Why does the day, whose date is brief,Smile sadly o'er the western sea?Why does the brown autumnal leafHang restless on its parent tree?Why does the rose, with drooping head,Send richer fragrance from the bow'r?Their golden time of life had fled—It was their dying hour!Why does the swan's melodious songCome thrilling on the gentle gale?Why does the lamb, which stray'd along,Lie down to tell its mournful tale?Why does the deer, when wounded, flyTo the lone vale, where night-clouds low'r?Their time was past—they lived to die—It was their dying hour!Why does the dolphin change its hues,Like that aërial child of light?Why does the cloud of night refuseTo meet the morn with beams so bright?Why does the man we saw to-day,To-morrow fade like some sweet flow'r?All earth can give must pass away—It was their dying hour!
Why does the day, whose date is brief,Smile sadly o'er the western sea?Why does the brown autumnal leafHang restless on its parent tree?Why does the rose, with drooping head,Send richer fragrance from the bow'r?Their golden time of life had fled—It was their dying hour!
Why does the swan's melodious songCome thrilling on the gentle gale?Why does the lamb, which stray'd along,Lie down to tell its mournful tale?Why does the deer, when wounded, flyTo the lone vale, where night-clouds low'r?Their time was past—they lived to die—It was their dying hour!
Why does the dolphin change its hues,Like that aërial child of light?Why does the cloud of night refuseTo meet the morn with beams so bright?Why does the man we saw to-day,To-morrow fade like some sweet flow'r?All earth can give must pass away—It was their dying hour!
I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,Which seem'd, to fancy's ear,The mournful music of the mind,The echo of a tear;And still methought the hollow soundWhich, melting, swept along,The voice of other days had found,With all the powers of song.I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,And thought of friends untrue—Of hearts that seem'd so fondly twined,That nought could e'er undo;Of cherish'd hopes, once fondly bright—Of joys which fancy gave—Of youthful eyes, whose lovely lightWere darken'd in the grave.I 've listen'd to the midnight windWhen all was still as death;When nought was heard before, behind—Not e'en the sleeper's breath.And I have sat at such an hourAnd heard the sick man's sigh;Or seen the babe, like some sweet flow'r,At that lone moment die.I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,And wept for others' woe;Nor could the heart such music findTo bid its tear-drops flow.The melting voice of one we loved,Whose voice was heard no more,Seem'd, when those fancied chords were moved,Still breathing as before.I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,And sat beside the dead,And felt those movings of the mindWhich own a secret dread.The ticking clock, which told the hour,Had then a sadder chime;And these winds seem'd an unseen pow'r,Which sung the dirge of time.I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,When, o'er the new-made graveOf one whose heart was true and kind,Its rudest blasts did rave.Oh! there was something in the sound—A mournful, melting tone—Which led the thoughts to that dark groundWhere he was left alone.I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,And courted sleep in vain,While thoughts like these have oft combinedTo rack the wearied brain.And even when slumber, soft and deep,Has seen the eyelid close,The restless soul, which cannot sleep,Has stray'd till morning rose.
I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,Which seem'd, to fancy's ear,The mournful music of the mind,The echo of a tear;And still methought the hollow soundWhich, melting, swept along,The voice of other days had found,With all the powers of song.
I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,And thought of friends untrue—Of hearts that seem'd so fondly twined,That nought could e'er undo;Of cherish'd hopes, once fondly bright—Of joys which fancy gave—Of youthful eyes, whose lovely lightWere darken'd in the grave.
I 've listen'd to the midnight windWhen all was still as death;When nought was heard before, behind—Not e'en the sleeper's breath.And I have sat at such an hourAnd heard the sick man's sigh;Or seen the babe, like some sweet flow'r,At that lone moment die.
I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,And wept for others' woe;Nor could the heart such music findTo bid its tear-drops flow.The melting voice of one we loved,Whose voice was heard no more,Seem'd, when those fancied chords were moved,Still breathing as before.
I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,And sat beside the dead,And felt those movings of the mindWhich own a secret dread.The ticking clock, which told the hour,Had then a sadder chime;And these winds seem'd an unseen pow'r,Which sung the dirge of time.
I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,When, o'er the new-made graveOf one whose heart was true and kind,Its rudest blasts did rave.Oh! there was something in the sound—A mournful, melting tone—Which led the thoughts to that dark groundWhere he was left alone.
I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,And courted sleep in vain,While thoughts like these have oft combinedTo rack the wearied brain.And even when slumber, soft and deep,Has seen the eyelid close,The restless soul, which cannot sleep,Has stray'd till morning rose.
Robert Davidson was born in the parish of Morebattle, Roxburghshire, in 1779. The son of humble parents, he was sent to tend cattle in his tenth year. He had received at the parish school a limited education; and he devoted his leisure time on the hills to miscellaneous reading. Learning scraps of old ballads from the cottage matrons, as they sung them at their distaffs, he early began to essay imitations of these olden ditties. As a farm-servant and an agricultural labourer, he continued through life to seek repose from toil in the perusal of poetry and the composition of verses. "My simple muse," he afterwards wrote, "oft visited me at the plough, and made the labour to seem lighter and the day shorter." In 1811, and in 1824, he published small collections of verses. At the recommendation of some influential friends, he published, in 1848, a compact little volume of his best pieces, under the title, "Leaves from a Peasant's Cottage-Drawer;" and to which was prefixed a well-written autobiographical sketch. He was often oppressed by poverty; and, latterly, was the recipient of parochial relief. He died in the parish of Hounam, on the 6th April 1855; and his remains rest in the church-yard of his native parish. Many of his poems are powerful, both in expression and sentiment; and several of his songs are worthy of a place in the national minstrelsy. In private life he was sober, prudent, and industrious.
