THE BRAES O' DRUMLEE.

Now bank an' brae are clad in green,An' scatter'd cowslips sweetly spring;By Girvan's fairy-haunted stream,The birdies flit on wanton wing;By Cassillis' banks, when e'ening fa's,There let my Mary meet wi' me,There catch her ilka glance o' love,The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e.The chiel' wha boasts o' warld's wealthIs aften laird o' meikle care;But Mary she is a' my ain,An' Fortune canna gie me mair.Then let me stray by Cassillis' banks,Wi' her, the lassie dear to me,An' catch her ilka glance o' love,The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e.

The chiel' wha boasts o' warld's wealthIs aften laird o' meikle care;But Mary she is a' my ain,An' Fortune canna gie me mair.Then let me stray by Cassillis' banks,Wi' her, the lassie dear to me,An' catch her ilka glance o' love,The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e.

Ere eild wi' his blatters had warsled me down,Or reft me o' life's youthfu' bloom,How aft hae I gane, wi' a heart louping light,To the knowes yellow tappit wi' broom!How aft hae I sat i' the beild o' the knowe,While the laverock mounted sae hie,An' the mavis sang sweet in the plantings around,On the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.But, ah! while we daff in the sunshine of youth,We see na' the blasts that destroy;We count na' upon the fell waes that may come,An eithly o'ercloud a' our joy.I saw na the fause face that fortune can wear,Till forced from my country to flee;Wi' a heart like to burst, while I sobbed, "Farewell,To the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee!"Fareweel, ye dear haunts o' the days o' my youth,Ye woods and ye valleys sae fair;Ye 'll bloom whan I wander abroad like a ghaist,Sair nidder'd wi' sorrow an' care.Ye woods an' ye valleys, I part wi' a sigh,While the flood gushes down frae my e'e;For never again shall the tear weet my cheek,On the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee."O Time, could I tether your hours for a wee!Na, na, for they flit like the wind!"—Sae I took my departure, an' saunter'd awa',Yet aften look'd wistfu' behind.Oh, sair is the heart of the mither to twin,Wi' the baby that sits on her knee;But sairer the pang, when I took a last peep,O' the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.I heftit 'mang strangers years thretty-an'-twa,But naething could banish my care;An' aften I sigh'd when I thought on the past,Whare a' was sae pleasant an' fair.But now, wae 's my heart! whan I 'm lyart an' auld,An' fu' lint-white my haffet-locks flee,I 'm hamewards return'd wi' a remnant o' life,To the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.Poor body! bewilder'd, I scarcely do kenThe haunts that were dear ance to me;I yirded a plant in the days o' my youth,An' the mavis now sings on the tree.But, haith! there 's nae scenes I wad niffer wi' thae;For it fills my fond heart fu' o' glee,To think how at last my auld banes they will rest,Near the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.

But, ah! while we daff in the sunshine of youth,We see na' the blasts that destroy;We count na' upon the fell waes that may come,An eithly o'ercloud a' our joy.I saw na the fause face that fortune can wear,Till forced from my country to flee;Wi' a heart like to burst, while I sobbed, "Farewell,To the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee!

"Fareweel, ye dear haunts o' the days o' my youth,Ye woods and ye valleys sae fair;Ye 'll bloom whan I wander abroad like a ghaist,Sair nidder'd wi' sorrow an' care.Ye woods an' ye valleys, I part wi' a sigh,While the flood gushes down frae my e'e;For never again shall the tear weet my cheek,On the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.

"O Time, could I tether your hours for a wee!Na, na, for they flit like the wind!"—Sae I took my departure, an' saunter'd awa',Yet aften look'd wistfu' behind.Oh, sair is the heart of the mither to twin,Wi' the baby that sits on her knee;But sairer the pang, when I took a last peep,O' the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.

I heftit 'mang strangers years thretty-an'-twa,But naething could banish my care;An' aften I sigh'd when I thought on the past,Whare a' was sae pleasant an' fair.But now, wae 's my heart! whan I 'm lyart an' auld,An' fu' lint-white my haffet-locks flee,I 'm hamewards return'd wi' a remnant o' life,To the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.

Poor body! bewilder'd, I scarcely do kenThe haunts that were dear ance to me;I yirded a plant in the days o' my youth,An' the mavis now sings on the tree.But, haith! there 's nae scenes I wad niffer wi' thae;For it fills my fond heart fu' o' glee,To think how at last my auld banes they will rest,Near the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.

