Blink over the burn, sweet Betty,Blink over the burn to me;Blink over the burn, sweet Betty,An' I 'll gang alang wi' thee;Though father and mither forbade it,Forbidden I wadna be;Blink over the burn, sweet Betty,An' I 'll gang alang wi' thee.The cheek o' my love 's like the rose-bud,Blushing red wi' the mornin' dew,Her hair 's o' the loveliest auburn,Her ee 's o' the bonniest blue;Her lips are like threads o' the scarlet,Disclosing a pearly row;Her high-swelling, love-heaving bosomIs white as the mountain snow.But it isna her beauty that hauds me,A glitterin' chain winna lang bind;'Tis her heavenly seraph-like sweetness,An' the graces adornin' her mind;She 's dear to my soul as the sunbeamIs dear to the summer's morn,An' she says, though her father forbade it,She 'll ne'er break the vows she has sworn.Her father's a canker'd auld carle,He swears he will ne'er gie consent;Such carles should never get daughters,Unless they can mak them content;But she says, though her father forbade it,Forbidden she winna be;Blink over the burn, sweet Betty,An' I 'll gang alang wi' thee.
Blink over the burn, sweet Betty,Blink over the burn to me;Blink over the burn, sweet Betty,An' I 'll gang alang wi' thee;Though father and mither forbade it,Forbidden I wadna be;Blink over the burn, sweet Betty,An' I 'll gang alang wi' thee.
The cheek o' my love 's like the rose-bud,Blushing red wi' the mornin' dew,Her hair 's o' the loveliest auburn,Her ee 's o' the bonniest blue;Her lips are like threads o' the scarlet,Disclosing a pearly row;Her high-swelling, love-heaving bosomIs white as the mountain snow.
But it isna her beauty that hauds me,A glitterin' chain winna lang bind;'Tis her heavenly seraph-like sweetness,An' the graces adornin' her mind;She 's dear to my soul as the sunbeamIs dear to the summer's morn,An' she says, though her father forbade it,She 'll ne'er break the vows she has sworn.
Her father's a canker'd auld carle,He swears he will ne'er gie consent;Such carles should never get daughters,Unless they can mak them content;But she says, though her father forbade it,Forbidden she winna be;Blink over the burn, sweet Betty,An' I 'll gang alang wi' thee.
Air—"Highland Plaid."
My tortured bosom long shall feelThe pangs o' this last sad fareweel;Far, far to foreign lands I stray,To spend my hours in deepest wae;Fareweel, my dear, my native soil,Fareweel, the braes o' Aberfoyle!An' fare-ye-weel, my winsome love,Into whatever lands I rove,Thou 'lt claim the deepest, dearest sigh,The warmest tear ere wet my eye;An' when I 'm wan'rin' mony a mile,I 'll mourn for Kate o' Aberfoyle.When far upon the raging sea,As thunders roar, and lightnings flee,When sweepin' storms the ship assail,I 'll bless the music o' the gale,An' think, while listenin' a' the while,I hear the storms o' Aberfoyle.Kitty, my only love, fareweel;What pangs my faithfu' heart will feel,While straying through the Indian groves,Weepin' our woes or early loves;I 'll ne'er mair see my native soil,Fareweel, fareweel, sweet Aberfoyle!
My tortured bosom long shall feelThe pangs o' this last sad fareweel;Far, far to foreign lands I stray,To spend my hours in deepest wae;Fareweel, my dear, my native soil,Fareweel, the braes o' Aberfoyle!
An' fare-ye-weel, my winsome love,Into whatever lands I rove,Thou 'lt claim the deepest, dearest sigh,The warmest tear ere wet my eye;An' when I 'm wan'rin' mony a mile,I 'll mourn for Kate o' Aberfoyle.
When far upon the raging sea,As thunders roar, and lightnings flee,When sweepin' storms the ship assail,I 'll bless the music o' the gale,An' think, while listenin' a' the while,I hear the storms o' Aberfoyle.
Kitty, my only love, fareweel;What pangs my faithfu' heart will feel,While straying through the Indian groves,Weepin' our woes or early loves;I 'll ne'er mair see my native soil,Fareweel, fareweel, sweet Aberfoyle!
David Vedder was the son of a small landowner in the parish of Burness, Orkney, where he was born in 1790. He had the misfortune to lose both his parents ere he had completed his twelfth year, and was led to choose the nautical profession. At the age of twenty-two, he obtained the rank of captain of a vessel, in which he performed several voyages to Greenland. In 1815, he entered the revenue service as first officer of an armed cruiser, and in five years afterwards was raised to the post of tide-surveyor. He first discharged the duties of this office at Montrose, and subsequently at the ports of Kirkcaldy, Dundee, and Leith.
A writer of verses from his boyhood, Vedder experienced agreeable relaxation from his arduous duties as a seaman, in the invocation of the muse. He sung of the grandeur and terrors of the ocean. His earlier compositions were contributed to some of the northern newspapers; but before he attained his majority, his productions found admission into the periodicals. In 1826, he published "The Covenanter's Communion, and other Poems," a work which was very favourably received. His reputation as a poet was extended by the publication, in 1832, of a second volume, under the title of "Orcadian Sketches." This work, amelangeof prose and poetry, contains some of his best compositions in verse; and several of the prose sketches are remarkable for fine and forcible description. In 1839, he edited the "Poetical Remains of Robert Fraser," prefaced with an interesting memoir.
Immediately on the death of Sir Walter Scott, Vedder published a memoir of that illustrious person, which commanded a ready and wide circulation. In 1842, he gave to the world an edition of his collected poems, in an elegant duodecimo volume. In 1848, he supplied the letterpress for a splendid volume, entitled "Lays and Lithographs," published by his son-in-law, Mr Frederick Schenck of Edinburgh, the distinguished lithographer. His last work was a new English version of the quaint old story of "Reynard the Fox," which was published with elegant illustrations. To many of the more popular magazines and serials he was in the habit of contributing; articles from his pen adorned the pages ofConstable's Edinburgh Magazine, theEdinburgh Literary Journal, theEdinburgh Literary Gazette, theChristian Herald,Tait's Magazine, andChambers's Journal. He wrote the letterpress for Geikie's volume of "Etchings," and furnished songs for George Thomson's "Musical Miscellany," Blackie's "Book of Scottish Song," and Robertson's "Whistlebinkie." At the time of his death, he was engaged in the preparation of a ballad on the subject of the persecutions of the Covenanters. In 1852, he was placed upon the retired list of revenue officers, and thereafter established his residence in Edinburgh. He died at Newington, in that city, on the 11th February 1854, in his 64th year. His remains were interred in the Southern Cemetery.
