I walk'd by mysel' owre the sweet braes o' Yarrow,When the earth wi' the gowans o' July was dress'd;But the sang o' the bonnie burn sounded like sorrow,Round ilka house cauld as a last-simmer's nest.I look'd through the lift o' the blue smiling morning,But never a wee cloud o' mist could I see,On its way up to heaven, the cottage adorning,Hanging white owre the green o' its sheltering tree.By the outside I kenn'd that the inn was forsaken,That nae tread o' footsteps was heard on the floor;Oh, loud craw'd the cock whare was nane to awaken,And the wild raven croak'd on the seat by the door!Sic silence—sic lonesomeness, oh, were bewildering!I heard nae lass singing when herding her sheep;I met nae bright garlands o' wee rosy children,Dancing onto the school-house, just waken'd frae sleep.I pass'd by the school-house, when strangers were coming,Whose windows with glad faces seem'd all alive;Ae moment I hearken'd, but heard nae sweet humming,For a night o' dark vapour can silence the hive.I pass'd by the pool where the lasses at daw'ing,Used to bleach their white garments wi' daffin and din;But the foam in the silence o' nature was fa'ing,And nae laughing rose loud through the roar of the linn.I gaed into a small town, when sick o' my roaming,Whare ance play'd the viol, the tabor, and flute;'Twas the hour loved by labour, the saft smiling gloaming,Yet the green round the cross-stane was empty and mute.To the yellow-flower'd meadow, and scant rigs o' tillage,The sheep a' neglected had come frae the glen;The cushat-dow coo'd in the midst o' the village,And the swallow had flown to the dwellings o' men!Sweet Denholm! not thus when I lived in thy bosomThy heart lay so still the last night o' the week;Then nane was sae weary that love would nae rouse him,And grief gaed to dance with a laugh on his cheek.Sic thoughts wet my een, as the moonshine was beamingOn the kirk-tower that rose up sae silent and white;The wan ghastly light on the dial was streaming,But the still finger tauld not the hour of the night.The mirk-time pass'd slowly in siching and weeping,I waken'd, and nature lay silent in mirth;Owre a' holy Scotland the Sabbath was sleeping,And heaven in beauty came down on the earth.The morning smiled on—but nae kirk-bell was ringing,Nae plaid or blue bonnet came down frae the hill;The kirk-door was shut, but nae psalm tune was singing,And I miss'd the wee voices sae sweet and sae shrill.I look'd owre the quiet o' death's empty dwelling,The laverock walk'd mute 'mid the sorrowful scene,And fifty brown hillocks wi' fresh mould were swellingOwre the kirkyard o' Denholm, last simmer sae green.The infant had died at the breast o' its mither;The cradle stood still at the mitherless bed;At play the bairn sunk in the hand o' its brither;At the fauld on the mountain the shepherd lay dead.Oh! in spring-time 'tis eerie, when winter is over,And birds should be glinting owre forest and lea,When the lint-white and mavis the yellow leaves cover,And nae blackbird sings loud frae the tap o' his tree.But eerier far, when the spring-land rejoices,And laughs back to heaven with gratitude bright,To hearken, and naewhere hear sweet human voicesWhen man's soul is dark in the season o' light!
I walk'd by mysel' owre the sweet braes o' Yarrow,When the earth wi' the gowans o' July was dress'd;But the sang o' the bonnie burn sounded like sorrow,Round ilka house cauld as a last-simmer's nest.
I look'd through the lift o' the blue smiling morning,But never a wee cloud o' mist could I see,On its way up to heaven, the cottage adorning,Hanging white owre the green o' its sheltering tree.
By the outside I kenn'd that the inn was forsaken,That nae tread o' footsteps was heard on the floor;Oh, loud craw'd the cock whare was nane to awaken,And the wild raven croak'd on the seat by the door!
Sic silence—sic lonesomeness, oh, were bewildering!I heard nae lass singing when herding her sheep;I met nae bright garlands o' wee rosy children,Dancing onto the school-house, just waken'd frae sleep.
I pass'd by the school-house, when strangers were coming,Whose windows with glad faces seem'd all alive;Ae moment I hearken'd, but heard nae sweet humming,For a night o' dark vapour can silence the hive.
I pass'd by the pool where the lasses at daw'ing,Used to bleach their white garments wi' daffin and din;But the foam in the silence o' nature was fa'ing,And nae laughing rose loud through the roar of the linn.
I gaed into a small town, when sick o' my roaming,Whare ance play'd the viol, the tabor, and flute;'Twas the hour loved by labour, the saft smiling gloaming,Yet the green round the cross-stane was empty and mute.
To the yellow-flower'd meadow, and scant rigs o' tillage,The sheep a' neglected had come frae the glen;The cushat-dow coo'd in the midst o' the village,And the swallow had flown to the dwellings o' men!
Sweet Denholm! not thus when I lived in thy bosomThy heart lay so still the last night o' the week;Then nane was sae weary that love would nae rouse him,And grief gaed to dance with a laugh on his cheek.
Sic thoughts wet my een, as the moonshine was beamingOn the kirk-tower that rose up sae silent and white;The wan ghastly light on the dial was streaming,But the still finger tauld not the hour of the night.
The mirk-time pass'd slowly in siching and weeping,I waken'd, and nature lay silent in mirth;Owre a' holy Scotland the Sabbath was sleeping,And heaven in beauty came down on the earth.
