The e'e o' the dawn, Eliza,Blinks over the dark green sea,An' the moon 's creepin' down to the hill-tap,Richt dim and drowsilie.An' the music o' the mornin'Is murmurin' alang the air;Yet still my dowie heart lingersTo catch one sweet throb mair.We've been as blest, Eliza,As children o' earth can be,Though my fondest wish has been knit byThe bonds of povertie;An' through life's misty sojourn,That still may be our fa',But hearts that are link'd for everHa'e strength to bear it a'.The cot by the mutterin' burnie,Its wee bit garden an' field,May ha'e mair o' the blessin's o' HeavenThan lichts o' the lordliest bield;There 's many a young brow braidedWi' jewels o' far-off isles,But woe may be drinkin' the heart-springs,While we see nought but smiles.But adieu, my ain Eliza!Where'er my wanderin's be,Undyin' remembrance will make theeThe star o' my destinie;An' well I ken, thou loved one,That aye, till I return,Thou 'lt treasure pure faith in thy bosom,Like a gem in a gowden urn.
The e'e o' the dawn, Eliza,Blinks over the dark green sea,An' the moon 's creepin' down to the hill-tap,Richt dim and drowsilie.An' the music o' the mornin'Is murmurin' alang the air;Yet still my dowie heart lingersTo catch one sweet throb mair.
We've been as blest, Eliza,As children o' earth can be,Though my fondest wish has been knit byThe bonds of povertie;An' through life's misty sojourn,That still may be our fa',But hearts that are link'd for everHa'e strength to bear it a'.
The cot by the mutterin' burnie,Its wee bit garden an' field,May ha'e mair o' the blessin's o' HeavenThan lichts o' the lordliest bield;There 's many a young brow braidedWi' jewels o' far-off isles,But woe may be drinkin' the heart-springs,While we see nought but smiles.
But adieu, my ain Eliza!Where'er my wanderin's be,Undyin' remembrance will make theeThe star o' my destinie;An' well I ken, thou loved one,That aye, till I return,Thou 'lt treasure pure faith in thy bosom,Like a gem in a gowden urn.
A poet of remarkable ingenuity and power, Dugald Moore was born in Stockwell Street, Glasgow, in 1805. His father, who was a private soldier in one of the Highland regiments, died early in life, leaving his mother in circumstances of poverty. From his mother's private tuition, he received the whole amount of his juvenile education. When a child he was sent to serve as a tobacco-boy for a small pittance of wages, and as a youth was received into the copper-printing branch of the establishment of Messrs James Lumsden and Son, booksellers, Queen Street. He very early began to write verses, and some of his compositions having attracted the notice of Mr Lumsden, senior, that benevolent gentleman afforded him every encouragement in the prosecution of his literary tastes. Through Mr Lumsden's personal exertions in procuring subscribers, he was enabled to lay before the public in 1829 a volume of poems entitled "The African, a Tale, and other Poems." Of this work a second edition was required in the following year, when he likewise gave to the world a second volume, with the title "Scenes from the Flood; the Tenth Plague, and other Poems." "The Bridal Night, and other Poems," a volume somewhat larger than its predecessors, appeared from his pen in 1831. The profits of these publications enabled him to commence on his own account as a bookseller and stationer in the city. His shop, No. 96 Queen Street, became therendezvous of men of letters, and many of the influential families gave its occupant the benefit of their custom.
In 1833, Moore published "The Bard of the North, a series of Poetical Tales, illustrative of Highland Scenery and Character;" in 1835, "The Hour of Retribution, and other Poems;" and in 1839, "The Devoted One, and other Poems." He died unmarried, after a brief illness, on the 2d January 1841, in his thirty-sixth year, leaving a competency for the support of his aged mother. Buried in the Necropolis of the city, a massive monument, surmounted by a bust, has been raised by his personal friends in tribute to his memory. Though slightly known to fame, Moore is entitled to rank among the most gifted of the modern national poets. Possessed of a vigorous conception, a lofty fancy, intense energy of feeling, and remarkable powers of versification, his poetry is everywhere impressed with the most decided indications of genius. He has chosen the grandest subjects, which he has adorned with the richest illustration, and an imagery copious and sublime. Had he occupied his Muse with themes less exalted, he might have enjoyed a wider temporary popularity; as it is, his poems will find admirers in future times.
Rise, my love! the moon, unclouded,Wanders o'er the dark blue sea;Sleep the tyrant's eye has shrouded,Hynda comes to set thee free!Leave those vaults of pain and sorrow,On the long and dreaming deep;A bower will greet us ere to-morrow,Where our eyes may cease to weep.Oh! some little isle of gladness,Smiling in the waters clear,Where the dreary tone of sadnessNever smote the lonely ear—Soon will greet us, and deliverSouls so true, to freedom's plan;Death may sunder us, but neverTyrant's threats, nor fetters can.Then our lute's exulting numbers,Unrestrain'd will wander on,While the night has seal'd in slumbers,Fair creation, all her own.And we'll wed, while music stealethThrough the starry fields above,While each bounding spirit feelethAll the luxury of love.Then we'll scorn oppression's minions,All the despot's bolts and powers;While Time wreathes his heavy pinionsWith love's brightest passion-flowers.Rise, then! let us fly together,Now the moon laughs on the sea;East or west, I care not whither,When with love and liberty!
