Chapter 15

The author of numerous poetical works, Andrew Park was born at Renfrew, on the 7th March 1811. After an ordinary education at the parish school, he attended during two sessions the University of Glasgow. In his fifteenth year he entered a commission warehouse in Paisley, and while resident in that town, published his first poem, entitled the "Vision of Mankind." About the age of twenty he went to Glasgow, as salesman in a hat manufactory; and shortly after, he commenced business on his own account. At this period he published several additional volumes of poems. His business falling off in consequence of a visitation of cholera in the city, he disposed of his stock and proceeded to London, to follow the career of a man of letters. After some years' residence in the metropolis, he returned to Glasgow in 1841; and having purchased the stock of the poet Dugald Moore, recently deceased, he became a bookseller in Ingram Street. The speculation proved unfortunate, and he finally retired from the concerns of business. He has since lived principally in Glasgow, but occasionally in London. In 1856 he visited Egypt and other Eastern countries, and the following year published a narrative of his travels in a duodecimo volume, entitled, "Egypt and the East."

Of the twelve volumes of poems which Mr Park has given to the public, that entitled "Silent Love" has been the most popular. It has appeared in a handsome form, with illustrations by J. Noel Paton, R.S.A. In one of his poems, entitled "Veritas," published in 1849, he has supplied a narrative of the principal events of his life up to that period. Of his numerous songs, several have obtained a wide popularity. The whole of his poetical works were published in 1854, by Bogue of London, in a handsome volume, royal octavo.

HURRAH FOR THE HIGHLANDS.

Hurrah for the Highlands! the stern Scottish Highlands, The home of the clansmen, the brave and the free; Where the clouds love to rest, on the mountain's rough breast Ere they journey afar o'er the islandless sea.

'Tis there where the cataract sings to the breeze, As it dashes in foam like a spirit of light; And 'tis there the bold fisherman bounds o'er the seas, In his fleet tiny bark, through the perilous night.

'Tis the land of deep shadow, of sunshine, and shower, Where the hurricane revels in madness on high; For there it has might that can war with its power, In the wild dizzy cliffs that are cleaving the sky.

I have trod merry England, and dwelt on its charms; I have wander'd through Erin, that gem of the sea; But the Highlands alone the true Scottish heart warms-- Her heather is blooming, her eagles are free!

OLD SCOTLAND, I LOVE THEE!

Old Scotland, I love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me Than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea; Though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar, Yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war!

Thy cloud-cover'd hills that look up from the seas, Wave sternly their wild woods aloft in the breeze; Where flies the bold eagle in freedom on high, Through regions of cloud in its wild native sky! For, old Scotland, I love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me Than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea; Though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar, Yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war!

O name not the land where the olive-tree grows, Nor the land of the shamrock, nor land of the rose; But shew me the thistle that waves its proud head, O'er heroes whose blood for their country was shed. For, old Scotland, I love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me Than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea; Though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar, Yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war!

Then tell me of bards and of warriors bold, Who wielded their brands in the battles of old, Who conquer'd and died for their loved native land, With its maidens so fair, and its mountains so grand! For, old Scotland, I love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me Than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea; Though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar, Yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war!

FLOWERS OF SUMMER.

Flowers of summer, sweetly springing, Deck the dewy lap of earth; Birds of love are fondly singing In their gay and jocund mirth: Streams are pouring from their fountains, Echoing through each rugged dell; Heather bells adorn the mountains, Bid the city, love! farewell.

See the boughs are rich in blossom, Through each sunlit, silent grove; Cast all sorrow from thy bosom-- Freedom is the soul of love! Let us o'er the valleys wander, Nor a frown within us dwell, And in joy see Nature's grandeur-- Bid the city, love! farewell.

Morning's sun shall then invite us By the ever sparkling streams; Evening's fall again delight us With its crimson-coloured beams. Flowers of summer sweetly springing, Deck the dewy lap of earth; Birds of love are loudly singing, In their gay and jocund mirth.

HOME OF MY FATHERS.

