Chapter 5

Glow on, ye southern skies, where fruits wear richer dyes To pamper the bigot, assassin, and slave; Scotland, to thee I 'll twine, with all thy varied clime, For the fruits that thou bearest are true hearts and brave. 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!

GEORGE DONALD.

George Donald was born at Glasgow on the 19th January 1800. His parents being in circumstances of indigence, he was sent to labour in a factory so early as his eighth year. A limited attendance at school he supplemented by devoting his intervals of toil to self-instruction. He began to contribute verses to the public journals in his eighteenth year, and soon after composed a series of poems, entitled "Lays of the Covenanters," which appeared in one of the Glasgow newspapers. Of extreme political opinions, he upheld his peculiar views in a series of satirical compositions both in prose and verse, which, by leading dissolute persons to seek his society, proved the commencement of a most unfortunate career. Habits of irregularity were contracted; he ceased to engage in the duties of his calling: and leaving his wife and family of young children without any means of support, he became a reckless wanderer. He afterwards emigrated to the United States, but at the expiry of sixteen months re-appeared in Glasgow. He now became steady; and joining the Total Abstinence Society, advocated the cause of sobriety in a number of temperance songs. Renouncing his pledge, he soon returned to his former habits. He proceeded to Ireland, where he supported himself as a public reciter of popular Scottish ballads. He contributed to the _Banner of Ulster_ a narrative of his experiences in America; and published at Belfast, in a separate volume, his "Lays of the Covenanters," two abridged editions of which were subsequently printed and circulated in Glasgow. Returning to his native city, he was fortunate in receiving the kindly patronage of Dr John Smith of the _Examiner_ newspaper, who paid him a stipulated salary as a contributor. After a period of illness, his death took place at the village of Thornliebank, near Glasgow, on the 7th December 1851. In "The Songs for the Nursery," an interesting little work published by Mr David Robertson of Glasgow in 1846, ten pieces are from his pen. A poem which he composed in his latter years entitled "The Progress of Society, in five books," is still in MS. Amidst all his failings Donald maintained a sense of religion. Evincing a sincere regret for the errors of his life, he died in Christian hope.

THE SPRING TIME O' LIFE.

AIR--_"O wat ye wha I met yestreen?"_

The summer comes wi' rosy wreaths, And spreads the mead wi' fragrant flowers, While furthy autumn plenty breathes, And blessings in abundance showers. E'en winter, wi' its frost and snaw, Brings meikle still the heart to cheer, But there's a season worth them a', And that's the spring-time o' the year.

In spring the farmer ploughs the field That yet will wave wi' yellow corn, In spring the birdie bigs its bield In foggy bank or budding thorn; The burn and brae, the hill and dell, A song of hope are heard to sing, And summer, autumn, winter, tell, Wi' joy or grief, the work o' spring.

Now, youth 's the spring-time o' your life, When seed is sown wi' care and toil, And hopes are high, and fears are rife, Lest weeds should rise the braird to spoil. I 've sown the seed, my bairnies dear, By precept and example baith, And may the hand that guides us here Preserve it frae the spoiler's skaith!

But soon the time may come when you Shall miss a mother's tender care, A sinfu' world to wander through, Wi' a' its stormy strife to share; Then mind my words, whare'er ye gang, Let fortune smile or thrawart be, Ne'er let the tempter lead ye wrang-- If sae ye live, ye'll happy dee.

THE SCARLET ROSE-BUSH.

AIR--_"There grows a bonnie brier bush."_

Come see my scarlet rose-bush My father gied to me, That's growing in our window-sill Sae fresh and bonnilie; I wadna gie my rose-bush For a' the flowers I see, Nor for a pouchfu' o' red gowd, Sae dear it is to me.

I set it in the best o' mould Ta'en frae the moudie's hill, And covered a' the yird wi' moss I gather'd on the hill; I saw the blue-bell blooming, And the gowan wat wi' dew, But my heart was on my rose-bush set, I left them where they grew.

I water 't ilka morning Wi' meikle pride and care, And no a wither'd leaf I leave Upon its branches fair; Twa sprouts are rising frae the root, And four are on the stem, Three rosebuds and six roses blawn-- 'Tis just a perfect gem!

