Argyle is my name, and you may think it strangeTo live at a court, and yet never to change;To faction, or tyranny, equally foe,The good of the land 's the sole motive I know.The foes of my country and king I have faced,In city or battle I ne'er was disgraced;I 've done what I could for my country's weal,Now I 'll feast upon bannocks o' barley meal.Ye riots and revels of London, adieu!And folly, ye foplings, I leave her to you!For Scotland, I mingled in bustle and strife;For myself, I seek peace and an innocent life:I 'll haste to the Highlands, and visit each scene,With Maggie, my love, in her rockley o' green;On the banks of Glenary what pleasure I 'll feel,While she shares my bannock o' barley meal!And if it chance Maggie should bring me a son,He shall fight for his king, as his father has done;I 'll hang up my sword with an old soldier's pride—O! may he be worthy to wear 't on his side.I pant for the breeze of my loved native place;I long for the smile of each welcoming face;I 'll aff to the Highlands as fast 's I can reel,And feast upon bannocks o' barley meal.
Argyle is my name, and you may think it strangeTo live at a court, and yet never to change;To faction, or tyranny, equally foe,The good of the land 's the sole motive I know.The foes of my country and king I have faced,In city or battle I ne'er was disgraced;I 've done what I could for my country's weal,Now I 'll feast upon bannocks o' barley meal.
Ye riots and revels of London, adieu!And folly, ye foplings, I leave her to you!For Scotland, I mingled in bustle and strife;For myself, I seek peace and an innocent life:I 'll haste to the Highlands, and visit each scene,With Maggie, my love, in her rockley o' green;On the banks of Glenary what pleasure I 'll feel,While she shares my bannock o' barley meal!
And if it chance Maggie should bring me a son,He shall fight for his king, as his father has done;I 'll hang up my sword with an old soldier's pride—O! may he be worthy to wear 't on his side.I pant for the breeze of my loved native place;I long for the smile of each welcoming face;I 'll aff to the Highlands as fast 's I can reel,And feast upon bannocks o' barley meal.
William Gillespie was born in the manse of Kells, in Galloway, on the 18th February 1776. His father, John Gillespie, minister of Kells, was the intimate friend of Robert Burns; and likewise an early patron of John Low, the ingenious, but unfortunate author of "Mary's Dream." Receiving the rudiments of education at the parish school, William proceeded, in 1792, to the University of Edinburgh, to prosecute his studies for the Church. Obtaining licence as a probationer, he was, in 1801, ordained assistant and successor to his father, on whose death, in 1806, he succeeded to the full benefits of the charge. Inheriting from his father an elegant turn of mind and a devotedness to literary composition, he was induced to publish, in his twenty-ninth year, an allegorical poem, entitled "The Progress of Refinement." A higher effort from his pen appeared in 1815, under the title of "Consolation, and other Poems." This volume, which abounds in vigorous sentiment and rich poetical description, evincing on the part of the author a high appreciation of the beauties of nature, considerably extended his reputation. He formed habits of intimacy with many of his poetical contemporaries, by whom he was beloved for the amenity of his disposition. He largely contributed to various periodicals, especially the agricultural journals; and was a zealous member of the Highland Society of Scotland.
In July 1825, Mr Gillespie espoused Miss Charlotte Hoggan. Soon after this event, he was attacked with erysipelas,—a complaint which, resulting in general inflammation, terminated his promising career on the 15th of October, in his fiftieth year. The following lyrics evince fancy and deep pathos, causing a regret that the author did not more amply devote himself to the composition of songs.
From the climes of the sun, all war-worn and weary,The Highlander sped to his youthful abode;Fair visions of home cheer'd the desert so dreary,Though fierce was the noon-beam, and steep was the road.Till spent with the march that still lengthen'd before him,He stopp'd by the way in a sylvan retreat;The light shady boughs of the birch-tree waved o'er him,The stream of the mountain fell soft at his feet.He sunk to repose where the red heaths are blended,On dreams of his childhood his fancy past o'er;But his battles are fought, and his march it is ended,The sound of the bagpipes shall wake him no more.No arm in the day of the conflict could wound him,Though war launch'd her thunder in fury to kill;Now the Angel of Death in the desert has found him,And stretch'd him in peace by the stream of the hill.Pale Autumn spreads o'er him the leaves of the forest,The fays of the wild chant the dirge of his rest;And thou, little brook, still the sleeper deplorest,And moistens the heath-bell that weeps on his breast.
From the climes of the sun, all war-worn and weary,The Highlander sped to his youthful abode;Fair visions of home cheer'd the desert so dreary,Though fierce was the noon-beam, and steep was the road.
Till spent with the march that still lengthen'd before him,He stopp'd by the way in a sylvan retreat;The light shady boughs of the birch-tree waved o'er him,The stream of the mountain fell soft at his feet.
He sunk to repose where the red heaths are blended,On dreams of his childhood his fancy past o'er;But his battles are fought, and his march it is ended,The sound of the bagpipes shall wake him no more.
No arm in the day of the conflict could wound him,Though war launch'd her thunder in fury to kill;Now the Angel of Death in the desert has found him,And stretch'd him in peace by the stream of the hill.
