Wi' heart sincere I love thee, Bell,But dinna ye be saucy, O!Or a' my love I winna tellTo thee, my black-e'ed lassie, O!It 's no thy cheek o' rosy hue,It 's no thy little cherrie mou';Its a' because thy heart 's sae true,My bonnie black-e'ed lassie, O!It 's no the witch-glance o' thy e'e,Though few for that surpass ye, O!That maks ye aye sae dear to me,My bonnie black-e'ed lassie, O!It 's no the whiteness o' thy skin,It 's no love's dimple on thy chin;Its a' thy modest worth within,My bonnie black-e'ed lassie, O!Ye smile sae sweet, ye look sae kind,That a' wish to caress ye, O!But O! how I admire thy mind,My bonnie black-e'ed lassie, O!I 've seen thine e'en like crystal clear,Shine dimly through soft pity's tear;These are the charms that mak thee dear,To me, my black-e'ed lassie, O!
Wi' heart sincere I love thee, Bell,But dinna ye be saucy, O!Or a' my love I winna tellTo thee, my black-e'ed lassie, O!It 's no thy cheek o' rosy hue,It 's no thy little cherrie mou';Its a' because thy heart 's sae true,My bonnie black-e'ed lassie, O!
It 's no the witch-glance o' thy e'e,Though few for that surpass ye, O!That maks ye aye sae dear to me,My bonnie black-e'ed lassie, O!It 's no the whiteness o' thy skin,It 's no love's dimple on thy chin;Its a' thy modest worth within,My bonnie black-e'ed lassie, O!
Ye smile sae sweet, ye look sae kind,That a' wish to caress ye, O!But O! how I admire thy mind,My bonnie black-e'ed lassie, O!I 've seen thine e'en like crystal clear,Shine dimly through soft pity's tear;These are the charms that mak thee dear,To me, my black-e'ed lassie, O!
Air—"Bonnie Dundee."
Grim winter was howlin' owre muir and owre mountain,And bleak blew the wind on the wild stormy sea;The cauld frost had lock'd up each riv'let and fountain,As I took the dreich road that leads north to Dundee.Though a' round was dreary, my heart was fu' cheerie,And cantie I sung as the bird on the tree;For when the heart 's light, the feet winna soon weary,Though ane should gang further than bonnie Dundee!Arrived at the banks o' sweet Tay's flowin' river,I look'd, as it rapidly row'd to the sea;And fancy, whose fond dream still pleases me ever,Beguiled the lone passage to bonnie Dundee.There, glowrin' about, I saw in his stationIlk bodie as eydent as midsummer bee;When fair stood a mark, on the face o' creation,The lovely young Peggy, the pride o' Dundee!O! aye since the time I first saw this sweet lassie,I 'm listless, I 'm restless, wherever I be;I 'm dowie, and donnart, and aften ca'd saucy;They kenna its a' for the lass o' Dundee!O! lang may her guardians be virtue and honour;Though anither may wed her, yet well may she be;And blessin's in plenty be shower'd down upon her—The lovely young Peggie, the pride o' Dundee!
Grim winter was howlin' owre muir and owre mountain,And bleak blew the wind on the wild stormy sea;The cauld frost had lock'd up each riv'let and fountain,As I took the dreich road that leads north to Dundee.Though a' round was dreary, my heart was fu' cheerie,And cantie I sung as the bird on the tree;For when the heart 's light, the feet winna soon weary,Though ane should gang further than bonnie Dundee!
Arrived at the banks o' sweet Tay's flowin' river,I look'd, as it rapidly row'd to the sea;And fancy, whose fond dream still pleases me ever,Beguiled the lone passage to bonnie Dundee.There, glowrin' about, I saw in his stationIlk bodie as eydent as midsummer bee;When fair stood a mark, on the face o' creation,The lovely young Peggy, the pride o' Dundee!
O! aye since the time I first saw this sweet lassie,I 'm listless, I 'm restless, wherever I be;I 'm dowie, and donnart, and aften ca'd saucy;They kenna its a' for the lass o' Dundee!O! lang may her guardians be virtue and honour;Though anither may wed her, yet well may she be;And blessin's in plenty be shower'd down upon her—The lovely young Peggie, the pride o' Dundee!
John Finlay, a short-lived poet of much promise, was born at Glasgow in 1782. His parents were in humble circumstances, but they contrived to afford him the advantages of a good education. From the academy of Mr Hall, an efficient teacher in the city, he was sent, in his fourteenth year, to the University. There he distinguished himself both in the literary and philosophical classes; he became intimately acquainted with the Latin and Greek classics, and wrote elegant essays on the subjects prescribed. His poetical talents first appeared in the composition of odes on classical subjects, which were distinguished alike by power of thought and smoothness of versification. In 1802, while still pursuing his studies at college, he published a volume entitled "Wallace, or the Vale of Ellerslie, with other Poems," of which a second edition[24]appeared, with considerable additions. Soon after, he published an edition of Blair's "Grave," with many excellent notes; produced a learned life of Cervantes; and superintended the publication of a new edition of Smith's "Wealth of Nations." In the hope of procuring a situation in one of the public offices, he proceeded to London in 1807, where he contributed many learned articles, particularly on antiquarian subjects, to different periodicals. Disappointed in obtaining a suitable post in the metropolis, he returned to Glasgow in 1808; and the same year published, in two duodecimo volumes, a collection of "Scottish Historical and Romantic Ballads." This work is chiefly valuable from some interesting notes, and an ingenious preliminary dissertation on early romantic composition in Scotland. About this period, Professor Richardson, of Glasgow, himself an elegant poet, offered him the advance of sufficient capital to enable him to obtain a share in a printing establishment, and undertook to secure for the firm the appointment of printers to the University; he declined, however, to undergo the risk implied in this adventure. Again entertaining the hope of procuring a situation in London, he left Glasgow towards the close of 1810, with the intention of visiting his college friend, Mr Wilson, at Elleray, in Cumberland, to consult with him on the subject of his views. He only reached the distance of Moffat; he was there struck with an apoplectic seizure, which, after a brief illness, terminated his hopeful career, in the 28th year of his age. His remains were interred in the churchyard of Moffat. Possessed of a fine genius, extensive scholarship, and an amiable heart, John Finlay, had he been spared, would have adorned the literature of his country. He entertained worthy aspirations, and was amply qualified for success; for his energies were co-extensive with his intellectual gifts. At the period of his death, he was meditating a continuation of Warton's History of Poetry. His best production is the poem of "Wallace," written in his nineteenth year; though not free from defects, it contains many admirable descriptions of external nature, and displays much vigour of versification. His lyrics are few, but these merit a place in the minstrelsy of his country.