Come, see my bonnie, blooming bush My father gied to me, Wi' roses to the very top, And branches like a tree. It grows upon our window-sill, I watch it tentilie; O! I wadna gie my dear rose-bush For a' the flowers I see.

HENRY GLASSFORD BELL.

Henry Glassford Bell is the son of James Bell, Esq., advocate. His mother was the daughter of the Rev. John Hamilton, minister of Cathcart. He was born at Glasgow, but his early life was spent chiefly in Edinburgh, whither his parents removed in his sixth year. Having studied at the University of Edinburgh, he passed advocate in 1832. Prior to his commencing the study of law, he much devoted himself to literary pursuits. In 1828 he published, in "Constable's Miscellany," a "Life of Mary, Queen of Scots," in two volumes, of which work several editions have since appeared. About the same time he established the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_, which he conducted for several years with much acceptance to the public. His other publications are, "My Old Portfolio," a volume of miscellaneous prose and verse, and "Summer and Winter Hours," a volume of lyric poems and songs. Both these works are out of print. Mr Bell has contributed to the principal periodicals, and associated with the leading literary men of his time. Since 1839 he has resided in Glasgow, holding the appointment of a Sheriff-substitute of Lanarkshire.

MY LIFE IS ONE LONG THOUGHT OF THEE.

Say wilt thou, Leila, when alone, Remember days of bliss gone by? Wilt thou, beside thy native Rhone, E'er for our distant streamlets sigh? Beneath thy own glad sun and sky, Ah! Leila, wilt thou think of me? She blush'd, and murmur'd in reply, "My life is one long thought of thee."

Sweet girl! I would not have it so; My destiny must not be thine, For wildly as the wild waves flow, Will pass this fleeting life of mine. "And let thy fate be weal or woe, My thoughts," she smiling said, "are free; And well the watchful angels know My life is one long thought of thee."

Then, Leila, may thy thoughts and prayers Be with me in my hour of need, When round me throng the cold world's cares, And all my heart's fresh sorrows bleed! "Why, dearest, nurse so dark a creed? For full of joy thy years shall be; And mine shall share the blissful meed, For life is one long thought of thee."

WHY IS MY SPIRIT SAD?

Why is my spirit sad? Because 'tis parting, each succeeding year, With something that it used to hold more dear Than aught that now remains; Because the past, like a receding sail, Flits into dimness, and the lonely gale O'er vacant waters reigns!

Why is my spirit sad? Because no more within my soul there dwell Thoughts fresh as flowers that fill the mountain dell With innocent delight; Because I am aweary of the strife That with hot fever taints the springs of life, Making the day seem night!

Why is my spirit sad? Alas! ye did not know the lost, the dead, Who loved with me of yore green paths to tread-- The paths of young romance; Ye never stood with us 'neath summer skies, Nor saw the glad light of their tender eyes-- The Eden of their glance.

Why is my spirit sad? Have not the beautiful been ta'en away-- Are not the noble-hearted turn'd to clay-- Wither'd in root and stem? I see that others, in whose looks are lit The radiant joys of youth, are round me yet, But not--but not like them!

I would not be less sad; My days of mirth are past; droops o'er my brow The sheaf of care in sickly paleness now; The present is around me; Would that the future were both come and gone, And that I lay where, 'neath a nameless stone, Crush'd feelings could not wound me!

GEORDIE YOUNG.

I 'll no walk by the kirk, mother, I 'll no walk by the manse; I aye meet wi' the minister, Wha looks at me askance.

What ails ye at the minister?-- A douce and sober lad; I trow it is na every day That siclike can be had.

I dinna like his smooth-kaim'd hair, Nor yet his pawkie face; I dinna like a preacher, mother, But in a preaching place.

Then ye 'll gang down by Holylee-- Ye needna look sae scared-- For wha kens but at Holylee Ye 'll aiblins meet the Laird?

I canna bide the Laird, mother, He says sic things to me; Ae half he says wi' wily words, And ae half wi' his e'e.