The morning smiled on—but nae kirk-bell was ringing,Nae plaid or blue bonnet came down frae the hill;The kirk-door was shut, but nae psalm tune was singing,And I miss'd the wee voices sae sweet and sae shrill.
I look'd owre the quiet o' death's empty dwelling,The laverock walk'd mute 'mid the sorrowful scene,And fifty brown hillocks wi' fresh mould were swellingOwre the kirkyard o' Denholm, last simmer sae green.
The infant had died at the breast o' its mither;The cradle stood still at the mitherless bed;At play the bairn sunk in the hand o' its brither;At the fauld on the mountain the shepherd lay dead.
Oh! in spring-time 'tis eerie, when winter is over,And birds should be glinting owre forest and lea,When the lint-white and mavis the yellow leaves cover,And nae blackbird sings loud frae the tap o' his tree.
But eerier far, when the spring-land rejoices,And laughs back to heaven with gratitude bright,To hearken, and naewhere hear sweet human voicesWhen man's soul is dark in the season o' light!
With laughter swimming in thine eye,That told youth's heart-felt revelry;And motion changeful as the wingOf swallow waken'd by the spring;With accents blithe as voice of May,Chanting glad Nature's roundelay;Circled by joy like planet brightThat smiles 'mid wreaths of dewy light,Thy image such, in former time,When thou, just entering on thy prime,And woman's sense in thee combinedGently with childhood's simplest mind,First taught'st my sighing soul to moveWith hope towards the heaven of love!Now years have given my Mary's faceA thoughtful and a quiet grace:Though happy still, yet chance distressHath left a pensive loveliness;Fancy hath tamed her fairy gleams,And thy heart broods o'er home-born dreams!Thy smiles, slow-kindling now and mild,Shower blessings on a darling child;Thy motion slow and soft thy tread,As if round thy hush'd infant's bed!And when thou speak'st, thy melting tone,That tells thy heart is all my own,Sounds sweeter from the lapse of years,With the wife's love, the mother's fears!By thy glad youth and tranquil primeAssured, I smile at hoary Time;For thou art doom'd in age to knowThe calm that wisdom steals from woe;The holy pride of high intent,The glory of a life well spent.When, earth's affections nearly o'er,With Peace behind and Faith before,Thou render'st up again to God,Untarnish'd by its frail abode,Thy lustrous soul, then harp and hymnFrom bands of sister seraphim,Asleep will lay thee, till thine eyeOpen in immortality.
With laughter swimming in thine eye,That told youth's heart-felt revelry;And motion changeful as the wingOf swallow waken'd by the spring;With accents blithe as voice of May,Chanting glad Nature's roundelay;Circled by joy like planet brightThat smiles 'mid wreaths of dewy light,Thy image such, in former time,When thou, just entering on thy prime,And woman's sense in thee combinedGently with childhood's simplest mind,First taught'st my sighing soul to moveWith hope towards the heaven of love!
Now years have given my Mary's faceA thoughtful and a quiet grace:Though happy still, yet chance distressHath left a pensive loveliness;Fancy hath tamed her fairy gleams,And thy heart broods o'er home-born dreams!Thy smiles, slow-kindling now and mild,Shower blessings on a darling child;Thy motion slow and soft thy tread,As if round thy hush'd infant's bed!And when thou speak'st, thy melting tone,That tells thy heart is all my own,Sounds sweeter from the lapse of years,With the wife's love, the mother's fears!
By thy glad youth and tranquil primeAssured, I smile at hoary Time;For thou art doom'd in age to knowThe calm that wisdom steals from woe;The holy pride of high intent,The glory of a life well spent.When, earth's affections nearly o'er,With Peace behind and Faith before,Thou render'st up again to God,Untarnish'd by its frail abode,Thy lustrous soul, then harp and hymnFrom bands of sister seraphim,Asleep will lay thee, till thine eyeOpen in immortality.
O gentle Sleep! wilt thou lay thy headFor one little hour on thy lover's bed,And none but the silent stars of nightShall witness be to our delight?Alas! 'tis said that the couch must beOf the eider-down that is spread for thee,So I in my sorrow must lie alone,For mine, sweet Sleep! is a couch of stone.Music to thee I know is dear;Then the saddest of music is ever here,For Grief sits with me in my cell,And she is a syren who singeth well.But thou, glad Sleep! lov'st gladsome airs,And wilt only come to thy lover's prayers,When the bells of merriment are ringing,And bliss with liquid voice is singing.Fair Sleep! so long in thy beauty woo'd,No rival hast thou in my solitude,Be mine, my love! and we two will lieEmbraced for ever, or awake to die!Dear Sleep, farewell! hour, hour, hour, hour,Will slowly bring on the gleam of morrow;But thou art Joy's faithful paramour,And lie wilt thou not in the arms of Sorrow.
O gentle Sleep! wilt thou lay thy headFor one little hour on thy lover's bed,And none but the silent stars of nightShall witness be to our delight?
Alas! 'tis said that the couch must beOf the eider-down that is spread for thee,So I in my sorrow must lie alone,For mine, sweet Sleep! is a couch of stone.
Music to thee I know is dear;Then the saddest of music is ever here,For Grief sits with me in my cell,And she is a syren who singeth well.
But thou, glad Sleep! lov'st gladsome airs,And wilt only come to thy lover's prayers,When the bells of merriment are ringing,And bliss with liquid voice is singing.
Fair Sleep! so long in thy beauty woo'd,No rival hast thou in my solitude,Be mine, my love! and we two will lieEmbraced for ever, or awake to die!
