No sky shines so bright as the sky that is spreadO'er the land that gave birth to the first breath we drew—Such radiance but lives in the eye of the maidThat is dear to our heart—to our heart ever true.With her—yes, with her that this spirit has bless'd,'Neath my dear native sky let my home only be;And the valley of flowers, and the heath-covered waste,Shall alike have a spell of enchantment for me.Let her eye pour its light o'er the joy of my heart,Or mingle its beam with the gloom of my woe,And each shadow of care from the soul shall depart,Save of care that on her it is bliss to bestow.My thought shall not travel to sun-lighted isles,Nor my heart own a wish for the wealth they may claim,But live and be bless'd in rewarding her smilesWith the song of the harp that shall hallow her name.The anthems of music delightful may roll,Or eloquence flow as the waves of the sea,But the sounds that enchantment can shed o'er the soulAre—the lass that we love, and the land that is free!
No sky shines so bright as the sky that is spreadO'er the land that gave birth to the first breath we drew—Such radiance but lives in the eye of the maidThat is dear to our heart—to our heart ever true.
With her—yes, with her that this spirit has bless'd,'Neath my dear native sky let my home only be;And the valley of flowers, and the heath-covered waste,Shall alike have a spell of enchantment for me.
Let her eye pour its light o'er the joy of my heart,Or mingle its beam with the gloom of my woe,And each shadow of care from the soul shall depart,Save of care that on her it is bliss to bestow.
My thought shall not travel to sun-lighted isles,Nor my heart own a wish for the wealth they may claim,But live and be bless'd in rewarding her smilesWith the song of the harp that shall hallow her name.
The anthems of music delightful may roll,Or eloquence flow as the waves of the sea,But the sounds that enchantment can shed o'er the soulAre—the lass that we love, and the land that is free!
I form'd a green bower by the rill o' yon glen,Afar from the din and the dwellings of men;Where still I might linger in many a dream,And mingle my strains wi' the voice o' the stream.From the cave and the cliff, where the hill foxes roam,Where the earn has his nest and the raven his home,I brought the young flower-buds ere yet they had smiled,And taught them to bloom round my bower of the wild.But the fair maidens came, from yon vale far away,And sought my lone grotto still day after day,And soon were the stems of their fair blossoms shornThat the flowers of the bard might their ringlets adorn.Full fair were they all, but the maiden most fairWould still have no flower till I pull'd it with care;And gentle, and simple, and modest, and mild,She stole my lone heart in the bower of the wild.The summer is past, and the maidens are gone,And this heart, like my grotto, is wither'd and lone,And yet, with the winter, I'll cease not to mourn,Unless, with the blossoms, these fair ones return.Oh! had they ne'er come, or had ne'er gone away,I sing in my sorrow still day after day.The scene seems a desert—the charm is exiled,And woe to my blooms and my bower of the wild!
I form'd a green bower by the rill o' yon glen,Afar from the din and the dwellings of men;Where still I might linger in many a dream,And mingle my strains wi' the voice o' the stream.From the cave and the cliff, where the hill foxes roam,Where the earn has his nest and the raven his home,I brought the young flower-buds ere yet they had smiled,And taught them to bloom round my bower of the wild.
But the fair maidens came, from yon vale far away,And sought my lone grotto still day after day,And soon were the stems of their fair blossoms shornThat the flowers of the bard might their ringlets adorn.Full fair were they all, but the maiden most fairWould still have no flower till I pull'd it with care;And gentle, and simple, and modest, and mild,She stole my lone heart in the bower of the wild.
The summer is past, and the maidens are gone,And this heart, like my grotto, is wither'd and lone,And yet, with the winter, I'll cease not to mourn,Unless, with the blossoms, these fair ones return.Oh! had they ne'er come, or had ne'er gone away,I sing in my sorrow still day after day.The scene seems a desert—the charm is exiled,And woe to my blooms and my bower of the wild!
Air—"The Ploughman."
I winna love the laddie that ca's the cart and pleugh,Though he should own that tender love, that's only felt by few;For he that has this bosom a' to fondest love betray'd,Is the faithfu' shepherd laddie that wears the crook and plaid;For he's aye true to his lassie—he's aye true to his lassie,Who wears the crook and plaid.At morn he climbs the mountains wild his fleecy flocks to view,While o'er him sweet the laverock sings, new sprung frae 'mang the dew;His doggie frolics roun' and roun', and may not weel be stay'd,Sae blithe it is the laddie wi' that wears the crook and plaid;And he's aye true, &c.At noon he leans him down upon the high and heathy fell,And views his flocks, beneath him a', fair feeding in the dell;And there he sings the sangs o' love, the sweetest ever made;O! how happy is the laddie that wears the crook and plaid;And he's aye true, &c.He pu's the bells o' heather red, and the lily-flowers sae meek,Ca's the lily like my bosom, and the heath-bell like my cheek;His words are sweet and tender, as the dews frae heaven shed;And weel I love to list the lad who wears the crook and plaid;For he's aye true, &c.When the dews begin to fauld the flowers, and the gloamin' shades draw on,When the star comes stealing through the sky, and the kye are on the loan,He whistles through the glen sae sweet, the heart is lighter madeTo ken the laddie hameward hies who wears the crook and plaid;For he's aye true, &c.Beneath the spreading hawthorn gray, that's growing in the glen,He meets me in the gloamin' aye, when nane on earth can ken,To woo and vow, and there I trow, whatever may be said,He kens aye unco weel the way to row me in his plaid;For he's aye true, &c.The youth o' mony riches may to his fair one ride,And woo across the table cauld his madam-titled bride;But I'll gang to the hawthorn gray, where cheek to cheek is laid,Oh! nae wooers like the laddie that rows me in his plaid;And he's aye true, &c.To own the truth o' tender love what heart wad no comply,Since love gives purer happiness than aught aneath the sky?If love be in the bosom, then the heart is ne'er afraid;And through life I'll love the laddie that wears the crook and plaid;For he's aye true, &c.
