All lovely and bright, 'mid the desert of time,Seem the days when I wander'd with you,Like the green isles that swell in this far distant clime,On the deeps that are trackless and blue.And now, while the torrent is loud on the hill,And the howl of the forest is drear,I think of the lapse of our own native rill—I think of thy voice with a tear.The light of my taper is fading away,It hovers, and trembles, and dies;The far-coming morn on her sea-paths is gray,But sleep will not come to mine eyes.Yet why should I ponder, or why should I grieveO'er the joys that my childhood has known?We may meet, when the dew-flowers are fragrant at eve,As we met in the days that are gone.
All lovely and bright, 'mid the desert of time,Seem the days when I wander'd with you,Like the green isles that swell in this far distant clime,On the deeps that are trackless and blue.
And now, while the torrent is loud on the hill,And the howl of the forest is drear,I think of the lapse of our own native rill—I think of thy voice with a tear.
The light of my taper is fading away,It hovers, and trembles, and dies;The far-coming morn on her sea-paths is gray,But sleep will not come to mine eyes.
Yet why should I ponder, or why should I grieveO'er the joys that my childhood has known?We may meet, when the dew-flowers are fragrant at eve,As we met in the days that are gone.
Though a native of Ireland, Charles Doyne Sillery has some claim to enrolment among the minstrels of Caledonia. His mother was a Scotchwoman, and he was himself brought up and educated in Edinburgh. He was born at Athlone, in Ireland, on the 2d of March 1807. His father, who bore the same Christian and middle names, was a captain of the Royal Artillery.[24]He distinguished himself in the engagements of Talavera on the 27th and 28th of July 1809; but from his fatigues died soon after. His mother, Catherine Fyfe, was the youngest daughter of Mr Barclay Fyfe, merchant in Leith. She subsequently became the wife of James Watson, Esq., now of Tontley Hall, Berkshire.
Of lively and playful dispositions, Sillery did not derive much advantage from scholastic training. His favourite themes were poetry and music, and these he assiduously cultivated, much to the prejudice of otherimportant studies. At a subsequent period he devoted himself with ardour to his improvement in general knowledge. He read extensively, and became conversant with the ancient and some of the modern languages. Disappointed in obtaining a commission in the Royal Artillery, on which he had calculated, he proceeded to India as midshipman in a merchant vessel. Conceiving a dislike to a seafaring life, after a single voyage, he entered on the study of medicine in the University of Edinburgh. From early youth he composed verses. In 1829, while only in his twenty-second year, he published, by subscription, a poem, in nine cantos, entitled "Vallery; or, the Citadel of the Lake." This production, which refers to the times of Chivalry, was well received; and, in the following year, the author ventured on the publication of a second poem, in two books, entitled "Eldred of Erin." In the latter composition, which is pervaded by devotional sentiment, the poet details some of his personal experiences. In 1834 he published, in a small duodecimo volume, "The Exiles of Chamouni; a Drama," a production which received only a limited circulation. About the same period, he became a contributor of verses to theEdinburgh Literary Journal. He ultimately undertook the editorial superintendence of a religious periodical.
Delicate in constitution, and of a highly nervous temperament, Sillery found the study of medicine somewhat uncongenial, and had formed the intention of qualifying himself for the Church. He calculated on early ecclesiastical preferment through the favour of Her Majesty Queen Adelaide, to whom he had been presented, and who had evinced some interest on his behalf. But his prospects were soon clouded by the slow but certain progress of an insidious malady. He was seizedwith pulmonary consumption, and died at Edinburgh on the 16th May 1836, in his twenty-ninth year.
Of sprightly and winning manners, Sillery was much cherished in the literary circles of the capital. He was of the ordinary height, and of an extremely slender figure; and his eye, remarkably keen and piercing, was singularly indicative of power. Poetry, in its every department, he cherished with the devotion of an enthusiast; and though sufficiently modest on the subject of his own poetical merits, he took delight in singing his own songs. Interested in the history of the Middle Ages, he had designed to publish an "Account of Ancient Chivalry." Latterly, his views were more concentrated on the subject of religion. Shortly before his death, he composed a "Discourse on the Sufferings of Christ," the proof-sheets of which he corrected on his deathbed. As a poet, with more advanced years, he would have obtained a distinguished place. With occasional defects, the poem of "Vallery" is possessed of much boldness of imagery, and force and elegance of expression.
She died in beauty! like a roseBlown from its parent stem;She died in beauty! like a pearlDropp'd from some diadem.She died in beauty! like a layAlong a moonlit lake;She died in beauty! like the songOf birds amid the brake.She died in beauty! like the snowOn flowers dissolved away;She died in beauty! like a starLost on the brow of day.Shelivesin glory! like night's gemsSet round the silver moon;She lives in glory! like the sunAmid the blue of June!
She died in beauty! like a roseBlown from its parent stem;She died in beauty! like a pearlDropp'd from some diadem.
She died in beauty! like a layAlong a moonlit lake;She died in beauty! like the songOf birds amid the brake.
She died in beauty! like the snowOn flowers dissolved away;She died in beauty! like a starLost on the brow of day.
Shelivesin glory! like night's gemsSet round the silver moon;She lives in glory! like the sunAmid the blue of June!
