Chapter 16

By the lone forest and the lea, When smiles the thoughtful evening star, Though other names may dearer be, The sweetest, gentlest, loveliest far, Is Mary.

ABSENCE.

The fields, the streams, the skies are fair, There 's freshness in the balmy air, A grandeur crowns thine ancient woods, And pleasure fills thy solitudes, And sweets are strewn where'er we rove-- But thou art not the land we love.

How glorious, from the eastern heaven, The fulness of the dawn is given! How fair on ocean's glowing breast Sleeps the soft twilight of the west! All radiant are thy stars above-- But thou art not the land we love.

Fair flowers, that kiss the morning beam, Hang their bright tresses o'er the stream; From morn to noon, from noon to even, Sweet songsters lift soft airs to heaven, From field and forest, vale and grove-- But thou art not the land we love.

To high and free imaginings Thy master minstrels swept the strings, The brave thy sons to triumph led, Thy turf enshrouds the glorious dead, And Liberty thy chaplet wove-- But thou art not the land we love.

From the far bosom of the sea A flood of brightness rests on thee, And stately to the bending skies Thy temples, domes, and turrets rise: Thy heavens--how fair they smile above! But thou art not the land we love.

Oh, for the bleak, the rocky strand, The mountains of our native land! Oh, for the torrents, wild, and free, And their rejoicing minstrelsy! The heath below, the blue above, The altars of the land we love!

IS NOT THE EARTH.

Is not the earth a burial place Where countless millions sleep, The entrance to the abode of death, Where waiting mourners weep, And myriads at his silent gates A constant vigil keep?

The sculptor lifts his chisel, and The final stroke is come, But, dull as the marble lip he hews, His stiffened lip is dumb; Though the Spoiler hath cast a holier work, He hath called to a holier home!

The soldier bends his gleaming steel, He counts his laurels o'er, And speaks of the wreaths he yet may win On many a foreign shore; But his Master declares with a sterner voice, He shall break a lance no more!

The mariner braved the deluge long, He bow'd to the sweeping blast, And smiled when the frowning heavens above Were the deepest overcast; He hath perish'd beneath a smiling sky-- He hath laid him down at last.

Far in the sea's mysterious depths The lowly dead are laid, Hath not the ocean's dreadful voice Their burial service said? Have not the quiring tempests rung The dirges of the dead?

The vales of our native land are strewn With a thousand pleasant things; The uplands rejoicing in the light Of the morning's flashing wings; Even there are the martyrs' rugged cairns-- The resting-place of kings!

And man outpours his heart to heaven, And "chants his holiest hymn," But anon his frame is still and cold, And his sparkling eyes are dim-- And who can tell but the home of death Is a happier home to him?

OH, LOVE THE SOLDIER'S DAUGHTER DEAR![14]

Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear-- He fell on Balaklava's plain, Yet ere he found a soldier's bier He blest his beauteous child again; Though o'er the Light Brigade like rain, War's deadly lightning swiftly fell, On--on the squadron charged amain Amidst that storm of shot and shell! Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear, A jewel in his heart was she, Whose noble form disdain'd the storm, And, Freedom, fought and died for thee!

Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear-- Even like a knight of old romance, Brave Cardigan, disdaining fear, Heard but the bugle sound--advance! And paler droops the flower of France, And brighter glows proud England's rose, As charge they on with sabre-glance, And thunders thickening as they close! Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear, &c.

Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear, And be thy grateful kindness shewn; And still her father's name revere, For, oh, 'tis dearer than her own; And tell his deeds in battle done, And how he fearless faced the foe, And urged the snorting war-horse on With death above, around, below! Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear, &c.

Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear, Who lowly bends at sorrow's shrine; Her father's glorious deeds appear, And laurels round her brow entwine; In that full eye, that seems divine, Her sire's commanding ardour glows; His blood, that flow'd for thee and thine, Within his daughter's bosom flows! Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear, A jewel in his heart was she, Whose noble form disdain'd the storm, And, Freedom, fought and died for thee!

FOOTNOTES:

[14] This song, and the following, have been contributed by Mr Sinclair to the present work.

THE BATTLE OF STIRLING.

