Part 9

So Naomi, not loath, was won Unto her gentle will; And thence, with faces westward set, They fared o'er plain and hill; The Lord their staff, till Bethlehem Rose fair upon their sight, A rock-built town with towery crown, In evening's purple light, Midst slopes in vine and olive clad, And spread along the brook, White fields, with barley waving, That woo'd the reaper's hook.

* * * * *

Now for the sunny harvest field Sweet Ruth her mother leaves, And goes a-gleaning after The maids that bind the sheaves. And the great lord of the harvest Is of her husband's race, And looks upon the lonely one With gentleness and grace; And he loves her for the brightness And freshness of her youth, And for her unforgetting love, Her firm enduring truth-- The love and truth that guided Ruth The border mountains o'er, Where her people and her own land She left for evermore.

So he took her to his home and heart, And years of soft repose Did recompense her patient faith, Her meekly-suffer'd woes; And she became the noblest dame Of palmy Palestine, And the stranger was the mother Of that grand and glorious line Whence sprang our royal David, In the tide of generations, The anointed king of Israel, The terror of the nations: Of whose pure seed hath God decreed Messiah shall be born, When the day-spring from on high shall light The golden lands of morn; Then heathen tongues shall tell the tale Of tenderness and truth-- Of the gentle deed of Boaz And the tender love of Ruth.

SHALLUM.

Oh, waste not thy woe on the dead, nor bemoan him Who finds with his fathers the grave of his rest; Sweet slumber is his, who at night-fall hath thrown him Near bosoms that waking did love him the best.

But sorely bewail him, the weary world-ranger, Shall ne'er to the home of his people return; His weeping worn eyes must be closed by the stranger, No tear of true sorrow shall hallow his urn.

And mourn for the monarch that went out of Zion, King Shallum, the son of Josiah the Just; For he the cold bed of the captive shall die on, Afar from his land, nor return to its dust.

THOMAS C. LATTO.

A song-writer of considerable popularity, Thomas C. Latto was born in 1818, in the parish of Kingsbarns, Fifeshire. Instructed in the elementary branches at the parochial seminary, he entered, in his fourteenth year, the United College of St Andrews. Having studied during five sessions at this University, he was in 1838 admitted into the writing-chambers of Mr John Hunter, W.S., Edinburgh, now Auditor of the Court of Session. He subsequently became advocate's clerk to Mr William E. Aytoun, Professor of Rhetoric in the University of Edinburgh. After a period of employment as a Parliament House clerk, he accepted the situation of managing clerk to a writer in Dundee. In 1852 he entered into business as a commission-agent in Glasgow. Subsequently emigrating to the United States, he has for some years been engaged in mercantile concerns at New York.

Latto first became known as a song-writer in the pages of "Whistle-binkie." In 1845 he edited a poem, entitled "The Minister's Kail-yard," which, with a number of lyrics of his own composition, appeared in a duodecimo volume. To the "Book of Scottish Song" he made several esteemed contributions. Verses from his pen have appeared in _Blackwood's_ and _Tait's Magazines_.

THE KISS AHINT THE DOOR.

TUNE--_"There 's nae Luck about the House."_

There 's meikle bliss in ae fond kiss, Whiles mair than in a score; But wae betak' the stouin smack I took ahint the door.

O laddie, whisht! for sic a fricht I ne'er was in afore; Fou brawly did my mither hear The kiss ahint the door. The wa's are thick--ye needna fear; But, gin they jeer and mock, I 'll swear it was a startit cork, Or wyte the rusty lock. There 's meikle bliss, &c.

We stappit ben, while Maggie's face Was like a lowin' coal; An' as for me, I could hae crept Into a mouse's hole. The mither look't--saffs how she look't!-- Thae mithers are a bore, An' gleg as ony cat to hear A kiss ahint the door. Their 's meikle bliss, &c.

The douce gudeman, tho' he was there, As weel micht been in Rome, For by the fire he puff'd his pipe, An' never fash'd his thumb; But, titterin' in a corner, stood The gawky sisters four-- A winter's nicht for me they micht Hae stood ahint the door. There 's meikle bliss, &c.

