“O thou great governor of all belowIf I may dare a litted eye to thee,For all unfit I feel my powers to beTo rule their torrent in the hollowed lineO aid me with thy help, Omnipotence Divine.”
“O thou great governor of all belowIf I may dare a litted eye to thee,For all unfit I feel my powers to beTo rule their torrent in the hollowed lineO aid me with thy help, Omnipotence Divine.”
“O thou great governor of all belowIf I may dare a litted eye to thee,For all unfit I feel my powers to beTo rule their torrent in the hollowed lineO aid me with thy help, Omnipotence Divine.”
“O thou great governor of all below
If I may dare a litted eye to thee,
For all unfit I feel my powers to be
To rule their torrent in the hollowed line
O aid me with thy help, Omnipotence Divine.”
He wrote his own epitaph, and it is an honest and sincere confession, but if he had lived under more favorable auspices, and had his environment been such as to assure that the flame of his genius would have been nourished from the altars of a purer and fitter companionship, he would probably have penned a far different stanza than this which fitly closes a dark and stormy career, not unrelieved by many bright flashes of hope and gladness.
“The poor inhabitant belowWas quick to learn and wise to knowAnd dearly felt the amorous glowAnd social flameBut thoughtless follies laid him lowAnd stained him name.”
“The poor inhabitant belowWas quick to learn and wise to knowAnd dearly felt the amorous glowAnd social flameBut thoughtless follies laid him lowAnd stained him name.”
“The poor inhabitant belowWas quick to learn and wise to knowAnd dearly felt the amorous glowAnd social flameBut thoughtless follies laid him lowAnd stained him name.”
“The poor inhabitant below
Was quick to learn and wise to know
And dearly felt the amorous glow
And social flame
But thoughtless follies laid him low
And stained him name.”
A spirit kindred to that of Robert Burns and one whose fame shall never perish, or be dimmed while “Annie Laurie” is sung—and where is it not sung? It is that of Robert Tannahill, a poor Paisley weaver. We have stood on the bridge which spans the canal near the city, and looked with sorrowful interest into that pool in the corner, where, driven by the demons of poverty and unappreciated talent, the disracted author ended his brief life. He was a true poet. He wrote many songs that the world will not willingly let die. One of the stanzas is peculiarly fine in its delicacy and tenderness:
“Towering o’er the Newton woodsLaverocks fan the snaw white cloudsSiller saughs wi downy budsAdorn the banks sae biery.Sweet the snaw flowers early bellDecks Gleniffers dewy dellBlooming like thy bonny sellMy ain my artless deary.”
“Towering o’er the Newton woodsLaverocks fan the snaw white cloudsSiller saughs wi downy budsAdorn the banks sae biery.Sweet the snaw flowers early bellDecks Gleniffers dewy dellBlooming like thy bonny sellMy ain my artless deary.”
“Towering o’er the Newton woodsLaverocks fan the snaw white cloudsSiller saughs wi downy budsAdorn the banks sae biery.Sweet the snaw flowers early bellDecks Gleniffers dewy dellBlooming like thy bonny sellMy ain my artless deary.”
“Towering o’er the Newton woods
Laverocks fan the snaw white clouds
Siller saughs wi downy buds
Adorn the banks sae biery.
Sweet the snaw flowers early bell
Decks Gleniffers dewy dell
Blooming like thy bonny sell
My ain my artless deary.”
We would mention another bright name also a native of this same town of Paisley. John Wilson—known betterby his pen name of “Christopher North” the author of “Noctes Ambrosianae.” He rose from obscurity to great honor and to the chair of moral philosophy in the University of Ediuburgh. He was a giant in stature as well as in mind, and one of the knightliest of men. No one who ever met Wilson striding along the street, his long yellow hair flowing over his shoulders, his blue eyes gleaming with merriment, and glowing with an intelligence that comprehend every department of knowledge, could ever forget him.
He may be fairly ranked with Scott and Burns in the power he exercised in the later part of his life, in storming the heart of the Scottish people—becoming at last their idol and great literary representative. He was conemporary with Thomas Brown whom he succeeded in the chair of moral philosophy, and with Sir William Hamilton, who was a candidate with him for the chair, but who, up to that time, had not given to the public those proofs of that consumate ability by which he was afterwards distinguished, and which placed him in the foremost rank of the most eminent European scholars.
Wilson once a poet, lecturer, statesman, orator, and novelist. He was the intimate friend of Coleridge, Woodsworth, and Southey. His poems of the “Isle of Palms” and the “City of the Plague” are productions that gave him a worthy place among those bright lights of song shed so brilliant a luster over that age of great minds, and whose genuis has bequeathed to all future time, the priceless legacy if immortal harmonies and wealth of thought. He was with all a very muscular Christian; “for on more than one occasion, the singular spectacle was exhibited of a Scotch professor of moral science taking off his coat in a public market place to inflict personal chastisment on some ruffian whose obnoxious proceedings has done outrage to his nicer sense of the fitness of things.” He was, with Lockheart, one of the original contributors to Blackwood’s Magazine, and helped more than any other author to give that publication a popularity that continues to this day.