Let the proud Indian boast of his jessamine bowers,His pastures of perfume, and rose-cover'd dells;While humbly I sing of those wild little flowers—The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue-bells.Wave, wave your dark plumes, ye proud sons of the mountain,For brave is the chieftain your prowess who quells,And dreadful your wrath as the foam-flashing fountain,That calms its wild waves 'mid the Scottish blue-bells.Then strike the loud harp to the land of the river,The mountain, the valley, with all their wild spells,And shout in the chorus for ever and ever—The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue-bells.Sublime are your hills when the young day is beaming,And green are your groves with their cool crystal wells,And bright are your broadswords, like morning dews gleamingOn blue-bells of Scotland, on Scottish blue-bells.Awake! ye light fairies that trip o'er the heather,Ye mermaids, arise from your coralline cells—Come forth with your chorus, all chanting together—The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue-bells.Then strike the loud harp to the land of the river,The mountain, the valley, with all their wild spells,And shout in the chorus for ever and ever—The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue-bells.
Let the proud Indian boast of his jessamine bowers,His pastures of perfume, and rose-cover'd dells;While humbly I sing of those wild little flowers—The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue-bells.
Wave, wave your dark plumes, ye proud sons of the mountain,For brave is the chieftain your prowess who quells,And dreadful your wrath as the foam-flashing fountain,That calms its wild waves 'mid the Scottish blue-bells.
Then strike the loud harp to the land of the river,The mountain, the valley, with all their wild spells,And shout in the chorus for ever and ever—The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue-bells.
Sublime are your hills when the young day is beaming,And green are your groves with their cool crystal wells,And bright are your broadswords, like morning dews gleamingOn blue-bells of Scotland, on Scottish blue-bells.
Awake! ye light fairies that trip o'er the heather,Ye mermaids, arise from your coralline cells—Come forth with your chorus, all chanting together—The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue-bells.
Then strike the loud harp to the land of the river,The mountain, the valley, with all their wild spells,And shout in the chorus for ever and ever—The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue-bells.
Robert Miller, the author of the two following songs, was a native of Glasgow, and was educated for the legal profession. He contributed verses to the periodicals, but did not venture on any separate publication. He died at Glasgow, in September 1834, at the early age of twenty-four. His "Lay of the Hopeless" was written within a few days of his decease.
The loved of early days!Where are they?—where?Not on the shining braes,The mountains bare;—Not where the regal streamsTheir foam-bells cast—Where childhood's time of dreamsAnd sunshine pass'd.Some in the mart, and someIn stately halls,With the ancestral gloomOf ancient walls;Some where the tempest sweepsThe desert waves;Some where the myrtle weepsOn Roman graves.And pale young faces gleamWith solemn eyes;Like a remember'd dreamThe dead arise;In the red track of warThe restless sweep;In sunlit graves afarThe loved ones sleep.The braes are dight with flowers,The mountain streamsFoam past me in the showersOf sunny gleams;But the light hearts that castA glory there,In the rejoicing past,Where are they?—where?
The loved of early days!Where are they?—where?Not on the shining braes,The mountains bare;—Not where the regal streamsTheir foam-bells cast—Where childhood's time of dreamsAnd sunshine pass'd.
Some in the mart, and someIn stately halls,With the ancestral gloomOf ancient walls;Some where the tempest sweepsThe desert waves;Some where the myrtle weepsOn Roman graves.
And pale young faces gleamWith solemn eyes;Like a remember'd dreamThe dead arise;In the red track of warThe restless sweep;In sunlit graves afarThe loved ones sleep.
The braes are dight with flowers,The mountain streamsFoam past me in the showersOf sunny gleams;But the light hearts that castA glory there,In the rejoicing past,Where are they?—where?
Oh! would that the wind that is sweeping nowO'er the restless and weary wave,Were swaying the leaves of the cypress boughO'er the calm of my early grave—And my heart with its pulses of fire and life,Oh! would it were still as stone.I am weary, weary, of all the strife,And the selfish world I 've known.I 've drunk up bliss from a mantling cup,When youth and joy were mine;But the cold black dregs are floating up,Instead of the laughing wine;And life hath lost its loveliness,And youth hath spent its hour,And pleasure palls like bitterness,And hope hath not a flower.And love! was it not a glorious eyeThat smiled on my early dream?It is closed for aye, where the long weeds sigh,In the churchyard by the stream:And fame—oh! mine were gorgeous hopesOf a flashing and young renown:But early, early the flower-leaf dropsFrom the withering seed-cup down.And beauty! have I not worshipp'd allHer shining creations well?The rock—the wood—the waterfall,Where light or where love might dwell.But over all, and on my heart,The mildew hath fallen sadly,I have no spirit, I have no partIn the earth that smiles so gladly!I only sigh for a quiet bright spotIn the churchyard by the stream,Whereon the morning sunbeams float,And the stars at midnight dream;Where only Nature's sounds may wakeThe sacred and silent air,And only her beautiful things may breakThrough the long grass gathering there.
Oh! would that the wind that is sweeping nowO'er the restless and weary wave,Were swaying the leaves of the cypress boughO'er the calm of my early grave—And my heart with its pulses of fire and life,Oh! would it were still as stone.I am weary, weary, of all the strife,And the selfish world I 've known.
I 've drunk up bliss from a mantling cup,When youth and joy were mine;But the cold black dregs are floating up,Instead of the laughing wine;And life hath lost its loveliness,And youth hath spent its hour,And pleasure palls like bitterness,And hope hath not a flower.