Pale Autumn spreads o'er him the leaves of the forest,The fays of the wild chant the dirge of his rest;And thou, little brook, still the sleeper deplorest,And moistens the heath-bell that weeps on his breast.
The moon shone in fits,And the tempest was roaring,The Storm Spirit shriek'd,And the fierce rain was pouring;Alone in her chamber,Fair Ellen sat sighing,The tapers burn'd dim,And the embers were dying."The drawbridge is down,That spans the wide river;Can tempests divide,Whom death cannot sever?Unclosed is the gate,And those arms long to fold thee,'Tis midnight, my love;O say, what can hold thee?"But scarce flew her words,When the bridge reft asunder,The horseman was crossing,'Mid lightning and thunder,And loud was the yell,As he plunged in the billow,The maid knew it well,As she sprang from her pillow.She scream'd o'er the wall,But no help was beside her;And thrice to her viewRose the horse and his rider.She gazed at the moon,But the dark cloud pass'd over;She plunged in the stream,And she sunk to her lover.Say, what is that flame,O'er the midnight deep beaming?And whose are those forms,In the wan moonlight gleaming?That flame gilds the wave,Which their pale corses cover;And those forms are the ghostsOf the maid and her lover.
The moon shone in fits,And the tempest was roaring,The Storm Spirit shriek'd,And the fierce rain was pouring;Alone in her chamber,Fair Ellen sat sighing,The tapers burn'd dim,And the embers were dying.
"The drawbridge is down,That spans the wide river;Can tempests divide,Whom death cannot sever?Unclosed is the gate,And those arms long to fold thee,'Tis midnight, my love;O say, what can hold thee?"
But scarce flew her words,When the bridge reft asunder,The horseman was crossing,'Mid lightning and thunder,And loud was the yell,As he plunged in the billow,The maid knew it well,As she sprang from her pillow.
She scream'd o'er the wall,But no help was beside her;And thrice to her viewRose the horse and his rider.She gazed at the moon,But the dark cloud pass'd over;She plunged in the stream,And she sunk to her lover.
Say, what is that flame,O'er the midnight deep beaming?And whose are those forms,In the wan moonlight gleaming?That flame gilds the wave,Which their pale corses cover;And those forms are the ghostsOf the maid and her lover.
Thomas Mounsey Cunningham, an elder brother of Allan Cunningham, is entitled to commemoration among the modern song-writers of his country. His ancestors were lords of that district of Ayrshire which still bears their family name; and a small inheritance in that county, which belonged to his more immediate progenitors, was lost to the name and race by the head of the family having espoused the cause and joined the army of the Duke of Montrose. For several generations his forefathers were farmers at Gogar, in the parish of Ratho, Midlothian. John Cunningham, his father, was born at Gogar on the 26th March 1743, whence he removed in his twenty-third year to fill the situation of land-steward on the estate of Lumley, in the parish of Chester, and county of Durham. He next became overseer on the property of Mr Mounsey of Ramerscales, near Lochmaben, Dumfriesshire. He married Elizabeth Harley, a lady of good connexions and of elegant personal accomplishments, and with the view of acquiring a more decided independence in his new condition, took in lease the farm of Culfaud, in the stewartry of Kirkcudbright. Of a family of ten, Thomas was the second son; he was born at Culfaud on the 25th June 1776. During his infancy the farming speculations of his father proved unfortunate, and the lease of Culfaud was abandoned. Returning to his former occupation as a land-steward, John Cunningham was employed in succession by the proprietors ofBarncaillie and Collieston, and latterly by the ingenious Mr Miller of Dalswinton.
Thomas was educated at the village-school of Kellieston, and subsequently at the academy of Dumfries. The circumstances of his parents required that he should choose a manual profession; and he was apprenticed by his own desire to a neighbouring mill-wright. It was during his intervals of leisure, while acquiring a knowledge of this laborious occupation, that he first essayed the composition of verses; he submitted his poems to his father, who mingled judicious criticism with words of encouragement. "The Har'st Home," one of his earliest pieces of merit, was privileged with insertion in the series of "Poetry, Original and Selected," published by Brash & Reid, booksellers in Glasgow. Proceeding to England in 1797, he entered the workshop of a mill-wright in Rotherham. Under the same employer he afterwards pursued his craft at King's Lynn; in 1800 he removed to Wiltshire, and soon after to the neighbourhood of Cambridge. He next received employment at Dover, and thence proceeded to London, where he occupied a situation in the establishment of Rennie, the celebrated engineer. He afterwards became foreman to one Dickson, an engineer, and superintendent of Fowler's chain-cable manufactory. In 1812 he returned to Rennie's establishment as a clerk, with a liberal salary. On leaving his father's house to seek his fortune in the south, he had been strongly counselled by Mr Miller of Dalswinton to abjure the gratification of his poetical tendencies, and he seems to have resolved on the faithful observance of this injunction. For a period of nine years his muse was silent; at length, in 1806, he appeared in theScots Magazineas the contributor of some of the best verses which hadever adorned the pages of that periodical. The editor was eloquent in his commendations; and the Ettrick Shepherd, who was already a contributor to the magazine, took pains to discover the author, and addressed him a lengthened poetical epistle, expressive of his admiration. A private intimacy ensued between the two rising poets; and when the Shepherd, in 1809, planned the "Forest Minstrel," he made application to his ingenious friend for contributions. Cunningham sanctioned the republication of such of his lyrics as had appeared in theScots Magazine, and these proved the best ornaments of the work.