Awa! awa! ye glaikit thing! It 's a' that Geordie Young; The Laird has no an e'e like him, Nor the minister a tongue!

He 's fleech'd ye out o' a' ye hae, For nane but him ye care; But love can ne'er be lasting, bairn, That aye gangs cauld and bare.

The faithfu' heart will aye, mother, Put trust in ane above, And how can folks gang bare, mother, Wrapp'd in the faulds o' love?

Weel, lassie, walk ye by the burn, And walk ye slow and sly; My certie! weel ye ken the gate That Geordie Young comes by!

His plighted troth is mine, mother, And lang afore the spring I 'll loose my silken snood, mother, And wear the gowden ring.

MY FAIRY ELLEN.

Beautiful moon! wilt thou tell me where Thou lovest most to be softly gleaming? Is it on some rich bank of flowers Where 'neath each blossom a fay lies dreaming? Or is it on yonder silver lake Where the fish in green and gold are sparkling? Or is it among those ancient trees Where the tremulous shadows move soft and darkling? Oh, no! said the moon, with a playful smile, The best of my beams are for ever dwelling In the exquisite eyes, so deeply blue, And the eloquent glance of the fairy Ellen.

Gentlest of zephyrs! pray tell me how Thou lovest to spend a serene May morning, When dew-drops are twinkling on every bough, And violets wild each glade adorning? Is it in kissing the glittering stream, O'er its pebbly channel so gaily rippling? Is it in sipping the nectar that lies In the bells of the flowers--an innocent tippling? Oh no! said the zephyr, and softly sigh'd, His voice with a musical melody swelling, All the mornings of May 'mong the ringlets I play That dance on the brow of the fairy Ellen.

White little lily! pray tell me when Thy happiest moments the fates allow thee? Thou seemest a favourite with bees and men, And all the boys and butterflies know thee; Is it at dawn or at sunset hour That pleasantest fancies are o'er thee stealing? One would think thee a poet, to judge by thy looks, Or at least a pale-faced man of feeling? Oh no! said the lily, and slightly blush'd, My highest ambition 's to be sweet smelling, To live in the sight, and to die on the breast Of the fairest of beings, the fairy Ellen.

Oh! would that I were the moon myself, Or a balmy zephyr, fresh fragrance breathing; Or a white-crown'd lily, my slight green stem Slily around that dear neck wreathing! Worlds would I give to bask in those eyes, Stars, if I had them, for one of those tresses, My heart and my soul, and my body to boot, For merely the smallest of all her kisses! And if she would love me, oh heaven and earth! I would not be Jove, the cloud-compelling, Though he offer'd me Juno and Venus both In exchange for one smile of my fairy Ellen!

A BACHELOR'S COMPLAINT.

They 're stepping off, the friends I knew, They 're going one by one; They 're taking wives to tame their lives, Their jovial days are done; I can't get one old crony now To join me in a spree; They've all grown grave, domestic men, They look askance on me.

I hate to see them sober'd down, The merry boys and true, I hate to hear them sneering now At pictures fancy drew; I care not for their married cheer, Their puddings and their soups, And middle-aged relations round, In formidable groups.

And though their wife perchance may have A comely sort of face, And at the table's upper end Conduct herself with grace, I hate the prim reserve that reigns, The caution and the state, I hate to see my friend grow vain Of furniture and plate.

Oh, give me back the days again, When we have wander'd free, And stole the dew from every flower, The fruit from every tree; The friends I loved they will not come, They've all deserted me; They sit at home and toast their toes, Look stupid and sip tea.

Alas! alas! for years gone by, And for the friends I've lost; When no warm feeling of the heart Was chill'd by early frost. If these be Hymen's vaunted joys, I'd have him shun my door, Unless he quench his torch, and live Henceforth a bachelor.

WILLIAM BENNET.