Home of my fathers, though far from thy grandeur, In joy or in sorrow, my heart turns to thee; In visions of night o'er thy loved scenes I wander, And dwell with those friends that are dearest to me! I see thy blue hills, where the thunders are leaping, Where springs the loud cascade to caverns below; The clouds round their summits their dark watch are keeping, Thy ravines are streak'd with the purest of snow. Home of my fathers, in joy or in sorrow-- Home of my fathers, my heart turns to thee!

Warm are thy hearts, though thy breezes be chilly; Rosy thy maidens, and artless and gay! Cradled on high lie thy lakes pure and stilly, Surrounded by mountains gigantic and gray! Thy stern thistle still shoots aloft in its glory, And sheds its bright dew tears o'er old heroes' graves, Thy rudely rear'd cairns echo many a story, Of those who fell bravely, who scorn'd to be slaves! Home of my fathers, in joy or in sorrow-- Home of my fathers, my heart turns to thee!

Land of the pibroch, the plaid, and the heather, The lake and the mountain, the streamlet and glen, The green thoughts of youth do not easily wither, But dwell on thy charms, and thy bravest of men! Both genius and love have in raptures hung o'er thee, And wafted thy name in sweet sounds o'er the sea-- Till nations afar have bent low to adore thee, Home of my fathers! my heart turns to thee! Home of my fathers, in joy or in sorrow-- Home of my fathers, my heart turns to thee!

WHAT AILS MY HEART?

What ails my heart--what dims my e'e? What maks you seem sae wae, Jamie? Ye werena aye sae cauld to me; Ye ance were blythe and gay, Jamie. I 'm wae to see you, like a flower Kill'd by the winter's snaw, Jamie, Droop farer down frae hour to hour, An' waste sae fast awa, Jamie.

I 'm sure your Jeanie's kind and true, She loves nae ane but thee, Jamie; She ne'er has gien thee cause to rue; If sae--ye still are free, Jamie. I winna tak your hand and heart, If there is ane mair dear, Jamie; I 'd sooner far for ever part With thee--though wi' a tear, Jamie.

Then tell me your doubts and your fears, Keep naething hid frae me, Jamie; Are ye afraid o' coming years, O' darker days to me, Jamie? I 'll share your grief, I 'll share your joy, They 'll come alike to me, Jamie; Misfortune's hand may all destroy, Except my love for thee, Jamie.

AWAY TO THE HIGHLANDS.

Away to the Highlands, where Lomond is flowing, Where mists and where mountains in solitude lie, And where the braw red-lipp'd heather is growing, And cataracts foam, as they came from the sky! Though scenes of the fairest are Windsor adorning, Though England's proud structures enrapture the view; Yet Nature's wild grandeur, all artifice scorning, Is seen 'mong our mountains so bonnie and blue. Then away to the hills where Loch Lomond is flowing, Where mists and where mountains in solitude lie, And where the braw red-lipp'd heather is growing, And cataracts foam, as they came from the sky!

Benlomond is seen in his monarch-like glory, His foot in the sea and his head in the sky; His broad lofty brow is majestic and hoary, And round him, and round him the elements fly. The winds are his music, the clouds are his clothing, The sun is his shield, as he wheels blazing by; When once on his summit you 'd think you were soaring 'Mong bright beaming stars, they are rolling so nigh! Then away to the hills where Loch Lomond is flowing, Where mists and where mountains in solitude lie, And where the braw red-lipp'd heather is growing, And cataracts foam, as they came from the sky!

I 'M AWAY.

I 'm away, I 'm away, like a thing that is wild, With heart full of glee, as the heart of a child! Afar o'er the mountains, afar o'er the stream, To revel in joy 'mid the glad summer beam. I leave care behind me, I throw to the wind All sorrows allied to the earth-plodding mind; The music of birds and the murmur of rills, Shall be my companions o'er Scotia's loved hills. How lucent each lake, and how lovely each dell! Who would not be happy, at home let him dwell; I 'm away, I 'm away, like a thing that is wild, With heart full of glee, as the heart of a child!