And love! was it not a glorious eyeThat smiled on my early dream?It is closed for aye, where the long weeds sigh,In the churchyard by the stream:And fame—oh! mine were gorgeous hopesOf a flashing and young renown:But early, early the flower-leaf dropsFrom the withering seed-cup down.
And beauty! have I not worshipp'd allHer shining creations well?The rock—the wood—the waterfall,Where light or where love might dwell.But over all, and on my heart,The mildew hath fallen sadly,I have no spirit, I have no partIn the earth that smiles so gladly!
I only sigh for a quiet bright spotIn the churchyard by the stream,Whereon the morning sunbeams float,And the stars at midnight dream;Where only Nature's sounds may wakeThe sacred and silent air,And only her beautiful things may breakThrough the long grass gathering there.
Alexander Hume was born at Kelso on the 1st of February 1809. His father, Walter Hume, occupied a respectable position as a retail trader in that town. Of the early history of our author little has been ascertained. His first teacher was Mr Ballantyne of Kelso, a man somewhat celebrated in his vocation. To his early preceptor's kindness of heart, Hume frequently referred with tears. While under Mr Ballantyne's scholastic superintendence, his love of nature first became apparent. After school hours it was his delight to wander by the banks of the Tweed, or reclining on its brink, to listen to the music of its waters. From circumstances into which we need not inquire, his family was induced to remove from Kelso to London. The position they occupied we have not learned; but young Hume is remembered as being a quick, intelligent, and most affectionate boy, eager, industrious, self-reliant, and with an occasional dash of independence that made him both feared and loved. He might have been persuaded to adopt almost any view, but an attempt at coercion only excited a spirit of antagonism. To use an old and familiar phrase, "he might break, but he would not bend."
About this period (1822 or 1823), when irritated by those who had authority over him, he suddenly disappeared from home, and allied himself to a company of strolling players, with whom he associated for several months. He had an exquisite natural voice, and sungthe melting melodies of Scotland in a manner seldom equalled. With the itinerant manager he was a favourite, because he was fit for anything—tragedy, comedy, farce, a hornpipe, and, if need be, a comic song, in which making faces at the audience was an indispensable accomplishment. His greatest hit, we are told, was in the absurdly extravagant song, "I am such a Beautiful Boy;" when he used to say that in singing one verse, he opened his mouth so wide that he had difficulty in closing it; but it appears he had neither difficulty nor reluctance in closing his engagement. Getting tired of his new profession, and disgusted with his associates, poorly clad and badly fed, he slipped away when his companions were fast asleep, and returned to London. Here, weary and footsore, he presented himself to a relative, who received him kindly, and placed him in a position where by industry he might provide for his necessities.
In 1827, he obtained a situation with Forbes & Co. of Mark Lane, the highly respectable agents for Berwick & Co. of Edinburgh, the celebrated brewers of Scotch ale. His position being one of considerable responsibility, he was obliged to find security in the sum of £500, which he obtained from the relative who had always stood his friend. But such was his probity and general good conduct, that his employers cancelled the security, and returned the bond as a mark of their appreciation of his integrity and worth.
About this period it was that he first gave utterance to his feelings in verse. Impulsive and impassioned naturally, his first strong attachment roused the deepest feelings of the man, and awoke the dormant passion of the poet. The non-success of his first wooing only made his song the more vehement for a while, but as no flamecan burn intensely for ever, his love became more subdued, and his song gradually assumed that touching pathos which has ever characterised the best lyrics of Scotland.
Some time between the years 1830 and 1833, he became a member of the Literary and Scientific Institution, Aldersgate Street, where he made the acquaintance of many kindred spirits, young men of the same standing as himself, chiefly occupied in the banks, offices, and warehouses of the city of London. There they had classes established for the study of history, for the discussion of philosophical and literary subjects, and for the practice of elocution. The recitations of the several members awoke the embers that smouldered in his heart from the time he had left the stage. His early experience had made him acquainted with the manner in which the voice ought to be modulated to make the utterance effective; and although he seldom ventured to recite, he was always a fair critic and a deeply interested auditor. The young ambition of a few had led them to aspire to authorship, and they established a monthly magazine. Although the several articles were not of the highest order, they were, nevertheless, quite equal to the average periodical writings of the day. In this magazine it is believed that Hume published his first song. It had been sent in the ordinary way, signedDaft Wattie, and the editor, not appreciating the northern dialect in which it was written, had tossed it aside. Shortly afterwards, one of the managers on turning over the rejected papers was attracted by the verses, read them, and was charmed. He placed them back in the editor's box, certifying them as fit for publication by writing across them,
"Musical as is Apollo's lute,"
"Musical as is Apollo's lute,"
to which he signed his name, William Raine. This circumstance soon led to an intimate acquaintance with Mr Raine, who was a man of considerable original power, excellent education, and of a social and right manly nature. This new acquaintance coloured the whole of Hume's future life. They became fast friends, and were inseparable. The imagination of Hume was restrained by the acute judgment and critical ability of Mr Raine. When Hume published his first volume of "Songs," it would perhaps be difficult to determine whether their great success and general popularity resulted from the poet whose name they bore, or from the friend who weighed and suggested corrections in almost every song, until they finally came before the public in a collected form. The volume was dedicated to Allan Cunningham, and in the preface he says: "I composed them by no rules excepting those which my own observation and feelings formed; I knew no other. As I thought and felt, so have I written. Of all poetical compositions, songs, especially those of the affections, should be natural, warm gushes of feeling—brief, simple, and condensed. As soon as they have left the singer's lips, they should be fast around the hearer's heart."