Impatient of criticism, and of a whimsical turn of mind, Cunningham was incapable of steadfastly pursuing the career of a man of letters. Just as his name was becoming known by his verses in theScots Magazine, he took offence at some incidental allusions to his style, and suddenly stopped his contributions. Silent for a second period of nine years, the circumstance of the appropriation of one of his songs in the "Nithsdale Minstrel," a provincial collection of poetry, published at Dumfries, again aroused him to authorship. He made the publishers the subject of a satirical poem in theScots Magazineof 1815. On the origin of theEdinburgh Magazine, in 1817, he became a contributor, and under the title of the "Literary Legacy," wrote many curious snatches of antiquities, sketches of modern society, and scraps of song and ballad, which imparted a racy interest to the pages of the new periodical. A slight difference with the editor at length induced him to relapse into silence. Fitful and unsettled as a cultivator of literature, he was in the business of life a model of regularity and perseverance. He was much esteemed by his employer, and was ultimately promoted to thechief clerkship in his establishment. He fell a victim to the Asiatic cholera on the 28th October 1834, in the 58th year of his age. During his latter years he was in the habit of examining at certain intervals the MSS. of prose and poetry, which at a former period he had accumulated. On those occasions he uniformly destroyed some which he deemed unworthy of further preservation. During one of these purgations, he hastily committed to the flames a poem on which he had bestowed much labour, and which contained a humorous description of scenes and characters familiar to him in youth. The poem was entitled "Braken Fell;" and his ingenious brother Allan, in a memoir of the author, has referred to its destruction in terms of regret.[105]The style of Thomas Cunningham seems, however, to have been lyrical, and it may be presumed that his songs afford the best evidence of his power. In private life he was much cherished by a circle of friends, and his society was gay and animated. He was rather above the middle height, and latterly was corpulent. He married in 1804, and has left a family.
Adown the burnie's flowery bank,Or through the shady grove,Or 'mang the bonnie scroggie braes,Come, Peggy, let us rove.See where the stream out ower the linnDeep headlong foamin' pours,There let us gang and stray amangThe bloomin' hawthorn bowers.We 'll pu' the rose frae aff the brier,The lily frae the brae;We 'll hear the birdies blithely sing,As up the glen we gae.His yellow haughs o' wavin' grainThe farmer likes to see,But my ain Peggy's artless smileIs far mair dear to me.
Adown the burnie's flowery bank,Or through the shady grove,Or 'mang the bonnie scroggie braes,Come, Peggy, let us rove.See where the stream out ower the linnDeep headlong foamin' pours,There let us gang and stray amangThe bloomin' hawthorn bowers.
We 'll pu' the rose frae aff the brier,The lily frae the brae;We 'll hear the birdies blithely sing,As up the glen we gae.His yellow haughs o' wavin' grainThe farmer likes to see,But my ain Peggy's artless smileIs far mair dear to me.
Tune—"The Lea Rig."
Amang the birks sae blithe an' gay,I met my Julia hameward gaun;The linties chantit on the spray,The lammies loupit on the lawn;On ilka swaird the hay was mawn,The braes wi' gowans buskit bra',An' ev'ning's plaid o' gray was thrawnOut ower the hills o' Gallowa'.Wi' music wild the woodlands rang,An' fragrance wing'd alang the lea,As down we sat the flowers amang,Upon the banks o' stately Dee.My Julia's arms encircled me,An' saftly slade the hours awa',Till dawning coost a glimm'rin' e'eUpon the hills o' Gallowa'.It isna owsen, sheep, an' kye,It isna gowd, it isna gear,This lifted e'e wad hae, quo' I,The warld's drumlie gloom to cheer;But gie to me my Julia dear,Ye powers wha rowe this yirthen ba',An' oh, sae blithe through life I 'll steer,Amang the hills o' Gallowa'.When gloamin' daunders up the hill,An' our gudeman ca's hame the yowes,Wi' her I 'll trace the mossy rillThat through the muir meand'ring rowes;Or tint amang the scroggie knowes,My birken pipe I 'll sweetly blaw,An' sing the streams, the straths, and howes,The hills an' dales o' Gallowa'.An' when auld Scotland's heathy hills,Her rural nymphs an' jovial swains,Her flowery wilds an' wimpling rills,Awake nae mair my canty strains;Where friendship dwells an' freedom reigns,Where heather blooms an' muircocks craw,Oh, dig my grave, and lay my banesAmang the hills o' Gallowa'.
Amang the birks sae blithe an' gay,I met my Julia hameward gaun;The linties chantit on the spray,The lammies loupit on the lawn;On ilka swaird the hay was mawn,The braes wi' gowans buskit bra',An' ev'ning's plaid o' gray was thrawnOut ower the hills o' Gallowa'.