William Bennet was born on the 29th September, 1802, in the parish of Glencairn, and county of Dumfries. He first wrote verses while apprenticed to a mechanic in a neighbouring parish. In his nineteenth year he published a volume of poems, which excited some attention, and led to his connexion with the newspaper press. He became a regular contributor to the _Dumfries Courier_, edited by the ingenious John M'Diarmid; and in 1825 and the following year conducted the _Dumfries Magazine_, in which appeared many interesting articles from his pen. In December 1826, he became editor of the _Glasgow Free Press_, which supported the liberal cause during the whole of the Reform Bill struggle. Along with Sir Daniel Sandford, he afterwards withdrew from the Whig party, and established the _Glasgow Constitutional_, the editorship of which he resigned in 1836. In 1832-3, he published a periodical, entitled, "Bennet's Glasgow Magazine." Continuing to write verses, he afterwards published a poetical volume, with the title, "Songs of Solitude." His other separate works are, "Pictures of Scottish Scenes and Character," in three volumes; "Sketches of the Isle of Man;" and "The Chief of Glen-Orchay," a poem in five cantos, illustrative of Highland manners and mythology in the middle ages.

Mr Bennet, subsequent to leaving Glasgow, resided successively in Ireland, and London. He afterwards lived several years in Galloway, and has latterly fixed his abode at Greenmount, near Burntisland. He is understood to be engaged in a new translation of the Scriptures.

BLEST BE THE HOUR OF NIGHT.

Blest be the hour of night, When, his toils over, The swain, with a heart so light, Meets with his lover! Sweet the moon gilds their path, Arm in arm straying; Clouds never rise in wrath, Chiding their staying.

Gently they whisper low: Unseen beside them, Good angels watch, that no Ill may betide them. Silence is everywhere, Save when the sighing Is heard, of the breeze's fall, Fitfully dying.

How the maid's bosom glows, While her swain 's telling The love, that 's been long, she knows, In his heart swelling! How, when his arms are thrown Tenderly round her, Fears she, in words to own What he hath found her!

When the first peep of dawn Warns them of parting, And from each dewy lawn Blythe birds are starting, Fondly she hears her swain Vow, though they sever, Soon they shall meet again, Mated for ever.

THE ROSE OF BEAUTY.

Amang the breezy heights and howes Where winds the Milk[6] sae clearly, A Rose o' beauty sweetly grows, A Rose I lo'e most dearly.

Wi' spring's saft rain and simmer's sun How blooms my Rose divinely! And lang ere blaws the winter wun', This breast shall nurse it kin'ly.

May heaven's dew aye freshly weet My Rose at ilka gloamin', And oh, may nae unhallow'd feet Be near it ever roamin'!

I soon shall buy a snug wee cot, And hae my Rose brought thither; And then, in that lowne sunny spot, We'll bloom and fade thegither.

FOOTNOTES:

[6] A beautiful sylvan stream, falling from the uplands into the Annan, between Ecclefechan and Lockerbie.

I 'LL THINK ON THEE, LOVE.

I 'll think on thee, Love, when thy bark Hath borne thee far across the deep; And, as the sky is bright or dark, 'Twill be my fate to smile or weep; For oh, when winds and waters keep In trust so dear a charge as thee, My anxious fears can never sleep Till thou again art safe with me!

I 'll think on thee, Love, when each hour Of twilight comes, with pensive mood, And silence, like a spell of power, Rests, in its depth, on field and wood; And as the mingling shadows brood Still closer o'er the lonely sea, Here, on the beach where first we woo'd, I 'll pour to heaven my prayers for thee.

Then haply on the breeze's wing, That to me steals across the wave, Some angel's voice may answer bring That list'ning heaven consents to save. And oh, the further boon I crave Perchance may also granted be, That thou, return'd, no more shalt brave The wanderer's perils on the sea!

THERE 'S MUSIC IN A MOTHER'S VOICE.

There 's music in a mother's voice, More sweet than breezes sighing; There 's kindness in a mother's glance, Too pure for ever dying.

There 's love within a mother's breast, So deep, 'tis still o'erflowing, And for her own a tender care, That 's ever, ever growing.

And when a mother kneels to heaven, And for her child is praying, Oh, who shall half the fervour tell That burns in all she 's saying!

A mother, when she, like a star, Sets into heaven before us, From that bright home of love, all pure, Still minds and watches o'er us.

THE BRIG OF ALLAN.