"How daur ye tak' sic freedoms here?" The bauld gudewife began; Wi' that a foursome yell got up-- I to my heels and ran. A besom whiskit by my lug, An' dishclouts half-a-score: Catch me again, tho' fidgin' fain, At kissin 'hint the door. There 's meikle bliss, &c.

THE WIDOW'S AE BIT LASSIE.

TUNE--_"My only Jo and Dearie, O!"_

Oh, guess ye wha I met yestreen On Kenly banks sae grassy, O! Wha cam' to bless my waitin' een?-- The widow's ae bit lassie, O! She brak' my gloamin' dream sae sweet, Just whaur the wimplin' burnies meet; The smother'd laugh--I flew to greet The widow's ae bit lassie, O!

They glintit slee--the moon and she-- The widow's ae bit lassie, O!-- On tremblin' stream an' tremblin' me: She is a dear wee lassie, O! How rapture's pulse was beating fast As Mary to my heart I claspt! Oh, bliss divine--owre sweet to last-- I 've kiss'd the dear bit lassie, O!

She nestled close, like croodlin' doo-- The widow's ae bit lassie, O! My cheek to hers, syne mou' to mou'-- The widow's ae bit lassie, O! Unto my breast again, again, I prest her guileless heart sae fain; Sae blest were baith--now she 's my ain, The widow's ae bit lassie, O!

Ye powers aboon, wha made her mine-- The widow's ae bit lassie, O! My heart wad break gin I should tyne The widow's ae bit lassie, O! Our hearth shall glad the angels' sight; The lamp o' love shall lowe sae bright On me and her, my soul's delight, The widow's ae bit lassie, O!

THE YELLOW-HAIRED LADDIE.

The maidens are smiling in rocky Glencoe, The clansmen are arming to rush on the foe; Gay banners are streaming as forth pours the clan, The yellow-haired laddie is first in the van.

The pibroch is kindling each heart to the war, The Cameron's slogan is heard from afar; They close for the struggle where many shall fall, But the yellow-haired laddie is foremost of all.

He towers like a wave in the fierce rolling tide, No kinsman of Evan's may stand by his side; The Camerons gather around him alone-- He heeds not the danger, and fear is unknown.

The plumes of his bonnet are seen through the fight-- A beacon for valour, which fires at the sight; But he sees not yon claymore--ah! traitorous thrust! The plumes and the bonnet are laid in the dust.

The maidens are smiling in rocky Glencoe-- The clansmen approach--they have vanquish'd the foe; But sudden the cheeks of the maidens are pale, For the sound of the coronach comes on the gale.

The maidens are weeping in rocky Glencoe, From warriors' eyelids the bitter drops flow; They come--but, oh! where is their chieftain so dear? The yellow-haired laddie is low on the bier.

The maidens are wailing in rocky Glencoe-- There 's gloom in the valley, at sunrise 'twill go; But no sun can the gloom from their hearts chase away-- The yellow-haired laddie lies cauld in the clay.

TELL ME, DEAR.

AIR--_"Loudon's bonnie Woods and Braes."_

Tell me dear! in mercy speak, Has Heaven heard my prayer, lassie? Faint the rose is on thy cheek, But still the rose is there, lassie! Away, away each dark foreboding, Heavy days with anguish clouding, Youthfu' love in sorrow shrouding, Heaven could ne'er allow, lassie! Day and night I've tended thee, Watching, love, thy changing e'e; Dearest gift that Heaven could gi'e, Say thou 'rt happy now, lassie!

Willie, lay thy cheek to mine-- Kiss me, oh! my ain laddie! Never mair may lip o' thine Press where it hath lain, laddie! Hark! I hear the angels calling, Heavenly strains are round me falling, But the stroke--thy soul appalling-- 'Tis my only pain, laddie! Yet the love I bear to thee Shall follow where I soon maun be; I 'll tell how gude thou wert to me-- We part to meet again, laddie!

Lay thine arm beneath my head-- Grieve na sae for me, laddie! I'll thole the doom that lays me dead, But no a tear frae thee, laddie! Aft where yon dark tree is spreading, When the sun's last beam is shedding, Where no earthly foot is treading, By my grave thou 'lt be, laddie! Though my sleep be wi' the dead, Frae on high my soul shall speed, And hover nightly round thy head, Although thou wilt na see, laddie.

WILLIAM CADENHEAD.