I winna love the laddie that ca's the cart and pleugh,Though he should own that tender love, that's only felt by few;For he that has this bosom a' to fondest love betray'd,Is the faithfu' shepherd laddie that wears the crook and plaid;For he's aye true to his lassie—he's aye true to his lassie,Who wears the crook and plaid.
At morn he climbs the mountains wild his fleecy flocks to view,While o'er him sweet the laverock sings, new sprung frae 'mang the dew;His doggie frolics roun' and roun', and may not weel be stay'd,Sae blithe it is the laddie wi' that wears the crook and plaid;And he's aye true, &c.
At noon he leans him down upon the high and heathy fell,And views his flocks, beneath him a', fair feeding in the dell;And there he sings the sangs o' love, the sweetest ever made;O! how happy is the laddie that wears the crook and plaid;And he's aye true, &c.
He pu's the bells o' heather red, and the lily-flowers sae meek,Ca's the lily like my bosom, and the heath-bell like my cheek;His words are sweet and tender, as the dews frae heaven shed;And weel I love to list the lad who wears the crook and plaid;For he's aye true, &c.
When the dews begin to fauld the flowers, and the gloamin' shades draw on,When the star comes stealing through the sky, and the kye are on the loan,He whistles through the glen sae sweet, the heart is lighter madeTo ken the laddie hameward hies who wears the crook and plaid;For he's aye true, &c.
Beneath the spreading hawthorn gray, that's growing in the glen,He meets me in the gloamin' aye, when nane on earth can ken,To woo and vow, and there I trow, whatever may be said,He kens aye unco weel the way to row me in his plaid;For he's aye true, &c.
The youth o' mony riches may to his fair one ride,And woo across the table cauld his madam-titled bride;But I'll gang to the hawthorn gray, where cheek to cheek is laid,Oh! nae wooers like the laddie that rows me in his plaid;And he's aye true, &c.
To own the truth o' tender love what heart wad no comply,Since love gives purer happiness than aught aneath the sky?If love be in the bosom, then the heart is ne'er afraid;And through life I'll love the laddie that wears the crook and plaid;For he's aye true, &c.
Air—"Bonnie Mary Hay."
Oh, lassie! if thou'lt gang to yonder glen wi' me,I'll weave the wilds amang a bonnie bower for thee;I'll weave a bonnie bower o' the birks and willows green,And to my heart thou'lt be what nae other e'er has been.When the dew is on the flower, and the starlight on the lea,In the bonnie green-wood bower I'll wake my harp to thee;I'll wake my hill-harp's strain, and the echoes o' the dellShall restore the tales again that its notes o' love shall tell.Oh, lassie! thou art fair as the morning's early beam,As the image of a flower reflected frae the stream;There's kindness in thy heart, and there's language in thine e'e,But ah! its looks impart nae sweet tale o' love to me!Oh, lassie! wert thou mine I wad love thee wi' such loveAs the lips can ne'er define, and the cold can never prove;In the bower by yonder stream our happy home should be,And our life a blissful dream, while I lived alone for thee.When I am far away my thoughts on thee shall rest,Allured, as by a ray, frae the dwellings o' the blest;For beneath the clouds o' dew, where'er my path may be,Oh! a maiden fair as thou, I again shall never see!
Oh, lassie! if thou'lt gang to yonder glen wi' me,I'll weave the wilds amang a bonnie bower for thee;I'll weave a bonnie bower o' the birks and willows green,And to my heart thou'lt be what nae other e'er has been.
When the dew is on the flower, and the starlight on the lea,In the bonnie green-wood bower I'll wake my harp to thee;I'll wake my hill-harp's strain, and the echoes o' the dellShall restore the tales again that its notes o' love shall tell.
Oh, lassie! thou art fair as the morning's early beam,As the image of a flower reflected frae the stream;There's kindness in thy heart, and there's language in thine e'e,But ah! its looks impart nae sweet tale o' love to me!
Oh, lassie! wert thou mine I wad love thee wi' such loveAs the lips can ne'er define, and the cold can never prove;In the bower by yonder stream our happy home should be,And our life a blissful dream, while I lived alone for thee.
When I am far away my thoughts on thee shall rest,Allured, as by a ray, frae the dwellings o' the blest;For beneath the clouds o' dew, where'er my path may be,Oh! a maiden fair as thou, I again shall never see!
When the star of the morning is set,And the heavens are beauteous and blue,And the bells of the heather are wetWith the drops of the deep-lying dew;'Mong the flocks on the mountains that lie,'Twas blithesome and blissful to be,When these all my thoughts would employ;But now I must think upon thee.When noontide displays all its powers,And the flocks to the valley return,To lie and to feed 'mong the flowersThat bloom on the banks of the burn;O sweet, sweet it was to recline'Neath the shade of yon hoar hawthorn-tree,And think on the charge that was mine;But now I must think upon thee.When Gloaming stole down from the rocks,With her fingers of shadowy light,And the dews of the eve in her locks,To spread down a couch for the night;'Twas sweet through yon green birks to stray,That border the brook and the lea;But now, 'tis a wearisome way,Unless it were travell'd with thee.All lovely and pure as thou art,And generous of thought and of will,Oh Mary! speak thou to this heart,And bid its wild beating be still;I'd give all the ewes in the fold—I'd give all the lambs on the lea,By night or by day to beholdOne look of true kindness from thee.
