Part 6

If there 's a sough o' cholera Or typhus, wha sae gleg as she! She buys up baths, an' drugs, an' a', In siccan superfluity! She doesna need--she's fever proof-- The pest walked o'er her very roof; She tauld me sae, and then her loof Held out for her annuity.

Ae day she fell, her arm she brak, A compound fracture as could be; Nae leech the cure wad undertak, Whate'er was the gratuity. It 's cured! she handles 't like a flail, It does as weel in bits as hale; But I 'm a broken man mysel' Wi' her and her annuity.

Her broozled flesh and broken banes Are weel as flesh and banes can be, She beats the taeds that live in stanes An' fatten in vacuity! They die when they 're exposed to air, They canna thole the atmosphere; But her! expose her onywhere, She lives for her annuity.

* * * * *

The water-drap wears out the rock As this eternal jade wears me; I could withstand the single shock, But not the continuity. It 's pay me here, an' pay me there, An' pay me, pay me evermair; I 'll gang demented wi' despair; I 'm _charged_ for her annuity.

FOOTNOTES:

[7] This facetious composition, in the original form, extends to considerably greater length.

HENRY INGLIS.

Henry Inglis is the son of William Inglis, Esq. of Glaspin, W.S., and was born in Edinburgh on the 6th November 1806. His early years were spent at Middleton, his father's residence in Linlithgowshire. Completing with distinction the usual course of classical study at the High School of Edinburgh, he entered the University of that city. At the close of a philosophical curriculum, he devoted himself to legal pursuits, and became a writer to the Signet. In 1851 he published "Marican, and other Poems," in one volume octavo. Another poetical work, entitled "The Briar of Threave," appeared from his pen in 1855. Mr Inglis is at present engaged with pieces illustrative of the history of the Covenant, which may afterwards be offered to the public.

The representative of the old Border family of Inglis of Branxholme, Mr Inglis is great-grandson of the celebrated Colonel Gardiner, who fell on the field of Preston in 1745.

WEEP AWAY.

Weep away, heart, weep away! Let no muleteer Be afraid To weep; for a brave heart may Lament for a dear, Fickle maid.

The lofty sky weeps in cloud, The earth weeps in dews From its core; The diamond brooks weep aloud, The flowers change the hues Which they wore.

The grass mourns in the sunbeam, In gums weep the trees And in dye; And if mourn meadow and stream-- Inanimate these-- May not I?

The wood-pigeon mourns his mate, The caged birds bewail Freedom gone; Shall not man mourn over fate? Dumb sorrow assail Him alone?

Then weep on, heart, weep away! Let no muleteer Be afraid To weep; for a brave heart may Lament for a dear, Fickle maid.

JAMES MANSON.

James Manson, one of the conductors of the _Glasgow Herald_, has composed a number of lyrics, some of which have been set to music. Mr Manson was born in the parish of Kilwinning, Ayrshire, about the year 1812. He was bred to a laborious handicraft occupation, at which he wrought industriously during a course of years.

OCEAN.

_Set to Music by H. Lambeth._

ON SHORE--CALM.

Summer Ocean, Placid Ocean, Soft and sweet thy lullaby; Shadows lightly, Sunbeams brightly, Flicker o'er thee noiselessly.

Resting gently on thy bosom, Snowy sea-gulls preen thy wings, While perfumed sighs, from many a blossom, Float around the strain the skylark sings.

Love's emotion, Summer Ocean, Like thy self, 'neath cloudless skies, Glances brightly, Dances lightly Till the fond illusion flies.

AT SEA--STORM.

Winter Ocean, Furious Ocean, Fierce and loud thy choral lay: Storm-clouds soaring, Whirlwinds roaring O'er thy breast in madness play.

Homeless petrels shriek their omen Harshly 'mid thy billows' roar; Fleshless bones of shipwreck'd seamen Dash against thy rock-ribb'd shore.

War's commotion, Winter Ocean, Like thyself, when tempest driven, By passion hurl'd, Would wreck the world, And mock the wrath-scowling heaven.

THE HUNTER'S DAUGHTER.

