My young heart's luve! twal' years ha'e beenA century to me;I ha'e na seen thy smile, nor heardThy voice's melodie.The mony hardships I ha'e tholedSin' I left Larocklea,I maun na tell, for it would bringThe saut tear in thine e'e.But I ha'e news, an' happy news,To tell unto my love—What I ha'e won, to me mair dearThat it my heart can prove.Its thochts unchanged, still it is true,An' surely sae is thine;Thou never, never canst forgetThat twa waur ane langsyne.The simmer sun blinks on the tarn,An' on the primrose brae,Where we, in days o' innocence,Waur wont to daff an' play;An' I amang the mossy springsWade for the hinny blooms—To thee the rush tiara wove,Bedeck'd wi' lily plumes.When on the ferny knowe we sat,A happy, happy pair—Thy comely cheek laid on my knee,I plaited thy gowden hair.Oh! then I felt the holiest thochtThat e'er enter'd my mind—It, Mary, was to be to theeFor ever true an' kind.Though fair the flowers that bloom aroundMy dwallin' owre the sea—Though bricht the streams, an' green the bowers,They are nasaeto me.I hear the bulbul's mellow leedUpo' the gorgeous paum—The sweet cheep o' the feather'd beeAmang the fields o' baum.But there are nae auld Scotland's burds,Sae dear to childhood's days—The laverock, lintie, shulf, an' yyoite,That taught us luve's sweet lays.Gin' thou e'er wauk'st alane to thinkOn him that's owre the sea,Their cheerfu' saft luve-lilts will tellMy heart's luve-thochts to thee.Lat joy be in thy leal, true heart,An' bricht smile in thine e'e—The bonnie bark is in the bay,I 'm coming hame to thee;I 'm coming hame to thee, Mary,Wi' mony a pearl fine,An' I will lay them in thy lap,For the kiss o' sweet langsyne.
My young heart's luve! twal' years ha'e beenA century to me;I ha'e na seen thy smile, nor heardThy voice's melodie.The mony hardships I ha'e tholedSin' I left Larocklea,I maun na tell, for it would bringThe saut tear in thine e'e.
But I ha'e news, an' happy news,To tell unto my love—What I ha'e won, to me mair dearThat it my heart can prove.Its thochts unchanged, still it is true,An' surely sae is thine;Thou never, never canst forgetThat twa waur ane langsyne.
The simmer sun blinks on the tarn,An' on the primrose brae,Where we, in days o' innocence,Waur wont to daff an' play;An' I amang the mossy springsWade for the hinny blooms—To thee the rush tiara wove,Bedeck'd wi' lily plumes.
When on the ferny knowe we sat,A happy, happy pair—Thy comely cheek laid on my knee,I plaited thy gowden hair.Oh! then I felt the holiest thochtThat e'er enter'd my mind—It, Mary, was to be to theeFor ever true an' kind.
Though fair the flowers that bloom aroundMy dwallin' owre the sea—Though bricht the streams, an' green the bowers,They are nasaeto me.I hear the bulbul's mellow leedUpo' the gorgeous paum—The sweet cheep o' the feather'd beeAmang the fields o' baum.
But there are nae auld Scotland's burds,Sae dear to childhood's days—The laverock, lintie, shulf, an' yyoite,That taught us luve's sweet lays.Gin' thou e'er wauk'st alane to thinkOn him that's owre the sea,Their cheerfu' saft luve-lilts will tellMy heart's luve-thochts to thee.
Lat joy be in thy leal, true heart,An' bricht smile in thine e'e—The bonnie bark is in the bay,I 'm coming hame to thee;I 'm coming hame to thee, Mary,Wi' mony a pearl fine,An' I will lay them in thy lap,For the kiss o' sweet langsyne.
Thomas Lyle, author of the highly popular song, "Kelvin Grove," is a native of Paisley. Attending the philosophical and medical classes in the University of Glasgow, he obtained the diploma of surgeon in the year 1816. He commenced medical practice in Glasgow, where he remained till 1826, when he removed to the parish of Airth in Stirlingshire. The latter locality afforded him abundant opportunities for prosecuting his favourite study of botany; and he frequently proceeded at early dawn to great distances in quest of curious or rare plants, so as to gratify his peculiar tastes without interfering with the duties of his profession, or the conveniences of his patients. At an earlier period of life, having cherished a love for the ancient national music, he was in the habit of collecting and noting such of the older airs as were rapidly passing into oblivion. He was particularly struck with one of these airs, which he deemed worthy of more suitable words than those to which it was commonly sung.[31]At this period he often resorted, in his botanical rambles, to the wooded and sequestered banks of the Kelvin, about two miles north-west of Glasgow;[32]and in consequence, he was led to compose for his favourite tunethe words of his beautiful song, "Kelvin Grove." "The Harp of Renfrewshire" was now in the course of being published, in sixpence numbers, under the editorship of his college friend and professional brother, John Sim, and to this work he contributed his new song. In a future number of the work, the song appeared without his name, as was requested, but with some unauthorised alterations. Of these he complained to Mr Sim, who laid the blame on Mr John Murdoch, who had succeeded him in the editorship, and Mr Lyle did not further prosecute inquiry on the subject. On the retirement of Mr Murdoch, the editorship of "The Harp of Renfrewshire" was intrusted to the poet Motherwell, who incautiously ascribed the song to Mr Sim in the index of the work. Sim died in the West Indies before this period;[33]and, in the belief that the song had been composed by him, Mr Purdie, music-seller in Edinburgh, made purchase of the copyright from his representatives, and published the words, with music arranged for the piano by Robert Archibald Smith. Mr Lyle now asserted his title to the authorship, and on Mr Sim's letter regarding the alterations being submitted to Messrs Motherwell and Smith, a decision in favour of his claim was pronounced by these gentlemen. Mr Lyle was shortly after invited by Mr Smith to contribute songs for the "Irish Minstrel," one of his numerous musical publications.
