Whan Jamie first woo'd me, he was but a youth:Frae his lips flow'd the strains o' persuasion and truth;His suit I rejected wi' pride an' disdain,But, oh! wad he offer to woo me again!He aft wad hae tauld me his love was sincere,And e'en wad hae ventured to ca' me his dear:My heart to his tale was as hard as a stane;But, oh! wad he offer to woo me again!He said that he hoped I would yield an' be kind,But I counted his proffers as light as the wind;I laugh'd at his grief, whan I heard him complain;But, oh! wad he offer to woo me again!He flatter'd my locks, that war black as a slae,And praised my fine shape, frae the tap to the tae;I flate, an' desired he wad let me alane;But, oh! wad he offer to woo me again!Repulsed, he forsook me, an' left me to grieve,An' mourn the sad hour that my swain took his leave;Now, since I despised, an' was deaf to his maen,I fear he 'll ne'er offer to woo me again!Oh! wad he but now to his Jean be inclined,My heart in a moment wad yield to his mind;But I fear wi' some ither my laddie is taen,An' sae he 'll ne'er offer to woo me again.Ye bonnie young lasses, be warn'd by my fate,Despise not the heart you may value too late;Improve the sweet sunshine that now gilds the plain;With you it may never be sunshine again.The simmer o' life, ah! it soon flits awa',An' the bloom on your cheek will soon dow in the snaw;Oh! think, ere you treat a fond youth wi' disdain,That, in age, the sweet flower never blossoms again.
Whan Jamie first woo'd me, he was but a youth:Frae his lips flow'd the strains o' persuasion and truth;His suit I rejected wi' pride an' disdain,But, oh! wad he offer to woo me again!
He aft wad hae tauld me his love was sincere,And e'en wad hae ventured to ca' me his dear:My heart to his tale was as hard as a stane;But, oh! wad he offer to woo me again!
He said that he hoped I would yield an' be kind,But I counted his proffers as light as the wind;I laugh'd at his grief, whan I heard him complain;But, oh! wad he offer to woo me again!
He flatter'd my locks, that war black as a slae,And praised my fine shape, frae the tap to the tae;I flate, an' desired he wad let me alane;But, oh! wad he offer to woo me again!
Repulsed, he forsook me, an' left me to grieve,An' mourn the sad hour that my swain took his leave;Now, since I despised, an' was deaf to his maen,I fear he 'll ne'er offer to woo me again!
Oh! wad he but now to his Jean be inclined,My heart in a moment wad yield to his mind;But I fear wi' some ither my laddie is taen,An' sae he 'll ne'er offer to woo me again.
Ye bonnie young lasses, be warn'd by my fate,Despise not the heart you may value too late;Improve the sweet sunshine that now gilds the plain;With you it may never be sunshine again.
The simmer o' life, ah! it soon flits awa',An' the bloom on your cheek will soon dow in the snaw;Oh! think, ere you treat a fond youth wi' disdain,That, in age, the sweet flower never blossoms again.
Stuart Lewis, the mendicant bard, was the eldest son of an innkeeper at Ecclefechan in Annandale, where he was born about the year 1756. A zealous Jacobite, his father gave him the name of Stuart, in honour of Prince Charles Edward. At the parish school, taught by one Irving, an ingenious and learned person of eccentric habits, he received a respectable ground-work of education; but the early deprivation of his father, who died bankrupt, compelled him to relinquish the pursuit of learning. At the age of fifteen, with the view of aiding in the support of his widowed mother, with her destitute family of other five children, he accepted manual employment from a relation in the vicinity of Chester. Subsequently, along with a partner, he established himself as a merchant-tailor in the town of Chester, where he remained some years, when his partner absconded to America with a considerable amount, leaving him to meet the demands of the firm. Surrendering his effects to his creditors, he returned to his native place, almost penniless, and suffering mental depression from his misfortunes, which he recklessly sought to remove by the delusive remedy of the bottle. The habit of intemperance thus produced, became his scourge through life. At Ecclefechan he commenced business as a tailor, and married a young country girl, for whom he had formed a devoted attachment. He established a village library, and debatingclub, became a diligent reader, a leader in every literary movement in the district, and a writer of poetry of some merit. A poem on the melancholy story of "Fair Helen of Kirkconnel," which he composed at this period, obtained a somewhat extensive popularity. To aid his finances, he became an itinerant seller of cloth,—a mode of life which gave him an opportunity of studying character, and visiting interesting scenery. The pressure of poverty afterwards induced him to enlist, as a recruit, in the Hopetoun Fencibles; and, in this humble position, he contrived to augment his scanty pay by composing acrostics and madrigals for the officers, who rewarded him with small gratuities. On the regiment being disbanded in 1799, he was entrusted by a merchant with the sale of goods, as a pedlar, in the west of England; but this employment ceased on his being robbed, while in a state of inebriety. Still descending in the social scale, he became an umbrella-maker in Manchester, while his wife was employed in some of the manufactories. Some other odd and irregular occupations were severally attempted without success, till at length, about his fiftieth year, he finally settled into the humble condition of a wandering poet. He composed verses on every variety of theme, and readily parted with his compositions for food or whisky. His field of wandering included the entire Lowlands, and he occasionally penetrated into Highland districts. In his wanderings he was accompanied by his wife, who, though a severe sufferer on his account, along with her family of five or six children, continued most devoted in her attachment to him. On her death, which took place in the Cowgate, Edinburgh, early in 1817, he became almost distracted, and never recovered his former composure. He now roamed wildly through the country,seldom remaining more than one night in the same place. He finally returned to Dumfriesshire, his native county; and accidentally falling into the Nith, caught an inflammatory fever, of which he died, in the village of Ruthwell, on the 22d September 1818. Lewis was slender, and of low stature. His countenance was sharp, and his eye intelligent, though frenzied with excitement. He always expressed himself in the language of enthusiasm, despised prudence and common sense, and commended the impulsive and fanciful. He published, in 1816, a small volume, entitled "The African Slave; with other Poems and Songs." Some of his lyrics are not unworthy of a place in the national minstrelsy.
