Chapter 10

The shadows of evening fall silent around, The rose with a cor'net of dewdrops is crown'd; While weary I wander in sorrow's eclipse, With your love at my heart, your name on my lips; Your name on my lips, like a melody rare-- Then come, for I 'm lonely in shady Kenmair.

The birds by the river sing plaintive and low, They seem to be breathing a burden of woe; They seem to be asking, why am I alone? And why do you tarry, or where are you gone? The flowers are sighing sweet breath on the air, And stars watch thy coming to shady Kenmair.

The gush of the fountain, the roll of the tide, Recall your sweet image again to my side-- Your low mellow voice, like the tones of a flute; Your slight yielding form, and small fairy foot; Your neck like the marble, dark flowing your hair, And brow like the snowdrop of shady Kenmair.

Come love, to the bank where the violets blow, Beside the calm waters that slumber below, While the brier and beech, the hazel and broom, Fling down from their branches a flood of perfume; Oh! what is the world, with its splendours or care, When you are beside me in shady Kenmair!

A SONG OF LITTLE THINGS.

I 'm a very little man, And I earn a little wage, And I have a little wife, In a little hermitage, Up a quiet little stair, Where the creeping ivy clings; In a mansion near the stars Is my home of little things.

I 've two bonnie little bairns, Full of prattle and of glee, And our little dwelling rings With their laughter, wild and free. Of the greenwoods, all the day, I 've a little bird that sings; It reminds me of my youth, And the age of little things.

I 've no money in the funds, And no steamers on the sea; But my busy little hands Are a treasure unto me. I can work, and I can sing, With a joy unknown to kings; While peace and plenty smile On my bonnie little things.

And when my work is done, In my cosie ingle nook, With my little ones around, I can read a little book. And I thank my lucky stars For whatever fortune brings; I 'm richer than a lord-- I 'm content with little things.

MY AIN MOUNTAIN LAND.

Oh! wae 's me on gowd, wi' its glamour and fame, It tint me my love, and it wiled me frae hame, Syne dwindled awa' like a neivefu' o' sand, And left me to mourn for my ain mountain land.

I long for the glens, and the brown heather fells, The green birken shades, where the wild lintie dwells, The dash o' the deep, on the gray rocky strand, That gird the blue hills o' my ain mountain land.

I dream o' the dells where the clear burnies flow, The bonnie green knowes where the wee gowans grow; But I wake frae my sleep like a being that 's bann'd, And shed a saut tear for my ain mountain land.

I ken there 's a lass that looks out on the sea, Wi' tears in the een that are watchin' for me; Lang, lang she may wait for the clasp o' my hand, Or the fa' o' my foot in my ain mountain land.

WHEN I COME HAME AT E'EN.

Give me the hour when bells are rung, And dinsome wheels are still, When engines rest, and toilers leave The workshop, forge, and mill; With smiling lip, and gladsome e'e, My gudewife welcomes me; Our bairnies clap their wee white hands, And speel upon my knee. When I come hame at e'en, When I come hame at e'en, How dear to me the bairnies' glee, When I come hame at e'en.

Our lowly bield is neat and clean, And bright the ingle's glow, The table 's spread with halesome fare, The teapot simmers low. How sweet to toil for joys like these With strong and eydent hand, To nurture noble hearts to love, And guard our fatherland. When I come hame at e'en, &c.

Let revellers sing of wassail bowls, Their wines and barley bree; My ain wee house and winsome wife Are dearer far to me. To crack with her of joys to come, Of days departed long, When she was like a wee wild rose, And I a bird of song. When I come hame at e'en, When I come hame at e'en, How dear to me these memories When I come hame at e'en.

WILLIAM LOGAN.

William Logan, author of the song "Jeanie Gow," was born on the 18th February 1821, in the village of Kilbirnie, and county of Ayr. Intended by his parents for one of the liberal professions, he had the benefit of a superior school education. For a number of years he has held a respectable appointment in connexion with a linen-thread manufactory in his native place.

JEANIE GOW.

Ye hameless glens and waving woods, Where Garnock winds alang, How aft, in youth's unclouded morn, Your wilds I 've roved amang. There ha'e I heard the wanton birds Sing blythe on every bough, There first I met, and woo'd the heart O' bonnie Jeanie Gow.