When the star of the morning is set,And the heavens are beauteous and blue,And the bells of the heather are wetWith the drops of the deep-lying dew;'Mong the flocks on the mountains that lie,'Twas blithesome and blissful to be,When these all my thoughts would employ;But now I must think upon thee.
When noontide displays all its powers,And the flocks to the valley return,To lie and to feed 'mong the flowersThat bloom on the banks of the burn;O sweet, sweet it was to recline'Neath the shade of yon hoar hawthorn-tree,And think on the charge that was mine;But now I must think upon thee.
When Gloaming stole down from the rocks,With her fingers of shadowy light,And the dews of the eve in her locks,To spread down a couch for the night;'Twas sweet through yon green birks to stray,That border the brook and the lea;But now, 'tis a wearisome way,Unless it were travell'd with thee.
All lovely and pure as thou art,And generous of thought and of will,Oh Mary! speak thou to this heart,And bid its wild beating be still;I'd give all the ewes in the fold—I'd give all the lambs on the lea,By night or by day to beholdOne look of true kindness from thee.
Though all fair was that bosom, heaving white,While hung this fond spirit o'er thee;And though that eye, with beauty's light,Still bedimm'd every eye before thee;Oh! charms there were still more divine,When woke that melting voice of thine,The charms that caught this soul of mine,And taught it to adore thee.Then died the woes of the heart awayWith the thoughts of joys departed;For my soul seem'd but to live in thy lay,While it told of the faithful-hearted.Methought how sweet it were to beFar in some wild green glen with thee;From all of life and of longing free,Save what pure love imparted.Oh! I could stray where the drops of dewNever fell on the desert round me,And dwell where the fair flowers never grewIf the hymns of thy voice still found me.Thy smile itself could the soul investWith all that here makes mortals bless'd;While every thought thy lips express'dIn deeper love still bound me.
Though all fair was that bosom, heaving white,While hung this fond spirit o'er thee;And though that eye, with beauty's light,Still bedimm'd every eye before thee;Oh! charms there were still more divine,When woke that melting voice of thine,The charms that caught this soul of mine,And taught it to adore thee.
Then died the woes of the heart awayWith the thoughts of joys departed;For my soul seem'd but to live in thy lay,While it told of the faithful-hearted.Methought how sweet it were to beFar in some wild green glen with thee;From all of life and of longing free,Save what pure love imparted.
Oh! I could stray where the drops of dewNever fell on the desert round me,And dwell where the fair flowers never grewIf the hymns of thy voice still found me.Thy smile itself could the soul investWith all that here makes mortals bless'd;While every thought thy lips express'dIn deeper love still bound me.
Would that I were where wild woods waveAboon the beds where sleep the brave;And where the streams o' Scotia laveHer hills and glens o' grandeur!Where freedom reigns, and friendship dwells,Bright as the sun upon the fells,When autumn brings the heather-bellsIn all their native splendour.The thistle wi' the hawthorn joins,The birks mix wi' the mountain pines,And heart with dauntless heart combinesFor ever to defend her.Then would I were, &c.There roam the kind, and live the leal,By lofty ha' and lowly shiel;And she for whom the heart must feelA kindness still mair tender.Fair, where the light hill breezes blaw,The wild-flowers bloom by glen and shaw;But she is fairer than them a',Wherever she may wander.Then would I were, &c.Still, far or near, by wild or wood,I'll love the generous, wise, and good;But she shall share the dearest moodThat Heaven to life may render.What boots it then thus on to stir,And still from love's enjoyment err,When I to Scotland and to herMust all this heart surrender.Then would I were, &c.
Would that I were where wild woods waveAboon the beds where sleep the brave;And where the streams o' Scotia laveHer hills and glens o' grandeur!
Where freedom reigns, and friendship dwells,Bright as the sun upon the fells,When autumn brings the heather-bellsIn all their native splendour.The thistle wi' the hawthorn joins,The birks mix wi' the mountain pines,And heart with dauntless heart combinesFor ever to defend her.Then would I were, &c.
There roam the kind, and live the leal,By lofty ha' and lowly shiel;And she for whom the heart must feelA kindness still mair tender.Fair, where the light hill breezes blaw,The wild-flowers bloom by glen and shaw;But she is fairer than them a',Wherever she may wander.Then would I were, &c.
Still, far or near, by wild or wood,I'll love the generous, wise, and good;But she shall share the dearest moodThat Heaven to life may render.What boots it then thus on to stir,And still from love's enjoyment err,When I to Scotland and to herMust all this heart surrender.Then would I were, &c.
Air—"Paddy's Resource."
Oh! tell me what sound is the sweetest to hear—The sound that can most o'er our being prevail?'Tis the sweet melting voice of the maid we love dear,When chanting the songs of her own native vale.More thrilling is this than the tone of the gale,Awakening the wind-harp's wild wandering lore;More sweet than the songster that sings in the dale,When the strains of the rest of the warblers are o'er.Oh! tell me what light, of the earth or the sky,Can the deepest delight to the spirit impart?'Tis the bright beaming radiance that lives in the eyeOf the maid that affection has bound to the heart.More charming is this than the glory of art,More lovely than rays from yon heavens above;It heightens each joy, as it soothes every smart,Enchanting our souls with the magic of love.Oh! tell me what drop is most melting and meekThat aught 'neath the azure of heaven can share?'Tis the tear-drop that falls o'er the dear maiden's cheekWhen she breathes o'er her lover her sigh and her prayer!More tender is this—more celestial and fair—Than the dew-drop that springs from the chamber of morn;A balm that still softens the ranklings of care,And heals every wound that the bosom hath borne.