I winna gang back to my mammy again,I 'll never gae back to my mammy again;I 've held by her apron these aught years an' ten,But I 'll never gang back to my mammy again.I 've held by her apron, &c.Young Johnnie cam' down i' the gloamin' to woo,Wi' plaidie sae bonny, an' bannet sae blue:"O come awa, lassie, ne'er let mammy ken;"An' I flew wi' my laddie o'er meadow an' glen."O come awa, lassie," &c.He ca'd me his dawtie, his dearie, his doo,An' press'd hame his words wi' a smack o' my mou';While I fell on his bosom heart-flicher'd an' fain,An' sigh'd out, "O Johnnie, I 'll aye be your ain!"While I fell on his bosom, &c.Some lasses will talk to their lads wi' their e'e,Yet hanker to tell what their hearts really dree;Wi' Johnnie I stood upon nae stapping-stane,Sae I 'll never gae back to my mammy again.Wi' Johnnie I stood, &c.For many lang year sin' I play'd on the lea,My mammy was kind as a mither could be;I 've held by her apron these aught years an' ten,But I 'll never gang back to my mammy again.I 've held by her apron, &c.

I winna gang back to my mammy again,I 'll never gae back to my mammy again;I 've held by her apron these aught years an' ten,But I 'll never gang back to my mammy again.I 've held by her apron, &c.

Young Johnnie cam' down i' the gloamin' to woo,Wi' plaidie sae bonny, an' bannet sae blue:"O come awa, lassie, ne'er let mammy ken;"An' I flew wi' my laddie o'er meadow an' glen."O come awa, lassie," &c.

He ca'd me his dawtie, his dearie, his doo,An' press'd hame his words wi' a smack o' my mou';While I fell on his bosom heart-flicher'd an' fain,An' sigh'd out, "O Johnnie, I 'll aye be your ain!"While I fell on his bosom, &c.

Some lasses will talk to their lads wi' their e'e,Yet hanker to tell what their hearts really dree;Wi' Johnnie I stood upon nae stapping-stane,Sae I 'll never gae back to my mammy again.Wi' Johnnie I stood, &c.

For many lang year sin' I play'd on the lea,My mammy was kind as a mither could be;I 've held by her apron these aught years an' ten,But I 'll never gang back to my mammy again.I 've held by her apron, &c.

Irish Air—"The Brown Maid."

The Bard strikes his harp the wild valleys amang,Whare the tall aiken trees spreading leafy appear;While the murmuring breeze mingles sweet wi' his sang,An' wafts the saft notes till they die on the ear;But Mary, whase presence sic transport conveys,Whase beauties my moments o' pleasure control,On the strings o' my heart ever wantonly plays,An' each languishing note is a sigh frae my soul!Her breath is as sweet as the sweet-scented brier,That blossoms and blaws in yon wild lanely glen;When I view her fair form which nae mortal can peer,A something o'erpowers me I dinna weel ken.What sweetness her snawy white bosom displays!The blink o' her bonny black e'e wha' can thole!On the strings o' my heart she bewitchingly plays,An' each languishing note is a sigh frae my soul!

Her breath is as sweet as the sweet-scented brier,That blossoms and blaws in yon wild lanely glen;When I view her fair form which nae mortal can peer,A something o'erpowers me I dinna weel ken.What sweetness her snawy white bosom displays!The blink o' her bonny black e'e wha' can thole!On the strings o' my heart she bewitchingly plays,An' each languishing note is a sigh frae my soul!

Can ought be constant as the sun,That makes the world sae cheerie?Yes, a' the powers can witness be,The love I bear my dearie.But what can make the hours seem lang,An' rin sae wondrous dreary?What but the space that lies betweenMe an' my only dearie.Then fare ye weel, wha saw me aft,Sae blythe, baith late and early;An' fareweel scenes o' former joys,That cherish life sae rarely;Baith love an' beauty bid me flee,Nor linger lang an' eerie,But haste, an' in my arms enfauld,My only pride an' dearie.I 'll hail Lochaber's valleys green,Where many a rill meanders;I 'll hail wi' joy, its birken bowers,For there Louisa wanders.There will I clasp her to my breast,An' tent her smile fu' cheerie;An' thus, without a wish or want,Live happy wi' my dearie.

Then fare ye weel, wha saw me aft,Sae blythe, baith late and early;An' fareweel scenes o' former joys,That cherish life sae rarely;Baith love an' beauty bid me flee,Nor linger lang an' eerie,But haste, an' in my arms enfauld,My only pride an' dearie.

I 'll hail Lochaber's valleys green,Where many a rill meanders;I 'll hail wi' joy, its birken bowers,For there Louisa wanders.There will I clasp her to my breast,An' tent her smile fu' cheerie;An' thus, without a wish or want,Live happy wi' my dearie.

For mony lang year I hae heard frae my grannieOf brownies an' bogles by yon castle wa',Of auld wither'd hags that were never thought cannie,An' fairies that danced till they heard the cock caw.I leugh at her tales; an' last owk, i' the gloamin',I daunder'd, alane, down the hazelwood green;Alas! I was reckless, and rue sair my roamin',For I met a young witch, wi' twa bonnie black e'en.I thought o' the starns in a frosty night glancing,Whan a' the lift round them is cloudless an' blue;I looked again, an' my heart fell a-dancing,When I wad hae spoken, she glamour'd my mou'.O wae to her cantrips! for dumpish I wander,At kirk or at market there 's nought to be seen;For she dances afore me wherever I daunder,The hazelwood witch wi' the bonnie black e'en.