In 1827 Mr Lyle published the results of his researches into the song literature of his country, in a duodecimo volume, entitled "Ancient Ballads and Songs, chiefly from Tradition, Manuscripts, and scarce Works, with Biographical and Illustrative Notices." Of this work, the more interesting portion consists of"Miscellaneous Poems, by Sir William Mure, Knight of Rowallan," together with several songs of various merit by the editor.
Having acted as medical practitioner at Airth during the period of twenty-eight years, Mr Lyle, in the close of 1853, returned to Glasgow, where he soon found himself actively employed by the medical boards of the city during the prevalence of the Asiatic Cholera. At the present time he is one of the city district surgeons. A man of the most retiring dispositions, he has hitherto avoided public reputation, and has written verses, as he has studied botany, solely for his amusement. He will, however, be remembered as the writer of some exquisitely sweet and simple lyrics.
Let us haste to Kelvin Grove, bonnie lassie, O!Through its mazes let us rove, bonnie lassie, O!Where the rose in all her pride,Paints the hollow dingle side,Where the midnight fairies glide, bonnie lassie, O!Let us wander by the mill, bonnie lassie, O!To the cove beside the rill, bonnie lassie, O!Where the glens rebound the callOf the roaring water's fall,Through the mountains rocky hall, bonnie lassie, O!O Kelvin banks are fair, bonnie lassie, O!When in summer we are there, bonnie lassie, O!There the May pink's crimson plumeThrows a soft but sweet perfumeRound the yellow banks of broom, bonnie lassie, O!Though I dare not call thee mine, bonnie lassie, O!As the smile of fortune 's thine, bonnie lassie, O!Yet with fortune on my side,I could stay thy father's pride,And win thee for my bride, bonnie lassie, O!But the frowns of fortune lower, bonnie lassie, O!On thy lover at this hour, bonnie lassie, O!Ere yon golden orb of dayWake the warblers on the spray,From this land I must away, bonnie lassie, O!Then farewell to Kelvin grove, bonnie lassie, O!And adieu to all I love, bonnie lassie, O!To the river winding clear,To the fragrant-scented breer,Even to thee of all most dear, bonnie lassie, O!When upon a foreign shore, bonnie lassie, O!Should I fall midst battle's roar, bonnie lassie, O!Then, Helen! shouldst thou hearOf thy lover on his bier,To his memory shed a tear, bonnie lassie, O!
Let us haste to Kelvin Grove, bonnie lassie, O!Through its mazes let us rove, bonnie lassie, O!Where the rose in all her pride,Paints the hollow dingle side,Where the midnight fairies glide, bonnie lassie, O!
Let us wander by the mill, bonnie lassie, O!To the cove beside the rill, bonnie lassie, O!Where the glens rebound the callOf the roaring water's fall,Through the mountains rocky hall, bonnie lassie, O!
O Kelvin banks are fair, bonnie lassie, O!When in summer we are there, bonnie lassie, O!There the May pink's crimson plumeThrows a soft but sweet perfumeRound the yellow banks of broom, bonnie lassie, O!
Though I dare not call thee mine, bonnie lassie, O!As the smile of fortune 's thine, bonnie lassie, O!Yet with fortune on my side,I could stay thy father's pride,And win thee for my bride, bonnie lassie, O!
But the frowns of fortune lower, bonnie lassie, O!On thy lover at this hour, bonnie lassie, O!Ere yon golden orb of dayWake the warblers on the spray,From this land I must away, bonnie lassie, O!
Then farewell to Kelvin grove, bonnie lassie, O!And adieu to all I love, bonnie lassie, O!To the river winding clear,To the fragrant-scented breer,Even to thee of all most dear, bonnie lassie, O!
When upon a foreign shore, bonnie lassie, O!Should I fall midst battle's roar, bonnie lassie, O!Then, Helen! shouldst thou hearOf thy lover on his bier,To his memory shed a tear, bonnie lassie, O!
The night-wind's Eolian breezes,Chase melody over the grove,The fleecy clouds wreathing in tresses,Float rosy the woodlands above;Then tarry no longer, my true love,The stars hang their lamps in the sky,'Tis lovely the landscape to view, love,When each bloom has a tear in its eye.So stilly the evening is closing,Bright dew-drops are heard as they fall,Eolian whispers reposingBreathe softly, I hear my love call;Yes, the light fairy step of my true loveThe night breeze is wafting to me;Over heathbell and violet blue, love,Perfuming the shadowy lea.