Come, memory, paint, though far away, The wimpling stream, the broomy brae, The upland wood, the hill-top gray, Whereon the sky seems fallin'; Paint me each cheery, glist'ning row Of shelter'd cots, the woods below, Where Airthrie's healing waters flow By bonny Brig of Allan.

Paint yonder Grampian heights sublime, The Roman eagles could not climb, And Stirling, crown'd in after time With Royalty's proud dwallin'; These, with the Ochils, sentry keep, Where Forth, that fain in view would sleep, Tries, from his Links, oft back to peep At bonny Brig of Allan.

Oh, lovely, when the rising sun Greets Stirling towers, so steep and dun, And silver Forth's calm breast upon The golden beams are fallin'! Then, trotting down to join his flood, Through rocky steeps, besprent with wood, How bright, in morning's joyous mood, Appears the stream of Allan!

Upon its banks how sweet to stray, With rod and line, the livelong day, Or trace each rural charm, away From cark of every callin'! There dove-like, o'er my path would brood The spirit pure of solitude; For native each rapt, genial mood Is to the beauteous Allan.

Oh, witching as its scenes, and bright As is its cloudless summer light, Be still its maids, the soul's delight Of every truthful callan'! Be health around it ever spread, To light the eye, to lift the head, And joy on every heart be shed That beats by Brig of Allan!

GEORGE OUTRAM.

The author of "Legal Lyrics," a small volume of humorous songs, printed for private circulation, George Outram, was born in the vicinity of Glasgow in 1805. His father, a native of England, was partner and manager in the Clyde Iron Works. In 1827 he was called to the Scottish bar, and practised for some years as an advocate. To the character of an orator he made no pretensions, but he evinced great ability as a chamber counsel. He accepted, in 1837, the editorship of the _Glasgow Herald_, and continued the principal conductor of this journal till the period of his death. He died at Rosemore, on the shores of the Holy Loch, on the 16th September 1856, in his fifty-first year. His remains were interred in Warriston Cemetery, Edinburgh.

Of most retiring disposition, Mr Outram confined his intercourse to a limited circle of friends, by whom he was esteemed for his genial worth and interesting conversation. By the late Lord Cockburn he was especially beloved. He has left in MS. several interesting songs, which are likely to be published by his executors. His cousin-german, General Sir James Outram, is well known for his military services in India.

CHARGE ON A BOND OF ANNUITY.[7]

AIR--_"Duncan Davidson."_

I gaed to spend a week in Fife, An unco week it proved to be, For there I met a waesome wife, Lamenting her viduity. Her grief brak' out sae fierce and fell, I thought her heart wad burst the shell; And, I was sae left to mysel, I sell't her an annuity.

The bargain lookit fair eneugh, She just was turned o' saxty-three; I couldna guess'd she 'd prove sae teugh By human ingenuity. But years have come, and years have gane, And there she 's yet as stieve 's a stane; The auld wife 's growing young again Since she got her annuity.

She 's crined awa to bane an' skin, But that it seems is nought to me; She 's like to live, although she 's in The last stage o' tenuity. She munches wi' her wizen'd gums, An' stumps about on legs o' thrums, But comes--as sure as Christmas comes-- To ca' for her annuity.

She jokes her joke, an' cracks her crack, As spunkie as a growin' flea; An' there she sits upon my back A livin' perpetuity. She hurkles by her ingle side, An' toasts an' tans her wrinkled hide; Lord kens how lang she yet may bide To ca' for her annuity.

I read the tables drawn wi' care For an Insurance Company; Her chance o' life was stated there Wi' perfect perspicuity. But tables here, or tables there, She 's lived ten years beyond her share; An 's like to live a dozen mair To ca' for her annuity.

I gat the loon that drew the deed, We spell'd it ower richt carefully; In vain he yerk'd his souple head To find an ambiguity. It 's dated, tested, a' complete; The proper stamp, nae word delete; And diligence, as on decreet, May pass for her annuity.

* * * * *

I thought that grief might gar her quit, Her only son was lost at sea; But aff her wits behuved to flit An' leave her in fatuity. She threeps, an' threeps he 's livin' yet For a' the tellin' she can get; But catch the doited wife forget To ca' for her annuity.