Now there 's peace on the shore, now there 's calm on the sea,Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us free,Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and Dundee.Oh, the broadswords of old Scotland!And oh! the old Scottish broadswords.Old Sir Ralph Abercromby, the good and the brave—Let him flee from our board, let him sleep with the slave,Whose libation comes slow while we honour his grave.Oh, the broadswords, &c.Though he died not like him amid victory's roar,Though disaster and gloom wove his shroud on the shore;Not the less we remember the spirit of Moore.Oh, the broadswords, &c.Yea a place with the fallen, the living shall claim,We 'll entwine in one wreath every glorious name,The Gordon, the Ramsay, the Hope, and the Graham.All the broadswords,&c.Count the rocks of the Spey, count the groves of the Forth—Count the stars in the clear cloudless heaven of the north;Then go blazon their numbers, their names and their worth.All the broadswords, &c.The highest in splendour, the humblest in place,Stand united in glory, as kindred in race;For the private is brother in blood to his Grace.Oh, the broadswords, &c.Then sacred to each and to all let it be,Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us free,Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and Dundee.Oh, the broadswords of old Scotland!And oh! the old Scottish broadswords.
Now there 's peace on the shore, now there 's calm on the sea,Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us free,Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and Dundee.Oh, the broadswords of old Scotland!And oh! the old Scottish broadswords.
Old Sir Ralph Abercromby, the good and the brave—Let him flee from our board, let him sleep with the slave,Whose libation comes slow while we honour his grave.Oh, the broadswords, &c.
Though he died not like him amid victory's roar,Though disaster and gloom wove his shroud on the shore;Not the less we remember the spirit of Moore.Oh, the broadswords, &c.
Yea a place with the fallen, the living shall claim,We 'll entwine in one wreath every glorious name,The Gordon, the Ramsay, the Hope, and the Graham.All the broadswords,&c.
Count the rocks of the Spey, count the groves of the Forth—Count the stars in the clear cloudless heaven of the north;Then go blazon their numbers, their names and their worth.All the broadswords, &c.
The highest in splendour, the humblest in place,Stand united in glory, as kindred in race;For the private is brother in blood to his Grace.Oh, the broadswords, &c.
Then sacred to each and to all let it be,Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us free,Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and Dundee.Oh, the broadswords of old Scotland!And oh! the old Scottish broadswords.
Touch once more a sober measure,And let punch and tears be shed,For a prince of good old fellows,That, alack-a-day! is dead;For a prince of worthy fellows,And a pretty man also,That has left the Saltmarket,In sorrow, grief, and woe.Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!His waistcoat, coat, and breechesWere all cut off the same web,Of a beautiful snuff-colour,Of a modest genty drab;The blue stripe in his stocking,Round his neat slim leg did go,And his ruffles of the cambric fine,They were whiter than the snow.Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!His hair was curled in order,At the rising of the sun,In comely rows and buckles smart,That about his ears did run;And before there was a toupee,That some inches up did grow,And behind there was a long queue,That did o'er his shoulders flow.Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!And whenever we forgather'd,He took off his wee three-cockit;And he proffer'd you his snuff-box,Which he drew from his side-pocket;And on Burdett or BonaparteHe would make a remark or so,And then along the plainstonesLike a provost he would go.Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!In dirty days he picked wellHis footsteps with his rattan;Oh! you ne'er could see the least speckOn the shoes of Captain Paton.And on entering the coffee-roomAbout two, all men did knowThey would see him with hisCourierIn the middle of the row.Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!Now and then, upon a Sunday,He invited me to dineOn a herring and a mutton chop,Which his maid dress'd very fine.There was also a little Malmsay,And a bottle of Bordeaux,Which, between me and the captain,Pass'd nimbly to and fro!Oh! I ne'er shall take potluck with Captain Paton no mo'e!Or, if a bowl was mentioned,The captain he would ring,And bid Nelly run to the Westport,And a stoup of water bring.Then would he mix the genuine stuff,As they made it long ago,With limes that on his propertyIn Trinidad did grow!Oh! we ne'er shall taste the like of Captain Paton's punch no mo'e!And then all the time he would discourseSo sensible and courteous,Perhaps talking of last sermonHe had heard from Dr Porteous;Of some little bit of scandalAbout Mrs So-and-So,Which he scarce could credit, having heardThecon.but not thepro.!Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!Or when the candles were brought forth,And the night was fairly setting in,He would tell some fine old storiesAbout Minden-field or Dettingen;How he fought with a French major,And dispatch'd him at a blow,While his blood ran out like waterOn the soft grass below!Oh! we ne'er shall hear the like from Captain Paton no mo'e!But at last the captain sickened,And grew worse from day to day,And all miss'd him in the coffee-room,From which now he staid away;On Sabbaths, too, the Wynd kirkMade a melancholy show,All for wanting of the presenceOf our venerable beau!Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!And in spite of all that CleghornAnd Corkindale could do,It was plain, from twenty symptoms,That death was in his view;So the captain made his test'ment,And submitted to his foe,And we laid him by the Ram's-horn kirk—'Tis the way we all must go!Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!Join all in chorus, jolly boys,And let punch and tears be shed,For this prince of good old fellowsThat, alack-a-day! is dead;For this prince of worthy fellows—And a pretty man also—That has left the SaltmarketIn sorrow, grief, and woe!For it ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
Touch once more a sober measure,And let punch and tears be shed,For a prince of good old fellows,That, alack-a-day! is dead;For a prince of worthy fellows,And a pretty man also,That has left the Saltmarket,In sorrow, grief, and woe.Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
His waistcoat, coat, and breechesWere all cut off the same web,Of a beautiful snuff-colour,Of a modest genty drab;The blue stripe in his stocking,Round his neat slim leg did go,And his ruffles of the cambric fine,They were whiter than the snow.Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
His hair was curled in order,At the rising of the sun,In comely rows and buckles smart,That about his ears did run;And before there was a toupee,That some inches up did grow,And behind there was a long queue,That did o'er his shoulders flow.Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
And whenever we forgather'd,He took off his wee three-cockit;And he proffer'd you his snuff-box,Which he drew from his side-pocket;And on Burdett or BonaparteHe would make a remark or so,And then along the plainstonesLike a provost he would go.Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
In dirty days he picked wellHis footsteps with his rattan;Oh! you ne'er could see the least speckOn the shoes of Captain Paton.And on entering the coffee-roomAbout two, all men did knowThey would see him with hisCourierIn the middle of the row.Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
Now and then, upon a Sunday,He invited me to dineOn a herring and a mutton chop,Which his maid dress'd very fine.There was also a little Malmsay,And a bottle of Bordeaux,Which, between me and the captain,Pass'd nimbly to and fro!Oh! I ne'er shall take potluck with Captain Paton no mo'e!