Adieu! a lang and last adieu,My native Caledonia!For while your shores were in my view,I steadfast gazed upon ye, O!Your shores sae lofty, steep, an' bold,Fit emblem of your sons of old,Whose valour, more than mines of gold,Has honour'd Caledonia.I think how happy I could be,To live and die upon ye, O!Though distant many miles from thee,My heart still hovers o'er ye, O!My fancy haunts your mountains steep,Your forests fair, an' valleys deep,Your plains, where rapid rivers sweepTo gladden Caledonia.Still mem'ry turns to where I spentLife's cheerfu' morn sae bonnie, O!Though by misfortune from it rent,It 's dearer still than ony, O!In vain I 'm told our vessel hiesTo fertile fields an' kindly skies;But still they want the charm that tiesMy heart to Caledonia.My breast had early learn'd to glowAt name of Caledonia;Though torn an' toss'd wi' many a foe,She never bow'd to ony, O!A land of heroes, famed an' brave—A land our fathers bled to save,Whom foreign foes could ne'er enslave—Adieu to Caledonia!
Adieu! a lang and last adieu,My native Caledonia!For while your shores were in my view,I steadfast gazed upon ye, O!Your shores sae lofty, steep, an' bold,Fit emblem of your sons of old,Whose valour, more than mines of gold,Has honour'd Caledonia.
I think how happy I could be,To live and die upon ye, O!Though distant many miles from thee,My heart still hovers o'er ye, O!My fancy haunts your mountains steep,Your forests fair, an' valleys deep,Your plains, where rapid rivers sweepTo gladden Caledonia.
Still mem'ry turns to where I spentLife's cheerfu' morn sae bonnie, O!Though by misfortune from it rent,It 's dearer still than ony, O!In vain I 'm told our vessel hiesTo fertile fields an' kindly skies;But still they want the charm that tiesMy heart to Caledonia.
My breast had early learn'd to glowAt name of Caledonia;Though torn an' toss'd wi' many a foe,She never bow'd to ony, O!A land of heroes, famed an' brave—A land our fathers bled to save,Whom foreign foes could ne'er enslave—Adieu to Caledonia!
Ye daisied glens and briery braes,Haunts of my happy early days,Where oft I 've pu'd the blossom'd slaesAnd flow'rets fair,Before my heart was scathed wi' waesOr worldly care.Now recollection's airy trainShoots through my heart with pleasing pain,And streamlet, mountain, rock, or plain,Like friends appear,That, lang, lang lost, now found again,Are doubly dear.But many a dauted object 's fled;Low lies my once paternal shed;Rank hemlocks wild, and weeds, o'erspreadThe ruin'd heap;Unstirr'd by cheerful tongue or tread,The echoes sleep.Yon bonnie burn, whose limpid streams,When warm'd with summer's glowing beams,Have often laved my tender limbs,When my employWas chasing childhood's airy whimsFrom joy to joy.Upon yon green, at gloamin' gray,I 've often join'd in cheerful play,Wi' comrades guileless, blithe, and gay,Whose magic art,Remember'd at this distant day,Still warms the heart.Ah, cronies dear! for ever lost!Abroad on life's rough ocean toss'd,By adverse winds and currents cross'd,By watching worn,Some landed on that silent coast,Ne'er to return!Howe'er the path of life may lie,If poorly low, or proudly high,When scenes of childhood meet our eye,Their charms we own,And yield the tribute of a sighTo days long gone.
Ye daisied glens and briery braes,Haunts of my happy early days,Where oft I 've pu'd the blossom'd slaesAnd flow'rets fair,Before my heart was scathed wi' waesOr worldly care.
Now recollection's airy trainShoots through my heart with pleasing pain,And streamlet, mountain, rock, or plain,Like friends appear,That, lang, lang lost, now found again,Are doubly dear.
But many a dauted object 's fled;Low lies my once paternal shed;Rank hemlocks wild, and weeds, o'erspreadThe ruin'd heap;Unstirr'd by cheerful tongue or tread,The echoes sleep.
Yon bonnie burn, whose limpid streams,When warm'd with summer's glowing beams,Have often laved my tender limbs,When my employWas chasing childhood's airy whimsFrom joy to joy.
Upon yon green, at gloamin' gray,I 've often join'd in cheerful play,Wi' comrades guileless, blithe, and gay,Whose magic art,Remember'd at this distant day,Still warms the heart.
Ah, cronies dear! for ever lost!Abroad on life's rough ocean toss'd,By adverse winds and currents cross'd,By watching worn,Some landed on that silent coast,Ne'er to return!
Howe'er the path of life may lie,If poorly low, or proudly high,When scenes of childhood meet our eye,Their charms we own,And yield the tribute of a sighTo days long gone.
Air—"Auld Langsyne."
To wander lang in foreign lands,It was my destinie;I joyful was at my return,My native hills to see.My step grew light, my heart grew fain,I thought my cares to tine,Until I fand ilk weel-kenn'd spotSae alter'd sin' langsyne.I sigh'd to see the flow'ry greenSkaith'd by the ruthless pleugh;Likewise the bank aboon the burn,Where broom and hawthorns grew.A lonely tree, whose aged trunkThe ivy did entwine,Still mark'd the spot where youngsters met,In cheerful sports langsyne.I mixèd with the village train,Yet still I seem'd alane;Nae kindly hand did welcome me,For a' my friends were gane.Those friends who oft in foreign landsDid haunt this heart o' mine,And brought to mind the happy daysI spent wi' them langsyne.In youthfu' prime, at fortune's ca',I braved the billows' roar;I 've now seen thirty simmer sunsBlink on a distant shore;And I have stood where honour call'd,In the embattled line,And there left many gallant lads,The cronies o' langsyne.I 've gather'd walth o' weel-won gear,Yet still I fortune blame;I lang wi' strangers pass'd my days,And now I 'm ane at hame.I have nae friend but what my gowdCan draw to mammon's shrine;But how unlike the guileless heartsThat wish'd me weel langsyne!