It is said of Aytoun, Professor of Rhetoric and Belles Letters in Ediuburgh University, when he was courting Wilson’s daughter that he could not summon up courage to ask her father to give his consent to their marriage, although he knew how exalted a place he occupied in Wilson’s estimation.
Here stood the silver tongued Aytown, week after week, trying to screw up his courage to ask the question that filled his heart, but he could not do it. At length he said: “Jessie, will you go and ask your father for me as I cannot?” Jessie was soon beside her father and acquainted him with how matters stood. “Puir Aytown,” said Wilson, “I maun gie him his answer in writing.”
So saying he wrote a line without Jessie’s knowledge of its purport, and pinning it on the back of her dress, sent her off to Aytoun whom he well knew was just at that moment fully appreciating the significance of the verb “to wait.”
“What did he say, Jessie?” was the impatient interrogatory of the loving professor. Jessie turned her back for once upon her lover, and then he read the precious answer: “With the Author’s compliments.”
This same little town of Paisley is distinguished as the birth place of another Wilson who is worthy of mention here because he became famous as the great “American ornithologist”—Alexander Wilson, born 1766. He began his career also as a poet with a witty and felicitous production called: “Watty and Meg.” That brings out with marvelous fidelity some of the most humurous phases of Scottish life and character. He came to America in 1794, and after many and thrilling adventures, gave to the world his great book on “American Birds” in seven quarto volumes. George Ord and Charles Lucein Bonaparte completed the work by issuing, after Wilson’s death, four volumes more. It is a record of patient industry that helped to put this land forward in the records of fame, and publish to the world its marvelous resources.
We might give brief sketches of such. Dr. Thomas Guthrie, the father of the ragged schools of Scotland. One short story will illustrate how earnest was the Doctor in his efforts to save the children from the dismal and fearful depths of vice and crime and infamy.
One night at a public meeting, a reverend but very unsympathetic speaker described the ragged school children as rescals and vagabonds, the scum of the country. When Guthrie’s time for speaking came, he arose with pale face and quivering lips, seized a sheet of writing paper from the table, and holding it up, said: “This was once the scum of the country—once foul, wretched rags. In it, now white as the snows of heaven, behold an emblem of the work our ragged schools have achieved.”
And there was Sir David Brewster who could “scan with more than an eagle’s eye, the mighty creations in the bosom of space, and Hugh Miller, that huge geological hammer, inscribed with Hebrew characters. It is a very noticeable fact, that those minds that have most largely influenced the thought and progress of civilized nations have not in the main borrowed their light from an illustrious and wealthy ancestry, but have risen from the ranks and been found chiefly among the humble sons of poverty and toil. The genius of Scotland has been nourished and developed amid hard and hostile conditions. It has grown strong and rooted itself deeply amid tempests and storms! not amid the soft and voluptuous ease of effeminate luxury. It has given to the world the brightest trophies of sciences, philosophy, oratory, and song. Its sons have been scattered among all people; but as a rule they have commanded the respect and enlisted the effections of all among whom their lot has been cast. They have ever felt the force of that fine sentiment expressed by the greatestk of their poets.
“Is no in title nor in rankIts no in wealth like Lunnom BonkTo purchase peace and rest.Its no in makin’ muckle mareIts no in books, it no in lairTo make us truly blest.If happiness has not its seat and centre in the breast,We may be wise, or rich, or great, but never can be blest.Nae treasurers nor pleasuresCan make us happy langThe hearts aye the part ayeThat makes us rich or wrang.”
“Is no in title nor in rankIts no in wealth like Lunnom BonkTo purchase peace and rest.Its no in makin’ muckle mareIts no in books, it no in lairTo make us truly blest.If happiness has not its seat and centre in the breast,We may be wise, or rich, or great, but never can be blest.Nae treasurers nor pleasuresCan make us happy langThe hearts aye the part ayeThat makes us rich or wrang.”
“Is no in title nor in rankIts no in wealth like Lunnom BonkTo purchase peace and rest.Its no in makin’ muckle mareIts no in books, it no in lairTo make us truly blest.If happiness has not its seat and centre in the breast,We may be wise, or rich, or great, but never can be blest.Nae treasurers nor pleasuresCan make us happy langThe hearts aye the part ayeThat makes us rich or wrang.”
“Is no in title nor in rank
Its no in wealth like Lunnom Bonk
To purchase peace and rest.
Its no in makin’ muckle mare
Its no in books, it no in lair
To make us truly blest.
If happiness has not its seat and centre in the breast,
We may be wise, or rich, or great, but never can be blest.
Nae treasurers nor pleasures
Can make us happy lang
The hearts aye the part aye
That makes us rich or wrang.”