I thought o' the starns in a frosty night glancing,Whan a' the lift round them is cloudless an' blue;I looked again, an' my heart fell a-dancing,When I wad hae spoken, she glamour'd my mou'.O wae to her cantrips! for dumpish I wander,At kirk or at market there 's nought to be seen;For she dances afore me wherever I daunder,The hazelwood witch wi' the bonnie black e'en.

Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,Scenes that former thoughts renew;Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,Now a sad and last adieu!Bonny Doon, sae sweet at gloamin',Fare thee weel before I gang;Bonny Doon, whare, early roamin',First I weaved the rustic sang.Bowers, adieu! where, love decoying,First enthrall'd this heart o' mine;There the saftest sweets enjoying,Sweets that memory ne'er shall tine.Friends sae near my bosom ever,Ye hae render'd moments dear;But, alas! when forced to sever,Then the stroke, O how severe!Friends, that parting tear reserve it,Though 'tis doubly dear to me;Could I think I did deserve it,How much happier would I be.Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,Scenes that former thoughts renew;Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,Now a sad and last adieu!

Bowers, adieu! where, love decoying,First enthrall'd this heart o' mine;There the saftest sweets enjoying,Sweets that memory ne'er shall tine.Friends sae near my bosom ever,Ye hae render'd moments dear;But, alas! when forced to sever,Then the stroke, O how severe!

Friends, that parting tear reserve it,Though 'tis doubly dear to me;Could I think I did deserve it,How much happier would I be.Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,Scenes that former thoughts renew;Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,Now a sad and last adieu!

George Scott was the son of a small landowner in Roxburghshire. He was born at Dingleton, near Melrose, in 1777; and after attending the parish-schools of Melrose and Galashiels, became a student in the University of Edinburgh. On completing a curriculum of classical study, he was in his twenty-second year appointed parochial schoolmaster of Livingstone, West Lothian; and in six years afterwards was preferred to the parish-school of Lilliesleaf, in his native county. He was an accomplished scholar, and had the honour of educating many individuals who afterwards attained distinction. With Sir Walter Scott, who appreciated his scholarship, he maintained a friendly correspondence. In 1820, he published a small volume of poems, entitled, "Heath Flowers; or, Mountain Melodies," which exhibits considerable poetical talent. Having discharged the duties of an instructor of youth for half a century, he retired from his public avocations in November 1850. He survived till the 23d of February 1853, having attained his seventy-sixth year.

Air—"Bonnie Dundee."

Now rests the red sun in his caves of the ocean,Now closed every eye but of misery and mine;While, led by the moonbeam, in fondest devotion,I doat on her image, the Flower of the Tyne.Her cheek far outrivals the rose's rich blossom,Her eyes the bright gems of Golconda outshine;The snow-drop and lily are lost on her bosom,For beauty unmatched is the Flower of the Tyne.So charming each feature, so guileless her nature,A thousand fond voices pronounce her divine;So witchingly pretty, so modestly witty,That sweet is thy thraldom, fair Flower of the Tyne!Thine aspect so noble, yet sweetly inviting,The loves and the graces thy temples entwine;In manners the saint and the syren uniting,Bloom on, dear Louisa, the Flower of the Tyne.Though fair, Caledonia, the nymphs of thy mountains,And graceful and straight as thine own silver pine,Though fresh as thy breezes, and pure as thy fountains,Yet fairer to me is the Flower of the Tyne.This poor throbbing heart as an offering I give her,A temple to love is this bosom of mine;Then smile on thy victim, Louisa, for ever,I 'll kneel at thine altar, sweet Flower of the Tyne.

So charming each feature, so guileless her nature,A thousand fond voices pronounce her divine;So witchingly pretty, so modestly witty,That sweet is thy thraldom, fair Flower of the Tyne!Thine aspect so noble, yet sweetly inviting,The loves and the graces thy temples entwine;In manners the saint and the syren uniting,Bloom on, dear Louisa, the Flower of the Tyne.

Though fair, Caledonia, the nymphs of thy mountains,And graceful and straight as thine own silver pine,Though fresh as thy breezes, and pure as thy fountains,Yet fairer to me is the Flower of the Tyne.This poor throbbing heart as an offering I give her,A temple to love is this bosom of mine;Then smile on thy victim, Louisa, for ever,I 'll kneel at thine altar, sweet Flower of the Tyne.