The night-wind's Eolian breezes,Chase melody over the grove,The fleecy clouds wreathing in tresses,Float rosy the woodlands above;Then tarry no longer, my true love,The stars hang their lamps in the sky,'Tis lovely the landscape to view, love,When each bloom has a tear in its eye.
So stilly the evening is closing,Bright dew-drops are heard as they fall,Eolian whispers reposingBreathe softly, I hear my love call;Yes, the light fairy step of my true loveThe night breeze is wafting to me;Over heathbell and violet blue, love,Perfuming the shadowy lea.
The harvest morning breaksBreathing balm, and the lawnThrough the mist in rosy streaksGilds the dawn,While fairy troops descend,With the rolling clouds that bendO'er the forest as they wendFast away, when the dayChases cloudy wreaths awayFrom the land.The harvest breezes swell,And the song pours along,From the reapers in the dell,Joyous throng!The tiny gleaners come,Picking up their harvest home,As they o'er the stubble roam,Dancing here, sporting there,All the balmy sunny airIs full of song.The harvest evening falls,While each flower round the bower,Breathing odour, now recallsThe lover's hour.The moon enthroned in blueLights the rippling lake anew,And the wailing owls' whoo! whoo!From the glen again, again,Wakes the stillness of the sceneOn my adieu.
The harvest morning breaksBreathing balm, and the lawnThrough the mist in rosy streaksGilds the dawn,While fairy troops descend,With the rolling clouds that bendO'er the forest as they wendFast away, when the dayChases cloudy wreaths awayFrom the land.
The harvest breezes swell,And the song pours along,From the reapers in the dell,Joyous throng!The tiny gleaners come,Picking up their harvest home,As they o'er the stubble roam,Dancing here, sporting there,All the balmy sunny airIs full of song.
The harvest evening falls,While each flower round the bower,Breathing odour, now recallsThe lover's hour.The moon enthroned in blueLights the rippling lake anew,And the wailing owls' whoo! whoo!From the glen again, again,Wakes the stillness of the sceneOn my adieu.
James Home, the author of "Mary Steel," and other popular songs, was born, early in the century, on the farm of Hollybush, about a mile south of Galashiels. During a period of about thirty years, he has been engaged in the humble capacity of a dry-stone mason in Peeblesshire. He resides in the hamlet of Rachan Mill in that county, where, in addition to his ordinary employment, he holds the office of postmaster.
Home has not ventured on a publication, and latterly has abandoned the composition of verses. In youth he was, writes a correspondent, "an enthusiast in love, music, and poetry." A number of his songs and poetical pieces, which he had addressed to friends, have long been popular in the south of Scotland. His song entitled "This Lassie o' Mine" has enjoyed an uncommon measure of general favour. His compositions are replete with pathos; he has skilfully told the lover's tale; and has most truthfully depicted the joys and sorrows, hopes and fears of human life. Some of his best pieces appear in the "Unknown Poets" of Mr Alexander Campbell,—a work which only reached a single number. Of mild dispositions, modest manners, and industrious habits, Home is much respected in private life. Of a somewhat sanguine complexion, his countenance betokens superior intellectual power. He enjoys the comfort of a suitable partner in life, and is a respected office-bearer of the Free Church congregation at Broughton.
I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel,When the lark begins to sing,And a thousan', thousan' joyfu' heartsAre welcoming the spring:When the merle and the blackbird build their nestIn the bushy forest tree,And a' things under the sky seem blest,My thoughts shall be o' thee.I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel,When the simmer spreads her flowers,And the lily blooms and the ivy twinesIn beauty round the bowers;When the cushat coos in the leafy wood,And the lambs sport o'er the lea,And every heart 's in its happiest mood,My thoughts shall be o' thee.I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel,When har'st blithe days begin,And shearers ply, in the yellow ripe field,The foremost rig to win;When the shepherd brings his ewes to the fauld,Where light-hair'd lasses be,And mony a tale o' love is tauld,My thoughts shall be o' thee.I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel,When the winter winds rave high,And the tempest wild is pourin' dounFrae the dark and troubled sky:When a hopeless wail is heard on land,And shrieks frae the roaring sea,And the wreck o' nature seems at hand,My thoughts shall be o' thee!
I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel,When the lark begins to sing,And a thousan', thousan' joyfu' heartsAre welcoming the spring:When the merle and the blackbird build their nestIn the bushy forest tree,And a' things under the sky seem blest,My thoughts shall be o' thee.
I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel,When the simmer spreads her flowers,And the lily blooms and the ivy twinesIn beauty round the bowers;When the cushat coos in the leafy wood,And the lambs sport o'er the lea,And every heart 's in its happiest mood,My thoughts shall be o' thee.
I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel,When har'st blithe days begin,And shearers ply, in the yellow ripe field,The foremost rig to win;When the shepherd brings his ewes to the fauld,Where light-hair'd lasses be,And mony a tale o' love is tauld,My thoughts shall be o' thee.
I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel,When the winter winds rave high,And the tempest wild is pourin' dounFrae the dark and troubled sky:When a hopeless wail is heard on land,And shrieks frae the roaring sea,And the wreck o' nature seems at hand,My thoughts shall be o' thee!
