected in Edinburgh, in the bosom of his family, and essentially a self-made man, Mr Robert Chambers is peculiarly distinguished for his kindly disposition and unobtrusive manners--for his enlightened love of country, and diligence in professional labours, uniting, in a singularly happy manner, the man of refined literary taste with the man of business and the useful citizen.

YOUNG RANDAL.

TUNE--_'There grows a bonnie brier bush.'_

Young Randal was a bonnie lad when he gaed awa', Young Randal was a bonnie lad when he gaed awa', 'Twas in the sixteen hundred year o' grace and thritty-twa, That Randal, the laird's youngest son, gaed awa'.

It was to seek his fortune in the High Germanie, To fecht the foreign loons in the High Germanie, That he left his father's tower o' sweet Willanslee, And monie mae friends in the North Countrie.

He left his mother in her bower, his father in the ha', His brother at the outer yett, but and his sisters twa', And his bonnie cousin Jean, that look'd owre the castle wa', And, mair than a' the lave, loot the tears down fa'.

"Oh, whan will ye be back," sae kindly did she speir, "Oh, whan will ye be back, my hinny and my dear?" "Whenever I can win eneuch o' Spanish gear, To dress ye out in pearlins and silks, my dear."

Oh, Randal's hair was coal-black when he gaed awa'-- Oh, Randal's cheeks were roses red when he gaed awa', And in his bonnie e'e, a spark glintit high, Like the merrie, merrie look in the morning sky.

Oh, Randal was an altert man whan he came hame-- A sair altert man was he when he came hame; Wi' a ribbon at his breast, and a Sir at his name-- And gray, gray cheeks did Randal come hame.

He lichtit at the outer yett, and rispit with the ring, And down came a ladye to see him come in, And after the ladye came bairns feifteen: "Can this muckle wife be my true love Jean?"

"Whatna stoure carl is this," quo' the dame, "Sae gruff and sae grand, and sae feckless and sae lame?" "Oh, tell me, fair madam, are ye bonnie Jeanie Graham?" "In troth," quo' the ladye, "sweet sir, the very same."

He turned him about wi' a waefu' e'e, And a heart as sair as sair could be; He lap on his horse, and awa' did wildly flee, And never mair came back to sweet Willanslee.

Oh, dule on the poortith o' this countrie, And dule on the wars o' the High Germanie, And dule on the love that forgetfu' can be, For they 've wreck'd the bravest heart in this hale countrie.

THE LADYE THAT I LOVE.

Were I a doughty cavalier On fire for high-born dame, With sword and lance I would not fear To win a warrior's fame. But since no more stern deeds of blood The gentle fair may move, I 'll woo in softer better mood The ladye that I love.

For helmet bright with steel and gold, And plumes that flout the sky, I 'll wear a soul of hardier mould, And thoughts that sweep as high. For scarf athwart my corslet cast, With her fair name y-wove; I 'll have her pictured in my breast, The ladye that I love.

No crested steed through battle throng Shall bear me bravely on, But pride shall make my spirit strong, Where honours may be won. Amidst the great of mind and heart, My prowess I will prove, And thus I 'll win, by gentler art, The ladye that I love.

THOU GENTLE AND KIND ONE.

Thou gentle and kind one, Who com'st o'er my dreams, Like the gales of the west, Or the music of streams; Oh, softest and dearest, Can that time e'er be, When I could be forgetful Or scornful of thee?

No! my soul might be dark, Like a landscape in shade, And for thee not the half Of its love be display'd, But one ray of thy kindness Would banish my pain, And soon kiss every feature To brightness again.

And if, in contending With men and the world, My eye might be fierce, Or my brow might be curl'd; That brow on thy bosom All smooth'd would recline, And that eye melt in kindness When turn'd upon thine.

If faithful in sorrow, More faithful in joy-- Thou shouldst find that no change Could affection destroy; All profit, all pleasure, As nothing would be, And each triumph despised Unpartaken by thee.

LAMENT FOR THE OLD HIGHLAND WARRIORS.