Or, if a bowl was mentioned,The captain he would ring,And bid Nelly run to the Westport,And a stoup of water bring.Then would he mix the genuine stuff,As they made it long ago,With limes that on his propertyIn Trinidad did grow!Oh! we ne'er shall taste the like of Captain Paton's punch no mo'e!
And then all the time he would discourseSo sensible and courteous,Perhaps talking of last sermonHe had heard from Dr Porteous;Of some little bit of scandalAbout Mrs So-and-So,Which he scarce could credit, having heardThecon.but not thepro.!Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
Or when the candles were brought forth,And the night was fairly setting in,He would tell some fine old storiesAbout Minden-field or Dettingen;How he fought with a French major,And dispatch'd him at a blow,While his blood ran out like waterOn the soft grass below!Oh! we ne'er shall hear the like from Captain Paton no mo'e!
But at last the captain sickened,And grew worse from day to day,And all miss'd him in the coffee-room,From which now he staid away;On Sabbaths, too, the Wynd kirkMade a melancholy show,All for wanting of the presenceOf our venerable beau!Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
And in spite of all that CleghornAnd Corkindale could do,It was plain, from twenty symptoms,That death was in his view;So the captain made his test'ment,And submitted to his foe,And we laid him by the Ram's-horn kirk—'Tis the way we all must go!Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
Join all in chorus, jolly boys,And let punch and tears be shed,For this prince of good old fellowsThat, alack-a-day! is dead;For this prince of worthy fellows—And a pretty man also—That has left the SaltmarketIn sorrow, grief, and woe!For it ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
From the Gaelic.
Listen to me, as when ye heard our fatherSing, long ago, the song of other shores;Listen to me, and then in chorus gatherAll your deep voices, as ye pull your oars:Fair these broad meads—these hoary woods are grand;But we are exiles from our fathers' land!From the lone shieling of the misty islandMountains divide us, and the waste of seas;Yet still the blood is strong, the heart is Highland,And we in dreams behold the Hebrides.We ne'er shall tread the fancy-haunted valley,Where, 'tween the dark hills, creeps the small clear stream,In arms around the patriach-banner rally,Nor see the moon on royal tombstones gleam.* * * * *Come, foreign rage!—let discord burst in slaughter!Oh then for clansman true, and stern claymore!The hearts that would have given their blood like waterBeat heavily beyond the Atlantic roar!Fair these broad meads—these hoary woods are grand;But we are exiles from our fathers' land!
Listen to me, as when ye heard our fatherSing, long ago, the song of other shores;Listen to me, and then in chorus gatherAll your deep voices, as ye pull your oars:Fair these broad meads—these hoary woods are grand;But we are exiles from our fathers' land!
From the lone shieling of the misty islandMountains divide us, and the waste of seas;Yet still the blood is strong, the heart is Highland,And we in dreams behold the Hebrides.
We ne'er shall tread the fancy-haunted valley,Where, 'tween the dark hills, creeps the small clear stream,In arms around the patriach-banner rally,Nor see the moon on royal tombstones gleam.
* * * * *
Come, foreign rage!—let discord burst in slaughter!Oh then for clansman true, and stern claymore!The hearts that would have given their blood like waterBeat heavily beyond the Atlantic roar!Fair these broad meads—these hoary woods are grand;But we are exiles from our fathers' land!