Air—"Miss Forbes' Farewell to Banff."
Adieu! romantic banks of Clyde,Where oft I 've spent the joyful day;Now, weary wand'ring on thy side,I pour the plaintive, joyless lay.To other lands I 'm doom'd to rove,The thought with grief my bosom fills;Why am I forced to leave my love,And wander far from Lanark Mills?Can I forget th' ecstatic hours,When ('scaped the village evening din)I met my lass 'midst Braxfield bowers,Or near the falls of Corhouse Linn!While close I clasp'd her to my breast,(Th' idea still with rapture thrills!)I thought myself completely blest,By all the lads of Lanark Mills.Deceitful, dear, delusive dream,Thou 'rt fled—alas! I know not where,And vanish'd is each blissful gleam,And left behind a load of care.Adieu! dear winding banks of Clyde,A long farewell, ye rising hills;No more I 'll wander on your side,Though still my heart 's at Lanark Mills.While Tintock stands the pride of hills,While Clyde's dark stream rolls to the sea,So long, my dear-loved Lanark Mills,May Heaven's best blessings smile on thee.A last adieu! my Mary dear,The briny tear my eye distils;While reason's powers continue clear,I 'll think of thee, and Lanark Mills.
Adieu! romantic banks of Clyde,Where oft I 've spent the joyful day;Now, weary wand'ring on thy side,I pour the plaintive, joyless lay.To other lands I 'm doom'd to rove,The thought with grief my bosom fills;Why am I forced to leave my love,And wander far from Lanark Mills?
Can I forget th' ecstatic hours,When ('scaped the village evening din)I met my lass 'midst Braxfield bowers,Or near the falls of Corhouse Linn!While close I clasp'd her to my breast,(Th' idea still with rapture thrills!)I thought myself completely blest,By all the lads of Lanark Mills.
Deceitful, dear, delusive dream,Thou 'rt fled—alas! I know not where,And vanish'd is each blissful gleam,And left behind a load of care.Adieu! dear winding banks of Clyde,A long farewell, ye rising hills;No more I 'll wander on your side,Though still my heart 's at Lanark Mills.
While Tintock stands the pride of hills,While Clyde's dark stream rolls to the sea,So long, my dear-loved Lanark Mills,May Heaven's best blessings smile on thee.A last adieu! my Mary dear,The briny tear my eye distils;While reason's powers continue clear,I 'll think of thee, and Lanark Mills.
Ae morn of May, when fields were gay,Serene and charming was the weather,I chanced to roam some miles frae home,Far o'er yon muir, amang the heather.O'er the muir amang the heather,O'er the muir amang the heather,How healthsome 'tis to range the muirs,And brush the dew from vernal heather.I walk'd along, and humm'd a song,My heart was light as ony feather,And soon did pass a lovely lass,Was wading barefoot through the heather.O'er the muir amang the heather,O'er the muir amang the heather;The bonniest lass that e'er I sawI met ae morn amang the heather.Her eyes divine, mair bright did shine,Than the most clear unclouded ether;A fairer form did ne'er adornA brighter scene than blooming heather.O'er the muir amang the heather,O'er the muir amang the heather;There 's ne'er a lass in Scotia's isle,Can vie with her amang the heather.I said, "Dear maid, be not afraid;Pray sit you down, let 's talk together;For, oh! my fair, I vow and swear,You 've stole my heart amang the heather."O'er the muir amang the heather,O'er the muir amang the heather;Ye swains, beware of yonder muir,You 'll lose your hearts amang the heather.She answer'd me, right modestly,"I go, kind sir, to seek my father,Whose fleecy charge he tends at large,On yon green hills beyond the heather."O'er the muir amang the heather,O'er the muir amang the heather;Were I a king, thou shou'dst be mine,Dear blooming maid, amang the heather.Away she flew out of my view,Her home or name I ne'er could gather,But aye sin' syne I sigh and pineFor that sweet lass amang the heather.O'er the muir amang the heather,O'er the muir amang the heather,While vital heat glows in my heart,I 'll love the lass amang the heather.