To wander lang in foreign lands,It was my destinie;I joyful was at my return,My native hills to see.My step grew light, my heart grew fain,I thought my cares to tine,Until I fand ilk weel-kenn'd spotSae alter'd sin' langsyne.
I sigh'd to see the flow'ry greenSkaith'd by the ruthless pleugh;Likewise the bank aboon the burn,Where broom and hawthorns grew.A lonely tree, whose aged trunkThe ivy did entwine,Still mark'd the spot where youngsters met,In cheerful sports langsyne.
I mixèd with the village train,Yet still I seem'd alane;Nae kindly hand did welcome me,For a' my friends were gane.Those friends who oft in foreign landsDid haunt this heart o' mine,And brought to mind the happy daysI spent wi' them langsyne.
In youthfu' prime, at fortune's ca',I braved the billows' roar;I 've now seen thirty simmer sunsBlink on a distant shore;And I have stood where honour call'd,In the embattled line,And there left many gallant lads,The cronies o' langsyne.
I 've gather'd walth o' weel-won gear,Yet still I fortune blame;I lang wi' strangers pass'd my days,And now I 'm ane at hame.I have nae friend but what my gowdCan draw to mammon's shrine;But how unlike the guileless heartsThat wish'd me weel langsyne!
Peter Roger, blacksmith, formerly at Glenormiston, and latterly at Peebles, though more the enthusiastic lover of, than a contributor to, the national minstrelsy, is entitled to remembrance. His numerous communications addressed to the editor of this work, have supplied much information, which has been found useful in the preparation of these volumes. Roger was born at Clovenford, in the parish of Stow, in 1792. For thirty-seven years he wrought as blacksmith at Glenormiston, on the banks of the Tweed, near Innerleithen. In 1852, he removed to Peebles, where he had purchased a small cottage and garden. He died suddenly, at Peebles, on the 3d April 1856, in his 64th year. The following sketch of his character has been supplied, at our request, by his intimate acquaintance, the Rev. James Murray, minister of Old Cumnock:—
"Roger was in many respects a very remarkable man.... He possessed, in an eminent degree, an exquisite natural sympathy with all things beautiful and good. He was an excellent botanist, well-skilled in music, and passionately fond of poetry. His conversation was very interesting; and his slight tendency to dogmatise in the presence of a stranger, entirely disappeared in the society of his friends. He might almost be said to revere any one possessed of intellectual gifts and accomplishments, whether natural or acquired; and as he lived many years in a cottage situated on the way-side between Peebles and Innerleithen, he was frequently visited by those who passed by. Occasionally the Ettrick Shepherd would stop his gig to have a few minutes'crackwith his 'friend Peter,' as he called him. At another time it would be his minister, the Rev. Mr Leckie, or some other worthy pastor, or some surgeon of the district upon his widely-extended rounds—Dr Craig, for example; or Mr Thomas Smibert; or Mr Adam Dickson, a young genius nipt in the bud—whose appearance would be the welcome signal for the 'tinkling' of Peter's hammer to know a brief respite. And I could mention others of his acquaintance, almost self-taught like himself, whose intelligence might enable them 'to stand before kings.'"My own intimacy with Peter extends back to the time of my boyhood; and I can honestly say, that an evening spent under his roof, in company with him and his pious and amiable sister Peggy, who survives him, was among the greatest treats I ever experienced. There, at his door, in paper cap and leather apron, his shirt sleeves turned up, and his bare, brawny arms crossed upon his chest, and 'his brow wet with honest sweat,' would the hard-headed and warm-hearted blacksmith await the coming of him whom he expected. And, first, whilst his sister was attending to the preparation of some creature-comforts—for he was a man of some substance, and hospitable withal—you would be conducted into his little garden, sloping down to the very brink of the Tweed, and embosomed amid natural hazel wood, the lingering remains of a once goodly forest, to see some favourite flower, or to hear him trill, with a skill and execution which would have done little dishonour toPicushimself, some simple native melody upon his Scotch flute. Thein-doorentertainment consisted of varied conversation, embracing the subjects of literature, politics, and theology, largely interspersed with the reading of MS. poems by his numerous poetical friends. But the best part of the treat came last. Gradually you would notice a serious shade, not gloomy but chastened, steal over his massive features. His conversation would glide most naturally, and without any intentional effort that was apparent, into a serious strain; and then Peggy would bring down the family Bible, and, after having selected a suitable psalm, he would sing it to some plaintive air—and he could sing well; and the prayer which closed the usual exercises was such a manly, pathetic, and godly outpouring of a spirit chastened with the simplest and purest piety, as made the heart glad."Peter did nothing by halves, but everything with the energy of a man working at a forge. He embraced the temperance movement as soon as he heard of it, and continued to the end of his days a most rigid total abstainer from the use of all ardent spirits. Altogether, he was one of those self-taught, large-hearted, pious, and intellectual men of whom Scotland may well be proud."