Oh, hast thou forgotten the birk tree's shade,And this warm, true heart o' mine, Mary?Oh, hast thou forgotten the promise thou made,When so fondly 't was pressed to thine, Mary?Oh, hast thou forgotten, what I ne'er can forget,The hours we have spent together?Those hours which, like stars in my memory, yetShine on as brightly as ever!Oh, hast thou forgotten that moment of bliss,So fraught with the heart's full feeling?As we clung to each other in the last embrace,The soul of love revealing!Oh, hast thou forgotten that sacred spot,Where the farewell word was spoken?Is the sigh, and the tear, and all forgot,The vow and the promise broken?Then for ever farewell, thou false fair one;Though other arms caress thee,Though a fairer youth thy heart should gain,And a smoother tongue should bless thee:—Yet never again on thy warm young cheekWill breathe a soul more warm than mine,And never again will a lover speakOf love more pure to thine.
Oh, hast thou forgotten the birk tree's shade,And this warm, true heart o' mine, Mary?Oh, hast thou forgotten the promise thou made,When so fondly 't was pressed to thine, Mary?
Oh, hast thou forgotten, what I ne'er can forget,The hours we have spent together?Those hours which, like stars in my memory, yetShine on as brightly as ever!
Oh, hast thou forgotten that moment of bliss,So fraught with the heart's full feeling?As we clung to each other in the last embrace,The soul of love revealing!
Oh, hast thou forgotten that sacred spot,Where the farewell word was spoken?Is the sigh, and the tear, and all forgot,The vow and the promise broken?
Then for ever farewell, thou false fair one;Though other arms caress thee,Though a fairer youth thy heart should gain,And a smoother tongue should bless thee:—
Yet never again on thy warm young cheekWill breathe a soul more warm than mine,And never again will a lover speakOf love more pure to thine.
Air—"The Last Rose of Summer."
When the maid of my heart, with the dark rolling eye,The only beloved of my bosom is nigh,I ask not of Heaven one bliss to impart,Save that which I feel with the maid of my heart.When around and above us there 's nought to be seen,But the moon on the sky and the flower on the green,And all is at rest in the glen and the hill,Save the soul-stirring song of the breeze and the rill.Then the maid of my heart to my bosom is press'd,Then all I hold dear in this world is possess'd;Then I ask not of Heaven one bliss to impart,Save that which I feel with the maid of my heart.
When the maid of my heart, with the dark rolling eye,The only beloved of my bosom is nigh,I ask not of Heaven one bliss to impart,Save that which I feel with the maid of my heart.
When around and above us there 's nought to be seen,But the moon on the sky and the flower on the green,And all is at rest in the glen and the hill,Save the soul-stirring song of the breeze and the rill.
Then the maid of my heart to my bosom is press'd,Then all I hold dear in this world is possess'd;Then I ask not of Heaven one bliss to impart,Save that which I feel with the maid of my heart.
Oh! the land of hills is the land for me,Where the maiden's step is light and free;Where the shepherd's pipe, and the hunter's horn,Awake the joys of the rosy morn.There 's a voice in the wind, when it comes from the lake,That tells how the foamy billows break;There 's a voice in the wind, when it comes from the wood,That tells of dreary solitude.But, oh! when it comes from the mountain fells,Where the Spirit of Song and Freedom dwells,Where in youth's warm day I woke that strainI ne'er in this world can wake again.The warm blood leaps in its wonted course,And fresh tears gush from their briny source,As if I had hail'd in the passing windThe all I have loved and left behind.
Oh! the land of hills is the land for me,Where the maiden's step is light and free;Where the shepherd's pipe, and the hunter's horn,Awake the joys of the rosy morn.
There 's a voice in the wind, when it comes from the lake,That tells how the foamy billows break;There 's a voice in the wind, when it comes from the wood,That tells of dreary solitude.
But, oh! when it comes from the mountain fells,Where the Spirit of Song and Freedom dwells,Where in youth's warm day I woke that strainI ne'er in this world can wake again.
The warm blood leaps in its wonted course,And fresh tears gush from their briny source,As if I had hail'd in the passing windThe all I have loved and left behind.
Tune—"Wattie's Ramble."
O, saw ye this sweet bonnie lassie o' mine?Or saw ye the smile on her cheek sae divine?Or saw ye the kind love that speaks in her e'e?Sure naebody e'er was sae happy as me.It 's no that she dances sae light on the green,It 's no the simplicity marked in her mien—But, O! it 's the kind love that speaks in her e'eThat keeps me aye happy as happy can be.To meet her alane 'mang the green leafy trees,When naebody kens, an' when naebody sees;To breathe out the soul in a saft melting kiss—On earth sure there 's naething is equal to this.I have felt every bliss which the soul can enjoy,When friends circle round, and nought to annoy;I have felt every joy which illumines the breastWhen the full flowing bowl is most warmly caress'd.But, O! there 's a sweet and a heavenly charmIn life's early day, when the bosom is warm,When soul meets with soul in a saft melting kiss,On earth sure there 's naething is equal to this.
O, saw ye this sweet bonnie lassie o' mine?Or saw ye the smile on her cheek sae divine?Or saw ye the kind love that speaks in her e'e?Sure naebody e'er was sae happy as me.
It 's no that she dances sae light on the green,It 's no the simplicity marked in her mien—But, O! it 's the kind love that speaks in her e'eThat keeps me aye happy as happy can be.