In 1837, Hume married Miss Scott, a lady well calculated to attract the eye and win the heart of a poet. He remained connected with the house of Berwick & Co. until 1840, when, to recover his health, which had been failing for some time, he was advised to visit America, where he travelled for several months. On his return to England, he entered into an engagement with the Messrs Lane of Cork, then the most eminent brewers in the south of Ireland. To this work he devoted himself with great energy, and was duly rewarded for his labour by almost immediate success. The articlehe sold became exceedingly popular in the metropolis; nor was he disappointed in the hope of realising considerable pecuniary advantages.
For several years he had written very little. The necessity to make provision for a rapidly increasing family, and the ambition to take a high position in the business he had chosen, occupied his every hour, and became with him a passion as strong as had ever moved him in works of the imagination.
In 1847 there were slight indications of a return of the complaint from which he had suffered in 1840, and he again crossed the Atlantic. Although he returned considerably improved in health, he was by no means well. Fortunately he had secured the services of a Mr Macdonald as an assistant in his business, whose exertions in his interest were unremitting. Mr Hume's health gradually declined, and ultimately incapacitated him for the performance of any commercial duty. In May 1851 he died at Northampton, leaving a widow and six children.
As a song writer, Hume is entitled to an honourable place among those authors whose writings have been technically called "the Untutored Muse of Scotland." His style is eminently graceful, and a deep and genuine pathos pervades his compositions. We confidently predict that some of his lyrics are destined to obtain a lasting popularity. In 1845, a complete edition of his "Songs and Poems" was published at London in a thin octavo volume.
Air—"The Boatie Rows."
My wee wife dwells in yonder cot,My bonnie bairnies three;Oh! happy is the husband's lot,Wi' bairnies on his knee.My wee, wee wife, my wee, wee wife,My bonnie bairnies three;How bright is day how sweet is life!When love lights up the e'e.The king o'er me may wear a crown,Have millions bow the knee,But lacks he love to share his throne,How poor a king is he!My wee, wee wife, my wee, wee wife,My bonnie bairnies three,Let kings ha'e thrones, 'mang warld's strife,Your hearts are thrones to me.I 've felt oppression's galling chain,I 've shed the tear o' care,But feeling aye lost a' its pain,When my wee wife was near.My wee, wee wife, my wee, wee wife,My bonnie bairnies three,The chains we wear are sweet to bear,How sad could we go free!
My wee wife dwells in yonder cot,My bonnie bairnies three;Oh! happy is the husband's lot,Wi' bairnies on his knee.My wee, wee wife, my wee, wee wife,My bonnie bairnies three;How bright is day how sweet is life!When love lights up the e'e.
The king o'er me may wear a crown,Have millions bow the knee,But lacks he love to share his throne,How poor a king is he!My wee, wee wife, my wee, wee wife,My bonnie bairnies three,Let kings ha'e thrones, 'mang warld's strife,Your hearts are thrones to me.
I 've felt oppression's galling chain,I 've shed the tear o' care,But feeling aye lost a' its pain,When my wee wife was near.My wee, wee wife, my wee, wee wife,My bonnie bairnies three,The chains we wear are sweet to bear,How sad could we go free!
Air—"The Posie."
Eliza was a bonnie lass, and oh! she lo'ed me weel,Sic love as canna find a tongue, but only hearts can feel;But I was poor, her faither doure, he wadna look on me;O poverty! O poverty! that love should bow to thee.I went unto her mother, and I argued and I fleech'd,I spak o' love and honesty, and mair and mair beseech'd;But she was deaf to a' my grief, she wadna look on me;O poverty! O poverty! that love should bow to thee.I next went to her brother, and I painted a' my pain,I told him o' our plighted troth, but it was a' in vain;Though he was deep in love himsel', nae feeling he'd for me;O poverty! O poverty! that love should bow to thee.Oh! wealth it makes the fool a sage, the knave an honest man,And canker'd gray locks young again, if he has gear and lan';To age maun beauty ope her arms, though wi' a tearfu' e'e;O poverty! O poverty! that love should bow to thee.But wait a wee, oh! love is slee, and winna be said nay,It breaks a' chains, except its ain, but it will ha'e its way;In spite o' fate we took the gate, now happy as can be;O poverty! O poverty! we're wed in spite o' thee.
Eliza was a bonnie lass, and oh! she lo'ed me weel,Sic love as canna find a tongue, but only hearts can feel;But I was poor, her faither doure, he wadna look on me;O poverty! O poverty! that love should bow to thee.
I went unto her mother, and I argued and I fleech'd,I spak o' love and honesty, and mair and mair beseech'd;But she was deaf to a' my grief, she wadna look on me;O poverty! O poverty! that love should bow to thee.
I next went to her brother, and I painted a' my pain,I told him o' our plighted troth, but it was a' in vain;Though he was deep in love himsel', nae feeling he'd for me;O poverty! O poverty! that love should bow to thee.
Oh! wealth it makes the fool a sage, the knave an honest man,And canker'd gray locks young again, if he has gear and lan';To age maun beauty ope her arms, though wi' a tearfu' e'e;O poverty! O poverty! that love should bow to thee.
