Chapter 4

I cannot give thee all my heart, Lady, lady, My faith and country claim a part, My sweet lady; But yet I 'll pledge thee word of mine That all the rest is truly thine;-- The raving passion of a boy, Warm though it be, will quickly cloy-- Confide thou rather in the man Who vows to love thee all he can, My sweet lady.

Affection, founded on respect, Lady, lady, Can never dwindle to neglect, My sweet lady; And, while thy gentle virtues live, Such is the love that I will give. The torrent leaves its channel dry, The brook runs on incessantly; The storm of passion lasts a day, But deep, true love endures alway, My sweet lady.

Accept then a divided heart, Lady, lady, _Faith_, _Friendship_, _Honour_, each have part, My sweet lady. While at one altar we adore, _Faith_ shall but make us love the more; And _Friendship_, true to all beside, Will ne'er be fickle to a bride; And _Honour_, based on manly truth, Shall love in age as well as youth, My sweet lady.

PROCRASTINATIONS.

If Fortune with a smiling face Strew roses on our way, When shall we stoop to pick them up? To-day, my love, to-day. But should she frown with face of care, And talk of coming sorrow, When shall we grieve--if grieve we must? To-morrow, love, to-morrow.

If those who 've wrong'd us own their faults And kindly pity pray, When shall we listen and forgive? To-day, my love, to-day. But if stern Justice urge rebuke, And warmth from memory borrow, When shall we chide--if chide we dare? To-morrow, love, to-morrow.

If those to whom we owe a debt Are harm'd unless we pay, When shall we struggle to be just? To-day, my love, to-day. But if our debtor fail our hope, And plead his ruin thorough, When shall we weigh his breach of faith? To-morrow, love, to-morrow.

If Love, estranged, should once again His genial smile display, When shall we kiss his proffer'd lips? To-day, my love, to-day, But, if he would indulge regret, Or dwell with bygone sorrow, When shall we weep--if weep we must? To-morrow, love, to-morrow.

For virtuous acts and harmless joys The minutes will not stay; We 've always time to welcome them To-day, my love, to-day. But care, resentment, angry words, And unavailing sorrow Come far too soon, if they appear To-morrow, love, to-morrow.

REMEMBRANCES OF NATURE.

I remember the time, thou roaring sea, When thy voice was the voice of Infinity-- A joy, and a dread, and a mystery.

I remember the time, ye young May flowers, When your odours and hues in the fields and bowers Fell on my soul as on grass the showers.

I remember the time, thou blustering wind, When thy voice in the woods, to my youthful mind, Seem'd the sigh of the earth for human kind.

I remember the time, ye suns and stars, When ye raised my soul from its mortal bars And bore it through heaven on your golden cars.

And has it then vanish'd, that happy time? Are the winds, and the seas, and the stars sublime Deaf to thy soul in its manly prime?

Ah, no! ah, no! amid sorrow and pain, When the world and its facts oppress my brain, In the world of spirit I rove--I reign.

I feel a deep and a pure delight In the luxuries of sound and sight-- In the opening day, in the closing night.

The voices of youth go with me still, Through the field and the wood, o'er the plain and the hill, In the roar of the sea, in the laugh of the rill.

Every flower is a lover of mine, Every star is a friend divine: For me they blossom, for me they shine.

To give me joy the oceans roll, They breathe their secrets to my soul, With me they sing, with me condole.

Man cannot harm me if he would, I have such friends for my every mood In the overflowing solitude.

Fate cannot touch me: nothing can stir To put disunion or hate of her 'Twixt Nature and her worshipper.

Sing to me, flowers! preach to me, skies! Ye landscapes, glitter in mine eyes! Whisper, ye deeps, your mysteries!

Sigh to me, wind! ye forests, nod! Speak to me ever, thou flowery sod! Ye are mine--all mine--in the peace of God.

BELIEVE IF YOU CAN.

_Music by the Author._

Hope cannot cheat us, Or Fancy betray; Tempests ne'er scatter The blossoms of May; The wild winds are constant, By method and plan; Oh! believe me, believe me, Believe if you can!