Wi' music wild the woodlands rang,An' fragrance wing'd alang the lea,As down we sat the flowers amang,Upon the banks o' stately Dee.My Julia's arms encircled me,An' saftly slade the hours awa',Till dawning coost a glimm'rin' e'eUpon the hills o' Gallowa'.
It isna owsen, sheep, an' kye,It isna gowd, it isna gear,This lifted e'e wad hae, quo' I,The warld's drumlie gloom to cheer;But gie to me my Julia dear,Ye powers wha rowe this yirthen ba',An' oh, sae blithe through life I 'll steer,Amang the hills o' Gallowa'.
When gloamin' daunders up the hill,An' our gudeman ca's hame the yowes,Wi' her I 'll trace the mossy rillThat through the muir meand'ring rowes;Or tint amang the scroggie knowes,My birken pipe I 'll sweetly blaw,An' sing the streams, the straths, and howes,The hills an' dales o' Gallowa'.
An' when auld Scotland's heathy hills,Her rural nymphs an' jovial swains,Her flowery wilds an' wimpling rills,Awake nae mair my canty strains;Where friendship dwells an' freedom reigns,Where heather blooms an' muircocks craw,Oh, dig my grave, and lay my banesAmang the hills o' Gallowa'.
Tune—"Roslin Castle."
Now smiling summer's balmy breeze,Soft whispering, fans the leafy trees;The linnet greets the rosy morn,Sweet in yon fragrant flowery thorn;The bee hums round the woodbine bower,Collecting sweets from every flower;And pure the crystal streamlets runAmong the braes of Ballahun.Oh, blissful days, for ever fled,When wand'ring wild, as fancy led,I ranged the bushy bosom'd glen,The scroggie shaw, the rugged linn,And mark'd each blooming hawthorn bush,Where nestling sat the speckled thrush;Or, careless roaming, wander'd onAmong the braes of Ballahun.Why starts the tear, why bursts the sigh,When hills and dales rebound with joy?The flowery glen and lilied lea,In vain display their charms to me.I joyless roam the heathy waste,To soothe this sad, this troubled breast;And seek the haunts of men to shun,Among the braes of Ballahun.The virgin blush of lovely youth,The angel smile of artless truth,This breast illumed with heavenly joy,Which lyart time can ne'er destroy.Oh, Julia dear! the parting look,The sad farewell we sorrowing took,Still haunt me as I stray alone,Among the braes of Ballahun.
Now smiling summer's balmy breeze,Soft whispering, fans the leafy trees;The linnet greets the rosy morn,Sweet in yon fragrant flowery thorn;The bee hums round the woodbine bower,Collecting sweets from every flower;And pure the crystal streamlets runAmong the braes of Ballahun.
Oh, blissful days, for ever fled,When wand'ring wild, as fancy led,I ranged the bushy bosom'd glen,The scroggie shaw, the rugged linn,And mark'd each blooming hawthorn bush,Where nestling sat the speckled thrush;Or, careless roaming, wander'd onAmong the braes of Ballahun.
Why starts the tear, why bursts the sigh,When hills and dales rebound with joy?The flowery glen and lilied lea,In vain display their charms to me.I joyless roam the heathy waste,To soothe this sad, this troubled breast;And seek the haunts of men to shun,Among the braes of Ballahun.
The virgin blush of lovely youth,The angel smile of artless truth,This breast illumed with heavenly joy,Which lyart time can ne'er destroy.Oh, Julia dear! the parting look,The sad farewell we sorrowing took,Still haunt me as I stray alone,Among the braes of Ballahun.
Tune—"Crazy Jane."
Bonnie Clouden, as ye wanderHills, an' haughs, an' muirs amang,Ilka knowe an' green meander,Learn my sad, my dulefu' sang!Braes o' breckan, hills o' heather,Howms whare rows the gowden wave;Blissful scenes, fareweel for ever!I maun seek an unco grave.Sair I pled, though fate, unfriendly,Stang'd my heart wi' waes and dules,That some faithfu' hand might kindlyLay 't among my native mools.Cronies dear, wha late an' earlyAye to soothe my sorrows strave,Think on ane wha lo'es ye dearly,Doom'd to seek an unco grave.Torn awa' frae Scotia's mountains,Far frae a' that 's dear to dwall,Mak's my e'en twa gushin' fountains,Dings a dirk in my puir saul.Braes o' breckan, hills o' heather,Howms whare rows the gowden wave,Blissful scenes, fareweel for ever!I maun seek an unco grave.
Bonnie Clouden, as ye wanderHills, an' haughs, an' muirs amang,Ilka knowe an' green meander,Learn my sad, my dulefu' sang!Braes o' breckan, hills o' heather,Howms whare rows the gowden wave;Blissful scenes, fareweel for ever!I maun seek an unco grave.
Sair I pled, though fate, unfriendly,Stang'd my heart wi' waes and dules,That some faithfu' hand might kindlyLay 't among my native mools.Cronies dear, wha late an' earlyAye to soothe my sorrows strave,Think on ane wha lo'es ye dearly,Doom'd to seek an unco grave.