Dear Jeanie then was fair and young, And bloom'd as sweet a flower As ever deck'd the garden gay Or lonely wild wood bower. The warbling lark at early dawn, The lamb on mountain brow, Had ne'er a purer, lighter heart Than bonnie Jeanie Gow.

Her faither's lowly, clay-built cot Rose by Glengarnock side, And Jeanie was his only stay, His darling and his pride. Aft ha'e I left the dinsome town, To which I ne'er could bow, And stray'd amang the ferny knowes Wi' bonnie Jeanie Gow.

But, ah! these fondly treasured joys Were soon wi' gloom o'ercast, For Jeanie dear was torn awa' By death's untimely blast. Ye woods, ye wilds, and warbling birds, Ye canna cheer me now, Sin' a' my glee and cherish'd hopes Ha'e gane wi' Jeanie Gow.

JAMES LITTLE.

James Little was born at Glasgow, on the 24th May 1821. His father, a respectable shoemaker, was a claimant, through his maternal grandmother, of the title and estates of the last Marquis of Annandale. With a very limited elementary education, the subject of this notice, at an early age, was called on to work with his father; but soon afterwards he enlisted as a private soldier. After eight years of military life, chiefly passed in North America and the West Indies, he purchased his discharge, and resumed shoemaking in his native city. In 1852 he proceeded to the United States, but subsequently returned to Glasgow. In 1856 he published a small duodecimo volume of meritorious verses, with the title, "Sparks from Nature's Fire." Several songs from his pen have been published, with music, in the "Lyric Gems of Scotland."

OUR NATIVE HILLS AGAIN.

Oh, swiftly bounds our gallant bark Across the ocean drear, While manly cheeks are pale wi' grief, And wet wi' sorrow's tear. The flowers that spring upon the Clyde Will bloom for us in vain; Nae mair wi' lightsome step we 'll climb Our native hills again.

Amang their glens our fathers sleep, Where mony a thistle waves; And roses fair and gowans meek Bloom owre their lowly graves. But we maun dree a sadder fate Far owre the stormy main; We lang may look, but never see Our native hills again.

Yet, 'mid the forests o' the west, When starnies light the sky, We'll gather round the ingle's side, And sing o' days gane by; And sunny blinks o' joy will come To soothe us when alane, And aft, in nightly dreams, we'll climb Our native hills again.

HERE 'S A HEALTH TO SCOTIA'S SHORE.

_Music by Alexander Hume._

Sing not to me of sunny shores Or verdant climes where olives bloom, Where, still and calm, the river pours Its flood, 'mid groves of rich perfume; Give me the land where torrents flash, Where loud the angry cat'racts roar, As wildly on their course they dash-- Then here's a health to Scotia's shore.

Sing not to me of sunny isles, Though there eternal summers reign, Where many a dark-eyed maiden smiles, And gaudy flow'rets deck the plain; Give me the land of mountains steep, Where wild and free the eagles soar, The dizzy crags, where tempests sweep-- Then here's a health to Scotia's shore.

Sing not to me of sunny lands, For there full often tyrants sway Who climb to power with blood-stain'd hands, While crouching, trembling slaves obey; Give me the land unconquer'd still, Though often tried in days of yore, Where freedom reigns from plain to hill-- Then here's a health to Scotia's shore.

THE DAYS WHEN WE WERE YOUNG.

The happy days of yore! Will they ever come again, To shed a gleam of joy on us, And win the heart from pain? Or will they only come in dreams, When nicht's black curtain 's hung? Yet even then 'tis sweet to mind The days when we were young.

Fond mem'ry, wi' its mystic power, Brings early scenes to view-- Again we roam among the hills, Sae wat wi' morning dew-- Again we climb the broomy knowes, And sing wi' prattlin' tongue, For we had nae cares to fash us In the days when we were young.

How aft, when we were callants, Hae we sought the ocean's shore, And launch'd wi' glee our tiny boats, And heard the billows roar? And aft amang the glancin' waves In daring sport we 've sprung, And swam till we were wearied, In the days when we were young.