Young Love, who shews us His midsummer light, Spreads the same halo O'er Winter's dark night; And Fame never dazzles To lure and trepan; Oh! believe me, believe me, Believe if you can!

Friends of the sunshine Endure in the storm; Never they promise And fail to perform. And the night ever ends As the morning began; Oh! believe me, believe me, Believe if you can!

Words softly spoken No guile ever bore; Peaches ne'er harbour A worm at the core; And the ground never slipp'd Under high-reaching man; Oh! believe me, believe me, Believe if you can!

Seas undeceitful, Calm smiling at morn, Wreck not ere midnight The sailor forlorn. And gold makes a bridge Every evil to span; Oh! believe me, believe me, Believe if you can.

OH, THE HAPPY TIME DEPARTED!

_Air by Sir H. R. Bishop._

Oh, the happy time departed! In its smile the world was fair; We believed in all men's goodness; Joy and hope were gems to wear; Angel visitants were with us, There was music in the air.

Oh, the happy time departed! Change came o'er it all too soon; In a cold and drear November Died the leafy wealth of June; Winter kill'd our summer roses; Discord marr'd a heavenly tune.

Let them pass--the days departed-- What befell may ne'er befall; Why should we with vain lamenting Seek a shadow to recall? Great the sorrows we have suffer'd-- Hope is greater than them all.

COME BACK! COME BACK!

Come back! come back! thou youthful Time, When joy and innocence were ours, When life was in its vernal prime, And redolent of sweets and flowers. Come back--and let us roam once more, Free-hearted, through life's pleasant ways, And gather garlands as of yore-- Come back--come back--ye happy days!

Come back! come back!--'twas pleasant then To cherish faith in love and truth, For nothing in dispraise of men Had sour'd the temper of our youth. Come back--and let us still believe The gorgeous dream romance displays, Nor trust the tale that men deceive-- Come back--come back--ye happy days!

Come back!--oh, freshness of the past, When every face seem'd fair and kind, When sunward every eye was cast, And all the shadows fell behind. Come back--'twill come; true hearts can turn Their own Decembers into Mays; The secret be it ours to learn-- Come back--come back--ye happy days!

TEARS.

_Music by Sir H. R. Bishop._

O ye tears! O ye tears! that have long refused to flow, Ye are welcome to my heart--thawing, thawing, like the snow; I feel the hard clod soften, and the early snowdrops spring, And the healing fountains gush, and the wildernesses sing.

O ye tears! O ye tears! I am thankful that ye run; Though ye trickle in the darkness, ye shall glitter in the sun; The rainbow cannot shine if the rain refuse to fall, And the eyes that cannot weep are the saddest eyes of all.

O ye tears! O ye tears! till I felt you on my cheek, I was selfish in my sorrow, I was stubborn, I was weak. Ye have given me strength to conquer, and I stand erect and free, And know that I am human by the light of sympathy.

O ye tears! O ye tears! ye relieve me of my pain; The barren rock of pride has been stricken once again; Like the rock that Moses smote, amid Horeb's burning sand, It yields the flowing water to make gladness in the land.

There is light upon my path, there is sunshine in my heart, And the leaf and fruit of life shall not utterly depart. Ye restore to me the freshness and the bloom of long ago-- O ye tears! happy tears! I am thankful that ye flow.

CHEER, BOYS! CHEER!

Cheer, boys! cheer! no more of idle sorrow; Courage, true hearts, shall bear us on our way! Hope points before, and shews the bright to-morrow-- Let us forget the darkness of to-day! So farewell, England! much as we may love thee, We 'll dry the tears that we have shed before; Why should we weep to sail in search of fortune? So farewell, England! farewell evermore! Cheer, boys! cheer! for England, mother England! Cheer, boys! cheer! the willing strong right hand; Cheer, boys! cheer! there 's work for honest labour, Cheer, boys! cheer! in the new and happy land!