Oh! tell me what sound is the sweetest to hear—The sound that can most o'er our being prevail?'Tis the sweet melting voice of the maid we love dear,When chanting the songs of her own native vale.More thrilling is this than the tone of the gale,Awakening the wind-harp's wild wandering lore;More sweet than the songster that sings in the dale,When the strains of the rest of the warblers are o'er.
Oh! tell me what light, of the earth or the sky,Can the deepest delight to the spirit impart?'Tis the bright beaming radiance that lives in the eyeOf the maid that affection has bound to the heart.More charming is this than the glory of art,More lovely than rays from yon heavens above;It heightens each joy, as it soothes every smart,Enchanting our souls with the magic of love.
Oh! tell me what drop is most melting and meekThat aught 'neath the azure of heaven can share?'Tis the tear-drop that falls o'er the dear maiden's cheekWhen she breathes o'er her lover her sigh and her prayer!More tender is this—more celestial and fair—Than the dew-drop that springs from the chamber of morn;A balm that still softens the ranklings of care,And heals every wound that the bosom hath borne.
Our Mary liket weel to strayWhere clear the burn was rowin',And trouth she was, though I say sae,As fair as ought ere made o' clay,And pure as ony gowan.And happy, too, as ony larkThe clud might ever carry;She shunn'd the ill, and sought the good,E'en mair than weel was understood;And a' fouk liket Mary.But she fell sick wi' some decay,When she was but eleven;And as she pined frae day to day,We grudged to see her gaun away,Though she was gaun to Heaven.There's fears for them that's far awa',And fykes for them are flitting,But fears and cares, baith grit and sma',We, by and by, o'er-pit them a';But death there's nae o'er-pitting.And nature's bands are hard to break,When thus they maun be broken;And e'en the form we loved to see,We canna lang, dear though it be,Preserve it as a token.But Mary had a gentle heart—Heaven did as gently free her;Yet lang afore she reach'd that part,Dear sir, it wad hae made ye startHad ye been there to see her.Sae changed, and yet sae sweet and fair,And growing meek and meeker,Wi' her lang locks o' yellow hair,She wore a little angel's air,Ere angels cam to seek her.And when she couldna stray out by,The wee wild-flowers to gather;She oft her household plays wad try,To hide her illness frae our eye,Lest she should grieve us farther.But ilka thing we said or did,Aye pleased the sweet wee creature;Indeed ye wad hae thought she hadA something in her made her gladAyont the course o' nature.For though disease, beyont remeed,Was in her frame indented,Yet aye the mair as she grew ill,She grew and grew the lovelier still,And mair and mair contented.But death's cauld hour cam' on at last,As it to a' is comin';And may it be, whene'er it fa's,Nae waur to others than it wasTo Mary, sweet wee woman!
Our Mary liket weel to strayWhere clear the burn was rowin',And trouth she was, though I say sae,As fair as ought ere made o' clay,And pure as ony gowan.
And happy, too, as ony larkThe clud might ever carry;She shunn'd the ill, and sought the good,E'en mair than weel was understood;And a' fouk liket Mary.
But she fell sick wi' some decay,When she was but eleven;And as she pined frae day to day,We grudged to see her gaun away,Though she was gaun to Heaven.
There's fears for them that's far awa',And fykes for them are flitting,But fears and cares, baith grit and sma',We, by and by, o'er-pit them a';But death there's nae o'er-pitting.
And nature's bands are hard to break,When thus they maun be broken;And e'en the form we loved to see,We canna lang, dear though it be,Preserve it as a token.
But Mary had a gentle heart—Heaven did as gently free her;Yet lang afore she reach'd that part,Dear sir, it wad hae made ye startHad ye been there to see her.
Sae changed, and yet sae sweet and fair,And growing meek and meeker,Wi' her lang locks o' yellow hair,She wore a little angel's air,Ere angels cam to seek her.
And when she couldna stray out by,The wee wild-flowers to gather;She oft her household plays wad try,To hide her illness frae our eye,Lest she should grieve us farther.
But ilka thing we said or did,Aye pleased the sweet wee creature;Indeed ye wad hae thought she hadA something in her made her gladAyont the course o' nature.
For though disease, beyont remeed,Was in her frame indented,Yet aye the mair as she grew ill,She grew and grew the lovelier still,And mair and mair contented.
But death's cauld hour cam' on at last,As it to a' is comin';And may it be, whene'er it fa's,Nae waur to others than it wasTo Mary, sweet wee woman!
The writer of spirited and elegant poetry, Mrs Margaret Maxwell Inglis was the youngest daughter of Alexander Murray, a medical practitioner, who latterly accepted a small government situation in the town of Sanquhar, Dumfriesshire. She was born at Sanquhar on the 27th October 1774, and at an early age became the wife of a Mr Finlay, who held a subordinate post in the navy. On the death of her husband, which took place in the West Indies, she resided with the other members of her family in Dumfries; and in 1803, she married Mr John Inglis, only son of John Inglis, D.D., minister of Kirkmabreck, in Galloway. By the death of Mr Inglis in 1826, she became dependent, with three children by her second marriage, on a small annuity arising from an appointment which her late husband had held in the Excise. She relieved the sadness of her widowhood by a course of extensive reading, and of composition both in prose and verse. In 1838 she published, at the solicitation of friends, a duodecimo volume, entitled "Miscellaneous Collection of Poems, chiefly Scriptural Pieces." Of the compositions in this volume, there are several of very superior merit, while the whole are marked by a vein of elegant fancy.