Tune—"Roslin Castle."
O! come with me, for the queen of nightIs throned on high in her beauty bright:'Tis now the silent hour of even,When all is still in earth an' heaven;The cold flowers which the valleys strewAre sparking bright wi' pearly dew,And hush'd is e'en the bee's soft hum,Then come with me, sweet Mary, come.The opening blue-bell—Scotland's pride—In heaven's pure azure deeply dyed;The daisy meek frae the dewy dale,The wild thyme, and the primrose pale,Wi' the lily frae the glassy lake,Of these a fragrant wreath I 'll make,And bind them 'mid the locks that flowIn rich luxuriance from thy brow.O, love, without thee, what were life?A bustling scene of care and strife;A waste, where no green flowery gladeIs found for shelter or for shade.But cheer'd by thee, the griefs we shareWe can with calm composure bear;For the darkest nicht o' care and toil.Is bricht when blest by woman's smile.
O! come with me, for the queen of nightIs throned on high in her beauty bright:'Tis now the silent hour of even,When all is still in earth an' heaven;The cold flowers which the valleys strewAre sparking bright wi' pearly dew,And hush'd is e'en the bee's soft hum,Then come with me, sweet Mary, come.
The opening blue-bell—Scotland's pride—In heaven's pure azure deeply dyed;The daisy meek frae the dewy dale,The wild thyme, and the primrose pale,Wi' the lily frae the glassy lake,Of these a fragrant wreath I 'll make,And bind them 'mid the locks that flowIn rich luxuriance from thy brow.
O, love, without thee, what were life?A bustling scene of care and strife;A waste, where no green flowery gladeIs found for shelter or for shade.But cheer'd by thee, the griefs we shareWe can with calm composure bear;For the darkest nicht o' care and toil.Is bricht when blest by woman's smile.
'Tis not the rose upon the cheek,Nor eyes in langour soft that roll,That fix the lover's timid glance,And fire his wilder'd soul.But 'tis the eye that swims in tears,Diffusing soft a joy all holy;So soothing to the heart of love,And yet so melancholy.The note that falters on the tongue,Sweet as the dying voice of eve,That calms the throbbing breast of pain,Yet makes it love to grieve!The hand, alternate fiery warmAnd icy cold, the bursting sigh,The look that hopes, yet seems to fear,Pale cheek and burning eye.These, these the magic circle twine,The lover's thoughts and feelings seize;'Till scarce a son of earth he seems,But lives in what he sees.
'Tis not the rose upon the cheek,Nor eyes in langour soft that roll,That fix the lover's timid glance,And fire his wilder'd soul.
But 'tis the eye that swims in tears,Diffusing soft a joy all holy;So soothing to the heart of love,And yet so melancholy.
The note that falters on the tongue,Sweet as the dying voice of eve,That calms the throbbing breast of pain,Yet makes it love to grieve!
The hand, alternate fiery warmAnd icy cold, the bursting sigh,The look that hopes, yet seems to fear,Pale cheek and burning eye.
These, these the magic circle twine,The lover's thoughts and feelings seize;'Till scarce a son of earth he seems,But lives in what he sees.
Air—"Gramachree."
I heard the evening linnet's voice the woodland tufts among,Yet sweeter were the tender woes of Isabella's song;So soft into the ear they steal, so soft into the soul,The deep'ning pain of love they soothe, and sorrow's pang control.I look'd upon the pure brook that murmur'd through the glade,And mingled in the melody that Isabella made;Yet purer was the residence of Isabella's heart,Above the reach of pride and guile, above the reach of art.I look'd upon the azure of the deep unclouded sky,Yet clearer was the blue serene of Isabella's eye;Ne'er softer fell the rain-drop of the first relenting year,Than falls from Isabella's eye the pity-melted tear.All this my fancy prompted, ere a sigh of sorrow proved,How hopelessly, yet faithfully, and tenderly I loved!Yet though bereft of hope I love, still will I love the more,As distance binds the exile's heart to his dear native shore.
I heard the evening linnet's voice the woodland tufts among,Yet sweeter were the tender woes of Isabella's song;So soft into the ear they steal, so soft into the soul,The deep'ning pain of love they soothe, and sorrow's pang control.
I look'd upon the pure brook that murmur'd through the glade,And mingled in the melody that Isabella made;Yet purer was the residence of Isabella's heart,Above the reach of pride and guile, above the reach of art.
I look'd upon the azure of the deep unclouded sky,Yet clearer was the blue serene of Isabella's eye;Ne'er softer fell the rain-drop of the first relenting year,Than falls from Isabella's eye the pity-melted tear.
All this my fancy prompted, ere a sigh of sorrow proved,How hopelessly, yet faithfully, and tenderly I loved!Yet though bereft of hope I love, still will I love the more,As distance binds the exile's heart to his dear native shore.
Air—"Here 's a health to ane I love dear."