Ae morn of May, when fields were gay,Serene and charming was the weather,I chanced to roam some miles frae home,Far o'er yon muir, amang the heather.O'er the muir amang the heather,O'er the muir amang the heather,How healthsome 'tis to range the muirs,And brush the dew from vernal heather.
I walk'd along, and humm'd a song,My heart was light as ony feather,And soon did pass a lovely lass,Was wading barefoot through the heather.O'er the muir amang the heather,O'er the muir amang the heather;The bonniest lass that e'er I sawI met ae morn amang the heather.
Her eyes divine, mair bright did shine,Than the most clear unclouded ether;A fairer form did ne'er adornA brighter scene than blooming heather.O'er the muir amang the heather,O'er the muir amang the heather;There 's ne'er a lass in Scotia's isle,Can vie with her amang the heather.
I said, "Dear maid, be not afraid;Pray sit you down, let 's talk together;For, oh! my fair, I vow and swear,You 've stole my heart amang the heather."O'er the muir amang the heather,O'er the muir amang the heather;Ye swains, beware of yonder muir,You 'll lose your hearts amang the heather.
She answer'd me, right modestly,"I go, kind sir, to seek my father,Whose fleecy charge he tends at large,On yon green hills beyond the heather."O'er the muir amang the heather,O'er the muir amang the heather;Were I a king, thou shou'dst be mine,Dear blooming maid, amang the heather.
Away she flew out of my view,Her home or name I ne'er could gather,But aye sin' syne I sigh and pineFor that sweet lass amang the heather.O'er the muir amang the heather,O'er the muir amang the heather,While vital heat glows in my heart,I 'll love the lass amang the heather.
David Drummond, author of "The Bonnie Lass o' Levenside," a song formerly of no inconsiderable popularity, was a native of Crieff, Perthshire. Along with his four brothers, he settled in Fifeshire, about the beginning of the century, having obtained the situation of clerk in the Kirkland works, near Leven. In 1812, he proceeded to India, and afterwards attained considerable wealth as the conductor of an academy and boarding establishment at Calcutta. A man of vigorous mind and respectable scholarship, he had early cultivated a taste for literature and poetry, and latterly became an extensive contributor to the public journals and periodical publications of Calcutta. The song with which his name has been chiefly associated, was composed during the period of his employment at the Kirkland works,—the heroine being Miss Wilson, daughter of the proprietor of Pirnie, near Leven, a young lady of great personal attractions, to whom he was devotedly attached. The sequel of his history, in connexion with this lady, forms the subject of a romance, in which he has been made to figure much to the injury of his fame. The correct version of this story, in which Drummond has been represented as faithless to the object of his former affections, we have received from a gentleman to whom the circumstances were intimately known. In consequence of a proposal to become his wife, Miss Wilson sailed for Calcutta in 1816. On her arrival, she was kindly received by her affianced lover, who conducted her to the house of a respectable female friend, till arrangements might be completed for the nuptial ceremony. In the interval, she became desirous of withdrawing from her engagement; and Drummond, observing her coldness, offered to pay the expense of her passage back to Scotland. Meanwhile, she was seized with fever, of which she died. Report erroneously alleged that she had died of a broken heart on account of her lover being unfaithful, and hence the memory of poor Drummond has been most unjustly aspersed. Drummond died, at Calcutta, in 1845, about the age of seventy. He was much respected among a wide circle of friends and admirers. His personal appearance was unprepossessing, almost approaching to deformity,—a circumstance which may explain the ultimate hesitation of Miss Wilson to accept his hand. "The Bonnie Lass o' Levenside" was first printed, with the author's consent, though without acknowledgment, in a small volume of poems, by William Rankin, Leven, published in 1812. The authorship of the song was afterwards claimed by William Glass,[13]an obscure rhymster of the capital.
Air—"Up amang the Cliffy Rocks."
How sweet are Leven's silver streams,Around her banks the wild flowers blooming;On every bush the warblers vie,In strains of bosom-soothing joy.But Leven's banks that bloom sae bra,And Leven's streams that glide sae saucy,Sic joy an' beauty couldna shaw,An 't were not for my darling lassie;Her presence fills them a' wi' pride,The bonnie lass o' Levenside.When sober eve begins her reign,The little birds to cease their singing,The flowers their beauty to renew,Their bosoms bathe in diamond dew;When far behind the Lomonds high,The wheels of day are downwards rowing,And a' the western closing skyWi' varied tints of glory lowing,'Tis then my eager steps I guide,To meet the lass o' Levenside.The solemn sweetness nature spreads,The kindly hour to bliss inviting,Within our happy bosoms move,The softest sigh o' purest love;Reclined upon the velvet grass,Beneath the balmy, birken blossom,What words could a' my joy express,When clasped to her beating bosom;How swells my heart with rapture's tide,When wi' the lass o' Levenside.She never saw the splendid ball,She never blazed in courtly grandeur,But like her native lily's bloom,She cheerfu' gilds her humble home;The pert reply, the modish air,To soothe the soul were never granted,When modest sense and love are there,The guise o' art may well be wanted;O Fate! gi'e me to be my brideThe bonnie lass o' Levenside.