Rise, my love! the moon, unclouded,Wanders o'er the dark blue sea;Sleep the tyrant's eye has shrouded,Hynda comes to set thee free!Leave those vaults of pain and sorrow,On the long and dreaming deep;A bower will greet us ere to-morrow,Where our eyes may cease to weep.
Oh! some little isle of gladness,Smiling in the waters clear,Where the dreary tone of sadnessNever smote the lonely ear—Soon will greet us, and deliverSouls so true, to freedom's plan;Death may sunder us, but neverTyrant's threats, nor fetters can.
Then our lute's exulting numbers,Unrestrain'd will wander on,While the night has seal'd in slumbers,Fair creation, all her own.And we'll wed, while music stealethThrough the starry fields above,While each bounding spirit feelethAll the luxury of love.
Then we'll scorn oppression's minions,All the despot's bolts and powers;While Time wreathes his heavy pinionsWith love's brightest passion-flowers.Rise, then! let us fly together,Now the moon laughs on the sea;East or west, I care not whither,When with love and liberty!
Born where the glorious star-lights traceIn mountain snows their silver face,Where Nature, vast and rude,Looks as if by her God design'dTo fill the bright eternal mind,With her fair magnitude.Hers was a face, to which was givenLess portion of the earth than heaven,As if each trait had stoleIts hue from Nature's shapes of light;As if stars, flowers, and all things brightHad join'd to form her soul.Her heart was young—she loved to breatheThe air which spins the mountain's wreath,To wander o'er the wild,To list the music of the deep,To see the round stars on it sleep,For she was Nature's child!Nursed where the soul imbibes the printOf freedom—where nought comes to taint,Or its warm feelings quell:She felt love o'er her spirit driven,Such as the angels felt in heaven,Before they sinn'd and fell.Her mind was tutor'd from its birth,From all that's beautiful on earth—Lights which cannot expire—From all their glory, she had caughtA lustre, till each sense seem'd fraughtWith heaven's celestial fire.The desert streams familiar grown,The stars had language of their own,The hills contain'd a voiceWith which she could converse, and bringA charm from each insensate thing,Which bade her soul rejoice.She had the feeling and the fire,That fortune's stormiest blast could tire,Though delicate and young;Her bosom was not formed to bend—Adversity, that firmest friend,Had all its fibres strung.Such was my love—she scorn'd to hideA passion which she deem'd a pride!Oft have we sat and view'dThe beauteous stars walk through the night,And Cynthia lift her sceptre bright,To curb old Ocean's mood.She'd clasp me as if ne'er to part,That I might feel her beating heart—Might read her living eye;Then pause! I've felt the pure tide rollThrough every vein, which to my soul,Said—Nature could not lie.
Born where the glorious star-lights traceIn mountain snows their silver face,Where Nature, vast and rude,Looks as if by her God design'dTo fill the bright eternal mind,With her fair magnitude.
Hers was a face, to which was givenLess portion of the earth than heaven,As if each trait had stoleIts hue from Nature's shapes of light;As if stars, flowers, and all things brightHad join'd to form her soul.
Her heart was young—she loved to breatheThe air which spins the mountain's wreath,To wander o'er the wild,To list the music of the deep,To see the round stars on it sleep,For she was Nature's child!
Nursed where the soul imbibes the printOf freedom—where nought comes to taint,Or its warm feelings quell:She felt love o'er her spirit driven,Such as the angels felt in heaven,Before they sinn'd and fell.
Her mind was tutor'd from its birth,From all that's beautiful on earth—Lights which cannot expire—From all their glory, she had caughtA lustre, till each sense seem'd fraughtWith heaven's celestial fire.
The desert streams familiar grown,The stars had language of their own,The hills contain'd a voiceWith which she could converse, and bringA charm from each insensate thing,Which bade her soul rejoice.
She had the feeling and the fire,That fortune's stormiest blast could tire,Though delicate and young;Her bosom was not formed to bend—Adversity, that firmest friend,Had all its fibres strung.
Such was my love—she scorn'd to hideA passion which she deem'd a pride!Oft have we sat and view'dThe beauteous stars walk through the night,And Cynthia lift her sceptre bright,To curb old Ocean's mood.
She'd clasp me as if ne'er to part,That I might feel her beating heart—Might read her living eye;Then pause! I've felt the pure tide rollThrough every vein, which to my soul,Said—Nature could not lie.
My spirit could its vigil holdFor ever at this silent spot;But, ah! the heart within is cold,The sleeper heeds me not:The fairy scenes of love and youth,The smiles of hope, the tales of truth,By her are all forgot:Her spirit with my bliss is fled—I only weep above the dead!I need not view the grassy swell,Nor stone escutcheon'd fair;I need no monument to tellThat thou art lying there:I feel within, a world like this,A fearful blank in all my bliss—An agonized despair,Which paints the earth in cheerful bloom,But tells me, thou art in the tomb!I knew Death's fatal power, alasCould doom man's hopes to pine,But thought that many a year would passBefore he scatter'd mine!Too soon he quench'd our morning rays,Brief were our loves of early days—Brief as those bolts that shineWith beautiful yet transient form,Round the dark fringes of the storm!I little thought, when first we met,A few short months would seeThy sun, before its noontide, setIn dark eternity!While love was beaming from thy face,A lover's eye but ill could traceAught that obscured its ray;So calm its pain thy bosom bore,I thought not death was at its core!The silver moon is shining nowUpon thy lonely bed,Pale as thine own unblemish'd brow,Cold as thy virgin head;She seems to breathe of many a dayNow shrouded with thee in the clay,Of visions that have fled,When we beneath her holy flame,Dream'd over hopes that never came!Hark! 'tis the solemn midnight bell,It mars the hallow'd scene;And must we bid again—farewell!Must life still intervene?Its charms are vain! my heart is laidE'en with thine own, celestial maid!A few short days have beenAn age of pain—a few may beA welcome passport, love! to thee.