_Set to Music by Herr Kuecken._

When loud the horn is sounding Along the distant hills, Then would I rove, ne'er weary, The Hunter's Daughter near me, By flowery margin'd rills.

'Mid stately pines embosom'd There stands the Hunter's cot, From which this maiden daily At morning peeps so gaily, Contented with her lot.

This Hunter and his Daughter Make everything their prey; He slays the wild roe bounding, Her eyes young hearts are wounding-- No shafts so sure as they!

AN INVITATION.

_Music arranged by Julius Siligmann._

The skylark sings his matin lay, The waking flowers at dawning day, With perfumed breath, sigh, Come! come! come! Oh, haste, Love, come with me, To the wild wood come with me. Hark, the wing'd warblers singing, Come with me; Beauteous flowers, their perfume flinging, Wait for thee!

The sunlight sleeps upon the lea, And sparkles o'er the murmuring sea, The wanton wind sighs, Come! come! come! Oh, haste, Love, come with me, To the wild wood come with me-- Come and gather luscious berries, Come with me; Clustering grapes and melting cherries Wait for thee!

My bird of love, my beauteous flower, Come, reign the queen of yonder bower, 'Tis True-love whispers, Come! come! come! Oh, haste, then, come with me, To the wild wood come with me. Life's first fairest hours are fleeting-- Come with me; Hope, and Joy, and Love's fond greeting Wait for thee!

CUPID AND THE ROSE-BUD.

_Set to Music by H. Lambeth._

Young Love once woo'd a budding Rose, (_Sing hey down ho, the bleak winds blow._) With fond delight his bosom glows, (_How softly fall the flakes of snow._) Love watch'd the flower whose ruby tips Peep'd coyly forth, like pouting lips, Then nearer to the Rose he trips; (_The stately oak will soon lie low._)

Young Love was fond and bashful too, (_Sing hey down ho, the sea rolls aye._) He sigh'd and knew not what to do; (_Life like an arrow flies away._) Then whispering low his cherish'd wish, The Rose-bud trembled on her bush, While redder grew her maiden blush; (_Ruddy eve forecasts the brightest day._)

To pull this Rose young Love then tried; (_'Tis sweet to hear the skylark sing._) Her blush of hope she strove to hide; (_Joy soars aloft on painted wing._) Love press'd the Rose-bud to his breast, He felt the thorn, but well he guess'd Such "Nay" meant "Yea," 'twas fond Love's jest; (_'Tis honey soothes the bee's fell sting._)

ROBIN GOODHEART'S CAROL.

TUNE--_"The Brave Old Oak."_

'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! all eyes are bright, And joyous songs abound; Our log burns high, but it glows less bright Than the eyes which sparkle round. The merry laugh, and the jocund tale, And the kiss 'neath the mistletoe, Make care fly as fast as the blustering gale That wreaths the new fallen snow. 'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! all eyes are bright, And joyous thoughts abound; The log burns high, but it glows less bright Than the eyes which sparkle round.

'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! see the old grandsire Forgets his weight of years; He laughs with the young, and a fitful fire Beams through his unbidden tears. With tremulous tenor he joins the strain-- The song of his manhood's prime; For his thoughts grow young, and he laughs again, While his aged head nods time. 'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! &c.

'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! and the infant's heart Beats high with a new delight, And youths and maidens, with guileless art, Make merry the livelong night. The time flies on with gladsome cheer, And welcomes pass around-- 'Tis the warmest night of all the year, Though winter hath chain'd the ground. 'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! &c.

JAMES HEDDERWICK.