Oh! dear were the joys that are past!Oh! dear were the joys that are past!Inconstant thou art, as the dew of the morn,Or a cloud of the night on the blast!How dear was the breath of the eve,When bearing thy fond faithless sigh!And the moonbeam how dear that betray'dThe love that illumined thine eye!Thou vow'dst in my arms to be mine,Thou swar'st by the moon's sacred light;But dark roll'd a cloud o'er the sky,It hid the pale queen of the night.Thou hast broken thy plighted faith,And broken a fond lover's heart;Yes! in winter the moon's fleeting rayI would trust more than thee and thy art!I am wretched to think on the past—Even hope now my peace cannot save;Thou hast given to my rival thy hand,But me thou hast doom'd to my grave.
Oh! dear were the joys that are past!Oh! dear were the joys that are past!Inconstant thou art, as the dew of the morn,Or a cloud of the night on the blast!
How dear was the breath of the eve,When bearing thy fond faithless sigh!And the moonbeam how dear that betray'dThe love that illumined thine eye!
Thou vow'dst in my arms to be mine,Thou swar'st by the moon's sacred light;But dark roll'd a cloud o'er the sky,It hid the pale queen of the night.
Thou hast broken thy plighted faith,And broken a fond lover's heart;Yes! in winter the moon's fleeting rayI would trust more than thee and thy art!
I am wretched to think on the past—Even hope now my peace cannot save;Thou hast given to my rival thy hand,But me thou hast doom'd to my grave.
William Nicholson, known as the Galloway poet, was born at Tannymaus, in the parish of Borgue, on the 15th August 1782. His father followed the occupation of a carrier; he subsequently took a farm, and finally kept a tavern. Of a family of eight children, William was the youngest; he inherited a love of poetry from his mother, a woman of much intelligence. Early sent to school, impaired eyesight interfered with his progress in learning. Disqualified by his imperfect vision from engaging in manual labour, he chose the business of pedlar or travelling merchant. In the course of his wanderings he composed verses, which, sung at the various homesteads he visited with his wares, became popular. Having submitted some of his poetical compositions to Dr Duncan of Ruthwell, and Dr Alexander Murray, the famous philologist, these gentlemen commended his attempting a publication. In the course of a personal canvass, he procured 1500 subscribers; and in 1814 appeared as the author of "Tales in Verse, and Miscellaneous Poems descriptive of Rural Life and Manners," Edinburgh, 12mo. By the publication he realised £100, but this sum was diminished by certain imprudent excesses. With the balance, he republished some tracts on the subject of Universal Redemption, which exhausted the remainder of his profits. In 1826he proceeded to London, where he was kindly entertained by Allan Cunningham and other distinguished countrymen. On his return to Galloway, he was engaged for a short time as assistant to a cattle-driver. In 1828, he published a second edition of his poems, which was dedicated to Henry, now Lord Brougham, and to which was prefixed a humorous narrative of his life by Mr Macdiarmid. Latterly, Nicholson assumed the character of a gaberlunzie; he played at merrymakings on his bagpipes, for snuff and whisky. For sometime his head-quarters were at Howford, in the parish of Tongland; he ultimately was kept by the Poors' Board at Kirk-Andrews, in his native parish. He died at Brigend of Borgue, on the 16th May 1849. He was rather above the middle size, and well formed. His countenance was peculiarly marked, and his eyes were concealed by his bushy eye-brows and long brown hair. As a poet and song-writer he claims a place in the national minstrelsy, which the irregular habits of his life will not forfeit. The longest poem in his published volume, entitled "The Country Lass," in the same measure as the "Queen's Wake," contains much simple and graphic delineation of life; while the ballad of "The Brownie of Blednoch," has passages of singular power. His songs are true to nature.
Tune—"White Cockade."
O lassie, wilt thou gang wi' me,And leave thy friens i' th' south countrie—Thy former friens and sweethearts a',And gang wi' me to Gallowa'?O Gallowa' braes they wave wi' broom,And heather-bells in bonnie bloom;There 's lordly seats, and livins braw,Amang the braes o' Gallowa'!There 's stately woods on mony a brae,Where burns and birds in concert play;The waukrife echo answers a',Amang the braes o' Gallowa'.O Gallowa' braes, &c.The simmer shiel I 'll build for theeAlang the bonnie banks o' Dee,Half circlin' roun' my father's ha',Amang the braes o' Gallowa'.O Gallowa' braes, &c.When autumn waves her flowin' horn,And fields o' gowden grain are shorn,I 'll busk thee fine, in pearlins braw,To join the dance in Gallowa'.O Gallowa' braes,&c.At e'en, whan darkness shrouds the sight,And lanely, langsome is the night,Wi' tentie care my pipes I 'll thraw,Play "A' the way to Gallowa'."O Gallowa' braes, &c.Should fickle fortune on us frown,Nae lack o' gear our love should drown;Content should shield our haddin' sma',Amang the braes o' Gallowa'.Come while the blossom 's on the broom,And heather bells sae bonnie bloom;Come let us be the happiest twaOn a' the braes o' Gallowa'!
O lassie, wilt thou gang wi' me,And leave thy friens i' th' south countrie—Thy former friens and sweethearts a',And gang wi' me to Gallowa'?O Gallowa' braes they wave wi' broom,And heather-bells in bonnie bloom;There 's lordly seats, and livins braw,Amang the braes o' Gallowa'!
There 's stately woods on mony a brae,Where burns and birds in concert play;The waukrife echo answers a',Amang the braes o' Gallowa'.O Gallowa' braes, &c.
The simmer shiel I 'll build for theeAlang the bonnie banks o' Dee,Half circlin' roun' my father's ha',Amang the braes o' Gallowa'.O Gallowa' braes, &c.
When autumn waves her flowin' horn,And fields o' gowden grain are shorn,I 'll busk thee fine, in pearlins braw,To join the dance in Gallowa'.O Gallowa' braes,&c.
At e'en, whan darkness shrouds the sight,And lanely, langsome is the night,Wi' tentie care my pipes I 'll thraw,Play "A' the way to Gallowa'."O Gallowa' braes, &c.