Oh, land of my fathers! Oh, home of my birth! No spot seems so blest on the round rolling earth! Thy wild woods so green, and thy mountains so high, Seem homes of enchantment half hid in the sky! Thy steep winding passes, where warriors have trod, Which minstrels of yore often made their abode-- Where Ossian and Fingal rehearsed runic tales, That echo'd aloft o'er the furze cover'd dales. How lucent each lake, and how lovely each dell! Who would not be happy, at home let him dwell; I 'm away, I 'm away, like a thing that is wild, With heart full of glee, as the heart of a child!

THERE IS A BONNIE, BLUSHING FLOWER.

There is a bonnie, blushing flower-- But ah! I darena breathe the name; I fain would steal it frae its bower, Though a' should think me sair to blame. It smiles sae sweet amang the rest, Like brightest star where ither's shine; Fain would I place it in my breast, And make this bonnie blossom mine.

At morn, at sunny noon, whene'er I see this fair, this fav'rite flower, My heart beats high with wish sincere, To wile it frae its bonnie bower! But oh! I fear to own its charms, Or tear it frae its parent stem; For should it wither in mine arms, What would revive my bonnie gem?

Awa', ye coward thoughts, awa'-- That flower can never fade with me, That frae the wintry winds that blaw Round each neglected bud is free! No, it shall only bloom more fair, When cherished and adored by me; And a' my joy, and a' my care, This bonnie, blushing flower shall be!

THE MAID OF GLENCOE.

TUNE--_"Come under my plaidie."_

Once more in the Highlands I wander alone, Where the thistle and heather are bonnie and blown; By mountain and streamlet, by cavern and glen, Where echo repeats the sweet wood-notes again. Give courtiers their gay-gilded halls and their grandeur, Give misers their gold, all the bliss they can know; But let me meet Flora, while pensive I wander-- Fair Flora, dear Flora! the maid of Glencoe!

Oh, first when we met, being handsome and gay, I felt she had stole my affections away; The mavis sang loud on the sweet hawthorn tree, But her voice was more sweet and endearing to me. The sun spread his rays of bright gold o'er the fountain, The hours glided by without languor or woe, As we pull'd the sweet flowers from the steep rocky mountains-- My blessings attend thee, sweet maid of Glencoe!

The glen is more rugged, the scene more sublime, Now hallow'd by love, and by absence, and time! And fondly resemble the thoughts of my heart, Untouch'd by the cold soothing fingers of art. And lo! as I gaze on the charms of my childhood, Where bright in the heath-bell the dew-drops still glow, A fairy-like form ushers forth from the wild wood-- 'Tis Flora, fair Flora! the maid of Glencoe.

MARION PAUL AIRD.

The accomplished and amiable author of "Heart Histories" and other poems, Marion Paul Aird, is a native of Glasgow. Her paternal ancestors were respectable yeomen in the Carrick district of Ayrshire. Her mother, a niece of Hamilton Paul, formerly noticed,[13] was descended from a race of opulent landowners in the district of Cunningham. In her youth, Miss Aird had her abode in a romantic cottage at Govan Hill, in the vicinity of Glasgow. For a number of years she has resided in Kilmarnock. She early studied the British poets, and herself wrote verses. In 1846 she published a duodecimo volume of poems and lyrics, entitled "The Home of the Heart, and other Poems;" this was followed in 1853 by a volume of prose and verse, under the title of "Heart Histories." She has two new volumes of poetry ready for the press. Her poetry is largely pervaded by religious fervour and devoted earnestness.

FOOTNOTES:

[13] See vol. ii., p. 120.

THE FA' O' THE LEAF.

'Tis the fa' o' the leaf, and the cauld winds are blawin', The wee birds, a' sangless, are dowie and wae; The green leaf is sear, an' the brown leaf is fa'in', Wan Nature lamentin' o'er simmer's decay.

Noo drumlie an' dark row the siller-like waters, No a gowden-e'ed gowan on a' the green lea; Her snell breath, wi' anger, in darkness noo scatters The wee flowers, that danced to the sang o' the bee.

The green leaves o' simmer sing hopefu' an' cheerie, When bonnie they smile in the sun's gowden ray; But dowie when sear leaves in autumn winds eerie Sigh, "Life, love, and beauty, as flowers ye decay."