"Roger was in many respects a very remarkable man.... He possessed, in an eminent degree, an exquisite natural sympathy with all things beautiful and good. He was an excellent botanist, well-skilled in music, and passionately fond of poetry. His conversation was very interesting; and his slight tendency to dogmatise in the presence of a stranger, entirely disappeared in the society of his friends. He might almost be said to revere any one possessed of intellectual gifts and accomplishments, whether natural or acquired; and as he lived many years in a cottage situated on the way-side between Peebles and Innerleithen, he was frequently visited by those who passed by. Occasionally the Ettrick Shepherd would stop his gig to have a few minutes'crackwith his 'friend Peter,' as he called him. At another time it would be his minister, the Rev. Mr Leckie, or some other worthy pastor, or some surgeon of the district upon his widely-extended rounds—Dr Craig, for example; or Mr Thomas Smibert; or Mr Adam Dickson, a young genius nipt in the bud—whose appearance would be the welcome signal for the 'tinkling' of Peter's hammer to know a brief respite. And I could mention others of his acquaintance, almost self-taught like himself, whose intelligence might enable them 'to stand before kings.'
"My own intimacy with Peter extends back to the time of my boyhood; and I can honestly say, that an evening spent under his roof, in company with him and his pious and amiable sister Peggy, who survives him, was among the greatest treats I ever experienced. There, at his door, in paper cap and leather apron, his shirt sleeves turned up, and his bare, brawny arms crossed upon his chest, and 'his brow wet with honest sweat,' would the hard-headed and warm-hearted blacksmith await the coming of him whom he expected. And, first, whilst his sister was attending to the preparation of some creature-comforts—for he was a man of some substance, and hospitable withal—you would be conducted into his little garden, sloping down to the very brink of the Tweed, and embosomed amid natural hazel wood, the lingering remains of a once goodly forest, to see some favourite flower, or to hear him trill, with a skill and execution which would have done little dishonour toPicushimself, some simple native melody upon his Scotch flute. Thein-doorentertainment consisted of varied conversation, embracing the subjects of literature, politics, and theology, largely interspersed with the reading of MS. poems by his numerous poetical friends. But the best part of the treat came last. Gradually you would notice a serious shade, not gloomy but chastened, steal over his massive features. His conversation would glide most naturally, and without any intentional effort that was apparent, into a serious strain; and then Peggy would bring down the family Bible, and, after having selected a suitable psalm, he would sing it to some plaintive air—and he could sing well; and the prayer which closed the usual exercises was such a manly, pathetic, and godly outpouring of a spirit chastened with the simplest and purest piety, as made the heart glad.
"Peter did nothing by halves, but everything with the energy of a man working at a forge. He embraced the temperance movement as soon as he heard of it, and continued to the end of his days a most rigid total abstainer from the use of all ardent spirits. Altogether, he was one of those self-taught, large-hearted, pious, and intellectual men of whom Scotland may well be proud."
Air—"Miss Forbes' Farewell."
'Mang a' the lassies young an' braw,An' fair as summer's rosy beam,There 's ane the bonniest o' them a',That dwells by Manor's mountain stream.Oft hae I gazed on her sweet face,An' ilka time new beauties seen;For aye some new discover'd graceEndears to me my lovely Jean.An' oh! to list her ev'ning sang,When a' alane she gently straysThe yellow waving broom amang,That blooms on Manor's flow'ry braes—Her voice sae saft, sae sweet and clear,Afar in yonder bower sae green,The mavis quits her lay to hearA bonnier sang frae lovely Jean.But it 's no her peerless face nor form,It 's no her voice sae sweet and clear,That keeps my love to her sae warm,An' maks her every day mair dear;It 's just the beauties o' her mind,Her easy, winning, modest mien,Her truth and constancy, which bindMy heart and soul to lovely Jean.
'Mang a' the lassies young an' braw,An' fair as summer's rosy beam,There 's ane the bonniest o' them a',That dwells by Manor's mountain stream.Oft hae I gazed on her sweet face,An' ilka time new beauties seen;For aye some new discover'd graceEndears to me my lovely Jean.
An' oh! to list her ev'ning sang,When a' alane she gently straysThe yellow waving broom amang,That blooms on Manor's flow'ry braes—Her voice sae saft, sae sweet and clear,Afar in yonder bower sae green,The mavis quits her lay to hearA bonnier sang frae lovely Jean.
But it 's no her peerless face nor form,It 's no her voice sae sweet and clear,That keeps my love to her sae warm,An' maks her every day mair dear;It 's just the beauties o' her mind,Her easy, winning, modest mien,Her truth and constancy, which bindMy heart and soul to lovely Jean.
John Malcolm was the second son of the Rev. John Malcolm, minister of the parish of Firth and Stennis, Orkney, where he was born about 1795. Through a personal application to the Duke of Kent, he was enabled to proceed as a volunteer to join the army in Spain. Arriving at the period when the army under General Graham (afterwards Lord Lynedoch) was besieging St Sebastian, he speedily obtained a lieutenancy in the 42d Regiment, in which he served to the close of the Pyrenees' campaign. Wounded at the battle of Toulouse, by a musket-ball penetrating his right shoulder, and otherwise debilitated, he retired from active service on half-pay, and with a pension for his wound. He now fixed his abode in Edinburgh, and devoted himself to literary pursuits. He contributed toConstable's Magazine, and other periodicals. For one of the earlier volumes of "Constable's Miscellany," he wrote a narrative of the Peninsular War. As a poet, he became known by some stanzas on the death of Lord Byron, which appeared in theEdinburgh Weekly Journal. In 1828, he published "Scenes of War, and other Poems;" and subsequently contributed numerous poetical pieces to the pages of theEdinburgh Literary Journal. A small volume of prose sketches also appeared fromhis pen, under the title of "Tales of Field and Flood." In 1831 he undertook the editorship of theEdinburgh Observernewspaper, which he held till the period of his death. He died at Edinburgh, of a pulmonary complaint, in September 1835.
Fond of conversation, and abounding in humorous anecdote, Malcolm was especially esteemed for his gentle and amiable deportment. His poetry, which is often vigorous, is uniformly characterised by sweetness of versification.