Mrs Inglis died in Edinburgh on the 21st December 1843. Eminently gifted as a musician, she could boast of having been complimented by the poet Burns on the grace with which she had, in his presence, sung his ownsongs. Of retiring and unobtrusive habits, she mixed sparingly in general society; but among her intimate friends, she was held in estimation for the extent of her information and the unclouded cheerfulness of her disposition. She has left some MSS. of poems and songs, from which we have been privileged to make selections for the present work.
Air—"Banks of the Devon."
Sweet bard of Ettrick's glen!Where art thou wandering?Miss'd is thy foot on the mountain and lea.Why round yon craggy rocksWander thy heedless flocks,While lambies are list'ning and bleating for thee?Cold as the mountain stream,Pale as the moonlight beam,Still is thy bosom, and closed is thine e'e.Wild may the tempest's waveSweep o'er thy lonely grave;Thou art deaf to the storm—it is harmless to thee.Like a meteor's brief light,Like the breath of the morning,Thy life's dream hath pass'd as a shadow gone by;Till thy soft numbers stealingO'er mem'ry's warm feeling,Each line is embalm'd with a tear or a sigh.Sweet was thy melody,Rich as the rose's dye,Shedding its odours o'er sorrow or glee;Love laugh'd on golden wing,Pleasure's hand touch'd the string,All taught the strain to sing, Shepherd, by thee.Cold on Benlomond's browFlickers the drifted snow,While down its sides the wild cataracts foam;Winter's mad winds may sweepFierce o'er each glen and steep,Thy rest is unbroken, and peaceful thy home.And when on dewy wingComes the sweet bird of spring,Chanting its notes on the bush or the tree;The Bird of the Wilderness,Low in the waving grass,Shall, cow'ring, sing sadly its farewell to thee.
Sweet bard of Ettrick's glen!Where art thou wandering?Miss'd is thy foot on the mountain and lea.Why round yon craggy rocksWander thy heedless flocks,While lambies are list'ning and bleating for thee?Cold as the mountain stream,Pale as the moonlight beam,Still is thy bosom, and closed is thine e'e.Wild may the tempest's waveSweep o'er thy lonely grave;Thou art deaf to the storm—it is harmless to thee.
Like a meteor's brief light,Like the breath of the morning,Thy life's dream hath pass'd as a shadow gone by;Till thy soft numbers stealingO'er mem'ry's warm feeling,Each line is embalm'd with a tear or a sigh.Sweet was thy melody,Rich as the rose's dye,Shedding its odours o'er sorrow or glee;Love laugh'd on golden wing,Pleasure's hand touch'd the string,All taught the strain to sing, Shepherd, by thee.
Cold on Benlomond's browFlickers the drifted snow,While down its sides the wild cataracts foam;Winter's mad winds may sweepFierce o'er each glen and steep,Thy rest is unbroken, and peaceful thy home.And when on dewy wingComes the sweet bird of spring,Chanting its notes on the bush or the tree;The Bird of the Wilderness,Low in the waving grass,Shall, cow'ring, sing sadly its farewell to thee.
Air—"Drummond Castle."
Leafless and bare were the shrub and the flower,Cauld was the drift that blew over yon mountain,But caulder my heart at his last ling'ring hour,Though warm was the tear-drap that fell frae my e'e.O saft is the tint o' the gowan sae bonny,The blue heather-bell and the rose sweet as ony,But softer the blink o' his bonnie blue e'e,And sweeter the smile o' young Jamie.Dark lowers the cloud o'er yon mountain sae hie,Faint gloams the sun through the mists o' the ocean,Rough rows the wave on whose bosom I seeThe wee bit frail bark that bears Jamie frae me.Oh, lang may I look o'er yon wild waste sae dreary,And lang count the hours, now so lonesome and weary,And oft may I see the leaf fade frae the tree,Ere I see the blithe blink o' his bonnie blue e'e.Cheerless and wae, on yon snaw-cover'd thorn,Mournfu' and lane is the chirp o' the Robin,He looks through the storm, but nae shelter can see;Come, Robin, and join the sad concert wi' me.Oh, lang may I look o'er yon foam-crested billow,And Hope dies away like a storm-broken willow;Sweet Robin, the blossom again ye may see,But I'll ne'er see the blink o' his bonnie blue e'e.
Leafless and bare were the shrub and the flower,Cauld was the drift that blew over yon mountain,But caulder my heart at his last ling'ring hour,Though warm was the tear-drap that fell frae my e'e.O saft is the tint o' the gowan sae bonny,The blue heather-bell and the rose sweet as ony,But softer the blink o' his bonnie blue e'e,And sweeter the smile o' young Jamie.
Dark lowers the cloud o'er yon mountain sae hie,Faint gloams the sun through the mists o' the ocean,Rough rows the wave on whose bosom I seeThe wee bit frail bark that bears Jamie frae me.Oh, lang may I look o'er yon wild waste sae dreary,And lang count the hours, now so lonesome and weary,And oft may I see the leaf fade frae the tree,Ere I see the blithe blink o' his bonnie blue e'e.
Cheerless and wae, on yon snaw-cover'd thorn,Mournfu' and lane is the chirp o' the Robin,He looks through the storm, but nae shelter can see;Come, Robin, and join the sad concert wi' me.Oh, lang may I look o'er yon foam-crested billow,And Hope dies away like a storm-broken willow;Sweet Robin, the blossom again ye may see,But I'll ne'er see the blink o' his bonnie blue e'e.
