Ca' the yowes to the knowes,Ca' them where the heather grows,Ca' them where the burnie rows,My bonnie dearie.As I gaed down the water-side,There I met my shepherd lad,He row'd me sweetly in his plaid,An' he ca'd me his dearie."Will ye gang down the water-side,And see the waves sae sweetly glideBeneath the hazels spreading wide?The moon it shines fu' clearly."Ye shall get gowns and ribbons meet,Cauf-leather shoon to thy white feet,And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep,And ye shall be my dearie.""If ye'll but stand to what ye've said,I'se gang wi' you, my shepherd lad,And ye may row me in your plaid,And I shall be your dearie.""While water wimples to the sea,While day blinks in the lift sae hie,Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my e'e,Ye shall be my dearie."
Ca' the yowes to the knowes,Ca' them where the heather grows,Ca' them where the burnie rows,My bonnie dearie.
As I gaed down the water-side,There I met my shepherd lad,He row'd me sweetly in his plaid,An' he ca'd me his dearie.
"Will ye gang down the water-side,And see the waves sae sweetly glideBeneath the hazels spreading wide?The moon it shines fu' clearly.
"Ye shall get gowns and ribbons meet,Cauf-leather shoon to thy white feet,And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep,And ye shall be my dearie."
"If ye'll but stand to what ye've said,I'se gang wi' you, my shepherd lad,And ye may row me in your plaid,And I shall be your dearie."
"While water wimples to the sea,While day blinks in the lift sae hie,Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my e'e,Ye shall be my dearie."
John Mitchell, the Paisley bard, died in that place on the 12th August 1856, in his seventieth year. He was born at Paisley in 1786. The labour of weaving he early sought to relieve by the composition of verses. He contributed pieces, both in prose and verse, to theMoral and Literary Observer, a small Paisley periodical of the year 1823, and of which he was the publisher. In 1838, he appeared as the author of "A Night on the Banks of the Doon, and other Poems," a volume which was followed in 1840 by "The Wee Steeple's Ghaist, and other Poems and Songs," the latter being dedicated to Professor Wilson. In the year 1840, he likewise produced, jointly with a Mr Dickie, the "Philosophy of Witchcraft," a work which, published by Messrs Oliver and Boyd, was well received. His next publication appeared in 1845, with the title, "One Hundred Original Songs." His last work, "My Gray Goose Quill, and other Poems and Songs," was published in 1852.
Mitchell employed himself latterly in forwarding the sale of his publications, and succeeded by this course in securing a comfortable maintenance. He wrote verses with much readiness, and occasionally with considerable power. His songs, which we have selected for the present work, are distinguished by graceful simplicity and elegant pathos. Had Mitchell written less, and more carefully, he had reached a higher niche in the Temple of National Song. His manners were eccentric, and he was not unconscious of his poetical endowments.
What wakes the Poet's lyre?'Tis Beauty;What kindles his poetic fire?'Tis Beauty;What makes him seek, at evening's hour,The lonely glen, the leafy bower,When dew hangs on each little flower?Oh! it is Beauty.What melts the soldier's soul?'Tis Beauty;What can his love of fame control?'Tis Beauty;For oft, amid the battle's rage,Some lovely vision will engageHis thoughts and war's rough ills assuage:Such power has Beauty.What tames the savage mood?'Tis Beauty;What gives a polish to the rude?'Tis Beauty;What gives the peasant's lowly stateA charm which wealth cannot create,And on the good alone will wait?'Tis faithful Beauty.Then let our favourite toastBe Beauty;Is it not king and peasant's boast?Yes, Beauty;Then let us guard with tender careThe gentle, th' inspiring fair,And Love will a diviner airImpart to Beauty.
What wakes the Poet's lyre?'Tis Beauty;What kindles his poetic fire?'Tis Beauty;What makes him seek, at evening's hour,The lonely glen, the leafy bower,When dew hangs on each little flower?Oh! it is Beauty.
What melts the soldier's soul?'Tis Beauty;What can his love of fame control?'Tis Beauty;For oft, amid the battle's rage,Some lovely vision will engageHis thoughts and war's rough ills assuage:Such power has Beauty.
What tames the savage mood?'Tis Beauty;What gives a polish to the rude?'Tis Beauty;What gives the peasant's lowly stateA charm which wealth cannot create,And on the good alone will wait?'Tis faithful Beauty.
Then let our favourite toastBe Beauty;Is it not king and peasant's boast?Yes, Beauty;Then let us guard with tender careThe gentle, th' inspiring fair,And Love will a diviner airImpart to Beauty.
Star of descending Night!Lovely and fair,Robed in thy mellow light,Subtle and rare;Whence are thy silvery beams,That o'er lone ocean gleams,And in our crystal streamsDip their bright hair?Far in yon liquid sky,Where streamers playAnd the red lightnings fly,Hold'st thou thy way;Clouds may envelop thee,Winds rave o'er land and sea,O'er them thy march is freeAs thine own ray.
Star of descending Night!Lovely and fair,Robed in thy mellow light,Subtle and rare;Whence are thy silvery beams,That o'er lone ocean gleams,And in our crystal streamsDip their bright hair?
Far in yon liquid sky,Where streamers playAnd the red lightnings fly,Hold'st thou thy way;Clouds may envelop thee,Winds rave o'er land and sea,O'er them thy march is freeAs thine own ray.