How waefu' the heart, where young hopes that gather, Like spring-flowers in simmer, "are a' wede awa';" An' the rose-bloom o' beauty, e'er autumn winds wither, Like green leaves unfaded, lie cauld in the snaw:

But waefu' to see, as a naked tree lanely, Man shake like a wan leaf in poortith's cauld blast; The last o' his kin, sighin', "Autumn is gane by," An' the wrinkles o' eild tell "his simmer is past."

The fire that 's blawn out, ance mair may be lighted, An' a wee spark o' hope in the cauld heart may burn; An' the "morning star" break on the traveller benighted, An' day, wi' its fresh gushing glories, return:

But dool, dool the fa', when shakes the clay shielin', An' the last keek o' day sets for ever in night! When no ae wee star through the dark clud is stealin', Through the cauld wave o' death, his dark spirit to light.

The spring flowers o' life, a' sae blythesome and bonnie, Though wither'd and torn frae the heart far awa', An' the flower we thought fadeless, the fairest o' onie, May spring up again whar nae freezin' winds blaw.

Kin' spring 'll woo back the green "bud to the timmer," Its heart burst in blossom 'neath simmer's warm breath; But when shall the warm blush o' life's faded simmer Bring back the rose-bloom frae the winter o' death?

How kin' should the heart be, aye warm an' forgi'en, When sune, like a leaf, we maun a' fade awa'; When life's winter day as a shadow is fleein'-- But simmer aye shines whar nae autumn leaves fa'!

THE AULD KIRK-YARD.

Calm sleep the village dead In the auld kirk-yard; But softly, slowly tread In the auld kirk-yard; For the weary, weary rest, Wi' the green turf on their breast, And the ashes o' the blest Flower the auld kirk-yard.

Oh! many a tale it hath, The auld kirk-yard, Of life's crooked thorny path To the auld kirk-yard. But mortality's thick gloom Clouds the sunny world's bloom, Veils the mystery of doom, In the auld kirk-yard.

A thousand memories spring In the auld kirk-yard, Though time's death-brooding wing Shade the auld kirk-yard. The light of many a hearth, Its music and its mirth, Sleep in the deep dark earth Of the auld kirk-yard.

Nae dreams disturb their sleep In the auld kirk-yard; They hear nae kindred weep In the auld kirk-yard. The sire, with silver hair, The mother's heart of care, The young, the gay, the fair, Crowd the auld kirk-yard.

So live that ye may lie In the auld kirk-yard, Wi' a passport to the sky Frae the auld kirk-yard; That when thy sand is run, And life's weary warfare done, Ye may sing o' victory won Where there 's nae kirk-yard.

FAR, FAR AWAY.

TUNE--_"Long, long ago."_

Had I the wings of a dove, I would fly Far, far away; far, far away; Where not a cloud ever darkens the sky, Far, far away; far, far away; Fadeless the flowers in yon Eden that blow, Green, green the bowers where the still waters flow, Hearts, like their garments, are pure as the snow, Far, far away; far away.

There never trembles a sigh of regret, Far, far away; far, far away; Stars of the morning in glory ne'er set, Far, far away; far, far away; There I from sorrow for ever would rest, Leaning in joy on Immanuel's breast; Tears never fall in the homes of the blest, Far, far away; far away.

Friends, there united in glory, ne'er part, Far, far away; far, far away; One is their temple, their home, and their heart, Far, far away; far, far away; The river of crystal, the city of gold, The portals of pearl, such glory unfold, Thought cannot image, and tongue hath not told, Far, far away; far away.

List! what yon harpers on golden harps play; Come, come away; come, come away; Falling and frail is your cottage of clay; Come, come away; come, come away: Come to these mansions, there 's room yet for you, Dwell with the Friend ever faithful and true; Sing ye the song, ever old, ever new; Come, come away; come away.

WILLIAM SINCLAIR.