Considerably above the middle height, Vedder was otherwise of massive proportions, while his full open countenance was much bronzed by exposure to the weather. Of beneficent dispositions and social habits, he enjoyed the friendship of many of his gifted contemporaries. Thoroughly earnest, his writings partake of the bold and straightforward nature of his character.Some of his prose productions are admirable specimens of vigorous composition; and his poetry, if not characterised by uniformity of power, never descends into weakness. Triumphant in humour, he is eminently a master of the plaintive; his tender pieces breathe a deep-toned cadence, and his sacred lyrics are replete with devotional fervour. His Norse ballads are resonant with the echoes of his birth-land, and his songs are to be remarked for their deep pathos and genuine simplicity.
Let wrapt musicians strike the lyre,While plaudits shake the vaulted fane;Let warriors rush through flood and fire,A never-dying name to gain;Let bards, on fancy's fervid wing,Pursue some high or holy theme:Be 't mine, in simple strains, to singMy darling Jeanie 's welcome hame!Sweet is the morn of flowery May,When incense breathes from heath and wold—When laverocks hymn the matin lay,And mountain peaks are bathed in gold—And swallows, frae some foreign strand,Are wheeling o'er the winding stream;But sweeter to extend my hand,And bid my Jeanie welcome hame!Poor collie, our auld-farrant dog,Will bark wi' joy whene'er she comes;And baudrons, on the ingle rug,Will blithely churm at "auld gray-thrums."The mavis, frae our apple-tree,Shall warble forth a joyous strain;The blackbird's mellow minstrelsyShall welcome Jeanie hame again!Like dew-drops on a fading rose,Maternal tears shall start for thee,And low-breathed blessings rise like thoseWhich soothed thy slumb'ring infancy.Come to my arms, my timid dove!I 'll kiss thy beauteous brow once more;The fountain of thy father's loveIs welling all its banks out o'er!
Let wrapt musicians strike the lyre,While plaudits shake the vaulted fane;Let warriors rush through flood and fire,A never-dying name to gain;Let bards, on fancy's fervid wing,Pursue some high or holy theme:Be 't mine, in simple strains, to singMy darling Jeanie 's welcome hame!
Sweet is the morn of flowery May,When incense breathes from heath and wold—When laverocks hymn the matin lay,And mountain peaks are bathed in gold—And swallows, frae some foreign strand,Are wheeling o'er the winding stream;But sweeter to extend my hand,And bid my Jeanie welcome hame!
Poor collie, our auld-farrant dog,Will bark wi' joy whene'er she comes;And baudrons, on the ingle rug,Will blithely churm at "auld gray-thrums."The mavis, frae our apple-tree,Shall warble forth a joyous strain;The blackbird's mellow minstrelsyShall welcome Jeanie hame again!
Like dew-drops on a fading rose,Maternal tears shall start for thee,And low-breathed blessings rise like thoseWhich soothed thy slumb'ring infancy.Come to my arms, my timid dove!I 'll kiss thy beauteous brow once more;The fountain of thy father's loveIs welling all its banks out o'er!
Air—"Todlin' hame."
I neither got promise of siller nor landWith the bonnie wee darling who gave me her hand;But I got a kind heart with my sweet blushing bride,And that 's proved the bliss of my ain fireside.My ain fireside, my dear fireside,There 's happiness aye at my ain fireside!Ambition once pointed my view towards rank,To meadows and manors, and gold in the bank:'Twas but for an hour; and I cherish with prideMy sweet lovely flower at my ain fireside.My ain fireside, my happy fireside,My Jeanie 's the charm of my ain fireside!Her accents are music; there 's grace in her air;And purity reigns in her bosom so fair;She 's lovelier now than in maidenly pride,Though she 's long been the joy of my ain fireside.My ain fireside, my happy fireside,There 's harmony still at my ain fireside!Let the minions of fortune and fashion go roam,I 'm content with the sweet, simple pleasures of home;Though their wine, wit, and humour flow like a spring-tide,What are these to the bliss of my dear fireside?My ain fireside, my cheerie fireside,There are pleasures untold at my ain fireside!
I neither got promise of siller nor landWith the bonnie wee darling who gave me her hand;But I got a kind heart with my sweet blushing bride,And that 's proved the bliss of my ain fireside.My ain fireside, my dear fireside,There 's happiness aye at my ain fireside!
Ambition once pointed my view towards rank,To meadows and manors, and gold in the bank:'Twas but for an hour; and I cherish with prideMy sweet lovely flower at my ain fireside.My ain fireside, my happy fireside,My Jeanie 's the charm of my ain fireside!
Her accents are music; there 's grace in her air;And purity reigns in her bosom so fair;She 's lovelier now than in maidenly pride,Though she 's long been the joy of my ain fireside.My ain fireside, my happy fireside,There 's harmony still at my ain fireside!
Let the minions of fortune and fashion go roam,I 'm content with the sweet, simple pleasures of home;Though their wine, wit, and humour flow like a spring-tide,What are these to the bliss of my dear fireside?My ain fireside, my cheerie fireside,There are pleasures untold at my ain fireside!
Air—"Gramachree."
There is a pang for every heart,A tear for every eye;There is a knell for every ear,For every breast a sigh.There 's anguish in the happiest state,Humanity can prove;But oh! the torture of the soulIs unrequited love!The reptile haunts the sweetest bower,The rose blooms on the thorn;There 's poison in the fairest flowerThat greets the opening morn.The hemlock and the night-shade springIn garden and in grove;But oh! the upas of the soulIs unrequited love!Ah! lady, thine inconstancyHath made my peace depart;The unwonted coldness of thine eyeHath froze thy lover's heart.Yet with the fibres of that heartThine image dear is wove;Nor can they sever till I dieOf unrequited love!
There is a pang for every heart,A tear for every eye;There is a knell for every ear,For every breast a sigh.There 's anguish in the happiest state,Humanity can prove;But oh! the torture of the soulIs unrequited love!