To meet her alane 'mang the green leafy trees,When naebody kens, an' when naebody sees;To breathe out the soul in a saft melting kiss—On earth sure there 's naething is equal to this.
I have felt every bliss which the soul can enjoy,When friends circle round, and nought to annoy;I have felt every joy which illumines the breastWhen the full flowing bowl is most warmly caress'd.
But, O! there 's a sweet and a heavenly charmIn life's early day, when the bosom is warm,When soul meets with soul in a saft melting kiss,On earth sure there 's naething is equal to this.
James Telfer, an ingenious prose writer and respectable poet, was born about the commencement of the century, near the source of the river Jed, in the parish of Southdean, and county of Roxburgh. Passionate in his admiration of Hogg's "Queen's Wake," he early essayed imitations of some of the more remarkable portions of that poem. In 1824 he published at Jedburgh a volume of "Border Ballads and Miscellaneous Poems," which he inscribed to the Bard of Ettrick. "Barbara Gray," an interesting prose tale, appeared from his pen in 1835, printed at Newcastle. A collected edition of his best productions in prose and verse was published at London in 1852, with the title of "Tales and Sketches." He has long been a contributor to the provincial journals.
Some of Mr Telfer's ballads are respectable specimens of this class of compositions; and his tales in prose are written with much vigour, the narrative of "Barbara Gray" being especially interesting. For many years he has taught an adventure school at Saughtree, Liddisdale; and with emoluments not much beyond twenty pounds a-year, he has contrived to support a family. He has long maintained a literary correspondence with his ingenious friend, Mr Robert White of Newcastle; and his letters, some of which we have seen, abound with curious and interesting speculations.
"Oh, will ye walk the wood wi' me?Oh, will ye walk the green?Or will ye sit within mine arms,My ain kind Jean?""It 's I 'll not walk the wood wi' thee,Nor yet will I the green;And as for sitting in your arms,It 's what I dinna mean.""Oh! slighted love is ill to thole,And weel may I compleen;But since that better mayna be,I e'en maun thol 't for Jean.""Gang up to May o' Mistycleugh,Ye saw her late yestreen;Ye'll find in her a lightsome loveYe winna find in Jean.""Wi' bonny May o' MistycleughI carena to be seen;Her lightsome love I'd freely gieFor half a blink frae Jean.""Gang down to Madge o' Miryfaulds,I ken for her ye green;Wi' her ye 'll get a purse o' gowd—Ye 'll naething get wi' Jean.""For doity Madge o' MiryfauldsI dinna care a preen;The purse o' gowd I weel could want,If I could hae my Jean.""Oh, yes! I 'll walk the wood wi' thee;Oh, yes! I 'll walk the green;But first ye 'll meet me at the kirk,And mak' me aye your Jean."
"Oh, will ye walk the wood wi' me?Oh, will ye walk the green?Or will ye sit within mine arms,My ain kind Jean?"
"It 's I 'll not walk the wood wi' thee,Nor yet will I the green;And as for sitting in your arms,It 's what I dinna mean."
"Oh! slighted love is ill to thole,And weel may I compleen;But since that better mayna be,I e'en maun thol 't for Jean."
"Gang up to May o' Mistycleugh,Ye saw her late yestreen;Ye'll find in her a lightsome loveYe winna find in Jean."
"Wi' bonny May o' MistycleughI carena to be seen;Her lightsome love I'd freely gieFor half a blink frae Jean."
"Gang down to Madge o' Miryfaulds,I ken for her ye green;Wi' her ye 'll get a purse o' gowd—Ye 'll naething get wi' Jean."
"For doity Madge o' MiryfauldsI dinna care a preen;The purse o' gowd I weel could want,If I could hae my Jean."
"Oh, yes! I 'll walk the wood wi' thee;Oh, yes! I 'll walk the green;But first ye 'll meet me at the kirk,And mak' me aye your Jean."
"Sweet summer now is by,And cauld winter is nigh,The wan leaves they fa' frae the tree;The hills are white wi' snaw,And the frosty winds blaw,And I maun gie over the sea, Mary,And I maun gie over the sea."But winter will gang by,And summer come wi' joy,And Nature again will be free;And wooers you will find,And mair ye 'll never mindThe laddie that 's over the sea, Mary,The laddie that 's over the sea.""Oh, Willie, since it 's sae,My heart is very waeTo leave a' my friends and countrie;But wi' thee I will gang,Though the way it be lang,And wi' thee I 'll cross the saut sea, Willie,And wi' thee I 'll cross the saut sea.""The way is vera far,And terrible is war,And great are the hardships to dree;And if I should be slain,Or a prisoner ta'en,My jewel, what would come o' thee, Mary?My jewel, what would come o' thee?"Sae at hame ye maun bide,And should it sae betideThat a bride to another ye be,For ane that lo'ed ye dearYe 'll whiles drap a tear;I 'll aften do the same for thee, Mary,I 'll aften do the same for thee."The rowan tear down fell,Her bosom wasna well,For she sabbit most wofullie;"Oure the yirth I wad gang,And never count it lang,But I fear ye carena for me, Willie,But I fear ye carena for me."Nae langer could he thole,She tore his vera soul,He dighted her bonnie blue e'e;"Oh, what was it you said,Oh my ain loving maid?I 'll never love a woman but thee, Mary,I 'll never love a woman but thee!"The fae is forced to yield,And freedom has the field;"Away I will ne'er gang frae thee;Only death shall us part,Keep sic thoughts frae my heart,But never shall part us the sea, Mary,But never shall part us the sea."