A pleasing lyric poet, William Sinclair, was born at Edinburgh in 1811. His father was a trader in the city. Receiving an ordinary education, he became in his fourteenth year apprentice to a bookseller in Frederick Street. A large circulating library connected with the establishment enabled him to gratify an ardent love of reading, and brought him into contact with persons of strong literary tastes. Quitting the business of bookseller, he proceeded to Dundee, as clerk in a lawyer's office. He afterwards accepted a situation in the Customs at Liverpool. His official services were subsequently transferred to Leith, where he had the privilege of associating with the poets Moir, Gilfillan, and Vedder.

Early devoted to song-writing, Mr Sinclair, while the bookseller's apprentice, contributed verses to the newspapers and popular periodicals. Some of his poetical compositions have appeared in _Blackwood's Magazine_. The poet Robert Nicoll submitted the first edition of his poems to his revision. In 1843 he published an octavo volume of poems and songs, with the title "Poems of the Fancy and the Affections." To Major de Renzy's "Poetical Illustrations of the Achievements of the Duke of Wellington," published in 1852, he was a conspicuous contributor. Several of his songs have been set to music. Mr Sinclair has latterly resided in Stirling, where he holds the situation of reporter to one of the local journals.

THE ROYAL BREADALBANE OAK.

Thy queenly hand, Victoria, By the mountain and the rock, Hath planted 'midst the Highland hills A Royal British Oak; Oh, thou guardian of the free! Oh, thou mistress of the sea! Trebly dear shall be the ties That shall bind us to thy name, Ere this Royal Oak shall rise To thy fame, to thy fame!

The oak hath scatter'd terror O'er our foemen from our ships, They have given the voice of England's fame In thunders from their lips; 'Twill be mirror'd in the rills! It shall wave among the hills! And the rallying cry shall wake Nigh the planted of thy hand, That the loud acclaim may break O'er the land, o'er the land!

While it waves unto the tempest, It shall call thy name to mind, And the "Gathering" 'mong the hills shall be Like the rushing of the wind! Arise! ye Gaels, arise! Let the echoes ring your cries, By our mountain's rocky throne, By Victoria's name adored-- We shall reap her enemies down With the sword, with the sword!

Oh, dear among the mountains Shall thy kindly blessing be; Though rough may be our mien we bear A loyal heart to thee! 'Neath its widely spreading shade Shall the gentle Highland maid Teach the youths, who stand around, Like brave slips from Freedom's tree, That thrice sacred is the ground Unto thee, unto thee!

In the bosom of the Highlands Thou hast left a glorious pledge, To the honour of our native land, In every coming age: By thy royal voice that spoke On the soil where springs the oak-- By the freedom of the land That can never bear a slave-- The Breadalbane Oak shall stand With the brave, with the brave!

EVENING.

Oh, how I love the evening hour, Its calm and tranquil sky, When the parting sun from a sea of gold Is passing silently; And the western clouds--bright robes of heaven-- Rest gently on the breast of even!

How calm, how gorgeous, and how pure, How peaceful and serene! There is a promise and a hope Enthroned o'er all the scene; While, blushing, with resplendent pride, The bright sun lingers on the tide.

The zephyrs on the waveless sea Are wrapt in silent sleep, And there is not a breath to wake The slumbers of the deep-- Peace sits on her imperial throne, And sounds of sadness there are none!

Methinks I hear in distance harps By heavenly seraphs strung, And in the concave of the sky The holy vespers sung! Oh, thou great Source of light and power, We bless thee for the evening hour!

MARY.

If there 's a word that whispers love In gentlest tones to hearts of woe, If there 's a name more prized above, And loved with deeper love below, 'Tis Mary.

If there 's a healing sound beneath To soothe the heart in sorrow's hour, If there 's a name that angels breathe In silence with a deeper power, 'Tis Mary.

It softly hangs on many a tongue In ladies' bower and sacred fane, The sweetest name by poets sung-- The high and consecrated strain-- Is Mary.

And Scotia's Bard--life's holiest dream Was his, the silent heavens above, When on the Bible o'er the stream He vowed his early vows of love To Mary.

Oh, with the sweet repose of even, By forest lone, by fragrant lea, And by thy beauties all, Loch Leven, How dear shall the remembrance be Of Mary!

Scotland and Mary are entwined With blooming wreath of fadeless green, And printed on the undying mind; For, oh! her fair, though fated Queen, Was Mary.