The reptile haunts the sweetest bower,The rose blooms on the thorn;There 's poison in the fairest flowerThat greets the opening morn.The hemlock and the night-shade springIn garden and in grove;But oh! the upas of the soulIs unrequited love!
Ah! lady, thine inconstancyHath made my peace depart;The unwonted coldness of thine eyeHath froze thy lover's heart.Yet with the fibres of that heartThine image dear is wove;Nor can they sever till I dieOf unrequited love!
Air—"The Braes of Balquhidder."
Now the beams of May mornOn the mountains are streaming,And the dews on the cornAre like diamond-drops gleaming;And the birds from the bowersAre in gladness ascending;And the breath of sweet flowersWith the zephyrs is blending.And the rose-linnet's thrill,Overflowing with gladness,And the wood-pigeon's bill,Though their notes seem of sadness;And the jessamine richIts soft tendrils is shooting,From pear and from peachThe bright blossoms are sprouting.And the lambs on the leaAre in playfulness bounding,And the voice of the seaIs in harmony sounding;And the streamlet on highIn the morning beam dances,For all Nature is joyAs sweet summer advances.Then, my Mary, let 's strayWhere the wild-flowers are glowing,By the banks of the TayIn its melody flowing;Thou shalt bathe in May-dew,Like a sweet mountain blossom,For 'tis bright like thy brow,And 'tis pure as thy bosom!
Now the beams of May mornOn the mountains are streaming,And the dews on the cornAre like diamond-drops gleaming;And the birds from the bowersAre in gladness ascending;And the breath of sweet flowersWith the zephyrs is blending.
And the rose-linnet's thrill,Overflowing with gladness,And the wood-pigeon's bill,Though their notes seem of sadness;And the jessamine richIts soft tendrils is shooting,From pear and from peachThe bright blossoms are sprouting.
And the lambs on the leaAre in playfulness bounding,And the voice of the seaIs in harmony sounding;And the streamlet on highIn the morning beam dances,For all Nature is joyAs sweet summer advances.
Then, my Mary, let 's strayWhere the wild-flowers are glowing,By the banks of the TayIn its melody flowing;Thou shalt bathe in May-dew,Like a sweet mountain blossom,For 'tis bright like thy brow,And 'tis pure as thy bosom!
Oh! the sunny peaches glow,And the grapes in clusters blush;And the cooling silver streamsFrom their sylvan fountains rush;There is music in the grove,And there 's fragrance on the gale;But there 's nought so dear to meAs my own Highland vale.Oh! the queen-like virgin rose,Of the dew and sunlight born,And the azure violet,Spread their beauties to the morn;So does the hyacinth,And the lily pure and pale;But I love the daisy bestIn my own Highland vale.Hark! hark! those thrilling notes!'Tis the nightingale complains;Oh! the soul of music breathesIn those more than plaintive strains;But they 're not so dear to meAs the murmur of the rill,And the bleating of the lambsOn my own Highland hill.Oh! the flow'rets fair may glow,And the juicy fruits may blush,And the beauteous birds may sing,And the crystal streamlets rush;And the verdant meads may smile,And the cloudless sun may beam,But there 's nought beneath the skiesLike my own Highland home.
Oh! the sunny peaches glow,And the grapes in clusters blush;And the cooling silver streamsFrom their sylvan fountains rush;There is music in the grove,And there 's fragrance on the gale;But there 's nought so dear to meAs my own Highland vale.
Oh! the queen-like virgin rose,Of the dew and sunlight born,And the azure violet,Spread their beauties to the morn;So does the hyacinth,And the lily pure and pale;But I love the daisy bestIn my own Highland vale.
Hark! hark! those thrilling notes!'Tis the nightingale complains;Oh! the soul of music breathesIn those more than plaintive strains;But they 're not so dear to meAs the murmur of the rill,And the bleating of the lambsOn my own Highland hill.
Oh! the flow'rets fair may glow,And the juicy fruits may blush,And the beauteous birds may sing,And the crystal streamlets rush;And the verdant meads may smile,And the cloudless sun may beam,But there 's nought beneath the skiesLike my own Highland home.
Air—"He 's dear to me, though far frae me."
The tempest is ragingAnd rending the shrouds;The ocean is wagingA war with the clouds;The cordage is breaking,The canvas is torn,The timbers are creaking—The seamen forlorn.The water is gushingThrough hatches and seams;'Tis roaring and rushingO'er keelson and beams;And nought save the lightningOn mainmast or boom,At intervals brighteningThe palpable gloom.Though horrors beset me,And hurricanes howl,I may not forget thee,Beloved of my soul!Though soon I must perishIn ocean beneath,Thine image I 'll cherish,Adored one! in death.
The tempest is ragingAnd rending the shrouds;The ocean is wagingA war with the clouds;The cordage is breaking,The canvas is torn,The timbers are creaking—The seamen forlorn.
The water is gushingThrough hatches and seams;'Tis roaring and rushingO'er keelson and beams;And nought save the lightningOn mainmast or boom,At intervals brighteningThe palpable gloom.
Though horrors beset me,And hurricanes howl,I may not forget thee,Beloved of my soul!Though soon I must perishIn ocean beneath,Thine image I 'll cherish,Adored one! in death.
Talk not of temples—there is oneBuilt without hands, to mankind given;Its lamps are the meridian sun,And all the stars of heaven;Its walls are the cerulean sky,Its floor the earth so green and fair;The dome is vast immensity—All nature worships there!The Alps array'd in stainless snow,The Andean ranges yet untrod,At sunrise and at sunset glowLike altar-fires to God.A thousand fierce volcanoes blaze,As if with hallow'd victims rare;And thunder lifts its voice in praise—All nature worships there!The ocean heaves resistlessly,And pours his glittering treasure forth;His waves—the priesthood of the sea—Kneel on the shell-gemm'd earth,And there emit a hollow sound,As if they murmur'd praise and prayer;On every side 'tis holy ground—All nature worships there!The grateful earth her odours yieldIn homage, Mighty One! to thee;From herbs and flowers in every field,From fruit on every tree,The balmy dew at morn and evenSeems like the penitential tear,Shed only in the sight of heaven—All nature worships there!The cedar and the mountain pine,The willow on the fountain's brim,The tulip and the eglantine,In reverence bend to Him;The song-birds pour their sweetest lays,From tower, and tree, and middle air;The rushing river murmurs praise—All nature worships there!Then talk not of a fane, save oneBuilt without hands, to mankind given;Its lamps are the meridian sun,And all the stars of heaven.Its walls are the cerulean sky,Its floor the earth so green and fair,The dome is vast immensity—All nature worships there!