My spirit could its vigil holdFor ever at this silent spot;But, ah! the heart within is cold,The sleeper heeds me not:The fairy scenes of love and youth,The smiles of hope, the tales of truth,By her are all forgot:Her spirit with my bliss is fled—I only weep above the dead!
I need not view the grassy swell,Nor stone escutcheon'd fair;I need no monument to tellThat thou art lying there:I feel within, a world like this,A fearful blank in all my bliss—An agonized despair,Which paints the earth in cheerful bloom,But tells me, thou art in the tomb!
I knew Death's fatal power, alasCould doom man's hopes to pine,But thought that many a year would passBefore he scatter'd mine!Too soon he quench'd our morning rays,Brief were our loves of early days—Brief as those bolts that shineWith beautiful yet transient form,Round the dark fringes of the storm!
I little thought, when first we met,A few short months would seeThy sun, before its noontide, setIn dark eternity!While love was beaming from thy face,A lover's eye but ill could traceAught that obscured its ray;So calm its pain thy bosom bore,I thought not death was at its core!
The silver moon is shining nowUpon thy lonely bed,Pale as thine own unblemish'd brow,Cold as thy virgin head;She seems to breathe of many a dayNow shrouded with thee in the clay,Of visions that have fled,When we beneath her holy flame,Dream'd over hopes that never came!
Hark! 'tis the solemn midnight bell,It mars the hallow'd scene;And must we bid again—farewell!Must life still intervene?Its charms are vain! my heart is laidE'en with thine own, celestial maid!A few short days have beenAn age of pain—a few may beA welcome passport, love! to thee.
'Tis finish'd, they 've died for their forefathers' land,As the patriot sons of the mountain should die,With the mail on each bosom, the sword in each hand,On the heath of the desert they lie.Like their own mountain eagles they rush'd to the fight,Like the oaks of their deserts they braved its rude blast;Their blades in the morning look'd dazzling and bright,But red when the battle was past.They rush'd on, exulting in honour, and metThe foes of their country in battle array;But the sun of their glory in darkness hath set,And the flowers of the forest are faded away!Oh! far from the scenes of their childhood they sleep,No friend of their bosom, no loved one is near,To add a gray stone to their cairns on the steep,Or drop o'er their ashes a tear.
'Tis finish'd, they 've died for their forefathers' land,As the patriot sons of the mountain should die,With the mail on each bosom, the sword in each hand,On the heath of the desert they lie.Like their own mountain eagles they rush'd to the fight,Like the oaks of their deserts they braved its rude blast;Their blades in the morning look'd dazzling and bright,But red when the battle was past.
They rush'd on, exulting in honour, and metThe foes of their country in battle array;But the sun of their glory in darkness hath set,And the flowers of the forest are faded away!Oh! far from the scenes of their childhood they sleep,No friend of their bosom, no loved one is near,To add a gray stone to their cairns on the steep,Or drop o'er their ashes a tear.
The sky in beauty arch'dThe wide and weltering flood,While the winds in triumph march'dThrough their pathless solitude—Rousing up the plume on ocean's hoary crest,That like space in darkness slept,When his watch old Silence kept,Ere the earliest planet leaptFrom its breast.A speck is on the deeps,Like a spirit in her flight;How beautiful she keepsHer stately path in light!She sweeps the shining wilderness in glee—The sun has on her smiled,And the waves, no longer wild,Sing in glory round that childOf the sea.'Twas at the set of sunThat she tilted o'er the flood,Moving like God aloneO'er the glorious solitude—The billows crouch around her as her slaves.How exulting are her crew—Each sight to them is new,As they sweep along the blueOf the waves!Fair herald of the fleetsThat yet shall cross the wave,Till the earth with ocean meetsOne universal grave,What armaments shall follow thee in joy!Linking each distant landWith trade's harmonious band,Or bearing havoc's brandTo destroy!
The sky in beauty arch'dThe wide and weltering flood,While the winds in triumph march'dThrough their pathless solitude—Rousing up the plume on ocean's hoary crest,That like space in darkness slept,When his watch old Silence kept,Ere the earliest planet leaptFrom its breast.
A speck is on the deeps,Like a spirit in her flight;How beautiful she keepsHer stately path in light!She sweeps the shining wilderness in glee—The sun has on her smiled,And the waves, no longer wild,Sing in glory round that childOf the sea.
'Twas at the set of sunThat she tilted o'er the flood,Moving like God aloneO'er the glorious solitude—The billows crouch around her as her slaves.How exulting are her crew—Each sight to them is new,As they sweep along the blueOf the waves!
Fair herald of the fleetsThat yet shall cross the wave,Till the earth with ocean meetsOne universal grave,What armaments shall follow thee in joy!Linking each distant landWith trade's harmonious band,Or bearing havoc's brandTo destroy!