Thomas Mathers, the fisherman poet, was born at St Monance, Fifeshire, in 1794. Receiving an education at school confined to the simplest branches, he chose the seafaring life, and connected himself with the merchant service. At Venice, he had a casual rencounter with Lord Byron,—a circumstance which he was in the habit of narrating with enthusiasm. Leaving the merchant service, he married, and became a fisherman and pilot, fixing his residence in his native village. His future life was a career of incessant toil and frequent penury, much alleviated, however, by the invocation of the muse. He contributed verses for a series of years to several of the public journals; and his compositions gained him a wide circle of admirers. He long cherished the ambition of publishing a volume of poems; and the desire at length was gratified through the subscriptions of his friends. In 1851, he printed a duodecimo volume, entitled, "Musings in Verse, by Sea and Shore," which, however, had only been put into shape when the author was called to his rest. He died of a short illness, at St Monance, on the 25th September 1851, leaving a widow and several young children. His poetry is chiefly remarkable for depth of feeling. Of his powers as a song-writer, the following lyric, entitled "Early Love," is a favourable specimen.
There 's nae love like early love,Sae lasting an' sae leal;It wins upon the youthfu' heart,An' sets its magic seal.The die that 's cast in early life,Is nae vain airy dream;But makes thee still in after yearsThe subject of my theme.But years o' shade an' sunshineHave flung alternatelyTheir fleeting shadows as they pass'dAthwart life's changing sky.Like troubled waters, too, the mind'S been ruffled an' distress'd;But with the placid calm return'dThine image to my breast.Still I hae seen a fairer face,Though fairer anes are few,An' I hae marked kinder smilesThan e'er I gat frae you.But smiles, like blinks o' simmer sheen,Leave not a trace behind;While early love has forged chainsThe freest heart to bind.The mind from tyrant fettersIs free as air to rove;But powerful are the links that chainThe heart to early love.Affections, like the ivyIn nature's leafy screen,Entwine the boughs o' early loveWi' foliage "ever green."
There 's nae love like early love,Sae lasting an' sae leal;It wins upon the youthfu' heart,An' sets its magic seal.The die that 's cast in early life,Is nae vain airy dream;But makes thee still in after yearsThe subject of my theme.
But years o' shade an' sunshineHave flung alternatelyTheir fleeting shadows as they pass'dAthwart life's changing sky.Like troubled waters, too, the mind'S been ruffled an' distress'd;But with the placid calm return'dThine image to my breast.
Still I hae seen a fairer face,Though fairer anes are few,An' I hae marked kinder smilesThan e'er I gat frae you.But smiles, like blinks o' simmer sheen,Leave not a trace behind;While early love has forged chainsThe freest heart to bind.
The mind from tyrant fettersIs free as air to rove;But powerful are the links that chainThe heart to early love.Affections, like the ivyIn nature's leafy screen,Entwine the boughs o' early loveWi' foliage "ever green."
James Brown was born at Libberton, a village in the upper ward of Lanarkshire, on the 1st of July 1796. His father, the miller of Libberton-mill, was a person of superior intelligence, and his mother, Grizzel Anderson, was esteemed for her amiable dispositions. Deprived of his father while only six years old, he was early apprenticed to a hand-loom weaver. On the completion of his indenture, he removed to Symington, a village situate at the base of Tintock hill. His leisure hours were devoted to reading and an extensive correspondence with his friends. He formed a club for literary discussion, which assembled periodically at his house. Enthusiastic in his love of nature, he rejoiced in solitary rambles on the heights of Tintock and Dungavel; he made a pilgrimage to the Border and Ettrick Forest. In 1823 he removed to Glasgow, where he was employed in the warehouse of a manufacturing firm; he afterwards became agent of the house at Biggar, where he died on the 12th September 1836. Though the writer of much poetry of merit, Brown was indifferent to literary reputation; and chiefly intrusted his compositions to the keeping of his friends. His songs in the present work have been recovered by his early friend, Mr Scott Riddell, who has supplied these particulars of his life. Austere in manner, he was possessed of genial and benevolent dispositions; he became ultimately impressed with earnest religious convictions.
Yestreen as I stray'd on the banks o' the Clyde,A laddie beneath the gay greenwood I spied,Who sang o' his Peggy, and oh! he seem'd wae,For Peggy, sweet Peggy, was far, far away.Though fair burns the taper in yon lofty ha',Yet nought now shines bright where her shade doesna fa';My Peggy was pure as the dew-drops o' May,But Peggy, sweet Peggy, is far, far away.Ye breezes that curve the blue waves o' the Clyde,And sigh 'mang the dark firs on yon mountain side,How dreary your murmurs throughout the lang day,Since Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.The sable-wing'd blackbird yon birk-trees amang,And mavis sing notes that accord wi' my sang,A' nature is dowie, by bank and by brae,Since Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.Ye dew-dripping daisies that bloom by the burn,Though scathed by rude winter in spring ye return;I mark'd, but I minded no whit your decay,Ere Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.I mourn'd not the absence o' summer or spring,Nor aught o' the beauties the seasons may bring,E'en 'mid the dark winter this heart still was gay,Ere Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.The bleak blawing winter, wi' a' its alarms,Might add to, but tak not away from her charms,The snaws seem'd as welcome as summer-won hay,Ere Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.Our Henry lo'es Mary, Jock dotes upon Jean,And Willie ca's Nancy o' beauty the queen,But Peggy was mine, and far lovelier than they,Ere Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.Oh, when will the days o' this sadness be o'er,And Heaven, in pity, my Peggie restore?It kens she 's the loveliest it ere made o' clay,And ill I may thole that she 's far, far away.