But wait a wee, oh! love is slee, and winna be said nay,It breaks a' chains, except its ain, but it will ha'e its way;In spite o' fate we took the gate, now happy as can be;O poverty! O poverty! we're wed in spite o' thee.
Air—"Fee him, Father."
There 's mony a flower beside the rose,And sweets beside the honey;But laws maun change ere life discloseA flower or sweet like Nanny.Her e'e is like the summer sun,When clouds can no conceal it,Ye 're blind if it ye look upon,Oh! mad if ere ye feel it.I 've mony bonnie lassies seen,Baith blithesome, kind, an' canny;But oh! the day has never beenI 've seen another Nanny!She 's like the mavis in her sang,Amang the brakens bloomin',Her lips ope to an angel's tongue,But kiss her, oh! she's woman.
There 's mony a flower beside the rose,And sweets beside the honey;But laws maun change ere life discloseA flower or sweet like Nanny.Her e'e is like the summer sun,When clouds can no conceal it,Ye 're blind if it ye look upon,Oh! mad if ere ye feel it.
I 've mony bonnie lassies seen,Baith blithesome, kind, an' canny;But oh! the day has never beenI 've seen another Nanny!She 's like the mavis in her sang,Amang the brakens bloomin',Her lips ope to an angel's tongue,But kiss her, oh! she's woman.
Air—"The Posie."
My Bessie, oh! but look upon these bonnie budding flowers,Oh! do they no remember ye o' mony happy hours,When on this green and gentle hill we aften met to play,An' ye were like the morning sun, an' life a nightless day?The gowans blossom'd bonnilie, I 'd pu' them from the stem,An' rin in noisy blithesomeness to thee, my Bess, wi' them,To place them in thy lily breast, for ae sweet smile on me,I saw nae mair the gowans then, then saw I only thee.Like two fair roses on a tree, we flourish'd an' we grew,An' as we grew, sweet love grew too, an' strong 'tween me an' you;How aft ye 'd twine your gentle arms in love about my neck,An' breathe young vows that after-years o' sorrow has na brak!We 'd raise our lisping voices in auld Coila's melting lays,An' sing that tearfu' tale about Doon's bonnie banks and braes;But thoughtna' we o' banks and braes, except those at our feet,Like yon wee birds we sang our sang, yet ken'd no that 'twas sweet.Oh! is na this a joyous day, a' Nature's breathing forth,In gladness an' in loveliness owre a' the wide, wide earth?The linties they are lilting love, on ilka bush an' tree,Oh! may such joy be ever felt, my Bess, by thee and me!
My Bessie, oh! but look upon these bonnie budding flowers,Oh! do they no remember ye o' mony happy hours,When on this green and gentle hill we aften met to play,An' ye were like the morning sun, an' life a nightless day?
The gowans blossom'd bonnilie, I 'd pu' them from the stem,An' rin in noisy blithesomeness to thee, my Bess, wi' them,To place them in thy lily breast, for ae sweet smile on me,I saw nae mair the gowans then, then saw I only thee.
Like two fair roses on a tree, we flourish'd an' we grew,An' as we grew, sweet love grew too, an' strong 'tween me an' you;How aft ye 'd twine your gentle arms in love about my neck,An' breathe young vows that after-years o' sorrow has na brak!
We 'd raise our lisping voices in auld Coila's melting lays,An' sing that tearfu' tale about Doon's bonnie banks and braes;But thoughtna' we o' banks and braes, except those at our feet,Like yon wee birds we sang our sang, yet ken'd no that 'twas sweet.
Oh! is na this a joyous day, a' Nature's breathing forth,In gladness an' in loveliness owre a' the wide, wide earth?The linties they are lilting love, on ilka bush an' tree,Oh! may such joy be ever felt, my Bess, by thee and me!
Air—"Heigh-ho! for Somebody."
A wee bird sits upon a spray,And aye it sings o' Menie Hay,The burthen o' its cheery layIs "Come away, dear Menie Hay!Sweet art thou, O Menie Hay!Fair I trow, O Menie Hay!There 's not a bonnie flower in MayShows a bloom wi' Menie Hay."A light in yonder window 's seen,And wi' it seen is Menie Hay;Wha gazes on the dewy green,Where sits the bird upon the spray?"Sweet art thou, O Menie Hay!Fair I trow, O Menie Hay!At sic a time, in sic a way,What seek ye there, O Menie Hay?""What seek ye there, my daughter dear?What seek ye there, O Menie Hay?""Dear mother, but the stars sae clearAround the bonnie Milky Way.""Sweet are thou, O Menie Hay!Slee I trow, O Menie Hay!Ye something see ye daurna say,Paukie, winsome Menie Hay!"The window 's shut, the light is gane,And wi' it gane is Menie Hay;But wha is seen upon the green,Kissing sweetly Menie Hay?"Sweet art thou, O Menie Hay!Slee I trow, O Menie Hay!For ane sae young ye ken the way,And far from blate, O Menie Hay!""Gae scour the country, hill and dale;Oh! waes me, where is Menie Hay?Search ilka nook, in town or vale,For my daughter, Menie Hay.""Sweet art thou, O Menie Hay!Slee I trow, O Menie Hay!I wish you joy, young Johnie Fay,O' your bride, sweet Menie Hay."