Oh, where are the pretty men of yore? Oh, where are the brave men gone? Oh, where are the heroes of the north? Each under his own gray stone. Oh, where now the broad bright claymore? Oh, where are the trews and plaid? Oh, where now the merry Highland heart? In silence for ever laid. Och on a rie, och on a rie, Och on a rie, all are gone; Och on a rie, the heroes of yore, Each under his own gray stone.

The chiefs that were foremost of old, Macdonald and brave Lochiel, The Gordon, the Murray, and the Graham, With their clansmen true as steel; Who follow'd and fought with Montrose, Glencairn, and bold Dundee; Who to Charlie gave their swords and their all, And would aye rather fa' than flee. Och on a rie, &c.

The hills that our brave fathers trod Are now to the stranger a store; The voice of the pipe and the bard Shall awaken never more. Such things it is sad to think on-- They come like the mist by day-- And I wish I had less in this world to leave, And be with them that are away. Och on a rie, &c.

THOMAS AIRD.

Thomas Aird, one of the most distinguished of the living Scottish poets, was born in the parish of Bowden, Roxburghshire, in 1802. He received the rudiments of his education at Bowden and Melrose parish schools; and went through a course of literary and philosophical study at the University of Edinburgh. In 1827 he published a little treatise, entitled "Religious Characteristics." After a residence of some years in Edinburgh, in the course of which he contributed occasionally to _Blackwood's Magazine_, and other periodicals, he was, in 1835, on the recommendation of his steadfast friend Professor Wilson, appointed editor of the _Dumfries Herald_, a conservative journal newly started in Dumfries. The paper has prospered under his management, and he is editor still. In 1845 he published "The Old Bachelor in the Old Scottish Village," a collection of tales and sketches of Scottish scenery, character, and life. In 1848 he collected and published his poems. In 1852 he wrote a memoir of his friend, David Macbeth Moir (the well-known "Delta" of _Blackwood's Magazine_), and prefixed it to an edition of Moir's poems, which he edited for behoof of the poet's family, under the generous instructions of the Messrs Blackwood. In 1856 a new edition of Mr Aird's poems appeared, with many fresh pieces, and the old carefully revised; Messrs Blackwood being the publishers.

THE SWALLOW.

The little comer 's coming, the comer o'er the sea, The comer of the summer, all the sunny days to be; How pleasant, through the pleasant sleep, thy early twitter heard-- Oh, swallow by the lattice! glad days be thy reward!

Thine be sweet morning, with the bee that 's out for honey-dew, And glowing be the noontide, for the grasshopper and you; And mellow shine, o'er days' decline, the sun to light thee home-- What can molest thy airy nest? Sleep till the morrow come.

The river blue, that lapses through the valley, hears thee sing, And murmurs much beneath the touch of thy light-dipping wing; The thunder-cloud, over us bow'd, in deeper gloom is seen, When quick relieved it glances to thy bosom's silvery sheen.

The silent power that brings thee back, with leading-strings of love, To haunts where first the summer sun fell on thee from above, Shall bind thee more to come aye to the music of our leaves, For here thy young, where thou hast sprung, shall glad thee in our eaves.

GENIUS.

Eye of the brain and heart, O Genius, inner sight, Wonders from thee familiar start, In thy decisive light. Wide and deep the eye must go, The process of our world to know. Old mountains grated to the sea, Sow the young seed of isles to be. States dissolve, that Nature's plan May bear the broadening type of man. Passes ne'er the Past away; Child of the ages springs to-day. Life, death, and life! but circling change, Still working to a higher range! Make thee all science, Genius, clear Our world; all Muses, grace and cheer. And may the ideal thou hast shewn, With joy peculiar be thine own; For thee the starry belts of time, The inner laws, the heavenly chime; Thine storm and rack--the forests crack, The sea gives up her secrets hoary; And Beauty thine, on loom divine, Weaving the rainbow's woof of glory.