Yestreen as I stray'd on the banks o' the Clyde,A laddie beneath the gay greenwood I spied,Who sang o' his Peggy, and oh! he seem'd wae,For Peggy, sweet Peggy, was far, far away.
Though fair burns the taper in yon lofty ha',Yet nought now shines bright where her shade doesna fa';My Peggy was pure as the dew-drops o' May,But Peggy, sweet Peggy, is far, far away.
Ye breezes that curve the blue waves o' the Clyde,And sigh 'mang the dark firs on yon mountain side,How dreary your murmurs throughout the lang day,Since Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.
The sable-wing'd blackbird yon birk-trees amang,And mavis sing notes that accord wi' my sang,A' nature is dowie, by bank and by brae,Since Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.
Ye dew-dripping daisies that bloom by the burn,Though scathed by rude winter in spring ye return;I mark'd, but I minded no whit your decay,Ere Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.
I mourn'd not the absence o' summer or spring,Nor aught o' the beauties the seasons may bring,E'en 'mid the dark winter this heart still was gay,Ere Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.
The bleak blawing winter, wi' a' its alarms,Might add to, but tak not away from her charms,The snaws seem'd as welcome as summer-won hay,Ere Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.
Our Henry lo'es Mary, Jock dotes upon Jean,And Willie ca's Nancy o' beauty the queen,But Peggy was mine, and far lovelier than they,Ere Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.
Oh, when will the days o' this sadness be o'er,And Heaven, in pity, my Peggie restore?It kens she 's the loveliest it ere made o' clay,And ill I may thole that she 's far, far away.
Love brought me a bough o' the willow sae greenThat waves by yon brook where the wild-flowers grow sheen;And braiding my harp wi' the sweet budding rue,It mellow'd its tones 'mang the saft falling dew;It whisper'd a strain that I wist na to hear,That false was the lassie my bosom held dear;Pride stirr'd me to sing, as I tore off the rue—If she 's got ae sweetheart, sure I can get two!Yet aft when reflection brings back to my mindThe days that are gane, when my lassie was kind,A sigh says I felt then as ne'er I feel now,My soul was enraptured—I canna tell how.Yet what need I sing o' the joys that hae been,And why should I start at the glance o' her een,Or think o' the dark locks that wave o'er her brow?—If she 's got ae sweetheart, sure I can get two!Yestreen when the sun glinted blithe on the hill,I met her alane by the flower-border'd rill,I speer'd for her weelfare, but cauld was her air,And I soughtna' to change it by foul words or fair;She says I deceived her, how can it be sae?The heart, ere deceived some affection maun hae,And that hers had nane, I the sairer may rue,Though she 's got ae sweetheart, an' I can get two.She left me for ane wha o' mailins could sing,Sae gie her the pleasures that riches can bring.Gae fame to the hero, and gowd to the Jew,And me the enjoyment that 's prized by the few;A friend o' warm feeling, and frank and refined,And a lassie that 's modest, true hearted, and kind,I 'll woo her, I 'll lo'e her, and best it will do,For love brings nae bliss when it tampers wi' two.
Love brought me a bough o' the willow sae greenThat waves by yon brook where the wild-flowers grow sheen;And braiding my harp wi' the sweet budding rue,It mellow'd its tones 'mang the saft falling dew;It whisper'd a strain that I wist na to hear,That false was the lassie my bosom held dear;Pride stirr'd me to sing, as I tore off the rue—If she 's got ae sweetheart, sure I can get two!
Yet aft when reflection brings back to my mindThe days that are gane, when my lassie was kind,A sigh says I felt then as ne'er I feel now,My soul was enraptured—I canna tell how.Yet what need I sing o' the joys that hae been,And why should I start at the glance o' her een,Or think o' the dark locks that wave o'er her brow?—If she 's got ae sweetheart, sure I can get two!
Yestreen when the sun glinted blithe on the hill,I met her alane by the flower-border'd rill,I speer'd for her weelfare, but cauld was her air,And I soughtna' to change it by foul words or fair;She says I deceived her, how can it be sae?The heart, ere deceived some affection maun hae,And that hers had nane, I the sairer may rue,Though she 's got ae sweetheart, an' I can get two.
She left me for ane wha o' mailins could sing,Sae gie her the pleasures that riches can bring.Gae fame to the hero, and gowd to the Jew,And me the enjoyment that 's prized by the few;A friend o' warm feeling, and frank and refined,And a lassie that 's modest, true hearted, and kind,I 'll woo her, I 'll lo'e her, and best it will do,For love brings nae bliss when it tampers wi' two.
Air—"Jenny's Bawbee."