Dear Sleep, farewell! hour, hour, hour, hour,Will slowly bring on the gleam of morrow;But thou art Joy's faithful paramour,And lie wilt thou not in the arms of Sorrow.
David Webster was born in Dunblane, on the 25th September 1787. He was the second of a family of eight children born to his parents, who occupied the humbler condition of life. By his father, he was destined for the Church, but the early death of this parent put a check on his juvenile aspirations. He was apprenticed to a weaver in Paisley, and continued, with occasional intermissions, to prosecute the labours of the loom. His life was much chequered by misfortune. Fond of society, he was led to associate with some dissolute persons, who professed to be admirers of his genius, and was enticed by their example to neglect the concerns of business, and the duties of the family-hearth, for the delusive pleasures of the tavern. From his youth he composed verses. In 1835, he published, in numbers, a volume of poems and songs, with the title, "Original Scottish Rhymes." His style is flowing and graceful, and many of his pieces are marked by keen satire and happy humour. The songs inserted in the present work are favourable specimens of his manner. He died on the 22d January 1837, in his fiftieth year.[26]
Tune—"Brose and Butter."
When I was a miller in Fife,Losh! I thought that the sound o' the happerSaid, Tak hame a wee flow to your wife,To help to be brose to your supper.Then my conscience was narrow and pure,But someway by random it racket;For I lifted twa neivefu' or mair,While the happer said, Tak it, man, tak it.Hey for the mill and the kill,The garland and gear for my cogie,Hey for the whisky and yill,That washes the dust frae my craigie.Although it 's been lang in reputeFor rogues to mak rich by deceiving,Yet I see that it does not weel suitHonest men to begin to the thieving;For my heart it gaed dunt upon dunt,Oh! I thought ilka dunt it would crack it;Sae I flang frae my neive what was in 't,Still the happer said, Tak it, man, tak it.Hey for the mill, &c.A man that 's been bred to the plough,Might be deaved wi' its clamorous clapper;Yet there 's few but would suffer the soughAfter kenning what 's said by the happer.I whiles thought it scoff'd me to scorn,Saying, Shame, is your conscience no checkit?But when I grew dry for a horn,It changed aye to Tak it, man, tak it.Hey for the mill, &c.The smugglers whiles cam wi' their pocks,Cause they kent that I liked a bicker;Sae I bartered whiles wi' the gowks,Gaed them grain for a soup o' their liquor.I had lang been accustom'd to drink,And aye when I purposed to quat it,That thing wi' its clappertie clinkSaid aye to me, Tak it, man, tak it.Hey for the mill, &c.But the warst thing I did in my life,Nae doubt but ye 'll think I was wrang o 't,Od! I tauld a bit bodie in FifeA' my tale, and he made a bit sang o 't;I have aye had a voice a' my days,But for singing I ne'er got the knack o 't;Yet I tried whiles, just thinking to pleaseThe greedy wi' Tak it, man, tak it.Hey the mill, &c.Now, miller and a' as I am,This far I can see through the matter,There 's men mair notorious to fame,Mair greedy than me or the muter;For 'twad seem that the hale race o' men,Or wi' safety the half we may mak it,Had some speaking happer within,That said to them, Tak it, man, tak it.Hey for the mill, &c.
When I was a miller in Fife,Losh! I thought that the sound o' the happerSaid, Tak hame a wee flow to your wife,To help to be brose to your supper.Then my conscience was narrow and pure,But someway by random it racket;For I lifted twa neivefu' or mair,While the happer said, Tak it, man, tak it.Hey for the mill and the kill,The garland and gear for my cogie,Hey for the whisky and yill,That washes the dust frae my craigie.
Although it 's been lang in reputeFor rogues to mak rich by deceiving,Yet I see that it does not weel suitHonest men to begin to the thieving;For my heart it gaed dunt upon dunt,Oh! I thought ilka dunt it would crack it;Sae I flang frae my neive what was in 't,Still the happer said, Tak it, man, tak it.Hey for the mill, &c.
A man that 's been bred to the plough,Might be deaved wi' its clamorous clapper;Yet there 's few but would suffer the soughAfter kenning what 's said by the happer.I whiles thought it scoff'd me to scorn,Saying, Shame, is your conscience no checkit?But when I grew dry for a horn,It changed aye to Tak it, man, tak it.Hey for the mill, &c.
The smugglers whiles cam wi' their pocks,Cause they kent that I liked a bicker;Sae I bartered whiles wi' the gowks,Gaed them grain for a soup o' their liquor.I had lang been accustom'd to drink,And aye when I purposed to quat it,That thing wi' its clappertie clinkSaid aye to me, Tak it, man, tak it.Hey for the mill, &c.
But the warst thing I did in my life,Nae doubt but ye 'll think I was wrang o 't,Od! I tauld a bit bodie in FifeA' my tale, and he made a bit sang o 't;I have aye had a voice a' my days,But for singing I ne'er got the knack o 't;Yet I tried whiles, just thinking to pleaseThe greedy wi' Tak it, man, tak it.Hey the mill, &c.
Now, miller and a' as I am,This far I can see through the matter,There 's men mair notorious to fame,Mair greedy than me or the muter;For 'twad seem that the hale race o' men,Or wi' safety the half we may mak it,Had some speaking happer within,That said to them, Tak it, man, tak it.Hey for the mill, &c.
Air—"Gregor Arora."