Torn awa' frae Scotia's mountains,Far frae a' that 's dear to dwall,Mak's my e'en twa gushin' fountains,Dings a dirk in my puir saul.Braes o' breckan, hills o' heather,Howms whare rows the gowden wave,Blissful scenes, fareweel for ever!I maun seek an unco grave.
Tune—"Logan Water."
Ye briery bields, where roses blaw!Ye flowery fells, and sunny braes,Whase scroggie bosoms foster'd a'The pleasures o' my youthfu' days!Amang your leafy simmer claes,And blushing blooms, the zephyr flies,Syne wings awa', and wanton playsAround the grave whare Julia lies.Nae mair your bonnie birken bowers,Your streamlets fair, and woodlands gay,Can cheer the weary winged hours,As up the glen I joyless stray;For a' my hopes hae flown away,And when they reach'd their native skies,Left me amid the world o' wae,To weet the grave where Julia lies.It is na beauty's fairest bloom,It is na maiden charms consign'd,And hurried to an early tomb,That wrings my heart and clouds my mind;But sparkling wit, and sense refined,And spotless truth, without disguise,Make me with sighs enrich the windThat fans the grave whare Julia lies.
Ye briery bields, where roses blaw!Ye flowery fells, and sunny braes,Whase scroggie bosoms foster'd a'The pleasures o' my youthfu' days!Amang your leafy simmer claes,And blushing blooms, the zephyr flies,Syne wings awa', and wanton playsAround the grave whare Julia lies.
Nae mair your bonnie birken bowers,Your streamlets fair, and woodlands gay,Can cheer the weary winged hours,As up the glen I joyless stray;For a' my hopes hae flown away,And when they reach'd their native skies,Left me amid the world o' wae,To weet the grave where Julia lies.
It is na beauty's fairest bloom,It is na maiden charms consign'd,And hurried to an early tomb,That wrings my heart and clouds my mind;But sparkling wit, and sense refined,And spotless truth, without disguise,Make me with sighs enrich the windThat fans the grave whare Julia lies.
Air—"Lassie wi' the Yellow Coatie."
Fareweel, ye streams sae dear to me,My bonnie Clouden, Kith, and Dee;Ye burns that row sae bonnily,Your siller waves nae mair I 'll see.Yet though frae your green banks I 'm driven,My saul away could ne'er be riven;For still she lifts her e'en to heaven,An' sighs to be again wi' thee.Ye canty bards ayont the Tweed,Your skins wi' claes o' tartan cleed,An' lilt alang the verdant mead,Or blithely on your whistles blaw,An' sing auld Scotia's barns an ha's,Her bourtree dykes an mossy wa's,Her faulds, her bughts, an' birken shaws,Whare love an' freedom sweeten a'.Sing o' her carles teuch an' auld,Her carlines grim that flyte an' scauld,Her wabsters blithe, an' souters bauld,Her flocks an' herds sae fair to see.Sing o' her mountains bleak an high;Her fords, whare neigh'rin' kelpies ply;Her glens, the haunts o' rural joy;Her lasses lilting o'er the lea.To you the darling theme belangs,That frae my heart exulting spangs;Oh, mind, amang your bonnie sangs,The lads that bled for liberty.Think o' our auld forbears o' yore,Wha dyed the muir wi' hostile gore;Wha slavery's bands indignant tore,An' bravely fell for you an' me.My gallant brithers, brave an' bauld,Wha haud the pleugh, or wake the fauld,Until your dearest bluid rin cauld,Aye true unto your country be.Wi' daring look her dirk she drew,An' coost a mither's e'e on you;Then let na ony spulzien crewHer dear-bought freedom wrest frae thee.
Fareweel, ye streams sae dear to me,My bonnie Clouden, Kith, and Dee;Ye burns that row sae bonnily,Your siller waves nae mair I 'll see.Yet though frae your green banks I 'm driven,My saul away could ne'er be riven;For still she lifts her e'en to heaven,An' sighs to be again wi' thee.
Ye canty bards ayont the Tweed,Your skins wi' claes o' tartan cleed,An' lilt alang the verdant mead,Or blithely on your whistles blaw,An' sing auld Scotia's barns an ha's,Her bourtree dykes an mossy wa's,Her faulds, her bughts, an' birken shaws,Whare love an' freedom sweeten a'.
Sing o' her carles teuch an' auld,Her carlines grim that flyte an' scauld,Her wabsters blithe, an' souters bauld,Her flocks an' herds sae fair to see.Sing o' her mountains bleak an high;Her fords, whare neigh'rin' kelpies ply;Her glens, the haunts o' rural joy;Her lasses lilting o'er the lea.
To you the darling theme belangs,That frae my heart exulting spangs;Oh, mind, amang your bonnie sangs,The lads that bled for liberty.Think o' our auld forbears o' yore,Wha dyed the muir wi' hostile gore;Wha slavery's bands indignant tore,An' bravely fell for you an' me.