William Cadenhead was born at Aberdeen on the 6th April 1819. With a limited education at school, he was put to employment in a factory in his ninth year. His leisure hours were devoted to mental culture, and ramblings in the country. The perusal of Beattie's _Minstrel_ inspired him with the love of poetry, and at an early age his compositions in verse were admitted in the Poet's Corner of the _Aberdeen Herald_. In 1819 he published a small poetical work, entitled "The Prophecy," which, affording decided evidence of power, established his local reputation. Having contributed verses for some years to several periodicals and the local journals, he published a collection of these in 1853, with the title, "Flights of Fancy, and Lays of Bon-Accord." "The New Book of Bon-Accord," a guide-book to his native town on an original plan, appeared from his pen in 1856. For three years he has held a comfortable and congenial appointment as confidential clerk to a merchant in his native city. He continues to contribute verses to the periodicals.

DO YOU KNOW WHAT THE BIRDS ARE SINGING?

Do you know what the birds are singing? Can you tell their sweet refrains, When the green arch'd woods are ringing With a thousand swelling strains? To the sad they sing of sadness, To the blythe, of mirth and glee, And to me, in my fond love's gladness, They sing alone of thee! They sing alone of thee, love, Of thee, through the whole day long, And each its own dear charm extols, And each with its own sweet song!

Do you know what the soft winds whisper When they sigh through blooming trees-- When each bough is a choral lisper Of the woodland melodies? To some they seem to be grieving For the summer's short-lived glee; But to me they are always weaving Sweet songs in praise of thee! Sweet songs in praise of thee, love, And telling the flowers below, How far thy charms outshine them all, Though brightly their soft leaves glow!

Do you know what the streamlet trilleth As it glides or leaps along, While the cool green nook it filleth With the gushes of its song? Do you think it sings its dreaming Of its distant home, the sea? Oh, no, but the voice of its streaming Is still of thee, of thee! Is still of thee, of thee, love, Till echoes and woodland fays-- Yea, Nature all is eloquent And vocal in thy praise.

AN HOUR WITH AN OLD LOVE.

Lat me look into thy face, Jeanie, As I 've look'd in days gane by, When you gae me kiss for kiss, Jeanie, And answer'd sigh for sigh; When in our youth's first flame, Jeanie, Although poor and lane together, We had wealth in our ain love, Jeanie, And were a' to ane anither!

Oh, blessin's on thy lips, Jeanie, They ance were dear to me, As the honey-savour'd blossoms To the nectar-hunting bee! It kens whar dwalls the banquets O' the sweetest dewy wine-- And as the chosen flower to it, Sae were thy lips to mine.

I see thy very thochts, Jeanie, Deep in thy clear blue e'e, As ye 'll see the silver fishes flash, When ye sail the midnicht sea; And ye needna close the lids, Jeanie, Though the thochts they are nae mine, For I see there 's nae repentant ane, That they ance were sae langsyne.

Oh, lat me hear thy voice, Jeanie-- Ay, that 's the very chime, Whase silver echoes haunted me Through a' my youthfu' prime. Speak on! thy gentle words, Jeanie, Awake a blessed train Of memories that I thocht had slept To never wake again!

God's blessin's on your heart, Jeanie, And your face sae angel fair! May the ane be never pierced wi' grief, Nor the ither blanch'd wi' care; And he wha has your love, Jeanie, May he be dear to thee, As I may aiblins ance have been-- And as thou 'rt still to me!

ALLAN GIBSON.

A poet of sentiment and moral feeling, Allan Gibson was removed from the scene at the threshold of a promising career. He was born at Paisley on the 2d October 1820. In his boyhood he devoted himself to the perusal of works of history and romance; and he acquired a familiarity with the more distinguished British poets. It was his delight to stray amidst rural scenes, and to imbibe inspiration among the solitudes of nature. His verses were composed at such periods. They are prefaced by prose reflections, and abound in delicate colouring and gentle pathos. Several detached specimens of his prose writing are elegant and masterly. He followed an industrial occupation, but was unfortunate in business. After an illness of two years, he died on the 9th August 1849, at the early age of twenty-nine. He was possessed of much general talent; was fond of society, fluent in conversation, and eloquent as a public speaker. His habits were sober and retiring. He left a widow and four children. A thin 8vo volume of his "Literary Remains" was published in 1850, for the benefit of his family.