Oh! waft me to the fairy climeWhere Fancy loves to roam,Where Hope is ever in her prime,And Friendship has a home;There will I wander by the streamsWhere Song and Dance combine,Around my rosy waking dreamsEcstatic joys to twine.On Music's swell my thoughts will soarAbove created things,And revel on the boundless shoreOf rapt imaginings.The rolling spheres beyond earth's kenMy fancy will explore,And seek, far from the haunts of men,The Poet's mystic lore.Love will add gladness to the scene,And strew my path with flowers;And Joy with Innocence will leanAmid my rosy bowers.Then waft me to the fairy climeWhere Fancy loves to roam,Where Hope is ever in her prime,And Friendship has a home.
Oh! waft me to the fairy climeWhere Fancy loves to roam,Where Hope is ever in her prime,And Friendship has a home;There will I wander by the streamsWhere Song and Dance combine,Around my rosy waking dreamsEcstatic joys to twine.
On Music's swell my thoughts will soarAbove created things,And revel on the boundless shoreOf rapt imaginings.The rolling spheres beyond earth's kenMy fancy will explore,And seek, far from the haunts of men,The Poet's mystic lore.
Love will add gladness to the scene,And strew my path with flowers;And Joy with Innocence will leanAmid my rosy bowers.Then waft me to the fairy climeWhere Fancy loves to roam,Where Hope is ever in her prime,And Friendship has a home.
The love-sick maid, the love-sick maid,Ah! who will comfort bring to the love-sick maid?Can the doctor cure her woeWhen she will not let him knowWhy the tears incessant flowFrom the love-sick maid?The flaunting day, the flaunting day,She cannot bear the glare of the flaunting day!For she sits and pines alone,And will comfort take from none;Nay, the very colour's goneFrom the love-sick maid.The secret 's out, the secret 's out,A doctor has been found, and the secret 's out!For she finds at e'ening's hour,In a rosy woodland bower,Charms worth a prince's dowerTo a love-sick maid.
The love-sick maid, the love-sick maid,Ah! who will comfort bring to the love-sick maid?Can the doctor cure her woeWhen she will not let him knowWhy the tears incessant flowFrom the love-sick maid?
The flaunting day, the flaunting day,She cannot bear the glare of the flaunting day!For she sits and pines alone,And will comfort take from none;Nay, the very colour's goneFrom the love-sick maid.
The secret 's out, the secret 's out,A doctor has been found, and the secret 's out!For she finds at e'ening's hour,In a rosy woodland bower,Charms worth a prince's dowerTo a love-sick maid.
Alexander Jamieson was born in the village of Dalmellington, Ayrshire, on the 29th January 1789. After a course of study at the University of Edinburgh, he obtained licence as a medical practitioner. In 1819, he settled as a surgeon and apothecary in the town of Alloa. A skilful mechanician, he constructed a small printing-press for his own use; he was likewise ardently devoted to the study of botany. He composed verses with remarkable facility, many of which he contributed to theStirling Journalnewspaper. His death was peculiarly melancholy: he had formed one of a pic-nic party, on a fine summer day, to the summit of Bencleugh, one of the Ochils, and descending by a shorter route to visit a patient at Tillicoultry, he missed his footing, and was precipitated about two hundred feet into one of the ravines. He was early next morning discovered by a shepherd, but only survived a few hours afterwards. His death took place on the 26th July 1826. Possessed of varied talents, and excellent dispositions, Jamieson was deeply regretted by his friends. He left a widow, who died lately in Dunfermline. His songs, of which two specimens are adduced, afford evidence of power.
"Russian Air."
The maid who wove the rosy wreathWith every flower—hath wrought a spell,And though her chaplets fragrance breatheAnd balmy sweets—I know full well,'Neath every bud, or blossom gay,There lurks a chain—Love's tyranny.Though round her ruby lips, enshrin'd,Sits stillness, soft as evening skies—Though crimson'd cheek you seldom find,Or glances from her downcast eyes—There lurks, unseen, a world of charms,Which ne'er betray young Love's alarms.O trust not to her silent tongue;Her settled calm, or absent smile;Nor dream that nymph, so fair and young,May not enchain in Love's soft guile;For where Love is—or what's Love's spell—No mortal knows—no tongue can tell.
The maid who wove the rosy wreathWith every flower—hath wrought a spell,And though her chaplets fragrance breatheAnd balmy sweets—I know full well,'Neath every bud, or blossom gay,There lurks a chain—Love's tyranny.
Though round her ruby lips, enshrin'd,Sits stillness, soft as evening skies—Though crimson'd cheek you seldom find,Or glances from her downcast eyes—There lurks, unseen, a world of charms,Which ne'er betray young Love's alarms.
O trust not to her silent tongue;Her settled calm, or absent smile;Nor dream that nymph, so fair and young,May not enchain in Love's soft guile;For where Love is—or what's Love's spell—No mortal knows—no tongue can tell.
Welsh Air—"Sir William Watkin Wynne."