Though this wild brain is aching,Spill not thy tears with mine;Come to my heart, though breaking,Its firmest half is thine.Thou wert not made for sorrow,Then do not weep with me;There is a lovely morrow,That yet will dawn on thee.When I am all forgotten—When in the grave I lie—When the heart that loved thee 's broken,And closed the sparkling eye;Love's sunshine still will cheer thee,Unsullied, pure, and deep;For the God who 's ever near thee,Will never see thee weep.
Though this wild brain is aching,Spill not thy tears with mine;Come to my heart, though breaking,Its firmest half is thine.Thou wert not made for sorrow,Then do not weep with me;There is a lovely morrow,That yet will dawn on thee.
When I am all forgotten—When in the grave I lie—When the heart that loved thee 's broken,And closed the sparkling eye;Love's sunshine still will cheer thee,Unsullied, pure, and deep;For the God who 's ever near thee,Will never see thee weep.
When cities of old daysBut meet the savage gaze,Stream of my early waysThou wilt roll.Though fleets forsake thy breast,And millions sink to rest—Of the bright and glorious westStill the soul.When the porch and stately arch,Which now so proudly perchO'er thy billows, on their marchTo the sea,Are but ashes in the shower;Still the jocund summer hour,From his cloud will weave a bowerOver thee.When the voice of human powerHas ceased in mart and bower,Still the broom and mountain flowerWill thee bless.And the mists that love to strayO'er the Highlands, far away,Will come down their deserts grayTo thy kiss.And the stranger, brown with toil,From the far Atlantic soil,Like the pilgrim of the Nile,Yet may comeTo search the solemn heapsThat moulder by thy deeps,Where desolation sleeps,Ever dumb.Though fetters yet should clankO'er the gay and princely rankOf cities on thy bank,All sublime;Still thou wilt wander on,Till eternity has gone,And broke the dial stoneOf old Time.
When cities of old daysBut meet the savage gaze,Stream of my early waysThou wilt roll.Though fleets forsake thy breast,And millions sink to rest—Of the bright and glorious westStill the soul.
When the porch and stately arch,Which now so proudly perchO'er thy billows, on their marchTo the sea,Are but ashes in the shower;Still the jocund summer hour,From his cloud will weave a bowerOver thee.
When the voice of human powerHas ceased in mart and bower,Still the broom and mountain flowerWill thee bless.And the mists that love to strayO'er the Highlands, far away,Will come down their deserts grayTo thy kiss.
And the stranger, brown with toil,From the far Atlantic soil,Like the pilgrim of the Nile,Yet may comeTo search the solemn heapsThat moulder by thy deeps,Where desolation sleeps,Ever dumb.
Though fetters yet should clankO'er the gay and princely rankOf cities on thy bank,All sublime;Still thou wilt wander on,Till eternity has gone,And broke the dial stoneOf old Time.
The author of the deservedly popular words and air of "The Araby Maid," Thomas Gordon Torry Anderson was the youngest son of Patrick Torry, D.D., titular bishop of St Andrews, Dunkeld, and Dunblane. His mother, Jane Young, was the daughter of Dr William Young, of Fawsyde, Kincardineshire. Born at Peterhead on the 9th July 1805, he received his elementary education at the parish school of that place. He subsequently prosecuted his studies in Marischal College, Aberdeen, and the University of Edinburgh. In 1827, he received holy orders, and was admitted to the incumbency of St John's Episcopal Church, Portobello. He subsequently became assistant in St George's Episcopal Church, Edinburgh, and was latterly promoted to the pastorate of St Paul's Episcopal Church, Dundee.
Devoted to the important duties of the clerical office, Mr Torry Anderson experienced congenial recreation in the cultivation of music and song, and in the occasional composition of both. He composed, in 1833, the words and air of "The Araby Maid," which speedily obtained a wide popularity. The music and words of the songs, entitled "The Maiden's Vow," and "I Love the Sea," were composed in 1837 and 1854, respectively. To a work, entitled "Poetical Illustrations of the Achievements of the Duke of Wellington and his Companions in Arms," published in 1852, he extensively contributed.During the summer of 1855, he fell into bad health, and was obliged to resign his incumbency. He afterwards resided on his estate of Fawsyde, to which he had succeeded, in 1850, on the death of his uncle, Dr Young. He died at Aberdeen on the 20th of June 1856, in his fifty-first year. He was three times married—first, in 1828, to Mrs Gaskin Anderson of Tushielaw, whose name he adopted to suit the requirements of an entail; secondly, he espoused, in 1838, Elizabeth Jane, daughter of Dr Thomas Sutter, R.N.; and lastly, Mrs Hill, widow of Mr William Hill, R.N., whom he married in 1854. He has left a widow and six children.
Away on the wings of the wind she flies,Like a thing of life and light—And she bounds beneath the eastern skies,And the beauty of eastern night.Why so fast flies the bark through the ocean's foam,Why wings it so speedy a flight?'Tis an Araby maid who hath left her home,To fly with her Christian knight.She hath left her sire and her native land,The land which from childhood she trode,And hath sworn, by the pledge of her beautiful hand,To worship the Christian's God.Then away, away, oh swift be thy flight,It were death one moment's delay;For behind there is many a blade glancing bright—Then away—away—away!They are safe in the land where love is divine,In the land of the free and the brave—They have knelt at the foot of the holy shrine,Nought can sever them now but the grave.
Away on the wings of the wind she flies,Like a thing of life and light—And she bounds beneath the eastern skies,And the beauty of eastern night.