In winter, round the ingle side, We 've read wi' kindling e'e, How Wallace Wight, and Bruce the Bold, Aft made the southrons flee; Or listen'd to some bonnie sang, By bonnie lassie sung: Oh! love and happiness were ours, In days when we were young.

Oh! his maun be a waefu' heart That has nae sunny gleams Of by-gane joys in early days, Though it be but in dreams: Wha thinks nae o' his mither's arms, Sae aft around him flung, To shield him safe frae earthly harms, In days when he was young:

Wha thinks nae o' his sisters fair, That toddled out and in, And ran about the braes wi' him, And play'd wi' meikle din; And his maun be a barren heart, Where love has never sprung, Wha thinks nae o' the days gane by The days when he was young.

LIZZIE FREW.

'Twas a balmy summer gloamin', When the sun had gane to rest, And his gowden beams were glintin' Owre the hills far in the west; And upon the snawy gowan Saftly fell the pearly dew, When I met my heart's best treasure, Gentle, winsome Lizzy Frew.

Light she tripp'd amang the bracken, While her glossy waving hair Play'd around her gentle bosom, Dancing in the summer air. Love laugh'd in her een sae paukie, Smiles play'd round her rosy mou', And my heart was led a captive By the charms o' Lizzie Frew.

Thochts o' her can mak' me cheerie, As I toil the lee-lang day; And at nicht, though e'er sae wearie, Gladly out wi' her I stray. I ask nae for a greater pleasure, Than to ken her heart is true-- I ask nae for a greater treasure, Than my gentle Lizzie Frew.

COLIN RAE BROWN.

The son of a respectable shipowner and captain in the merchant service, Colin Rae Brown was born at Greenock on the 19th of December 1821. Having completed his education in Glasgow, whither the family removed in 1829, he entered a mercantile warehouse. In 1842, he formed a connexion with the publishing house of Messrs Murray and Sons, Glasgow, and undertook the management of a branch of the business at Greenock. On the establishment in Glasgow of the _North British Daily Mail_, he accepted an offer by the proprietor to become the publisher of that newspaper. When the _Mail_ passed into the hands of other proprietors, Mr Brown established, in conjunction with a partner, the Fine Art Gallery in St Vincent Street, with which he continues to be connected. In 1848 he published a volume of lyrics, which was well received; a second poetical work from his pen, which appeared in 1855, with the title, "Lays and Lyrics," has met with similar success. A number of songs from both volumes have been published separately with music. On the abolition of the stamp-duty on newspapers in 1855, Mr Brown originated the _Bulletin_ and _Workman_, a daily and a weekly newspaper, both published in Glasgow.

CHARLIE 'S COMIN'.

Charlie 's comin' o'er the sea, Soon, he 'll set the country free From those that bear the rule and gree In bonnie Caledonia!

Gentle breezes, softly blow, We burn until we meet the foe, And strike the bold decisive blow For king and Caledonia!

Noble hearts are beating high, All will fight, none basely fly, For if they conquer not, they 'll die For ancient Caledonia!

Oh, that Charlie were but here! The base usurper then might fear-- As loud the din fell on his ear Of joy in Caledonia!

Heard ye not that distant hum? And now the pipe, and now the drum, Proclaim the news that Charlie 's come To gladden Caledonia!

Tyrants, tremble, Charlie 's here! Now, indeed, ye 've cause to fear; Hielan' hearts be of good cheer, And on for Caledonia!

THE WIDOW'S DAUGHTER.

Why gaze on that pale face, Childless one, childless one? Why seek this lonely place? She hath gone, she hath gone.

Thy daughter is not here, Widow'd one, widow'd one-- Nay, wipe away that tear, She hath won, she hath won!

Her home is far away, She 's at rest, she 's at rest, In everlasting day, With the blest, with the blest.

No pains, no sorrows there, All are past, all are past; That sigh summ'd up her care, 'Twas her last, 'twas her last.

'Tis not her there you see, Sister dear, sister dear; That earth holds nought for thee, Draw not near, draw not near.

The place is cold and dark, Haste away, haste away; Corruption is at work-- Soulless clay! soulless clay!

