Part 7

The sun's last beams Fell in golden gleams On water and wave-girt isle, And in tinge all fair Dipp'd the girl's bright hair And heighten'd her happy smile.

Away--away! In wild ecstasy She threads the abyss's brink, Where waters--black-- Of the cataract Into drifted snow-waves sink.

A father's eye Looketh anxiously On the freaks of his favour'd child, Till her spirit appals His soul, and he calls "Antoinette" in accents wild.

A bolder heart Loves the girl's free sport, And he grasps her by the gown, Then tosseth her high In the twilight sky-- But, heavens! she falleth down!

She sinks in the wave; He swimmeth to save! Oh, never was mortal arm More manfully braced, As it grasps her slim waist, And struggles in frantic alarm!

In vain does he strike-- The fresh waves break, And the doom'd ones are downward borne! Yet the swimmer's eye Seemeth still to defy The might of the merciless storm.

More loud than before Is the cataract's roar, And the furrow'd wave is bright With many a pearl From the shining swirl Of the water's lucid light.

And down below Is the woolly snow Of Niagara's wrathful bed, But the lip of the bold Hath never told The secrets that there lie hid.

A strong arm, press'd Round a maiden's waist On the doleful morrow is seen, And her oozy hair Laves his forehead bare With the waft of the wavy stream.

ROBERT WILSON.

Robert Wilson was born in the parish of Carnbee, and county of Fife. He practised for some time as a surgeon in St Andrews. He has contributed many pieces of descriptive verse to the periodicals. In 1856, a duodecimo volume of "Poems" from his pen was published at Boston, U.S. His other publications are a small volume on "The Social Condition of France," "Lectures on the Game Laws," and several _brochures_ on subjects of a socio-political nature. He has latterly resided at Aberdour, Fifeshire.

AWAY, AWAY, MY GALLANT BARK.

Away, away, my gallant bark! The waves are white and high; And fast the long becalmed clouds Are sailing in the sky. The merry breeze which wafts them on, And chafes the billow's spray, Will urge thee in thy watery flight: My gallant bark, away!

Now, like the sea-bird's snowy plumes, Are spread thy winged sails, To soar above the mountain waves, And scoop their glassy vales; And, like the bird, thou 'lt calmly rest, Thy azure journey o'er, The shadow of thy folded wings Upon the sunny shore.

Away, away, my gallant bark! Across the billow's foam; I leave awhile, for ocean's strife, The quiet haunts of home; The green fields of my fatherland For many a stormy bay; The blazing hearth for beacon-light: My gallant bark, away!

LOVE.

What fond, delicious ecstasy does early love impart! Resistless, as a spring-tide sea, it flows into the heart, Pervading with its living wave the bosom's inmost core, That thrills with many a gentle hope it never felt before.

And o'er the stripling's glowing heart, extending far and wide, Through passion's troubled realm does Love with angel sway preside; And smiles are shed that cast a light o'er many a future year, And whispers soft are conjured up of lips that are not near.

With promises of fairyland this daylight world teems, And sleep comes with forgetfulness or fraught with lovely dreams; And there is magic in the touch, and music in the sigh, And, far more eloquent than speech, a language in the eye.

And hope the constant bosom cheers with prospects ever new; But if the favour'd one prove false, oh! who can then be true? Our fond illusions disappear, like slumber's shadowy train, And we ne'er recall those vanish'd hopes, nor feel that love again.

EDWARD POLIN.

A writer of prose and poetry, Edward Polin was born at Paisley on the 29th December 1816. He originally followed the business of a pattern-setter in his native town. Fond of literary pursuits, he extensively contributed to the local journals. He subsequently became sub-editor of the _Edinburgh Weekly Chronicle_. In 1843 he accepted the editorship of the _Newcastle Courant_--a situation which, proving unsuitable, he retained only a few months. Resolved to adventure on the literary field of London, he sailed from Newcastle in August 1843. The vessel being at anchor off Yarmouth, he obtained leave from the captain to bathe. He had left the vessel only a few yards, when his hands were observed to fall into the water. One of the seamen promptly descended with a rope, and he was speedily raised upon the deck. Every effort to restore animation however proved fruitless. This closing event of a hopeful career took place on the 22d August 1843, when the poet had attained only his 27th year. His remains were interred in St George's churchyard, Cripplegate, London.