How sweet are Leven's silver streams,Around her banks the wild flowers blooming;On every bush the warblers vie,In strains of bosom-soothing joy.But Leven's banks that bloom sae bra,And Leven's streams that glide sae saucy,Sic joy an' beauty couldna shaw,An 't were not for my darling lassie;Her presence fills them a' wi' pride,The bonnie lass o' Levenside.
When sober eve begins her reign,The little birds to cease their singing,The flowers their beauty to renew,Their bosoms bathe in diamond dew;When far behind the Lomonds high,The wheels of day are downwards rowing,And a' the western closing skyWi' varied tints of glory lowing,'Tis then my eager steps I guide,To meet the lass o' Levenside.
The solemn sweetness nature spreads,The kindly hour to bliss inviting,Within our happy bosoms move,The softest sigh o' purest love;Reclined upon the velvet grass,Beneath the balmy, birken blossom,What words could a' my joy express,When clasped to her beating bosom;How swells my heart with rapture's tide,When wi' the lass o' Levenside.
She never saw the splendid ball,She never blazed in courtly grandeur,But like her native lily's bloom,She cheerfu' gilds her humble home;The pert reply, the modish air,To soothe the soul were never granted,When modest sense and love are there,The guise o' art may well be wanted;O Fate! gi'e me to be my brideThe bonnie lass o' Levenside.
The "Posthumous Poetical Works" of James Affleck, tailor in Biggar, with a memoir of his life by his son, were published at Edinburgh in 1836. Affleck was born in the village of Drummelzier, in Peeblesshire, on the 8th September 1776. His education was scanty; and after some years' occupation as a cowherd, he was apprenticed to a tailor in his native village. He afterwards prosecuted his trade in the parish of Crawfordjohn, and in the town of Ayr. In 1793, he established himself as master tailor in Biggar. Fond of society, he joined the district lodge of freemasons, and became a leading member of that fraternity. He composed verses for the entertainment of his friends, which he was induced to give to the world in two separate publications. He possessed considerable poetical talent, but his compositions are generally marked by the absence of refinement. The song selected for the present work is the most happy effort in his posthumous volume. His death took place at Biggar, on the 8th September 1835.
How blest were the days o' langsyne when a laddie!Alane by a bush wi' my dog and my plaidie;Nae fop was sae happy, though dress'd e'er sae gaudy,Sae sweet were the days o' langsyne when a laddie.Whiles croonin' my sonnet amang the whin bushes,Whiles whistling wi' glee as I pou'd the green rashes;The whim o' the moment kept me aye frae sorrow,What I wanted at night was in prospect to-morrow.The nest o' a lintie I fondly explored,And plundering bykes was the game I adored;My pleasures did vary, as I was unsteady,Yet I always found something that pleased when a laddie.The boy with great pleasure the butterfly chases;When manhood approaches, the maid he embraces;But view him at once baith the husband and daddie,He fondly looks back to the joys o' a laddie.When childhood was over my prospects were greater,I tried to be happy, but, alas, foolish creature!The sports of my youth were my sweetest employment—Much sweetness in prospect embitters enjoyment.But now I 'm grown auld, and wi' cares I 'm perplex'd,How numerous the woes are by which I am vex'd!I 'm tentin' the kye wi' my dog, staff, and plaidie;How changed are the days since langsyne when a laddie!
How blest were the days o' langsyne when a laddie!Alane by a bush wi' my dog and my plaidie;Nae fop was sae happy, though dress'd e'er sae gaudy,Sae sweet were the days o' langsyne when a laddie.
Whiles croonin' my sonnet amang the whin bushes,Whiles whistling wi' glee as I pou'd the green rashes;The whim o' the moment kept me aye frae sorrow,What I wanted at night was in prospect to-morrow.
The nest o' a lintie I fondly explored,And plundering bykes was the game I adored;My pleasures did vary, as I was unsteady,Yet I always found something that pleased when a laddie.
The boy with great pleasure the butterfly chases;When manhood approaches, the maid he embraces;But view him at once baith the husband and daddie,He fondly looks back to the joys o' a laddie.
When childhood was over my prospects were greater,I tried to be happy, but, alas, foolish creature!The sports of my youth were my sweetest employment—Much sweetness in prospect embitters enjoyment.
But now I 'm grown auld, and wi' cares I 'm perplex'd,How numerous the woes are by which I am vex'd!I 'm tentin' the kye wi' my dog, staff, and plaidie;How changed are the days since langsyne when a laddie!
James Stirrat was born in the village of Dalry, Ayrshire, on the 28th March 1781. His father was owner of several houses in the place, and was employed in business as a haberdasher. Young Stirrat was educated at the village school; in his 17th year, he composed verses which afforded some indication of power. Of a delicate constitution, he accepted the easy appointment of village postmaster. He died in March 1843, in his sixty-second year. Stirrat wrote much poetry, but never ventured on a publication. Several of his songs appeared at intervals in the public journals, the "Book of Scottish Song," and the "Contemporaries of Burns." The latter work contains a brief sketch of his life. He left a considerable number of MSS., which are now in the possession of a relative in Ayr. Possessed of a knowledge of music, he excelled in playing many of the national airs on the guitar. His dispositions were social, yet in society he seldom talked; among his associates, he frequently expressed his hope of posthumous fame. He was enthusiastic in his admiration of female beauty, but died unmarried.