Ere foreign fashions cross'd the Tweed,A bannet happ'd my daddie's head,Our daintiest fare was milk-and-bread,Folk scunner'd a' at tea;When cronies met they didna stand,To rule their words by manners grand,But warmly clasping hand in hand,Said, How 's a' wi' ye.But now there 's nought but shy finesse,And mim and prim 'bout mess and dress,That scarce a hand a hand will pressWi' ought o' feeling free;A cauldrife pride aside has laidThe hodden gray, and hame-spun plaid,And a' is changed since neebors saidJust, How 's a' wi' ye.Our auld guidwife wore cloak and hood,The maiden's gown was worset guid,And kept her ringlets in a snoodAboon her pawkie e'e;Now set wi' gaudy gumflowers roun',She flaunts it in her silken gown,That scarce ane dare by glen or townSay, How 's a' wi' ye.I watna how they manage nowTheir brides in lighted ha's to woo,But it is caulder wark, I trow,Than e'er it was wi' me;Aye true unto the trysts we set,When we among the hawthorns met,Love-warm, true love wad scarce us letSay, How 's a' wi' ye.Wae-worth their haughty state and style,That drive true feeling frae our isle!In saxty years o' care and toil,What ferlies do we see!The lowliest heart a pride displays,Unkent in our ain early days,Ilk kind and canty thing decays,Wi', How 's a' wi' ye.When back we look on bygane years,Weel may the cheek be wet wi' tears,The cauld mool mony a bosom bears,Ance dear to you and me;Yet I will neither chafe nor chide,While ane comes to my ingle side,Whose bosom glows wi' honest prideAt, How 's a' wi' ye.Newfangled guffs may things arrangeFor further and still further change,But strange things shall to me be strange,While I can hear and see.And when I gang, as I 'll do soon,To join the leal in hames aboon,I 'll greet them just as aye I 've doon,Wi', How 's a' wi' ye.
Ere foreign fashions cross'd the Tweed,A bannet happ'd my daddie's head,Our daintiest fare was milk-and-bread,Folk scunner'd a' at tea;When cronies met they didna stand,To rule their words by manners grand,But warmly clasping hand in hand,Said, How 's a' wi' ye.
But now there 's nought but shy finesse,And mim and prim 'bout mess and dress,That scarce a hand a hand will pressWi' ought o' feeling free;A cauldrife pride aside has laidThe hodden gray, and hame-spun plaid,And a' is changed since neebors saidJust, How 's a' wi' ye.
Our auld guidwife wore cloak and hood,The maiden's gown was worset guid,And kept her ringlets in a snoodAboon her pawkie e'e;Now set wi' gaudy gumflowers roun',She flaunts it in her silken gown,That scarce ane dare by glen or townSay, How 's a' wi' ye.
I watna how they manage nowTheir brides in lighted ha's to woo,But it is caulder wark, I trow,Than e'er it was wi' me;Aye true unto the trysts we set,When we among the hawthorns met,Love-warm, true love wad scarce us letSay, How 's a' wi' ye.
Wae-worth their haughty state and style,That drive true feeling frae our isle!In saxty years o' care and toil,What ferlies do we see!The lowliest heart a pride displays,Unkent in our ain early days,Ilk kind and canty thing decays,Wi', How 's a' wi' ye.
When back we look on bygane years,Weel may the cheek be wet wi' tears,The cauld mool mony a bosom bears,Ance dear to you and me;Yet I will neither chafe nor chide,While ane comes to my ingle side,Whose bosom glows wi' honest prideAt, How 's a' wi' ye.
Newfangled guffs may things arrangeFor further and still further change,But strange things shall to me be strange,While I can hear and see.And when I gang, as I 'll do soon,To join the leal in hames aboon,I 'll greet them just as aye I 've doon,Wi', How 's a' wi' ye.
Tune—"Miller of Dron," improved set.
Oh, sair I feel the witching powerO' that sweet pawkie e'e,And sair I 'll rue the luckless hourThat e'er it shone on me;Unless sic love as wounds this heartCome frae that heart again,And teach for aye the kindly rayTo blink on me alane.Thy modest cheek aye mantling glowsWhene'er I talk o' love,As rainbow rays upon the roseIts native sweets improve;Yet when the sunbeams leave yon tower,And gloamin' vails the glen,Will ye gang to the birken bowerWhen nane on earth can ken?Oh, scenes delighting, smiles inviting,Heartfelt pleasures len',And oh! how fain to meet alane,When nane on earth can ken!Amang the lave I manna speak,And when I look the while,The mair I 'm seen, the mair I seekTheir watching to beguile;But leave, dear lassie, leave them a',And frae this heart sae lealThou 'lt hear the love, by glen and shaw,It canna mair conceal.My plaid shall shield thy peerless charmsFrae evening's fanning gale,And saft shall be my circling arms,And true my simple tale;And seated by the murmuring brook,Within the flowery den,If love 's reveal'd in word or look,There 's nane on earth can ken.Oh! scenes delighting, smiles inviting,Heartfelt pleasures len',And oh! how fain to meet alane,When nane on earth can ken.There 's music in the lighted ha',And looks in laughing een,That seem affection forth to show,That less is felt than seen.But silent in the faithfu' heartThe charm o' love shall reign,Or words shall but its power impartTo make it mair our ain.Let worldlings doat upon their wealth,And spendthrifts hae their glee,Not a' the state o' a' the great,Shall draw a wish frae me;Away wi' thee by glen an' bower,Far frae the haunts o' men,Oh! a' the bliss o' hour like this,The world can never ken.Oh! scenes delighting, smiles inviting,Heartfelt pleasures len',And aye how fain we 'll meet again,When nane on earth can ken.