A young man of no inconsiderable genius, Polin afforded indication of speedily attaining a literary reputation. By those to whom he was intimately known his premature death was deeply lamented. Many of his MS. compositions are in the hands of friends, who may yet give them to the world.

A GOOD OLD SONG.

I have wander'd afar, 'neath stranger skies, And have revell'd amid their flowers; I have lived in the light of Italian eyes, And dream'd in Italian bowers, While the wondrous strains of their sunny clime Have been trill'd to enchant mine ears, But, oh, how I longed for the song and the time When my heart could respond with its tears. Then sing me a song, a good old song-- Not the foreign, the learn'd, the grand-- But a simple song, a good old song Of my own dear fatherland.

I have heard, with the great, and the proud, and the gay All, all they would have me adore Of that music divine that, enraptured, they say Can be equall'd on earth never more. And it may be their numbers indeed are divine, Though they move not my heart through mine ears, But a ballad old of the dear "langsyne" Can alone claim my tribute of tears.

I have come from a far and a foreign clime To mine own loved haunts once more, With a yearning for all of my childhood's time And the dear home-sounds of yore; And here, if there yet be love for me, Oh, away with those stranger lays, And now let my only welcome be An old song of my boyhood's days.

ALEXANDER BUCHANAN.

Alexander Buchanan was the son of a maltster at Bucklyvie, Stirlingshire, where he was born in 1817. He attended a school in Glasgow, but was chiefly self-taught. In his youth he composed verses, and continued to produce respectable poetry. For a period he carried on business as a draper in Cowcaddens, Glasgow. Retiring from merchandise, he fixed his residence in the village of Govan. His death took place on the 8th February 1852, in his thirty-fifth year. Buchanan has been celebrated, with other local bards, in a small Glasgow publication, entitled, "Lays of St Mungo." Numerous poems from his pen remain in MS. in the possession of his widow, who continues to reside at Govan.

I WANDER'D ALANE.

AIR--_"Lucy's Flittin'."_

I wander'd alane at the break o' the mornin', The dun clouds o' nicht were a' wearin' awa'; The sun rose in glory, the gray hills adornin', A' glintin like gowd were their tappits o' snaw; Adown by my side row'd the rock-bedded Kelvin, While nature aroun' was beginnin' to green, An' auld cottar bodies their yardies were delvin', Kennin' thrift in the morn brocht pleasure at e'en.

I leant me against an auld mossy-clad palin', An' noo an' then dichted a tear frae my e'e, I look'd on the bodies, an' envied their toilin'-- Though lowly their lot, they seem'd happy by me; I thought on my riches, yet feckless the treasure, I tried to forget, but the labour was vain; My wifie an' bairn were a' my life's pleasure, An' they to the grave baith thegither had gane.

The thochts o' her love had awaken'd my sorrow, The laugh o' my bairnie cam' back on mine ears, An', piercing my heart wi' the force o' an arrow, It open'd anew the saft channel o' tears. I grat an' I sabb'd till I thocht life wad lea' me, An' happy I then could hae parted wi' life-- For naething on earth sic enjoyment could gie me As the glee o' my bairn an' smile o' my wife.

Oh, weary the day was when they were ta'en frae me, Leavin' me lane, the last leaf on the tree; Nae comfort the cauld look o' strangers can gie me-- I 'm wae, and they a' look as waefu' on me. I wander me aften to break melancholy, On ilk thing that 's leevin' the maxim I see, Not walth to the weary 's like peace to the lowly; Sae, burden'd wi' grief, I maun gang till I die.

KATIE BLAIR.[8]

I 've met wi' mony maidens fair In kintras far awa, I 've met wi' mony here at hame, Baith bonny dames an' braw; But nane e'er had the power to charm My love into a snare Till ance I saw the witchin' e'e An' smile o' Katie Blair.

She wons by Kelvin's bonnie banks, Whar' thick the greenwoods grow, Whar' waters loupin' drouk the leaves While merrily they row. They drouk the lily an' the rose, An' mony flowerets fair, Yet they ne'er kiss a flower sae sweet As winsome Katie Blair.

She is a queen owre a' the flowers O' garden an' o' lea-- Her ae sweet smile mair cheering is Than a' their balms to me. As licht to morn she's a' to me, My bosom's only care; An' worthy o' the truest love Is winsome Katie Blair.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] Printed from the Author's MS.