From Beauty's soft lip, like the balm of its roses,Or breath of the morning, a sigh took its flight;Nor far had it stray'd forth, when Pity proposesThe wanderer should lodge in this bosom a night.But scarce had the guest, in that peaceful seclusion,His lodging secured, when a conflict arose,Each feeling was changed, every thought was delusion,Nor longer my breast knew the calm of repose.They say that young Love is a rosy-cheek'd bowyer,At random the shafts from his silken string fly,But surely the urchin of peace is destroyer,Whose arrows are dipp'd in the balm of a sigh.O yes! for he whisper'd, "To Beauty's shrine hie thee;There worship to Cupid, and wait yet awhile;A cure she can give, with the balm can supply thee,The wound from a sigh can be cured by a smile."
From Beauty's soft lip, like the balm of its roses,Or breath of the morning, a sigh took its flight;Nor far had it stray'd forth, when Pity proposesThe wanderer should lodge in this bosom a night.
But scarce had the guest, in that peaceful seclusion,His lodging secured, when a conflict arose,Each feeling was changed, every thought was delusion,Nor longer my breast knew the calm of repose.
They say that young Love is a rosy-cheek'd bowyer,At random the shafts from his silken string fly,But surely the urchin of peace is destroyer,Whose arrows are dipp'd in the balm of a sigh.
O yes! for he whisper'd, "To Beauty's shrine hie thee;There worship to Cupid, and wait yet awhile;A cure she can give, with the balm can supply thee,The wound from a sigh can be cured by a smile."
A short-lived poet and song-writer of some promise, John Goldie was born at Ayr on the 22d December 1798. His father, who bore the same Christian name, was a respectable shipmaster. Obtaining an ample education at the academy of his native town, he became, in his fifteenth year, assistant to a grocer in Paisley; he subsequently held a similar situation in a stoneware and china shop in Glasgow. In 1821 he opened, on his own account, a stoneware establishment at Ayr; but proving unfortunate in business, he abandoned the concerns of trade. From his boyhood being devoted to literature he now resolved on its cultivation as a means of support. Already known as an occasional contributor, both in prose and verse, to the public press, he received the appointment of assistant editor of theAyr Courier, and shortly after obtained the entire literary superintendence of that journal. In 1821, he published a pamphlet of respectable verses; and in the following year appeared as the author of a duodecimo volume of "Poems and Songs," which he inscribed to the Ettrick Shepherd. Of the compositions in the latter publication, the greater portion, he intimates in the preface, "were composed at an early age, chiefly betwixt the years of sixteen and twenty;" and as the production of a very young man, the volume is altogether creditable to his genius and taste.
Deprived of the editorship of theCourier, in consequence of a change in the proprietary, Goldie proceededto London, in the hope of forming a connexion with some of the leading newspapers in the metropolis. Unsuccessful in this effort, he formed the project of publishingThe London Scotsman, a newspaper to be chiefly devoted to the consideration of Scottish affairs. Lacking that encouragement necessary to the ultimate success of this adventure, he abandoned the scheme after the third publication, and in very reduced circumstances returned to Scotland. He now projected thePaisley Advertiser, of which the first number appeared on the 9th October 1824. The editorship of this newspaper he retained till his death, which took place suddenly on the 27th February 1826, in his twenty-eighth year.
Of a vigorous intellect, and possessed of a correct literary taste, Goldie afforded excellent promise of eminence as a journalist. As a poet and song-writer, a rich vein of humour pervades certain of his compositions, while others are marked by a plaintive tenderness. Of sociable and generous dispositions, he was much esteemed by a circle of admiring friends. His personal appearance was pleasing, and his countenance wore the aspect of intelligence.
Air—"Loudon's Bonnie Woods and Braes."
And can thy bosom bear the thoughtTo part frae love and me, laddie?Are all those plighted vows forgot,Sae fondly pledged by thee, laddie?Canst thou forget the midnight hour,When in yon love-inspiring bower,You vow'd by every heavenly powerYou'd ne'er lo'e ane but me, laddie?Wilt thou—wilt thou gang and leave me—Win my heart and then deceive me?Oh! that heart will break, believe me,Gin' ye part wi' me, laddie.Aft ha'e ye roos'd my rosy cheek,Aft praised my sparkling e'e, laddie,Aft said nae bliss on earth ye'd seek,But love and live wi' me, laddie.But soon those cheeks will lose their red,Those eyes in endless sleep be hid,And 'neath the turf the heart be laidThat beats for love and thee, laddie.Wilt thou—wilt thou gang and leave me—Win my heart and then deceive me?Oh! that heart will break, believe me,Gin ye part frae me, laddie.You'll meet a form mair sweet and fair,Where rarer beauties shine, laddie,But, oh! the heart can never bearA love sae true as mine, laddie.But when that heart is laid at rest—That heart that lo'ed ye last and best—Oh! then the pangs that rend thy breastWill sharper be than mine, laddie.Broken vows will vex and grieve me,Till a broken heart relieve me—Yet its latest thought, believe me,Will be love an' thine, laddie.
And can thy bosom bear the thoughtTo part frae love and me, laddie?Are all those plighted vows forgot,Sae fondly pledged by thee, laddie?Canst thou forget the midnight hour,When in yon love-inspiring bower,You vow'd by every heavenly powerYou'd ne'er lo'e ane but me, laddie?Wilt thou—wilt thou gang and leave me—Win my heart and then deceive me?Oh! that heart will break, believe me,Gin' ye part wi' me, laddie.