A wee bird sits upon a spray,And aye it sings o' Menie Hay,The burthen o' its cheery layIs "Come away, dear Menie Hay!Sweet art thou, O Menie Hay!Fair I trow, O Menie Hay!There 's not a bonnie flower in MayShows a bloom wi' Menie Hay."
A light in yonder window 's seen,And wi' it seen is Menie Hay;Wha gazes on the dewy green,Where sits the bird upon the spray?"Sweet art thou, O Menie Hay!Fair I trow, O Menie Hay!At sic a time, in sic a way,What seek ye there, O Menie Hay?"
"What seek ye there, my daughter dear?What seek ye there, O Menie Hay?""Dear mother, but the stars sae clearAround the bonnie Milky Way.""Sweet are thou, O Menie Hay!Slee I trow, O Menie Hay!Ye something see ye daurna say,Paukie, winsome Menie Hay!"
The window 's shut, the light is gane,And wi' it gane is Menie Hay;But wha is seen upon the green,Kissing sweetly Menie Hay?"Sweet art thou, O Menie Hay!Slee I trow, O Menie Hay!For ane sae young ye ken the way,And far from blate, O Menie Hay!"
"Gae scour the country, hill and dale;Oh! waes me, where is Menie Hay?Search ilka nook, in town or vale,For my daughter, Menie Hay.""Sweet art thou, O Menie Hay!Slee I trow, O Menie Hay!I wish you joy, young Johnie Fay,O' your bride, sweet Menie Hay."
I 've wander'd on the sunny hill, I 've wander'd in the vale,Where sweet wee birds in fondness meet to breathe their am'rous tale;But hills or vales, or sweet wee birds, nae pleasures gae to me—The light that beam'd its ray on me was Love's sweet glance from thee.The rising sun, in golden beams, dispels the night's dark gloom—The morning dew to rose's hue imparts a freshening bloom;But sunbeams ne'er so brightly play'd in dance o'er yon glad sea,Nor roses laved in dew sae sweet as Love's sweet glance from thee.I love thee as the pilgrims love the water in the sand,When scorching rays or blue simoom sweep o'er their withering hand;The captive's heart nae gladlier beats when set from prison free,Than I when bound wi' Beauty's chain in Love's sweet glance from thee.I loved thee, bonnie Bessie, as the earth adores the sun,I ask'd nae lands, I craved nae gear, I prized but thee alone;Ye smiled in look, but no in heart—your heart was no for me;Ye planted hope that never bloom'd in Love's sweet glance from thee.
I 've wander'd on the sunny hill, I 've wander'd in the vale,Where sweet wee birds in fondness meet to breathe their am'rous tale;But hills or vales, or sweet wee birds, nae pleasures gae to me—The light that beam'd its ray on me was Love's sweet glance from thee.
The rising sun, in golden beams, dispels the night's dark gloom—The morning dew to rose's hue imparts a freshening bloom;But sunbeams ne'er so brightly play'd in dance o'er yon glad sea,Nor roses laved in dew sae sweet as Love's sweet glance from thee.
I love thee as the pilgrims love the water in the sand,When scorching rays or blue simoom sweep o'er their withering hand;The captive's heart nae gladlier beats when set from prison free,Than I when bound wi' Beauty's chain in Love's sweet glance from thee.
I loved thee, bonnie Bessie, as the earth adores the sun,I ask'd nae lands, I craved nae gear, I prized but thee alone;Ye smiled in look, but no in heart—your heart was no for me;Ye planted hope that never bloom'd in Love's sweet glance from thee.
Oh! years hae come, an' years hae gane,Sin' first I sought the warld alane,Sin' first I mused wi' heart sae fainOn the hills o' Caledonia.But oh! behold the present gloom,My early friends are in the tomb,And nourish now the heather bloomOn the hills o' Caledonia.My father's name, my father's lot,Is now a tale that 's heeded not,Or sang unsung, if no forgotOn the hills o' Caledonia.O' our great ha' there 's left nae stane—A' swept away, like snaw lang gane;Weeds flourish o'er the auld domainOn the hills o' Caledonia.The Ti'ot's banks are bare and high,The stream rins sma' an' mournfu' by,Like some sad heart maist grutten dryOn the hills o' Caledonia.The wee birds sing no frae the tree,The wild-flowers bloom no on the lea,As if the kind things pitied meOn the hills o' Caledonia.But friends can live, though cold they lie,An' mock the mourner's tear an' sigh,When we forget them, then they dieOn the hills o' Caledonia.An' howsoever changed the scene,While mem'ry an' my feeling 's green,Still green to my auld heart an' e'enAre the hills o' Caledonia.
Oh! years hae come, an' years hae gane,Sin' first I sought the warld alane,Sin' first I mused wi' heart sae fainOn the hills o' Caledonia.But oh! behold the present gloom,My early friends are in the tomb,And nourish now the heather bloomOn the hills o' Caledonia.
My father's name, my father's lot,Is now a tale that 's heeded not,Or sang unsung, if no forgotOn the hills o' Caledonia.O' our great ha' there 's left nae stane—A' swept away, like snaw lang gane;Weeds flourish o'er the auld domainOn the hills o' Caledonia.
The Ti'ot's banks are bare and high,The stream rins sma' an' mournfu' by,Like some sad heart maist grutten dryOn the hills o' Caledonia.The wee birds sing no frae the tree,The wild-flowers bloom no on the lea,As if the kind things pitied meOn the hills o' Caledonia.