Oh, sweet were the hoursThat I spent wi' my Flora,In yon gay shady bowers,Roun' the linn o' the Cora!Her breath was the zephyrsThat waft frae the roses,And skim o'er the heathAs the summer day closes.I told her my love-tale,Which seem'd to her cheering;Then she breathed on the soft galeHer song so endearing.The rock echoes ringingSeem'd charm'd wi' my story;And the birds, sweetly singing,Replied to my Flora.The sweet zephyr her breathAs it wafts frae the roses,And skims o'er the heathAs the summer day closes.
Oh, sweet were the hoursThat I spent wi' my Flora,In yon gay shady bowers,Roun' the linn o' the Cora!
Her breath was the zephyrsThat waft frae the roses,And skim o'er the heathAs the summer day closes.
I told her my love-tale,Which seem'd to her cheering;Then she breathed on the soft galeHer song so endearing.
The rock echoes ringingSeem'd charm'd wi' my story;And the birds, sweetly singing,Replied to my Flora.
The sweet zephyr her breathAs it wafts frae the roses,And skims o'er the heathAs the summer day closes.
Our minstrels a', frae south to north,To Edin cam to try their worth,And ane cam frae the banks o' Forth,Whase name was Patie Birnie.This Patie, wi' superior art,Made notes to ring through head and heart,Till citizens a' set apartTheir praise to Patie Birnie.Tell auld Kinghorn, o' Picish birth,Where, noddin', she looks o'er the Firth,Aye when she would enhance her worth,To sing o' Patie Birnie.His merits makAuld Reekie[28]ring,Mak rustic poets o' him sing;For nane can touch the fiddle-stringSae weel as Patie Birnie.He cheers the sage, the sour, the sad,Maks youngsters a rin louping mad,Heads grow giddy, hearts grow glad,Enchanted wi' Pate Birnie.The witching tones o' Patie's therm,Mak farmer chiels forget their farm,Sailors forget the howling storm,When dancing to Pate Birnie.Pate maks the fool forget his freaks,Maks baxter bodies burn their bakes,And gowkies gie their hame the glaiks,And follow Patie Birnie.When Patie taks his strolling rounds,To feasts or fairs in ither towns,Wark bodies fling their trantlooms doun,To hear the famous Birnie.The crabbit carles forget to snarl,The canker'd cuiffs forget to quarrel,And gilphies forget the stock and horle,And dance to Patie Birnie.
Our minstrels a', frae south to north,To Edin cam to try their worth,And ane cam frae the banks o' Forth,Whase name was Patie Birnie.This Patie, wi' superior art,Made notes to ring through head and heart,Till citizens a' set apartTheir praise to Patie Birnie.Tell auld Kinghorn, o' Picish birth,Where, noddin', she looks o'er the Firth,Aye when she would enhance her worth,To sing o' Patie Birnie.
His merits makAuld Reekie[28]ring,Mak rustic poets o' him sing;For nane can touch the fiddle-stringSae weel as Patie Birnie.He cheers the sage, the sour, the sad,Maks youngsters a rin louping mad,Heads grow giddy, hearts grow glad,Enchanted wi' Pate Birnie.
The witching tones o' Patie's therm,Mak farmer chiels forget their farm,Sailors forget the howling storm,When dancing to Pate Birnie.Pate maks the fool forget his freaks,Maks baxter bodies burn their bakes,And gowkies gie their hame the glaiks,And follow Patie Birnie.
When Patie taks his strolling rounds,To feasts or fairs in ither towns,Wark bodies fling their trantlooms doun,To hear the famous Birnie.The crabbit carles forget to snarl,The canker'd cuiffs forget to quarrel,And gilphies forget the stock and horle,And dance to Patie Birnie.
William Park was not born in lawful wedlock. His grandfather, Andrew Park, occupied for many years the farm of Efgill, in the parish of Westerkirk, and county of Dumfries. He had two sons, William and James, who were both men of superior intelligence, and both of them writers of verses. William, the poet's father, having for a brief period served as a midshipman, emigrated to the island of Grenada, where he first acted as the overseer of an estate, but was afterwards appointed to a situation in the Customs at St George's, and became the proprietor and editor of a newspaper, called theSt George's Chronicle. In the year 1795, he was slain when bravely heading an encounter with a body of French insurgents. His son, the subject of this memoir, was born at Crooks, in the parish of Westerkirk, on the 22d of February 1788, and was brought up under the care of his grandfather. He received an ordinary training at the parochial school; and when his grandfather relinquished his farm to a higher bidder, he was necessitated to seek employment as a cow-herd. In 1805, he proceeded as a farm-servant to the farm of Cassock, in the parish of Eskdalemuir. In 1809, he entered the service of the Rev. Dr Brown,[29]minister ofEskdalemuir, and continued to occupy the position ofminister's mantill the death of that clergyman, many years afterwards.
From his early years, Park had cultivated a taste for literature. The parishioners of Westerkirk have long been commended for their inquisitive turn of mind; many years ago they established a subscription library, to which Mr Telford, the celebrated engineer, who was a native of the parish, bequeathed a legacy of a thousand pounds. The rustic poet suddenly emerged from his obscurity, when he was encouraged to publish a volume entitled "The Vale of Esk, and other Poems," Edin., 1833, 12mo. About the same period he became a contributor of poetry toBlackwood's Magazine, and a writer of prose articles in the provincial newspapers. On the death of Dr Brown, in 1837, he took, in conjunction with a son-in-law, a lease of the farm of Holmains, in the parish of Dalton, and now enjoyed greater leisure for the prosecution of his literary tastes. In May 1843, he undertook the editorship of theDumfries Standardnewspaper; but had just commenced his duties, when he was seized with an illness which proved fatal. He died at Holmains on the 5th June 1843. His widow still lives in Eskdalemuir; and of their numerous family, some have emigrated to America.