THE LANE AULD MAN.

He sorrowfu' sat by the ingle cheek, Its hearth was cauld to his weary feet, For a' were gane, an' nae mair would meet By the side o' the lane auld man.

To the wreck o' his hopes fond memory clung When flowers o' his heart on his hearthstane sprung; But death's cauld hand had cruelly wrung The heart o' the lane auld man.

A leafless tree in life's wintry blast, He stood alane o' his kin the last, For ane by ane frae his side they pass'd, An' left him a lane auld man.

His bonnie bairns, o' his heart the prize, Wi' their bounding step and sunny eyes, Hae left his hearth for hame in the skies; Alack for the lane auld man!

The weel lo'ed form o' his ain auld wife, Wha sooth'd the cares o' a lang bleak life, Has gane to rest wi' her weans frae strife, An' heeds na her lane auld man.

Owre the turf on their breast he lo'ed to weep, And sair he lang'd wi' the lost to meet, Till death did close, in his ain calm sleep, The een o' the lane auld man.

Whar yew-trees bend owre the dark kirk-yard, An' gowans peep frae the lang green-sward, The moss-clad stanes o' the cauld grave guard The last o' the lane auld man.

THE WANDERER'S RETURN.

Shadows of glory the twilight is parting, The day-star is seeking its home in the west, The herd from the field to the fold is departing, As, Lochwinnoch, sad on thy summits I rest. And far o'er the scene, while the evening is veiling Thy waters that spread their still breast on the lea, On his broad truant wing the lone heron is sailing, To rest with his mate by the rock on the sea.

But, houseless and homeless, around thee I wander, The faces are gone I have panted to see, And cold is the hearth to the feet of the stranger, Which once had a seat in its circle for me. Here youth's golden hours of my being were number'd, When joy in my bosom was breathing its lay; If care on the light of my happiness linger'd, Hope hasted the heartless intruder away.

Then sweetly the brow of the beaming-eyed future Was smiling my welcome to life's rosy way, And fondly I sigh'd in her Eden to meet her, And bask in the bowers where her happiness lay. While fancy on light airy pinion was mounting, I strain'd my young vision in rapture to see The land of my dreams, with its love-mirror'd fountains, And breath'd in the balm of the south's sunny sea.

Then, far on the track of ambition, I follow'd The footsteps of fortune through perilous climes, And trod the bright scenes which my childhood had hallow'd But found not the charms which fond fancy enshrines. The gold I have won, can it purchase the treasure Of hearts' warm affections left bleeding behind, Restore me the ties which are parted for ever, And gild the dark gloom of my desolate mind?

The gold I have won! but, unblest and beguiling, It came like the sun when unclouded and gay; Its light on the cold face of winter is smiling, But cheers not the earth with the warmth of its ray. Again fare-thee-well, for the heart-broken rover Now bids thee a long and a lasting adieu; Yet o'er thee the dreams of my spirit will hover, And burn as it broods on life's dismal review.

THOMAS ELLIOTT.

The author of a small volume of very meritorious poems and lyrics, Thomas Elliott is descended from a branch of the old Border family of that name, which settled in the north of Ireland subsequent to the Revolution. His father was a shoemaker at Bally-ho-bridge, a hamlet in county Fermanagh, province of Ulster, where the poet was born on the 22d December 1820. Entering school at the age of five years, he was not removed till he had acquired a considerable acquaintance with the ordinary branches of popular education. In his fifteenth year he apprenticed himself to his father. The family removed to Belfast in 1836, and there he had opportunities of occupying his leisure hours in extensive and varied reading. After a few years of somewhat desultory employment, he visited Glasgow in 1847, and there, following his original trade, he has continued to reside.

Elliott assigns the commencement of his poetical efforts to the year 1842, when he was led to satirise a pedagogue teacher of music, who had given him offence. His poetical volume, entitled "Doric Lays and Attic Chimes," appeared in 1856, and has been well received. Several of his lyrics have been published with music in "The Lyric Gems of Scotland," a collection of songs published at Glasgow.

UP WITH THE DAWN.