Should fickle fortune on us frown,Nae lack o' gear our love should drown;Content should shield our haddin' sma',Amang the braes o' Gallowa'.Come while the blossom 's on the broom,And heather bells sae bonnie bloom;Come let us be the happiest twaOn a' the braes o' Gallowa'!
Tune—"Ewe Bughts, Marion."
Will ye go to the Highlan's, my Mary,And visit our haughs and our glens?There 's beauty 'mang hills o' the Highlan's,That lassie i' th' Lowlands ne'er kens.'Tis true we 've few cowslips or roses,Nae lilies grow wild on the lea;But the heather its sweet scent discloses,And the daisy 's as sweet to the e'e.See yon far heathy hills, whare they 're risin',Whose summits are shaded wi' blue;There the fleet mountain roes they are lyin',Or feedin' their fawns, love, for you.Right sweet are our scenes i' the gloamin',Whan shepherds return frae the hill,Aroun' by the banks o' Loch Lomon',While bagpipes are soundin' sae shrill.Right sweet is the low-setting sunbeams,That points owre the quivering stream;But sweeter the smiles o' my Mary,And kinder the blinks o' her een.
Will ye go to the Highlan's, my Mary,And visit our haughs and our glens?There 's beauty 'mang hills o' the Highlan's,That lassie i' th' Lowlands ne'er kens.
'Tis true we 've few cowslips or roses,Nae lilies grow wild on the lea;But the heather its sweet scent discloses,And the daisy 's as sweet to the e'e.
See yon far heathy hills, whare they 're risin',Whose summits are shaded wi' blue;There the fleet mountain roes they are lyin',Or feedin' their fawns, love, for you.
Right sweet are our scenes i' the gloamin',Whan shepherds return frae the hill,Aroun' by the banks o' Loch Lomon',While bagpipes are soundin' sae shrill.
Right sweet is the low-setting sunbeams,That points owre the quivering stream;But sweeter the smiles o' my Mary,And kinder the blinks o' her een.
Tune—"Sin' my Uncle 's dead."
Where windin' Tarf, by broomy knowesWi' siller waves to saut sea rows;And mony a greenwood cluster grows,And harebells bloomin' bonnie, O!Below a spreadin' hazle lea,Fu' snugly hid whare nane could see,While blinkin' love beam'd frae her e'e,I met my bonnie Annie, O!Her neck was o' the snaw-drap hue,Her lips like roses wet wi' dew;But O! her e'e, o' azure blue,Was past expression bonnie, O!Like threads o' gowd her flowin' hair,That lightly wanton'd wi' the air;But vain were a' my rhymin' wareTo tell the charms o' Annie, O!While smilin' in my arms she lay,She whisperin' in my ear did say,"Oh, how could I survive the day,Should you prove fause, my Tammie, O?""While spangled fish glide to the main,While Scotlan's braes shall wave wi' grain,Till this fond heart shall break wi' pain,I 'll aye be true to Annie, O!"The Beltan winds blew loud and lang,And ripplin' raised the spray alang;We cheerfu' sat, and cheerfu' sang,The banks of Tarf are bonnie, O!Though sweet is spring, whan young and gay,And blithe the blinks o' summer day;I fear nae winter cauld and blae,If blest wi' love and Annie, O!
Where windin' Tarf, by broomy knowesWi' siller waves to saut sea rows;And mony a greenwood cluster grows,And harebells bloomin' bonnie, O!Below a spreadin' hazle lea,Fu' snugly hid whare nane could see,While blinkin' love beam'd frae her e'e,I met my bonnie Annie, O!
Her neck was o' the snaw-drap hue,Her lips like roses wet wi' dew;But O! her e'e, o' azure blue,Was past expression bonnie, O!Like threads o' gowd her flowin' hair,That lightly wanton'd wi' the air;But vain were a' my rhymin' wareTo tell the charms o' Annie, O!
While smilin' in my arms she lay,She whisperin' in my ear did say,"Oh, how could I survive the day,Should you prove fause, my Tammie, O?""While spangled fish glide to the main,While Scotlan's braes shall wave wi' grain,Till this fond heart shall break wi' pain,I 'll aye be true to Annie, O!"
The Beltan winds blew loud and lang,And ripplin' raised the spray alang;We cheerfu' sat, and cheerfu' sang,The banks of Tarf are bonnie, O!Though sweet is spring, whan young and gay,And blithe the blinks o' summer day;I fear nae winter cauld and blae,If blest wi' love and Annie, O!
Tune—"Will ye walk the woods with me?"
O! will ye go to yon burn side,Amang the new-made hay;And sport upon the flowery swaird,My ain dear May?The sun blinks blithe on yon burn side,Whar lambkins lightly play,The wild bird whistles to his mate,My ain dear May.The waving woods, wi' mantle green,Shall shield us in the bower,Whare I 'll pu' a posy for my May,O' mony a bonnie flower.My father maws ayont the burn,My mammy spins at hame;And should they see thee here wi' me,I 'd better been my lane.The lightsome lammie little kensWhat troubles it await—Whan ance the flush o' spring is o'er,The fause bird lea'es its mate.The flowers will fade, the woods decay,And lose their bonnie green;The sun wi' clouds may be o'ercast,Before that it be e'en.Ilk thing is in its season sweet;So love is in its noon:But cankering time may soil the flower,And spoil its bonnie bloom.Oh, come then, while the summer shines,And love is young and gay;Ere age his withering, wintry blastBlaws o'er me and my May.For thee I 'll tend the fleecy flocks,Or haud the halesome plough;And nightly clasp thee to my breast,And prove aye leal and true.The blush o'erspread her bonnie face,She had nae mair to say,But gae her hand and walk'd alang,The youthfu', bloomin' May.
O! will ye go to yon burn side,Amang the new-made hay;And sport upon the flowery swaird,My ain dear May?
The sun blinks blithe on yon burn side,Whar lambkins lightly play,The wild bird whistles to his mate,My ain dear May.