Air—"Tullymet."
Let Highland lads, wi' belted plaids,And bonnets blue and white cockades,Put on their shields, unsheathe their blades,And conquest fell begin;And let the word be Scotland's heir:And when their swords can do nae mair,Lang bowstrings o' their yellow hairLet Hieland lasses spin, laddie.Charlie's bonnet's down, laddie,Kilt yer plaid and scour the heather;Charlie's bonnet's down, laddie,Draw yer dirk and rin.Mind Wallace wight, auld Scotland's light,And Douglas bright, and Scrymgeour's might,And Murray Bothwell's gallant knight,And Ruthven light and trim—Kirkpatrick black, wha in a crackLaid Cressingham upon his back,Garr'd Edward gather up his pack,And ply his spurs and rin, laddie.Charlie's bonnet's down, &c.
Let Highland lads, wi' belted plaids,And bonnets blue and white cockades,Put on their shields, unsheathe their blades,And conquest fell begin;And let the word be Scotland's heir:And when their swords can do nae mair,Lang bowstrings o' their yellow hairLet Hieland lasses spin, laddie.Charlie's bonnet's down, laddie,Kilt yer plaid and scour the heather;Charlie's bonnet's down, laddie,Draw yer dirk and rin.
Mind Wallace wight, auld Scotland's light,And Douglas bright, and Scrymgeour's might,And Murray Bothwell's gallant knight,And Ruthven light and trim—Kirkpatrick black, wha in a crackLaid Cressingham upon his back,Garr'd Edward gather up his pack,And ply his spurs and rin, laddie.Charlie's bonnet's down, &c.
Heard ye the bagpipe, or saw ye the bannersThat floated sae light o'er the fields o' Kildairlie;Saw ye the broadswords, the shields and the tartan hose,Heard ye the muster-roll sworn to Prince Charlie?Saw ye brave Appin, wi' bonnet and belted plaid,Or saw ye the Lords o' Seaforth and Airlie;Saw ye the Glengarry, M'Leod, and Clandonachil,Plant the white rose in their bonnets for Charlie?Saw ye the halls o' auld Holyrood lighted up,Kenn'd ye the nobles that revell'd sae rarely;Saw ye the chiefs of Lochiel and Clanronald,Wha rush'd frae their mountains to follow Prince Charlie?But saw ye the blood-streaming fields of Culloden,Or kenn'd ye the banners were tatter'd sae sairly;Heard ye the pibroch sae wild and sae wailing,That mourn'd for the chieftains that fell for Prince Charlie.Wha, in yon Highland glen, weary and shelterless,Pillows his head on the heather sae barely;Wha seeks the darkest night, wha maunna face the light,Borne down by lawless might—gallant Prince Charlie?Wha, like the stricken deer, chased by the hunter's spear,Fled frae the hills o' his father sae scaredly;But wha, by affection's chart, reigns in auld Scotland's heart—Wha but the royal, the gallant Prince Charlie?
Heard ye the bagpipe, or saw ye the bannersThat floated sae light o'er the fields o' Kildairlie;Saw ye the broadswords, the shields and the tartan hose,Heard ye the muster-roll sworn to Prince Charlie?Saw ye brave Appin, wi' bonnet and belted plaid,Or saw ye the Lords o' Seaforth and Airlie;Saw ye the Glengarry, M'Leod, and Clandonachil,Plant the white rose in their bonnets for Charlie?
Saw ye the halls o' auld Holyrood lighted up,Kenn'd ye the nobles that revell'd sae rarely;Saw ye the chiefs of Lochiel and Clanronald,Wha rush'd frae their mountains to follow Prince Charlie?But saw ye the blood-streaming fields of Culloden,Or kenn'd ye the banners were tatter'd sae sairly;Heard ye the pibroch sae wild and sae wailing,That mourn'd for the chieftains that fell for Prince Charlie.
Wha, in yon Highland glen, weary and shelterless,Pillows his head on the heather sae barely;Wha seeks the darkest night, wha maunna face the light,Borne down by lawless might—gallant Prince Charlie?Wha, like the stricken deer, chased by the hunter's spear,Fled frae the hills o' his father sae scaredly;But wha, by affection's chart, reigns in auld Scotland's heart—Wha but the royal, the gallant Prince Charlie?
When the morning's first ray saw the mighty in arms,And the tyrant's proud banners insultingly wave,And the slogan of battle from beauty's fond armsRoused the war-crested chieftain, his country to save;The sunbeam that rose on our mountain-clad warriors,And reflected their shields in the green rippling wave,In its course saw the slain on the fields of their fathers,And shed its last ray on their cold bloody graves.O'er those green beds of honour our war-song prepare,And the red sword of vengeance triumphantly wave,While the ghosts of the slain cry aloud—Do not spare,Lead to victory and freedom, or die with the brave;For the high soul of freedom no tyrant can fetter,Like the unshackled billows our proud shores that lave;Though oppressed, he will watch o'er the home of his fathers,And rest his wan cheek on the tomb of the brave.To arms, then! to arms! Let the battle-cry rise,Like the raven's hoarse croak, through their ranks let it sound;Set their knell on the wing of each arrow that flies,Till the shouts of the free shake the mountains around;Let the cold-blooded, faint-hearted changeling now tremble,For the war-shock shall reach to his dark-centered cave,While the laurels that twine round the brows of the victorsShall with rev'rence be strew'd o'er the tombs of the brave.