To Scotland's ancient realm Proud Edward's armies came, To sap our freedom, and o'erwhelm Our martial force in shame: "It shall not be!" brave Wallace cried; "It shall not be!" his chiefs replied; "By the name our fathers gave her, Our steel shall drink the crimson stream, We 'll all her dearest rights redeem-- Our own broadswords shall save her!"

With hopes of triumph flush'd, The squadrons hurried o'er Thy bridge, Kildean, and heaving rush'd Like wild waves to the shore: "They come--they come!" was the gallant cry; "They come--they come!" was the loud reply; "O strength, thou gracious Giver! By Love and Freedom's stainless faith, We 'll dare the darkest night of death-- We 'll drive them back for ever!"

All o'er the waving broom, In chivalry and grace, Shone England's radiant spear and plume, By Stirling's rocky base: And, stretching far beneath the view, Proud Cressingham! thy banners flew, When, like a torrent rushing, O God! from right and left the flame Of Scottish swords like lightning came, Great Edward's legions crushing!

High praise, ye gallant band, Who, in the face of day, With a daring heart and a fearless hand, Have cast your chains away! The foemen fell on every side-- In crimson hues the Forth was dyed-- Bedew'd with blood the heather, While cries triumphal shook the air-- "Thus shall they do, thus shall they dare, Wherever Scotsmen gather!"

Though years like shadows fleet O'er the dial-stone of Time, Thy pulse, O Freedom! still shall beat With the throb of manhood's prime! Still shall the valour, love, and truth, That shone on Scotland's early youth, From Scotland ne'er dissever; The Shamrock, Rose, and Thistle stern Shall wave around her Wallace cairn, And bless the brave for ever!

WILLIAM MILLER.

The writer of Nursery Songs in "Whistle Binkie," William Miller, was born at Parkhead, Glasgow, about the year 1812. He follows the profession of a cabinet-turner in his native city. "Ye cowe a'," which we subjoin, amply entitles him to a place among the minstrels of his country.

YE COWE A'.

AIR--_"Comin' through the rye."_

I wiled my lass wi' lovin' words to Kelvin's leafy shade And a' that fondest heart can feel, or tongue can tell, I said; But nae reply my lassie gied--I blamed the waterfa'; Its deavin' soun' her voice might droun'. "Oh, it cowes a'! Oh, it cowes a'!" quo' I; "oh, it cowes a'! I wonder how the birds can woo--oh, it cowes a'!"

I wiled my lass wi' lovin' words to Kelvin's solemn grove, Where silence in her dewy bowers hush'd a' sounds but o' love; Still frae my earnest looks an' vows she turn'd her head awa'; Nae cheerin' word the silence heard. "Oh, this cowes a'! Oh, this cowes a'!" quo' I; "oh, this cowes a'!" To woo I 'll try anither way--for this cowes a'!"

I wiled my lass wi' lovin' words to where the moonlight fell, Upon a bank o' bloomin' flowers, beside the pear-tree well; Say, modest moon, did I do wrang to clasp her waist sae sma', And steal ae kiss o' honey'd bliss? "Oh, ye cowe a'! Oh, ye cowe a'!" quo' she; "oh, ye cowe a'! Ye might hae speer'd a body's leave--oh, ye cowe a'!"

"I 'll to the clerk," quo' I, "sweet lass; on Sunday we 'll be cried, And frae your father's house, next day, ye 'll gang a dear-lo'ed bride." Quo' she, "I 'd need anither week to mak a gown mair braw;" "The gown ye hae, we 'll mak it do!" "Oh, ye cowe a'! Oh, ye cowe a'!" quo' she; "oh, ye cowe a'! But wilfu' folk maun hae their way--oh, ye cowe a'!"

ALEXANDER HUME.

Alexander Hume was born at Edinburgh on the 17th February 1811. He is employed as a journeyman cabinetmaker in that city. As a musical composer he has attained considerable eminence. The following popular songs from his pen are published with music of his own composition.

MY AIN DEAR NELL.

