Chapter 11

The sunny days are come, my love, The primrose decks the brae, The vi'let in its rainbow robe Bends to the noontide ray; The cuckoo in her trackless bower Has waken'd from her dream; The shadows o' the new-born leaves Are waving in the stream.

The sunny days are come, my love, The swallow skims the lake, As o'er its glassy bosom clear The insect cloudlets shake. The heart of nature throbs with joy At love and beauty's sway; The meanest creeping thing of earth Shares in her ecstasy.

Then come wi' me my bonny Bell, And rove Gleniffer o'er, And ye shall lend a brighter tint To sunshine and to flower; And ye shall tell the heart ye 've won A blessing or a wae-- Awake a summer in my breast, Or bid hope's flowers decay.

For spring may spread her mantle green, O'er mountain, dell, and lea, And summer burst in every hue Wi' smiles and melody, To me the sun were beamless, love, And scentless ilka flower, Gin ye were no this heart's bright sun, Its music and its bower.

OH, MY LOVE WAS FAIR.

Oh, my love was fair as the siller clud That sleeps in the smile o' dawn; An' her een were bricht as the crystal bells That spangle the blossom'd lawn: An' warm as the sun was her kind, kind heart, That glow'd 'neath a faemy sea; But I fear'd, by the tones o' her sweet, sweet voice, That my love was nae for me.

Oh, my love was gay as the summer time, When the earth is bricht an' gled, An' fresh as the spring when the young buds blaw, In their sparkling pearl-draps cled: An' her hair was like chains o' the sunset sheen That hangs 'tween the lift an' sea; But I fear'd, by the licht that halo'd her face, That my love was nae for me.

Oh, my love was sweet as the violet flower That waves by the moss-grown stane, An' her lips were rich as the rowans red That hang in forest lane; An' her broo was a dreamy hill o' licht, That struck ane dumb to see; But I fear'd, by signs that canna be named, That my love was nae for me.

Oh, my love was mild as the autumn gale That fans the temples o' toil, An' the sweets o' a thousand summers cam' On her breath an' sunny smile: An' spotless she gaed on the tainted earth, O' a mortal blemish free, While my heart forgot, in its feast o' joy, That my love was nae for me.

Oh, my love was leal, an' my cup o' bliss Was reaming to the brim, When, ae gloaming chill, to her sacred bower Cam' a grisly carl fu' grim, Wha dash'd the cup frae my raptured lips Wi' a wild, unearthly glee; Sae the ghaistly thought was then confirm'd, That my love was nae for me.

Oh, my love was young, an' the grim auld carl Held her fast in his cauld embrace, An' suck'd the red frae her hiney'd mou', An' the blush frae her peachy face: He stifled the sound o' her charm'd throat, An' quench'd the fires o' her e'e; But fairer she blooms in her heavenly bower, For my love was nae for me.

Sae I tyned my love an' I tyned my heart, An' I tyned baith wealth an' fame; Syne I turn'd a sad, weary minstrel wicht, Wi' the cauld warld for my hame. Yet my minstrelsy 's but a lanely lay, My wealth my aumous fee; Oh, wad that I were wi' the grim auld carl, For this warld is nae for me.

ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON.

The author of "Harebell Chimes," a volume of interesting verses, Andrew James Symington, was born at Paisley, on the 27th of July 1825. His father was a scion of the noble house of Douglas, and his mother claimed descent from the old Highland family of Macalister. On the completion of his education at the grammar school, the subject of this sketch entered the warehouse of his father, who carried on business as a muslin manufacturer. By the death of his father in 1841, he succeeded, along with an elder brother, to the full management of the concern. In 1848 the establishment was removed from Paisley to Glasgow, where it continues to be prosperously carried on.

Eminently devoted to literary and artistic studies, Mr Symington has cultivated the personal intercourse of artists and men of letters. He has contributed to some of the leading periodicals. His volume of "Harebell Chimes," published in 1849, contains poetry of a high order; it was especially commended by the late Samuel Rogers, with whom the author had the privilege of corresponding. In 1855, a small volume entitled "Genivieve, and other Poems," was printed by Mr Symington for circulation among his friends.