When the morning's first ray saw the mighty in arms,And the tyrant's proud banners insultingly wave,And the slogan of battle from beauty's fond armsRoused the war-crested chieftain, his country to save;The sunbeam that rose on our mountain-clad warriors,And reflected their shields in the green rippling wave,In its course saw the slain on the fields of their fathers,And shed its last ray on their cold bloody graves.
O'er those green beds of honour our war-song prepare,And the red sword of vengeance triumphantly wave,While the ghosts of the slain cry aloud—Do not spare,Lead to victory and freedom, or die with the brave;For the high soul of freedom no tyrant can fetter,Like the unshackled billows our proud shores that lave;Though oppressed, he will watch o'er the home of his fathers,And rest his wan cheek on the tomb of the brave.
To arms, then! to arms! Let the battle-cry rise,Like the raven's hoarse croak, through their ranks let it sound;Set their knell on the wing of each arrow that flies,Till the shouts of the free shake the mountains around;Let the cold-blooded, faint-hearted changeling now tremble,For the war-shock shall reach to his dark-centered cave,While the laurels that twine round the brows of the victorsShall with rev'rence be strew'd o'er the tombs of the brave.
Removed from vain fashion,From title's proud ken,In a straw-cover'd cottage,Deep hid in yon glen,There dwells a sweet flow'ret,Pure, lovely, and fair,Though rear'd, like the snowdrop,'Midst hardships' chill air.No soft voice of kindred,Or parent she knows—In the desert she blooms,Like the sweet mountain rose,Like the little stray'd lammieThat bleats on the lea;She's soft, kind, and gentle,And dear, dear to me.Though the rich dews of fortuneNe'er water'd this stem,Nor one fostering sunbeamMatured the rich gem—Oh! give me that pure bosom,Her lot let me share,I'll laugh at distinction,And smile away care.
Removed from vain fashion,From title's proud ken,In a straw-cover'd cottage,Deep hid in yon glen,There dwells a sweet flow'ret,Pure, lovely, and fair,Though rear'd, like the snowdrop,'Midst hardships' chill air.
No soft voice of kindred,Or parent she knows—In the desert she blooms,Like the sweet mountain rose,Like the little stray'd lammieThat bleats on the lea;She's soft, kind, and gentle,And dear, dear to me.
Though the rich dews of fortuneNe'er water'd this stem,Nor one fostering sunbeamMatured the rich gem—Oh! give me that pure bosom,Her lot let me share,I'll laugh at distinction,And smile away care.
When shall we meet again,Meet ne'er to sever?When shall Peace wreath her chainRound us for ever?When shall our hearts repose,Safe from each breath that blows,In this dark world of woes?Never! oh, never!Fate's unrelenting handLong may divide us,Yet in one holy landOne God shall guide us.Then, on that happy shore,Care ne'er shall reach us more,Earth's vain delusions o'er,Angels beside us.There, where no storms can chill,False friends deceive us,Where, with protracted thrill,Hope cannot grieve us;There with the pure in heart,Far from fate's venom'd dart,There shall we meet to partNever! oh, never!
When shall we meet again,Meet ne'er to sever?When shall Peace wreath her chainRound us for ever?When shall our hearts repose,Safe from each breath that blows,In this dark world of woes?Never! oh, never!
Fate's unrelenting handLong may divide us,Yet in one holy landOne God shall guide us.Then, on that happy shore,Care ne'er shall reach us more,Earth's vain delusions o'er,Angels beside us.
There, where no storms can chill,False friends deceive us,Where, with protracted thrill,Hope cannot grieve us;There with the pure in heart,Far from fate's venom'd dart,There shall we meet to partNever! oh, never!
James King was born in Paisley in 1776. His paternal ancestors, for a course of centuries, were farmers in the vicinity of Gleniffer Braes. Having been only one year at school, he was, at the age of eight, required to assist his father in his trade of muslin-weaving. Joining a circulating library, he soon acquired an acquaintance with books; he early wrote verses, and became the intimate associate of Tannahill, who has honourably mentioned him in one of his poetical epistles. In his fifteenth year he enlisted in a fencible regiment, which was afterwards stationed at Inverness. On its being disembodied in 1798, he returned to the loom at Paisley, where he continued till 1803, when he became a recruit in the Renfrewshire county militia. He accompanied this regiment to Margate, Deal, Dover, Portsmouth, and London, and subsequently to Leith, the French prisoners' depôt at Penicuick, and the Castle of Edinburgh. At Edinburgh his poetical talents recommended him to some attention from Sir Walter Scott, the Ettrick Shepherd, and several others of the poets of the capital.
Accused of exciting disaffection, and promoting an attempt made by a portion of his comrades to resist lawful authority while the regiment was stationed at Perth, King, though wholly innocent of the charge, fearing the vengeance of the adjutant, who was hostile to him, contrived to effect his escape. By a circuitous route, so as to elude the vigilance of parties sent to apprehend him, he reached the district of Galloway,where he obtained employment as a shepherd and agricultural labourer. He subsequently wrought as a weaver at Crieff till 1815, when, on his regiment being disembodied, he was honourably acquitted from the charge preferred against him, and granted his discharge. He now settled as a muslin-weaver, first at Glasgow, and afterwards at Paisley and Charleston. He died at Charleston, near Paisley, on the 27th September 1849, in his seventy-third year.
Of vigorous intellect, lively fancy, and a keen appreciation of the humorous, King was much esteemed among persons of a rank superior to his own. His mind was of a fine devotional cast, and his poetical compositions are distinguished by earnestness of expression and sentiment.