Talk not of temples—there is oneBuilt without hands, to mankind given;Its lamps are the meridian sun,And all the stars of heaven;Its walls are the cerulean sky,Its floor the earth so green and fair;The dome is vast immensity—All nature worships there!
The Alps array'd in stainless snow,The Andean ranges yet untrod,At sunrise and at sunset glowLike altar-fires to God.A thousand fierce volcanoes blaze,As if with hallow'd victims rare;And thunder lifts its voice in praise—All nature worships there!
The ocean heaves resistlessly,And pours his glittering treasure forth;His waves—the priesthood of the sea—Kneel on the shell-gemm'd earth,And there emit a hollow sound,As if they murmur'd praise and prayer;On every side 'tis holy ground—All nature worships there!
The grateful earth her odours yieldIn homage, Mighty One! to thee;From herbs and flowers in every field,From fruit on every tree,The balmy dew at morn and evenSeems like the penitential tear,Shed only in the sight of heaven—All nature worships there!
The cedar and the mountain pine,The willow on the fountain's brim,The tulip and the eglantine,In reverence bend to Him;The song-birds pour their sweetest lays,From tower, and tree, and middle air;The rushing river murmurs praise—All nature worships there!
Then talk not of a fane, save oneBuilt without hands, to mankind given;Its lamps are the meridian sun,And all the stars of heaven.Its walls are the cerulean sky,Its floor the earth so green and fair,The dome is vast immensity—All nature worships there!
The son of the Rev. Hugh M'Diarmid, minister of the Gaelic church, Glasgow, John M'Diarmid was born in 1790. He received in Edinburgh a respectable elementary education; but, deprived of his father at an early age, he was left unaided to push his fortune in life. For some time he acted as clerk in connexion with a bleachfield at Roslin, and subsequently held a situation in the Commercial Bank in Edinburgh. He now attended some classes in the University, while his other spare time was devoted to reading and composition. During two years he was employed in the evenings as amanuensis to Professor Playfair. At one of the College debating societies he improved himself as a public speaker, and subsequently took an active part in the discussions of the "Forum." Fond of verse-making, he composed some spirited lines on the battle of Waterloo, when the first tidings of the victory inspired a thrilling interest in the public mind; the consequence was, the immediate establishment of his reputation. His services were sought by several of the leading publishers, and the accomplished editor of theEdinburgh Reviewoffered to receive contributions from his pen. In 1816 he compiled some works for the bookselling firm of Oliver and Boyd, and towards the end of the same year, in concert with his friends Charles Maclaren and William Ritchie, originated theScotsmannewspaper. In January 1817, he acceptedthe editorship of theDumfries and Galloway Courier—a journal which, established in 1809 by Dr Duncan of Ruthwell, chiefly with the view of advocating his scheme of savings' banks, had hitherto been conducted by that ingenious and philanthropic individual.
As editor of a provincial newspaper, M'Diarmid was possessed of the promptitude and business-habits which, in connexion with literary ability, are essential for such an office. TheDumfries Courier, which had formerly occupied a neutrality in politics, became, under his management, a powerful organ of the liberal party. But the editor was more than a politician; the columns of his journal were enriched with illustrations of the natural history of the district, and sent forth stirring appeals on subjects of social reformation and agricultural improvement. Devoted to his duties as a journalist, he continued to cherish his literary enthusiasm. In 1817 he published an edition of Cowper, with an elegant memoir of the poet's life. "The Scrap-Book," a work of selections and original contributions in prose and verse, appeared in 1820, and was speedily followed by a second volume. In 1823 he composed a memoir of Goldsmith for an edition of the "Vicar of Wakefield," which was published in Edinburgh. TheDumfries Magazinewas originated under his auspices in 1825, and during the three years of its existence was adorned with contributions from his pen. In 1830 he published "Sketches from Nature," a volume chiefly devoted to the illustration of scenery and character in the districts of Dumfries and Galloway. "The Picture of Dumfries," an illustrated work, appeared in 1832. A description of Moffat, and a life of Nicholson, the Galloway poet, complete the catalogue of his publications. In 1820 he was offered the editorship of theCaledonian Mercury, the firstestablished of the Scottish newspapers, but preferred to remain in Dumfries. He ultimately became sole proprietor of theCourier, which, under his superintendence, acquired a celebrity rarely attained by a provincial newspaper. In 1847 he was entertained at a public dinner by his fellow-townsmen. His death took place at Dumfries, on the 18th November 1852, in his sixty-third year.
A man of social and generous dispositions, M'Diarmid was esteemed among a wide circle of friends; he was in habits of intimacy with Sir Walter Scott, Jeffrey, Wilson, Lockhart, the Ettrick Shepherd, Dr Thomas Gillespie, and many others of his distinguished contemporaries. To his kindly patronage, many young men of genius were indebted for positions of honour and emolument. An elegant prose-writer, his compositions in verse are pervaded by a graceful smoothness and lively fancy.
Air—"There 's a bonnie brier bush in our kail-yard."
When the lark is in the air, the leaf upon the tree,The butterfly disporting beside the hummel bee;The scented hedges white, the fragrant meadows pied,How sweet it is to wander by bonnie Nithside!When the blackbird piping loud the mavis strives to drown,And schoolboys seeking nests find each nursling fledged or flown,To hop 'mong plots and borders, array'd in all their pride,How sweet at dewy morn to roam by bonnie Nithside!When the flies are on the stream, 'neath a sky of azure hue,And anglers take their stand by the waters bright and blue;While the coble circles pools, where the monarch salmon glide,Surpassing sweet on summer days is bonnie Nithside!When the corncraik's voice is mute, as her young begin to flee,And seek with swifts and martins some home beyond the sea;And reapers crowd the harvest-field, in man and maiden pride,How exquisite the golden hours on bonnie Nithside!When stubbles yield to tilth, and woodlands brown and sear,The falling leaf and crispy pool proclaim the waning year;And sounds of sylvan pastime ring through our valley wide,Vicissitude itself is sweet by bonnie Nithside!And when winter comes at last, capping every hill with snow,And freezing into icy plains the struggling streams below,You still may share the curler's joys, and find at even-tide,Maids sweet and fair, in spence and ha', at bonnie Nithside!