Thomas Campbell, author of the "Pleasures of Hope," was descended from a race of landed proprietors in Argyleshire, who claimed ancestry in Macallummore, the great head of clan Campbell, and consequent propinquity to the noble House of Argyle. Alexander Campbell, the poet's father, had carried on a prosperous trade as a Virginian merchant, but had suffered unhappy embarrassments, at the outbreak of the American war. Of his eleven children, Thomas was the youngest. He was born on the 27th July 1777, in his father's house, High Street, Glasgow, and was baptised by the celebrated Dr Thomas Reid, after whom he received his Christian name. The favourite child of his parents, peculiar care was bestowed upon his upbringing; he was taught to read by his eldest sister, who was nineteen years his senior, and had an example of energy set before him by his mother, a woman of remarkable decision. He afforded early indication of genius; as a child, he was fond of ballad poetry, and in his tenth year he wrote verses. At the age of eight he became a pupil in the grammar school, having already made some proficiency in classical learning. During the first session of attendance at the University, he gained two prizes and a bursary on Archbishop Leighton's foundation. As a classical scholar, he acquired rapid distinction; he took especial delight in the dramatic literature of Greece, and his metrical translations from the Greek plays were pronounced excellent specimens of poetical composition.He invoked the muse on many themes, and occasionally printed verses, which were purchased by his comrades. From the commencement of his curriculum he chiefly supported himself by teaching; at the close of his fourth session, he accepted a tutorship in the island of Mull. There he prosecuted verse-making, and continued his translations from the Greek dramatists. He conducted a poetical correspondence with Hamilton Paul; and the following lines addressed to this early friend, and entitled "An Elegy written in Mull," may be quoted in evidence of his poetical talent in his seventeenth year. These lines do not occur in any edition of his works:

"The tempest blackens on the dusky moor,And billows lash the long-resounding shore;In pensive mood I roam the desert ground,And vainly sigh for scenes no longer found.Oh, whither fled the pleasurable hoursThat chased each care, and fired the muse's powers;The classic haunts of youth, for ever gayWhere mirth and friendship cheer'd the close of day,The well-known valleys where I wont to roam,The native sports, the nameless joys of home?Far different scenes allure my wondering eye:The white wave foaming to the distant sky;The cloudy heavens, unblest by summer's smile;The sounding storm that sweeps the rugged isle,The chill, bleak summit of eternal snow,The wide, wild glen, the pathless plains below,The dark blue rocks, in barren grandeur piled,The cuckoo sighing to the pensive wild!Far different these from all that charm'd before,The grassy banks of Clutha's winding shore:The sloping vales, with waving forests lined;Her smooth blue lakes, unruffled by the wind.Hail, happy Clutha! glad shall I surveyThy gilded turrets from the distant way!Thy sight shall cheer the weary traveller's toil,And joy shall hail me to my native soil."

He remained at Mull five months; and subsequently became tutor in the family of Sir William Napier, at Downie, near Loch Fyne. On completing a fifth session at the University, he experienced anxiety regarding the choice of a profession, chiefly with the desire of being able speedily to aid in the support of his necessitous parents. He first thought of a mercantile life, and then weighed the respective advantages of the clerical, medical, and legal professions. For a period, he attempted law, but soon tired of the drudgery which it threatened to impose. In Edinburgh, during a brief period of legal study, he formed the acquaintance of Dr Robert Anderson, through whose favour he became known to the rising wits of the capital. Among his earlier friends he reckoned the names of Francis Jeffrey, Henry Brougham, Thomas Brown, James Graham, and David Irving.

In 1798, Campbell induced his parents to remove to Edinburgh, where he calculated on literary employment. He had already composed the draught of the "Pleasures of Hope," but he did not hazard its publication till he had exhausted every effort in its improvement. His care was well repaid; his poem produced one universal outburst of admiration, and one edition after another rapidly sold. He had not completed his twenty-second year when he gained a place among the most distinguished poets of his country. For the copyright Mundell and Company allowed him only two hundred copies in quires, which yielded him about fifty pounds; but they presented him with twenty-five pounds on the appearance of each successive edition. He was afterwards permitted to publish an edition on his own account,—a privilege which brought him the sum of six hundred pounds. Resolving to follow literature as a profession, he was desirous of becoming personally acquainted with the distinguished menof letters in Germany; in June 1800 he embarked at Leith for Hamburg. He visited Ratisbon, Munich, and Leipsic; had an interview with the poet Klopstock, then in his seventy-seventh year, and witnessed a battle between the French and Germans, near Ratisbon. At Hamburg he formed the acquaintance of Anthony M'Cann, who had been driven into exile by the Irish Government in 1798, on the accusation of being a leader in the rebellion. Of this individual he formed a favourable opinion, and his condition suggested the exquisite poem, "The Exile of Erin." After some months' residence at Altona, he sailed for England; the vessel narrowly escaping capture by a privateer, landed him at Yarmouth, whence he proceeded to London. He had been in correspondence with Perry of theMorning Chronicle, who introduced him to Lord Holland, Sir James Macintosh, and Samuel Rogers. Receiving tidings of his father's death, he returned to Edinburgh. Not a little to his concern, he found that warrants had been issued for his apprehension on the charge of high treason; he was accused of attending Jacobin clubs at Hamburg, and of conspiring with General Moreau and the Irish exiles to land troops in Ireland! The seizure of his travelling trunk led to the ample vindication of his loyalty; it was found to contain the first draught of the "Mariners of England." Besides a magnificent quarto edition of the "Pleasures of Hope," he now prepared a work in three volumes, entitled "Annals of Great Britain;" for which the sum of three hundred pounds was paid him by Mundell and Company. Through Professor Dugald Stewart, he obtained the friendship of Lord Minto, who invited him to London, and afterwards entertained him at Minto.