DAY DREAM.

Close by the marge of Leman's lake, Upon a thymy plot, In blissful rev'rie, half awake, Earth's follies all forgot, I conjured up a faery isle Where sorrow enter'd not, Withouten shade of sin or guile-- A lovely Eden spot.

With trellis'd vines, in cool arcade, And leaves of tender green, All trembling in the light and shade, As sunbeams glanced between: The mossy turf, bespangled gay With fragrant flowery sheen-- Bell, primrose, pink, and showers of May-- The fairest ever seen.

Near where a crystal river ran Into the rich, warm light, A domed palace fair began To rise in marble white. 'Twas fill'd, as if by amulet, With mirrors dazzling bright-- With antique vase and statuette, A palace of delight.

And "Mignon" in a snow-white dress, With circlet on her hair, Appear'd in all her loveliness, Like angel standing there. She struck the cithern in her hand, And sang with 'witching air Her own sweet song, "Know'st thou the land?" To music wild and rare.

It died away--the palace changed, Dream-like, into a bower! Around, the soft-eyed dun-deer ranged, Secure from hunter's power. Wild thyme and eye-bright tinged the ground, With daisy, starry flower, While crimson flower-bells cluster'd round The rose-twined faery bower.

Therein "Undine," lovely sprite! Sat gazing on sunrise, And sang of "morning, clear and bright"-- The tears came in her eyes: She look'd upon the lovely isle, And now up to the skies, Then in a silv'ry misty veil She vanish'd from mine eyes.

A music, as of forest trees Bent 'neath the storm-blast's sway, Rose swelling--dying in the breeze, A strange, wild lullaby. The islet with its flowery turf Then waxed dim and gray; I look'd--no islet gemm'd the surf-- The dream had fled away.

FAIR AS A STAR OF LIGHT.

Fair as a star of light, Like diamond gleaming bright, Through darkness of the night, Is my love to me. As bell of lily white, In streamlet mirror'd bright, All quiv'ring with delight, Is my love to me-- My love to me.

A flowing magic thrill Which floodeth heart and will With gushes musical, Is my love to me. Bright as the tranced dream, Which flitteth in a gleam, Before morn's golden beam, Is my love to me-- My love to me.

Like living crystal well, In cool and shady dell, Unto the parch'd gazelle, Is my love to me. And dearer than things fair, However rich and rare, In earth, or sea, or air, Is my love to me-- My love to me.

NATURE MUSICAL.

There is music in the storm, love, When the tempest rages high; It whispers in the summer breeze A soft, sweet lullaby. There is music in the night, When the joyous nightingale, Clear warbling, filleth with his song The hillside and the vale. Then sing, sing, sing, For music breathes in everything.

There is music by the shore, love, When foaming billows dash; It echoes in the thunder peal, When vivid lightnings flash. There is music by the shore, In the stilly noon of night, When the murmurs of the ocean fade In the clear moonlight.

There is music in the soul, love, When it hears the gushing swell, Which, like a dream intensely soft, Peals from the lily-bell. There is music--music deep In the soul that looks on high, When myriad sparkling stars sing out Their pure sphere harmony.

There is music in the glance, love, Which speaketh from the heart, Of a sympathy in souls That never more would part. There is music in the note Of the cooing turtle-dove; There is music in the voice Of dear ones whom we love.

There is music everywhere, love, To the pure of spirit given; And sweetest music heard on earth But whispers that of heaven. Oh, all is music there-- 'Tis the language of the sky-- Sweet hallelujahs there resound Eternal harmony. Then sing, sing, sing, For music breathes in everything.

ISABELLA CRAIG.

Isabella Craig is a native of Edinburgh, where she has continued to reside. Her educational advantages were limited. To the columns of the _Scotsman_ newspaper she has for several years contributed verses. In 1856 she published a collection of her poetical compositions, in a duodecimo volume, with the title, "Poems by Isa." She contributes to the periodicals.