My gallant brithers, brave an' bauld,Wha haud the pleugh, or wake the fauld,Until your dearest bluid rin cauld,Aye true unto your country be.Wi' daring look her dirk she drew,An' coost a mither's e'e on you;Then let na ony spulzien crewHer dear-bought freedom wrest frae thee.
John Struthers, whose name is familiar as the author of "The Poor Man's Sabbath," was born on the 18th July 1776, in the parish of East Kilbride, Lanarkshire. His parents were of the humbler rank, and were unable to send him to school; but his mother, a woman of superior intelligence, was unremitting in her efforts to teach him at home. She was aided in her good work by a benevolent lady of the neighbourhood, who, interested by the boy's precocity, often sent for him to read to her. This kind-hearted individual was Mrs Baillie, widow of the Rev. Dr Baillie of Hamilton, who was then resident at Longcalderwood, and whose celebrated daughter, Joanna Baillie, afterwards took a warm interest in the fame and fortunes of her mother'sprotégé. From the age of eight to fourteen, young Struthers was engaged as a cowherd and in general work about a farm; he then apprenticed himself to a shoemaker. On the completion of his indenture, he practised his craft several years in his native village till September 1801, when he sought a wider field of business in Glasgow. In 1804, he produced his first and most celebrated poem, "The Poor Man's Sabbath," which, printed at his own risk, was well received, and rapidly passed through two editions. On the recommendation of Sir Walter Scott, to whom the poem was made known by Joanna Baillie, Constable published a third edition in 1808, handing the author thirty pounds for the copyright.Actively employed in his trade, Struthers continued to devote his leisure hours to composition. In 1816 he published a pamphlet "On the State of the Labouring Poor." A more ambitious literary effort was carried out in 1819; he edited a collection of the national songs, which was published at Glasgow, under the title of "The Harp of Caledonia," in three vols. 18mo. To this work Joanna Baillie, Mrs John Hunter, and Mr William Smyth of Cambridge contributed songs, while Scott and others permitted the re-publication of such of their lyrics as the author chose to select.
Struthers married early in life. About the year 1818 his wife and two of his children were snatched from him by death, and these bereavements so affected him, as to render him unable to prosecute his labours as a tradesman. He now procured employment as a corrector of the press, in the printing-office of Khull, Blackie, & Co. During his connexion with this establishment he assisted in preparing an edition of "Wodrow's History," and produced a "History of Scotland" from the political Union in 1707 to the year 1827, the date of its publication. These works—the latter extending to two octavo volumes—were published by his employers. On a dissolution of their co-partnership, in 1827, Struthers was thrown out of employment till his appointment, in 1832, to the Keepership of Stirling's Library, a respectable institution in Glasgow. This situation, which yielded him a salary of about £50 a-year, he retained till 1847, when he was led to tender his resignation. In his seventy-first year he returned to his original trade, after being thirty years occupied with literary concerns. He died suddenly on the 30th July 1853, at the advanced age of seventy-seven.
A man of strong intellect and vigorous imagination,John Struthers was industrious in his trade, and persevering as an author, yet he failed to obtain a competency for the winter of life; his wants, however, were few, and he never sought to complain. Inheriting pious dispositions from his parents, he excelled in familiarity with the text of Scripture, and held strong opinions on the subject of morality. Educated in the communion of the Original Secession Church, he afterwards joined the Establishment, and ultimately retired from it at the Disruption in 1843. He was a zealous member of the Free Church, and being admitted to the eldership, was on two occasions sent as a representative to the General Assembly of that body. An enthusiast respecting the beauties of external nature, he was in the habit of undertaking lengthened pedestrian excursions into the country, and took especial delight in rambling by the sea-shore, or climbing the mountain-tops. His person was tall and slight, though abundantly muscular, and capable of undergoing the toil of extended journeys. Three times married, he left a widow, who has lately emigrated to America; of his children two sons and two daughters survive.
Besides the works already enumerated, Struthers was the author of other compositions, both in prose and verse. He wrote an octavo pamphlet of 96 pages in favour of National Church Establishments; contributed memoirs of James Hogg, minister of Carnock, and Principal Robertson to theChristian Instructor, and prepared various lives of deceased worthies, which were included in the "Illustrious and Distinguished Scotsmen," edited by Mr Robert Chambers. At the period of his death, he was engaged in preparing a continuation of his "History of Scotland," to the era of the Disruption; he also meditated the publication of a volume of essays. His poetical works,which appeared at various intervals, were re-published in 1850, in two duodecimo volumes, with an interesting autobiographical sketch. Of his poems those most deserving of notice, next to the "Sabbath," are "The House of Mourning, or the Peasant's Death," and "The Plough," both evincing grave and elevated sentiment, expressed in correct poetical language. The following songs are favourable specimens of his lyrical compositions.
Tune—"Gramachre."
Admiring Nature's simple charms,I left my humble home,Awhile my country's peaceful plainsWith pilgrim step to roam.I mark'd the leafy summer waveOn flowing Irvine's side,But richer far 's the robe she wearsWithin the vale of Clyde.I roam'd the braes o' bonnie Doon,The winding banks o' Ayr,Where flutters many a small bird gay,Blooms many a flow'ret fair.But dearer far to me the stemThat once was Calder's pride,And blossoms now the fairest flowerWithin the vale of Clyde.Avaunt, thou life-repressing north,Ye withering east winds too;But come, thou all-reviving west,Breathe soft thy genial dew.Till at the last, in peaceful age,This lovely flow'ret shedIts last green leaf upon my grave,Within the vale of Clyde.