Oh, bonnie Nelly Brown, I will sing a song to thee; Though oceans wide between us row, ye 'll aye be dear to me; Though mony a year 's gane o'er my head since, down in Linton's dell, I took my last fond look o' thee, my ain dear Nell. Oh, tell me, Nelly Brown, do you mind our youthfu' days, When we ran about the burnie's side, or speel'd the gow'ny braes; When I pu'd the crawpea's blossom, an' the bloomin' heather-bell, To twine them round thy bonnie brow, my ain dear Nell!

How often, Nelly Brown, hae we wander'd o'er the lea, Where grow the brier, the yellow bloom, an' flowery hawthorn-tree; Or sported 'mang the leafy woods, till nicht's lang shadows fell-- Oh, we ne'er had thoughts o' partin' then, my ain dear Nell! And in winter, Nelly Brown, when the nichts were lang an' drear, We would creep down by the ingle side, some fairy tale to hear; We cared nae for the snawy drift, or nippin' frost sae snell, For we lived but for each other then, my ain dear Nell!

They tell me, Nelly Brown, that your bonnie raven hair Is snaw-white now, an' that your brow, sae cloudless ance an' fair, Looks care-worn now, and unco sad; but I heed na what they tell, For I ne'er can think you 're changed to me, my ain dear Nell! Ance mair then, Nelly Brown, I hae sung o' love and thee, Though oceans wide between us row, ye 're aye the same to me, As when I sigh'd my last farewell in Linton's flowery dell-- Oh, I ne'er can tine my love for thee, my ain dear Nell!

THE PAIRTIN'.

Mary, dearest maid, I leave thee, Hame, and frien's, and country dear; Oh! ne'er let our pairtin' grieve thee, Happier days may soon be here. See yon bark, sae proudly bounding, Soon shall bear me o'er the sea, Hark! the trumpet loudly sounding Calls me far frae love and thee.

Summer flowers shall cease to blossom; Streams run backward frae the sea; Cauld in death maun be this bosom, Ere it cease to throb for thee. Fare-thee-weel! may every blessin', Shed by Heaven, around thee fa'; Ae last time thy loved form pressin'-- Think o' me when far awa'.

METRICAL TRANSLATIONS

FROM

The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.

JOHN MACDONALD, D.D.

The Rev. John Macdonald, D.D., one of the most popular of Gaelic preachers, was born in 1778. He was ordained minister of the Gaelic Church, Edinburgh, in 1806, and was afterwards translated to the parish of Urquhart, in Ross-shire. While at Urquhart, he began a career of remarkable ministerial success; though it was as a missionary, or visitor of other Highland districts, that he established his professional fame. His powerful voice is said to have reached and moved thousands of auditors assembled in the open air. A long-expected volume of Gaelic poetry, consisting chiefly of elegies, hymns, and sacred lyrics, appeared from his pen in 1848. Dr Macdonald died in 1849. At the Disruption in 1843, he had joined the Free Church.

THE MISSIONARY OF ST KILDA.

The descriptive portion of a sacred lyric composed by Dr Macdonald on the occasion of his first visit to St Kilda, often called "_The Hirt_" or "_Hirta_," after the Gaelic. His missionary enterprise was blessed, we believe, with remarkable success.

I see, I see the Hirta, the land of my desire, And the missionary spirit within me is on fire; But needs it all--for, bristling from the bosom of the sea, Those giant crags are menacing, but welcome rude to me; The eye withdraws in horror from yon mountains rude and bare, Where flag of green nor tree displays, nor blushes flow'ret fair. And how shall bark so frail as mine that beetling beach come near, Where rages betwixt cliff and surf the battle-din of fear? It seems as, like a rocking hull, that Island of the main Were shaken from its basement, and creaking with the strain! But the siege of waters nought prevails 'gainst giant Hirt the grim, Save his face to furrow with some scars, or his brow with mist to dim. Oh, needs a welcome to that shore, for well my thought might say, 'Twere better than that brow to face that I were leagues away. But no, not so! what fears should daunt,--for what welcomes e'er outran The welcome that I bring with me, my call from God and man? Nor vain my trust! my helmsman, He who sent me, now is steering, And, by His power, the wave-worn craft the shore in calm is nearing, And scarce my foot was on the beach when two hundred echoes spake Their welcome, and a hundred hands flew forth my hand to take. And he, believe me, has his best protection by his side Who bears the call of God and man, from the reef, the crag, the tide; And, for welcome on the shore, give me the flashing eyes that glow'd, When I told the men of Hirt the news I brought them from their God!

