Chapter 7

The soldier waves the shining sword, the shepherd boy his crook, The boatman plies the splashing oar, but well I love the hook. When swift I haste at sunny morn, unto the spreading plain, And view before me, like a sea, the fields of golden grain, And listen to the cheerful sound of harvest's echoing horn, Or join the merry reaper band, that gather in the corn; How sweet the friendly welcoming, how gladsome every look, Ere we begin, with busy hands, to wield the Reaping Hook.

My Reaping Hook! my Reaping Hook! I love thee better far, Than glancing spear and temper'd sword, bright instruments of war; As thee I grasp with willing hand, and feel a reaper's glee, When, waving in the rustling breeze, the ripen'd field I see; Or listen to the harmless jest, the bandsman's cheerful song, The hearty laugh, the rustic mirth, while mingling 'mid the throng; With joy I see the well-fill'd sheaf, and mark each rising stook, As thee I ply with agile arm, my trusty Reaping Hook!

They tell of glorious battle-fields, strew'd thick with heaps of slain! Alas! the triumphs of the sword bring only grief and pain; But thou, my shining Reaping Hook, the symbol art of peace, And fill'st a thousand families with smiles and happiness; While conquering warrior's burning brand, amid his gory path, The emblem is of pain and woe, of man's destructive wrath. Soon therefore may the spear give place unto the shepherd's crook, And the conqueror's flaming sword be turn'd into a Reaping Hook!

ALEXANDER SMART.

Alexander Smart was born at Montrose on the 26th April 1798. His father was a respectable shoemaker in the place. A portion of his school education was conducted under the care of one Norval, a teacher in the Montrose Academy, whose mode of infusing knowledge he has not unjustly satirised in his poem, entitled "Recollections of Auld Lang Syne." Norval was a model among the tyrant pedagogues of the past; and as an illustration of Scottish school life fifty years since, we present our author's reminiscences of the despot. "Gruesome in visage and deformed in body, his mind reflected the grim and tortuous aspects of his person. The recollection of his monstrous cruelties,--his cruel flagellations,--is still unaccountably depressing. One day of horrors I shall never cease to remember. Every Saturday he caused the pupils to repeat a prayer which he had composed for their use; and in hearing which he stood over each with a paper ruler, ready, in the event of omission of word or phrase, to strike down the unfortunate offender, who all the while drooped tremblingly before him. On one of these days of extorted prayer, I was found at fault in my grammar lesson, and the offence was deemed worthy of peculiar castigation. The school was dismissed at the usual time, but, along with a few other boys who were to become witnesses of my punishment and disgrace, I was detained in the class-room, and dragged to the presence of the tyrant. Despite of his every effort, I resisted being bound to the bench, and flogged after the fashion of the times. So the punishment was commuted into 'palmies.' Horrible commutation! Sixty lashes with leather thongs on my right hand, inflicted with all the severity of a tyrant's wrath, made me scream in the anguish of desperation. My pitiless tormentor, unmoved by the sight of my hand sorely lacerated, and swollen to twice its natural size, threatened to cut out my tongue if I continued to complain; and so saying, laid hold on a pair of scissors, and inflicted a deep cut on my lip. The horrors of the day fortunately emancipated me from the further control of the despot."

At another seminary Smart completed his education. He was now apprenticed to a watchmaker in his native town, his hours of leisure being sedulously devoted to the perusal of the more distinguished British poets. It was his delight to repeat his favourite passages in solitary rambles on the sea beach. In 1819, on the completion of his apprenticeship, he proceeded to Edinburgh, where, during a period of six months, he wrought at his trade. But the sedentary life of a watchmaker proving injurious to his health, he was led to seek employment in a printing-office. Soon after, he became editor, printer, and publisher of the _Montrose Chronicle_, a newspaper which was originated in his native town, but which proved unsuccessful. He thereafter held an appointment in the office of the _Dundee Courier_. Returning to Edinburgh, he accepted employment as a pressman in a respectable printing-office, and afterwards attained the position of press overseer in one of the most important printing establishments of the city.