In 1803, Campbell resolved to settle in London; in his progress to the metropolis he visited his friends Roscoe and Currie, at Liverpool. On the 10th September, 1803, he espoused his fair cousin, Matilda Sinclair, and established his residence in Upper Eaton Street, Pimlico. In the following year, he sought refuge from the noise of the busy world in London, by renting a house at Sydenham. His reputation readily secured him a sufficiency of literary employment; he translated for theStar, with a salary of two hundred pounds per annum, and became a contributor to thePhilosophical Magazine. He declined the offer of the Regent's chair in the University of Wilna, in Russian-Poland; but shortly after had conferred on him, by the premier, Charles Fox, a civil-list pension of two hundred pounds. In 1809, he published his poem, "Gertrude of Wyoming," along with the "Battle of the Baltic," the "Mariners of England," "Hohenlinden," "Glenara," and others of his best lyrics. This volume was well received, and added largely to his laurels. In 1811, he delivered five lectures on poetry, in the Royal Institution.

Campbell was now a visitor in the first literary circles, and was welcomed at the tables of persons of opulence. From the commencement of his residence in London, he had known John Kemble, and his accomplished sister, Mrs Siddons. He became intimate with Lord Byron and Thomas Moore; and had the honour of frequent invitations to the residence of the Princess of Wales, at Blackheath. In 1814, he visited Paris, where he was introduced to the Duke of Wellington; dined with Humboldt and Schlegel, and met his former friend and correspondent, Madame de Staël. A proposal of Sir Walter Scott, in 1816, to secure him a chair in the University of Edinburgh, was not attended with success. The "Specimens of the British Poets," a work he had undertaken for Mr Murray, appeared in 1819. In 1820, he accepted the editorship of theNew Monthly Magazine, with a salary of six hundred pounds per annum. A second visit to Germany, which he accomplished immediately after the commencement of his editorial duties, suggested to him the idea of the London University; and this scheme, warmly supported by his literary friends, and advocated by Lord Brougham, led in 1825 to the establishment of the institution. In the year subsequent to this happy consummation of his exertions on behalf of learning in the south, he received intelligence of his having been elected Lord Rector of the University of Glasgow. This honour was the most valued of his life; it was afterwards enhanced by his re-election to office for the third time,—a rare occurrence in the history of the College.

The future career of the poet was not remarkable for any decided achievements in literature or poetry. In 1831, he allowed his name to be used as the conductor of theMetropolitan, a short-lived periodical. He published in 1834 a "Life of Mrs Siddons," in two volumes, but this performance did not prove equal to public expectation. One of his last efforts was the preparation of an edition of the "Pleasures of Hope," which was illustrated with engravings from drawings by Turner. Subsequent to the death of Mrs Campbell, which took place in May 1828, he became unsettled in his domestic habits, evincing a mania for change of residence. In 1834, he proceeded to Algiers, in Africa; and returning by Paris, was presented to King Louis Philippe. On his health failing, some years afterwards, he tried the baths of Wiesbaden, and latterly established his residence at Boulogne. After a prostrating illness of several months, he expired at Boulogne, on the 15th of June 1844, in his 67th year.

Of the poetry of Thomas Campbell, "The Pleasures of Hope" is one of the most finished epics in the language; itis alike faultless in respect of conception and versification. His lyrics are equally sustained in power of thought and loftiness of diction; they have been more frequently quoted than the poems of any other modern author, and are translated into various European languages. Few men evinced more jealousy in regard to their reputation; he was keenly sensitive to criticism, and fastidious in judging of his own composition. As a prose writer, though he wrote with elegance, he is less likely to be remembered. Latterly a native unsteadiness of purpose degenerated into inaction; during the period of his unabated vigour, it prevented his carrying out many literary schemes. A bad money manager, he had under no circumstances become rich; at one period he was in the receipt of fifteen hundred pounds per annum, yet he felt poverty. He had a strong feeling of independence, and he never received a favour without considering whether he might be able to repay it. He was abundantly charitable, and could not resist the solicitations of indigence. Of slavery and oppression in every form he entertained an abhorrence; his zeal in the cause of liberty led him while a youth to be present in Edinburgh at the trial of Gerard and others, for maintaining liberal opinions, and to support in his maturer years the cause of the Polish refugees. Naturally cheerful, he was subject to moods of despondency, and his temper was ardent in circumstances of provocation. In personal appearance he was rather under the middle height, and he dressed with precision and neatness. His countenance was pleasing, but was only expressive of power when lit up by congenial conversation. He was fond of society and talked with fluency. His remains rest close by the ashes of Sheridan, in Westminster Abbey, and over them a handsome monument has lately been erected to his memory.