Air—"Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch."
Can my dearest Henry leave me?Why, ah! why would he deceive me?Whence this cold and cruel change,That bids him thus forsake and grieve me?Can he the hours of love forget,The stolen hours I 'll mind for ever,When down the burn we fondly met,And aften vow'd we ne'er should sever?Will my Henry then deceive me,Faithless laddie, can he leave me?Ne'er till now did fancy dream,My dearest laddie sae would grieve me.And will he then me aye forsake?Must I for ever, ever lose him?And can he leave this heart to break,That swells and bursts within my bosom?Never, Henry, could I leave thee,Never could this heart deceive thee,Why then, laddie, me forsake,And sae wi' cruel absence grieve me?
Can my dearest Henry leave me?Why, ah! why would he deceive me?Whence this cold and cruel change,That bids him thus forsake and grieve me?
Can he the hours of love forget,The stolen hours I 'll mind for ever,When down the burn we fondly met,And aften vow'd we ne'er should sever?Will my Henry then deceive me,Faithless laddie, can he leave me?Ne'er till now did fancy dream,My dearest laddie sae would grieve me.
And will he then me aye forsake?Must I for ever, ever lose him?And can he leave this heart to break,That swells and bursts within my bosom?Never, Henry, could I leave thee,Never could this heart deceive thee,Why then, laddie, me forsake,And sae wi' cruel absence grieve me?
"In life's gay morn," when hopes beat high,And youthfu' love's endearing tieGave rapture to the mutual sigh,Within the arms of Mary,My ain dear Mary;Nae joys beneath the vaulted sky,Could equal mine wi' Mary.The sacred hours like moments flew,Soft transports thrill'd my bosom through,The warl' evanish'd frae my viewWithin the arms of Mary,My ain dear Mary;Nae gloomy cares my soul e'er knewWithin the arms of Mary.Young fancy spread her visions gay,Love fondly view'd the fair display,Hope shew'd the blissfu' nuptial day,And I was rapt with Mary,My ain dear Mary;The flowers of Eden strew'd the wayThat led me to my Mary.But life is now a dreary waste,I lanely wander sair depress'd,For cold and lifeless is that breastWhere throbb'd the heart of Mary,My ain dear Mary;She 's gane to seats o' blissfu' rest,And I hae lost my Mary.
"In life's gay morn," when hopes beat high,And youthfu' love's endearing tieGave rapture to the mutual sigh,Within the arms of Mary,My ain dear Mary;Nae joys beneath the vaulted sky,Could equal mine wi' Mary.
The sacred hours like moments flew,Soft transports thrill'd my bosom through,The warl' evanish'd frae my viewWithin the arms of Mary,My ain dear Mary;Nae gloomy cares my soul e'er knewWithin the arms of Mary.
Young fancy spread her visions gay,Love fondly view'd the fair display,Hope shew'd the blissfu' nuptial day,And I was rapt with Mary,My ain dear Mary;The flowers of Eden strew'd the wayThat led me to my Mary.
But life is now a dreary waste,I lanely wander sair depress'd,For cold and lifeless is that breastWhere throbb'd the heart of Mary,My ain dear Mary;She 's gane to seats o' blissfu' rest,And I hae lost my Mary.
John Grieve, whose name is especially worthy of commemoration as the generous friend of men of genius, was born at Dunfermline on the 12th September 1781. He was the eldest son of the Rev. Walter Grieve, minister of the Cameronian or Reformed Presbyterian church in that place; his mother, Jane Ballantyne, was the daughter of Mr George Ballantyne, tenant at Craig, in the vale of Yarrow. While he was very young, his father retired from the ministerial office, and fixed his residence at the villa of Cacrabank, in Ettrick. After an ordinary education at school, young Grieve became clerk to Mr Virtue, shipowner and wood-merchant in Alloa: and, early in 1801, obtained a situation in a bank at Greenock. He soon returned to Alloa, as the partner of his friend Mr Francis Bald, who had succeeded Mr Virtue in his business as a wood-merchant. On the death of Mr Bald, in 1804, he proceeded to Edinburgh to enter into copartnership with Mr Chalmers Izzet, hat-manufacturer on the North Bridge. The firm subsequently assumed, as a third partner, Mr Henry Scott, a native of Ettrick.