The lamp hath ceased to burn, Quench'd the flame, quench'd the flame; Let dust to dust return, Whence it came, whence it came.

To thy chamber, sister dear; There to God, there to God, Bend humble and sincere, 'Neath His rod, 'neath His rod.

Prayer heals the broken heart-- He is kind, He is kind; Each bruised and bleeding part He will bind, He will bind.

Weep not for her that 's gone-- Time will fly, time will fly-- Thou 'lt meet thy cherish'd one 'Yond the sky! 'yond the sky!

ROBERT LEIGHTON.

Robert Leighton, author of "Rhymes and Poems by Robin," a duodecimo volume of verses, published in 1855, was born at Dundee in 1822. He has been chiefly employed in mercantile concerns. The following lyric, which has attained some popularity, was one of his earliest poetical efforts, being composed in his sixteenth year.

MY MUCKLE MEAL POCK.

There 's some can be happy and bide whar they are, There 's ithers ne'er happy unless they gang far; But aft do I think I 'm an easy auld stock, While I 'm joggin' about wi' my muckle meal pock.

Though noo I be auld, abune four score and aucht, Though my pow it be bauld and my craig be na straucht, Yet frae mornin' till e'en--aye as steady 's a rock-- I gang joggin' about wi' my muckle meal pock.

Just our ain parish roond, and nae mair I gang through, And when at the end I begin it anew; There isna' a door but wad blythely unlock, To welcome me ben wi' my muckle meal pock.

There isna' a hoose but I micht mak' my hame, There isna' an auld wife wad think me to blame, Though I open'd the door without gieing a knock, And cam' ben to the fire wi' my muckle meal pock.

As ony newspaper they say I 'm as gweed, And better, say some, for they hinna to read; The lads and the lasses around me a' flock, And there 's no ane forgets that I hae a meal pock.

The gudeman he speaks about corn and lan', "Hoo 's the markets," says he, "are they risen or fa'en? Or is this snawie weather the roads like to chock?" But the gudewife aye spiers for my muckle meal pock.

To be usefu' to her I haud sticks on the fire, Or whan to the milkin' she gangs to the byre, She 'll gie me a hand o' the cradle to rock, And for that she 's aye gude to my muckle meal pock.

Though my friends a' be gane whar I yet hae to gang, And o' followin' them noo I canna be lang, Yet while I am here I will lauch and I 'll joke, For I 'll aye find a friend in my muckle meal pock.

JAMES HENDERSON.

A poet of much elegance and power, James Henderson was born on the 2d November 1824, on the banks of the river Carron, in the village of Denny and county of Stirling. In his tenth year, he proceeded to Glasgow, where he was employed in mercantile concerns. Strongly influenced by sentiments of patriotism, and deeply imbued with the love of nature in its ever varying aspects, he found relaxation from business in the composition of verses. In 1848 he published a thin octavo volume, entitled "Glimpses of the Beautiful, and other Poems," which was much commended by the periodical and newspaper press. Having proceeded to India in 1849, he became a commission agent in Calcutta. He visited Britain in 1852, but returned to India the same year. Having permanently returned from the East in 1855, he has since settled in Glasgow as an East India merchant.

THE WANDERER'S DEATHBED.

Afar from the home where his youthful prime And his happy hours were pass'd, On the distant shore of a foreign clime The wanderer breathed his last. And they dug his grave where the wild flowers wave, By the brooklet's glassy brim; And the song-bird there wakes its morning prayer, And the dirge of its evening hymn.

He left the land of his childhood fair, With hope in his glowing breast, With visions bright as the summer's light, And dreams by his fancy blest. But death look'd down with a chilling frown As he stood on that distant shore, And he leant his head on the stranger's bed, Till the last sad pang was o'er.

Strange faces, fill'd with a soulless look, O'er the wanderer's deathbed hung; And the words were cold as the wintry wold, That fell from each heedless tongue. Nor mournful sigh, nor tearful eye The solace of pity gave, While the moments pass'd till he breathed his last, To sleep in the silent grave.