In his twentieth year Smart adventured on the composition of verses, but being dissatisfied with his efforts, he consigned them to oblivion. He subsequently renewed his invocation of the Muse, and in 1834 published a small duodecimo volume of poems and songs, entitled "Rambling Rhymes." This publication attracted considerable attention, and secured for the author the personal favour of Lord Jeffrey. He also received the commendation of Thomas Campbell, Charles Dickens, Thomas Babington Macaulay, Charles Mackay, and other literary and poetical celebrities. A new and enlarged edition of his volume appeared in 1845, and was dedicated by permission to Lord Jeffrey.

Smart was one of the principal contributors to "Whistle Binkie." At different periods he has composed excellent prose essays and sketches, some of which have appeared in _Hogg's Instructor_. Those papers entitled "Burns and his Ancestors," "Leaves from an Autobiography," and "Scenes from the Life of a Sufferer," may be especially enumerated. Of a peculiarly nervous temperament, he has more than once experienced the miseries of mental aberration. Latterly he has completely recovered his health, and living in Edinburgh with his wife and family, he divides his time between the mechanical labours of the printing-office and the more congenial pursuits of literature.

WHEN THE BEE HAS LEFT THE BLOSSOM.

When the bee has left the blossom, And the lark has closed his lay, And the daisy folds its bosom In the dews of gloaming gray; When the virgin rose is bending, Wet with evening's pensive tear, And the purple light is blending With the soft moon rising clear;

Meet me then, my own true maiden, Where the wild flowers shed their bloom And the air with fragrance laden, Breathes around a rich perfume. With my true love as I wander, Captive led by beauty's power, Thoughts and feelings sweet and tender Hallow that delightful hour.

Give ambition dreams of glory, Give the poet laurell'd fame, Let renown in song and story Consecrate the hero's name; Give the great their pomp and pleasure, Give the courtier place and power; Give to me my bosom's treasure, And the lonely gloaming hour.

OH, LEAVE ME NOT.

Oh, leave me not! the evening hour, So soft, so still, is all our own; The dew descends on tree and flower, They breathe their sweets for thee alone. Oh, go not yet! the evening star, The rising moon, all bid thee stay; And dying echoes, faint and far, Invite our lingering steps to stray.

Far from the city's noisy din, Beneath the pale moon's trembling light, That lip to press, those smiles to win, Will lend a rapture to the night. Let fortune fling her favours free To whom she will, I'll ne'er repine: Oh, what is all the world to me, While thus I clasp and call thee mine!

NEVER DESPAIR.

Never despair! when the dark cloud is lowering, The sun, though obscured, never ceases to shine; Above the black tempest his radiance is pouring While faithless and faint-hearted mortals repine. The journey of life has its lights and its shadows, And Heaven in its wisdom to each sends a share; Though rough be the road, yet with reason to guide us, And courage to conquer, we'll never despair!

Never despair! when with troubles contending, Make labour and patience a sword and a shield, And win brighter laurels, with courage unbending, Than ever were gained on the blood-tainted field. As gay as the lark in the beam of the morning, When young hearts spring upward to do and to dare, The bright star of promise their future adorning, Will light them along, and they'll never despair!

The oak in the tempest grows strong by resistance, The arm at the anvil gains muscular power, And firm self-reliance, that seeks no assistance, Goes onward, rejoicing, through sunshine and shower; For life is a struggle, to try and to prove us, And true hearts grow stronger by labour and care, While Hope, like a seraph, still whispers above us,-- Look upward and onward, and never despair!

JOHN DUNLOP.

The author of some popular songs, and of four volumes of MS. poetry, John Dunlop is entitled to a place in the catalogue of Caledonian lyrists. The younger son of Colin Dunlop of Carmyle, he was born in November 1755, in the mansion of the paternal estate, in the parish of Old Monkland, and county of Lanark. Commencing his career as a merchant in Glasgow, he was in 1796 elevated to the Lord Provostship of the city. He afterwards accepted the office of Collector of Customs at Borrowstounness, and subsequently occupied the post of Collector at Port-Glasgow. His death took place at Port-Glasgow, in October 1820.

