Lane, on the winding Earn there standsAn unco tow'r, sae stern an' auld,Biggit by lang forgotten hands,Ance refuge o' the Wallace bauld.Time's restless fingers sair hath waur'dAnd rived thy gray disjaskit wa',But rougher hands nor Time's hae daur'dTo wrang thee, bonnie Gascon Ha'!Oh, may a muse unkent to fameFor this dim greesome relic sue,It 's linkit wi' a patriot's name,The truest Scotland ever knew.Just leave in peace each mossy staneTellin' o' nations' rivalry,An' for succeeding ages hainRemains o' Scottish chivalry.* * * * *What though no monument to theeIs biggit by thy country's hand;Engraved are thy immortal deedsOn every heart o' this braid land.Rude Time may monuments ding doun,An' tow'rs an' wa's maun a' decay;Enduring, deathless, noble chief,Thy name can never pass away!Gi'e pillar'd fame to common men,—Nae need o' cairns for ane like thee;In every cave, wood, hill, and glen,"Wallace" remember'd aye shall be.
Lane, on the winding Earn there standsAn unco tow'r, sae stern an' auld,Biggit by lang forgotten hands,Ance refuge o' the Wallace bauld.
Time's restless fingers sair hath waur'dAnd rived thy gray disjaskit wa',But rougher hands nor Time's hae daur'dTo wrang thee, bonnie Gascon Ha'!
Oh, may a muse unkent to fameFor this dim greesome relic sue,It 's linkit wi' a patriot's name,The truest Scotland ever knew.
Just leave in peace each mossy staneTellin' o' nations' rivalry,An' for succeeding ages hainRemains o' Scottish chivalry.
* * * * *
What though no monument to theeIs biggit by thy country's hand;Engraved are thy immortal deedsOn every heart o' this braid land.
Rude Time may monuments ding doun,An' tow'rs an' wa's maun a' decay;Enduring, deathless, noble chief,Thy name can never pass away!
Gi'e pillar'd fame to common men,—Nae need o' cairns for ane like thee;In every cave, wood, hill, and glen,"Wallace" remember'd aye shall be.
Oh, the auld house, the auld house!What though the rooms were wee?Oh, kind hearts were dwelling there,And bairnies fu' o' glee!The wild-rose and the jesamineStill hang upon the wa';How mony cherish'd memoriesDo they, sweet flowers, reca'!Oh, the auld laird, the auld laird!Sae canty, kind, and crouse;How mony did he welcome toHis ain wee dear auld house!And the leddy too, sae genty,There shelter'd Scotland's heir,And clipt a lock wi' her ain handFrae his lang yellow hair.The mavis still doth sweetly sing,The blue bells sweetly blaw,The bonnie Earn 's clear winding still,But the auld house is awa'.The auld house, the auld house,Deserted though ye be,There ne'er can be a new house,Will seem sae fair to me.Still flourishing the auld pear treeThe bairnies liked to see,And oh, how aften did they speirWhen ripe they a' wad be!The voices sweet, the wee bit feetAye rinnin' here and there,The merry shout—oh! whiles we greetTo think we 'll hear nae mair.For they are a' wide scatter'd now,Some to the Indies gane,And ane, alas! to her lang hame;Not here we 'll meet again.The kirkyaird, the kirkyaird,Wi' flowers o' every hue,Shelter'd by the holly's shade,An' the dark sombre yew.The setting sun, the setting sun,How glorious it gaed down;The cloudy splendour raised our heartsTo cloudless skies aboon!The auld dial, the auld dial,It tauld how time did pass;The wintry winds hae dung it down,—Now hid 'mang weeds and grass.
Oh, the auld house, the auld house!What though the rooms were wee?Oh, kind hearts were dwelling there,And bairnies fu' o' glee!The wild-rose and the jesamineStill hang upon the wa';How mony cherish'd memoriesDo they, sweet flowers, reca'!
Oh, the auld laird, the auld laird!Sae canty, kind, and crouse;How mony did he welcome toHis ain wee dear auld house!And the leddy too, sae genty,There shelter'd Scotland's heir,And clipt a lock wi' her ain handFrae his lang yellow hair.
The mavis still doth sweetly sing,The blue bells sweetly blaw,The bonnie Earn 's clear winding still,But the auld house is awa'.The auld house, the auld house,Deserted though ye be,There ne'er can be a new house,Will seem sae fair to me.
Still flourishing the auld pear treeThe bairnies liked to see,And oh, how aften did they speirWhen ripe they a' wad be!The voices sweet, the wee bit feetAye rinnin' here and there,The merry shout—oh! whiles we greetTo think we 'll hear nae mair.
For they are a' wide scatter'd now,Some to the Indies gane,And ane, alas! to her lang hame;Not here we 'll meet again.The kirkyaird, the kirkyaird,Wi' flowers o' every hue,Shelter'd by the holly's shade,An' the dark sombre yew.
The setting sun, the setting sun,How glorious it gaed down;The cloudy splendour raised our heartsTo cloudless skies aboon!The auld dial, the auld dial,It tauld how time did pass;The wintry winds hae dung it down,—Now hid 'mang weeds and grass.
Air—"Hundred Pipers."
Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a',Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a',We 'll up, and we 'll gi'e them a blaw, a blaw,Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'.It is ower the border, awa', awa',It is ower the border, awa', awa',Oh, we 'll on, an' we 'll march to Carlisle ha',Wi' its yetts, its castel, an' a', an' a'.Oh, our brave sodger lads look'd braw, an' braw,Wi' their tartans, their kilts, an' a', an' a',Wi' bannets an' feathers, an' glittrin' gear,An' pibrochs soundin' sae sweet an' clear.Will they a' come hame to their ain dear glen?Will they a' return, our brave Hieland men?Oh, second-sighted Sandie look'd fu' wae,An' mithers grat sair whan they march'd away.Wi' a hundred pipers, &c.Oh, wha is the foremaist o' a', o' a'?Wha is it first follows the blaw, the blaw?Bonnie Charlie, the king o' us a', us a',Wi' his hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'.His bannet and feather, he 's waving high,His prancin' steed maist seems to fly;The nor' wind plays wi' his curly hair,While the pipers blaw up an unco flare!Wi' his hundred pipers, &c.The Esk was swollen sae red an' sae deep,But shouther to shouther the brave lads keep;Twa thousand swam ower to fell English ground,An' danced themselves dry to the pibroch sound.Dumfounder'd the English were a', were a',Dumfounder'd they a' heard the blaw, the blaw,Dumfounder'd they a' ran awa', awa',Frae the hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'.Wi' a hundred pipers, &c.
Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a',Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a',We 'll up, and we 'll gi'e them a blaw, a blaw,Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'.It is ower the border, awa', awa',It is ower the border, awa', awa',Oh, we 'll on, an' we 'll march to Carlisle ha',Wi' its yetts, its castel, an' a', an' a'.
Oh, our brave sodger lads look'd braw, an' braw,Wi' their tartans, their kilts, an' a', an' a',Wi' bannets an' feathers, an' glittrin' gear,An' pibrochs soundin' sae sweet an' clear.Will they a' come hame to their ain dear glen?Will they a' return, our brave Hieland men?Oh, second-sighted Sandie look'd fu' wae,An' mithers grat sair whan they march'd away.Wi' a hundred pipers, &c.
Oh, wha is the foremaist o' a', o' a'?Wha is it first follows the blaw, the blaw?Bonnie Charlie, the king o' us a', us a',Wi' his hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'.His bannet and feather, he 's waving high,His prancin' steed maist seems to fly;The nor' wind plays wi' his curly hair,While the pipers blaw up an unco flare!Wi' his hundred pipers, &c.
The Esk was swollen sae red an' sae deep,But shouther to shouther the brave lads keep;Twa thousand swam ower to fell English ground,An' danced themselves dry to the pibroch sound.Dumfounder'd the English were a', were a',Dumfounder'd they a' heard the blaw, the blaw,Dumfounder'd they a' ran awa', awa',Frae the hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'.Wi' a hundred pipers, &c.
The women are a' gane wud,Oh, that he had biden awa'!He 's turn'd their heads, the lad,And ruin will bring on us a'.George was a peaceable man,My wife she did doucely behave;But now dae a' that I can,She 's just as wild as the lave.My wife she wears the cockade,Tho' I 've bidden her no to do sae,She has a true friend in her maid,And they ne'er mind a word that I say.The wild Hieland lads as they pass,The yetts wide open do flee;They eat the very house bare,And nae leave 's speer'd o' me.I 've lived a' my days in the StrathNow Tories infest me at hame,And tho' I tak nae side at a',Baith sides will gae me the blame.The senseless creturs ne'er thinkWhat ill the lad wad bring back;The Pope we 'd hae, and the d—l,And a' the rest o' his pack.
The women are a' gane wud,Oh, that he had biden awa'!He 's turn'd their heads, the lad,And ruin will bring on us a'.George was a peaceable man,My wife she did doucely behave;But now dae a' that I can,She 's just as wild as the lave.
My wife she wears the cockade,Tho' I 've bidden her no to do sae,She has a true friend in her maid,And they ne'er mind a word that I say.The wild Hieland lads as they pass,The yetts wide open do flee;They eat the very house bare,And nae leave 's speer'd o' me.
I 've lived a' my days in the StrathNow Tories infest me at hame,And tho' I tak nae side at a',Baith sides will gae me the blame.The senseless creturs ne'er thinkWhat ill the lad wad bring back;The Pope we 'd hae, and the d—l,And a' the rest o' his pack.
St Leonard's hill was lightsome land,Where gowan'd grass was growin',For man and beast were food and rest,And milk and honey flowin'.A father's blessing follow'd close,Where'er her foot was treading,And Jeanie's humble, hamely joysOn every side were spreading wide,On every side were spreading.The mossy turf on Arthur's Seat,St Anthon's well aye springin';The lammies playing at her feet,The birdies round her singin'.The solemn haunts o' Holyrood,Wi' bats and hoolits eerie,The tow'ring crags o' Salisbury,The lowly wells o' Weary, O[62]The lowly wells o' Weary.But evil days and evil men,Came ower their sunny dwellin',Like thunder-storms on sunny skies,Or wastefu' waters swellin'.What aince was sweet is bitter now,The sun of joy is setting;In eyes that wont to glame wi' glee,The briny tear is wetting fast,The briny tear is wetting.Her inmost thoughts to Heaven is sent,In faithful supplication;Her earthly stay 's Macallummore,The guardian o' the nation.A hero's heart—a sister's love—A martyr's truth unbending;They 're a' in Jeanie's tartan plaid—And she is gane, her leefu' lane,To Lunnon toun she 's wending!
St Leonard's hill was lightsome land,Where gowan'd grass was growin',For man and beast were food and rest,And milk and honey flowin'.A father's blessing follow'd close,Where'er her foot was treading,And Jeanie's humble, hamely joysOn every side were spreading wide,On every side were spreading.
The mossy turf on Arthur's Seat,St Anthon's well aye springin';The lammies playing at her feet,The birdies round her singin'.The solemn haunts o' Holyrood,Wi' bats and hoolits eerie,The tow'ring crags o' Salisbury,The lowly wells o' Weary, O[62]The lowly wells o' Weary.
But evil days and evil men,Came ower their sunny dwellin',Like thunder-storms on sunny skies,Or wastefu' waters swellin'.What aince was sweet is bitter now,The sun of joy is setting;In eyes that wont to glame wi' glee,The briny tear is wetting fast,The briny tear is wetting.
Her inmost thoughts to Heaven is sent,In faithful supplication;Her earthly stay 's Macallummore,The guardian o' the nation.A hero's heart—a sister's love—A martyr's truth unbending;They 're a' in Jeanie's tartan plaid—And she is gane, her leefu' lane,To Lunnon toun she 's wending!
Gaelic Air—"Mo Leannan Falnich."