The music of the night,Upon its lonely flightInto the west, where sink its ebbing sands;That muffled music seemsLike voices heard in dreams,Sigh'd back from long-lost years and distant lands.Amid the stillness round,As 'twere the shade of sound,Floats on the low sweet strain of lulling tones;Such as from trembling wireOf sweet Æolian lyre,With winds awake in murmurs and in moans.Oh! melting on the ear,What solemn chords are there!The torrent's thunder sunk into a sigh;And thine, majestic main!Great Nature's organ strain,Deep pealing through the temple of the sky.And songs unsung by day—The nightingale's lone lay.From lady's bower, the lover's serenade;And dirge of hermit-birdFrom haunts of ruin heard,The only voice that wails above the dead.To them that sail the deep,When winds have sunk to sleep,The dreamy murmurs of the night steal on;Say, does their mystic hum,So vague and varied, comeFrom distant shores unseen, and lands unknown?In them might fancy's earEarth's dying echoes hear,Our home's sweet voices swooning on the floods;Or songs of festal halls,Or sound of waterfalls,Or Indian's dismal war-whoop through the woods.Joy breathes in morning song,And happy things amongHer choral bowers wake matins of delight;But dearer unto meThe dirge-like harmonyOf vesper voices, and of wailing night.
The music of the night,Upon its lonely flightInto the west, where sink its ebbing sands;That muffled music seemsLike voices heard in dreams,Sigh'd back from long-lost years and distant lands.
Amid the stillness round,As 'twere the shade of sound,Floats on the low sweet strain of lulling tones;Such as from trembling wireOf sweet Æolian lyre,With winds awake in murmurs and in moans.
Oh! melting on the ear,What solemn chords are there!The torrent's thunder sunk into a sigh;And thine, majestic main!Great Nature's organ strain,Deep pealing through the temple of the sky.
And songs unsung by day—The nightingale's lone lay.From lady's bower, the lover's serenade;And dirge of hermit-birdFrom haunts of ruin heard,The only voice that wails above the dead.
To them that sail the deep,When winds have sunk to sleep,The dreamy murmurs of the night steal on;Say, does their mystic hum,So vague and varied, comeFrom distant shores unseen, and lands unknown?
In them might fancy's earEarth's dying echoes hear,Our home's sweet voices swooning on the floods;Or songs of festal halls,Or sound of waterfalls,Or Indian's dismal war-whoop through the woods.
Joy breathes in morning song,And happy things amongHer choral bowers wake matins of delight;But dearer unto meThe dirge-like harmonyOf vesper voices, and of wailing night.
The sea—the deep, deep sea—That awful mystery!Was there a time of old ere it was born,Or e'er the dawn of light,Coeval with the night—Say, slept it on, for ever and forlorn?Till the Great Spirit's wordIts sullen waters heard,And their wild voices, through the void profound,Gave deep responsive roar;But silent never moreShall be their solemn, drear, and dirge-like sound!Earth's echoes faint and die;Sunk down into a sigh,Scamander's voice scarce whispers on its way;And desert silence reignsUpon the mighty plainsWhere battles' thunders peal'd—and where are they?But still from age to ageUpon its pilgrimage,When many a glorious strain the world hath flown;And while her echoes sleepIn darkness, the great deep,Unwearied and unchanged, goes sounding on.
The sea—the deep, deep sea—That awful mystery!Was there a time of old ere it was born,Or e'er the dawn of light,Coeval with the night—Say, slept it on, for ever and forlorn?
Till the Great Spirit's wordIts sullen waters heard,And their wild voices, through the void profound,Gave deep responsive roar;But silent never moreShall be their solemn, drear, and dirge-like sound!
Earth's echoes faint and die;Sunk down into a sigh,Scamander's voice scarce whispers on its way;And desert silence reignsUpon the mighty plainsWhere battles' thunders peal'd—and where are they?
But still from age to ageUpon its pilgrimage,When many a glorious strain the world hath flown;And while her echoes sleepIn darkness, the great deep,Unwearied and unchanged, goes sounding on.
Erskine Conolly was born at Crail, Fifeshire, on the 12th of June 1796. At the burgh school of his native town, he received an ordinary elementary education, and was afterwards apprenticed to Mr Cockburn, bookseller in Anstruther. He subsequently commenced business as a bookseller in the small town of Colinsburgh; but after a trial of several years, not having succeeded according to his expectations, he removed to Edinburgh, where he was employed as a clerk by Mr Thomas Megget, writer to the signet. At a future period, he entered into partnership with Mr James Gillon, writer and messenger in Edinburgh; and after his partner's death, carried on the business on his own account. He died at Edinburgh on the 7th January 1843. Of highly sociable dispositions, and with talents of a superior order, Conolly was much beloved among a wide circle of friends. Unambitious of fame as a poet, though he frequently wrote verses, he never ventured on a publication. His popular song of "Mary Macneil," appeared in theEdinburgh Intelligencerof the 23d December 1840; it is much to be remarked for deep feeling and genuine tenderness.
Air—"Kinloch of Kinloch."
The last gleam o' sunset in ocean was sinkin',Owre mountain an' meadowland glintin' fareweel;An' thousands o' stars in the heavens were blinkin',As bright as the een o' sweet Mary Macneil.A' glowin' wi' gladness she lean'd on her lover,Her een-tellin' secrets she thought to conceal;And fondly they wander'd whar nane might discoverThe tryst o' young Ronald an' Mary Macneil.Oh! Mary was modest, an' pure as the lily,That dew-draps o' mornin' in fragrance reveal;Nae fresh bloomin' flow'ret in hill or in valleyCould rival the beauty of Mary Macneil.She moved, and the graces play'd sportive around her;She smiled, and the hearts o' the cauldest wad thrill;She sang, and the mavis cam listenin' in wonder,To claim a sweet sister in Mary Macneil.But ae bitter blast on its fair promise blawin',Frae spring a' its beauty an' blossoms will steal;An' ae sudden blight on the gentle heart fa'in',Inflicts the deep wound nothing earthly can heal.The simmer saw Ronald on glory's path hiein';The autumn, his corse on the red battle fiel';The winter, the maiden found heartbroken, dyin';An' spring spread the green turf owre Mary Macneil!