Cheer, boys! cheer! the steady breeze is blowing, To float us freely o'er the ocean's breast; The world shall follow in the track we 're going, The star of empire glitters in the west. Here we had toil and little to reward it, But there shall plenty smile upon our pain; And ours shall be the mountain and the forest, And boundless prairies, ripe with golden grain. Cheer, boys! cheer! for England, mother England! Cheer, boys! cheer! united heart and hand! Cheer, boys! cheer! there 's wealth for honest labour, Cheer, boys! cheer! in the new and happy land!

MOURN FOR THE MIGHTY DEAD.

_Music by Sir H. R. Bishop._

Mourn for the mighty dead, Mourn for the spirit fled, Mourn for the lofty head-- Low in the grave. Tears such as nations weep Hallow the hero's sleep; Calm be his rest, and deep-- Arthur the brave!

Nobly his work was done; England's most glorious son, True-hearted Wellington, Shield of our laws. Ever in peril's night Heaven send such arm of might-- Guardian of truth and right-- Raised in their cause!

Dried be the tears that fall; Love bears the warrior's pall, Fame shall his deeds recall-- Britain's right hand! Bright shall his memory be! Star of supremacy! Banner of victory! Pride of our land.

A PLAIN MAN'S PHILOSOPHY.

_Music by the Author._

I 've a guinea I can spend, I 've a wife, and I 've a friend, And a troop of little children at my knee, John Brown; I 've a cottage of my own, With the ivy overgrown, And a garden with a view of the sea, John Brown; I can sit at my door By my shady sycamore, Large of heart, though of very small estate, John Brown; So come and drain a glass In my arbour as you pass, And I 'll tell you what I love and what I hate, John Brown.

I love the song of birds, And the children's early words, And a loving woman's voice, low and sweet, John Brown; And I hate a false pretence, And the want of common sense, And arrogance, and fawning, and deceit, John Brown; I love the meadow flowers, And the brier in the bowers, And I love an open face without guile, John Brown; And I hate a selfish knave, And a proud, contented slave, And a lout who 'd rather borrow than he 'd toil, John Brown.

I love a simple song That awakes emotions strong, And the word of hope that raises him who faints, John Brown; And I hate the constant whine Of the foolish who repine, And turn their good to evil by complaints, John Brown; But ever when I hate, If I seek my garden gate, And survey the world around me, and above, John Brown, The hatred flies my mind, And I sigh for human kind, And excuse the faults of those I cannot love, John Brown.

So, if you like my ways, And the comfort of my days, I will tell you how I live so unvex'd, John Brown; I never scorn my health, Nor sell my soul for wealth, Nor destroy one day the pleasures of the next, John Brown; I 've parted with my pride, And I take the sunny side, For I 've found it worse than folly to be sad, John Brown; I keep a conscience clear, I 've a hundred pounds a-year, And I manage to exist and to be glad, John Brown.

THE SECRETS OF THE HAWTHORN.

_Music by the Author._

No one knows what silent secrets Quiver from thy tender leaves; No one knows what thoughts between us Pass in dewy moonlight eves. Roving memories and fancies, Travellers upon Thought's deep sea, Haunt the gay time of our May-time, O thou snow-white hawthorn-tree!

Lovely was she, bright as sunlight, Pure and kind, and good and fair, When she laugh'd the ringing music Rippled through the summer air. "If you love me--shake the blossoms!" Thus I said, too bold and free; Down they came in showers of beauty, Thou beloved hawthorn-tree!

Sitting on the grass, the maiden Vow'd the vow to love me well; Vow'd the vow; and oh! how truly, No one but myself can tell. Widely spreads the smiling woodland, Elm and beech are fair to see; But thy charms they cannot equal, O thou happy hawthorn-tree!

A CRY FROM THE DEEP WATERS.

From the deep and troubled waters Comes the cry; Wild are the waves around me-- Dark the sky: There is no hand to pluck me From the sad death I die.

To one small plank, that fails me, Clinging low, I am dash'd by angry billows To and fro; I hear death-anthems ringing In all the winds that blow.

A cry of suffering gushes From my lips As I behold the distant White-sail'd ships O'er the white waters gleaming Where the horizon dips.