I 'll no be had for naething,I 'll no be had for naething,I tell ye, lads, that 's ae thing,So ye needna follow me.Oh, the change is most surprising,Last year I was plain Betty Brown,Now to me they 're a' aspiring,—The fair Elizabeth I am grown!What siller does is most amazing,Nane o' them e'er look'd at me,Now my charms they a' are praising,For my sake they 're like to dee.The Laird, the Shirra, and the Doctor,Wi' twa three Lords o' high degree;Wi' heaps o' Writers I could mention—Oh, surely this is no me!But I 'll no, &c.The yett is now for ever ringing,Showers o' valentines aye bringing,Fill'd wi' Cupids, flames, and darts,Fae auld and young, wi' broken hearts.The siller, O the weary siller!Aft in toil and trouble sought,But better far it should be sae,Than that true hearts should e'er be bought.Sae I 'll no, &c.But there is ane, when I had naething,A' his heart he gi'ed to me;And sair he toil'd for a wee thing,To bring me when he cam frae sea.If ever I should marry ony,He will be the lad for me;For he was baith gude and bonny,And he thought the same o' me.Sae I 'll no, &c.
I 'll no be had for naething,I 'll no be had for naething,I tell ye, lads, that 's ae thing,So ye needna follow me.Oh, the change is most surprising,Last year I was plain Betty Brown,Now to me they 're a' aspiring,—The fair Elizabeth I am grown!
What siller does is most amazing,Nane o' them e'er look'd at me,Now my charms they a' are praising,For my sake they 're like to dee.The Laird, the Shirra, and the Doctor,Wi' twa three Lords o' high degree;Wi' heaps o' Writers I could mention—Oh, surely this is no me!But I 'll no, &c.
The yett is now for ever ringing,Showers o' valentines aye bringing,Fill'd wi' Cupids, flames, and darts,Fae auld and young, wi' broken hearts.The siller, O the weary siller!Aft in toil and trouble sought,But better far it should be sae,Than that true hearts should e'er be bought.Sae I 'll no, &c.
But there is ane, when I had naething,A' his heart he gi'ed to me;And sair he toil'd for a wee thing,To bring me when he cam frae sea.If ever I should marry ony,He will be the lad for me;For he was baith gude and bonny,And he thought the same o' me.Sae I 'll no, &c.
The mitherless lammie ne'er miss'd its ain mammie,We tentit it kindly by night and by day,The bairnies made game o't, it had a blithe hame o't,Its food was the gowan—its music was "mai."Without tie or fetter, it couldna been better,But it would gae witless the world to see;The foe that it fear'd not, it saw not, it heard not,Was watching its wand'ring frae Bonnington Lea.Oh, what then befell it, 't were waefu' to tell it,Tod Lowrie kens best, wi' his lang head sae sly;He met the pet lammie, that wanted its mammie,And left its kind hame the wide world to try.We miss'd it at day-dawn, we miss'd it at night-fa'in',Its wee shed is tenantless under the tree,Ae dusk i' the gloamin' it wad gae a roamin';'T will frolic nae mair upon Bonnington Lea.
The mitherless lammie ne'er miss'd its ain mammie,We tentit it kindly by night and by day,The bairnies made game o't, it had a blithe hame o't,Its food was the gowan—its music was "mai."
Without tie or fetter, it couldna been better,But it would gae witless the world to see;The foe that it fear'd not, it saw not, it heard not,Was watching its wand'ring frae Bonnington Lea.
Oh, what then befell it, 't were waefu' to tell it,Tod Lowrie kens best, wi' his lang head sae sly;He met the pet lammie, that wanted its mammie,And left its kind hame the wide world to try.
We miss'd it at day-dawn, we miss'd it at night-fa'in',Its wee shed is tenantless under the tree,Ae dusk i' the gloamin' it wad gae a roamin';'T will frolic nae mair upon Bonnington Lea.
Oh, some will tune their mournfu' strains,To tell o' hame-made sorrow,And if they cheat you o' your tears,They 'll dry upon the morrow.Oh, some will sing their airy dreams,In verity they're sportin',My sang 's o' nae sic thieveless themes,But wakin' true misfortune.Ye Scottish nobles, ane and a',For loyalty attainted,A nameless bardie 's wae to seeYour sorrows unlamented;For if your fathers ne'er had foughtFor heirs of ancient royalty,Ye 're down the day that might hae beenAt the top o' honour's tree a'.For old hereditary right,For conscience' sake they stoutly stood;And for the crown their valiant sonsThemselves have shed their injured blood;And if their fathers ne'er had foughtFor heirs of ancient royalty,They 're down the day that might hae beenAt the top o' honour's tree a'.
Oh, some will tune their mournfu' strains,To tell o' hame-made sorrow,And if they cheat you o' your tears,They 'll dry upon the morrow.Oh, some will sing their airy dreams,In verity they're sportin',My sang 's o' nae sic thieveless themes,But wakin' true misfortune.
Ye Scottish nobles, ane and a',For loyalty attainted,A nameless bardie 's wae to seeYour sorrows unlamented;For if your fathers ne'er had foughtFor heirs of ancient royalty,Ye 're down the day that might hae beenAt the top o' honour's tree a'.
For old hereditary right,For conscience' sake they stoutly stood;And for the crown their valiant sonsThemselves have shed their injured blood;And if their fathers ne'er had foughtFor heirs of ancient royalty,They 're down the day that might hae beenAt the top o' honour's tree a'.