Aft ha'e ye roos'd my rosy cheek,Aft praised my sparkling e'e, laddie,Aft said nae bliss on earth ye'd seek,But love and live wi' me, laddie.But soon those cheeks will lose their red,Those eyes in endless sleep be hid,And 'neath the turf the heart be laidThat beats for love and thee, laddie.Wilt thou—wilt thou gang and leave me—Win my heart and then deceive me?Oh! that heart will break, believe me,Gin ye part frae me, laddie.
You'll meet a form mair sweet and fair,Where rarer beauties shine, laddie,But, oh! the heart can never bearA love sae true as mine, laddie.But when that heart is laid at rest—That heart that lo'ed ye last and best—Oh! then the pangs that rend thy breastWill sharper be than mine, laddie.Broken vows will vex and grieve me,Till a broken heart relieve me—Yet its latest thought, believe me,Will be love an' thine, laddie.
Sweet's the dew-deck'd rose in JuneAnd lily fair to see, Annie,But there's ne'er a flower that bloomsIs half so fair as thee, Annie.Beside those blooming cheeks o' thineThe opening rose its beauties tine,Thy lips the rubies far outshine,Love sparkles in thine e'e, Annie.The snaw that decks yon mountain topNae purer is than thee, Annie;The haughty mien and pridefu' lookAre banish'd far frae thee, Annie.And in thy sweet angelic faceTriumphant beams each modest grace;And ne'er did Grecian chisel traceA form sae bright as thine, Annie.Wha could behold thy rosy cheekAnd no feel love's sharp pang, Annie;What heart could view thy smiling looks,And plot to do thee wrang, Annie?Thy name in ilka sang I'll weave,My heart, my soul, wi' thee I'll leave,And never, till I cease to breathe,I'll cease to think on thee, Annie.
Sweet's the dew-deck'd rose in JuneAnd lily fair to see, Annie,But there's ne'er a flower that bloomsIs half so fair as thee, Annie.Beside those blooming cheeks o' thineThe opening rose its beauties tine,Thy lips the rubies far outshine,Love sparkles in thine e'e, Annie.
The snaw that decks yon mountain topNae purer is than thee, Annie;The haughty mien and pridefu' lookAre banish'd far frae thee, Annie.And in thy sweet angelic faceTriumphant beams each modest grace;And ne'er did Grecian chisel traceA form sae bright as thine, Annie.
Wha could behold thy rosy cheekAnd no feel love's sharp pang, Annie;What heart could view thy smiling looks,And plot to do thee wrang, Annie?Thy name in ilka sang I'll weave,My heart, my soul, wi' thee I'll leave,And never, till I cease to breathe,I'll cease to think on thee, Annie.
Robert Pollok, author of the immortal poem, "The Course of Time," was the son of a small farmer in the parish of Eaglesham, Renfrewshire, where he was born on the 19th October 1798. With a short interval of employment in the workshop of a cabinetmaker, he was engaged till his seventeenth year in services about his father's farm. Resolving to prepare for the ministry in the Secession Church, he took lessons in classical learning at the parish school of Fenwick, Ayrshire, and in twelve months fitted himself for the university. He attended the literary and philosophical classes in Glasgow College, during five sessions, and subsequently studied in the Divinity Hall of the United Secession Church. He wrote verses in his boyhood, in his eighteenth year composed a poetical essay, and afterwards produced respectable translations from the Classics as college exercises. His great poem, "The Course of Time," was commenced in December 1824, and finished within the space of nineteen months. On the 24th March 1827, the poem was published by Mr Blackwood; and on the 2d of the following May the author received his license as a probationer. The extraordinary success of his poem had excited strong anticipations in respect of his professional career, but these were destined to disappointment. Pollok only preached four times. His constitution, originally robust, had suffered from over exertion in boyhood, and more recently from a course of sedulous application in preparing for license, and in theproduction of his poem. To recruit his wasted strength, a change of climate was necessary, and that of Italy was recommended. The afflicted poet only reached Southampton, where he died a few weeks after his arrival, on the 18th September 1827. In Millbrook churchyard, near Southampton, where his remains were interred, a monument has been erected to his memory.
Besides his remarkable poem, Pollok published three short tales relative to the sufferings of the Covenanters. He had projected a large work respecting the influences which Christianity had exercised upon literature. Since his death, several short poetical pieces from his pen have, along with a memoir, been published by his brother. In person he was of the ordinary height, and of symmetrical form. His complexion was pale brown; his features small, and his eyes dark and piercing. "He was," writes Mr Gabriel Neil, who enjoyed his friendship, "of plain simple manners, with a well-cultivated mind; he loved debate, and took pleasure in good-humoured controversy." The copyright of "The Course of Time" continues to produce emolument to the family.
On the fierce savage cliffs that look down on the flood,Where to ocean the dark waves of Gabia haste,All lonely, a maid of black Africa stood,Gazing sad on the deep and the wide roaring waste.A bark for Columbia hung far on the tide,And still to that bark her dim wistful eye clave;Ah! well might she gaze—in the ship's hollow side,Moan'd her Zoopah in chains—in the chains of a slave.Like the statue of Sorrow, forgetting to weep,Long dimly she follow'd the vanishing sail,Till it melted away where clouds mantle the deep;Then thus o'er the billows she utter'd her wail:—"O my Zoopah come back! wilt thou leave me to woe?Come back, cruel ship, and take Monia too!Ah ye winds, wicked winds! what fiend bids ye blowTo waft my dear Zoopah far, far from my view?* * * * *"Great Spirit! why slumber'd the wrath of thy clouds,When the savage white men dragg'd my Zoopah away?Why linger'd the panther far back in his woods?Was the crocodile full of the flesh of his prey?"Ah cruel white monsters! plague poison their breath,And sleep never visit the place of their bed!On their children and wives, on their life and their death,Abide still the curse of an African maid!"