DAVID TAYLOR.

David Taylor was born, in April 1817, in the parish of Dollar, and county of Clackmannan. In early life his parents, having removed to the village of St Ninians, near Stirling, he was there apprenticed to a tartan manufacturer. He has continued to reside at St Ninians, and has been chiefly employed as a tartan weaver. He has written numerous poems and lyrics, and composed music to some of the more popular songs. Latterly he has occupied himself as a teacher of vocal music.

MY AIN GUDEMAN.

O dear, dear to me Is my ain gudeman, For kindly, frank, an' free Is my ain gudeman. An' though thretty years ha'e fled, An' five sin' we were wed, Nae bitter words I 've had Wi' my ain gudeman.

I 've had seven bonnie bairns To my ain gudeman, An' I 've nursed them i' their turns For my ain gudeman; An' ane did early dee, But the lave frae skaith are free, An' a blessin' they 're to me An' my ain gudeman.

I cheerie clamb the hill Wi' my ain gudeman; An', if it 's Heaven's will, Wi' my ain gudeman, In life's calm afternoon, I wad toddle cannie doun, Syne at the foot sleep soun' Wi' my ain gudeman.

ROBERT CATHCART.

Robert Cathcart was born in 1817, and follows the occupation of a weaver in Paisley. Besides a number of fugitive pieces of some merit, he published, in 1842, a small collection of verses entitled, "The Early Blossom."

MARY

Sweet 's the gloamin's dusky gloom, Spreadin' owre the lea, Mary; Sweeter far thy love in bloom, Whilk blaws alane for me, Mary. When the woods in silence sleep, And is hid in dusk the steep, When the flowers in sorrow weep I 'll sigh and smile wi' thee, Mary.

When love plays in rosy beams Roun' the hawthorn-tree, Mary, Then thine e'e a language gleams Whilk tells o' love for me, Mary. When thy sigh blends wi' my smile, Silence reigns o'er us the while, Then my heart, 'mid flutt'ring toil, Tells thy love's bloom'd for me, Mary.

When our hands are join'd in love, Ne'er to part again, Mary, Till death ance mair his arrows prove And tak us for his ain, Mary; Then our joys are crown'd wi' bliss! In a hallow'd hour like this, We in rapture join to kiss And taste o' heaven again, Mary.

WILLIAM JAMIE.

William Jamie was born on the 25th December 1818, in the parish of Marykirk, Kincardineshire. He received his education at the parish school of Maryculter, Aberdeenshire, whither his father removed during his boyhood. After working for some time with his father as a blacksmith, he engaged for several years in the work of tuition. From early manhood a writer of verses, he published, in 1844, at Laurencekirk, a small volume of poems, entitled, "The Muse of the Mearns," which passed through two editions. Of his various subsequent publications may be enumerated, "The Emigrant's Family, and other Poems;" "The Musings of a Wanderer," and a prose tale, entitled, "The Jacobite's Son." Since 1851 he has resided at Pollockshaws, in the vicinity of Glasgow. On the sale of his poetical works he is wholly dependent for subsistence.

AULD SCOTIA'S SANGS.

Although the lays o' ither lands Ha'e mony an artfu' air, They want the stirrin' melody An auld man lo'es to hear. Auld Scotia's sangs hae winnin' charms Which maks the bosom fain; And to her sons, that 's far awa', Wi' thochts o' hame again.

Sweet bygane scenes, and native charms, They fondly bring to min' The trystin'-tree and bonny lass, Wi a' love's dreams langsyne. Oh! lilt me owre some tender strain, For weel I lo'e to hear-- Be 't bonny "Broom o' Cowdenknowes," And "Bush aboon Traquair."

Or "Banks and braes o' bonny Doon," Whaur Robin tuned his lyre; And "Roslin Castle's" ruined wa's-- Oh! sing, and I'll admire! For I hae heard auld Scotia's sangs Sung owre and owre wi' glee; And the mair I hear their artless strains They dearer grow to me.

Enchanting strains again they bring, Fond memory glints alang To humble bards wha woke the lyre, And wove the patriot's sang. Oh! leeze me on our ain auld sangs, The sangs o' youth and glee; They tell o' Bruce and glorious deeds, Which made our country free.

JOHN CRAWFORD.