True love is water'd aye wi' tears,It grows 'neath stormy skies,It 's fenced around wi' hopes and fearsAn' fann'd wi' heartfelt sighs.Wi' chains o' gowd it will no be bound,Oh! wha the heart can buy?The titled glare, the warldling's care,Even absence 'twill defy,Even absence 'twill defy.And time, that kills a' ither things,His withering touch 'twill brave,'Twill live in joy, 'twill live in grief,'Twill live beyond the grave!'Twill live, 'twill live, though buried deep,In true heart's memorie—Oh! we forgot that ane sae fair,Sae bricht, sae young, could dee,Sae young could dee.Unfeeling hands may touch the chordWhere buried griefs do lie—How many silent agoniesMay that rude touch untie!But, oh! I love that plaintive lay—That dear auld melodie!For, oh, 'tis sweet!—yet I maun greet,For it was sung by thee,Sung by thee!They may forget wha lichtly love,Or feel but beauty's chain;But they wha loved a heavenly mindCan never love again!A' my dreams o' warld's guidAye were turn'd wi' thee,But I leant on a broken reedWhich soon was ta'en frae me,Ta'en frae me.'Tis weel, 'tis weel, we dinna kenWhat we may live to see,'Twas Mercy's hand that hung the veilO'er sad futurity!Oh, ye whose hearts are scathed and riven,Wha feel the warld is vain,Oh, fix your broken earthly tiesWhere they ne'er will break again,Break again!
True love is water'd aye wi' tears,It grows 'neath stormy skies,It 's fenced around wi' hopes and fearsAn' fann'd wi' heartfelt sighs.Wi' chains o' gowd it will no be bound,Oh! wha the heart can buy?The titled glare, the warldling's care,Even absence 'twill defy,Even absence 'twill defy.
And time, that kills a' ither things,His withering touch 'twill brave,'Twill live in joy, 'twill live in grief,'Twill live beyond the grave!'Twill live, 'twill live, though buried deep,In true heart's memorie—Oh! we forgot that ane sae fair,Sae bricht, sae young, could dee,Sae young could dee.
Unfeeling hands may touch the chordWhere buried griefs do lie—How many silent agoniesMay that rude touch untie!But, oh! I love that plaintive lay—That dear auld melodie!For, oh, 'tis sweet!—yet I maun greet,For it was sung by thee,Sung by thee!
They may forget wha lichtly love,Or feel but beauty's chain;But they wha loved a heavenly mindCan never love again!A' my dreams o' warld's guidAye were turn'd wi' thee,But I leant on a broken reedWhich soon was ta'en frae me,Ta'en frae me.
'Tis weel, 'tis weel, we dinna kenWhat we may live to see,'Twas Mercy's hand that hung the veilO'er sad futurity!Oh, ye whose hearts are scathed and riven,Wha feel the warld is vain,Oh, fix your broken earthly tiesWhere they ne'er will break again,Break again!
Ah, little did my mother thinkWhen to me she sung,What a heartbreak I would be,Her young and dautit son.And oh! how fond she was o' meIn plaid and bonnet braw,When I bade farewell to the north countrie,And marching gaed awa!Ah! little did my mother thinkA banish'd man I 'd be,Sent frae a' my kith and kin,Them never mair to see.Oh! father, 'twas the sugar'd drapAft ye did gi'e to me,That has brought a' this miseryBaith to you and me.
Ah, little did my mother thinkWhen to me she sung,What a heartbreak I would be,Her young and dautit son.
And oh! how fond she was o' meIn plaid and bonnet braw,When I bade farewell to the north countrie,And marching gaed awa!
Ah! little did my mother thinkA banish'd man I 'd be,Sent frae a' my kith and kin,Them never mair to see.
Oh! father, 'twas the sugar'd drapAft ye did gi'e to me,That has brought a' this miseryBaith to you and me.
Air—"Ailen Aroon."
Would you be young again?So would not I—One tear to memory given,Onward I 'd hie.Life's dark flood forded o'er,All but at rest on shore,Say, would you plunge once more,With home so nigh?If you might, would you nowRetrace your way?Wander through stormy wilds,Faint and astray?Night's gloomy watches fled,Morning all beaming red,Hope's smiles around us shed,Heavenward—away.Where, then, are those dear ones,Our joy and delight?Dear and more dear though nowHidden from sight.Where they rejoice to be,There is the land for me;Fly, time, fly speedily;Come, life and light.
Would you be young again?So would not I—One tear to memory given,Onward I 'd hie.Life's dark flood forded o'er,All but at rest on shore,Say, would you plunge once more,With home so nigh?
If you might, would you nowRetrace your way?Wander through stormy wilds,Faint and astray?Night's gloomy watches fled,Morning all beaming red,Hope's smiles around us shed,Heavenward—away.
Where, then, are those dear ones,Our joy and delight?Dear and more dear though nowHidden from sight.Where they rejoice to be,There is the land for me;Fly, time, fly speedily;Come, life and light.
What 's this vain world to me?Rest is not here;False are the smiles I see,The mirth I hear.Where is youth's joyful glee?Where all once dear to me?Gone, as the shadows flee—Rest is not here.Why did the morning shineBlythely and fair?Why did those tints so fineVanish in air?Does not the vision say,Faint, lingering heart, away,Why in this desert stay—Dark land of care!Where souls angelic soar,Thither repair;Let this vain world no moreLull and ensnare.That heaven I love so wellStill in my heart shall dwell;All things around me tellRest is found there.
What 's this vain world to me?Rest is not here;False are the smiles I see,The mirth I hear.Where is youth's joyful glee?Where all once dear to me?Gone, as the shadows flee—Rest is not here.
Why did the morning shineBlythely and fair?Why did those tints so fineVanish in air?Does not the vision say,Faint, lingering heart, away,Why in this desert stay—Dark land of care!
Where souls angelic soar,Thither repair;Let this vain world no moreLull and ensnare.That heaven I love so wellStill in my heart shall dwell;All things around me tellRest is found there.
Air—"Here 's a health to ane I lo'e weel."
Here 's to them, to them that are gane;Here 's to them, to them that are gane;Here 's to them that were here, the faithful and dear,That will never be here again—no, never.But where are they now that are gane?Oh, where are the faithful and true?They 're gane to the light that fears not the night,An' their day of rejoicing shall end—no, never.Here 's to them, to them that were here;Here 's to them, to them that were here;Here 's a tear and a sigh to the bliss that 's gane by,But 'twas ne'er like what 's coming, to last—for ever.Oh, bright was their morning sun!Oh, bright was their morning sun!Yet, lang ere the gloaming, in clouds it gaed down;But the storm and the cloud are now past—for ever.Fareweel, fareweel! parting silence is sad;Oh, how sad the last parting tear!But that silence shall break, where no tear on the cheekCan bedim the bright vision again—no, never.Then, speed to the wings of old Time,That waft us where pilgrims would be;To the regions of rest, to the shores of the blest,Where the full tide of glory shall flow—for ever.