Possessed of fine poetic tastes and an elegant fancy, Dunlop composed verses on every variety of theme, with facility and power. His MS. volumes, which have been kindly submitted to our inspection by a descendant, and from which we have made some extracts, contain numerous poetical compositions worthy of being presented to the public. A vein of humour pervades the majority of his verses; in the elegiac strain he is eminently plaintive. He is remembered as a man of excellent dispositions and eminent social qualities: he sung with grace the songs of his country, and delighted in humorous conversation. His elder brother was proprietor of Garnkirk, and his son, who bore the same Christian name, became Sheriff of Renfrewshire. The latter is entitled to remembrance as the author of "The History of Fiction."

THE YEAR THAT'S AWA'.

Here's to the year that's awa'! We will drink it in strong and in sma'; And here's to ilk bonnie young lassie we lo'ed, While swift flew the year that's awa'. And here's to ilk, &c.

Here's to the sodger who bled, And the sailor who bravely did fa'; Their fame is alive, though their spirits are fled On the wings of the year that's awa'. Their fame is alive, &c.

Here's to the friends we can trust When the storms of adversity blaw; May they live in our song, and be nearest our hearts, Nor depart like the year that's awa'. May they live, &c.

OH, DINNA ASK ME.

TUNE--_'Comin' through the rye.'_

Oh, dinna ask me gin I lo'e thee; Troth, I daurna tell: Dinna ask me gin I lo'e ye; Ask it o' yoursel'.

Oh, dinna look sae sair at me, For weel ye ken me true; Oh, gin ye look sae sair at me, I daurna look at you.

When ye gang to yon braw, braw town, And bonnie lassies see, Oh, dinna, Jamie, look at them, Lest you should mind na me.

For I could never bide the lass That ye'd lo'e mair than me; And oh, I'm sure, my heart would break, Gin ye'd prove false to me.

LOVE FLIES THE HAUNTS OF POMP AND POWER[9]

Love flies the haunts of pomp and power, To find the calm retreat; Loathing he leaves the velvet couch, To seek the moss-grown seat.

Splendid attire and gilded crowns Can ne'er with love accord; But russet robes, and rosy wreathes, His purest joys afford.

From pride, from business, and from care, His greatest sorrows flow; When these usurp the heart of man, That heart he ne'er can know.

FOOTNOTES:

[9] This lyric and the following are printed from the author's MSS.

WAR.

TUNE--_'Where they go, where they go.'_

For twenty years and more, Bloody war, Bloody war; For twenty years and more, Bloody war. For twenty years and more We heard the cannons roar To swell the tide of gore, Bloody war!

A tyrant on a throne We have seen, We have seen; A tyrant on a throne Who thought the earth his own, But now is hardly known To have been.

Who rung the loud alarm To be free, To be free? Who rung the loud alarm To be free? 'Twas Britain broke the charm, And with her red right arm She rung the loud alarm To be free.

The battle van she led Of the brave, Of the brave; The battle van she led Of the brave; The battle van she led, Till tyranny lay dead, And glory crown'd the head Of the brave.

Give honour to the brave Where they lie, Where they lie; Give honour to the brave Where they lie; Give honour to the brave, And sacred be the grave, On land or in the wave, Where they lie.

WILLIAM BLAIR.

William Blair, author of "The Highland Maid," was, in the year 1800, born at Dunfermline. The son of respectable parents of the industrial class, he received an ordinary education at the burgh school. Apprenticed to the loom, he became known as a writer of verses; and having attracted the notice of an officer's lady, then resident in the place, he was at her expense sent to the grammar school. Having made some progress in classical learning, he was recommended for educational employment in Dollar Academy; but no suitable situation being vacant at the period of his application, he was led to despair of emanating from the humble condition of his birth. A settled melancholy was afterwards succeeded by symptoms of permanent imbecility. For a number of years Blair has been an inmate of the Dunfermline poor house.

THE HIGHLAND MAID.

Again the laverock seeks the sky, And warbles, dimly seen; And summer views, wi' sunny joy, Her gowany robe o' green. But ah! the summer's blithe return, In flowery pride array'd, Nae mair can cheer this heart forlorn, Or charm the Highland Maid.