Admiring Nature's simple charms,I left my humble home,Awhile my country's peaceful plainsWith pilgrim step to roam.I mark'd the leafy summer waveOn flowing Irvine's side,But richer far 's the robe she wearsWithin the vale of Clyde.
I roam'd the braes o' bonnie Doon,The winding banks o' Ayr,Where flutters many a small bird gay,Blooms many a flow'ret fair.But dearer far to me the stemThat once was Calder's pride,And blossoms now the fairest flowerWithin the vale of Clyde.
Avaunt, thou life-repressing north,Ye withering east winds too;But come, thou all-reviving west,Breathe soft thy genial dew.Till at the last, in peaceful age,This lovely flow'ret shedIts last green leaf upon my grave,Within the vale of Clyde.
Tune—"The mill, mill, O."
Oh, bonnie buds yon birchen tree,The western breeze perfuming;And softly smiles yon sunny brae,Wi' gowans gaily blooming.But sweeter than yon birchen tree,Or gowans gaily blooming,Is she, in blushing modesty,Wha meets me there at gloaming.Oh, happy, happy there yestreen,In mutual transport ranging,Among these lovely scenes, unseen,Our vows of love exchanging.The moon, with clear, unclouded face,Seem'd bending to behold us;And breathing birks, with soft embrace,Most kindly to enfold us.We bade each tree record our vows,And each surrounding mountain,With every star on high that glowsFrom light's o'erflowing fountain.But gloaming gray bedims the vale,On day's bright beam encroaching;With rapture once again I hailThe trysting hour approaching.
Oh, bonnie buds yon birchen tree,The western breeze perfuming;And softly smiles yon sunny brae,Wi' gowans gaily blooming.But sweeter than yon birchen tree,Or gowans gaily blooming,Is she, in blushing modesty,Wha meets me there at gloaming.
Oh, happy, happy there yestreen,In mutual transport ranging,Among these lovely scenes, unseen,Our vows of love exchanging.The moon, with clear, unclouded face,Seem'd bending to behold us;And breathing birks, with soft embrace,Most kindly to enfold us.
We bade each tree record our vows,And each surrounding mountain,With every star on high that glowsFrom light's o'erflowing fountain.But gloaming gray bedims the vale,On day's bright beam encroaching;With rapture once again I hailThe trysting hour approaching.
Richard Gall was born in December 1776, at Linkhouse, near Dunbar. His father was a notary; but, being in poor circumstances, he apprenticed his son, in his eleventh year, to a relative, who followed the conjoined business of a builder and house-carpenter. The drudgery of heavy manual labour proved very uncongenial; and the apprentice suddenly took his departure, walking a long distance to Edinburgh, whither his parents had removed their residence. He now selected the profession of a printer, and entered on an indenture to Mr David Ramsay of theEdinburgh Evening Courant. At the close of his apprenticeship, he became Mr Ramsay's travelling clerk.
In the ordinary branches of education, young Gall had been instructed in a school at Haddington; he took lessons in the more advanced departments from a private tutor during his apprenticeship. He wrote verses from his youth, and several of his songs became popular, and were set to music. His poetical talents attracted the attention of Robert Burns and Hector Macneill, both of whom cherished his friendship,—the former becoming his correspondent. He also shared the intimacy of Thomas Campbell, and of Dr Alexander Murray, the distinguished philologist.
His promising career was brief; an abscess broke out in his breast, which medical skill could not subdue. After a lingering illness, he died on the 10th of May1801, in his twenty-fifth year. He had joined a Highland volunteer regiment; and his remains were accompanied by his companions-in-arms to the Calton burial-ground, and there interred with military honours.
Possessed of a lively and vigorous fancy, a generous warmth of temperament, and feelings of extreme sensibility, Richard Gall gave promise of adorning the poetical literature of his country. Patriotism and the beauties of external nature were the favourite subjects of his muse, which, as if premonished of his early fate, loved to sing in plaintive strains. Gall occasionally lacks power, but is always pleasing; in his songs (two of which have frequently been assigned to Burns) he is uniformly graceful. He loved poetry with the ardour of an enthusiast; during his last illness he inscribed verses with a pencil, when no longer able to wield the pen. He was thoroughly devoid of personal vanity, and sought to advance the poetical reputation of his country rather than his own. In his lifetime, his pieces were printed separately; a selection of his poems and songs, with a memoir by Alexander Balfour, was published in 1819.