Here 's to them, to them that are gane;Here 's to them, to them that are gane;Here 's to them that were here, the faithful and dear,That will never be here again—no, never.But where are they now that are gane?Oh, where are the faithful and true?They 're gane to the light that fears not the night,An' their day of rejoicing shall end—no, never.
Here 's to them, to them that were here;Here 's to them, to them that were here;Here 's a tear and a sigh to the bliss that 's gane by,But 'twas ne'er like what 's coming, to last—for ever.Oh, bright was their morning sun!Oh, bright was their morning sun!Yet, lang ere the gloaming, in clouds it gaed down;But the storm and the cloud are now past—for ever.
Fareweel, fareweel! parting silence is sad;Oh, how sad the last parting tear!But that silence shall break, where no tear on the cheekCan bedim the bright vision again—no, never.Then, speed to the wings of old Time,That waft us where pilgrims would be;To the regions of rest, to the shores of the blest,Where the full tide of glory shall flow—for ever.
GAELIC AIR.
Fareweel, O fareweel!My heart it is sair;Fareweel, O fareweel!I 'll see him nae mair.Lang, lang was he mine,Lang, lang—but nae mair;I mauna repine,But my heart it is sair.His staff 's at the wa',Toom, toom is his chair!His bannet, an' a'!An' I maun be here!But oh! he 's at rest,Why sud I complain?Gin my soul be blest,I 'll meet him again.Oh, to meet him again,Where hearts ne'er were sair!Oh, to meet him again,To part never mair!
Fareweel, O fareweel!My heart it is sair;Fareweel, O fareweel!I 'll see him nae mair.
Lang, lang was he mine,Lang, lang—but nae mair;I mauna repine,But my heart it is sair.
His staff 's at the wa',Toom, toom is his chair!His bannet, an' a'!An' I maun be here!
But oh! he 's at rest,Why sud I complain?Gin my soul be blest,I 'll meet him again.
Oh, to meet him again,Where hearts ne'er were sair!Oh, to meet him again,To part never mair!
Go, call for the mourners, and raise the lament,Let the tresses be torn, and the garments be rent;But weep not for him who is gone to his rest,Nor mourn for the ransom'd, nor wail for the blest.The sun is not set, but is risen on high,Nor long in corruption his body shall lie—Then let not the tide of thy griefs overflow,Nor the music of heaven be discord below;Rather loud be the song, and triumphant the chord,Let us joy for the dead who have died in the Lord.Go, call for the mourners, and raise the lament,Let the tresses be torn, and the garments be rent;But give to the living thy passion of tearsWho walk in this valley of sadness and fears,Who are press'd by the combat, in darkness are lost,By the tempest are beat, on the billows are toss'd.Oh, weep not for those who shall sorrow no more,Whose warfare is ended, whose combat is o'er;Let the song be exalted, be triumphant the chord,And rejoice for the dead who have died in the Lord.
Go, call for the mourners, and raise the lament,Let the tresses be torn, and the garments be rent;But weep not for him who is gone to his rest,Nor mourn for the ransom'd, nor wail for the blest.The sun is not set, but is risen on high,Nor long in corruption his body shall lie—Then let not the tide of thy griefs overflow,Nor the music of heaven be discord below;Rather loud be the song, and triumphant the chord,Let us joy for the dead who have died in the Lord.
Go, call for the mourners, and raise the lament,Let the tresses be torn, and the garments be rent;But give to the living thy passion of tearsWho walk in this valley of sadness and fears,Who are press'd by the combat, in darkness are lost,By the tempest are beat, on the billows are toss'd.Oh, weep not for those who shall sorrow no more,Whose warfare is ended, whose combat is o'er;Let the song be exalted, be triumphant the chord,And rejoice for the dead who have died in the Lord.
James Nicol, the son of Michael Nicol and Marion Hope, was born at Innerleithen, in the county of Peebles, on the 28th of September 1769. Having acquired the elements of classical knowledge under Mr Tate, the parochial schoolmaster, he was sent to the University of Edinburgh, where he pursued study with unflinching assiduity and success. On completing his academical studies, he was licensed as a probationer by the Presbytery of Peebles. His first professional employment was as an assistant to the minister of Traquair, a parish bordering on that of Innerleithen; and on the death of the incumbent, Mr Nicol succeeded to the living. On the 4th of November 1802, he was ordained to the ministerial office; and on the 25th of the same month and year, he espoused Agnes Walker, a native of Glasgow, and the sister of his immediate predecessor, who had for a considerable period possessed a warm place in his affections, and been the heroine of his poetical reveries. He had for some time been in the habit of communicating verses to theEdinburgh Magazine; and he afterwards published a collection of "Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect," Edinburgh, 1805, 2 vols. 12mo. This publication, which was well received, contains some lyrical effusions that entitle the author to a respectable rank among the modern cultivators of national poetry; yet it is to be regretted that a deep admiration of Burns has led him into an imitation, somewhat servile, of that immortal bard.
At Traquair Mr Nicol continued to devote himself to mental improvement. He read extensively; and writing upon the subject of his studies was his daily habit. He was never robust, being affected with a chronic disorder of the stomach; and when sickness prevented him, as occasionally happened, from writing in a sitting posture, he would for hours together have devoted himself to composition in a standing position. Of his prose writings, which were numerous, the greater number still remain in MS., in the possession of his elder son. During his lifetime, he contributed a number of articles to theEdinburgh Encyclopædia, among which are "Baptism," "Baptistry," "Baptists," "Bithynia," and "Cranmer." His posthumous work, "An Essay on the Nature and Design of Scripture Sacrifices," was published in an octavo volume in the year 1823.