Oh, sair I feel the witching powerO' that sweet pawkie e'e,And sair I 'll rue the luckless hourThat e'er it shone on me;Unless sic love as wounds this heartCome frae that heart again,And teach for aye the kindly rayTo blink on me alane.Thy modest cheek aye mantling glowsWhene'er I talk o' love,As rainbow rays upon the roseIts native sweets improve;Yet when the sunbeams leave yon tower,And gloamin' vails the glen,Will ye gang to the birken bowerWhen nane on earth can ken?Oh, scenes delighting, smiles inviting,Heartfelt pleasures len',And oh! how fain to meet alane,When nane on earth can ken!
Amang the lave I manna speak,And when I look the while,The mair I 'm seen, the mair I seekTheir watching to beguile;But leave, dear lassie, leave them a',And frae this heart sae lealThou 'lt hear the love, by glen and shaw,It canna mair conceal.My plaid shall shield thy peerless charmsFrae evening's fanning gale,And saft shall be my circling arms,And true my simple tale;And seated by the murmuring brook,Within the flowery den,If love 's reveal'd in word or look,There 's nane on earth can ken.Oh! scenes delighting, smiles inviting,Heartfelt pleasures len',And oh! how fain to meet alane,When nane on earth can ken.
There 's music in the lighted ha',And looks in laughing een,That seem affection forth to show,That less is felt than seen.But silent in the faithfu' heartThe charm o' love shall reign,Or words shall but its power impartTo make it mair our ain.Let worldlings doat upon their wealth,And spendthrifts hae their glee,Not a' the state o' a' the great,Shall draw a wish frae me;Away wi' thee by glen an' bower,Far frae the haunts o' men,Oh! a' the bliss o' hour like this,The world can never ken.Oh! scenes delighting, smiles inviting,Heartfelt pleasures len',And aye how fain we 'll meet again,When nane on earth can ken.
Daniel Weir was born at Greenock, on the 31st of March 1796. His father, John Weir, was a shoemaker, and at one period a small shopkeeper in that town. From his mother, Sarah Wright, he inherited a delicate constitution. His education was conducted at a private school; and in 1809, he became apprentice to Mr Scott, a respectable bookseller in Greenock. In 1815, he commenced business as a bookseller on his own account.
Imbued with the love of learning, and especially of poetry, Weir devoted his hours of leisure to extensive reading and the composition of verses. To the "Scottish Minstrel" of R. A. Smith, he contributed several respectable songs; and edited for Messrs Griffin & Co., booksellers in Glasgow, three volumes of lyric poems, which appeared under the title of "The National Minstrel," "The Sacred Lyre," and "Lyrical Gems." These collections are adorned with many compositions of his own. In 1829, he published a "History of the Town of Greenock," in a thin octavo volume, illustrated with engravings. He died on the 11th November 1831, in his thirty-fifth year.
Possessed of a fine genius, a brilliant fancy, and much gracefulness of expression, Weir has decided claims to remembrance. His conversational talents were of a remarkable description, and attracted to his shop many persons of taste, to whom his poetical talentswere unknown. He was familiar with the whole of the British poets, and had committed their best passages to memory. Possessing a keen relish for the ludicrous, he had at command a store of delightful anecdote, which he gave forth with a quaintness of look and utterance, so as to render the force of the humour totally irresistible. His sarcastic wit was an object of dread to his opponents in burgh politics. His appearance was striking. Rather mal-formed, he was under the middle size; his head seemed large for his person, and his shoulders were of unusual breadth. His complexion was dark, and his eyes hazel; and when his countenance was lit upon the recitation of some witty tale, he looked the impersonation of mirthfulness. Eccentric as were some of his habits and modes of action, he was seriously impressed by religious principle; some of his devotional compositions are admirable specimens of sacred poetry. He left an unpublished MS. poem, entitled "The Pleasures of Religion."
See the moon o'er cloudless JuraShining in the lake below;See the distant mountain tow'ringLike a pyramid of snow.Scenes of grandeur—scenes of childhood—Scenes so dear to love and me!Let us roam by bower and wildwood—All is lovelier when with thee.On Leman's breast the winds are sighing;All is silent in the grove;And the flow'rs, with dew-drops glist'ning,Sparkle like the eye of love.Night so calm, so clear, so cloudless;Blessed night to love and me!Let us roam by bower and fountain—All is lovelier when with thee.
See the moon o'er cloudless JuraShining in the lake below;See the distant mountain tow'ringLike a pyramid of snow.Scenes of grandeur—scenes of childhood—Scenes so dear to love and me!Let us roam by bower and wildwood—All is lovelier when with thee.
On Leman's breast the winds are sighing;All is silent in the grove;And the flow'rs, with dew-drops glist'ning,Sparkle like the eye of love.Night so calm, so clear, so cloudless;Blessed night to love and me!Let us roam by bower and fountain—All is lovelier when with thee.
Love is timid, love is shy,Can you tell me, tell me why?Ah! tell me why true love should beAfraid to meet the kindly smileOf him she loves, from him would flee,Yet thinks upon him all the while?Can you tell me, tell me whyLove is timid, love is shy?Love is timid, love is shy,Can you tell me, tell me why?True love, they say, delights to dwellIn some sequester'd, lonely bow'r,With him she loves, where none can tellHer tender look in passion's hour.Can you tell me, tell me whyLove is timid, love is shy?Love is timid, love is shy,Can you tell me, tell me why?Love, like the lonely nightingale,Will pour her heart, when all is lone;Nor will repeat, amidst the vale,Her notes to any, but to one.Can you tell me, tell me whyLove is timid, love is shy?