The waving woods, wi' mantle green,Shall shield us in the bower,Whare I 'll pu' a posy for my May,O' mony a bonnie flower.My father maws ayont the burn,My mammy spins at hame;And should they see thee here wi' me,I 'd better been my lane.
The lightsome lammie little kensWhat troubles it await—Whan ance the flush o' spring is o'er,The fause bird lea'es its mate.The flowers will fade, the woods decay,And lose their bonnie green;The sun wi' clouds may be o'ercast,Before that it be e'en.
Ilk thing is in its season sweet;So love is in its noon:But cankering time may soil the flower,And spoil its bonnie bloom.Oh, come then, while the summer shines,And love is young and gay;Ere age his withering, wintry blastBlaws o'er me and my May.
For thee I 'll tend the fleecy flocks,Or haud the halesome plough;And nightly clasp thee to my breast,And prove aye leal and true.The blush o'erspread her bonnie face,She had nae mair to say,But gae her hand and walk'd alang,The youthfu', bloomin' May.
Alexander Rodger was born on the 16th July 1784, at East Calder, Midlothian. His father, originally a farmer, was lessee of the village inn; he subsequently removed to Edinburgh, and latterly emigrated to Hamburgh. Alexander was apprenticed in his twelfth year to a silversmith in Edinburgh. On his father leaving the country, in 1797, he joined his maternal relatives in Glasgow, who persuaded him to adopt the trade of a weaver. He married in his twenty-second year; and contrived to add to the family finances by cultivating a taste for music, and giving lessons in the art. Extreme in his political opinions, he was led in 1819 to afford his literary support to a journal originated with the design of promoting disaffection and revolt. The connexion was attended with serious consequences; he was convicted of revolutionary practices, and sent to prison. On his release from confinement he was received into the Barrowfield Works, as an inspector of cloths used for printing and dyeing. He held this office during eleven years; he subsequently acted as a pawnbroker, and a reporter of local intelligence to two different newspapers. In 1836 he became assistant in the publishing office of theReformers' Gazette, a situation which he held till his death. This event took place on the 26th September 1846.
Rodger published two small collections of verses, and a volume of "Poems and Songs." Many of his poems, though abounding in humour, are disfigured by coarse political allusions. Several of his songs are of a high order, and have deservedly become popular. He was less the poet of external nature than of the domestic affections; and, himself possessed of a lively sympathy with the humbler classes, he took delight in celebrating the simple joys of the peasant's hearth. A master of the pathetic, his muse sometimes assumed a sportive gaiety, when the laugh is irresistible. Among a wide circle he was held in estimation; he was fond of society, and took pleasure in humorous conversation. In 1836, about two hundred of his fellow-citizens entertained him at a public festival and handed him a small box of sovereigns; and some admiring friends, to mark their respect for his memory, have erected a handsome monument over his remains in the Necropolis of Glasgow.
How brightly beams the bonnie moon,Frae out the azure sky;While ilka little star aboonSeems sparkling bright wi' joy.How calm the eve, how blest the hour!How soft the silvan scene!How fit to meet thee, lovely flower,Sweet Bet of Aberdeen!Now let us wander through the broom,And o'er the flowery lea;While simmer wafts her rich perfume,Frae yonder hawthorn tree:There, on yon mossy bank we 'll rest,Where we 've sae aften been;Clasp'd to each other's throbbing breast—Sweet Bet of Aberdeen!How sweet to view that face so meek—That dark expressive eye—To kiss that lovely blushing cheek—Those lips of coral dye!But O! to hear thy seraph strains,Thy maiden sighs between,Makes rapture thrill through all my veins—Sweet Bet of Aberdeen!O! what to us is wealth or rank?Or what is pomp or power?More dear this velvet mossy bank—This blest ecstatic hour!I 'd covet not the monarch's throne,Nor diamond-studded Queen,While blest wi' thee, and thee alone,Sweet Bet of Aberdeen!
How brightly beams the bonnie moon,Frae out the azure sky;While ilka little star aboonSeems sparkling bright wi' joy.How calm the eve, how blest the hour!How soft the silvan scene!How fit to meet thee, lovely flower,Sweet Bet of Aberdeen!
Now let us wander through the broom,And o'er the flowery lea;While simmer wafts her rich perfume,Frae yonder hawthorn tree:There, on yon mossy bank we 'll rest,Where we 've sae aften been;Clasp'd to each other's throbbing breast—Sweet Bet of Aberdeen!
How sweet to view that face so meek—That dark expressive eye—To kiss that lovely blushing cheek—Those lips of coral dye!But O! to hear thy seraph strains,Thy maiden sighs between,Makes rapture thrill through all my veins—Sweet Bet of Aberdeen!
O! what to us is wealth or rank?Or what is pomp or power?More dear this velvet mossy bank—This blest ecstatic hour!I 'd covet not the monarch's throne,Nor diamond-studded Queen,While blest wi' thee, and thee alone,Sweet Bet of Aberdeen!
Air—"Good-morrow to your night-cap."