Mr Nicol was much respected for his sound discernment in matters of business, as well as for his benevolent disposition. Every dispute in the vicinity was submitted to his adjudication, and his counsel checked all differences in the district. He was regularly consulted as a physician, for he had studied medicine at the University. From his own medicine chest he dispensed gratuitously to the indigent sick; and without fee he vaccinated all the children of the neighbourhood who were brought to him. After a short illness, he died on the 5th of November 1819. Of a family of three sons and three daughters, the eldest son predeceased him; two sons and two daughters still survive. The elder son, who bears his father's Christian name, is Professor of Civil and Natural History in Marischal College, Aberdeen, and is well known as a geologist. Mrs Nicol survived her husband till the 19th of March 1845.
Blaw saftly, ye breezes, ye streams, smoothly murmur,Ye sweet-scented blossoms, deck every green tree;'Mong your wild scatter'd flow'rets aft wanders my charmer,The sweet lovely lass wi' the black rollin' e'e.For pensive I ponder, and languishin' wander,Far frae the sweet rosebud on Quair's windin' stream!Why, Heaven, wring my heart wi' the hard heart o' anguish?Why torture my bosom 'tween hope and despair?When absent frae Nancy, I ever maun languish!—That dear angel smile, shall it charm me nae mair?Since here life 's a desert, an' pleasure 's a dream,Bear me swift to those banks which are ever my theme,Where, mild as the mornin' at simmer's returnin',Blooms the sweet lovely rosebud on Quair's windin' stream.
Blaw saftly, ye breezes, ye streams, smoothly murmur,Ye sweet-scented blossoms, deck every green tree;'Mong your wild scatter'd flow'rets aft wanders my charmer,The sweet lovely lass wi' the black rollin' e'e.For pensive I ponder, and languishin' wander,Far frae the sweet rosebud on Quair's windin' stream!
Why, Heaven, wring my heart wi' the hard heart o' anguish?Why torture my bosom 'tween hope and despair?When absent frae Nancy, I ever maun languish!—That dear angel smile, shall it charm me nae mair?Since here life 's a desert, an' pleasure 's a dream,Bear me swift to those banks which are ever my theme,Where, mild as the mornin' at simmer's returnin',Blooms the sweet lovely rosebud on Quair's windin' stream.
By yon hoarse murmurin' stream, 'neath the moon's chilly beam,Sadly musin' I wander, an' the tear fills my e'e;Recollection, pensive power, brings back the mournfu' hour,When the laddie gaed awa' that is dear, dear to me.The tender words he said, and the faithfu' vows he made,When we parted, to my bosom a mournfu' pleasure gie;An' I lo'e to pass the day where we fondly used to stray,An' repeat the laddie's name that is dear, dear to me.Though the flow'rets gem the vales, an' scent the whisperin' gales,An' the birds fill wi' music the sweetly-bloomin' tree;Though nature bid rejoice, yet sorrow tunes my voice,For the laddie 's far awa' that is dear, dear to me!When the gloamin' brings alang the time o' mirth an' sang,An' the dance kindles joy in ilka youthfu' e'e,My neebours aften speir, why fa's the hidden tear?But they kenna he's awa' that is dear, dear to me.Oh, for the happy hour, when I shall hae the power,To the darlin' o' my soul, on wings o' love, to flee!Or that the day wad come, when fortune shall bring home,The laddie to my arms that is dear, dear to me.But if—for much I fear—that day will ne'er appear,Frae me conceal in darkness the cruel stern decree;For life wad a' be vain, were I ne'er to meet again,Wi' the laddie far awa' that is dear, dear to me.
By yon hoarse murmurin' stream, 'neath the moon's chilly beam,Sadly musin' I wander, an' the tear fills my e'e;Recollection, pensive power, brings back the mournfu' hour,When the laddie gaed awa' that is dear, dear to me.
The tender words he said, and the faithfu' vows he made,When we parted, to my bosom a mournfu' pleasure gie;An' I lo'e to pass the day where we fondly used to stray,An' repeat the laddie's name that is dear, dear to me.
Though the flow'rets gem the vales, an' scent the whisperin' gales,An' the birds fill wi' music the sweetly-bloomin' tree;Though nature bid rejoice, yet sorrow tunes my voice,For the laddie 's far awa' that is dear, dear to me!
When the gloamin' brings alang the time o' mirth an' sang,An' the dance kindles joy in ilka youthfu' e'e,My neebours aften speir, why fa's the hidden tear?But they kenna he's awa' that is dear, dear to me.
Oh, for the happy hour, when I shall hae the power,To the darlin' o' my soul, on wings o' love, to flee!Or that the day wad come, when fortune shall bring home,The laddie to my arms that is dear, dear to me.
But if—for much I fear—that day will ne'er appear,Frae me conceal in darkness the cruel stern decree;For life wad a' be vain, were I ne'er to meet again,Wi' the laddie far awa' that is dear, dear to me.