Love is timid, love is shy,Can you tell me, tell me why?Ah! tell me why true love should beAfraid to meet the kindly smileOf him she loves, from him would flee,Yet thinks upon him all the while?Can you tell me, tell me whyLove is timid, love is shy?
Love is timid, love is shy,Can you tell me, tell me why?True love, they say, delights to dwellIn some sequester'd, lonely bow'r,With him she loves, where none can tellHer tender look in passion's hour.Can you tell me, tell me whyLove is timid, love is shy?
Love is timid, love is shy,Can you tell me, tell me why?Love, like the lonely nightingale,Will pour her heart, when all is lone;Nor will repeat, amidst the vale,Her notes to any, but to one.Can you tell me, tell me whyLove is timid, love is shy?
My love, come let us wanderWhere Raven's streams meander,And where, in simple grandeur,The daisy decks the plain.Peace and joy our hours shall measure;Come, oh! come, my soul's best treasure!Then how sweet, and then how cheerie,Raven's braes will be, my dearie.The silver moon is beaming,On Clyde her light is streaming;And, while the world is dreaming,We 'll talk of love, my dear.None, my Jean, will share this bosom,Where thine image loves to blossom;And no storm will ever severThat dear flow'r, or part us ever.
My love, come let us wanderWhere Raven's streams meander,And where, in simple grandeur,The daisy decks the plain.Peace and joy our hours shall measure;Come, oh! come, my soul's best treasure!Then how sweet, and then how cheerie,Raven's braes will be, my dearie.
The silver moon is beaming,On Clyde her light is streaming;And, while the world is dreaming,We 'll talk of love, my dear.None, my Jean, will share this bosom,Where thine image loves to blossom;And no storm will ever severThat dear flow'r, or part us ever.
Air—"Oh! the days are past when beauty bright."
Oh! our childhood's once delightful hoursNe'er come again—Their sunny glens, their blooming bowers,And primrose plain!With other days,Ambitious raysMay flash upon our mind;But give me back the morn of life,With fond thoughts twined;As it sweetly broke on bower and hill,And youth's gay mind!Oh! our childhood's days are ne'er forgotOn life's dark sea,And memory hails that sacred spotWhere'er we be;It leaves all joys,And fondly sighsAs youth comes on the mind,And looks upon the morn of lifeWith fond thoughts,&c.When age will come, with locks of gray,To quench youth's spark,And its stream runs cold along the wayWhere all seems dark,'Twill smiling gaze,As memory's blazeBreaks on its wavering mind;But 'twill never bring the morn of life,With fond thoughts, &c.
Oh! our childhood's once delightful hoursNe'er come again—Their sunny glens, their blooming bowers,And primrose plain!With other days,Ambitious raysMay flash upon our mind;But give me back the morn of life,With fond thoughts twined;As it sweetly broke on bower and hill,And youth's gay mind!
Oh! our childhood's days are ne'er forgotOn life's dark sea,And memory hails that sacred spotWhere'er we be;It leaves all joys,And fondly sighsAs youth comes on the mind,And looks upon the morn of lifeWith fond thoughts,&c.
When age will come, with locks of gray,To quench youth's spark,And its stream runs cold along the wayWhere all seems dark,'Twill smiling gaze,As memory's blazeBreaks on its wavering mind;But 'twill never bring the morn of life,With fond thoughts, &c.
Could we but look beyond our sphere,And trace, along the azure sky,The myriads that were inmates hereSince Abel's spirit soar'd on high—Then might we tell of those who seeOur wand'rings from eternity!But human frailty cannot gazeOn such a cloud of splendid lightAs heaven's sacred court displays,Of blessed spirits clothed in white,Who from the fears of death are free,And look from an eternity.They look, but ne'er return againTo tell the secrets of their home;And kindliest tears for them are vain—For never, never shall they come,Till Time's pale light begin to fleeBefore a bright eternity!Could we but gaze beyond our sphere,Within the golden porch of heaven,And see those spirits which appearLike stars upon the robe of even!But no! unseen to us they seeOur wanderings from eternity!The crimes of men which Heaven saw,And pitied with a parent's eye,Could ne'er a kindred spirit drawIn mercy from its home on high;They look, but all they know or seeIs silent as eternity!At noonday hour, or midnight deep,No bright inhabitant draws nigh;And though a parent's offspring weep,No whisper echoes from the sky;Though friends may gaze, yet all they seeIs known but in eternity!Yet we may look beyond our sphereOn One who shines among the throng;And we by faith may also hearThe triumphs of a glorious song;And while we gaze on Him, we seeThe path to this eternity!
Could we but look beyond our sphere,And trace, along the azure sky,The myriads that were inmates hereSince Abel's spirit soar'd on high—Then might we tell of those who seeOur wand'rings from eternity!
But human frailty cannot gazeOn such a cloud of splendid lightAs heaven's sacred court displays,Of blessed spirits clothed in white,Who from the fears of death are free,And look from an eternity.