Ye mariners of England,That guard our native seas;Whose flag has braved a thousand yearsThe battle and the breeze!Your glorious standard launch againTo match another foe;And sweep through the deep,While the stormy winds do blow;While the battle rages loud and long,And the stormy winds do blow.The spirit of your fathersShall start from every wave;For the deck it was their field of fame,And ocean was their grave:Where Blake and mighty Nelson fellYour manly hearts shall glow,As ye sweep through the deep,While the stormy winds do blow;While the battle rages loud and long,And the stormy winds do blow.Britannia needs no bulwarks,No towers along the steep;Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,Her home is on the deep.With thunders from her native oak,She quells the floods below,—As they roar on the shore,When the stormy winds do blow;When the battle rages loud and long,And the stormy winds do blow.The meteor flag of EnglandShall yet terrific burn;Till danger's troubled night depart,And the star of peace return.Then, then, ye ocean warriors!Our song and feast shall flow,To the fame of your name,When the storm has ceased to blow;When the fiery fight is heard no more,And the storm has ceased to blow.

The spirit of your fathersShall start from every wave;For the deck it was their field of fame,And ocean was their grave:Where Blake and mighty Nelson fellYour manly hearts shall glow,As ye sweep through the deep,While the stormy winds do blow;While the battle rages loud and long,And the stormy winds do blow.

Britannia needs no bulwarks,No towers along the steep;Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,Her home is on the deep.With thunders from her native oak,She quells the floods below,—As they roar on the shore,When the stormy winds do blow;When the battle rages loud and long,And the stormy winds do blow.

The meteor flag of EnglandShall yet terrific burn;Till danger's troubled night depart,And the star of peace return.Then, then, ye ocean warriors!Our song and feast shall flow,To the fame of your name,When the storm has ceased to blow;When the fiery fight is heard no more,And the storm has ceased to blow.

Oh! heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale,Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear;And her sire, and the people, are call'd to her bier.Glenara came first, with the mourners and shroud;Her kinsmen they follow'd, but mourn'd not aloud:Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around;They march'd all in silence, they look'd on the ground.In silence they reach'd, over mountain and moor,To a heath where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar."Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn;Why speak ye no word?" said Glenara the stern."And tell me, I charge you, ye clan of my spouse!Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?"So spake the rude chieftain. No answer is made,But each mantle unfolding, a dagger display'd."I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud,"Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud;"And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem.Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream."Oh! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween,When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen;When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn—'Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn:"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief,I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief;On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem.Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground,And the desert reveal'd where his lady was found;From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne—Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!

Oh! heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale,Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear;And her sire, and the people, are call'd to her bier.

Glenara came first, with the mourners and shroud;Her kinsmen they follow'd, but mourn'd not aloud:Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around;They march'd all in silence, they look'd on the ground.

In silence they reach'd, over mountain and moor,To a heath where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar."Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn;Why speak ye no word?" said Glenara the stern.

"And tell me, I charge you, ye clan of my spouse!Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?"So spake the rude chieftain. No answer is made,But each mantle unfolding, a dagger display'd.

"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud,"Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud;"And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem.Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream."

Oh! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween,When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen;When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn—'Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn:

"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief,I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief;On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem.Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"

In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground,And the desert reveal'd where his lady was found;From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne—Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!

Alone to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube,Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er."O, whither," she cried, "hast thou wander'd, my lover,Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore?"What voice did I hear? 'twas my Henry that sigh'd!"All mournful she hasten'd, nor wander'd she far,When, bleeding and low, on the heath she descried,By the light of the moon, her poor wounded hussar!From his bosom, that heaved, the last torrent was streaming,And pale was his visage, deep mark'd with a scar,And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming,That melted in love, and that kindled in war!How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight!How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war!"Hast thou come, my fond love, this last sorrowful night,To cheer the lone heart of your wounded hussar?""Thou shalt live," she replied; "Heaven's mercy relievingEach anguishing wound shall forbid me to mourn!""Ah, no! the last pang of my bosom is heaving;No light of the morn shall to Henry return!"Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true!Ye babes of my love, that await me afar!"His faltering tongue scarce could murmur adieu,When he sank in her arms—the poor wounded hussar.

Alone to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube,Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er."O, whither," she cried, "hast thou wander'd, my lover,Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore?

"What voice did I hear? 'twas my Henry that sigh'd!"All mournful she hasten'd, nor wander'd she far,When, bleeding and low, on the heath she descried,By the light of the moon, her poor wounded hussar!

From his bosom, that heaved, the last torrent was streaming,And pale was his visage, deep mark'd with a scar,And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming,That melted in love, and that kindled in war!