Meg, muckin' at Geordie's byre,Wrought as gin her judgment was wrang;Ilk daud o' the scartle strake fire,While loud as a lavrock she sang.Her Geordie had promised to marry,An' Meg, a sworn fae to despair,Not dreamin' the job could miscarry,Already seem'd mistress an' mair."My neebours," she sang, "aften jeer me,An' ca' me daft haluckit Meg,An' say they expect soon to hear me,I' the kirk, for my fun, get a fleg.An' now, 'bout my marriage they 'll clatter,An' Geordie, puir fallow, they ca'An auld doited hav'rel,—nae matter,He 'll keep me aye brankin an' braw."I grant ye, his face is kenspeckle,That the white o' his e'e is turn'd out,That his black beard is rough as a heckle,That his mou' to his lug 's rax'd about;But they needna let on that he 's crazie,His pikestaff will ne'er let him fa';Nor that his hair 's white as a daisy,For fient a hair has he ava'."But a weel-plenish'd mailin has Geordie,An' routh o' gude gowd in his kist,An' if siller comes at my wordie,His beauty I never will miss 't.Daft gowks, wha catch fire like tinder,Think love-raptures ever will burn?But wi' poortith, hearts het as a cinder,Will cauld as an iceshugle turn."There 'll just be ae bar to my pleasures,A bar that 's aft fill'd me wi' fear,He 's sic a hard near-be-gawn miser,He likes his saul less than his gear.But though I now flatter his failin',An' swear nought wi' gowd can compare,Gude sooth! it shall soon get a scailin',His bags sall be mouldie nae mair!"I dreamt that I rode in a chariot,A flunkie ahint me in green;While Geordie cried out he was harriet,An' the saut tear was blindin' his een.But though 'gainst my spendin' he swear aye,I 'll hae frae him what ser's my turn;Let him slip awa' whan he grows wearie;Shame fa' me, gin lang I wad mourn!"But Geordie, while Meg was haranguin',Was cloutin' his breeks i' the bauks;An' whan a' his failin's she brang in,His strang hazel pikestaff he taks,Designin' to rax her a lounder,He chanced on the lather to shift,An' down frae the bauks, flat 's a flounder,Flew like a shot starn frae the lift!
Meg, muckin' at Geordie's byre,Wrought as gin her judgment was wrang;Ilk daud o' the scartle strake fire,While loud as a lavrock she sang.Her Geordie had promised to marry,An' Meg, a sworn fae to despair,Not dreamin' the job could miscarry,Already seem'd mistress an' mair.
"My neebours," she sang, "aften jeer me,An' ca' me daft haluckit Meg,An' say they expect soon to hear me,I' the kirk, for my fun, get a fleg.An' now, 'bout my marriage they 'll clatter,An' Geordie, puir fallow, they ca'An auld doited hav'rel,—nae matter,He 'll keep me aye brankin an' braw.
"I grant ye, his face is kenspeckle,That the white o' his e'e is turn'd out,That his black beard is rough as a heckle,That his mou' to his lug 's rax'd about;But they needna let on that he 's crazie,His pikestaff will ne'er let him fa';Nor that his hair 's white as a daisy,For fient a hair has he ava'.
"But a weel-plenish'd mailin has Geordie,An' routh o' gude gowd in his kist,An' if siller comes at my wordie,His beauty I never will miss 't.Daft gowks, wha catch fire like tinder,Think love-raptures ever will burn?But wi' poortith, hearts het as a cinder,Will cauld as an iceshugle turn.
"There 'll just be ae bar to my pleasures,A bar that 's aft fill'd me wi' fear,He 's sic a hard near-be-gawn miser,He likes his saul less than his gear.But though I now flatter his failin',An' swear nought wi' gowd can compare,Gude sooth! it shall soon get a scailin',His bags sall be mouldie nae mair!
"I dreamt that I rode in a chariot,A flunkie ahint me in green;While Geordie cried out he was harriet,An' the saut tear was blindin' his een.But though 'gainst my spendin' he swear aye,I 'll hae frae him what ser's my turn;Let him slip awa' whan he grows wearie;Shame fa' me, gin lang I wad mourn!"
But Geordie, while Meg was haranguin',Was cloutin' his breeks i' the bauks;An' whan a' his failin's she brang in,His strang hazel pikestaff he taks,Designin' to rax her a lounder,He chanced on the lather to shift,An' down frae the bauks, flat 's a flounder,Flew like a shot starn frae the lift!
My dear little lassie, why, what 's a' the matter?My heart it gangs pittypat—winna lie still;I 've waited, and waited, an' a' to grow better,Yet, lassie, believe me, I 'm aye growin' ill!My head 's turn'd quite dizzy, an' aft, when I 'm speakin',I sigh, an' am breathless, and fearfu' to speak;I gaze aye for something I fain would be seekin',Yet, lassie, I kenna weel what I would seek.Thy praise, bonnie lassie, I ever could hear of,And yet, when to ruse ye the neebour lads try—Though it 's a' true they tell ye—yet never sae far offI could see 'em ilk ane, an' I canna tell why.When we tedded the hayfield, I raked ilka rig o't,And never grew weary the lang simmer day;The rucks that ye wrought at were easiest biggit,And I fand sweeter scented around ye the hay.In har'st, whan the kirn-supper joys mak us cheerie,'Mang the lave o' the lasses I preed yer sweet mou';Dear save us! how queer I felt whan I cam' near ye—My breast thrill'd in rapture, I couldna tell how.When we dance at the gloamin', it 's you I aye pitch on;And gin ye gang by me, how dowie I be!There 's something, dear lassie, about ye bewitching,That tells me my happiness centres in thee.
My dear little lassie, why, what 's a' the matter?My heart it gangs pittypat—winna lie still;I 've waited, and waited, an' a' to grow better,Yet, lassie, believe me, I 'm aye growin' ill!My head 's turn'd quite dizzy, an' aft, when I 'm speakin',I sigh, an' am breathless, and fearfu' to speak;I gaze aye for something I fain would be seekin',Yet, lassie, I kenna weel what I would seek.
Thy praise, bonnie lassie, I ever could hear of,And yet, when to ruse ye the neebour lads try—Though it 's a' true they tell ye—yet never sae far offI could see 'em ilk ane, an' I canna tell why.When we tedded the hayfield, I raked ilka rig o't,And never grew weary the lang simmer day;The rucks that ye wrought at were easiest biggit,And I fand sweeter scented around ye the hay.
In har'st, whan the kirn-supper joys mak us cheerie,'Mang the lave o' the lasses I preed yer sweet mou';Dear save us! how queer I felt whan I cam' near ye—My breast thrill'd in rapture, I couldna tell how.When we dance at the gloamin', it 's you I aye pitch on;And gin ye gang by me, how dowie I be!There 's something, dear lassie, about ye bewitching,That tells me my happiness centres in thee.