Behave yoursel' before folk,Behave yoursel' before folk;And dinna be sae rude to me,As kiss me sae before folk.It wad na gie me meikle pain,'Gin we were seen and heard by naneTo tak' a kiss, or grant you ane,But, guid sake! no before folk.Behave yoursel' before folk,Behave yoursel' before folk;Whate'er you do when out o' view,Be cautious aye before folk.Consider, lad, how folk will crack,And what a great affair they 'll makO' naething but a simple smackThat 's gi'en or ta'en before folk.Behave yoursel' before folk,Behave yoursel' before folk,Nor gie the tongue o' auld or youngOccasion to come o'er folk.It 's no through hatred o' a kissThat I sae plainly tell you this;But, losh! I tak it sair amissTo be sae teased before folk.Behave yoursel' before folk,Behave yoursel' before folk;When we 're our lane ye may tak ane,But fient a ane before folk.I 'm sure wi' you I 've been as freeAs ony modest lass should be;But yet it doesna do to seeSic freedom used before folk.Behave yoursel' before folk,Behave yoursel' before folk;I 'll ne'er submit again to it—So mind you that—before folk.Ye tell me that my face is fair;It may be sae—I dinna care—But ne'er again gar 't blush sae sairAs ye hae done before folk.Behave yoursel' before folk,Behave yoursel' before folk;Nor heat my cheeks wi' your mad freaks,But aye be douce before folk.Ye tell me that my lips are sweet,Sic tales, I doubt, are a' deceit;At ony rate, it 's hardly meet,To pree their sweets before folk.Behave yoursel' before folk,Behave yoursel' before folk;Gin that 's the case, there 's time and place,But surely no before folk.But, gin you really do insistThat I should suffer to be kiss'd,Gae get a licence frae the priest,And mak me yours before folk.Behave yoursel' before folk,Behave yoursel' before folk,And when were ane, bluid, flesh, and bane,Ye may tak ten before folk.[25]
Behave yoursel' before folk,Behave yoursel' before folk;And dinna be sae rude to me,As kiss me sae before folk.
It wad na gie me meikle pain,'Gin we were seen and heard by naneTo tak' a kiss, or grant you ane,But, guid sake! no before folk.Behave yoursel' before folk,Behave yoursel' before folk;Whate'er you do when out o' view,Be cautious aye before folk.
Consider, lad, how folk will crack,And what a great affair they 'll makO' naething but a simple smackThat 's gi'en or ta'en before folk.Behave yoursel' before folk,Behave yoursel' before folk,Nor gie the tongue o' auld or youngOccasion to come o'er folk.
It 's no through hatred o' a kissThat I sae plainly tell you this;But, losh! I tak it sair amissTo be sae teased before folk.Behave yoursel' before folk,Behave yoursel' before folk;When we 're our lane ye may tak ane,But fient a ane before folk.
I 'm sure wi' you I 've been as freeAs ony modest lass should be;But yet it doesna do to seeSic freedom used before folk.Behave yoursel' before folk,Behave yoursel' before folk;I 'll ne'er submit again to it—So mind you that—before folk.
Ye tell me that my face is fair;It may be sae—I dinna care—But ne'er again gar 't blush sae sairAs ye hae done before folk.Behave yoursel' before folk,Behave yoursel' before folk;Nor heat my cheeks wi' your mad freaks,But aye be douce before folk.
Ye tell me that my lips are sweet,Sic tales, I doubt, are a' deceit;At ony rate, it 's hardly meet,To pree their sweets before folk.Behave yoursel' before folk,Behave yoursel' before folk;Gin that 's the case, there 's time and place,But surely no before folk.
But, gin you really do insistThat I should suffer to be kiss'd,Gae get a licence frae the priest,And mak me yours before folk.Behave yoursel' before folk,Behave yoursel' before folk,And when were ane, bluid, flesh, and bane,Ye may tak ten before folk.[25]
Lovely maiden, art thou sleeping?Wake, and fly with me, my love,While the moon is proudly sweeping,Through the ether fields above;While her mellow'd light is streamingFull on mountain, moon, and lake.Dearest maiden, art thou dreaming?'Tis thy true-love calls awake.All is hush'd around thy dwelling,Even the watch-dog 's lull'd asleep;Hark! the clock the hour is knelling,Wilt thou then thy promise keep?Yes, I hear her softly coming,Now her window 's gently raised;There she stands, an angel blooming,Come, my Mary, haste thee, haste!Fear not, love, thy rigid fatherSoundly sleeps bedrench'd with wine;'Tis thy true-love holds the ladder,To his care thyself resign!Now my arms enfold a treasure,Which for worlds I 'd not forego;Now our bosoms feel that pleasure,Faithful bosoms only know.Long have our true-loves been thwarted,By the stern decrees of pride,Which would doom us to be parted,And make thee another's bride;But behold, my steeds are ready,Soon they 'll post us far away;Thou wilt be Glen Alva's lady,Long before the dawn of day.
Lovely maiden, art thou sleeping?Wake, and fly with me, my love,While the moon is proudly sweeping,Through the ether fields above;While her mellow'd light is streamingFull on mountain, moon, and lake.Dearest maiden, art thou dreaming?'Tis thy true-love calls awake.
All is hush'd around thy dwelling,Even the watch-dog 's lull'd asleep;Hark! the clock the hour is knelling,Wilt thou then thy promise keep?Yes, I hear her softly coming,Now her window 's gently raised;There she stands, an angel blooming,Come, my Mary, haste thee, haste!
Fear not, love, thy rigid fatherSoundly sleeps bedrench'd with wine;'Tis thy true-love holds the ladder,To his care thyself resign!Now my arms enfold a treasure,Which for worlds I 'd not forego;Now our bosoms feel that pleasure,Faithful bosoms only know.
Long have our true-loves been thwarted,By the stern decrees of pride,Which would doom us to be parted,And make thee another's bride;But behold, my steeds are ready,Soon they 'll post us far away;Thou wilt be Glen Alva's lady,Long before the dawn of day.
Air—"For lack o' gowd."