On the fierce savage cliffs that look down on the flood,Where to ocean the dark waves of Gabia haste,All lonely, a maid of black Africa stood,Gazing sad on the deep and the wide roaring waste.
A bark for Columbia hung far on the tide,And still to that bark her dim wistful eye clave;Ah! well might she gaze—in the ship's hollow side,Moan'd her Zoopah in chains—in the chains of a slave.
Like the statue of Sorrow, forgetting to weep,Long dimly she follow'd the vanishing sail,Till it melted away where clouds mantle the deep;Then thus o'er the billows she utter'd her wail:—
"O my Zoopah come back! wilt thou leave me to woe?Come back, cruel ship, and take Monia too!Ah ye winds, wicked winds! what fiend bids ye blowTo waft my dear Zoopah far, far from my view?
* * * * *
"Great Spirit! why slumber'd the wrath of thy clouds,When the savage white men dragg'd my Zoopah away?Why linger'd the panther far back in his woods?Was the crocodile full of the flesh of his prey?
"Ah cruel white monsters! plague poison their breath,And sleep never visit the place of their bed!On their children and wives, on their life and their death,Abide still the curse of an African maid!"
J. C. Denovan was born at Edinburgh in 1798. Early evincing a predilection for a seafaring life, he was enabled to enter a sloop of war, with the honorary rank of a midshipman. After accomplishing a single voyage, he was necessitated, by the death of his father, to abandon his nautical occupation, and to seek a livelihood in Edinburgh. He now became, in his sixteenth year, apprentice to a grocer; and he subsequently established himself as a coffee-roaster in the capital. He died in 1827. Of amiable dispositions, he was an agreeable and unassuming member of society. He courted the Muse to interest his hours of leisure, and his poetical aspirations received the encouragement of Sir Walter Scott and other men of letters.
Thou hast left me, dear Dermot! to cross the wide seas,And thy Norah lives grieving in sadness forlorn,She laments and looks back on the past happy daysWhen thy presence had left her no object to mournThose days that are past,Too joyous to last,A pang leaves behind them, 'tis Heaven's decree;No joy now is mine,In sadness I pine,Till Dermot, dear Dermot, returns back to me.O Dermot, dear Dermot! why, why didst thou leaveThe girl who holds thee so dear in her heart?Oh! couldst thou hold a thought that would cause her to grieve,Or think for one moment from Norah to part?Couldst thou reconcileTo leave this dear isle,In a far unknown country, where dangers there be?Oh! for thy dear sakeThis poor heart will break,If thou, dear beloved one, return not to me.In silence I 'll weep till my Dermot doth come,Alone will I wander by moon, noon, and night,Still praying of Heaven to send him safe homeTo her who 'll embrace him with joy and delight.Then come, like a dove,To thy faithful love,Whose heart will entwine thee, fond, joyous, and free;From danger's alarmsSpeed to her open arms,O Dermot, dear loved one! return back to me.
Thou hast left me, dear Dermot! to cross the wide seas,And thy Norah lives grieving in sadness forlorn,She laments and looks back on the past happy daysWhen thy presence had left her no object to mournThose days that are past,Too joyous to last,A pang leaves behind them, 'tis Heaven's decree;No joy now is mine,In sadness I pine,Till Dermot, dear Dermot, returns back to me.
O Dermot, dear Dermot! why, why didst thou leaveThe girl who holds thee so dear in her heart?Oh! couldst thou hold a thought that would cause her to grieve,Or think for one moment from Norah to part?Couldst thou reconcileTo leave this dear isle,In a far unknown country, where dangers there be?Oh! for thy dear sakeThis poor heart will break,If thou, dear beloved one, return not to me.
In silence I 'll weep till my Dermot doth come,Alone will I wander by moon, noon, and night,Still praying of Heaven to send him safe homeTo her who 'll embrace him with joy and delight.Then come, like a dove,To thy faithful love,Whose heart will entwine thee, fond, joyous, and free;From danger's alarmsSpeed to her open arms,O Dermot, dear loved one! return back to me.
John Imlah, one of the sweetest and most patriotic of Scottish song-writers, was born in North Street, Aberdeen, about the close of the year 1799. His progenitors were farmers in the parish of Fyvie, but his father followed the profession of an innkeeper. Of seven sons, born in succession to his parents, the poet was the youngest. On completing an ordinary education at the grammar-school, he was apprenticed to a pianoforte maker in Aberdeen. Excelling as a piano-tuner he, in this capacity, sought employment in London, and was fortunate in procuring an engagement from the Messrs Broadwood. For the first six months of the year he performed the duties of a tuner in the metropolis, and during the remaining six months prosecuted his vocation in Scotland. Attached to his native country, he took delight in celebrating her strains. He composed songs from his boyhood. In 1827, he published "May Flowers," a duodecimo volume of lyrics, chiefly in the Scottish dialect, which he followed by a second volume of "Poems and Songs" in 1841. He contributed to Macleod's "National Melodies" and theEdinburgh Literary Journal. On the 9th January 1846, his death took place at Jamaica, whither he had gone on a visit to one of his brothers.