James Montgomery, the spiritual character of whose writings has gained him the honourable designation of the Christian Poet, was born at Irvine, in the county of Ayr, on the 4th of November 1771. His father, John Montgomery, was a missionary of the Moravian Brethren, and in this capacity came to Irvine from Ireland, only a few days before the birth of James, his eldest son. In his fourth year he returned to Ireland with his parents, and received the rudiments of his education from the village schoolmaster of Grace Hill, a settlement of the Moravian Brethren in the county of Antrim. In October 1777, in his seventh year, he was placed by his father in the seminary of the Moravian settlement of Fulneck, near Leeds; and on the departure of his parents to the West Indies, in 1783, he was committed to the care of the Brethren, with the view of his being trained for their Church. He was not destined to see his parents again. His mother died at Barbadoes, in November 1790, and his father after an interval of eight months.
In consequence of his indolent habits, which were incorrigible, young Montgomery was removed from the seminary at Fulneck, and placed in the shop of a baker at Mirfield, in the vicinity. He was then in his sixteenth year; and having already afforded evidenceof a refined taste, both in poetry and music, though careless of the ordinary routine of scholastic instruction, his new occupation was altogether uncongenial to his feelings. He, however, remained about eighteen months in the baker's service, but at length made a hasty escape from Mirfield, with only three shillings and sixpence in his pocket, and seemingly without any scheme except that of relieving himself from an irksome employment. But an accidental circumstance speedily enabled him to obtain an engagement with a shopkeeper in Wath, now a station on the railway between London and Leeds; and in procuring this employment, he was indebted to the recommendation of his former master, whose service he had unceremoniously quitted. But this new situation had few advantages over the old, and he relinquished it in about a year to try his fortune in the metropolis. He had previously sent a manuscript volume of poetry to Harrison, the bookseller of Paternoster Row, who, while declining to publish it, commended the author's talents, and so far promoted his views as now to receive him into his establishment. But Montgomery's aspirations had no reference to serving behind a counter; he only accepted a place in the bookseller's establishment that he might have an opportunity of leisurely feeling his way as an author. His literary efforts, however, still proved fruitless. He composed essays and tales, and wrote a romance in the manner of Fielding, but none of his productions could find a publisher. Mortified by his failures, he quitted London in eight months, and returned to the shop of his former employer at Wath. After the interval of another year, he proceeded to Sheffield, to occupy a situation under Mr Joseph Gales, a bookseller, and the proprietor of theRegisternewspaper.
Montgomery was now in his twenty-first year, and fortune at length began, though with many lowering intervals, to smile upon his youthful aspirations. Though he occupied a subordinate post in Mr Gales' establishment, his literary services were accepted for theRegister, in which he published many of his earlier compositions, both in prose and verse. This journal had advocated sentiments of an ultra-liberal order, and commanding a wide circulation and a powerful influence among the operatives in Sheffield, had been narrowly inspected by the authorities. At length the proprietor fell into the snare of sympathising in the transactions of the French revolutionists; he was prosecuted for sedition, and deemed himself only safe from compulsory exile by a voluntary exit to America. This event took place about two years after Montgomery's first connexion with Sheffield, and he had now reverted to his former condition of abject dependence unless for a fortunate occurrence. This was no less than his being appointed joint-proprietor and editor of the newspaper by a wealthy individual, who, noticing the abilities of the young shopman, purchased the copyright with the view of placing the management entirely in his hands.
The first number of the newspaper under the poet's care, the name being changed to that ofThe Sheffield Iris, appeared in July 1794; and though the principles of the journal were moderate and conciliatory in comparison with the democratic sentiments espoused by the former publisher, the jealous eye of the authorities rested on its new conductor. He did not escape their vigilance; for the simple offence of printing for a ballad-vender some verses of a song celebrating the fall of the Bastile, he was libelled as "a wicked, malicious, seditious, and evil-disposed person;" and being tried beforethe Doncaster Quarter Sessions, in January 1795, was sentenced to three months' imprisonment in the Castle of York. He was condemned to a second imprisonment of six months in the autumn of the same year, for inserting in his paper an account of a riot in the place, in which he was considered to have cast aspersions on a colonel of volunteers. The calm mind of the poet did not sink under these persecutions, and some of his best lyrics were composed during the period of his latter confinement. During his first detention he wrote a series of interesting essays for his newspaper. His "Prison Amusements," a series of beautiful pieces, appeared in 1797. In 1805, he published his poem, "The Ocean;" in 1806, "The Wanderer in Switzerland;" in 1808, "The West Indies;" and in 1812, "The World before the Flood." In 1819 he published "Greenland, a Poem, in Five Cantos;" and in 1825 appeared "The Pelican Island, and other Poems." Of all those productions, "The Wanderer in Switzerland" attained the widest circulation; and, notwithstanding an unfavourable and injudicious criticism in theEdinburgh Review, at once procured an honourable place for the author among his contemporaries. He became sole proprietor of theIrisin one year after his being connected with it, and he continued to conduct this paper till September 1825, when he retired from public duty. He subsequently contributed articles for different periodicals; but he chiefly devoted himself to the moral and religious improvement of his fellow-townsmen. A pension of £150 on the civil list was conferred upon him as an acknowledgment of his services in behalf of literature and of philanthropy; a well-merited public boon which for many years he was spared to enjoy. He died at his residence, The Mount, Sheffield, on the 30th of April1854, in the eighty-second year of his age. He bequeathed handsome legacies to various public charities. His Poetical Works, in a collected form, were published in 1850 by the Messrs Longman, in one octavo volume; and in 1853 he gave to the world his last work, being "Original Hymns, for Public, Private, and Social Devotion." Copious memoirs of his life are now in the course of publication.
As a poet, Montgomery is conspicuous for the smoothness of his versification, and for the fervent piety pervading all his compositions. As a man, he was gentle and conciliatory, and was remarkable as a generous promoter of benevolent institutions. The general tendency of his poems was thus indicated by himself, in the course of an address which he made at a public dinner, given him at Sheffield, in November 1825, immediately after the toast of his health being proposed by the chairman, Lord Viscount Milton, now Earl Fitzwilliam:—