Eminently successful in business, Mr Grieve found considerable leisure for the cultivation of strong literary tastes. Though without pretension as a man of letters, he became reputed as a contributor to some of the morerespectable periodicals.[16]In his youth he had been a votary of the Muse, and some of his early lyrics he was prevailed on to publish anonymously in Hogg's "Forest Minstrel." The songs marked C., in the contents of that work, are from his pen. In the encouragement of men of genius he evinced a deep interest, affording them entertainment at his table, and privately contributing to the support of those whose circumstances were less fortunate. Towards the Ettrick Shepherd his beneficence was munificent. Along with his partner, Mr Scott, a man of kindred tastes and of ample generosity, he enabled Hogg to surmount the numerous difficulties which impeded his entrance into the world of letters. In different portions of his works, the Shepherd has gracefully recorded his gratitude to his benefactors. In his "Autobiography," after expressing the steadfast friendship he had experienced from Mr Grieve, he adds, "During the first six months that I resided in Edinburgh, I lived with him and his partner Mr Scott, who, on a longer acquaintance, became as firmly attached to me as Mr Grieve; and I believe as much so as to any other man alive.... In short, they would not suffer me to be obliged to any one but themselves for the value of a farthing; and without this sure support, I could never have fought my way in Edinburgh. I was fairly starved into it, and if it had not been for Messrs Grieve and Scott, would, in a very short time, have been starved out of it again." To Mr Grieve, Hogg afterwards dedicated his poem "Mador of the Moor;" and in the character of one of the competing bards in the "Queen's Wake," he has thus depicted him:—
"The bard that night who foremost cameWas not enroll'd, nor known his name;A youth he was of manly mould,Gentle as lamb, as lion bold;But his fair face, and forehead high,Glow'd with intrusive modesty.'Twas said by bank of southland streamGlided his youth in soothing dream;The harp he loved, and wont to strayFar to the wilds and woods away,And sing to brooks that gurgled byOf maiden's form and maiden's eye;That when this dream of youth was past,Deep in the shade his harp he cast;In busy life his cares beguiled,His heart was true, and fortune smiled."
"The bard that night who foremost cameWas not enroll'd, nor known his name;A youth he was of manly mould,Gentle as lamb, as lion bold;But his fair face, and forehead high,Glow'd with intrusive modesty.'Twas said by bank of southland streamGlided his youth in soothing dream;The harp he loved, and wont to strayFar to the wilds and woods away,And sing to brooks that gurgled byOf maiden's form and maiden's eye;That when this dream of youth was past,Deep in the shade his harp he cast;In busy life his cares beguiled,His heart was true, and fortune smiled."
Affected with a disorder in the spine, Mr Grieve became incapacitated for business in his thirty-seventh year. In this condition he found an appropriate solace in literature; he made himself familiar with the modern languages, that he might form an acquaintance with the more esteemed continental authors. Retaining his usual cheerfulness, he still experienced satisfaction in intercourse with his friends; and to the close of his life, his pleasant cottage at Newington was the daily resort of thesavansof the capital. Mr Grieve died unmarried on the 4th April 1836, in the fifty-fifth year of his age. His remains were interred in the sequestered cemetery of St Mary's, in Yarrow. The few songs which he has written are composed in a vigorous style, and entitle him to rank among those whom he delighted to honour.[17]
Air—"Fingal's Lament."
Culloden, on thy swarthy browSpring no wild flowers nor verdure fair;Thou feel'st not summer's genial glow,More than the freezing wintry air.For once thou drank'st the hero's blood,And war's unhallow'd footsteps bore;Thy deeds unholy, nature view'd,Then fled, and cursed thee evermore.From Beauly's wild and woodland glens,How proudly Lovat's banners soar!How fierce the plaided Highland clansRush onward with the broad claymore!Those hearts that high with honour heave,The volleying thunder there laid low;Or scatter'd like the forest leaves,When wintry winds begin to blow!Where now thy honours, brave Lochiel?The braided plumes torn from thy brow,What must thy haughty spirit feel,When skulking like the mountain roe!While wild birds chant from Locky's bowers,On April eve, their loves and joys,The Lord of Locky's loftiest towersTo foreign lands an exile flies.To his blue hills that rose in view,As o'er the deep his galley bore,He often look'd and cried, "Adieu!I 'll never see Lochaber more!Though now thy wounds I cannot feel,My dear, my injured native land,In other climes thy foe shall feelThe weight of Cameron's deadly brand."Land of proud hearts and mountains gray,Where Fingal fought, and Ossian sung!Mourn dark Culloden's fateful day,That from thy chiefs the laurel wrung.Where once they ruled and roam'd at will,Free as their own dark mountain game,Their sons are slaves, yet keenly feelA longing for their father's fame."Shades of the mighty and the brave,Who, faithful to your Stuart, fell!No trophies mark your common grave,Nor dirges to your memory swell.But generous hearts will weep your fate,When far has roll'd the tide of time;And bards unborn shall renovateYour fading fame in loftiest rhyme."
Culloden, on thy swarthy browSpring no wild flowers nor verdure fair;Thou feel'st not summer's genial glow,More than the freezing wintry air.For once thou drank'st the hero's blood,And war's unhallow'd footsteps bore;Thy deeds unholy, nature view'd,Then fled, and cursed thee evermore.