James Hedderwick, proprietor and editor of the _Glasgow Citizen_, was born at Glasgow on the 18th January 1814. His father, who bore the same Christian name, was latterly Queen's printer in that city. At an early age the subject of this sketch was put to the printing business in his father's office. His tastes, however, being more literary than mechanical, he gradually became dissatisfied with his position, and occupied his leisure hours by contributing, in prose and verse, to sundry periodicals. In his sixteenth year he spent some time in London, in the course of which he attended the Rhetoric class of the London University, and carried off the first prize. When little more than twenty years of age, he obtained the situation of sub-editor of the _Scotsman_ newspaper. He now applied himself assiduously to political writing, but continued, at the same time, to seek recreation in those lighter departments of literature which were more in accordance with his personal tastes. Several of his poetical pieces, contributed to the _Scotsman_, were copied into _Chambers' Edinburgh Journal_, and have since frequently appeared in different periodicals. One of these, entitled "First Grief," was lately quoted in terms of approbation by a writer in _Fraser's Magazine_. Others have found their way, in an anonymous shape, into a London publication entitled "Beautiful Poetry." In 1842 Mr Hedderwick returned to his native city, and started the _Glasgow Citizen_--a weekly newspaper which continues to maintain an honourable position. Previous to leaving Edinburgh he was entertained at a public dinner, attended by men of letters and other leading individuals. The drudgery of newspaper life has left Mr Hedderwick little leisure for contributions to polite literature. While in Edinburgh, however, he wrote one number of "Wilson's Tales of the Border," and has since contributed occasionally to other works. In 1844 he published a small collection of poems, but in too costly a form for general circulation.

MY BARK AT SEA.

Away, away, like a child at play, Like a living ocean-child, Through the feathery spray she cleaves her way To the billows' music wild; The sea is her wide-spread pleasure ground, And the waves around her leap, As with joyous bound, to their mystic sound, She dances o'er the deep!

Sometimes at rest, on the water's breast, She lies with folded wing, But now, wind-chased and wave-caress'd, She moves a joyous thing! And away she flies all gleaming bright, While a wave in lofty pride, Like a gallant knight, in plumage white, Is bounding by her side!

For her glorious path the sea she hath, And she wanders bold and free, And the tempest's breath and the billows' wrath Are her mighty minstrelsy! A queen the crested waves among, A light and graceful form, She sweeps along, to the wild-winds' song, Like the genius of the storm!

SORROW AND SONG.

Weep not over poet's wrong, Mourn not his mischances; Sorrow is the source of song, And of gentle fancies.

Rills o'er rocky beds are borne Ere they gush in whiteness; Pebbles are wave-chafed and worn Ere they shew their brightness.

Sweetest gleam the morning flowers When in tears they waken; Earth enjoys refreshing showers When the boughs are shaken.

Ceylon's glistening pearls are sought In its deepest waters; From the darkest mines are brought Gems for beauty's daughters.

Through the rent and shiver'd rock Limpid water breaketh; 'Tis but when the chords are struck That their music waketh.

Flowers, by heedless footstep press'd, All their sweets surrender; Gold must brook the fiery test Ere it shew its splendour.

When the twilight, cold and damp, Gloom and silence bringeth, Then the glow-worm lights its lamp, And the night-bird singeth.

Stars come forth when Night her shroud Draws as Daylight fainteth; Only on the tearful cloud God his rainbow painteth.

Weep not, then, o'er poet's wrong, Mourn not his mischances; Sorrow is the source of song And of gentle fancies.

THE LAND FOR ME.

I 've been upon the moonlit deep When the wind had died away, And like an Ocean-god asleep The bark majestic lay; But lovelier is the varied scene, The hill, the lake, the tree, When bathed in light of Midnight's Queen; The land! the land! for me.

The glancing waves I 've glided o'er When gently blew the breeze; But sweeter was the distant shore, The zephyr 'mong the trees. The murmur of the mountain rill, The blossoms waving free, The song of birds on every hill; The land! the land! for me.

The billows I have been among When they roll'd in mountains dark, And Night her blackest curtain hung Around our heaving bark; But give me, when the storm is fierce, My home and fireside glee, Where winds may howl, but dare not pierce; The land! the land! for me.

And when around the lightning flash'd I 've been upon the deep, And to the gulf beneath I 've dash'd Adown the liquid steep; But now that I am safe on shore, There let me ever be; The sea let others wander o'er; The land! the land! for me.

THE EMIGRANTS.

The daylight was dying, the twilight was dreary, And eerie the face of the fast-falling night, But closing the shutters, we made ourselves cheery With gas-light and fire-light, and young faces bright.

When, hark! came a chorus of wailing and anguish! We ran to the door and look'd out through the dark; Till gazing, at length we began to distinguish The slow-moving masts of an ocean-bound bark.