The last gleam o' sunset in ocean was sinkin',Owre mountain an' meadowland glintin' fareweel;An' thousands o' stars in the heavens were blinkin',As bright as the een o' sweet Mary Macneil.A' glowin' wi' gladness she lean'd on her lover,Her een-tellin' secrets she thought to conceal;And fondly they wander'd whar nane might discoverThe tryst o' young Ronald an' Mary Macneil.
Oh! Mary was modest, an' pure as the lily,That dew-draps o' mornin' in fragrance reveal;Nae fresh bloomin' flow'ret in hill or in valleyCould rival the beauty of Mary Macneil.She moved, and the graces play'd sportive around her;She smiled, and the hearts o' the cauldest wad thrill;She sang, and the mavis cam listenin' in wonder,To claim a sweet sister in Mary Macneil.
But ae bitter blast on its fair promise blawin',Frae spring a' its beauty an' blossoms will steal;An' ae sudden blight on the gentle heart fa'in',Inflicts the deep wound nothing earthly can heal.The simmer saw Ronald on glory's path hiein';The autumn, his corse on the red battle fiel';The winter, the maiden found heartbroken, dyin';An' spring spread the green turf owre Mary Macneil!
There 's a thrill of emotion, half-painful, half-sweet,When the object of untold affection we meet,But the pleasure remains, though the pang is as brief,As the touch and recoil of the sensitive leaf.There 's a thrill of distress, between anger and dread,When a frown o'er the fair face of beauty is spread;But she smiles, and away the disturber is borne,Like sunbeams dispelling the vapours of morn.There 's a thrill of endearment, all raptures above,When the pure lip imprints the first fond kiss of love,Which, like songs of our childhood, to memory clings,The longest, the last of terrestrial things.
There 's a thrill of emotion, half-painful, half-sweet,When the object of untold affection we meet,But the pleasure remains, though the pang is as brief,As the touch and recoil of the sensitive leaf.
There 's a thrill of distress, between anger and dread,When a frown o'er the fair face of beauty is spread;But she smiles, and away the disturber is borne,Like sunbeams dispelling the vapours of morn.
There 's a thrill of endearment, all raptures above,When the pure lip imprints the first fond kiss of love,Which, like songs of our childhood, to memory clings,The longest, the last of terrestrial things.
George Menzies was born in the parish of Arbuthnot, Kincardineshire, on the 21st January 1797. His father was an agricultural labourer. On completing his education at a country school, he became, in his fourteenth year, apprentice to a gardener. He prosecuted his vocation in different districts; acted some time as clerk to the contractors of the Forth and Clyde Canal; laboured as a weaver in several towns in the counties of Forfar and Kincardine; and conducted unendowed schools in various localities. In 1833, he emigrated to Canada, where he taught in different seminaries, and afterwards formed a connexion with a succession of public journals. He ultimately became proprietor and editor of theWoodstock Heraldnewspaper. After a short illness, he died at Woodstock, Canada West, on the 4th March 1847, in his fifty-first year.
Menzies was possessed of good talents and indomitable energy. He wrote respectable verses, though not marked by any decided originality. In 1822, he published, at Forfar, a small volume of poems, entitled, "Poetical Trifles," of which a second and enlarged edition appeared five years afterwards. The whole of his poems, with an account of his life, in a duodecimo volume, were published at Montrose in 1854.
As clear is Luther's wave, I ween,As gay the grove, the vale as green;But, oh! the days that we have seenAre fled, and fled for aye, Mary!Oh! we have often fondly stray'dIn Fordoun's green embow'ring glade,And mark'd the moonbeam as it play'dOn Luther's bonnie wave, Mary!Since then, full many a year and dayWith me have slowly pass'd away,Far from the braes of Auchinblae,And far from love and thee, Mary!And we must part again, my dear,It is not mine to linger here;Yes, we must part—and, oh! I fear,We meet not here again, Mary!For on Culloden's bloody field,Our hapless Prince's fate is seal'd—Last night to me it was reveal'dSooth as the word of heaven, Mary!And ere to-morrow's sun shall shineUpon the heights of Galloquhine,A thousand victims at the shrineOf tyranny shall bleed, Mary!Hark! hark! they come—the foemen come—I go; but wheresoe'er I roam,With thee my heart remains at home—Adieu, adieu for aye, Mary!
As clear is Luther's wave, I ween,As gay the grove, the vale as green;But, oh! the days that we have seenAre fled, and fled for aye, Mary!
Oh! we have often fondly stray'dIn Fordoun's green embow'ring glade,And mark'd the moonbeam as it play'dOn Luther's bonnie wave, Mary!
Since then, full many a year and dayWith me have slowly pass'd away,Far from the braes of Auchinblae,And far from love and thee, Mary!
And we must part again, my dear,It is not mine to linger here;Yes, we must part—and, oh! I fear,We meet not here again, Mary!
For on Culloden's bloody field,Our hapless Prince's fate is seal'd—Last night to me it was reveal'dSooth as the word of heaven, Mary!
And ere to-morrow's sun shall shineUpon the heights of Galloquhine,A thousand victims at the shrineOf tyranny shall bleed, Mary!
Hark! hark! they come—the foemen come—I go; but wheresoe'er I roam,With thee my heart remains at home—Adieu, adieu for aye, Mary!