"Sweet summer now is by,And cauld winter is nigh,The wan leaves they fa' frae the tree;The hills are white wi' snaw,And the frosty winds blaw,And I maun gie over the sea, Mary,And I maun gie over the sea.
"But winter will gang by,And summer come wi' joy,And Nature again will be free;And wooers you will find,And mair ye 'll never mindThe laddie that 's over the sea, Mary,The laddie that 's over the sea."
"Oh, Willie, since it 's sae,My heart is very waeTo leave a' my friends and countrie;But wi' thee I will gang,Though the way it be lang,And wi' thee I 'll cross the saut sea, Willie,And wi' thee I 'll cross the saut sea."
"The way is vera far,And terrible is war,And great are the hardships to dree;And if I should be slain,Or a prisoner ta'en,My jewel, what would come o' thee, Mary?My jewel, what would come o' thee?
"Sae at hame ye maun bide,And should it sae betideThat a bride to another ye be,For ane that lo'ed ye dearYe 'll whiles drap a tear;I 'll aften do the same for thee, Mary,I 'll aften do the same for thee."
The rowan tear down fell,Her bosom wasna well,For she sabbit most wofullie;"Oure the yirth I wad gang,And never count it lang,But I fear ye carena for me, Willie,But I fear ye carena for me."
Nae langer could he thole,She tore his vera soul,He dighted her bonnie blue e'e;"Oh, what was it you said,Oh my ain loving maid?I 'll never love a woman but thee, Mary,I 'll never love a woman but thee!"
The fae is forced to yield,And freedom has the field;"Away I will ne'er gang frae thee;Only death shall us part,Keep sic thoughts frae my heart,But never shall part us the sea, Mary,But never shall part us the sea."
One of the most learned of the modern Gaelic song-writers, Evan Maclachlan, was born in 1775, in a small hut called Torracaltuin, in the district of Lochaber. After struggling with many difficulties in obtaining the means of education, he qualified himself for the duties of an itinerating tutor. In this capacity it was his good fortune to live in the families of the substantial tenantry of the district, two of whom, the farmers at Clunes and Glen Pean, were led to evince an especial interest in his welfare. The localities of those early patrons he has celebrated in his poetry. Another patron, the Chief of Glengarry, supplied funds to enable him to proceed to the university, and he was fortunate in gaining, by competition, a bursary or exhibition at King's College, Aberdeen. For a Greek ode, on the generation of light, he gained the prize granted for competition to the King's College by the celebrated Dr Claudius Buchanan. Having held, during a period of years, the office oflibrarian in King's College, he was in 1819 elected master of the grammar school of Old Aberdeen. His death took place on the 29th March 1822. To the preparation of a Gaelic dictionary he devoted the most important part of his life. Subsequent to his decease, the work was published in two quarto volumes, by the Highland Society, under the editorial care of Dr Mackay, formerly of Dunoon. The chief amusement of Maclachlan's leisure hours was executing translations of Homer into Gaelic. His translation of the third book of the Iliad has been printed. Of his powers as a Gaelic poet, an estimate may be formed from the following specimens in English verse.
The first stanza of this song was the composition of a lady. Maclachlan completed the composition in Gaelic, and afterwards produced the following version of the whole in English.
The first stanza of this song was the composition of a lady. Maclachlan completed the composition in Gaelic, and afterwards produced the following version of the whole in English.
Not the swan on the lake, or the foam on the shore,Can compare with the charms of the maid I adore:Not so white is the new milk that flows o'er the pail,Or the snow that is shower'd from the boughs of the vale.As the cloud's yellow wreath on the mountain's high brow,The locks of my fair one redundantly flow;Her cheeks have the tint that the roses displayWhen they glitter with dew on the morning of May.As the planet of Venus that gleams o'er the grove,Her blue rolling eyes are the symbols of love:Her pearl-circled bosom diffuses bright rays,Like the moon when the stars are bedimm'd with her blaze.The mavis and lark, when they welcome the dawn,Make a chorus of joy to resound through the lawn:But the mavis is tuneless, the lark strives in vain,When my beautiful charmer renews her sweet strain.When summer bespangles the landscape with flowers,While the thrush and the cuckoo sing soft from the bowers,Through the wood-shaded windings with Bella I 'll rove,And feast unrestrained on the smiles of my love.
Not the swan on the lake, or the foam on the shore,Can compare with the charms of the maid I adore:Not so white is the new milk that flows o'er the pail,Or the snow that is shower'd from the boughs of the vale.
As the cloud's yellow wreath on the mountain's high brow,The locks of my fair one redundantly flow;Her cheeks have the tint that the roses displayWhen they glitter with dew on the morning of May.
As the planet of Venus that gleams o'er the grove,Her blue rolling eyes are the symbols of love:Her pearl-circled bosom diffuses bright rays,Like the moon when the stars are bedimm'd with her blaze.