When the lark is in the air, the leaf upon the tree,The butterfly disporting beside the hummel bee;The scented hedges white, the fragrant meadows pied,How sweet it is to wander by bonnie Nithside!
When the blackbird piping loud the mavis strives to drown,And schoolboys seeking nests find each nursling fledged or flown,To hop 'mong plots and borders, array'd in all their pride,How sweet at dewy morn to roam by bonnie Nithside!
When the flies are on the stream, 'neath a sky of azure hue,And anglers take their stand by the waters bright and blue;While the coble circles pools, where the monarch salmon glide,Surpassing sweet on summer days is bonnie Nithside!
When the corncraik's voice is mute, as her young begin to flee,And seek with swifts and martins some home beyond the sea;And reapers crowd the harvest-field, in man and maiden pride,How exquisite the golden hours on bonnie Nithside!
When stubbles yield to tilth, and woodlands brown and sear,The falling leaf and crispy pool proclaim the waning year;And sounds of sylvan pastime ring through our valley wide,Vicissitude itself is sweet by bonnie Nithside!
And when winter comes at last, capping every hill with snow,And freezing into icy plains the struggling streams below,You still may share the curler's joys, and find at even-tide,Maids sweet and fair, in spence and ha', at bonnie Nithside!
Hush, ye songsters! day is done,See how sweet the setting sunGilds the welkin's boundless breast,Smiling as he sinks to rest;Now the swallow down the dell,Issuing from her noontide cell,Mocks the deftest marksman's aimJumbling in fantastic game:Sweet inhabitant of air,Sure thy bosom holds no care;Not the fowler full of wrath,Skilful in the deeds of death—Not the darting hawk on high(Ruthless tyrant of the sky!)Owns one art of crueltyFit to fell or fetter thee,Gayest, freest of the free!Ruling, whistling shrill on high,Where yon turrets kiss the sky,Teasing with thy idle dinDrowsy daws at rest within;Long thou lov'st to sport and springOn thy never-wearying wing.Lower now 'midst foliage coolSwift thou skimm'st the peaceful pool,Where the speckled trout at play,Rising, shares thy dancing prey,While the treach'rous circles swellWide and wider where it fell,Guiding sure the angler's armWhere to find the puny swarm;And with artificial fly,Best to lure the victim's eye,Till, emerging from the brook,Brisk it bites the barbed hook;Struggling in the unequal strife,With its death, disguised as life,Till it breathless beats the shoreNe'er to cleave the current more!Peace! creation's gloomy queen,Darkest Night, invests the scene!Silence, Evening's handmaid mild,Leaves her home amid the wild,Tripping soft with dewy feet,Summer's flowery carpet sweet,Morpheus—drowsy power—to meet.Ruler of the midnight hour,In thy plenitude of power,From this burthen'd bosom throwHalf its leaden load of woe.Since thy envied art suppliesWhat reality denies,Let thy cheerless suppliant seeDreams of bliss inspired by thee—Let before his wond'ring eyesFancy's brightest visions rise—Long lost happiness restore,None can need thy bounty more.
Hush, ye songsters! day is done,See how sweet the setting sunGilds the welkin's boundless breast,Smiling as he sinks to rest;Now the swallow down the dell,Issuing from her noontide cell,Mocks the deftest marksman's aimJumbling in fantastic game:Sweet inhabitant of air,Sure thy bosom holds no care;Not the fowler full of wrath,Skilful in the deeds of death—Not the darting hawk on high(Ruthless tyrant of the sky!)Owns one art of crueltyFit to fell or fetter thee,Gayest, freest of the free!
Ruling, whistling shrill on high,Where yon turrets kiss the sky,Teasing with thy idle dinDrowsy daws at rest within;Long thou lov'st to sport and springOn thy never-wearying wing.Lower now 'midst foliage coolSwift thou skimm'st the peaceful pool,Where the speckled trout at play,Rising, shares thy dancing prey,While the treach'rous circles swellWide and wider where it fell,Guiding sure the angler's armWhere to find the puny swarm;And with artificial fly,Best to lure the victim's eye,Till, emerging from the brook,Brisk it bites the barbed hook;Struggling in the unequal strife,With its death, disguised as life,Till it breathless beats the shoreNe'er to cleave the current more!
Peace! creation's gloomy queen,Darkest Night, invests the scene!Silence, Evening's handmaid mild,Leaves her home amid the wild,Tripping soft with dewy feet,Summer's flowery carpet sweet,Morpheus—drowsy power—to meet.Ruler of the midnight hour,In thy plenitude of power,From this burthen'd bosom throwHalf its leaden load of woe.Since thy envied art suppliesWhat reality denies,Let thy cheerless suppliant seeDreams of bliss inspired by thee—Let before his wond'ring eyesFancy's brightest visions rise—Long lost happiness restore,None can need thy bounty more.
The indefatigable collector of the elder national minstrelsy, Peter Buchan, was born in Peterhead in the year 1790. Of a somewhat distinguished descent, he was on the father's side remotely connected with the noble house of Buchan, and his mother was a lineal descendant of the Irvines of Drum, an old powerful family in Aberdeenshire. Though he was disposed to follow a seafaring life, and had obtained a commission in the Navy, he abandoned his early intentions at the urgent solicitation of his parents, and thereafter employed himself as a copperplate engraver, and was the inventor of an ingenious revolving press for copperplate printing. At Edinburgh and Stirling, he afterwards qualified himself for the business of a letterpress printer, and in 1816 opened a printing-office in his native town. In 1819, he compiled the "Annals of Peterhead," a duodecimo volume, which he printed at a press of his own contrivance. His next publication appeared shortly after, under the title, "An Historical Account of the Ancient and Noble Family of Keith, Earls-Marischal of Scotland."