OUR HELEN.

Is our Helen very fair? If you only knew her You would doubt it not, howe'er Stranger eyes may view her. We who see her day by day Through our household moving, Whether she be fair or nay Cannot see for loving.

O'er our gentle Helen's face No rich hues are bright'ning, And no smiles of feigned grace From her lips are light'ning; She hath quiet, smiling eyes, Fair hair simply braided, All as mild as evening skies Ere sunlight hath faded.

Our kind, thoughtful Helen loves Our approving praises, But her eye that never roves Shrinks from other gazes. She, so late within her home But a child caressing, Now a woman hath become, Ministering, blessing.

All her duty, all her bliss, In her home she findeth, Nor too narrow deemeth this-- Lowly things she mindeth; Yet when deeper cares distress, She is our adviser; Reason's rules she needeth less, For her heart is wiser.

For the sorrows of the poor Her kind spirit bleedeth, And, because so good and pure, For the erring pleadeth. Is our Helen very fair? If you only knew her You would doubt it not, howe'er Stranger eyes may view her.

GOING OUT AND COMING IN.

In that home was joy and sorrow Where an infant first drew breath, While an aged sire was drawing Near unto the gate of death. His feeble pulse was failing, And his eye was growing dim; He was standing on the threshold When they brought the babe to him.

While to murmur forth a blessing On the little one he tried, In his trembling arms he raised it, Press'd it to his lips and died. An awful darkness resteth On the path they both begin, Who thus met upon the threshold, Going out and coming in.

Going out unto the triumph, Coming in unto the fight-- Coming in unto the darkness, Going out unto the light; Although the shadow deepen'd In the moment of eclipse, When he pass'd through the dread portal With the blessing on his lips.

And to him who bravely conquers, As he conquer'd in the strife, Life is but the way of dying-- Death is but the gate of life; Yet awful darkness resteth On the path we all begin, Where we meet upon the threshold, Going out and coming in.

MY MARY AN' ME.

We were baith neebor bairns, thegither we play'd, We loved our first love, an' our hearts never stray'd; When I got my young lassie her first vow to gie, We promised to wait for each ither a wee.

My mother was widow'd when we should hae wed, An' the nicht when we stood roun' my father's death-bed, He charged me a husband and father to be, While my young orphan sisters clung weepin' to me.

I kent nae, my Mary, what high heart was thine, Nor how brightly thy love in a dark hour wad shine, Till in doubt and in sorrow, ye whisper'd to me, "Win the blessing o' Heaven for thy Mary and thee."

An' years hae flown by deeply laden wi' care, But Mary has help'd me their burden to bear, She gave me my shield in misfortune and wrong, 'Twas she that aye bade me be steadfast and strong.

Her meek an' quiet spirit is aye smooth as now, Her saft shinin' hair meekly shades her white brow, A few silver threads 'mang its dark faulds I see, They tell me how lang she has waited on me.

Her cheek has grown paler, for she too maun toil, Her sma' hands are thinner, less mirthfu' her smile; She aft speaks o' heaven, and if she should dee, She tells me that there she 'll be waitin' on me.

A SONG OF SUMMER.

I will sing a song of summer, Of bright summer as it dwells, Amid leaves and flowers and sunshine, In lone haunts and grassy dells. Lo! the hill encircled valley Is like an emerald cup, To its inmost depths all glowing, With sunlight brimming up. Here I 'd dream away the day time, And let happy thoughts have birth, And forget there 's aught but glory, Aught but beauty on the earth.

Not a speck of cloud is floating In the deep blue overhead, 'Neath the trees the daisied verdure Like a broider'd couch is spread. The rustling leaves are dancing With the light wind's music stirr'd, And in gushes through the stillness Comes the song of woodland bird. Here I 'd dream away the day-time, And let gentlest thoughts have birth, And forget there 's aught but gladness, Aught but peace upon the earth.

ROBERT DUTHIE.