Fare thee weel, my bonnie lassie;Fare thee weel for ever, Jessie!Though I ne'er again may meet thee,Tell na me that I 'll forget thee.By yon starry heavens I vow it!By my love!—(I mayna rue it)—By this hour in which we sever!I will love but thee for ever.Should the hand of death arrest me,Think my latest prayer hath blest thee;As the parting pang draws nearer,I will love thee aye the dearer.Still my bosom's love I 'll cherish—'Tis a spark that winna perish;Though I ne'er again may meet thee,Tell na me that I 'll forget thee.
Fare thee weel, my bonnie lassie;Fare thee weel for ever, Jessie!Though I ne'er again may meet thee,Tell na me that I 'll forget thee.
By yon starry heavens I vow it!By my love!—(I mayna rue it)—By this hour in which we sever!I will love but thee for ever.
Should the hand of death arrest me,Think my latest prayer hath blest thee;As the parting pang draws nearer,I will love thee aye the dearer.
Still my bosom's love I 'll cherish—'Tis a spark that winna perish;Though I ne'er again may meet thee,Tell na me that I 'll forget thee.
John Sim was born in Paisley, on the 6th of April 1797. His father, James Sim, was engineer in the factory of James Carlile and Sons, and was highly valued by his employers. In the Grammar-school, John made rapid progress in classical learning; and in 1814 entered the University of Glasgow, with a view to the medical profession. He obtained his diploma as surgeon on the 6th of April 1818. He commenced the practice of medicine in the village of Auchinleck, Ayrshire; but removed in a few months to his native town. His professional success was not commensurate with his expectations; and in the hope of bettering his circumstances, he proceeded to the West Indies. He sailed from Greenock on the 19th January 1819, for Trinidad; but had only been resident in that island about eight months when he was seized with a fatal illness. The precise date of his death is unknown.
Sim was a young man of high promise. Early wedded to the muse, he was selected as the original editor of the "Harp of Renfrewshire." He published a small volume of poems and songs. His songs are somewhat imitative, but are remarkable for sweetness of expression, and are pervaded by genial sentiment.
Air—"We 'll meet beside the dusky glen."
Nae mair we 'll meet again, my love, by yon burn side—Nae mair we 'll wander through the grove, by yon burn side—Ne'er again the mavis lay will we hail at close o' day,Nor ne'er again we 'll stray down by yon burn side.Yet mem'ry oft will fondly brood on yon burn side,O'er haunts which we sae saft hae trod, by yon burn side;Still the walk wi' me thou 'lt share, though thy foot can never mairBend to earth the gowan fair, down by yon burn side.Now far removed from every care, 'boon yon burn side,Thou bloom'st, my love, an angel fair, 'boon yon burn side;And if angels pity know, sure the tear for me will flow,Who must linger here below, down by yon burn side.
Nae mair we 'll meet again, my love, by yon burn side—Nae mair we 'll wander through the grove, by yon burn side—Ne'er again the mavis lay will we hail at close o' day,Nor ne'er again we 'll stray down by yon burn side.
Yet mem'ry oft will fondly brood on yon burn side,O'er haunts which we sae saft hae trod, by yon burn side;Still the walk wi' me thou 'lt share, though thy foot can never mairBend to earth the gowan fair, down by yon burn side.
Now far removed from every care, 'boon yon burn side,Thou bloom'st, my love, an angel fair, 'boon yon burn side;And if angels pity know, sure the tear for me will flow,Who must linger here below, down by yon burn side.
Air—"Bonnie lassie, O."
Oh, we aft hae met at e'en, bonnie Peggy, O!On the banks of Cart sae green, bonnie Peggy, O!Where the waters smoothly rin,Far aneath the roarin' linn,Far frae busy strife and din, bonnie Peggy, O!When the lately crimson west, bonnie Peggy, O!In her darker robe was dress'd, bonnie Peggy, O!And a sky of azure blue,Deck'd with stars of golden hue,Rose majestic to the view, bonnie Peggy, O!When the sound of flute or horn, bonnie Peggy, O!On the gale of ev'ning borne, bonnie Peggy, O!We have heard in echoes die,While the wave that rippled by,Sung a soft and sweet reply, bonnie Peggy, O!Then how happy would we rove, bonnie Peggy, O!Whilst thou, blushing, own'd thy love, bonnie Peggy, O!Whilst thy quickly throbbing breastTo my beating heart I press'd,Ne'er was mortal half so blest, bonnie Peggy, O!Now, alas! these scenes are o'er, bonnie Peggy, O!Now, alas! we meet no more, bonnie Peggy, O!Oh! never again, I ween,Will we meet at summer e'enOn the banks of Cart sae green, bonnie Peggy, O!Yet had'st thou been true to me, bonnie Peggy, O!As I still hae been to thee, bonnie Peggy, O!Then with bosom, oh, how light,Had I hail'd the coming night,And yon evening star so bright, bonnie Peggy, O!
Oh, we aft hae met at e'en, bonnie Peggy, O!On the banks of Cart sae green, bonnie Peggy, O!Where the waters smoothly rin,Far aneath the roarin' linn,Far frae busy strife and din, bonnie Peggy, O!When the lately crimson west, bonnie Peggy, O!In her darker robe was dress'd, bonnie Peggy, O!And a sky of azure blue,Deck'd with stars of golden hue,Rose majestic to the view, bonnie Peggy, O!When the sound of flute or horn, bonnie Peggy, O!On the gale of ev'ning borne, bonnie Peggy, O!We have heard in echoes die,While the wave that rippled by,Sung a soft and sweet reply, bonnie Peggy, O!