After a period of residence in London, where he held for some time a remunerative situation, Buchan returned to his native town. In the metropolis, he had been painfully impressed by the harsh treatment frequently inflicted on the inferior animals, and as a corrective for the evil, he published at Peterhead, in 1824, a treatise, dedicated to his son, in which he endeavoured to prove that brutes are possessed of souls, and are immortal. His succeeding publication, which appeared in 1828, proved the most successful effort of his life; it was entitled,"Ancient Ballads and Songs of the North of Scotland, hitherto Unpublished, with Explanatory Notes," Edinburgh, two vols. 8vo. This work occupied upwards of ten years in preparation. Among his other publications may be enumerated, a volume of "Poems and Songs," printed in 1814; "The Peterhead Smugglers, an original Melodrama," published in 1834; "The Eglinton Tournament, &c.;" "Gleanings of Scarce Old Ballads;" and the "Wanderings of Prince Charles Stuart and Miss Flora Macdonald," the latter being published from an old MS.
At different periods Buchan resided in Aberdeen, Edinburgh, and Glasgow. For a short period he owned the small property of Buchanstone, near Dennyloanhead, Stirlingshire, which being sold, he proceeded to Ireland in 1852, where he resided for some time at Strandhill, county of Leitrim. In the early part of 1854, he went to London, with the view of effecting arrangements for the publication of another volume of "Ancient Scottish Ballads;" he was there seized with illness, of which he died on the 19th September of the same year. His remains were interred in the beautiful cemetery of Norwood, near London.
Mr Buchan was justly esteemed as a zealous and industrious collector of the elder Scottish minstrelsy. His labours received the special commendation of Sir Walter Scott, and he was a frequent guest at Abbotsford. He was also honoured with diplomas of membership from some of the leading literary societies of Scotland and England. Two unpublished volumes of his "Ballad Collections" are now in the possession of Dr Charles Mackay of London, and may at a future period be submitted to the public. His son, the Rev. Dr Charles Forbes Buchan, minister of Fordoun, is the author of several theological publications.
Thou cauld gloomy Feberwar,Oh! gin thou wert awa'!I 'm wae to hear thy soughin' winds,I 'm wae to see thy snaw;For my bonnie, braw, young Hielandman,The lad I lo'e sae dear,Has vow'd to come and see meIn the spring o' the year.A silken ban' he gae me,To bin' my gowden hair;A siller brooch and tartan plaid,A' for his sake to wear;And oh! my heart was like to break,(For partin' sorrow 's sair)As he vow'd to come and see meIn the spring o' the year.Aft, aft as gloamin' dims the sky,I wander out alane,Whare bud the bonnie yellow whins,Around the trystin' stane;'Twas there he press'd me to his heart,And kiss'd awa' the tear,As he vow'd to come and see meIn the spring o' the year.Ye gentle breezes, saftly blaw,And cleed anew the wuds;Ye laverocks lilt your cheerie sangs,Amang the fleecy cluds;Till Feberwar and a' his train,Affrighted disappear,I 'll hail wi' you the blithesome change,The spring-time o' the year.
Thou cauld gloomy Feberwar,Oh! gin thou wert awa'!I 'm wae to hear thy soughin' winds,I 'm wae to see thy snaw;For my bonnie, braw, young Hielandman,The lad I lo'e sae dear,Has vow'd to come and see meIn the spring o' the year.
A silken ban' he gae me,To bin' my gowden hair;A siller brooch and tartan plaid,A' for his sake to wear;And oh! my heart was like to break,(For partin' sorrow 's sair)As he vow'd to come and see meIn the spring o' the year.
Aft, aft as gloamin' dims the sky,I wander out alane,Whare bud the bonnie yellow whins,Around the trystin' stane;'Twas there he press'd me to his heart,And kiss'd awa' the tear,As he vow'd to come and see meIn the spring o' the year.
Ye gentle breezes, saftly blaw,And cleed anew the wuds;Ye laverocks lilt your cheerie sangs,Amang the fleecy cluds;Till Feberwar and a' his train,Affrighted disappear,I 'll hail wi' you the blithesome change,The spring-time o' the year.
William Finlay was the son of an operative shawl manufacturer in Paisley, where he was born in 1792. He received a classical education at the Grammar-school, and was afterwards apprenticed to his father's trade. For a period of twenty years he prosecuted the labours of the loom; but finding the occupation injurious to his health, he accepted employment in the cotton mills of Duntocher. He afterwards obtained a situation in a printing-office in Paisley, where he remained during eight years. Ultimately, he was employed at Nethercraigs' bleachfield, at the base of Gleniffer braes, about two miles to the south of Paisley. He died of fever on the 5th November 1847, leaving a family of five children.
Finlay was in the practice of contributing verses to the local prints. In 1846, he published a duodecimo volume, entitled, "Poems, Humorous and Sentimental." His poetical characteristics are simplicity and pathos, combined with considerable power of satirical drollery. Delighting in music, and fond of society, he was occasionally led to indulge in excesses, of which, at other times, he was heartily ashamed, and which he has feelingly lamented in some of his poems. Few Scottish poets have more touchingly depicted the evils of intemperance.
I mark'd her look of agony,I heard her broken sigh,I saw the colour leave her cheek,The lustre leave her eye;I saw the radiant ray of hopeHer sadden'd soul forsaking;And, by these tokens, well I knewThe maiden's heart was breaking.It is not from the hand of HeavenHer bitter grief proceeds;'Tis not for sins that she hath done,Her bosom inly bleeds;'Tis not death's terrors wrap her soulIn shades of dark despair,But man—deceitful man—whose handA thorn hath planted there.
I mark'd her look of agony,I heard her broken sigh,I saw the colour leave her cheek,The lustre leave her eye;I saw the radiant ray of hopeHer sadden'd soul forsaking;And, by these tokens, well I knewThe maiden's heart was breaking.
It is not from the hand of HeavenHer bitter grief proceeds;'Tis not for sins that she hath done,Her bosom inly bleeds;'Tis not death's terrors wrap her soulIn shades of dark despair,But man—deceitful man—whose handA thorn hath planted there.