Alas! 'twas the emigrants leaving the river, Their homes in the city, their haunts in the dell; From kindred and friends they had parted for ever, But their voices still blended in cries of farewell.

We saw not the eyes that their last looks were taking; We heard but the shouts that were meant to be cheers, But which told of the aching of hearts that were breaking, A past of delight and a future of tears.

And long as we listen'd, in lulls of the night breeze, On our ears the sad shouting in faint music fell, Till methought it seem'd lost in the roll of the white seas, And the rocks and the winds only echoed farewell.

More bright was our home-hearth, more bright and more cosy, As we shut out the night and its darkness once more; But pale were the cheeks, that so radiant and rosy, Were flush'd with delight a few moments before.

So I told how the morning, all lovely and tender, Sweet dew on the hills, and soft light on the sea, Would follow the exiles and float with its splendour, To gild the far land where their homes were to be.

In the eyes of my children were gladness and gleaming, Their little prayer utter'd, how calm was their sleep! But I in my dreaming could hear the wind screaming, And fancy I heard hoarse replies from the deep.

And often, when slumber had cool'd my brow's fever, A dream-utter'd shriek of despair broke the spell; 'Twas the voice of the emigrants leaving the river, And startling the night with their cries of farewell.

FIRST GRIEF.

They tell me first and early love Outlives all after dreams; But the memory of a first great grief To me more lasting seems; The grief that marks our dawning youth To memory ever clings, And o'er the path of future years A lengthen'd shadow flings.

Oh, oft my mind recalls the hour When to my father's home Death came--an uninvited guest-- From his dwelling in the tomb! I had not seen his face before, I shudder'd at the sight, And I shudder still to think upon The anguish of that night!

A youthful brow and ruddy cheek Became all cold and wan; An eye grew dim in which the light Of radiant fancy shone. Cold was the cheek, and cold the brow, The eye was fix'd and dim; And one there mourn'd a brother dead Who would have died for him!

I know not if 'twas summer then, I know not if 'twas spring, But if the birds sang on the trees I did not hear them sing! If flowers came forth to deck the earth Their bloom I did not see; I look'd upon one wither'd flower, And none else bloom'd for me!

A sad and silent time it was Within that house of woe, All eyes were dull and overcast, And every voice was low! And from each cheek at intervals The blood appear'd to start, As if recall'd in sudden haste To aid the sinking heart!

Softly we trod, as if afraid To mar the sleeper's sleep, And stole last looks of his pale face For memory to keep! With him the agony was o'er, And now the pain was ours, As thoughts of his sweet childhood rose Like odour from dead flowers!

And when at last he was borne afar From the world's weary strife, How oft in thought did we again Live o'er his little life! His every look--his every word-- His very voice's tone-- Came back to us like things whose worth Is only prized when gone!

The grief has pass'd with years away And joy has been my lot; But the one is oft remember'd, And the other soon forgot. The gayest hours trip lightest by, And leave the faintest trace; But the deep, deep track that sorrow wears Time never can efface!

THE LINNET.

Tuck, tuck, feer--from the green and growing leaves; Ic, ic, ic--from the little song-bird's throat; How the silver chorus weaves in the sun and 'neath the eaves, While from dewy clover fields comes the lowing of the beeves, And the summer in the heavens is afloat!

Wye, wye, chir--'tis the little linnet sings; Weet, weet, weet--how his pipy treble trills! In his bill and on his wings what a joy the linnet brings, As over all the sunny earth his merry lay he flings, Giving gladness to the music of the rills!

Ic, ic, ir--from a happy heart unbound; Lug, lug, jee--from the dawn till close of day! There is rapture in the sound as it fills the sunshine round, Till the ploughman's careless whistle, and the shepherd's pipe are drown'd, And the mower sings unheeded 'mong the hay!

Jug, jug, joey--oh, how sweet the linnet's theme! Peu, peu, poy--is he wooing all the while? Does he dream he is in heaven, and is telling now his dream, To soothe the heart of pretty girl basking by the stream, Or waiting for her lover at the stile?

Pipe, pipe, chow--will the linnet never weary? Bel bel, tyr--is he pouring forth his vows? The maiden lone and dreary may feel her heart grow cheery, Yet none may know the linnet's bliss except his own sweet dearie, With her little household nestled 'mong the boughs!