Then how happy would we rove, bonnie Peggy, O!Whilst thou, blushing, own'd thy love, bonnie Peggy, O!Whilst thy quickly throbbing breastTo my beating heart I press'd,Ne'er was mortal half so blest, bonnie Peggy, O!Now, alas! these scenes are o'er, bonnie Peggy, O!Now, alas! we meet no more, bonnie Peggy, O!Oh! never again, I ween,Will we meet at summer e'enOn the banks of Cart sae green, bonnie Peggy, O!Yet had'st thou been true to me, bonnie Peggy, O!As I still hae been to thee, bonnie Peggy, O!Then with bosom, oh, how light,Had I hail'd the coming night,And yon evening star so bright, bonnie Peggy, O!
Gaelic Air.
Now, Mary, now the struggle 's o'er—The war of pride and love;And, Mary, now we meet no more,Unless we meet above.Too well thou know'st how much I loved!Thou knew'st my hopes how fair!But all these hopes are blighted now,They point but to despair.Thus doom'd to ceaseless, hopeless love,I haste to India's shore;For here how can I longer stay,And call thee mine no more?Now, Mary, now the struggle 's o'er;And though I still must love,Yet, Mary, here we meet no more,Oh, may we meet above!
Now, Mary, now the struggle 's o'er—The war of pride and love;And, Mary, now we meet no more,Unless we meet above.
Too well thou know'st how much I loved!Thou knew'st my hopes how fair!But all these hopes are blighted now,They point but to despair.
Thus doom'd to ceaseless, hopeless love,I haste to India's shore;For here how can I longer stay,And call thee mine no more?
Now, Mary, now the struggle 's o'er;And though I still must love,Yet, Mary, here we meet no more,Oh, may we meet above!
William Motherwell was born in High Street, Glasgow, on the 13th October 1797. For thirteen generations, his paternal ancestors were owners of the small property of Muirsmill, on the banks of the Carron, Stirlingshire. His father, who bore the same Christian name, carried on the business of an ironmonger in Glasgow. His mother, whose maiden name was Elizabeth Barnet, was the daughter of a prosperous farmer in the parish of Auchterarder, Perthshire, from whom she inherited a considerable fortune. Of a family of six, William was the third son. His parents removed to Edinburgh early in the century; and in April 1805, he became a pupil of Mr William Lennie, a successful private teacher in Crichton Street. In October 1808, he entered the High-school of Edinburgh; but was soon after placed at the Grammar-school of Paisley, being entrusted to the care of an uncle in that place. In his fifteenth year, he became clerk in the office of the Sheriff-clerk of Paisley, and in this situation afforded evidence of talent by the facility with which he deciphered the more ancient documents. With the view of obtaining a more extended acquaintance with classical literature, he attended the Latin and Greek classes in the University of Glasgow, during the session of 1818-19, and had the good fortune soon thereafter to receive the appointment of Sheriff-clerk-depute of the county of Renfrew.
From his boyhood fond of literature, Motherwell devoted his spare hours to reading and composition. He evinced poetical talent so early as his fourteenth year, when he produced the first draught of his beautiful ballad of "Jeanie Morrison." Many of his earlier sketches, both in prose and verse, were inconsiderately distributed among his friends. In 1818, he made some contributions in verse to the "Visitor," a small work published at Greenock; and in the following year became the third and last editor of the "Harp of Renfrewshire," an esteemed collection of songs, to which he supplied an interesting introductory essay and many valuable notes. Pursuing his researches on the subject of Scottish song and ballad, he appeared in 1827 as the editor of an interesting quarto volume, entitled "Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern,"—a work which considerably extended his reputation, and secured him the friendly correspondence of Sir Walter Scott. In 1828, he originated thePaisley Magazine, which was conducted by him during its continuance of one year; it contains several of his best poetical compositions, and a copy is now extremely rare. During the same year, he was appointed editor of thePaisley Advertiser, a Conservative newspaper; and this office he exchanged, in January 1830, for the editorship of theGlasgow Courier, a more influential journal in the same political interests.
On his removal to Glasgow, Motherwell rapidly extended the circle of his literary friends, and began to exercise no unimportant influence as a public journalist. ToThe Day, a periodical published in the city in 1832, he contributed many poetical pieces with some prose sketches; and about the same time furnished a preface of some length to a volume of Scottish Proverbs, edited by his ingenious friend, Andrew Henderson.Towards the close of 1832, he collected his best poetical compositions into a small volume, with the title of "Poems, Narrative and Lyrical." In 1835, he became the coadjutor of the Ettrick Shepherd in annotating an edition of Burns' Works, published by Messrs Fullarton of Glasgow; but his death took place before the completion of this undertaking. He died of apoplexy, after a few hours' illness, on the 1st of November 1835, at the early age of thirty-eight. His remains were interred in the Necropolis, where an elegant monument, with a bust by Fillans, has been erected to his memory.
Motherwell was of short stature, but was well-formed. His head was large and forehead ample, but his features were somewhat coarse; his cheek-bones were prominent, and his eyes small, sunk in his head, and surmounted by thick eye-lashes. In society he was reserved and often taciturn, but was free and communicative among his personal friends. He was not a little superstitious, and a firm believer in the reality of spectral illusions. Desultory in some of his literary occupations, he was laborious in pruning and perfecting his poetical compositions. His claims as a poet are not inconsiderable; "Jeanie Morrison" is unsurpassed in graceful simplicity and feeling, and though he had not written another line, it had afforded him a title to rank among the greater minstrels of his country. Eminent pathos and earnestness are his characteristics as a song-writer. The translations of Scandinavian ballads which he has produced are perhaps the most vigorous and successful efforts of the kind which have appeared in the language. An excellent edition of his poetical works, with a memoir by Dr M'Conechy, was published after his death by Mr David Robertson of Glasgow.