Why so fast flies the bark through the ocean's foam,Why wings it so speedy a flight?'Tis an Araby maid who hath left her home,To fly with her Christian knight.
She hath left her sire and her native land,The land which from childhood she trode,And hath sworn, by the pledge of her beautiful hand,To worship the Christian's God.
Then away, away, oh swift be thy flight,It were death one moment's delay;For behind there is many a blade glancing bright—Then away—away—away!
They are safe in the land where love is divine,In the land of the free and the brave—They have knelt at the foot of the holy shrine,Nought can sever them now but the grave.
The maid is at the altar kneeling,Hark the chant is loudly pealing—Now it dies away!Her prayers are said at the holy shrine,No other thought but thought divineDoth her sad bosom fill.The world to her is nothing now,For she hath ta'en a solemn vowTo do her father's will.But why hath one so fair, so young,The joys of life thus from her flung—Why hath she ta'en the veil?Her lover fell where the brave should fall,Amidst the fight, when the trumpet's callProclaim'd the victory.He fought, he fell, a hero brave—And though he fill a lowly grave,His name can never die.The victory's news to the maiden came—They loudly breathed her lover's name,Who for his country fell.But vain the loudest trumpet toneOf fame to her, when he was goneTo whom the praise was given!Her sun of life had set in gloom—Its joys were withered in his tomb—She vow'd herself to Heaven.
The maid is at the altar kneeling,Hark the chant is loudly pealing—Now it dies away!
Her prayers are said at the holy shrine,No other thought but thought divineDoth her sad bosom fill.
The world to her is nothing now,For she hath ta'en a solemn vowTo do her father's will.
But why hath one so fair, so young,The joys of life thus from her flung—Why hath she ta'en the veil?
Her lover fell where the brave should fall,Amidst the fight, when the trumpet's callProclaim'd the victory.
He fought, he fell, a hero brave—And though he fill a lowly grave,His name can never die.
The victory's news to the maiden came—They loudly breathed her lover's name,Who for his country fell.
But vain the loudest trumpet toneOf fame to her, when he was goneTo whom the praise was given!
Her sun of life had set in gloom—Its joys were withered in his tomb—She vow'd herself to Heaven.
I love the sea, I love the sea,My childhood's home, my manhood's rest,My cradle in my infancy—The only bosom I have press'd.I cannot breathe upon the land,Its manners are as bonds to me,Till on the deck again I stand,I cannot feel that I am free.Then tell me not of stormy graves—Though winds be high, there let them roar;I 'd rather perish on the wavesThan pine by inches on the shore.I ask no willow where I lie,My mourner let the mermaid be,My only knell the sea-bird's cry,My winding-sheet the boundless sea!
I love the sea, I love the sea,My childhood's home, my manhood's rest,My cradle in my infancy—The only bosom I have press'd.I cannot breathe upon the land,Its manners are as bonds to me,Till on the deck again I stand,I cannot feel that I am free.
Then tell me not of stormy graves—Though winds be high, there let them roar;I 'd rather perish on the wavesThan pine by inches on the shore.I ask no willow where I lie,My mourner let the mermaid be,My only knell the sea-bird's cry,My winding-sheet the boundless sea!
George Allan was the youngest son of John Allan, farmer at Paradykes, near Edinburgh, where he was born on the 2d February 1806. Ere he had completed his fourteenth year, he became an orphan by the death of both his parents. Intending to prosecute his studies as a lawyer, he served an apprenticeship in the office of a Writer to the Signet. He became a member of that honourable body, but almost immediately relinquished legal pursuits, and proceeded to London, resolved to commence the career of a man of letters. In the metropolis his literary aspirations were encouraged by Allan Cunningham and Mr and Mrs S. C. Hall. In 1829, he accepted an appointment in Jamaica; but, his health suffering from the climate of the West Indies, he returned in the following year. Shortly after his arrival in Britain, he was fortunate in obtaining the editorship of theDumfries Journal, a respectable Conservative newspaper. This he conducted with distinguished ability and success for three years, when certain new arrangements, consequent on a change in the proprietary, rendered his services unnecessary. A letter of Allan Cunningham, congratulating him on his appointment as a newspaper editor, is worthy of quotation, from its shrewd and sagacious counsels:—
"Study to fill your paper," writes Cunningham, "with such agreeable and diversified matter as will allure readers; correct intelligence, sprightly and elegant paragraphs, remarks on men andmanners at once free and generous; and local intelligence pertaining to the district, such as please men of the Nith in a far land. These are the staple commodity of a newspaper, and these you can easily have. A few literary paragraphs you can easily scatter about; these attract booksellers, and booksellers will give advertisements where they find their works are noticed. Above all things, write cautiously concerning all localities; if you praise much, a hundred will grumble; if you are severe, one only may complain, but twenty will shake the head. You will have friends on one side of the water desiring one thing, friends on the other side desiring the reverse, and in seeking to please one you vex ten. An honest heart, a clear head, and a good conscience, will enable you to get well through all."
"Study to fill your paper," writes Cunningham, "with such agreeable and diversified matter as will allure readers; correct intelligence, sprightly and elegant paragraphs, remarks on men andmanners at once free and generous; and local intelligence pertaining to the district, such as please men of the Nith in a far land. These are the staple commodity of a newspaper, and these you can easily have. A few literary paragraphs you can easily scatter about; these attract booksellers, and booksellers will give advertisements where they find their works are noticed. Above all things, write cautiously concerning all localities; if you praise much, a hundred will grumble; if you are severe, one only may complain, but twenty will shake the head. You will have friends on one side of the water desiring one thing, friends on the other side desiring the reverse, and in seeking to please one you vex ten. An honest heart, a clear head, and a good conscience, will enable you to get well through all."