A poet possessing, in an eminent degree, the lyrical simplicity and power of the Bard of Coila, John Crawford was, in the year 1816, born at Greenock, in the same apartment which, thirty years before, had witnessed the death of Burns' "Highland Mary," his mother's cousin. With only a few months' attendance at school, he was, in boyhood, thrown on his own resources for support. Selecting the profession of a house-painter, he left Greenock in his eighteenth year, and has since prosecuted his vocation in the town of Alloa. Of strong native genius, he early made himself acquainted with general literature, while he has sought recreation in the composition of verses. In 1850 he published a small duodecimo volume of lyrics, entitled, "Doric Lays; being snatches of Song and Ballad." This little work was much commended by Lord Jeffrey, and received the strong approbation of the late amiable Miss Mitford. "There is," wrote the latter to a correspondent, "an originality in his writings very rare in a follower of Burns.... This is the true thing--a flower springing from the soil, not merely cut and stuck into the earth. Will you tell Mr Crawford how much pleasure he has given to a poor invalid?"

Crawford is an occasional contributor to the public journals. He is at present preparing an historical and descriptive work, to be entitled, "Memorials of the Town and Parish of Alloa." The following poetical epistle in tribute to his genius is from the pen of Mr Scott Riddell.

The days, when write wad minstrel men To ane anither thus, are gone, And days ha'e come upon us when Bards praise nae anthems but their own: But I will love the fashion old While breath frae heaven this breast can draw, And joy when I my tale have told Anent the Bard of Alloa.

Thou, Crawford, sung hast mony a lay. Far mair through nature's power than art's, Pouring them frae thine ain, that they Might reach and gladden other hearts; Therefore our hearts shall honour thee, And say't alike in cot and ha'-- Sublime thro' pure simplicity Is he--the Bard of Alloa.

Though far o'er earth these lays shall roam, And make to mankind their appeal; 'Tis not because they 'll lack a home, While Scottish hearts, as wont, can feel: The swains shall sing them on the hill, The maidens in the greenwood-shaw, And mothers bless, wi' warm guid-will, The gifted Bard of Alloa.

E'en weans, wi' their shauchled shoon, And clouted hose, and pinafores, Will lilt, methinks, these lays, sae soon As they can staucher 'boot the doors: Sae shall they sing anent themsells To nature true, as its ain law; For minstrel nane on earth excels In this the Bard of Alloa.

Fresh as the moorland's early dews, And glowing as the woodland rose, Of hearts, his thought gives forth the hues, As richly bright as heaven's ain bow 's-- With me, my native land, rejoice, And let the bard thy bosom thaw, As Spring's sweet breathing comes the voice Of him wha sings frae Alloa.

Then rest thee, Crawford, on the lawn, And thus, if song thy soul shall sway, I'll bless thee, while thy toil-worn han' Pu's for itsel' a flower or twa; 'Tis idle--gowd-gear hearts will say-- But maist for whilk will tear-drops fa' When death has come, and flowers shall bloom Aboon the Bard of Alloa?

Oh, sing, ye bards, to nature true, And glory shall your brows adorn, And else than this, by none or few, The poet's wreath will long be worn. Cauld fa' the notes o' him wha sings O' scenes whilk man yet never saw-- Pour then, frae nature's ain heart-strings, Your strains like him of Alloa.

Possess maun he a poet's heart, And he maun ha'e a poet's mind Wha deftly plays the generous part That warms the cauld, and charms the kind. Nor scorn, ye frozen anes, the powers Whilk hinder other hearts to fa' Into a sordid sink--like yours-- But bless the Bard of Alloa.

Ah! little ye may trow or ken The mony cares, and waes, and toils, 'Mang hearts and hames o' lowly men Whilk nought save poetry beguiles; It lifts fu' mony fortune 'boon, When she begins her face to thraw, That ne'er sae sweet a harp could tune As his that sounds frae Alloa.

And as for me, ere this I'd lain Where mark'd my head a mossy stane, Had it not made the joys my ain When a' life's other joys were gane. If 'mang the mountains lone and gray, Unknown, my early joys I sung, When cares and woes wad life belay, How could my harp away be flung?

The dearest power in life below, Is life's ain native power of song, As he alone can truly know, To whom it truly may belong. Lighten'd hath it fu' mony a step, And lessen'd hath it mony a hill, And lighted up the rays o' hope, Ay, and it up shall light them still.