How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight!How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war!"Hast thou come, my fond love, this last sorrowful night,To cheer the lone heart of your wounded hussar?"

"Thou shalt live," she replied; "Heaven's mercy relievingEach anguishing wound shall forbid me to mourn!""Ah, no! the last pang of my bosom is heaving;No light of the morn shall to Henry return!

"Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true!Ye babes of my love, that await me afar!"His faltering tongue scarce could murmur adieu,When he sank in her arms—the poor wounded hussar.

Of Nelson and the North,Sing the glorious day's renown,When to battle fierce came forth,All the might of Denmark's crown,And her arms along the deep proudly shone;By each gun the lighted brand,In a bold determined hand,And the Prince of all the landLed them on.Like leviathans afloat,Lay their bulwarks on the brine;While the sign of battle flewOn the lofty British line:It was ten of April morn by the chime,As they drifted on their path,There was silence deep as death,And the boldest held his breathFor a time.But the might of England flush'dTo anticipate the scene;And her van the fleeter rush'dO'er the deadly space between."Hearts of oak!" our Captain cried; when each gunFrom its adamantine lipsSpread a death-shade round the ships,Like the hurricane eclipseOf the sun.Again! again! again!And the havoc did not slack,Till a feeble cheer the DaneTo our cheering sent us back;Their shots along the deep slowly boom;Then ceased, and all is wail,As they strike the shatter'd sail,Or in conflagration paleLight the gloom.Out spoke the victor then,As he hail'd them o'er the wave—"Ye are brothers! ye are men!And we conquer but to save.So peace instead of death let us bring;But yield, proud foe! thy fleet,With the crews, at England's feet,And make submission meetTo our King."Then Denmark bless'd our chiefThat he gave her wounds repose;And the sounds of joy and griefFrom her people wildly rose,As Death withdrew his shades from the day.While the sun look'd smiling brightO'er a wide and woeful sight,Where the fires of funeral lightDied away.Now joy, Old England, raise!For the tidings of thy might,By the festal cities blaze,Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;And yet amidst that joy and uproar,Let us think of them that sleep,Full many a fathom deep,By thy wild and stormy steep,Elsinore!Brave hearts! to Britain's pride,Once so faithful and so true,On the deck of fame that died,With the gallant good Riou,Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave!While the billow mournful rolls,And the mermaid's song condoles,Singing glory to the soulsOf the brave!

Like leviathans afloat,Lay their bulwarks on the brine;While the sign of battle flewOn the lofty British line:It was ten of April morn by the chime,As they drifted on their path,There was silence deep as death,And the boldest held his breathFor a time.

But the might of England flush'dTo anticipate the scene;And her van the fleeter rush'dO'er the deadly space between."Hearts of oak!" our Captain cried; when each gunFrom its adamantine lipsSpread a death-shade round the ships,Like the hurricane eclipseOf the sun.

Again! again! again!And the havoc did not slack,Till a feeble cheer the DaneTo our cheering sent us back;Their shots along the deep slowly boom;Then ceased, and all is wail,As they strike the shatter'd sail,Or in conflagration paleLight the gloom.

Out spoke the victor then,As he hail'd them o'er the wave—"Ye are brothers! ye are men!And we conquer but to save.So peace instead of death let us bring;But yield, proud foe! thy fleet,With the crews, at England's feet,And make submission meetTo our King."

Then Denmark bless'd our chiefThat he gave her wounds repose;And the sounds of joy and griefFrom her people wildly rose,As Death withdrew his shades from the day.While the sun look'd smiling brightO'er a wide and woeful sight,Where the fires of funeral lightDied away.

Now joy, Old England, raise!For the tidings of thy might,By the festal cities blaze,Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;And yet amidst that joy and uproar,Let us think of them that sleep,Full many a fathom deep,By thy wild and stormy steep,Elsinore!

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride,Once so faithful and so true,On the deck of fame that died,With the gallant good Riou,Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave!While the billow mournful rolls,And the mermaid's song condoles,Singing glory to the soulsOf the brave!

Men of England, who inheritRights that cost your sires their blood!Men whose undegenerate spiritHas been proved on field and flood,By the foes you 've fought uncounted,By the glorious deeds ye 've done,Trophies captured, breaches mounted,Navies conquer'd, kingdoms won.Yet, remember, England gathersHence but fruitless wreathes of fame,If the freedom of your fathersGlow not in your hearts the same.What are monuments of bravery,Whence no public virtues bloom?What avail in lands of slavery,Trophied temples, arch and tomb?Pageants!—Let the world revere usFor our people's rights and laws,And the breasts of civic heroes,Bared in Freedom's holy cause.Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory,Sidney's matchless shade is yours,Martyrs in heroic story,Worth a hundred Agincourts!We 're the sons of sires that baffledCrown'd and mitred tyranny;They defied the field and scaffoldFor their birthrights—so will we!