On terminating his connexion with theDumfries Journal, Allan proceeded to Edinburgh, where he was immediately employed by the Messrs Chambers as a literary assistant. In a letter addressed to a friend, about this period, he thus expresses himself regarding his enterprising employers:—
"They are never idle. Their very recreations are made conducive to their business, and they go through their labours with a spirit and cheerfulness, which shew how consonant these are with their dispositions." "Mr Robert Chambers," he adds, "is the most mild, unassuming, kind-hearted man I ever knew, and is perfectly uneasy if he thinks there is any one uncomfortable about him. The interest which he has shewn in my welfare has been beyond everything I ever experienced, and the friendly yet delicate way in which he is every other day asking me if I am all comfortable at home, and bidding me apply to him when I am in want of anything, equally puzzles me to understand or express due thanks for."
"They are never idle. Their very recreations are made conducive to their business, and they go through their labours with a spirit and cheerfulness, which shew how consonant these are with their dispositions." "Mr Robert Chambers," he adds, "is the most mild, unassuming, kind-hearted man I ever knew, and is perfectly uneasy if he thinks there is any one uncomfortable about him. The interest which he has shewn in my welfare has been beyond everything I ever experienced, and the friendly yet delicate way in which he is every other day asking me if I am all comfortable at home, and bidding me apply to him when I am in want of anything, equally puzzles me to understand or express due thanks for."
Besides contributing many interesting articles toChambers's Edinburgh Journal, and furnishing numerous communications to theScotsmannewspaper, Allan wrote a "Life of Sir Walter Scott," in an octavo volume, which commanded a wide sale, and was much commended by the public press. In preparing that elegant work, the"Original National Melodies of Scotland," the ingenious editor, Mr Peter M'Leod, was favoured by him with several songs, which he set forth in that publication, with suitable music. In 1834, some of his relatives succeeded, by political influence, in obtaining for him a subordinate situation in the Stamp Office,—one which at once afforded him a certain subsistence, and did not necessarily preclude the exercise of his literary talents. But a constitutional weakness of the nervous system did not permit of his long enjoying the smiles of fortune. He died suddenly at Janefield, near Leith, on the 15th August 1835, in his thirtieth year. In October 1831, he had espoused Mrs Mary Hill, a widow, eldest daughter of Mr William Pagan, of Curriestanes, and niece of Allan Cunningham, who, with one of their two sons, still survives. Allan was a man of singularly gentle and amiable dispositions, a pleasant companion, and devoted friend. In person he was tall and rather thin, with a handsome, intelligent countenance. An enthusiast in the concerns of literature, it is to be feared that he cut short his career by overstrained application. His verses are animated and vigorous, and are largely imbued with the national spirit.[20]
Is your war-pipe asleep, and for ever, M'Crimman?Is your war-pipe asleep, and for ever?Shall the pibroch, that welcom'd the foe to Benaer,Be hush'd when we seek the dark wolf in his lair,To give back our wrongs to the giver?To the raid and the onslaught our chieftains have gone,Like the course of the fire-flaught the clansmen pass'd on,With the lance and the shield 'gainst the foe they have boon'd them,And have ta'en to the field with their vassals around them;Then raise your wild slogan-cry—on to the foray!Sons of the heather-hill, pinewood, and glen,Shout for M'Pherson, M'Leod, and the Moray,Till the Lomonds re-echo the challenge again!
Is your war-pipe asleep, and for ever, M'Crimman?Is your war-pipe asleep, and for ever?Shall the pibroch, that welcom'd the foe to Benaer,Be hush'd when we seek the dark wolf in his lair,To give back our wrongs to the giver?To the raid and the onslaught our chieftains have gone,Like the course of the fire-flaught the clansmen pass'd on,With the lance and the shield 'gainst the foe they have boon'd them,And have ta'en to the field with their vassals around them;Then raise your wild slogan-cry—on to the foray!Sons of the heather-hill, pinewood, and glen,Shout for M'Pherson, M'Leod, and the Moray,Till the Lomonds re-echo the challenge again!
Youth of the daring heart! bright be thy doomAs the bodings which light up thy bold spirit now,But the fate of M'Crimman is closing in gloom,And the breath of the gray wraith hath pass'd o'er his brow;Victorious, in joy, thou'lt return to Benaer,And be clasp'd to the hearts of thy best beloved there,But M'Crimman, M'Crimman, M'Crimman, never—Never! Never! Never!
Youth of the daring heart! bright be thy doomAs the bodings which light up thy bold spirit now,But the fate of M'Crimman is closing in gloom,And the breath of the gray wraith hath pass'd o'er his brow;Victorious, in joy, thou'lt return to Benaer,And be clasp'd to the hearts of thy best beloved there,But M'Crimman, M'Crimman, M'Crimman, never—Never! Never! Never!