The writer of some spirited lyrics, Robert Duthie was born in Stonehaven on the 2d of February 1826. Having obtained an ordinary elementary education, he was apprenticed, in his fourteenth year, to his father, who followed the baking business. He afterwards taught a private school in his native town; but, on the death of his father, in 1848, he resumed his original profession, with the view of supporting his mother and the younger members of the family. Devoting his leisure hours to literature and poetry, he is a frequent contributor to the provincial journals; and some of his lyrical productions promise to secure him a more extended reputation.

SONG OF THE OLD ROVER.

I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat on the wild sea waves, And the tempest around me is swelling; The winds have come forth from their ice-ribb'd caves, And the waves from their rocky dwelling; But my trim-built bark O'er the waters dark Bounds lightly along, And the mermaid lists to my echoing song. Hurrah! hurrah! how I love to lave In the briny spray of the wild sea wave!

I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat on the foaming deep, And the storm-bird above me is screaming; While forth from the cloud where the thunders sleep The lightning is fearfully gleaming; But onward I dash, For the fitful flash Illumes me along, And the thunders chorus my echoing song. Hurrah! hurrah! how I love to brave The dangers that frown on the wild sea wave!

I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat where my well-served shot Lays the war-dogs bleeding around me; But ne'er do I yield on the tentless field Till the wreath of the victor hath crown'd me; Then I, a true child Of the ocean wild, With a tuneful tongue Bear away with my prize and my conquering song. Hurrah! hurrah! shot and storm, let them rave-- I 'm at home, dashing on through the wild sea wave!

I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat on my ocean home-- The home of the hurrying billow; But the time is at hand when no longer I 'll roam, But in peace lay me down on its pillow: The petrel will scream My requiem hymn, And the thunders prolong The deep-chorus'd note of my last echo'd song, As I sink to repose in my rock-bound grave That is down in the depths of the wild sea wave.

BOATMAN'S SONG.

Hurrah! hurrah! for the boundless sea, The home of the rover, the bold and free; Land hath its charms, but those be mine, To row my boat through the sparkling brine-- To lave in the pearls that kiss the prow Of the bounding thing as we onward go-- To nerve the arm and bend the oar, Bearing away from the vacant shore. Pull away, pull away o'er the glassy sea-- 'Tis the tempest's path, and the path for me; Land hath its charms, but no charms like thine: Hurrah! let us dash through the sparkling brine.

Gloomily creeping the mists appear In denser shade on the mountains drear; And the twilight steals o'er the stilly deep, By the zephyrs hush'd to its evening sleep; Nor a ripple uprears a whiten'd crest, To wrinkle the blue of its placid breast; But all is still, save the lisping waves Washing the shells in the distant caves. Pull away, pull away o'er the sleeping sea-- 'Tis the tempest's path, and the path for me-- 'Tis the home of my heart where I 'd ever rove! Hurrah! hurrah! for the home I love.

Oh, I love the sound of the tempest's roar, And I love the splash of the bending oar, Playing amid the phosphoric fire, Seen as the eddying sparks retire. 'Tis a fairy home, and I love to roam Through its sleeping calm or its lashing foam. The land hath its charms, but the sea hath more; Then away let us row from the vacant shore. Pull away, pull away o'er the mighty sea-- 'Tis the tempest's path, and the path for me; 'Tis the home of the rover, the bold and free: Hurrah! hurrah! for the boundless sea.

LISETTE.

When we meet again, Lisette, Let the sun be sunk to rest Beneath the glowing wavelets Of the widely spreading west; Let half the world be hush'd In the drowsiness of sleep, And howlets scream the music Of the revels that they keep.

Let the gentle lady-moon, With her coldly drooping beams, Be dancing in the ripple Of the ever-laughing streams, Where the little elves disport In the stilly noon of night, And lave their limbs of ether In the mellow flood of light.

When we meet again, Lisette, Let it be in yonder pile, Beneath the massy fretting Of its darkly-shaded aisle, Where, through the crumbling arches The quaint old carvings loom, And saint and seraph keep their watch O'er many an ancient tomb.