How happy lives the peasant, by his ain fireside,Wha weel employs the present, by his ain fireside;Wi' his wifie blithe and free, and his bairnie on his knee,Smiling fu' o' sportive glee, by his ain fireside!Nae cares o' state disturb him, by his ain fireside;Nae foolish fashions curb him, by his ain fireside;In his elbow-chair reclined, he can freely speak his mind,To his bosom-mate sae kind, by his ain fireside.When his bonnie bairns increase, around his ain fireside,What health, content, and peace surround his ain fireside,A' day he gladly toils, and at night delighted smilesAt their harmless pranks and wiles, about his ain fireside;And while they grow apace, about his ain fireside,In beauty, strength, and grace, about his ain fireside,Wi' virtuous precepts kind, by a sage example join'd,He informs ilk youthfu' mind, about his ain fireside.When the shivering orphan poor draws near his ain fireside,And seeks the friendly door, that guards his ain fireside,She 's welcomed to a seat, bidden warm her little feet,While she 's kindly made to eat, by his ain fireside.When youthfu' vigour fails him, by his ain fireside,And hoary age assails him, by his ain fireside,With joy he back surveys all his scenes of bygone days,As he trod in wisdom's ways, by his ain fireside.And when grim death draws near him, by his ain fireside,What cause has he to fear him, by his ain fireside?With a bosom-cheering hope, he takes heaven for his prop,Then calmly down does drop, by his ain fireside.Oh! may that lot be ours, by our ain fireside;Then glad will fly the hours, by our ain fireside;May virtue guard our path, till we draw our latest breath,Then we 'll smile and welcome death, by our ain fireside.
How happy lives the peasant, by his ain fireside,Wha weel employs the present, by his ain fireside;Wi' his wifie blithe and free, and his bairnie on his knee,Smiling fu' o' sportive glee, by his ain fireside!Nae cares o' state disturb him, by his ain fireside;Nae foolish fashions curb him, by his ain fireside;In his elbow-chair reclined, he can freely speak his mind,To his bosom-mate sae kind, by his ain fireside.
When his bonnie bairns increase, around his ain fireside,What health, content, and peace surround his ain fireside,A' day he gladly toils, and at night delighted smilesAt their harmless pranks and wiles, about his ain fireside;And while they grow apace, about his ain fireside,In beauty, strength, and grace, about his ain fireside,Wi' virtuous precepts kind, by a sage example join'd,He informs ilk youthfu' mind, about his ain fireside.
When the shivering orphan poor draws near his ain fireside,And seeks the friendly door, that guards his ain fireside,She 's welcomed to a seat, bidden warm her little feet,While she 's kindly made to eat, by his ain fireside.When youthfu' vigour fails him, by his ain fireside,And hoary age assails him, by his ain fireside,With joy he back surveys all his scenes of bygone days,As he trod in wisdom's ways, by his ain fireside.
And when grim death draws near him, by his ain fireside,What cause has he to fear him, by his ain fireside?With a bosom-cheering hope, he takes heaven for his prop,Then calmly down does drop, by his ain fireside.Oh! may that lot be ours, by our ain fireside;Then glad will fly the hours, by our ain fireside;May virtue guard our path, till we draw our latest breath,Then we 'll smile and welcome death, by our ain fireside.
Ah, no! I cannot say "Farewell,"'T would pierce my bosom through;And to this heart 't were death's dread knell,To hear thee sigh "Adieu."Though soul and body both must part,Yet ne'er from thee I 'll sever,For more to me than soul thou art,And oh! I 'll quit thee never.Whate'er through life may be thy fate,That fate with thee I 'll share,If prosperous, be moderate;If adverse, meekly bear;This bosom shall thy pillow be,In every change whatever,And tear for tear I 'll shed with thee,But oh! forsake thee, never.One home, one hearth, shall ours be still,And one our daily fare;One altar, too, where we may kneel,And breathe our humble prayer;And one our praise, that shall ascend,To one all-bounteous Giver;And one our will, our aim, our end,For oh! we 'll sunder never.And when that solemn hour shall come,That sees thee breathe thy last,That hour shall also fix my doom,And seal my eyelids fast.One grave shall hold us, side by side,One shroud our clay shall cover;And one then may we mount and glide,Through realms of love, for ever.
Ah, no! I cannot say "Farewell,"'T would pierce my bosom through;And to this heart 't were death's dread knell,To hear thee sigh "Adieu."Though soul and body both must part,Yet ne'er from thee I 'll sever,For more to me than soul thou art,And oh! I 'll quit thee never.
Whate'er through life may be thy fate,That fate with thee I 'll share,If prosperous, be moderate;If adverse, meekly bear;This bosom shall thy pillow be,In every change whatever,And tear for tear I 'll shed with thee,But oh! forsake thee, never.
One home, one hearth, shall ours be still,And one our daily fare;One altar, too, where we may kneel,And breathe our humble prayer;And one our praise, that shall ascend,To one all-bounteous Giver;And one our will, our aim, our end,For oh! we 'll sunder never.
And when that solemn hour shall come,That sees thee breathe thy last,That hour shall also fix my doom,And seal my eyelids fast.One grave shall hold us, side by side,One shroud our clay shall cover;And one then may we mount and glide,Through realms of love, for ever.
John Wilson, one of the most heart-stirring of Scottish prose writers, and a narrative and dramatic poet, is also entitled to rank among the minstrels of his country. The son of a prosperous manufacturer, he was born in Paisley, on the 18th of May 1785. The house of his birth, an old building, bore the name ofPrior's Croft; it was taken down in 1787, when the family removed to a residence at the Town-head of Paisley, which, like the former, stood on ground belonging to the poet's father. His elementary education was conducted at the schools of his native town, and afterwards at the manse of Mearns, a rural parish in Renfrewshire, under the superintendence of Dr Maclatchie, the parochial clergyman. To his juvenile sports and exercises in the moor of Mearns, and his trouting excursions by the stream of the Humbie, and the four parish lochs, he has frequently referred in the pages ofBlackwood's Magazine. In his fifteenth year he became a student in the University of Glasgow. Under the instructions of Professor Young, of the Greek Chair, he made distinguished progress in classical learning; but it was to the clear and masculine intellect of Jardine, the distinguished Professor of Logic, that he was, in common with Jeffrey, chiefly indebted for a decided impulse in the path of mental cultivation. In 1804 he proceeded to Oxford, where he entered in Magdalen College as a gentleman-commoner. A leader in every species of recreation, foremost in every sport and merry-making, and famous for his feats of agility and strength, he assiduously continued the prosecution of his classical studies. Of poetical genius he afforded the first public indication by producing the best English poem of fifty lines, which was rewarded by the Newdigate prize of forty guineas. On attaining his majority he became master of a fortune of about £30,000, which accrued to him from his father's estate; and, having concluded a course of four years at Oxford, he purchased, in 1808, the small but beautiful property of Elleray, on the banks of the lake Windermere, in Westmoreland. During the intervals of college terms, he had become noted for his eccentric adventures and humorous escapades; and his native enthusiasm remained unsubdued on his early settlement at Elleray. He was the hero of singular and stirring adventures: at one time he joined a party of strolling-players, and on another occasion followed a band of gipsies; he practised cock-fighting and bull-hunting, and loved to startle his companions by his reckless daring. His juvenile excesses received a wholesome check by his espousing, in 1811, Miss Jane Penny, the daughter of a wealthy Liverpool merchant, and a lady of great personal beauty and amiable dispositions, to whom he continued most devotedly attached. He had already enjoyed the intimate society of Wordsworth, and now sought more assiduously the intercourse of the other lake-poets. In the autumn of 1811, on the death of his friend James Grahame, author of "The Sabbath," he composed an elegy to his memory, which attracted the notice of Sir Walter Scott; in the year following he produced "The Isle of Palms," a poem in four cantos.