From Beauly's wild and woodland glens,How proudly Lovat's banners soar!How fierce the plaided Highland clansRush onward with the broad claymore!Those hearts that high with honour heave,The volleying thunder there laid low;Or scatter'd like the forest leaves,When wintry winds begin to blow!
Where now thy honours, brave Lochiel?The braided plumes torn from thy brow,What must thy haughty spirit feel,When skulking like the mountain roe!While wild birds chant from Locky's bowers,On April eve, their loves and joys,The Lord of Locky's loftiest towersTo foreign lands an exile flies.
To his blue hills that rose in view,As o'er the deep his galley bore,He often look'd and cried, "Adieu!I 'll never see Lochaber more!Though now thy wounds I cannot feel,My dear, my injured native land,In other climes thy foe shall feelThe weight of Cameron's deadly brand.
"Land of proud hearts and mountains gray,Where Fingal fought, and Ossian sung!Mourn dark Culloden's fateful day,That from thy chiefs the laurel wrung.Where once they ruled and roam'd at will,Free as their own dark mountain game,Their sons are slaves, yet keenly feelA longing for their father's fame.
"Shades of the mighty and the brave,Who, faithful to your Stuart, fell!No trophies mark your common grave,Nor dirges to your memory swell.But generous hearts will weep your fate,When far has roll'd the tide of time;And bards unborn shall renovateYour fading fame in loftiest rhyme."
Air—"Gowd in gowpens."
I 've seen the lily of the wold,I 've seen the opening marigold,Their fairest hues at morn unfold,But fairer is my Mary.How sweet the fringe of mountain burn,With opening flowers at spring's return!How sweet the scent of flowery thorn!But sweeter is my Mary.Her heart is gentle, warm, and kind;Her form 's not fairer than her mind;Two sister beauties rarely join'd,But join'd in lovely Mary.As music from the distant steep,As starlight on the silent deep,So are my passions lull'd asleepBy love for bonnie Mary.
I 've seen the lily of the wold,I 've seen the opening marigold,Their fairest hues at morn unfold,But fairer is my Mary.How sweet the fringe of mountain burn,With opening flowers at spring's return!How sweet the scent of flowery thorn!But sweeter is my Mary.
Her heart is gentle, warm, and kind;Her form 's not fairer than her mind;Two sister beauties rarely join'd,But join'd in lovely Mary.As music from the distant steep,As starlight on the silent deep,So are my passions lull'd asleepBy love for bonnie Mary.
Air—"Banks of the Devon."
My lassie is lovely, as May day adorningWi' gowans an' primroses ilka green lee;Though sweet is the violet, new blown i' the morning,As tender an' sweet is her blue rollin' e'e.O, say what is whiter than snaw on the mountain?Or what wi' the red rose in beauty can vie?Yes, whiter her bosom than snaw on the mountain,An' bonnie her face as the red rose can be.See yon lowly cottage that stands by the wild-wood,Hedged round wi' the sweetbriar and green willow-tree,'Twas yonder I spent the sweet hours of my childhood,An' first felt the power of a love-rollin' e'e.Though soon frae my hame an' my lassie I wander'd;Though lang I 've been tossing on fortune's rough sea;Aye dear was the valley where Ettrick meander'd;Aye dear was the blink o' her blue-rollin' e'e.Oh! for the evening, and oh! for the hour,When down by yon greenwood she promised to be;When quick as the summer-dew dries on the flower,A' earthly affections and wishes wad flee.Let Art and let Nature display their proud treasures;Let Paradise boast o' what ance it could gie;As high is my bliss, an' as sweet are my pleasures,In the heart-melting blink o' my lassie's blue e'e.
My lassie is lovely, as May day adorningWi' gowans an' primroses ilka green lee;Though sweet is the violet, new blown i' the morning,As tender an' sweet is her blue rollin' e'e.O, say what is whiter than snaw on the mountain?Or what wi' the red rose in beauty can vie?Yes, whiter her bosom than snaw on the mountain,An' bonnie her face as the red rose can be.
See yon lowly cottage that stands by the wild-wood,Hedged round wi' the sweetbriar and green willow-tree,'Twas yonder I spent the sweet hours of my childhood,An' first felt the power of a love-rollin' e'e.Though soon frae my hame an' my lassie I wander'd;Though lang I 've been tossing on fortune's rough sea;Aye dear was the valley where Ettrick meander'd;Aye dear was the blink o' her blue-rollin' e'e.
Oh! for the evening, and oh! for the hour,When down by yon greenwood she promised to be;When quick as the summer-dew dries on the flower,A' earthly affections and wishes wad flee.Let Art and let Nature display their proud treasures;Let Paradise boast o' what ance it could gie;As high is my bliss, an' as sweet are my pleasures,In the heart-melting blink o' my lassie's blue e'e.