Imlah was a person of amiable dispositions and agreeable manners. Of his numerous lyrics, each is distinguished by a rich fancy, and several of his songs will maintain a lasting place in the national minstrelsy.
Air—"The Humours of Glen."
O distant but dear is that sweet island, whereinMy hopes with my Kathleen and kindred abide;And far though I wander from thee, emerald Erin!No space can the links of my love-chain divide.Fairest spot of the earth! brightest gem of the ocean!How oft have I waken'd my wild harp in thee!While, with eye of expression, and heart of emotion,Listen'd, Kathleen mavourneen, cuishlih ma chree!The bloom of the moss-rose, the blush of the morning,The soft cheek of Kathleen discloses their dye;What ruby can rival the lip of mavourneen?What sight-dazzling diamond can equal her eye?Her silken hair vies with the sunbeam in brightness,And white is her brow as the surf of the sea;Thy footstep is like to the fairy's in lightness,Of Kathleen mavourneen, cuishlih ma chree!Fair muse of the minstrel! beloved of my bosom!As the song of thy praise and my passion I breathed,Thy fair fingers oft, with the triad leaf'd blossom,Sweet Erin's green emblem, my wild harp have wreathed;While with soft melting murmurs the bright river ran on,That by thy bower follows the sun to the sea;And oh! soon dawn the day I review the sweet ShannonAnd Kathleen mavourneen, cuishlih ma chree!
O distant but dear is that sweet island, whereinMy hopes with my Kathleen and kindred abide;And far though I wander from thee, emerald Erin!No space can the links of my love-chain divide.Fairest spot of the earth! brightest gem of the ocean!How oft have I waken'd my wild harp in thee!While, with eye of expression, and heart of emotion,Listen'd, Kathleen mavourneen, cuishlih ma chree!
The bloom of the moss-rose, the blush of the morning,The soft cheek of Kathleen discloses their dye;What ruby can rival the lip of mavourneen?What sight-dazzling diamond can equal her eye?Her silken hair vies with the sunbeam in brightness,And white is her brow as the surf of the sea;Thy footstep is like to the fairy's in lightness,Of Kathleen mavourneen, cuishlih ma chree!
Fair muse of the minstrel! beloved of my bosom!As the song of thy praise and my passion I breathed,Thy fair fingers oft, with the triad leaf'd blossom,Sweet Erin's green emblem, my wild harp have wreathed;While with soft melting murmurs the bright river ran on,That by thy bower follows the sun to the sea;And oh! soon dawn the day I review the sweet ShannonAnd Kathleen mavourneen, cuishlih ma chree!
Air—"O'er the Muir amang the Heather."
Hey for the Hielan' heather!Hey for the Hielan' heather!Dear to me, an' aye shall be,The bonnie braes o' Hielan' heather!The moss-muir black an' mountain blue,Whare mists at morn an' gloamin' gather;The craigs an' cairns o' hoary hue,Whare blooms the bonnie Hielan' heather!Hey for the Hielan' heather!Whare monie a wild bird wags its wing,Baith sweet o' sang an' fair o' feather;While cavern'd cliffs wi' echo ring,Amang the hills o' Hielan' heather!Hey for the Hielan' heather!Whare, light o' heart an' light o' heel,Young lads and lasses trip thegither;The native Norlan rant and reelAmang the halesome Hielan' heather!Hey for the Hielan' heather!The broom an' whin, by loch an' lin,Are tipp'd wi' gowd in simmer weather;How sweet an' fair! but meikle mairThe purple bells o' Hielan' heather!Hey for the Hielan' heather!Whare'er I rest, whare'er I range,My fancy fondly travels thither;Nae countrie charms, nae customs changeMy feelings frae the Hielan' heather!Hey, for the Hielan' heather!
Hey for the Hielan' heather!Hey for the Hielan' heather!Dear to me, an' aye shall be,The bonnie braes o' Hielan' heather!
The moss-muir black an' mountain blue,Whare mists at morn an' gloamin' gather;The craigs an' cairns o' hoary hue,Whare blooms the bonnie Hielan' heather!Hey for the Hielan' heather!
Whare monie a wild bird wags its wing,Baith sweet o' sang an' fair o' feather;While cavern'd cliffs wi' echo ring,Amang the hills o' Hielan' heather!Hey for the Hielan' heather!
Whare, light o' heart an' light o' heel,Young lads and lasses trip thegither;The native Norlan rant and reelAmang the halesome Hielan' heather!Hey for the Hielan' heather!
The broom an' whin, by loch an' lin,Are tipp'd wi' gowd in simmer weather;How sweet an' fair! but meikle mairThe purple bells o' Hielan' heather!Hey for the Hielan' heather!
Whare'er I rest, whare'er I range,My fancy fondly travels thither;Nae countrie charms, nae customs changeMy feelings frae the Hielan' heather!Hey, for the Hielan' heather!
Air—"Kinloch."