WILLIAM BROCKIE.

William Brockie was born in the parish of Smailholm, Roxburghshire. He entered on the world of letters by the publication of a small periodical, entitled _The Galashiels Weekly Journal_. He subsequently edited _The Border Watch_, a newspaper originated at Kelso on behalf of the Free Church. This concern proving unfortunate, he obtained, after a short residence at Prestonkirk, East Lothian, the editorship of the _Shields Gazette_. Compelled to relinquish editorial labour from impaired health, Mr Brockie has latterly established a private academy at South Shields, and has qualified himself to impart instruction in fourteen different languages. Besides a number of pamphlets on a variety of subjects, he has published a "History of South Shields," and a poem, entitled, "The Dusk and the Dawn."

YE 'LL NEVER GANG BACK TO YER MITHER NAE MAIR.

What ails ye, my lassie, my dawtie, my ain? I 've gien ye my word, and I 'll gie ye 't again. There 's naething to fear ye--be lichtsome and cheerie; I 'll never forsake ye, nor leave ye yer lane. We 're sune to be married--I needna say mair; Our love will be leal, though our livin' be bare; In a house o' our ain we 'll be cantie and fain, An' ye 'll never gang back to yer mither nae mair.

We needna be troubled ere trouble be sprung; The warld 's afore us--we 're puir, but we 're young; An' fate will be kind if we 're willint in mind-- Sae keep up yer heart, lass, and dinna be dung. Folk a' hae their troubles, and we 'll get our share, But we 'll warsle out through them, and scorn to despair; Sae cheer up yer heart, for we never shall part, An' ye 'll never gang back to yer mither nae mair.

While we live for each other, our lot will be blest; An' though freens sud forget us, they 'll never be miss'd; We 'll sit down at e'en by the ingle sae bien, An' the cares o' the world 'ill a' be dismiss'd. A couple that strive to be honest and fair May be rich without siller, and guid without lear; Be gentle and true, an' yese never need rue, Nor sigh to win back to yer mither nae mair.

ALEXANDER M'LACHLAN.

Alexander M'Lachlan, author of the following song was born at Pinshall, in the parish of St Ninians, Stirlingshire. He has resided, since 1825, at Muirside in the vicinity of his native place.

THE LANG WINTER E'EN.

Sweet summer 's awa, wi' her verdure sae fair; The ance bonny woodlands are leafless an' bare; To the cot wee robin returns for a screen Frae the cauld stormy blast o' the lang winter e'en.

But charms there are still, though nature has nane, When the hard rackin' toils o' the day by are gane, Then round the fireside social hearts do convene, And pleasantly pass the lang winter e'en.

O' warldly wealth I hae got little share, Yet riches and wealth breed but sorrow and care; Just gi'e me an hour wi' some auld honest frien', To crack o'er youth's joys in the lang winter e'en.

The thochts o' our youth are lichtsome and dear, Like the strains o' the lute they fa' saft on the ear, But chiefly the bliss I ha'e shared wi' my Jean In some love-screenin' shade on a lang winter e'en.

THOMAS YOUNG.

The author of "The Four Pilgrims, or, Life's Mission; and other Poems," a volume of respectable poetry, published at Dundee in 1849, Thomas Young, was born at Tulliebeltane, in the parish of Auchtergaven, Perthshire, in 1815. Receiving an ordinary school education, he accepted, in his twentieth year, a situation in the office of the _Dundee Advertiser_, where he continued till 1851, when a change occurred in the proprietorship. He now proceeded to New York, where he remained about eighteen months. Disappointed in obtaining a suitable appointment, he sailed for Australia; but the vessel being unable to proceed further than Rio de Janeiro, he there procured a situation, with an annual salary of L300. The climate of Rio proving unfavourable, he afterwards sailed to Australia, where he readily found occupation at Mount Alexander. He has been successful at the gold diggings.

ANTOINETTE; OR, THE FALLS.

By Niagara's flood Antoinette stood, And watch'd the wild waves rush on, As they leapt below Into vapoury snow, Or fell into flakes of foam.