Up with the dawn, ye sons of toil, And bare the brawny arm, To drive the harness'd team afield, And till the fruitful farm; To dig the mine for hidden wealth, Or make the woods to ring With swinging axe and sturdy stroke, To fell the forest king.

With ocean car and iron steed Traverse the land and sea, And spread our commerce round the globe As winds that wander free. Subdue the earth, and conquer fate, Outspeed the flight of time; Old earth is rich, and man is young, Nor near his jocund prime.

Work, and the clouds of care will fly, Pale want will pass away; Work, and the leprosy of crime And tyrants must decay. Leave the dead ages in their urns; The present time be ours, To grapple bravely with our lot, And strew our path with flowers.

CLYDE BOAT SONG.

_Music by A. Hume._

Leave the city's busy throng-- Dip the oar, and wake the song, While on Cathkin Braes the moon Rises with a star aboon: Hark! the boom of evening bells Trembles through the dewy dells. Row, lads, row; row, lads, row, While the golden eventide Lingers o'er the vale of Clyde, Row, lads, row; row, lads, row, O'er the tide, up the Clyde, Row, lads, row.

Life 's a river, deep and old, Stemm'd by rowers, brave and bold; Now in shadow, then in light, Onward aye, a thing of might; Sons of Albyn's ancient land, Row with strong and steady hand, Row, lads, row; row, lads, row; Gaily row, and cheery sing, Till the woodland echoes ring; Row, lads, row; row lads, row, O'er the tide, up the Clyde, Row, lads, row.

Hammers on the anvil rest, Dews upon the gowan's breast; Young hearts heave with tender thought, Low winds sigh, with odours fraught, Stars bedeck the blue above, Earth is full of joy and love; Row, lads, row; row, lads, row; Let your oars in concert beat Merry time, like dancers' feet; Row, lads, row; row, lads, row, With the tide, down the Clyde, Row, lads, row.

DIMPLES AND A'.

I love a sweet lassie, mair gentle and true Than ony young, wood-loving, wild cushie doo; Her cheeks they are dimpled, her jimp waist is sma', She says she 's my ain lassie, dimples and a'-- Dimples and a', dimples and a'-- That bonnie wee lass wi' her dimples and a'.

Her brown wavy hair has a dark gowden tinge, Her bonnie black e'e has a long jetty fringe, Her footstep is light as the thistle doun's fa', Her wee hand is lily-white, dimpled and a'-- Dimpled and a', dimpled and a'-- And I ken it 's my ain hand, dimples and a'.

I 'll wed my dear lassie, and gie her my name, I 'll get a bit housie, and bring my love hame; When winter is eerie, and stormy winds blaw, She 'll mak' me fu' cheerie wi' dimples and a'-- Dimples and a', dimples and a'-- My ain bonnie wifie, wi' her dimples and a'.

When the day's wark is done, and stars blink above, I 'll rest in her smile, and be bless'd wi' her love; She 'll sing a' the cares o' this world awa' Frae our cosie ingle, wi' dimples and a'. Dimples and a', dimples and a'-- Our ain cosie ingle, wi' dimples and a'.

BUBBLES ON THE BLAST.

A wee bit laddie sits wi' a bowl upon his knees, And from a cutty pipe 's puffing bubbles on the breeze; Oh, meikle is the mirth of the weans on our stair, To see the bubbles sail like balloons alang the air. Some burst before they rise, others mount the gentle wind, And leave the little band in their dizzy joy behind; And such are human pomp and ambition at the last-- The wonder of an hour, like thae bubbles on the blast.

How breathless is the watch of that merry little throng, To mark the shining globes as they float in pride along! 'Tis thus life's bubbles come, ever flashing from afar-- Now a revolution, and again a woeful war; A hero or a bard, in their glory or their might; A bonnie bird of song, or a nightingale of light; Or yellow golden age, with its speculations vast-- All wonders of an hour, like the bubbles on the blast.

Shout on, ye little folk, for your sport is quite as sage As that of older men, e'en the leaders of the age; This world 's a sapple bowl, and our life a pipe of clay-- Its brightest dreams and hopes are but bubbles blown away. We 've had our bubbles too; some were dear and tender things, That left us sad and lone as they fled on rapid wings; And others yet may rise from the future, like the past, The wonder of an hour, as the bubbles on the blast.

A SERENADE.