Loved land of my kindred, farewell—and for ever!Oh! what can relief to the bosom impart;When fated with each fond endearment to sever,And hope its sweet sunshine withholds from the heart!Farewell, thou fair land! which, till life's pulse shall perish,Though doom'd to forego, I shall never forget,Wherever I wander, for thee will I cherishThe dearest regard and the deepest regret.Farewell, ye great Grampians, cloud-robed and crested!Like your mists in the sunbeam ye melt in my sight;Your peaks are the king-eagle's thrones—where have restedThe snow-falls of ages—eternally white.Ah! never again shall the falls of your fountainsTheir wild murmur'd music awake on mine ear;No more the lake's lustre, that mirrors your mountains,I'll pore on with pleasure—deep, lonely, yet dear.Yet—yet Caledonia! when slumber comes o'er me,Oh! oft will I dream of thee, far, far, away;But vain are the visions that rapture restore me,To waken and weep at the dawn of the day.Ere gone the last glimpse, faint and far o'er the ocean,Where yet my heart dwells—where it ever shall dwell,While tongue, sigh and tear, speak my spirit's emotion,My country—my kindred—farewell, oh farewell!
Loved land of my kindred, farewell—and for ever!Oh! what can relief to the bosom impart;When fated with each fond endearment to sever,And hope its sweet sunshine withholds from the heart!Farewell, thou fair land! which, till life's pulse shall perish,Though doom'd to forego, I shall never forget,Wherever I wander, for thee will I cherishThe dearest regard and the deepest regret.
Farewell, ye great Grampians, cloud-robed and crested!Like your mists in the sunbeam ye melt in my sight;Your peaks are the king-eagle's thrones—where have restedThe snow-falls of ages—eternally white.Ah! never again shall the falls of your fountainsTheir wild murmur'd music awake on mine ear;No more the lake's lustre, that mirrors your mountains,I'll pore on with pleasure—deep, lonely, yet dear.
Yet—yet Caledonia! when slumber comes o'er me,Oh! oft will I dream of thee, far, far, away;But vain are the visions that rapture restore me,To waken and weep at the dawn of the day.Ere gone the last glimpse, faint and far o'er the ocean,Where yet my heart dwells—where it ever shall dwell,While tongue, sigh and tear, speak my spirit's emotion,My country—my kindred—farewell, oh farewell!
A bonnie Rose bloom'd wild and fair,As sweet a bud I trowAs ever breathed the morning air,Or drank the evening dew.A Zephyr loved the blushing flower,With sigh and fond love tale;It woo'd within its briery bowerThe rose of Seaton Vale.With wakening kiss the Zephyr press'dThis bud at morning light;At noon it fann'd its glowing breast,And nestled there at night.But other flowers sprung up thereby,And lured the roving gale;The Zephyr left to droop and dieThe Rose of Seaton Vale.A matchless maiden dwelt by Don,Loved by as fair a youth;Long had their young hearts throbb'd as oneWi' tenderness and truth.Thy warmest tear, soft Pity, pour—For Ellen's type and taleAre in that sweet, ill-fated flower,The Rose of Seaton Vale.
A bonnie Rose bloom'd wild and fair,As sweet a bud I trowAs ever breathed the morning air,Or drank the evening dew.A Zephyr loved the blushing flower,With sigh and fond love tale;It woo'd within its briery bowerThe rose of Seaton Vale.
With wakening kiss the Zephyr press'dThis bud at morning light;At noon it fann'd its glowing breast,And nestled there at night.But other flowers sprung up thereby,And lured the roving gale;The Zephyr left to droop and dieThe Rose of Seaton Vale.
A matchless maiden dwelt by Don,Loved by as fair a youth;Long had their young hearts throbb'd as oneWi' tenderness and truth.Thy warmest tear, soft Pity, pour—For Ellen's type and taleAre in that sweet, ill-fated flower,The Rose of Seaton Vale.
Young Donald dearer loved than lifeThe proud Dunallan's daughter;But, barr'd by feudal hate and strife,In vain he loved and sought her.She loved the Lord of Garry's glen,The chieftain of Clanronald;A thousand plaided HighlandmenClasp'd the claymore for Donald.On Scotland rush'd the Danish hordes,Dunallan met his foemen;Beneath him bared ten thousand swordsOf vassal, serf, and yeomen.The fray was fierce—and at its heightWas seen a visor'd stranger,With red lance foremost in the fight,Unfearing Dane and danger."Be praised—brave knight! thy steel hath strivenThe sharpest in the slaughter;Crave what thou wilt of me—though evenMy fair—my darling daughter!"He lifts the visor from his face—The chieftain of Clanronald!And foes enclasp in friends' embrace,Dunallan and young Donald.Dunallan's halls ring loud with glee—The feast-cup glads Glengarry;The joy that should for ever beWhen mutual lovers marry.The shout and shell the revellers raise,Dunallan and Clanronald;And minstrel measures pour to praiseFair Kath'rine and brave Donald!
Young Donald dearer loved than lifeThe proud Dunallan's daughter;But, barr'd by feudal hate and strife,In vain he loved and sought her.She loved the Lord of Garry's glen,The chieftain of Clanronald;A thousand plaided HighlandmenClasp'd the claymore for Donald.
On Scotland rush'd the Danish hordes,Dunallan met his foemen;Beneath him bared ten thousand swordsOf vassal, serf, and yeomen.The fray was fierce—and at its heightWas seen a visor'd stranger,With red lance foremost in the fight,Unfearing Dane and danger.