But friends can live, though cold they lie,An' mock the mourner's tear an' sigh,When we forget them, then they dieOn the hills o' Caledonia.An' howsoever changed the scene,While mem'ry an' my feeling 's green,Still green to my auld heart an' e'enAre the hills o' Caledonia.
Air—"Gala Water."
My mountain hame, my mountain hame!My kind, my independent mother;While thought and feeling rule my frame,Can I forget the mountain heather?Scotland dear!I love to hear your daughters dearThe simple tale in song revealing,Whene'er your music greets my earMy bosom swells wi' joyous feeling—Scotland dear!Though I to other lands may gae,Should Fortune's smile attend me thither,I 'll hameward come, whene'er I may,And look again on the mountain heather—Scotland dear!When I maun die, oh! I would lieWhere life and me first met together;That my cauld clay, through its decay,Might bloom again in the mountain heather—Scotland dear!
My mountain hame, my mountain hame!My kind, my independent mother;While thought and feeling rule my frame,Can I forget the mountain heather?Scotland dear!
I love to hear your daughters dearThe simple tale in song revealing,Whene'er your music greets my earMy bosom swells wi' joyous feeling—Scotland dear!
Though I to other lands may gae,Should Fortune's smile attend me thither,I 'll hameward come, whene'er I may,And look again on the mountain heather—Scotland dear!
When I maun die, oh! I would lieWhere life and me first met together;That my cauld clay, through its decay,Might bloom again in the mountain heather—Scotland dear!
A poet and indefatigable prose-writer, Thomas Smibert was born in Peebles on the 8th February 1810. Of his native town his father held for a period the office of chief magistrate. With a view of qualifying himself for the medical profession, he became apprentice to an apothecary, and afterwards attended the literary and medical classes in the University of Edinburgh. Obtaining licence as a surgeon, he commenced practice in the village of Inverleithen, situated within six miles of his native town. He was induced to adopt this sphere of professional labour from an affection which he had formed for a young lady in the vicinity, who, however, did not recompense his devotedness, but accepted the hand of a more prosperous rival. Disappointed in love, and with a practice scarcely yielding emolument sufficient to pay the annual rent of his apothecary's store, he left Inverleithen after the lapse of a year, and returned to Peebles. He now began to turn his attention to literature, and was fortunate in procuring congenial employment from the Messrs Chambers, as a contributor to their popularJournal. Of this periodical he soon attained the position of sub-editor; and in evidence of the indefatigable nature of his services in this literary connexion, it is worthy of record that, during the period intervening between 1837 and 1842, he contributed to theJournalno fewer than five hundred essays, one hundred tales, and about fifty biographical sketches. Within the same period he edited a new edition of Paley's "Natural Theology," with scientific notes, and wroteextensively for a work of the Messrs Chambers, entitled "Information for the People." In 1842, he was appointed to the sub-editorship of theScotsmannewspaper. The bequest of a relative afterwards enabled him to relinquish stated literary occupation, but he continued to exhibit to the world pleasing evidences of his learning and industry. He became a frequent contributor toHogg's Instructor, an Edinburgh weekly periodical; produced a work on "Greek History;" and collated a "Rhyming Dictionary." A large, magnificently illustrated volume, the "Clans of the Highlands of Scotland," was his most ambitious and successful effort as a prose-writer. His poetical compositions, which were scattered among a number of the periodicals, he was induced to collect and publish in a volume, with the title, "Io Anche! Poems chiefly Lyrical;" Edinburgh, 1851, 12mo. An historical play from his pen, entitled "Condé's Wife," founded on the love of Henri Quatre for Marguerite de Montmorency, whom the young Prince of Condé had wedded, was produced in 1842 by Mr Murray in the Theatre Royal, Edinburgh, and during a run of nine nights was received with applause.
Smibert died at Edinburgh on the 16th January 1854, in his forty-fourth year. With pleasing manners, he was possessed of kindly dispositions, and was much cherished for his intelligent and interesting conversation. In person he was strong built, and his complexion was fair and ruddy. He was not undesirous of reputation both as a poet and prose-writer, and has recorded his regret that he had devoted so much time to evanescent periodical literature. His poetry is replete with patriotic sentiment, and his strain is forcible and occasionally brilliant. His songs indicate a fine fancy and deep pathos.
Afore the Lammas tideHad dun'd the birken-tree,In a' our water sideNae wife was bless'd like me.A kind gudeman, and twaSweet bairns were 'round me here,But they're a' ta'en awa'Sin' the fa' o' the year.Sair trouble cam' our gate,And made me, when it cam',A bird without a mate,A ewe without a lamb.Our hay was yet to maw,And our corn was to shear,When they a' dwined awa'In the fa' o' the year.I downa look a-field,For aye I trow I seeThe form that was a bieldTo my wee bairns and me;But wind, and weet, and snaw,They never mair can fear,Sin' they a' got the ca'In the fa' o' the year.Aft on the hill at e'ens,I see him 'mang the ferns—The lover o' my teens,The faither o' my bairns;For there his plaid I saw,As gloamin' aye drew near,But my a's now awa'Sin' the fa' o' the year.Our bonnie rigs theirsel',Reca' my waes to mind;Our puir dumb beasties tellO' a' that I hae tyned;For wha our wheat will saw,And wha our sheep will shear,Sin' my a' gaed awa'In the fa' o' the year?My hearth is growing cauld,And will be caulder still,And sair, sair in the fauldWill be the winter's chill;For peats were yet to ca',Our sheep they were to smear,When my a' passed awa'In the fa' o' the year.I ettle whiles to spin,But wee, wee patterin' feetCome rinnin' out and in,And then I just maun greet;I ken it 's fancy a',And faster rows the tear,That my a' dwined awa'In the fa' o' the year.Be kind, O Heaven abune!To ane sae wae and lane,And tak' her hamewards suneIn pity o' her maen.Lang ere the March winds blaw,May she, far far frae here,Meet them a' that's awaSin' the fa' o' the year!