My true love fell by Charlie's side, Wi' mony a clansman dear; That fatal day--oh, wae betide The cruel Southron's spear! His bonnet blue is fallen now, And bluidy is the plaid, That aften on the mountain's brow, Has wrapt his Highland Maid.

My father's shieling on the hill Is dowie now and sad; The breezes whisper round me still, I 've lost my Highland lad. Upon Culloden's fatal heath, He spake o' me, they said, And falter'd, wi' his dying breath, "Adieu, my Highland Maid!"

The weary nicht for rest I seek, The langsome day I mourn; The smile upon my wither'd cheek Can never mair return. But soon beneath the sod I 'll lie, In yonder lonely glade; And, haply, ilka passer by Will mourn the Highland Maid.

THE NEAPOLITAN WAR SONG.[10]

TUNE--_"Brian the Brave."_

Your foes are at hand, and the brand that they wield, Soon, soon will emblazon your plain; But, ah! may the arm of the brave be your shield, And the song of the victory your strain. Remember the fetters and chains that are wove, And fated by slavery's decree, Are not like the fetters of union and love, That bind and encircle the free.

Though rich be your fields, they will blight in their bloom, With the glow of the patriot's fires; And the sun that now gladdens, shall sink into gloom, And grow dark when your freedom expires. Be yours, then, the triumph to brave ones that 's meet, And your country, with laurels in store, Each weary and toil-worn warrior will greet When the tumult of battle is o'er.

FOOTNOTES:

[10] Here printed for the first time.

ARCHIBALD MACKAY.

Archibald Mackay was born at Kilmarnock in 1801. Receiving a common school education, he was apprenticed to a handloom weaver. Abandoning the loom, he subsequently acquired a knowledge of bookbinding, and has continued to prosecute that trade. From his youth devoted to the Muse, he produced in 1828 a metrical tale, entitled "Drouthy Tam," which, passing through numerous editions, brought a local reputation to the writer. In 1830 he published a small volume of poems, and in 1832 a little work in prose and verse, entitled "Recreations of Leisure Hours." In 1848 appeared from his pen a "History of Kilmarnock," in a well-written octavo volume. A collection of his best songs was published in 1855, under the title of "Ingleside Lilts." Mackay has contributed extensively to the local journals, and has established a circulating library for the benefit of his fellow-townsmen.

OUR AULD SCOTS SANGS.

AIR--_"Traveller's Return."_

Oh, weel I lo'e our auld Scots sangs, The mournfu' and the gay; They charm'd me by a mither's knee, In bairnhood's happy day: And even yet, though owre my pow The snaws of age are flung, The bluid loups joyfu' in my veins Whene'er I hear them sung.

They bring the fond smile to the cheek, Or tear-drap to the e'e; They bring to mind auld cronies kind, Wha sung them aft wi' glee. We seem again to hear the voice Of mony a lang-lost frien'; We seem again to grip the hand That lang in dust has been.

And, oh, how true our auld Scots sangs When nature they portray! We think we hear the wee bit burn Gaun bickering doun the brae; We see the spot, though far awa', Where first life's breath we drew, And a' the gowden scenes of youth Seem rising to the view.

And dear I lo'e the wild war strains Our langsyne minstrels sung-- They rouse wi' patriotic fires The hearts of auld and young; And even the dowie dirge that wails Some brave but ruin'd band, Inspires us wi' a warmer love For hame and fatherland.

Yes, leese me on our auld Scots sangs-- The sangs of love and glee, The sangs that tell of glorious deeds That made auld Scotland free. What though they sprung frae simple bards, Wha kent nae rules of art? They ever, ever yield a charm That lingers round the heart.

MY LADDIE LIES LOW.

Alas! how true the boding voice That whisper'd aft to me, "Thy bonnie lad will ne'er return To Scotland or to thee!" Oh! true it spoke, though hope the while Shed forth its brightest beam; For low in death my laddie lies By Alma's bloody stream.

I heard the village bells proclaim That glorious deeds were done; I heard wi' joy the gladsome shout, "The field, the field is won!" And I thought my lad, wi' glory crown'd, Might come to me again; But vain the thought! cold, cold he lies On Alma's gory plain.