DUNCAN KENNEDY.

Duncan Kennedy was born about the year 1758. His father was gardener to Mr M'Lachlan of Kilanahanach, in the parish of Glassary, Argyleshire. In his youth he enjoyed the advantage of attending the parish school, which was then conducted by an able classical scholar. At an early age he was qualified to become an instructor of youth in a remote part of his native parish, and there he had frequent opportunities of becoming acquainted with "Iain Bàn Maor" the Gaelic poet, and enjoyed the privilege of listening to the eminent Daniel Campbell and other pious ministers in the surrounding parishes. He was promoted to the parish school of Kilmelford about the year 1784, and soon thereafter published his collection of "Hymns and Spiritual Songs." During his summer vacations he travelled over the districts of Kintyre, Argyle, and Lorn, in search of legends concerning the Fingalians, and was successful in collecting a mass of information, which in Gaelic verse he styled "Sean dana." The MS. of his researches he intrusted to the perusal of a neighbouring clergyman, from whom he was never able to recover it, a circumstance which led him afterwards to inveigh against the clerical order. From Kilmelford parish school, Kennedy in 1790 removed to Glasgow, where he was engaged, first as an accountant, and afterwards in mercantile pursuits. At one period he realised about £10,000, but he was latterly unfortunate and indigent. During his old age he was allowed a small pension from "The Glasgow Merchants' Home." Several years subsequent to 1830 he resided at Ardrisaig in Argyleshire. His death took place at Glasgow in 1836. He has left a MS. ready for publication, entitled "The Ark of Ancient Knowledge." His volume of hymns has passed into a second edition.

THE RETURN OF PEACE.

With a breezy burst of singing Blow we out the flames of rage! Europe's peace, through Europe ringing, Is, of peace, our lifetime pledge. Faldar, aldar, aldar, ari, Faldar, aldar, aldar, e'; Faldar, aldar, aldar, ari, Faldar, ari, faldar, e'.

Every musket to the guard-house, And its lead to furlough send-- To the tilling of the meadows Every gallant bayonet bend.

See, a lusty fleet is steering Homewards, to the shore of peace; And brave hearts, a host, are nearing To the expectant dear's embrace.

See the kilted Highlander As from Egypt's battles come-- Westlander and Norlander, Eager for the sight of home.

Seven years orphan'd of their fathers, Shelterless and sad no more, Quite a little army gathers, Shouting welcomes from the shore.

All the echoes are in motion, All the sheilings ring with glee, Since, of peace, the paths of ocean Give the news a passage free.

The birds the dash of oars was scaring-- Hush'd their note, but soon they raise, To their wonted branch repairing, Sweetest numbers on the sprays.

Seem the woods to dance a measure, Nodding as the notes inspire-- And their branches, as with pleasure, Add their music to the choir.

Of the streamlet, every murmur Sweetly swells the song of peace, Chanting, with each vocal charmer, Joys that bloom and wars that cease.

ALLAN M'DOUGALL.

Allan M'Dougall was born about the year 1750, in the district of Glencoe, Argyleshire. While employed as a tailor's apprentice, he had the misfortune to lose his eyesight; he afterwards earned his subsistence as a violinist. About the year 1790 he removed to Inverlochy, in the vicinity of Fort-William. Composing verses in the vernacular Gaelic, he contrived, by vending them, to add considerably to his finances. In preparing for publication a small volume of poetry, he was aided by the poet Evan Maclachlan,[15] who then was employed in the vicinity as a tutor. Latterly, M'Dougall became family bard to Colonel Ronaldson Macdonell of Glengarry, who provided for him on his estate. His death took place in 1829. Shortly before this event, he republished his volume, adding several of his later compositions. His poetry is popular in the Highlands.

FOOTNOTES:

[15] See Minstrel, Vol. iv. p. 279.

THE SONG OF THE CARLINE.

O hi, O hu, she 's sad for scolding, O hi, O hu, she 's too mad for holding, O hi, O hu, her arms I 'm cold in, And but a poor wittol to see.