Hitherto Wilson had followed the career of a man of fortune; and his original patrimony had been handsomely augmented by his wife's dowry. But his guardian (a maternal uncle) had proved culpably remissin the management of his property, he himself had been careless in pecuniary matters, and these circumstances, along with others, convinced him of the propriety of adopting a profession. His inclinations were originally towards the Scottish Bar; and he now engaged in legal studies in the capital. In 1815 he passed advocate, and, during the terms of the law courts, established his residence in Edinburgh. He was early employed as a counsel at the circuit courts; but his devotion to literature prevented him from giving his heart to his profession, and he did not succeed as a lawyer. In 1816 appeared his "City of the Plague," a dramatic poem, which was followed by his prose tales and sketches, entitled "Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life," "The Foresters," and "The Trials of Margaret Lindsay."
On the establishment ofBlackwood's Magazine, in 1817, Wilson was one of the staff of contributors, along with Hogg, Lockhart, and others; and on a difference occurring between the publisher and Messrs Pringle and Cleghorn, the original editors, a few months after the undertaking was commenced, he exercised such a marked influence on the fortunes of that periodical, that he was usually regarded as its editor, although the editorial labour and responsibility really rested on Mr Blackwood himself. In 1820 he was elected by the Town-Council of Edinburgh to the Chair of Moral Philosophy in the University, which had become vacant by the death of Dr Thomas Brown. In the twofold capacity of Professor of Ethics and principal contributor to a popular periodical, he occupied a position to which his genius and tastes admirably adapted him. He possessed in a singular degree the power of stimulating the minds and drawing forth the energies of youth; and wielding in periodical literature the vigour of a master intellect, heriveted public attention by the force of his declamation, the catholicity of his criticism, and the splendour of his descriptions.Blackwood's Magazineattained a celebrity never before reached by any monthly periodical; the essays and sketches of "Christopher North," his literarynom-de-guerre, became a monthly treasure of interest and entertainment. His celebrated "Noctes Ambrosianæ," a series of dialogues on the literature and manners of the times, appeared inBlackwoodfrom 1822 till 1835. In 1825 his entire poetical works were published in two octavo volumes; and, on his ceasing his regular connexion withBlackwood's Magazine, his prose contributions were, in 1842, collected in three volumes, under the title of "Recreations of Christopher North."
Illustrious as a man of letters, and esteemed as a poet, the private life of Professor Wilson was for many years as destitute of particular incident, as his youth had been remarkable for singular and stirring adventure. Till within a few years of his death, he resided during the summer months at Elleray, where he was in the habit of sumptuously entertaining his literary friends. His splendid regattas on the lake Windermere, from which he derived his title of "Admiral of the Lake," have been celebrated in various periodical papers. He made frequent pedestrian tours to the Highlands, in which Mrs Wilson, who was of kindred tastes, sometimes accompanied him. On the death of this excellent woman, which took place in March 1837, he suffered a severe shock, from which he never recovered. In 1850 he was elected first president of the Edinburgh Philosophical Institution; and in the following year a civil-list pension of £300 was, on the recommendation of the premier, Lord John Russell, conferred on him by the Queen. In 1852 he felt necessitated, from a continuance of impairedhealth, to resign his professorship in the University. He died in his house in Gloucester Place, Edinburgh, on the 3d of April 1854. His remains, at a public funeral, were consigned to the Dean Cemetery, and upwards of a thousand pounds have been raised to erect a suitable monument to his memory.
Besides the works already enumerated, Professor Wilson contributed an admirable essay on the genius of Burns for Blackie's edition of his works, and an elegant dissertation on Highland scenery, preliminary to the "Caledonia Illustrata." Of his whole works, a complete edition is in the course of publication, under the editorial care of his distinguished son-in-law, Professor Ferrier, of St Andrews. Than Professor Wilson no Scotsman, Scott and Jeffrey not excepted, has exercised a wider and deeper influence upon the general intellect of his countrymen. With a vast and comprehensive genius, he has gathered from every department of nature the deep and genial suggestions of wisdom; he has found philosophy in the wilds, and imbibed knowledge by the mountain stream. Under canvas, in his sporting-jacket, or with the angler's rod, he is still the eloquent "old Christopher;" his contemplations are always lofty, and his descriptions gorgeous. As a poet, he is chiefly to be remarked for meek serenity and gentle pathos. His tales somewhat lack incident, and are deficient in plot; but his other writings, whether critical or philosophical, are marked by correctness of taste, boldness of imagery, and dignity of sentiment. Lion-hearted in the exposure of absolute error, or vain pretext, he is gentle in judging human frailty; and irresistible in humour, is overpowering in tenderness. As a contributor to periodical literature, he will find admirers while the English language is understood.