"Be praised—brave knight! thy steel hath strivenThe sharpest in the slaughter;Crave what thou wilt of me—though evenMy fair—my darling daughter!"He lifts the visor from his face—The chieftain of Clanronald!And foes enclasp in friends' embrace,Dunallan and young Donald.
Dunallan's halls ring loud with glee—The feast-cup glads Glengarry;The joy that should for ever beWhen mutual lovers marry.The shout and shell the revellers raise,Dunallan and Clanronald;And minstrel measures pour to praiseFair Kath'rine and brave Donald!
Guid night, and joy be wi' you a'!Since it is sae that I maun gang;Short seem'd the gate to come, but ah!To gang again as wearie lang.Sic joyous nights come nae sae thrangThat I sae sune sou'd haste awa';But since it's sae that I maun gae,Guid night, and joy be wi' ye a'!This night I ween we've had the heartTo gar auld Time tak' to his feet;That makes us a' fu' laith to part,But aye mair fain again to meet!To dree the winter's drift and weetFor sic a night is nocht ava,For hours the sweetest o' the sweet;Guid night, an' joy be wi' you a'!Our bald-pow'd daddies here we've seen,In younker revels fidgin' fain;Our gray-hair'd grannies here hae been,Like daffin hizzies, young again!To mony a merrie auld Scot's strainWe've deftly danced the time awa':We met in mirth—we part wi' pain,Guid night, an' joy be wi' you a'!My nimble gray neighs at the yett,My shouthers roun' the plaid I throw;I've clapt the spur upon my buit,The guid braid bonnet on my brow!Then night is wearing late I trow—My hame lies mony a mile awa';The mair's my need to mount and go,Guid night, an' joy be wi' you a'!
Guid night, and joy be wi' you a'!Since it is sae that I maun gang;Short seem'd the gate to come, but ah!To gang again as wearie lang.Sic joyous nights come nae sae thrangThat I sae sune sou'd haste awa';But since it's sae that I maun gae,Guid night, and joy be wi' ye a'!
This night I ween we've had the heartTo gar auld Time tak' to his feet;That makes us a' fu' laith to part,But aye mair fain again to meet!To dree the winter's drift and weetFor sic a night is nocht ava,For hours the sweetest o' the sweet;Guid night, an' joy be wi' you a'!
Our bald-pow'd daddies here we've seen,In younker revels fidgin' fain;Our gray-hair'd grannies here hae been,Like daffin hizzies, young again!To mony a merrie auld Scot's strainWe've deftly danced the time awa':We met in mirth—we part wi' pain,Guid night, an' joy be wi' you a'!
My nimble gray neighs at the yett,My shouthers roun' the plaid I throw;I've clapt the spur upon my buit,The guid braid bonnet on my brow!Then night is wearing late I trow—My hame lies mony a mile awa';The mair's my need to mount and go,Guid night, an' joy be wi' you a'!
Rise, rise! Lowland and Highlandman,Bald sire to beardless son, each come and early;Rise, rise! mainland and islandmen,Belt on your broad claymores—fight for Prince Charlie;Down from the mountain steep,Up from the valley deep,Out from the clachan, the bothie, and shieling,Bugle and battle-drumBid chief and vassal come,Bravely our bagpipes the pibroch is pealing.Men of the mountains—descendants of heroes!Heirs of the fame as the hills of your fathers;Say, shall the Southern—the Sassenach fear usWhen to the war-peal each plaided clan gathers?Too long on the trophied wallsOf your ancestral halls,Red rust hath blunted the armour of Albin;Seize then, ye mountain Macs,Buckler and battle-axe,Lads of Lochaber, Braemar, and Breadalbin!When hath the tartan plaid mantled a coward?When did the blue bonnet crest the disloyal?Up, then, and crowd to the standard of Stuart,Follow your leader—the rightful—the royal!Chief of Clanronald,Donald Macdonald!Lovat! Lochiel! with the Grant and the Gordon!Rouse every kilted clan,Rouse every loyal man,Gun on the shoulder, and thigh the good sword on!
Rise, rise! Lowland and Highlandman,Bald sire to beardless son, each come and early;Rise, rise! mainland and islandmen,Belt on your broad claymores—fight for Prince Charlie;Down from the mountain steep,Up from the valley deep,Out from the clachan, the bothie, and shieling,Bugle and battle-drumBid chief and vassal come,Bravely our bagpipes the pibroch is pealing.
Men of the mountains—descendants of heroes!Heirs of the fame as the hills of your fathers;Say, shall the Southern—the Sassenach fear usWhen to the war-peal each plaided clan gathers?Too long on the trophied wallsOf your ancestral halls,Red rust hath blunted the armour of Albin;Seize then, ye mountain Macs,Buckler and battle-axe,Lads of Lochaber, Braemar, and Breadalbin!
When hath the tartan plaid mantled a coward?When did the blue bonnet crest the disloyal?Up, then, and crowd to the standard of Stuart,Follow your leader—the rightful—the royal!Chief of Clanronald,Donald Macdonald!Lovat! Lochiel! with the Grant and the Gordon!Rouse every kilted clan,Rouse every loyal man,Gun on the shoulder, and thigh the good sword on!
Air—"The Dawtie."