Men of England, who inheritRights that cost your sires their blood!Men whose undegenerate spiritHas been proved on field and flood,

By the foes you 've fought uncounted,By the glorious deeds ye 've done,Trophies captured, breaches mounted,Navies conquer'd, kingdoms won.

Yet, remember, England gathersHence but fruitless wreathes of fame,If the freedom of your fathersGlow not in your hearts the same.

What are monuments of bravery,Whence no public virtues bloom?What avail in lands of slavery,Trophied temples, arch and tomb?

Pageants!—Let the world revere usFor our people's rights and laws,And the breasts of civic heroes,Bared in Freedom's holy cause.

Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory,Sidney's matchless shade is yours,Martyrs in heroic story,Worth a hundred Agincourts!

We 're the sons of sires that baffledCrown'd and mitred tyranny;They defied the field and scaffoldFor their birthrights—so will we!

Caroline Eliza Scott, better known as Mrs G. G. Richardson, the daughter of a gentleman of considerable property in the south of Scotland, was born at Forge, her father's family residence, in the parish of Canonbie, on the 24th of November 1777, and spent her childhood and early youth amidst Border scenes, Border traditions, and Border minstrelsy. It is probable that these influences fostered the poetic temperament, while they fed the imaginative element of her mind, as she very early gave expression to her thoughts and feelings in romance and poetry. Born to a condition of favourable circumstances, and associating with parents themselves educated and intellectual, the young poetess enjoyed advantages of development rarely owned by the sons and daughters of genius. The flow of her mind was allowed to take its natural course; and some of her early anonymous writings are quite as remarkable as any of her acknowledged productions. Her conversational powers were lively and entertaining, but never oppressive. She was ever ready to discern and do homage to the merits of her contemporaries, while she never failed to fan the faintest flame of latent poesy in the aspirations of the timid or unknown. Affectionate and cheerful in her dispositions, she was a loving anddutiful daughter, and shewed the tenderest attachment to a numerous family of brothers and sisters. She was married to her cousin, Gilbert Geddes Richardson, on the 29th of April 1799, at Fort George, Madras; where she was then living with her uncle, General, afterwards Lord Harris; and the connexion proved, in all respects, a suitable and happy one. Her husband, at that time captain of an Indiaman, was one of a number of brothers, natives of the south of Scotland, who all sought their fortunes in India, and one of whom, Lieutenant-Colonel Richardson, became known in literature as an able translator of Sanscrit poetry, and contributor to the "Asiatic Researches." He was lost at sea, with his wife and six children, on their homeward voyage; and this distressing event, accompanied as it was by protracted suspense and anxiety, was long and deeply deplored by his gifted sister-in-law.

Young, beautiful, and doubly attractive from the warmth of her heart, and the fascination of her manners, Mrs Richardson was not only loved and appreciated by her husband, and his family, but greatly admired in a refined circle of Anglo-Indian society; and the few years of her married life were marked by almost uninterrupted felicity. But death struck down the husband and father in the very prime of manhood; and the widow returned with her five children (all of whom survived her), to seek from the scenes and friends of her early days such consolation as they might minister to a grief which only those who have experienced it can measure. She never brought her own peculiar sorrows before the public; but there is a tone of gentle mournfulness pervading many of her poems, that may be traced to this cause; and there are touching allusions to "one of rare endowments," thatno one who remembered her husband's character could fail to recognise. Her intense love of nature happily remained unchanged; and the green hills, the flowing river, and the tangled wildwood, could still soothe a soul that, but for its susceptibility to these beneficent charms, might have said in its sadness of everything earthly, "miserable comforters are ye all." Continuing to reside at Forge while her children were young, she devoted herself to the direction of their education, the cultivation of her own pure tastes, and the peaceful enjoyments of a country life; and when she afterwards removed to London, and reappeared in brilliant and distinguished society, she often reverted, with regret, to the bright skies and cottage homes of Canonbie. In 1821, Mrs Richardson again returned to Scotland, and took up her abode at Dumfries, partly from the desire of being near her connexions, and partly for the sake of the beautiful scenery surrounding that pretty county town. In 1828 she published, by subscription, her first volume of miscellaneous poems, which was well received by the public, favourably noticed by the leading journals, and received a circulation even beyond the range of 1700 subscribers. A second edition, in a larger form, soon followed; and, in 1834, after finally settling in her native parish, she published a second volume, dedicated to the Duchess of Buccleuch, and which was also remarkably successful. From this time she employed her talents in the composition of prose; she published "Adonia," a novel, in three volumes; and various tales, essays, and fugitive pieces, forming contributions to popular serials. Her later poems remain in manuscript. She maintained an extensive correspondence with her literary friends, and spent much of her time in reading and study, and in the practice of sincere and unostentatious piety. Her faculties were vigorous and unimpared, until the seizure of her last illness, which quickly terminated in death, on the 9th October 1853, when she had nearly completed her seventy-sixth year. She died at Forge, and was laid to rest in the church-yard of her own beloved Canonbie.

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