Park's compositions were not strictly lyrical, but "The Patriot's Song," which we have selected from his volume, seems worthy of a place in the national minstrelsy. His style is smooth and flowing, and he evinces a passionate admiration of the beautiful in nature.
Shall I leave thee, thou land to my infancy dear,Ere I know aught of toil or of woe,For the clime of the stranger, the solitude drear,And a thousand endearments forego?Shall I give my lone bosom a prey to its strife?Must I friendship's just claims disallow?No; her breathings can cool the hot fever of life,As the breeze fans the sea-beaten brow.'Tis said that the comforts of plenty aboundIn the wide-spreading plains of the west;That there an asylum of peace shall be foundWhere the care-stricken wanderer may rest.That nature uncheck'd there displays all her prideIn the forest unfading and deep;That the river rolls onward its ocean-like tide,Encircling broad realms in its sweep.But is there a spot in that far distant landWhere fancy or feeling may dwell?Or how shall the heart of the exile expand,Untouch'd by Society's spell?Though thy children, old Albyn! adversity bear,As forlorn o'er thy mountains they roam,Yet I 've found, what in vain I should seek for elsewhere—I have found 'mong these mountains a home.How lovely the beam on thy moorland appears,As it streams from the eye of the morn!And how comely the garment that evening wearsWhen the day of its glories is shorn!Ah! strong are the ties that the patriot bind,Fair isle of the sea! to thy shore;The turf that he treads, by the best of their kind,By the bravest, was trodden before.Nor is there a field—not a foot of thy soil,In dale or in mountain-land dun,Unmark'd in the annals of chivalrous toil,Ere concord its conquest had won.The rill hath a voice from the rock as it pours,It comes from the glen on the gale,For the life-blood of martyrs hath hallow'd thy muirs,And their names are revered in the vale.How sacred the stone that, remote on the heath,O'er the bones of the righteous was laid,Who triumph'd in death o'er the foes of their faith,When the banner of truth was display'd!And sweet are the songs of the land of my love,And soothing their tones to the soul,Or lofty and loud, like the thunder above,Or the storm-cloud of passion, they roll.While summer, beyond the Atlantic's wide waste,A gaudier garb may assume,My country! thou boastest the verdure of taste,And thy glories immortally bloom.No! I will not forsake thee, thou land of my lay!The scorn of the stranger to brave;O'er thy lea I have revell'd in youth's sunny ray,And thy wild-flowers shall spangle my grave.
Shall I leave thee, thou land to my infancy dear,Ere I know aught of toil or of woe,For the clime of the stranger, the solitude drear,And a thousand endearments forego?
Shall I give my lone bosom a prey to its strife?Must I friendship's just claims disallow?No; her breathings can cool the hot fever of life,As the breeze fans the sea-beaten brow.
'Tis said that the comforts of plenty aboundIn the wide-spreading plains of the west;That there an asylum of peace shall be foundWhere the care-stricken wanderer may rest.
That nature uncheck'd there displays all her prideIn the forest unfading and deep;That the river rolls onward its ocean-like tide,Encircling broad realms in its sweep.
But is there a spot in that far distant landWhere fancy or feeling may dwell?Or how shall the heart of the exile expand,Untouch'd by Society's spell?
Though thy children, old Albyn! adversity bear,As forlorn o'er thy mountains they roam,Yet I 've found, what in vain I should seek for elsewhere—I have found 'mong these mountains a home.
How lovely the beam on thy moorland appears,As it streams from the eye of the morn!And how comely the garment that evening wearsWhen the day of its glories is shorn!
Ah! strong are the ties that the patriot bind,Fair isle of the sea! to thy shore;The turf that he treads, by the best of their kind,By the bravest, was trodden before.
Nor is there a field—not a foot of thy soil,In dale or in mountain-land dun,Unmark'd in the annals of chivalrous toil,Ere concord its conquest had won.
The rill hath a voice from the rock as it pours,It comes from the glen on the gale,For the life-blood of martyrs hath hallow'd thy muirs,And their names are revered in the vale.
How sacred the stone that, remote on the heath,O'er the bones of the righteous was laid,Who triumph'd in death o'er the foes of their faith,When the banner of truth was display'd!
And sweet are the songs of the land of my love,And soothing their tones to the soul,Or lofty and loud, like the thunder above,Or the storm-cloud of passion, they roll.
While summer, beyond the Atlantic's wide waste,A gaudier garb may assume,My country! thou boastest the verdure of taste,And thy glories immortally bloom.
No! I will not forsake thee, thou land of my lay!The scorn of the stranger to brave;O'er thy lea I have revell'd in youth's sunny ray,And thy wild-flowers shall spangle my grave.