The lake is at rest, love,The sun's on its breast, love,How bright is its water, how pleasant to see;Its verdant banks shewingThe richest flowers blowing,A picture of bliss and an emblem of thee!Then, O fairest maiden!When earth is array'd inThe beauties of heaven o'er mountain and lea,Let me still delight inThe glories that brighten,For they are, dear Anna, sweet emblems of thee.But, Anna, why redden?I would not, fair maiden,My tongue could pronounce what might tend to betray;The traitor, the demon,That could deceive woman,His soul's all unfit for the glories of day.Believe me then, fairest,To me thou art dearest;And though I in raptures view lake, stream, and tree,With flower blooming mountains,And crystalline fountains,I view them, fair maid, but as emblems of thee.
The lake is at rest, love,The sun's on its breast, love,How bright is its water, how pleasant to see;Its verdant banks shewingThe richest flowers blowing,A picture of bliss and an emblem of thee!
Then, O fairest maiden!When earth is array'd inThe beauties of heaven o'er mountain and lea,Let me still delight inThe glories that brighten,For they are, dear Anna, sweet emblems of thee.
But, Anna, why redden?I would not, fair maiden,My tongue could pronounce what might tend to betray;The traitor, the demon,That could deceive woman,His soul's all unfit for the glories of day.
Believe me then, fairest,To me thou art dearest;And though I in raptures view lake, stream, and tree,With flower blooming mountains,And crystalline fountains,I view them, fair maid, but as emblems of thee.
Air—"Scott's Boat Song."
No sound was heard o'er the broom-cover'd valley,Save the lone stream o'er the rock as it fell,Warm were the sunbeams, and glancing so gaily,That gold seem'd to dazzle along the flower'd vale.At length from the hill I heard,Plaintively wild, a bard,Yet pleasant to me was his soul's ardent flow;"Remember what Morard says,Morard of many days,Life's like the dew on the hill of the roe."Son of the peaceful vale, keep from the battle plain,Sad is the song that the bugle-horns sing;Though lovely the standard it waves o'er the mangled slain,Widows' sighs stretching its broad gilded wing.Hard are the laws that bindPoor foolish man and blind;But free thou may'st walk as the breezes that blow,Thy cheeks with health's roses spread,Till time clothes with snow thy head,Fairer than dew on the hill of the roe."Wouldst thou have peace in thy mind when thou'rt hoary,Shun vice's paths in the days of thy bloom;Innocence leads to the summit of glory,Innocence gilds the dark shades of the tomb.The tyrant, whose hands are red,Trembles alone in bed;But pure is the peasant's soul, pure as the snow,No horror fiends haunt his rest,Hope fills his placid breast,Hope bright as dew on the hill of the roe."Ceased the soft voice, for gray mist was descending,Slow rose the bard and retired from the hill,The blackbird's mild notes with the thrush's were blending,Oft scream'd the plover her wild notes and shrill,Yet still from the hoary bard,Methought the sweet song I heard,Mix'd with instruction and blended with woe;And oft as I pass along,Chimes in mine ear his song,"Life's like the dew on the hill of the roe."
No sound was heard o'er the broom-cover'd valley,Save the lone stream o'er the rock as it fell,Warm were the sunbeams, and glancing so gaily,That gold seem'd to dazzle along the flower'd vale.At length from the hill I heard,Plaintively wild, a bard,Yet pleasant to me was his soul's ardent flow;"Remember what Morard says,Morard of many days,Life's like the dew on the hill of the roe.
"Son of the peaceful vale, keep from the battle plain,Sad is the song that the bugle-horns sing;Though lovely the standard it waves o'er the mangled slain,Widows' sighs stretching its broad gilded wing.Hard are the laws that bindPoor foolish man and blind;But free thou may'st walk as the breezes that blow,Thy cheeks with health's roses spread,Till time clothes with snow thy head,Fairer than dew on the hill of the roe.
"Wouldst thou have peace in thy mind when thou'rt hoary,Shun vice's paths in the days of thy bloom;Innocence leads to the summit of glory,Innocence gilds the dark shades of the tomb.The tyrant, whose hands are red,Trembles alone in bed;But pure is the peasant's soul, pure as the snow,No horror fiends haunt his rest,Hope fills his placid breast,Hope bright as dew on the hill of the roe."
Ceased the soft voice, for gray mist was descending,Slow rose the bard and retired from the hill,The blackbird's mild notes with the thrush's were blending,Oft scream'd the plover her wild notes and shrill,Yet still from the hoary bard,Methought the sweet song I heard,Mix'd with instruction and blended with woe;And oft as I pass along,Chimes in mine ear his song,"Life's like the dew on the hill of the roe."
The author of a sweet pastoral lyric, which has been praised both by Robert Burns and Allan Cunningham, Isobel Pagan claims a biographical notice. She was born in the parish of New Cumnock, Ayrshire, about the year 1741. Deserted by her relations in youth, and possessing only an imperfect education, she was led into a course of irregularities which an early moral training would have probably prevented. She was lame and singularly ill-favoured, but her manners were spirited and amusing. Her chief employment was the composition of verses, and these she sung as a mode of subsistence. She published, in 1805, a volume of doggerel rhymes, and was in the habit of satirising in verse those who had offended her. Her one happy effort in song-making has preserved her name. She lived chiefly in the neighbourhood of Muirkirk. She died on the 3d November 1821, in her eightieth year, and her remains were interred in the churchyard of Muirkirk. A tombstone marks her grave.