Wilt thou shrink from the doom thou canst shun not, M'Crimman?Wilt thou shrink from the doom thou canst shun not?If thy course must be brief, let the proud Saxon knowThat the soul of M'Crimman ne'er quail'd when a foeBared his blade in the land he had won not!Where the light-footed roe leaves the wild breeze behind,And the red heather-bloom gives its sweets to the wind,There our broad pennon flies, and the keen steeds are prancing,'Mid the startling war-cries, and the war-weapons glancing,Then raise your wild slogan-cry—on to the foray!Sons of the heather-hill, pinewood, and glen;Shout for M'Pherson, M'Leod, and the Moray,Till the Lomonds re-echo the challenge again!
Wilt thou shrink from the doom thou canst shun not, M'Crimman?Wilt thou shrink from the doom thou canst shun not?If thy course must be brief, let the proud Saxon knowThat the soul of M'Crimman ne'er quail'd when a foeBared his blade in the land he had won not!Where the light-footed roe leaves the wild breeze behind,And the red heather-bloom gives its sweets to the wind,There our broad pennon flies, and the keen steeds are prancing,'Mid the startling war-cries, and the war-weapons glancing,Then raise your wild slogan-cry—on to the foray!Sons of the heather-hill, pinewood, and glen;Shout for M'Pherson, M'Leod, and the Moray,Till the Lomonds re-echo the challenge again!
I will think of thee yet, though afar I may be,In the land of the stranger, deserted and lone,Though the flowers of this earth are all wither'd to me,And the hopes which once bloom'd in my bosom are gone,I will think of thee yet, and the vision of nightWill oft bring thine image again to my sight,And the tokens will be, as the dream passes by,A sigh from the heart and a tear from the eye.I will think of thee yet, though misfortune fall chillO'er my path, as yon storm-cloud that lours on the lea,And I'll deem that this life is worth cherishing still,While I know that one heart still beats warmly for me.Yes! Grief and Despair may encompass me round,'Till not e'en the shadow of peace can be found;But mine anguish will cease when my thoughts turn to youAnd the wild mountain land which my infancy knew.I will think of thee; oh! if I e'er can forgetThe love that grew warm as all others grew cold,'Twill but be when the sun of my reason hath set,Or memory fled from her care-haunted hold;But while life and its woes to bear on is my doom,Shall my love, like a flower in the wilderness, bloom;And thine still shall be, as so long it hath been,A light to my soul when no other is seen.
I will think of thee yet, though afar I may be,In the land of the stranger, deserted and lone,Though the flowers of this earth are all wither'd to me,And the hopes which once bloom'd in my bosom are gone,I will think of thee yet, and the vision of nightWill oft bring thine image again to my sight,And the tokens will be, as the dream passes by,A sigh from the heart and a tear from the eye.
I will think of thee yet, though misfortune fall chillO'er my path, as yon storm-cloud that lours on the lea,And I'll deem that this life is worth cherishing still,While I know that one heart still beats warmly for me.Yes! Grief and Despair may encompass me round,'Till not e'en the shadow of peace can be found;But mine anguish will cease when my thoughts turn to youAnd the wild mountain land which my infancy knew.
I will think of thee; oh! if I e'er can forgetThe love that grew warm as all others grew cold,'Twill but be when the sun of my reason hath set,Or memory fled from her care-haunted hold;But while life and its woes to bear on is my doom,Shall my love, like a flower in the wilderness, bloom;And thine still shall be, as so long it hath been,A light to my soul when no other is seen.
Lassie, dear lassie, the dew 's on the gowan,And the brier-bush is sweet whar the burnie is rowin',But the best buds of Nature may blaw till they weary,Ere they match the sweet e'e or the cheek o' my dearie!I wander alane, when the gray gloamin' closes,And the lift is spread out like a garden o' roses;But there 's nought which the earth or the sky can discoverSae fair as thysell to thy fond-hearted lover!The snaw-flake is pure frae the clud when it 's shaken,And melts into dew ere it fa's on the bracken,Oh sae pure is the heart I hae won to my keepin'!But warm as the sun-blink that thaw'd it to weepin'!Then come to my arms, and the bosom thou 'rt pressingWill tell by its throbs a' there's joy in confessing,For my lips could repeat it a thousand times over,And the tale still seem new to thy fond-hearted lover.
Lassie, dear lassie, the dew 's on the gowan,And the brier-bush is sweet whar the burnie is rowin',But the best buds of Nature may blaw till they weary,Ere they match the sweet e'e or the cheek o' my dearie!
I wander alane, when the gray gloamin' closes,And the lift is spread out like a garden o' roses;But there 's nought which the earth or the sky can discoverSae fair as thysell to thy fond-hearted lover!
The snaw-flake is pure frae the clud when it 's shaken,And melts into dew ere it fa's on the bracken,Oh sae pure is the heart I hae won to my keepin'!But warm as the sun-blink that thaw'd it to weepin'!
Then come to my arms, and the bosom thou 'rt pressingWill tell by its throbs a' there's joy in confessing,For my lips could repeat it a thousand times over,And the tale still seem new to thy fond-hearted lover.
When I look far down on the valley below me,Where lowly the lot of the cottager's cast,While the hues of the evening seem ling'ring to shew meHow calmly the sun of this life may be pass'd,How oft have I wish'd that kind Heaven had grantedMy hours in such spot to have peacefully run,Where, if pleasures were few, they were all that I wanted,And Contentment 's a blessing which wealth never won.I have mingled with mankind, and far I have wander'd,Have shared all the joys youth so madly pursues;I have been where the bounties of Nature were squander'dTill man became thankless and learn'd to refuse!YetthereI still found that man's innocence perish'd,As the senses might sway or the passions command;That the scenes where alone the soul's treasures were cherish'd,Were the peaceful abodes of my own native land.Then why should I leave this dear vale of my choiceAnd the friends of my bosom, so faithful and true,To mix in the great world, whose jarring and noiseMust make my soul cheerless though sorrows were few?Ah! too sweet would this life of probation be render'd,Our feelings ebb back from Eternity's strand,And the hopes of Elysium in vain would be tender'd,Could we have all we wish'd in our dear native land.