How sweet is the scene at the waking o' morning!How fair ilka object that lives in the view!Dame Nature the valley an' hillock adorning,The wild-rose an' blue-bell yet wet wi' the dew.How sweet in the morning o' life is my Anna!Her smiles like the sunbeam that glints on the lea;To wander an' leave the dear lassie, I canna;Frae Truth, Love, an' Beauty, I never can flee.O lang hae I lo'ed her, and lo'ed her fu' dearly,For saft is the smile o' her bonny sweet mou';An' aft hae I read in her e'en, glancing clearly,A language that bade me be constant an' true.Then ithers may doat on their gowd an' their treasure;For pelf, silly pelf, they may brave the rude sea;To lo'e my sweet lassie, be mine the dear pleasure;Wi' her let me live, an' wi' her let me die.
How sweet is the scene at the waking o' morning!How fair ilka object that lives in the view!Dame Nature the valley an' hillock adorning,The wild-rose an' blue-bell yet wet wi' the dew.How sweet in the morning o' life is my Anna!Her smiles like the sunbeam that glints on the lea;To wander an' leave the dear lassie, I canna;Frae Truth, Love, an' Beauty, I never can flee.
O lang hae I lo'ed her, and lo'ed her fu' dearly,For saft is the smile o' her bonny sweet mou';An' aft hae I read in her e'en, glancing clearly,A language that bade me be constant an' true.Then ithers may doat on their gowd an' their treasure;For pelf, silly pelf, they may brave the rude sea;To lo'e my sweet lassie, be mine the dear pleasure;Wi' her let me live, an' wi' her let me die.
Flow saftly, thou stream, through the wild spangled valley;Oh green be thy banks, ever bonny an' fair!Sing sweetly, ye birds, as ye wanton fu' gaily,Yet strangers to sorrow, untroubled by care.The weary day langI list to your sang,An' waste ilka moment, sad, cheerless, alane;Each sweet little treasureO' heart-cheering pleasure,Far fled frae my bosom wi' Captain O'Kain.Fu' aft on thy banks hae we pu'd the wild gowan,An' twisted a garland beneath the hawthorn;Ah! then each fond moment wi' pleasure was glowing,Sweet days o' delight, which can never return!Now ever, wae's me!The tear fills my e'e,An sair is my heart wi' the rigour o' pain;Nae prospect returning,To gladden life's morning,For green waves the willow o'er Captain O'Kain.
Flow saftly, thou stream, through the wild spangled valley;Oh green be thy banks, ever bonny an' fair!Sing sweetly, ye birds, as ye wanton fu' gaily,Yet strangers to sorrow, untroubled by care.The weary day langI list to your sang,An' waste ilka moment, sad, cheerless, alane;Each sweet little treasureO' heart-cheering pleasure,Far fled frae my bosom wi' Captain O'Kain.
Fu' aft on thy banks hae we pu'd the wild gowan,An' twisted a garland beneath the hawthorn;Ah! then each fond moment wi' pleasure was glowing,Sweet days o' delight, which can never return!Now ever, wae's me!The tear fills my e'e,An sair is my heart wi' the rigour o' pain;Nae prospect returning,To gladden life's morning,For green waves the willow o'er Captain O'Kain.
Thy cheek is o' the rose's hue,My only jo an' dearie, O;Thy neck is like the siller dewUpon the banks sae briery, O;Thy teeth are o' the ivory,O, sweet 's the twinkle o' thine e'e!Nae joy, nae pleasure, blinks on me,My only jo an' dearie, O.The birdie sings upon the thorn,Its sang o' joy, fu' cheerie, O,Rejoicing in the simmer morn,Nae care to make it eerie, O;But little kens the sangster sweet,Ought o' the care I hae to meet,That gars my restless bosom beat,My only jo an' dearie, O.Whan we were bairnies on yon brae,An' youth was blinking bonny, O,Aft we wad daff the lee lang day,Our joys fu' sweet an' mony, O;Aft I wad chase thee o'er the lea,An' round about the thorny tree;Or pu' the wild flowers a' for thee,My only jo an' dearie, O.I hae a wish I canna tine,'Mang a' the cares that grieve me, O;I wish that thou wert ever mine,An' never mair to leave me, O;Then I wad dawt thee night an' day,Nae ither warldly care wad hae,Till life's warm stream forgat to play,My only jo an' dearie, O.
Thy cheek is o' the rose's hue,My only jo an' dearie, O;Thy neck is like the siller dewUpon the banks sae briery, O;Thy teeth are o' the ivory,O, sweet 's the twinkle o' thine e'e!Nae joy, nae pleasure, blinks on me,My only jo an' dearie, O.
The birdie sings upon the thorn,Its sang o' joy, fu' cheerie, O,Rejoicing in the simmer morn,Nae care to make it eerie, O;But little kens the sangster sweet,Ought o' the care I hae to meet,That gars my restless bosom beat,My only jo an' dearie, O.
Whan we were bairnies on yon brae,An' youth was blinking bonny, O,Aft we wad daff the lee lang day,Our joys fu' sweet an' mony, O;Aft I wad chase thee o'er the lea,An' round about the thorny tree;Or pu' the wild flowers a' for thee,My only jo an' dearie, O.
I hae a wish I canna tine,'Mang a' the cares that grieve me, O;I wish that thou wert ever mine,An' never mair to leave me, O;Then I wad dawt thee night an' day,Nae ither warldly care wad hae,Till life's warm stream forgat to play,My only jo an' dearie, O.