Afar from the home where his youthful prime And his happy hours were pass'd, On the distant shore of a foreign clime The wanderer breathed his last. And they dug his grave where the wild flowers wave, By the brooklet's glassy brim; And the song-bird there wakes its morning prayer, And the dirge of its evening hymn.

THE SONG OF TIME.

I fleet along, and the empires fall, And the nations pass away, Like visions bright of the dreamy night, That die with the dawning day. The lordly tower, and the battled wall, The hall, and the holy fane, In ruin lie while I wander by, Nor rise from their wreck again.

I light the rays of the orient blaze, The glow of the radiant noon; I wing my flight with the sapphire night, And glide with the gentle moon. O'er earth I roam, and the bright expanse Where the proud bark bounds away; And I join the stars in their choral dance Round the golden orb of day.

I fleet along, and the empires fall, And the nations pass away, Like visions bright of the dreamy night, That die with the dawning day. The sceptre sinks in the regal hall, And still'd is the monarch's tread, The mighty stoop as the meanest droop, And sleep with the nameless dead.

THE HIGHLAND HILLS.

The Highland hills! there are songs of mirth, And joy, and love on the gladsome earth; For Spring, in her queenly robes, hath smiled In the forest glade and the woodland wild. Then come with me from the haunts of men To the glassy lake in the mountain glen, Where sunshine sleeps on the dancing rills That chainless leap from the Highland hills.

The Highland hills! when the sparkling rays Of the silver dews greet the orient blaze, When noon comes forth with her gorgeous glow, While the fountains leap and the rivers flow, Thou wilt roam with me where the waterfalls Bid echo wake in the rocky halls, Till the grandeur wild to thy heart instils A deep delight 'mid the Highland hills.

The Highland hills! when the noonday smiles On the slumbering lakes and their fairy isles, We 'll clamber high where the heather waves By the warrior's cairn and the foemen's graves; And I 'll sing to thee, in "the bright day's prime," Of the days of old and of ancient time, And thy heart, unknown to the care that chills, Shall gladly joy in the Highland hills.

The Highland hills! in the twilight dim To their heath-clad crests shall thy footsteps climb, And there shalt thou gaze o'er the ocean far, Till the beacon blaze of the evening star, And the lamp of night, with its virgin beams, Look down on the deep and the shining streams, Till beauty's spell on thy spirit thrills With joy and love in the Highland hills.

MY NATIVE LAND.

Sublime is Scotia's mountain land, And beautiful and wild; By tyranny's unhallow'd hand Unsullied, undefiled. The free and fearless are her sons, The good and brave her sires; And, oh! her every spirit glows With freedom's festal fires!

When dark oppression far and wide Its gory deluge spread, While nations, ere they pass'd away, For hope and vengeance bled, She from her rocky bulwarks high The banner'd eagle hurl'd, And trampled on triumphant Rome, The empress of the world.

She gave the Danish wolf a grave Deep in her darkest glens, And chased the vaunting Norman hound Back to his lowland dens; And though the craven Saxon strove Her regal lord to be, Her hills were homes to nurse the brave, The fetterless, and free.

Peace to the spirits of the dead, The noble, and the brave; Peace to the mighty who have bled Our Fatherland to save! We revel in the pure delight Of deeds achieved by them, To crown their worth and valour bright With glory's diadem.

JAMES MACLARDY.

The writer of several good songs, James Maclardy was born in Glasgow on the 22d August 1824. His father, who afterwards removed to Paisley, was a journeyman shoemaker in humble circumstances. With the scanty rudiments of education, young Maclardy was early cast upon the world. For a course of years he led a sort of rambling life, repeatedly betaking himself to the occupation of a pedlar, and sometimes being dependent for subsistence on his skill as a ballad singer. Adopting his father's profession, he became more fortunate, and now took delight in improving himself in learning, and especially in perusing the works of the poets. After practising his craft in various localities, he has latterly settled in Glasgow, where he holds a situation of respectable emolument.

THE SUNNY DAYS ARE COME, MY LOVE.

The sunny days are come, my love, The gowan 's on the lea, And fragrant flow'rs wi' hiney'd lips, Invite the early bee; The scented winds are whisp'ring by, The lav'rock 's on the wing, The lintie on the dewy spray Gars glen and woodland ring.