If I go to fair, or feast, or waddin', The crone's in the sulks, for she 'd fain be gaddin', A wink to the girls sets her soul a-maddin', She 's a shame and sorrow to me. If I stop at the hostel to buy me a gill, Or with a good fellow a moment sit still, Her fist it is clench'd, and is ready to kill, And the talk of the clachan are we.

She 's ailing for ever--my welcome is small, If I bring for her nonsense no cordial at all; Contention and strife, in the but and the hall, Are ready to greet my return. Oh, did he come to us, our bondage to sever, I would cry, Be on Death benedictions for ever, I would jump it so high, and I 'd jig it so clever-- Short while would suffice me to mourn.

It was not her face, or dress, or riches, It was not a heart pierced through with stitches-- 'Twas the glamour of more than a hundred witches That brought me a bargain like Janet. O when, in the spring I return from the plough, And fain at the ingle would bask at its low, Her bauchle is off, and I 'm sure of a blow, Or a kick, if her foot is within it.

No thrift she is plying, no cakes she is dressing, No babe of her bosom in fondness caressing; Be up she, or down she, she 's ever distressing The core of my heart with her bother. For a groat, for a groat with goodwill I would sell her, As the bark of the oak is the tan of her leather, And a bushel of coals would avail but to chill her, For a hag can you shew such another?

No tooth in her head, and a squint in her eye, At the dusk of the day, when her choler is high, The bairns, nay, the team I 've unhalter'd, they fly, And leave the reception for me. O hi, O hu, she 's sad for scolding, O hi, O hu, she 's too mad for holding, O hi, O hu, her arms I 'm cold in, And but a poor wittol to see!

KENNETH MACKENZIE.

Kenneth Mackenzie was born in 1758, at Caisteal Leanir, near Inverness. By his parents, who were possessed of considerable means, he was well educated at the best schools in his native district. He became a seaman in his seventeenth year; and while on board composed verses as a relief to labour, and for the entertainment of his shipmates. In 1789 he quitted the seafaring life, and commenced to itinerate for subscribers to enable him to publish his poems. Through the influence of the Earl of Buchan, to whom he was recommended by his talents, he procured an officer's commission in the 78th Highland Regiment. He latterly accepted the situation of Postmaster in a provincial town in Ireland. The date of his death is unknown, but he is understood to have attained an advanced age. His habits were exemplary, and he was largely imbued with feelings of hospitality.

THE SONG OF THE KILT.

My darling is the philabeg, With scarlet hosen for the leg, And the spotted curtal coat so trig, And the head blue-bonneted.

The wimpled kilt be mine to wear, Confusion take the breechen gear, My limbs be fetterless and bare, And not like Saxon donnot-led.[16]

Oh, well I love the _eididh_[17] free, When it sends me bounding on the lea, Or up the brae so merrily, There's ne'er a darg that wonnet speed.

Give me the plaid, and on the hill I 'll watch my turn, a se'ennight's spell, And not a shiver from the chill Shall pierce my trusty coverlet.

And for the tartan's lively flame, In glen or clachan 'tis the same, Alike it pleases lass and dame-- Unmatched its glories ever yet.

Be mine in Highland graith array'd, With weapon trim the glens to tread, And rise a stag of foremost head, Then let him tent my culiver.

And when I marshal to the feast, With deer-skin belt around my waist, And in its fold a dirk embraced, Then Roland match shall Oliver.

FOOTNOTES:

[16] Hen-pecked (Sc.), from _donned_, silly woman.

[17] Highland garb.

JOHN CAMPBELL.

John Campbell (Ian Bàn), overseer on the estate of Shirvain, Argyleshire, was born about the year 1705, in the parish of Glassary, in the same county. He was entirely uneducated in youth, and never attained any knowledge of the English language. Becoming intimately acquainted with the Scriptures in his vernacular language, he paraphrased many passages in harmonious verse; but, with the exception of fifteen hymns or sacred lays which were recovered from his recitation by the poet Duncan Kennedy, the whole have perished. The hymns of John Campbell retain much popularity among the Gael.

THE STORM BLAST.