When I look far down on the valley below me,Where lowly the lot of the cottager's cast,While the hues of the evening seem ling'ring to shew meHow calmly the sun of this life may be pass'd,How oft have I wish'd that kind Heaven had grantedMy hours in such spot to have peacefully run,Where, if pleasures were few, they were all that I wanted,And Contentment 's a blessing which wealth never won.
I have mingled with mankind, and far I have wander'd,Have shared all the joys youth so madly pursues;I have been where the bounties of Nature were squander'dTill man became thankless and learn'd to refuse!YetthereI still found that man's innocence perish'd,As the senses might sway or the passions command;That the scenes where alone the soul's treasures were cherish'd,Were the peaceful abodes of my own native land.
Then why should I leave this dear vale of my choiceAnd the friends of my bosom, so faithful and true,To mix in the great world, whose jarring and noiseMust make my soul cheerless though sorrows were few?Ah! too sweet would this life of probation be render'd,Our feelings ebb back from Eternity's strand,And the hopes of Elysium in vain would be tender'd,Could we have all we wish'd in our dear native land.
I will wake my harp when the shades of evenAre closing around the dying day,When thoughts that wear the hues of HeavenAre weaning my heart from the world away;And my strain will tell of a land and homeWhich my wand'ring steps have left behind,Where the hearts that throb and the feet that roamAre free as the breath of their mountain wind.I will wake my harp when the star of VesperHath open'd its eye on the peaceful earth,When not a leaf is heard to whisperThat a dew-drop falls, or a breeze hath birth.And you, dear friends of my youthful years,Will oft be the theme of my lonely lay,And a smile for the past will gild the tearsThat tell how my heart is far away.I will wake my harp when the moon is holdingHer star-tent court in the midnight sky,When the spirits of love, their wings unfolding,Bring down sweet dreams to each fond one's eye.And well may I hail that blissful hour,For my spirit will then, from its thrall set free,Return to my own lov'd maiden's bower,And gather each sigh that she breathes for me.Thus, still when those pensive hours are bringingThe feelings and thoughts which no lips can tell,I will charm each cloud from my soul by singingOf all I have left and lov'd so well.Oh! Fate may smile, and Sorrow may cease,But the dearest hope we on earth can gainIs to come, after long sad years, in peace,And be join'd with the friends of our love, again.
I will wake my harp when the shades of evenAre closing around the dying day,When thoughts that wear the hues of HeavenAre weaning my heart from the world away;And my strain will tell of a land and homeWhich my wand'ring steps have left behind,Where the hearts that throb and the feet that roamAre free as the breath of their mountain wind.
I will wake my harp when the star of VesperHath open'd its eye on the peaceful earth,When not a leaf is heard to whisperThat a dew-drop falls, or a breeze hath birth.And you, dear friends of my youthful years,Will oft be the theme of my lonely lay,And a smile for the past will gild the tearsThat tell how my heart is far away.
I will wake my harp when the moon is holdingHer star-tent court in the midnight sky,When the spirits of love, their wings unfolding,Bring down sweet dreams to each fond one's eye.And well may I hail that blissful hour,For my spirit will then, from its thrall set free,Return to my own lov'd maiden's bower,And gather each sigh that she breathes for me.
Thus, still when those pensive hours are bringingThe feelings and thoughts which no lips can tell,I will charm each cloud from my soul by singingOf all I have left and lov'd so well.Oh! Fate may smile, and Sorrow may cease,But the dearest hope we on earth can gainIs to come, after long sad years, in peace,And be join'd with the friends of our love, again.
Thomas Brydson was born in Glasgow in 1806. On completing the usual course of study at the Universities of Glasgow and Edinburgh, he became a licentiate of the Established Church. He assisted in the Middle Church, Greenock, and in the parish of Kilmalcolm, Renfrewshire, and was, in 1839, ordained minister of Levern Chapel, near Paisley. In 1842, he was translated to the full charge of Kilmalcolm, where he continued to minister with much acceptance till his death, which took place suddenly on the 28th January 1855.
A man of fine fancy and correct taste, Mr Brydson was, in early life, much devoted to poetical composition. In 1829, he published a duodecimo volume of "Poems;" and a more matured collection of his poetical pieces in 1832, under the title of "Pictures of the Past." He contributed, in prose and verse, to theEdinburgh Literary Journal; theRepublic of Letters, a Glasgow publication; and some of the London annuals. Though fond of correspondence with his literary friends, and abundantly hospitable, he latterly avoided general society, and, in a great measure, confined himself to his secluded parish of Kilmalcolm. Among his parishioners he was highly esteemed for the unction and fervour which distinguished his public ministrations, as well as for the gentleness of his manners and the generosity of his heart. Of domestic animals he was devotedly fond. He took delight in pastoral scenery, and in solitary musings among the hills. His poetry is pervaded by elegance of sentiment and no inconsiderable vigour of expression.