Charles Gray was born at Anstruther-wester, on the 10th March 1782. He was the schoolfellow and early associate of Dr Thomas Chalmers, and Dr William Tennant, the author of "Anster Fair," who were both natives of Anstruther. He engaged for some years in a handicraft occupation; but in 1805, through the influence of Major-General Burn,[19]his maternal uncle, was fortunate in procuring a commission in the Woolwich division of the Royal Marines. In 1811 he published an octavo volume of "Poems and Songs," of which a second edition was called for at the end of three years. In 1813 he joined Tennant and some other local poets in establishing the "Musomanik Society of Anstruther,"—an association which existed about four years, and gave to the world a collection of respectable verses.[20]After thirty-six years' active service in the Royal Marines, he was enabled to retire in 1841, on a Captain's full pay. He now established his head-quarters in Edinburgh, where he cultivated the society of lovers of Scottish song. In 1841, in compliance with the wishesof numerous friends, expressed in the form of aRound Robin, he published a second volume of verses, with the title of "Lays and Lyrics." This work appeared in elegant duodecimo, illustrated with engravings of the author's portrait and of his birthplace. In theGlasgow Citizennewspaper, he subsequently published "Cursory Remarks on Scottish Song," which have been copiously quoted by Mr Farquhar Graham, in his edition of the "Songs of Scotland."
Of cheerful and amiable dispositions, Captain Gray was much cherished by his friends. Intimately acquainted with the productions of the modern Scottish poets, he took delight in discussing their merits; and he enlivened the social circle by singing his favourite songs. Of his lyrical compositions, those selected for this work have deservedly attained popularity. An ardent admirer of Burns, he was led to imitate the style of the great national bard. In person he was of low stature; his gray weather-beaten countenance wore a constant smile. He died, after a period of declining health, on the 13th April 1851. He married early in life, and his only son is now a Captain of Marines.
The cantie Spring scarce rear'd her head,And Winter yet did blaud her,When the Ranter came to Anster fair,And speir'd for Maggie Lauder;A snug wee house in the East Green,[22]Its shelter kindly lent her;Wi' canty ingle, clean hearth-stane,Meg welcomed Rob the Ranter!Then Rob made bonnie Meg his bride,And to the kirk they ranted;He play'd the auld "East Nook o' Fife;"And merry Maggie vaunted,That Hab himsel' ne'er play'd a spring,Nor blew sae weel his chanter,For he made Anster town to ring—And wha 's like Rob the Ranter?For a' the talk and loud reports,That ever gaed against her,Meg proves a true and carefu' wife,As ever was in Anster;And since the marriage-knot was tied,Rob swears he coudna want her;For he loves Maggie as his life,And Meg loves Rob the Ranter.
The cantie Spring scarce rear'd her head,And Winter yet did blaud her,When the Ranter came to Anster fair,And speir'd for Maggie Lauder;A snug wee house in the East Green,[22]Its shelter kindly lent her;Wi' canty ingle, clean hearth-stane,Meg welcomed Rob the Ranter!
Then Rob made bonnie Meg his bride,And to the kirk they ranted;He play'd the auld "East Nook o' Fife;"And merry Maggie vaunted,That Hab himsel' ne'er play'd a spring,Nor blew sae weel his chanter,For he made Anster town to ring—And wha 's like Rob the Ranter?
For a' the talk and loud reports,That ever gaed against her,Meg proves a true and carefu' wife,As ever was in Anster;And since the marriage-knot was tied,Rob swears he coudna want her;For he loves Maggie as his life,And Meg loves Rob the Ranter.
O Charlie is my darling,My darling, my darling;O Charlie is my darling,The young Chevalier!When first his standard caught the eye,His pibroch met the ear,Our hearts were light, our hopes were highFor the young Chevalier.O Charlie is my darling, &c.The plaided chiefs cam frae afar,Nae doubts their bosoms steir;They nobly drew the sword for warAnd the young Chevalier!O Charlie is my darling, &c.But he wha trusts to fortune's smileHas meikle cause to fear;She blinket blithe but to beguileThe young Chevalier!O Charlie is my darling,&c.O dark Culloden—fatal field!Fell source o' mony a tear;There Albyn tint her sword and shield,And the young Chevalier!O Charlie is my darling, &c.Now Scotland's "flowers are wede away;"Her forest trees are sere;Her Royal Oak is gane for aye,The young Chevalier!O Charlie is my darling,My darling, my darling;O Charlie is my darling,The young Chevalier.
O Charlie is my darling,My darling, my darling;O Charlie is my darling,The young Chevalier!
When first his standard caught the eye,His pibroch met the ear,Our hearts were light, our hopes were highFor the young Chevalier.O Charlie is my darling, &c.
The plaided chiefs cam frae afar,Nae doubts their bosoms steir;They nobly drew the sword for warAnd the young Chevalier!O Charlie is my darling, &c.
But he wha trusts to fortune's smileHas meikle cause to fear;She blinket blithe but to beguileThe young Chevalier!O Charlie is my darling,&c.
O dark Culloden—fatal field!Fell source o' mony a tear;There Albyn tint her sword and shield,And the young Chevalier!O Charlie is my darling, &c.
Now Scotland's "flowers are wede away;"Her forest trees are sere;Her Royal Oak is gane for aye,The young Chevalier!O Charlie is my darling,My darling, my darling;O Charlie is my darling,The young Chevalier.
Air—"My only Jo and Dearie O!"