Afore the Lammas tideHad dun'd the birken-tree,In a' our water sideNae wife was bless'd like me.A kind gudeman, and twaSweet bairns were 'round me here,But they're a' ta'en awa'Sin' the fa' o' the year.
Sair trouble cam' our gate,And made me, when it cam',A bird without a mate,A ewe without a lamb.Our hay was yet to maw,And our corn was to shear,When they a' dwined awa'In the fa' o' the year.
I downa look a-field,For aye I trow I seeThe form that was a bieldTo my wee bairns and me;But wind, and weet, and snaw,They never mair can fear,Sin' they a' got the ca'In the fa' o' the year.
Aft on the hill at e'ens,I see him 'mang the ferns—The lover o' my teens,The faither o' my bairns;For there his plaid I saw,As gloamin' aye drew near,But my a's now awa'Sin' the fa' o' the year.
Our bonnie rigs theirsel',Reca' my waes to mind;Our puir dumb beasties tellO' a' that I hae tyned;For wha our wheat will saw,And wha our sheep will shear,Sin' my a' gaed awa'In the fa' o' the year?
My hearth is growing cauld,And will be caulder still,And sair, sair in the fauldWill be the winter's chill;For peats were yet to ca',Our sheep they were to smear,When my a' passed awa'In the fa' o' the year.
I ettle whiles to spin,But wee, wee patterin' feetCome rinnin' out and in,And then I just maun greet;I ken it 's fancy a',And faster rows the tear,That my a' dwined awa'In the fa' o' the year.
Be kind, O Heaven abune!To ane sae wae and lane,And tak' her hamewards suneIn pity o' her maen.Lang ere the March winds blaw,May she, far far frae here,Meet them a' that's awaSin' the fa' o' the year!
Once more on the broad-bosom'd ocean appearingThe banner of England is spread to the breeze,And loud is the cheering that hails the uprearingOf glory's loved emblem, the pride of the seas.No tempest shall daunt her,No victor-foe taunt her,What manhood can do in her cause shall be done—Britannia's best seaman,The boast of her freemen,Will conquer or die by his colours and gun.On Acre's proud turrets an ensign is flying,Which stout hearts are banded till death to uphold;And bold is their crying, and fierce their defying,When trench'd in their ramparts, unconquer'd of old.But lo! in the offing,To punish their scoffing,Brave Napier appears, and their triumph is done;No danger can stay him,No foeman dismay him,He conquers or dies by his colours and gun.Now low in the dust is the Crescent flag humbled,Its warriors are vanquish'd, their freedom is gone;The strong walls have tumbled, the proud towers are crumbled,And England's flag waves over ruin'd St John.But Napier now tendersTo Acre's defendersThe aid of a friend when the combat is won;For mercy's sweet blossomBlooms fresh in his bosom,Who conquers or dies by his colours and gun."All hail to the hero!" his country is calling,And "hail to his comrades!" the faithful and brave,They fear'd not for falling, they knew no appalling,But fought like their fathers, the lords of the wave.And long may the ocean,In calm and commotion,Rejoicing convey them where fame may be won,And when foes would wound usMay Napier be round us,To conquer or die by their colours and gun!
Once more on the broad-bosom'd ocean appearingThe banner of England is spread to the breeze,And loud is the cheering that hails the uprearingOf glory's loved emblem, the pride of the seas.No tempest shall daunt her,No victor-foe taunt her,What manhood can do in her cause shall be done—Britannia's best seaman,The boast of her freemen,Will conquer or die by his colours and gun.
On Acre's proud turrets an ensign is flying,Which stout hearts are banded till death to uphold;And bold is their crying, and fierce their defying,When trench'd in their ramparts, unconquer'd of old.But lo! in the offing,To punish their scoffing,Brave Napier appears, and their triumph is done;No danger can stay him,No foeman dismay him,He conquers or dies by his colours and gun.
Now low in the dust is the Crescent flag humbled,Its warriors are vanquish'd, their freedom is gone;The strong walls have tumbled, the proud towers are crumbled,And England's flag waves over ruin'd St John.But Napier now tendersTo Acre's defendersThe aid of a friend when the combat is won;For mercy's sweet blossomBlooms fresh in his bosom,Who conquers or dies by his colours and gun.
"All hail to the hero!" his country is calling,And "hail to his comrades!" the faithful and brave,They fear'd not for falling, they knew no appalling,But fought like their fathers, the lords of the wave.And long may the ocean,In calm and commotion,Rejoicing convey them where fame may be won,And when foes would wound usMay Napier be round us,To conquer or die by their colours and gun!