Power of the civic heart, More than a power to know, Genius, incarnated in Art, By thee the nations grow. Lawgiver thine, and priest, and sage, Lit up the Oriental age. Persuasive groves, and musical, Of love the illumined mountains all. Eagles and rods, and axes clear, Forum and amphitheatre; These in thy plastic forming hand, Forth leapt to life the classic Land. Old and new, the worlds of light, Who bridged the gulf of Middle Night? See the purple passage rise, Many arch'd of centuries; Genius built it long and vast, And o'er it social knowledge pass'd. Far in the glad transmitted flame, Shinar, knit to Britain, came; Their state by thee our fathers free, O Genius, founded deep and wide, Majestic towers the fabric ours, And awes the world from side to side.

Mart of the ties of blood, Mart of the souls of men! O Christ! to see thy Brotherhood Bought to be sold again, Front of hell, to trade therein. Genius face the giant sin; Shafts of thought, truth-headed clear, Temper'd all in Pity's tear, Every point and every tip, In the blood of Jesus dip; Pierce till the monster reel and cry, Pierce him till he fall and die. Yet cease not, rest not, onward quell, Power divine and terrible! See where yon bastion'd Midnight stands, On half the sunken central lands; Shoot! let thy arrow heads of flame Sing as they pierce the blot of shame, Till all the dark economies Become the light of blessed skies. For this, above in wondering love, To Genius shall it first be given, To trace the lines of past designs, All confluent to the finish'd Heaven.

ROBERT WHITE.

Robert White, an indefatigable antiquary, and pleasing writer of lyric poetry, is a native of Roxburghshire. His youth and early manhood were spent at Otterburn, in Redesdale, where his father rented a farm. Possessed of an ardent love of reading, he early became familiar with the English poets, and himself tried metrical composition. While still a young man, he ranked among the poetical contributors to the _Newcastle Magazine_. In 1825 he accepted a situation as clerk to a respectable tradesman in Newcastle, which he retained upwards of twenty years. Latterly he has occupied a post of respectable emolument, and with sufficient leisure for the improvement of his literary tastes.

Besides contributing both in prose and verse to the local journals, and some of the periodicals, Mr White is the author of several publications. In 1829 appeared from his pen "The Tynemouth Nun," an elegantly versified tale; in 1853, "The Wind," a poem; and in 1856, "England," a poem. He has contributed songs to "Whistle Binkie," and "The Book of Scottish Song." At present he has in the press a "History of the Battle of Otterburn," prepared from original sources of information.

MY NATIVE LAND.

Fair Scotland! dear as life to me Are thy majestic hills; And sweet as purest melody The music of thy rills. The wildest cairn, the darkest dell, Within thy rocky strand, Possess o'er me a living spell-- Thou art my native land.

Loved country, when I muse upon Thy dauntless men of old, Whose swords in battle foremost shone-- Thy Wallace brave and bold; And Bruce who, for our liberty, Did England's sway withstand; I glory I was born in thee, Mine own ennobled land!

Nor less thy martyrs I revere, Who spent their latest breath To seal the cause they held so dear, And conquer'd even in death. Their graves evince, o'er hill and plain, No bigot's stern command Shall mould the faith thy sons maintain, My dear devoted land.

And thou hast ties around my heart, Attraction deeper still-- The gifted poet's sacred art, The minstrel's matchless skill. Yea; every scene that Burns and Scott Have touch'd with magic hand Is in my sight a hallow'd spot, Mine own distinguish'd land!

Oh! when I wander'd far from thee, I saw thee in my dreams; I mark'd thy forests waving free, I heard thy rushing streams. Thy mighty dead in life came forth, I knew the honour'd band; We spoke of thee--thy fame--thy worth-- My high exalted land!

Now if the lonely home be mine In which my fathers dwelt, And I can worship at the shrine Where they in fervour knelt; No glare of wealth, or honour high, Shall lure me from thy strand; Oh, I would yield my parting sigh In thee, my native land!

A SHEPHERD'S LIFE.

Eliza fair, the mirth of May Resounds from glen and tree; Yet thy mild voice, I need not say, Is dearer far to me. And while I thus a garland cull, To grace that brow of thine, My cup of pure delight is full-- A shepherd's life be mine!

Believe me, maid, the means of wealth, Howe'er profuse they be, Produce not pleasure that in health Is shared by you and me! 'Tis when elate with thoughts of joy We find a heart like thine, That objects grateful glad the eye-- A shepherd's life be mine!