They look, but ne'er return againTo tell the secrets of their home;And kindliest tears for them are vain—For never, never shall they come,Till Time's pale light begin to fleeBefore a bright eternity!
Could we but gaze beyond our sphere,Within the golden porch of heaven,And see those spirits which appearLike stars upon the robe of even!But no! unseen to us they seeOur wanderings from eternity!
The crimes of men which Heaven saw,And pitied with a parent's eye,Could ne'er a kindred spirit drawIn mercy from its home on high;They look, but all they know or seeIs silent as eternity!
At noonday hour, or midnight deep,No bright inhabitant draws nigh;And though a parent's offspring weep,No whisper echoes from the sky;Though friends may gaze, yet all they seeIs known but in eternity!
Yet we may look beyond our sphereOn One who shines among the throng;And we by faith may also hearThe triumphs of a glorious song;And while we gaze on Him, we seeThe path to this eternity!
In the morning of life, when its sweet sunny smileShines bright on our path, we may dream we are blest;We may look on the world as a gay fairy isle,Where sorrow 's unknown, and the weary have rest!But the brightness that shone, and the hopes we enjoy'd,Are clouded ere noon, and soon vanish away;While the dark beating tempest, on life's stormy tide,Obscures all the sweets of the morning's bright ray!Then where are those bowers, in some gay, happy plain,Where hope ne'er deceives, and where love is aye true;Where the brightness of morning shines on but to gainA sunshine as bright and as promising too?Oh! ask for it not in this valley of sighs,Where we smile but to weep, and we ne'er can find rest;For the world we would wish shines afar in the skies,Where sorrow 's unknown—'tis the home of the blest!
In the morning of life, when its sweet sunny smileShines bright on our path, we may dream we are blest;We may look on the world as a gay fairy isle,Where sorrow 's unknown, and the weary have rest!
But the brightness that shone, and the hopes we enjoy'd,Are clouded ere noon, and soon vanish away;While the dark beating tempest, on life's stormy tide,Obscures all the sweets of the morning's bright ray!
Then where are those bowers, in some gay, happy plain,Where hope ne'er deceives, and where love is aye true;Where the brightness of morning shines on but to gainA sunshine as bright and as promising too?
Oh! ask for it not in this valley of sighs,Where we smile but to weep, and we ne'er can find rest;For the world we would wish shines afar in the skies,Where sorrow 's unknown—'tis the home of the blest!
Oh! weep not thus, though the child thou hast loved,Still, still as the grave, in silence sleeps on;'Midst the tears that are shed, his eye is unmoved,And the beat of that bosom for ever is gone:Then weep not thus, for the moment is blestWhen the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!The world to him, with its sorrows and sighs,Has fled like a dream when the morn appears;While the spirit awakes in the light of the skies,No more to revisit this valley of tears:Then weep not thus, for the moment is blestWhen the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!Few, few were his years; but, had they been more,The sunshine which smiled might have vanish'd away,And he might have fallen on some far friendless shore,Or been wreck'd amidst storms in some desolate bay:Then weep not thus, for the moment is blestWhen the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!Like a rosebud of promise, when fresh in the morn,Was the child of thy heart while he lingered here;But now from thy love, from thine arms he is torn,Yet to bloom in a lovelier, happier sphere:Then weep not thus, for the moment is blestWhen the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!How happy the pilgrim whose journey is o'er,Who, musing, looks back on its dangers and woes;Then rejoice at his rest, for sorrow no moreCan start on his dreams, or disturb his repose:Then weep not thus, for the moment is blestWhen the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!Who would not recline on the breast of a friend,When the night-cloud has lower'd o'er a sorrowful day?Who would not rejoice at his journey's end,When perils and toils encompass'd his way?Then weep not thus, for the moment is blestWhen the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!
Oh! weep not thus, though the child thou hast loved,Still, still as the grave, in silence sleeps on;'Midst the tears that are shed, his eye is unmoved,And the beat of that bosom for ever is gone:Then weep not thus, for the moment is blestWhen the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!
The world to him, with its sorrows and sighs,Has fled like a dream when the morn appears;While the spirit awakes in the light of the skies,No more to revisit this valley of tears:Then weep not thus, for the moment is blestWhen the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!
Few, few were his years; but, had they been more,The sunshine which smiled might have vanish'd away,And he might have fallen on some far friendless shore,Or been wreck'd amidst storms in some desolate bay:Then weep not thus, for the moment is blestWhen the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!
Like a rosebud of promise, when fresh in the morn,Was the child of thy heart while he lingered here;But now from thy love, from thine arms he is torn,Yet to bloom in a lovelier, happier sphere:Then weep not thus, for the moment is blestWhen the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!
How happy the pilgrim whose journey is o'er,Who, musing, looks back on its dangers and woes;Then rejoice at his rest, for sorrow no moreCan start on his dreams, or disturb his repose:Then weep not thus, for the moment is blestWhen the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!
Who would not recline on the breast of a friend,When the night-cloud has lower'd o'er a sorrowful day?Who would not rejoice at his journey's end,When perils and toils encompass'd his way?Then weep not thus, for the moment is blestWhen the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!