Thomas Pringle was born on the 5th of January 1789 at Blaiklaw, in Teviotdale, a farm rented by his father, and of which his progenitors had been tenants for a succession of generations. By an accident in infancy, he suffered dislocation of one of his limbs, which rendered the use of crutches necessary for life. Attending the grammar school of Kelso for three years, he entered as a student the University of Edinburgh. From his youth he had devoted himself to extensive reading, and during his attendance at college he formed the resolution of adopting literature as a profession. In 1808 he accepted the appointment of copying-clerk in the General Register House, occupying his intervals of leisure in composition. He published, in 1811—in connexion with his ingenious friend, Robert Story, the present minister of Roseneath—a poem entitled, "The Institute," which obtained a considerable share of public favour. In 1816 he became a contributor to Campbell's "Albyn's Anthology;" and produced an excellent imitation of the poetical style of Sir Walter Scott for Hogg's "Poetic Mirror." Concurring with Hogg in a proposal to establish a new monthly periodical, in order to supersede theScots' Magazine, which had much sunk in the literary scale, he united with him in submitting the scheme to Mr Blackwood, who was then becoming known as an enterprising publisher. By Mr Blackwoodthe proposal was well received; a periodical was originated under the title of theEdinburgh Monthly Magazine, and Pringle relinquished his post in the Register House to undertake the editorship. In April 1817 the first number of the magazine appeared, adorned with contributions from Wilson, Lockhart, the Shepherd, and others of literary reputation. An interesting article on "Gypsies" was Pringle's own contribution, the materials being kindly supplied to him by Sir Walter Scott. The occurrence of serious differences between the editor and publisher, however, soon menaced the continuance of a periodical which had commenced so prosperously; the result was, the withdrawal of Pringle from the concern, and an announcement in the September number that the magazine was discontinued. The discontinuance was merely nominal: a new series, under the title ofBlackwood's Magazine, appeared in October, under the literary superintendence of Wilson; while, in the August preceding, Pringle had originated, under the publishing auspices of Mr Constable,The Edinburgh Magazine and Literary Miscellany, as a new series of theScots' Magazine. In the first number of Mr Blackwood's new series appeared the celebrated "Chaldee MS.," a humorous pasquinade, chiefly directed against Pringle and his literary friend Cleghorn, and which, on account of its evident personalities, was afterwards cancelled.
Besides conducting Constable's magazine, Pringle undertook the editorship ofThe Star, a bi-weekly newspaper; but he was led soon to renounce both these literary appointments. He now published the "Autumnal Excursion, and other Poems;" but finding, in spite of every effort, that he was unable to support himself by literature, he resumed, early in 1819, his humble situation in the Register House.
When his literary affairs were prosperous, Pringle had entered into the married state, but his present emoluments were wholly unequal to the comfortable maintenance of his family. He formed the resolution of emigrating to South Africa, then a favourite colony, and a number of his wife's relatives and his own consented to accompany him. In February 1820 he embarked for the Cape, along with his father and other relatives, in all numbering twenty-four persons. The emigrants landed on the 5th of June, and forthwith took possession of the territory assigned them by the home government, extending to 20,000 acres, situate in the upper part of the valley of Baaviars river, a tributary of the Great Fish river. In this place, which the colonists designated Glen-lynden, Pringle remained about two years, till his friends were comfortably settled. He thereafter proceeded to Cape Town, in quest of literary employment. He was appointed keeper of the Government library, with a salary of £75, and soon after found himself at the head of a flourishing educational establishment. He now established a periodical, which he designated theSouth African Commercial Advertiser, and became editor of a weekly newspaper, originated by an enterprising printer. But misfortune continued to attend his literary adventures: in consequence of certain interferences of the local government, he was compelled to abandon both his periodical and newspaper, while the opposition of the administrative officials led to his seminary being deserted. Leaving the colony for Britain, he arrived in London in July 1826; and failing to obtain from the home government a reparation of his losses in the colony, he was necessitated anew to seek a precarious subsistence from literature. An article which he had written on slavery, intheNew Monthly Magazine, led to his appointment as secretary to the Anti-slavery Society. This situation, so admirably suited to his talents and predilections, he continued to hold till the office became unnecessary, by the legislative abolition of slavery on the 27th of June 1834. He now became desirous of returning to the Cape, but was meanwhile seized with a pulmonary affection, which proved fatal on the 5th December 1834, in his forty-sixth year. His remains were interred in Bunhill-field Cemetery, where a tombstone, with an inscription by his poetical friend William Kennedy, has been erected to his memory.
As a poet, Pringle is chiefly remarkable for elegance of versification, perspicuity of sentiment, and deep and generous feeling. A thorough patriot, some of his best songs on subjects connected with Scottish scenery were written on the plains of Africa. Beneficent in disposition, and conciliatory in private intercourse, he was especially uncompromising in the maintenance of his political opinions; and to this peculiarity may be traceable some of his earlier misfortunes. In person he was under the middle height; his countenance was open and benignant, with a well developed forehead. He was much influenced by sincere religious convictions. His poetical works, with a memoir by Mr Leitch Ritchie, have been published by Mr Moxon for the benefit of his widow.
Our native land—our native vale—A long, a last adieu;Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale,And Cheviot's mountains blue!Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds,Ye streams renown'd in song;Farewell, ye braes and blossom'd meads,Our hearts have loved so long!Farewell, the blithsome broomy knowes,Where thyme and harebells grow;Farewell, the hoary, haunted howes,O'erhung with birk and sloe!The mossy cave and mouldering tower,That skirt our native dells;The martyr's grave and lover's bower,We bid a sad farewell!Home of our love—our fathers' home—Land of the brave and free—The sail is flapping on the foamThat bears us far from thee!We seek a wild and distant shore,Beyond the western main;We leave thee to return no more,Nor view thy cliffs again!Our native land—our native vale—A long, a last adieu!Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale,And Scotland's mountains blue!