They pass; they are too lofty And remote, They cannot see the spaces Where I float. The last hope dies within me, With the gasping in my throat.

Through dim cloud-vistas looking, I can see The new moon's crescent sailing Pallidly: And one star coldly shining Upon my misery.

There are no sounds in nature But my moan, The shriek of the wild petrel All alone, And roar of waves exulting To make my flesh their own.

Billow with billow rages, Tempest trod; Strength fails me; coldness gathers On this clod; From the deep and troubled waters I cry to _Thee_, my God!

THE RETURN HOME.

The favouring wind pipes aloft in the shrouds, And our keel flies as fast as the shadow of clouds; The land is in sight, on the verge of the sky, And the ripple of waters flows pleasantly by,-- And faintly stealing, Booming, pealing, Chime from the city the echoing bells; And louder, clearer, Softer, nearer, Ringing sweet welcome the melody swells; And it 's home! and it 's home! all our sorrows are past-- We are home in the land of our fathers at last.

How oft with a pleasure akin to a pain, In fancy we roam'd through thy pathways again, Through the mead, through the lane, through the grove, through the corn, And heard the lark singing its hymn to the morn; And 'mid the wild wood, Dear to childhood, Gather'd the berries that grew by the way; But all our gladness Died in sadness, Fading like dreams in the dawning of day;-- But we 're home! we are home! all our sorrows are past-- We are home in the land of our fathers at last.

We loved thee before, but we 'll cherish thee now With a deeper emotion than words can avow; Wherever in absence our feet might delay, We had never a joy like the joy of to-day; And home returning, Fondly yearning, Faces of welcome seem crowding the shore-- England! England! Beautiful England! Peace be around thee, and joy evermore! And it 's home! and it 's home! all our sorrows are past-- We are home in the land of our fathers at last.

THE MEN OF THE NORTH.

Fierce as its sunlight, the East may be proud Of its gay gaudy hues and its sky without cloud; Mild as its breezes, the beautiful West May smile like the valleys that dimple its breast; The South may rejoice in the vine and the palm, In its groves, where the midnight is sleepy with balm: Fair though they be, There 's an isle in the sea, The home of the brave and the boast of the free! Hear it, ye lands! let the shout echo forth-- The lords of the world are the Men of the North!

Cold though our seasons, and dull though our skies, There 's a might in our arms and a fire in our eyes; Dauntless and patient, to dare and to do-- Our watchword is "Duty," our maxim is "Through!" Winter and storm only nerve us the more, And chill not the heart, if they creep through the door: Strong shall we be In our isle of the sea, The home of the brave and the boast of the free! Firm as the rocks when the storm flashes forth, We 'll stand in our courage--the Men of the North!

Sunbeams that ripen the olive and vine, In the face of the slave and the coward may shine; Roses may blossom where Freedom decays, And crime be a growth of the Sun's brightest rays. Scant though the harvest we reap from the soil, Yet Virtue and Health are the children of Toil: Proud let us be Of our isle of the sea, The home of the brave and the boast of the free! Men with true hearts--let our fame echo forth-- Oh, these are the fruit that we grow in the North!

THE LOVER'S DREAM OF THE WIND.

I dream'd thou wert a fairy harp Untouch'd by mortal hand, And I the voiceless, sweet west wind, A roamer through the land. I touch'd, I kiss'd thy trembling strings, And lo! my common air, Throbb'd with emotion caught from thee, And turn'd to music rare.

I dream'd thou wert a rose in bloom, And I the gale of spring, That sought the odours of thy breath, And bore them on my wing. No poorer thou, but richer I-- So rich, that far at sea, The grateful mariners were glad, And bless'd both thee and me.

I dream'd thou wert the evening star, And I a lake at rest, That saw thine image all the night Reflected on my breast. Too far!--too far!--come dwell on Earth! Be Harp and Rose of May;-- I need thy music in my heart, Thy fragrance on my way.

ARCHIBALD CRAWFORD.