Lo! avarice cauld can gowd secure, Ambition win the wreath o' fame, Wealth gies reputed wit and power, And crowns wi' joy the owner's aim. But be my meed the generous heart, For nought can charm this heart o' mine, Like those who own the undying art That gies a claim to Ossian's line.

Hale be thy heart, dear Crawford--hale Be every heart belonging thee,-- The day whan fortune gies ye kale Out through the reek, may ye ne'er see. Ilk son o' song is dear to me; And though thy face I never saw, I'll honour till the day I dee The gifted Bard o' Alloa.

MY AULD WIFIE JEAN.

AIR--_"There 'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame."_

My couthie auld wifie, aye blythsome to see, As years slip awa' aye the dearer to me; For ferlies o' fashion I carena ae preen When I cleek to the kirk wi' my auld wifie Jean.

The thoughts o' the past are aye pleasin' to me, And mair sae when love lights my auld wifie's e'e; For then I can speak o' the days I ha'e seen When care found nae hame i' the heart o' my Jean.

A hantle we've borne since that moment o' bliss, Frae thy lips, breathin' balm, when I stole the first kiss, When I read a response to my vows in thy e'en. An, blushin', I prest to my bosom my Jean.

Like a rose set in snaw was the bloom on thy cheek, Thy hair, wi' its silken snood, glossy and sleek, When the Laird o' Drumlochie, sae lithless and lean, Wad ha'e gane a lang mile for ae glisk o' my Jean.

Thy mither was dead, and thy faither was fain That the lang-luggit lairdie wad ca' thee his ain; But auld age and frailty could ne'er gang atween The vows I had niffer'd wi' bonnie young Jean.

I canna weel work, an' ye 're weary an' worn, The gudes and the ills lang o' life we ha'e borne; But we ha'e a hame, an' we 're cozie and bein, And the thrift I've to thank o' my auld wifie Jean.

Baith beddin' an' cleadin' o' a' kind ha'e we, A sowp for the needy we 've aye had to gie, A bite and a drap for baith fremit an' frien', Was aye the warst wish o' my auld wifie Jean.

The puir beildless body has scugg'd the cauld blast, 'Yont our hallan he 's houft till the gurl gaed past, An' a bite aff our board, aye sae tidy an' clean, He 's gat wi' gudewill frae my auld wifie Jean.

Our hopes we ha'e set where our bairnies ha'e gaen; Though lyart we've grown since they frae us were ta'en; The thoughts o' them yet brings the tears to our e'en, And aft I 've to comfort my auld wifie Jean.

The paughty and proud ha'e been laid i' the dust, Since the first hairst I shore, since the first clod I cuist; And soon we'll lie laigh; but aboon we 've a Frien', And bright days are comin' for me an' my Jean.

THE LAND O' THE BONNET AND PLAID.

Hurra! for the land o' the broom-cover'd brae, The land o' the rowan, the haw, and the slae; Where waves the blue harebell in dingle and glade-- The land o' the pibroch, the bonnet, and plaid.

Hurra! for the hills o' the cromlech and cairn, Where blossoms the thistle by hillocks o' fern; There Freedom in triumph an altar has made For holiest rites in the land o' the plaid.

A coronal wreath, where the wild flowers bloom, To garnish the martyr and patriot's tomb: Shall their names ever perish--their fame ever fade Who ennobled the land o' the bonnet and plaid?

Oh, hame o' my bairnhood, ye hills o' my love! The haunt o' the freeman for aye may ye prove; And honour'd forever be matron and maid In the land o' the heather, the bonnet, and plaid.

Hurra! for the land o' the deer and the rae, O' the gowany glen and the bracken-clad brae, Where blooms our ain thistle, in sunshine and shade-- Dear badge o' the land o' the bonnet and plaid.

SING ON, FAIRY DEVON.[9]

Sing on, fairy Devon, 'Mong gardens and bowers, Where love's feast lies spread In an Eden o' flowers. What visions o' beauty My mind has possess'd, In thy gowany dell Where a seraph might rest.

Sing on, lovely river, To hillock and tree A lay o' the loves O' my Jessie and me; For nae angel lightin', A posie to pu', Can match the fair form O' the lassie I lo'e.

Sweet river, dear river, Sing on in your glee, In thy pure breast the mind O' my Jessie I see. How aft ha'e I wander'd, As gray gloamin' fell, Rare dreamin's o' heaven My lassie to tell.