Our native land—our native vale—A long, a last adieu;Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale,And Cheviot's mountains blue!
Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds,Ye streams renown'd in song;Farewell, ye braes and blossom'd meads,Our hearts have loved so long!
Farewell, the blithsome broomy knowes,Where thyme and harebells grow;Farewell, the hoary, haunted howes,O'erhung with birk and sloe!
The mossy cave and mouldering tower,That skirt our native dells;The martyr's grave and lover's bower,We bid a sad farewell!
Home of our love—our fathers' home—Land of the brave and free—The sail is flapping on the foamThat bears us far from thee!
We seek a wild and distant shore,Beyond the western main;We leave thee to return no more,Nor view thy cliffs again!
Our native land—our native vale—A long, a last adieu!Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale,And Scotland's mountains blue!
By the lone Mankayana's margin grayA Scottish maiden sung;And mournfully pour'd her melting layIn Teviot's border-tongue:O bonnie grows the broom on Blaiklaw knowes,And the birk in Clifton dale;And green are the hills o' the milk-white ewes,By the briery banks o' Cayle!Here bright are the skies; and these valleys of bloomMay enchant the traveller's eye;But all seems dress'd in death-like gloom,To the exile who comes to die!O bonnie grows the broom, &c.Far round and round spreads the howling waste,Where the wild beast roams at will;And yawning cleughs, by woods embraced,Where the savage lurks to kill!O bonnie grows the broom, &c.Full oft over Cheviot's uplands greenMy dreaming fancy strays;But I wake to weep 'mid the desolate sceneThat scowls on my aching gaze!O bonnie grows the broom,&c.Oh light, light is poverty's lowliest state,On Scotland's peaceful strand,Compared with the heart-sick exile's fate,In this wild and weary land!O bonnie grows the broom, &c.
By the lone Mankayana's margin grayA Scottish maiden sung;And mournfully pour'd her melting layIn Teviot's border-tongue:O bonnie grows the broom on Blaiklaw knowes,And the birk in Clifton dale;And green are the hills o' the milk-white ewes,By the briery banks o' Cayle!
Here bright are the skies; and these valleys of bloomMay enchant the traveller's eye;But all seems dress'd in death-like gloom,To the exile who comes to die!O bonnie grows the broom, &c.
Far round and round spreads the howling waste,Where the wild beast roams at will;And yawning cleughs, by woods embraced,Where the savage lurks to kill!O bonnie grows the broom, &c.
Full oft over Cheviot's uplands greenMy dreaming fancy strays;But I wake to weep 'mid the desolate sceneThat scowls on my aching gaze!O bonnie grows the broom,&c.
Oh light, light is poverty's lowliest state,On Scotland's peaceful strand,Compared with the heart-sick exile's fate,In this wild and weary land!O bonnie grows the broom, &c.
I love the free ridge of the mountain,When dawn lifts her fresh dewy eye;I love the old ash by the fountain,When noon's summer fervours are high:And dearly I love when the gray-mantled gloamingAdown the dim valley glides slowly along,And finds me afar by the pine-forest roaming,A-list'ning the close of the gray linnet's song.When the moon from her fleecy cloud scattersOver ocean her silvery light,And the whisper of woodlands and watersComes soft through the silence of night—I love by the ruin'd tower lonely to linger,A-dreaming to fancy's wild witchery given,And hear, as if swept by some seraph's pure finger,The harp of the winds breathing accents of heaven.Yet still, 'mid sweet fancies o'erflowing,Oft bursts from my lone breast the sigh—I yearn for the sympathies glowing,When hearts to each other reply!Come, friend of my bosom! with kindred devotion,To worship with me by wild mountain and grove;O come, my Eliza, with dearer emotion,With rapture to hallow the chaste home of love!
I love the free ridge of the mountain,When dawn lifts her fresh dewy eye;I love the old ash by the fountain,When noon's summer fervours are high:And dearly I love when the gray-mantled gloamingAdown the dim valley glides slowly along,And finds me afar by the pine-forest roaming,A-list'ning the close of the gray linnet's song.
When the moon from her fleecy cloud scattersOver ocean her silvery light,And the whisper of woodlands and watersComes soft through the silence of night—I love by the ruin'd tower lonely to linger,A-dreaming to fancy's wild witchery given,And hear, as if swept by some seraph's pure finger,The harp of the winds breathing accents of heaven.
Yet still, 'mid sweet fancies o'erflowing,Oft bursts from my lone breast the sigh—I yearn for the sympathies glowing,When hearts to each other reply!Come, friend of my bosom! with kindred devotion,To worship with me by wild mountain and grove;O come, my Eliza, with dearer emotion,With rapture to hallow the chaste home of love!
Come awa', come awa',An' o'er the march wi' me, lassie;Leave your southren wooers a',My winsome bride to be, lassie!Lands nor gear I proffer you,Nor gauds to busk ye fine, lassie;But I 've a heart that 's leal and true,And a' that heart is thine, lassie!Come awa', come awa',And see the kindly north, lassie,Out o'er the peaks o' Lammerlair,And by the Links o' Forth, lassie!And when we tread the heather-bell,Aboon Demayat lea, lassie,You 'll view the land o' flood and fell,The noble north countrie, lassie!Come awa', come awa',And leave your southland hame, lassie;The kirk is near, the ring is here,And I 'm your Donald Græme, lassie!Rock and reel and spinning-wheel,And English cottage trig, lassie;Haste, leave them a', wi' me to speelThe braes 'yont Stirling brig, lassie!Come awa', come awa',I ken your heart is mine, lassie,And true love shall make up for a'For whilk ye might repine, lassie!Your father he has gi'en consent,Your step-dame looks na kind, lassie;O that our feet were on the bent,An' the lowlands far behind, lassie!Come awa', come awa',Ye 'll ne'er hae cause to rue, lassie;My cot blinks blithe beneath the shaw,By bonnie Avondhu, lassie!There 's birk and slae on ilka brae,And brackens waving fair, lassie,And gleaming lochs and mountains gray—Can aught wi' them compare, lassie?Come awa', come awa', &c.