The mavis and lark, when they welcome the dawn,Make a chorus of joy to resound through the lawn:But the mavis is tuneless, the lark strives in vain,When my beautiful charmer renews her sweet strain.
When summer bespangles the landscape with flowers,While the thrush and the cuckoo sing soft from the bowers,Through the wood-shaded windings with Bella I 'll rove,And feast unrestrained on the smiles of my love.
These verses are allegorical. In the character of a song-bird the bard relates the circumstances of his nativity, the simple habits of his progenitors, and his own rural tastes and recreations from infancy, giving the first place to the delights of melody. He proceeds to give an account of his flight to a strange but hospitable region, where he continued to sing his songs among the birds, the flocks, the streams, and cultivated fields of the land of his sojourn. This piece is founded upon a common usage of the Gaelic bards, several of whom assume the allegorical character of the "Mavis" of their own clan. Thus we have the Mavis of Clan-ranald by Mac-Vaistir-Allister—of Macdonald (of Sleat) by Mac Codrum—of Macleod, and many others.
These verses are allegorical. In the character of a song-bird the bard relates the circumstances of his nativity, the simple habits of his progenitors, and his own rural tastes and recreations from infancy, giving the first place to the delights of melody. He proceeds to give an account of his flight to a strange but hospitable region, where he continued to sing his songs among the birds, the flocks, the streams, and cultivated fields of the land of his sojourn. This piece is founded upon a common usage of the Gaelic bards, several of whom assume the allegorical character of the "Mavis" of their own clan. Thus we have the Mavis of Clan-ranald by Mac-Vaistir-Allister—of Macdonald (of Sleat) by Mac Codrum—of Macleod, and many others.
Clan Lachlan's tuneful mavis, I sing on the branches early,And such my love of song, I sleep but half the night-tide rarely;No raven I, of greedy maw, no kite of bloody beak,No bird of devastating claw, but a woodland songster meek.I love the apple's infant bloom; my ancestry have faredFor ages on the nourishment the orchard hath prepared:Their hey-day was the summer, their joy the summer's dawn,And their dancing-floor it was the green leaf's velvet lawn;Their song was the carol that defiance bade to care,And their breath of life it was the summer's balmiest air.When first my morn of life was born, the Pean's[37]silver streamGlanced in my eye, and then there lent my view their kinder gleam,The flowers that fringed its side, where, by the fragrant breezes lull'd,As in a cradle-bed I lay, and all my woes were still'd.But changes will come over us, and now a stranger IAmong the glades of Cluaran[38]must imp my wings and fly;Yet gratitude forbid complaint, although in foreign grove,Since welcome to my haunt I come, and there in freedom rove.By every song-bird charm'd, my ear is fed the livelong day,Now from the hollow's deepest dell, now from the top-most spray,The comrades of my lay, they tune their wild notes for my pleasure,And I, can I refrain to swell their diapason's measure?With its own clusters loaded, with its rich foliage dress'd,Each bough is hanging down, and each shapely stem depress'd,While nestle there inhabitants, a feather'd tuneful choir,That in the strife of song breathe forth a flame of minstrel fire.O happy tribe of choristers! no interruption marsThe concert of your harmony, nor ever harshly jarsA string of all your harping, nor of your voices trillNotes that are weak for tameness, that are for sharpness shrill.The sun is on his flushing march, his golden hair abroad,It seems as on the mountain's side of beams a furnace glow'd,Now melts the honey from all flowers, and now a dew o'erspreads(A dew of fragrant blessedness) all the grasses of the meads.Nor least in my remembrance is my country's flowering heather,Whose russet crest, nor cold, nor sun, nor sweep of gale may wither;Dear to my eye the symbol wild, that loves like me the sideOf my own Highland mountains that I climb in love and pride.Dear tribes of nature! co-mates ye of nature's wandering son—I hail the lambs that on the floor of milky pastures run,I hail the mother flocks, that, wrapp'd in their mantle of the fleece,Defy the landward tempest's roar, and defy the seaward breeze.The streams they drink are waters of the ever-gushing well,Those streams, oh, how they wind around the swellings of the dell!The flowers they browze are mantles spread o'er pastures wide and far,As mantle o'er the firmament the stars, each flower a star!I will not name each sister beam, but clustering there I seeThe beauty of the purple-bell, the daisy of the lea.Of every hue I mark them, the many-spotted kine,The dun, the brindled, and the dark, and blends the bright its shine;And, 'mid the Highlands rude, I see the frequent furrows swell,With the barley and the corn that Scotland loves so well.* * * * *And now I close my clannish lay with blessings on the shadeThat bids the mavis sing her song, well nurtured, undismay'd;The shade where bloom and cresses, and the ear-honey'd heather,Are smiling fair, and dwelling in their brotherhood together;For the sun is setting largely, and blinks my eye its ken;'T is time to loose the strings, I ween, and close my wild-wood strain.
Clan Lachlan's tuneful mavis, I sing on the branches early,And such my love of song, I sleep but half the night-tide rarely;No raven I, of greedy maw, no kite of bloody beak,No bird of devastating claw, but a woodland songster meek.I love the apple's infant bloom; my ancestry have faredFor ages on the nourishment the orchard hath prepared:Their hey-day was the summer, their joy the summer's dawn,And their dancing-floor it was the green leaf's velvet lawn;Their song was the carol that defiance bade to care,And their breath of life it was the summer's balmiest air.