Land of my fathers! night's dark gloomNow shades thee from my view—Land of my birth! my hearth, my home,A long, a last adieu!Thy sparkling streams, thy plantin's green,That ring with melodie,Thy flowery vales, thy hills and dales,Again I 'll never see.How aft have I thy heathy hillsClimb'd in life's early day!Or pierced the dark depths of thy woodsTo pu' the nit or slae;Or lain beneath the spreading thorn,Hid frae the sun's bright beams,While on my raptured ear was borneThe music of thy streams!And aft, when frae the schule set free,I 've join'd a merry ban',Whase hearts were loupin' licht wi' glee,Fresh as the morning's dawn,And waunert, Cruikston, by thy tower,Or through thy leafy shaw,The livelang day, nor thocht o' hameTill nicht began to fa'.But now the buoyancy o' youth,And a' its joys are gane—My children scatter'd far and wide,And I am left alane;For she who was my hope and stay,And soothed me when distress'd,Within the narrow house of deathHas lang been laid at rest.And puirtith's cloud doth me enshroud;Sae, after a' my toil,I 'm gaun to lay my puir auld clayWithin a foreign soil.Fareweel, fareweel, auld Scotia dear!A last fareweel to thee!Thy tinkling rills, thy heath-clad hills,Again I 'll never see!
Land of my fathers! night's dark gloomNow shades thee from my view—Land of my birth! my hearth, my home,A long, a last adieu!Thy sparkling streams, thy plantin's green,That ring with melodie,Thy flowery vales, thy hills and dales,Again I 'll never see.
How aft have I thy heathy hillsClimb'd in life's early day!Or pierced the dark depths of thy woodsTo pu' the nit or slae;Or lain beneath the spreading thorn,Hid frae the sun's bright beams,While on my raptured ear was borneThe music of thy streams!
And aft, when frae the schule set free,I 've join'd a merry ban',Whase hearts were loupin' licht wi' glee,Fresh as the morning's dawn,And waunert, Cruikston, by thy tower,Or through thy leafy shaw,The livelang day, nor thocht o' hameTill nicht began to fa'.
But now the buoyancy o' youth,And a' its joys are gane—My children scatter'd far and wide,And I am left alane;For she who was my hope and stay,And soothed me when distress'd,Within the narrow house of deathHas lang been laid at rest.
And puirtith's cloud doth me enshroud;Sae, after a' my toil,I 'm gaun to lay my puir auld clayWithin a foreign soil.Fareweel, fareweel, auld Scotia dear!A last fareweel to thee!Thy tinkling rills, thy heath-clad hills,Again I 'll never see!
O'er mountain and valleyMorn gladly did gleam;The streamlets danced gailyBeneath its bright beam;The daisies were springingTo life at my feet;The woodlands were ringingWith melody sweet.But the sky became low'ring,And clouds big with rain,Their treasures outpouring,Soon deluged the plain.The late merry woodlandsGrew silent and lone;And red from the muirlandsThe river rush'd down.Thus life, too, is chequer'dWith sunshine and gloom;Of change 'tis the record—Now blight and now bloom.Oft morn rises brightly,With promise to last,But long, long ere noontideThe sky is o'ercast.Yet much of the trouble'Neath which mortals groan,They contrive to make doubleBy whims of their own.Oh! it makes the heart tingleWith anguish to think,That our own hands oft mingleThe bitters we drink.
O'er mountain and valleyMorn gladly did gleam;The streamlets danced gailyBeneath its bright beam;The daisies were springingTo life at my feet;The woodlands were ringingWith melody sweet.
But the sky became low'ring,And clouds big with rain,Their treasures outpouring,Soon deluged the plain.The late merry woodlandsGrew silent and lone;And red from the muirlandsThe river rush'd down.
Thus life, too, is chequer'dWith sunshine and gloom;Of change 'tis the record—Now blight and now bloom.Oft morn rises brightly,With promise to last,But long, long ere noontideThe sky is o'ercast.
Yet much of the trouble'Neath which mortals groan,They contrive to make doubleBy whims of their own.Oh! it makes the heart tingleWith anguish to think,That our own hands oft mingleThe bitters we drink.
John Gibson Lockhart, the distinguished editor of theQuarterly Review, and biographer of Sir Walter Scott, was born in the Manse of Cambusnethan, on the 14th of June 1794. From both his parents he inherited an honourable descent. His father, John Lockhart, D.D., was the second son of William Lockhart of Birkhill, the head of an old family in Lanarkshire, lineally descended from Sir Stephen Lockhart of Cleghorn, a member of the Privy Council, and armour-bearer to James III. His mother was Elizabeth Gibson, daughter of the Rev. John Gibson, senior minister of St Cuthbert's, Edinburgh; her maternal grandmother was the Honourable Mary Erskine, second daughter of Henry, third Lord Cardross, and sister of David, ninth Earl of Buchan. In 1796, Dr Lockhart was translated from Cambusnethan to the College church, Glasgow; and the early education of his son was consequently conducted in that city.
During the third year of his attendance at the Grammar-school, young Lockhart, though naturally possessed of a sound constitution, was seized with a severe illness, which, it was feared, might terminate in pulmonary consumption. After a period of physical prostration, he satisfactorily rallied, when it was found by his teacher that he had attained such proficiency in classical learning, during his confinement, as to be qualified for theUniversity, without the usual attendance of a fourth session at the Grammar-school. At the University of Glasgow, his progress fully realised his excellent promise in the academy. The youngest member of his various classes, he was uniformly a successful competitor for honours. He gave indication of poetical ability in a metrical translation of a part of Lucan's "Pharsalia," which was rewarded with a prize, and received warm encomiums from the professors. On one of the Snell Exhibitions to Baliol College, Oxford, becoming vacant, during the session of 1808-9, it was unanimously conferred on him by the faculty. Entering Baliol College in 1809, his classical attainments were such, that Dr Jenkins, the master of the college, was led to predict that he would reflect honour on that institution, and on the University of Glasgow. At his graduation, on the completion of his attendance at Baliol, he realised the expectations of his admiring preceptor; the youngest of all who graduated on the occasion, being in his eighteenth year, he was numbered in thefirst class,—an honour rarely attained by the most accomplished Oxonians. In the choice of a profession he evinced considerable hesitation; but was at length induced by a relative, a member of the legal faculty, to qualify himself for practice at the Scottish Bar. Besides affording a suitable scope for his talents and acquirements, it was deemed that the Parliament House of Edinburgh had certain hereditary claims on his services. Through his paternal grandmother, he was descended from Sir James Lockhart of Lee, Lord Justice-Clerk in the reign of Charles II., and father of the celebrated Sir George Lockhart of Carnwath, Lord President of the Court of Session; and of another judge, Sir John Lockhart, Lord Castlehill.