Come awa', come awa',An' o'er the march wi' me, lassie;Leave your southren wooers a',My winsome bride to be, lassie!Lands nor gear I proffer you,Nor gauds to busk ye fine, lassie;But I 've a heart that 's leal and true,And a' that heart is thine, lassie!
Come awa', come awa',And see the kindly north, lassie,Out o'er the peaks o' Lammerlair,And by the Links o' Forth, lassie!And when we tread the heather-bell,Aboon Demayat lea, lassie,You 'll view the land o' flood and fell,The noble north countrie, lassie!
Come awa', come awa',And leave your southland hame, lassie;The kirk is near, the ring is here,And I 'm your Donald Græme, lassie!Rock and reel and spinning-wheel,And English cottage trig, lassie;Haste, leave them a', wi' me to speelThe braes 'yont Stirling brig, lassie!
Come awa', come awa',I ken your heart is mine, lassie,And true love shall make up for a'For whilk ye might repine, lassie!Your father he has gi'en consent,Your step-dame looks na kind, lassie;O that our feet were on the bent,An' the lowlands far behind, lassie!
Come awa', come awa',Ye 'll ne'er hae cause to rue, lassie;My cot blinks blithe beneath the shaw,By bonnie Avondhu, lassie!There 's birk and slae on ilka brae,And brackens waving fair, lassie,And gleaming lochs and mountains gray—Can aught wi' them compare, lassie?Come awa', come awa', &c.
Dearest love, believe me,Though all else depart,Nought shall e'er deceive theeIn this faithful heart.Beauty may be blighted—Youth must pass away;But the vows we plightedNe'er shall know decay.Tempests may assail usFrom affliction's coast,Fortune's breeze may fail usWhen we need it most;Fairest hopes may perish,Firmest friends may change,But the love we cherishNothing shall estrange.Dreams of fame and grandeurEnd in bitter tears;Love grows only fonderWith the lapse of years;Time, and change, and trouble,Weaker ties unbind,But the bands redoubleTrue affection twined.
Dearest love, believe me,Though all else depart,Nought shall e'er deceive theeIn this faithful heart.Beauty may be blighted—Youth must pass away;But the vows we plightedNe'er shall know decay.
Tempests may assail usFrom affliction's coast,Fortune's breeze may fail usWhen we need it most;Fairest hopes may perish,Firmest friends may change,But the love we cherishNothing shall estrange.
Dreams of fame and grandeurEnd in bitter tears;Love grows only fonderWith the lapse of years;Time, and change, and trouble,Weaker ties unbind,But the bands redoubleTrue affection twined.
William Knox, a short-lived poet of considerable merit, was born at Firth, in the parish of Lilliesleaf, Roxburghshire, on the 17th August 1789. His father, Thomas Knox, espoused Barbara Turnbull, the widow of a country gentleman, Mr Pott of Todrig, in Selkirkshire; and of this marriage, William was the eldest son. He was educated at the parish school of Lilliesleaf, and, subsequently, at the grammar school of Musselburgh. In 1812, he became lessee of the farm of Wrae, near Langholm, Dumfriesshire; but his habits were not those of a thriving farmer, and, at the expiry of five years, he was led to abandon his lease. His parents had, meanwhile, removed to the farm of Todrig, and he returned thither to the shelter of the parental roof. In 1820, the family, who had fallen into straitened circumstances, proceeded to Edinburgh, where they opened a lodging-house. William now devoted his attention to literature, contributing extensively to the public journals. From his youth he had composed verses. In 1818, he published "The Lonely Hearth, and other Poems," 12mo; in 1824, "The Songs of Israel," 12mo; and in April 1825, a third duodecimo volume of lyrics, entitled "The Harp of Zion." His poetical merits attracted the notice of Sir Walter Scott, who afforded him kindly countenance and occasional pecuniary assistance. He likewise enjoyed the friendly encouragement of Professor Wilson, and other men of letters.
Of amiable and benevolent dispositions, Knox fell a victim to the undue gratification of his social propensities; he was seized with paralysis, and died at Edinburgh on the 12th of November 1825, at the early age of thirty-six. His poetry, always smooth and harmonious, is largely pervaded with pathetic and religious sentiment. Some of his Scriptural paraphrases are exquisite specimens of sacred verse. A new edition of his poetical works was published at London, in 1847. Besides his poetical works, he published "A Visit to Dublin," and a Christmas tale entitled "Marianne, or the Widower's Daughter." He left several compositions in prose and verse, but these have not been published by his executors.
Knox was short in stature, but handsomely formed; his complexion was fair, and his hair of a light colour. Subject to a variation of spirits in private, he was generally cheerful in society. He sang or repeated his own songs with much enthusiasm, and was keenly alive to his literary reputation. Possessing a fund of humour, he excelled in relating curious anecdotes.