Archibald Crawford, a writer of prose and poetry of considerable merit, was born at Ayr in 1785. In his ninth year, left an orphan, he was placed under the care of a brother-in-law, a baker in London. With no greater advantages than the somewhat limited school education then given to the sons of burgesses of small provincial towns, his ardent love of literature and powerful memory enabled him to become conversant with the works of the more distinguished British authors, as well as the best translations of the classics. At the expiry of eight years he returned to Ayr, and soon after entered the employment of Charles Hay, Esq., of Edinburgh, in whose service he continued during a course of years. In honour of a daughter of this gentleman, who had shewn him much kindness during a severe attack of fever, he composed his song of "Bonnie Mary Hay," which, subsequently set to music by R. A. Smith, has become extremely popular. He was afterwards in the employment of General Hay of Rannes, with whom he remained several years. At the close of that period he was offered by his employer an ensigncy in the service of the Honourable East India Company, which, however, he respectfully declined. In 1810 he opened a grocery establishment in his native town; but, with less aptitude for business than literature, he lost the greater part of the capital he had embarked in trade. He afterwards exchanged this business for that of auctioneer and general merchant.

The literary inclinations of his youth had been assiduously followed up, and his employers, sympathising with his tastes, gave him every opportunity, by the use of their libraries, of indulging his favourite studies. With the exception of some fugitive pieces, he did not however seek distinction as an author till 1819, when a satirical poem, entitled "St James's in an uproar," appeared anonymously from his pen. This composition intended to support the extreme political opinions then in vogue, exposed to ridicule some leading persons in the district, and was attended with the temporary apprehension and menaced prosecution of the printer. To the columns of the _Ayr and Wigtonshire Courier_ he now began to contribute a series of sketches, founded on traditions in the West of Scotland; and these, in 1824, he collected into a volume, with the title, "Tales of a Grandmother," which was published by subscription. In the following year the tales, with some additions, were published, in two duodecimo volumes, by Constable and Co.; but the subsequent insolvency of the publishing firm deprived the author of the profits of the sale. Crawford, along with two literary coadjutors, next started a weekly serial at Ayr, entitled _The Correspondent_, but the publication, in the course of a few months, was abandoned. A similar periodical, under the designation of _The Gaberlunzie_, appeared under his management in 1827, and extended to sixteen numbers. He latterly contributed articles in prose and verse to the _Ayr Advertiser_, a weekly newspaper published in that town. His death took place at Ayr on the 6th January 1843, in his 58th year. Much esteemed for his hearty, social nature, with a ready and pungent wit, and much dramatic power as a relater of legendary narrative, he was possessed of strong intellectual capacities, and considerable taste as a poet. His second son, Mr William Crawford, has attained distinction as an artist.

BONNIE MARY HAY.

Bonnie Mary Hay, I will lo'e thee yet, For thy eye is the slae, thy hair is the jet; The snaw is thy skin, and the rose is thy cheek; O! bonnie Mary Hay, I will lo'e thee yet.

Bonnie Mary Hay, will you gang wi' me, When the sun 's in the west, to the hawthorn-tree; To the hawthorn-tree, in the bonnie berry-den, And I 'll tell you, Mary, how I lo'e you then?

Bonnie Mary Hay, it 's haliday to me, When thou art couthie, kind, and free; There 's nae clouds in the lift, nor storms in the sky, My bonnie Mary Hay, when thou art nigh.

Bonnie Mary Hay, thou maunna say me nay, But come to the bower, by the hawthorn brae; But come to the bower, and I 'll tell you a' what 's true, How, Mary, I can ne'er lo'e ane but you.

SCOTLAND, I HAVE NO HOME BUT THEE!

Scotland, thy mountains, thy valleys, and fountains, Are famous in story--the birth-place of song; Thy daughters the fairest, the sweetest, the rarest, Well may thy pilgrims long for their home. Trace the whole world o'er, find me a fairer shore, The grave of my fathers! the land of the free! Joy to the rising race! Heaven send them ev'ry grace; Scotland, dear Scotland, I have no home but thee!