Having completed a curriculum of classical and philosophical study at Oxford, and made a tour on the Continent, Lockhart proceeded to Edinburgh, to prosecute the study of Scottish law. In 1816 he passed advocate. Well-skilled in the details of legal knowledge, and in the preparation of written pleadings, he lacked a fluency of utterance, so entirely essential to success as a pleader at the Bar. He felt his deficiency, but did not strive to surmount it. Joining himself to a literary circle, of which John Wilson and the Ettrick Shepherd were the more conspicuous members, he resolved to follow the career of a man of letters. In 1817, he became one of the original contributors toBlackwood's Magazine; and by his learned and ingenious articles essentially promoted the early reputation of that subsequently popular periodical. In 1819 appeared his first separate publication, entitled, "Peter's Letters to his Kinsfolk,"—a work of three octavo volumes, in which an imaginary Doctor Morris humorously and pungently delineates the manners and characteristics of the more distinguished literary Scotsmen of the period; and which, by exciting some angry criticism, attracted general attention to the real author.[42]In May of the previous year, at the residence in Edinburgh of Mr Home Drummond of Blair-Drummond, he was introduced to the personal acquaintance of Sir Walter Scott. Their acquaintance ripened into a speedy intimacy; and on the 29th April 1820, Lockhart became the son-in-law of his illustrious friend, by espousing his eldest daughter, Sophia. Continuing to furnish sparkling contributions toBlackwood's Magazine, Lockhart now began to exhibit powers of prolific authorship. In the course of a few years he produced"Valerius," a tale descriptive of ancient Rome; "Reginald Dalton," a novel founded on his personal experiences at Oxford; the interesting romance of "Matthew Wald," and "Adam Blair," a Scottish story. The last of these works, it may be interesting to notice, took origin in the following manner. During a visit to his parents at Glasgow, his father had incidentally mentioned, after dinner, that Mr Adam, a former minister of Cathcart, had been deprived for certain immoralities, and afterwards reponed, at the entreaty of his parishioners, on the death of the individual who had succeeded him after his deposition. On hearing the narrative, Lockhart retired to his apartment and drew up the plan of his tale, which was ready for the press within the short space of three weeks. In 1823, he became known as an elegant versifier, by the publication of his translations from the "Spanish Ballads." He subsequently published a "Life of Napoleon Bonaparte," in "Murray's Family Library;" and produced a "Life of Robert Burns," for "Constable's Miscellany." At this period he chiefly resided in Edinburgh, spending some of the summer months at Chiefswood, a cottage about two miles from Abbotsford. But Lockhart's growing reputation ere long secured him a more advantageous and lucrative position. In 1825, he was appointed to the editorship of theQuarterly Review; and thus, at the age of thirty-one, became the successor of Gifford, in conducting one of the most powerful literary organs of the age. He now removed to London. On the 15th of June 1834, the degree of Doctor of Civil Law was conferred on him by the University of Oxford.
During the last illness of Sir Walter Scott, Lockhart was eminently dutiful in his attendance on the illustrious sufferer. As the literary executor of the deceased, he waszealous even to indiscretion; his "Life of Scott," notwithstanding its ill-judged personalities, is one of the most interesting biographical works in the language. His own latter history affords few materials for observation; he frequented the higher literary circles of the metropolis, and well sustained the reputation of theQuarterly Review. He retired from his editorial duties in 1853, having suffered previously from impaired health. The progress of his malady was accelerated by a succession of family trials and bereavements, which preyed heavily on his mind. His eldest son, John Hugh Lockhart (the Hugh Littlejohn of Scott's "Tales of a Grandfather,") died in 1831; his amiable wife in 1837; and of his two remaining children, a son and a daughter, the former, Walter Scott Lockhart Scott, Lieutenant, 16th Lancers, who had succeeded to the estate of Abbotsford on the death of his uncle, the second Sir Walter Scott, died in 1853. In 1847, his daughter and only surviving child was married to James Robert Hope, Esquire, Q.C., son of General the Honourable Sir Alexander Hope, and nephew of the late Earl of Hopetoun, of peninsular fame; and shortly before her father's death, this lady, along with her husband, abjured the Protestant faith.
In the autumn of 1853, in accordance with the advice of his medical advisers, Lockhart proceeded to Italy; but on his return the following summer, he appeared rather to have lost than gained strength. Arranging his affairs in London, he took up his abode with his elder brother, Mr Lockhart, M.P., at Milton-Lockhart, on the banks of the Clyde, and in the parish adjoining that of his birth. Here he suffered an attack of cholera, which much debilitated his already wasted strength. In October he was visited by Dr Ferguson of London, who conveyed him to Abbotsford to be tended by his daughter; there he breathed his last on the 25th November 1854, in his 61st year. His remains were interred in Dryburgh Abbey, beside those of his illustrious father-in-law, with whom his name will continue to be associated. The estate of Abbotsford is now in the possession of his daughter and her husband, who, in terms of the Abbotsford entail, have assumed the name of Scott. Their infant daughter, Mary Monica, along with her mother, are the only surviving lineal representatives of the Author of "Waverley."
Possessed of a vigorous intellect, varied talents, and accurate scholarship, Lockhart was impatient of contradiction, and was prone to censure keenly those who had offended him. To strangers his manners were somewhat uninviting, and in society he was liable to periods of taciturnity. He loved the ironical and facetious; and did not scruple to indulge in ridicule even at the expense of his intimate associates. With many peculiarities of manner, and a temper somewhat fretful and impulsive, we have good authority for recording, that many unfortunate men of genius derived support from his bounty. Ardent in temperament, he was severe in resenting a real or fancied wrong; but among those to whom he gave his confidence, he was found to be possessed of affectionate and generous dispositions. He has complained, in a testamentary document, that his course of procedure was often misunderstood, and the complaint is probably well-founded. He was personally of a handsome and agreeable presence, and his countenance wore the aspect of intelligence.
Tune—"Oh, the roast beef of Old England."