Oh! woe to him whose thirst for power Has roll'd the bolts of war, And made my laddie bleed and die Frae hame and friends afar. Alas! his form I ne'er shall see, Except in fancy's dream; For low he lies, where brave he fought, By Alma's bloody stream.

JOUK AND LET THE JAW GAE BY.

AIR--_"Jockie's Gray Breeks."_

Oh! say not life is ever drear, For midst its scenes of toil and care There 's aye some joy the heart to cheer-- There 's aye some spot that 's green and fair. To gain that spot the aim be ours, For nocht we 'll get unless we try; And when misfortune round us lours, We 'll jouk and let the jaw gae by.

The wee bit flow'ret in the glen Maun bend beneath the surly blast; The birdie seeks some leafy den, And shelters till the storm is past: The "owrie sheep," when winds blaw snell, To some lowne spot for refuge hie; And sae, frae ills we canna quell, We 'll jouk and let the jaw gae by.

Yet there are ills we a' should brave-- The ills that man on man would throw; For oh! he 's but a thowless slave, That patient bears Oppression's woe. But if 'tis but the taunts of pride, Of envy's tongue that would annoy, 'Tis nobler far to turn aside, And jouk and let the jaw gae by.

In worldly gear we may be bare, We may hae mony a dreary hour; But never, never nurse despair, For ilka ane maun taste the sour: Even kings themsels, wi' a' their power, Wi' a' their pomp and honours high, 'Neath adverse blasts are forced to cower, And jouk to let the jaw gae by.

But mark this truth--the ills that blight Are aft the fruits that folly brings; Then shun the wrong, pursue the right-- Frae this the truest pleasure springs; And fret not though dark clouds should spread At times across life's troubled sky; Sweet sunshine will the gloom succeed-- Sae jouk and let the jaw gae by.

VICTORIOUS BE AGAIN, BOYS.

Hurrah! hurrah! we 've glory won, And brighter blazes freedom's sun; But daring deeds must yet be done To curb Oppression's reign, boys. Like wintry clouds in masses roll'd, Our foes are thick'ning on the wold; Then up! then up! be firm--be bold-- Victorious be again, boys.

The hearts--the blessings of the brave-- Of those who scorn the name of slave, Are with you on the ocean's wave, And on the battle-plain, boys: Then rouse ye, rouse ye, every one, And gird your brightest armour on; Complete the work so well begun-- Victorious be again, boys!

Though red with gore your path may be, It leads to glorious liberty; Remember, God is with the free, The brave He will sustain, boys: The tyrant fears the coming fight, He fears the power of Truth and Right; Then up! then up! in all your might-- Victorious be again, boys.

WILLIAM AIR FOSTER.

The author of some spirited effusions in Scottish verse, William Air Foster, was born at Coldstream on the 16th June 1801. He has followed the occupation of a bootmaker, first in his native town, and latterly in Glasgow. Devoted to the Border sports, in which he was formerly an active performer, he has celebrated them in animated verse. To "Whistle Binkie" he has contributed a number of sporting and angling songs, and he has composed some volumes of poetry which are still in manuscript.

FAREWEEL TO SCOTIA.

Fareweel to ilk hill whar the red heather grows, To ilk bonnie green glen whar the mountain stream rows, To the rock that re-echoes the torrent's wild din, To the graves o' my sires, and the hearths o' my kin.

Fareweel to ilk strath an' the lav'rock's sweet sang-- For trifles grow dear whan we 've kenn'd them sae lang; Round the wanderer's heart a bright halo they shed, A dream o' the past, when a' other's hae fled.

The young hearts may kythe, though they 're forced far away, But its dool to the spirit when haffets are gray; The saplin transplanted may flourish a tree, Whar the hardy auld aik wad but wither and dee.

They tell me I gang whar the tropic suns shine Owre landscapes as lovely and fragrant as thine; For the objects sae dear that the heart had entwined Turn eerisome hame-thoughts, and sicken the mind.

No, my spirit shall stray whar the red heather grows! In the bonnie green glen whar the mountain stream rows, 'Neath the rock that re-echoes the torrent's wild din, 'Mang the graves o' my sires, round the hearths o' my kin.

THE FALCON'S FLIGHT.

AIR--_"There 's nae luck about the house."_