ALEXANDER STEPHEN WILSON.

Alexander Stephen Wilson was born on the 4th April 1826, in the parish of Rayne, Aberdeenshire. His father, who rented a farm, having been killed by a fall from his horse, the subject of this sketch was brought up from infancy under the care of his maternal grandfather. In his boyhood he attended school during winter, and in summer was employed as a cow-herd. At the age of fifteen he was apprenticed to a land-surveyor, with whom he served five years. With a native turn for versifying, he early invoked the muse, and contributed poetry to the public journals. At the close of his apprenticeship, he established a debating club among the young men in the district of Rayne, and subsequently adventured on the publication of a monthly periodical. The latter, entitled _The Rural Echo_, was almost wholly occupied with the ingenious projector's own compositions, both in prose and poetry, and commanded a wide circulation. Devoted to metaphysical inquiries, Mr Wilson has latterly turned his attention to that department of study. He has likewise been ardent in the pursuit of physical science. An ingenious treatise from his pen on the nature of light, published in 1855, attracted no inconsiderable notice, and is strongly indicative of original power. He has latterly resided in Perth, holding the appointment of assistant civil engineer.

THINGS MUST MEND.

The gloom of dark despondency At times will cloud the breast; Hope's eagle eye may shaded be, 'Mid fortune's fears oppress'd; But while we nurse an honest aim We shall not break nor bend, For when things are at the worst They must mend.

The gentle heart by hardship crush'd Will sing amid its tears, And though its voice awhile be hush'd, 'Tis tuned for coming years; A light from out the future shines With hope's tear-drops to blend, And when things are at the worst They must mend.

Amid life's danger and despair Still let our deeds be true, For nought but what is right and fair Can heal our hopeless view. The beautiful will soothe us, like The sunshine of a friend, And when things are at the worst They must mend.

Oh, never leave life's morning dream, 'Tis whisper'd down from heaven, But trace its maze, though sorrow seem The sole reward that 's given; The joy is there, or not on earth, Which with our souls may blend, And when things are at the worst They must mend.

THE WEE BLINK THAT SHINES IN A TEAR.

Life's pleasure seems sadness and care, When dark is the bosom that feels, Yet mingled wi' shades o' despair Is the ray which our sorrow reveals; Though darkly at times flows the stream, It rows till its waters are clear-- And Hope shields a bud in our life's darkest dream Like the wee blink that shines in a tear.

Afar in the wilderness blooms The flower that spreads beauty around, And Nature smiles sweet on our tombs And softens with balm every wound. Oh, call not our life sad nor vain, Wi' its joys that can ever endear, There 's a sweet ray of pleasure star deep in each pain, Like the wee blink that shines in a tear.

Sweet smiles the last hope in our woe And fair is the lone desert isle; Young Flora peeps gay from the snow; And dearest in grief is a smile; The dew-drop is bright with a star; Age glows when young memories appear; But a symbol to hope that is sweeter by far Is the wee blink that shines in a tear.

FLOWERS OF MY OWN LOVED CLIME.

Ye have cross'd o'er the wave from the glades where I roved, When my wild heart was careless and free, But now far away from the zephyrs ye loved, Ye are bloomless and wither'd like me. Yet sweet is the perfume that 's breathed from your leaves, Like songs of the dear olden time; Ye come with the memory that glads while it grieves, Sweet flowers of my own loved clime!

Oh, strange are the dreams ye awake in my breast Of the home and the friends that were mine, In the days when I feel that my bosom was blest, Nor deem'd it should ever repine. I gaze on your leaves where loved eyes have been, And the spell brings the dear olden time When I roved where ye bloom'd in yon valley so green, Sweet flowers of my own loved clime!

Deep down in my heart, where the world cannot see, I treasure a life all my own, And that land, sweet flowers, shall ope for thee, For like thine half its beauty hath flown. I 'll live o'er the raptures of young years again, And snatch back the dear olden time, When I gaze on your blossoms, in pleasure or pain, Sweet flowers of my own loved clime!

JAMES MACFARLAN.