When first my morn of life was born, the Pean's[37]silver streamGlanced in my eye, and then there lent my view their kinder gleam,The flowers that fringed its side, where, by the fragrant breezes lull'd,As in a cradle-bed I lay, and all my woes were still'd.But changes will come over us, and now a stranger IAmong the glades of Cluaran[38]must imp my wings and fly;Yet gratitude forbid complaint, although in foreign grove,Since welcome to my haunt I come, and there in freedom rove.
By every song-bird charm'd, my ear is fed the livelong day,Now from the hollow's deepest dell, now from the top-most spray,The comrades of my lay, they tune their wild notes for my pleasure,And I, can I refrain to swell their diapason's measure?With its own clusters loaded, with its rich foliage dress'd,Each bough is hanging down, and each shapely stem depress'd,While nestle there inhabitants, a feather'd tuneful choir,That in the strife of song breathe forth a flame of minstrel fire.O happy tribe of choristers! no interruption marsThe concert of your harmony, nor ever harshly jarsA string of all your harping, nor of your voices trillNotes that are weak for tameness, that are for sharpness shrill.
The sun is on his flushing march, his golden hair abroad,It seems as on the mountain's side of beams a furnace glow'd,Now melts the honey from all flowers, and now a dew o'erspreads(A dew of fragrant blessedness) all the grasses of the meads.Nor least in my remembrance is my country's flowering heather,Whose russet crest, nor cold, nor sun, nor sweep of gale may wither;Dear to my eye the symbol wild, that loves like me the sideOf my own Highland mountains that I climb in love and pride.
Dear tribes of nature! co-mates ye of nature's wandering son—I hail the lambs that on the floor of milky pastures run,I hail the mother flocks, that, wrapp'd in their mantle of the fleece,Defy the landward tempest's roar, and defy the seaward breeze.The streams they drink are waters of the ever-gushing well,Those streams, oh, how they wind around the swellings of the dell!The flowers they browze are mantles spread o'er pastures wide and far,As mantle o'er the firmament the stars, each flower a star!I will not name each sister beam, but clustering there I seeThe beauty of the purple-bell, the daisy of the lea.
Of every hue I mark them, the many-spotted kine,The dun, the brindled, and the dark, and blends the bright its shine;And, 'mid the Highlands rude, I see the frequent furrows swell,With the barley and the corn that Scotland loves so well.
* * * * *
And now I close my clannish lay with blessings on the shadeThat bids the mavis sing her song, well nurtured, undismay'd;The shade where bloom and cresses, and the ear-honey'd heather,Are smiling fair, and dwelling in their brotherhood together;For the sun is setting largely, and blinks my eye its ken;'T is time to loose the strings, I ween, and close my wild-wood strain.
One of the bards of Cowal is believed to have been born in the parish of Inverchaolain about 1750; his family name was Brun or Broun, as distinguished from the Lowland Brown, which he assumed. He first appeared as a poet by the publication, at Perth, in 1786, of a small volume of Gaelic poetry, dedicated to the Duke of Montrose. The subsequent portion of his career seems to have been chiefly occupied in genealogical researches. In 1792 he completed, in two large sheets, his "Historical and Genealogical Tree of the Royal Family of Scotland;" of which the second edition bears the date 1811. This was followed by similar genealogical trees of the illustrious family of Graham, of the noble house of Elphinstone, and other families. In these productions he uniformly styles himself, "Genealogist to his R. H. the Prince of Wales, for Scotland." Brown died at Edinburgh in the beginning of the year 1821. He had formed a respectable connexion by marriage, under circumstances which he has commemorated in the annexed specimen of his poetry, but his latter years were somewhat clouded by misfortune. He is remembered as a solicitor for subscriptions to his genealogical publications.
The poet had paid his addresses to one of the sisters, but without the consent of her relatives, who ultimately induced her to wed another. After a lapse of time the bard transferred his affection to another daughter of the same distinguished family, and being successful, was compensated for his former trials.
The poet had paid his addresses to one of the sisters, but without the consent of her relatives, who ultimately induced her to wed another. After a lapse of time the bard transferred his affection to another daughter of the same distinguished family, and being successful, was compensated for his former trials.
The sundown had mantled Ben Nevis with night,And the stars were attired in the glory of light,And the hope of the lover was shining as day,When Dunolly's fair daughter was sprited away.Away she has gone at the touch of the helm,And the shadows of darkness her lover o'erwhelm—But, would that his strength as his purpose was true,At Dunolly, Culloden were battled anew!Yes! did they give courtesy, did they give time,The kindred of Cowal would meet at the prime,And theBrunach[40]would joy, in the succour they gave,To win him a bride, or to win him a grave.My lost one! I'm not like the laggard thou'st found,Whose puissance scarce carries the sword he has bound;In the flush of my health and my penniless youth,I could well have rewarded thine honour and truth.Five years they have pass'd, and the Brunach has shakenThe burden of woe that his spirit was breaking;A sister is salving a sister's annoy,And the eyes of the Brunach are treasured with joy.A bride worth the princesses England is rearing,Comes forth from Dunolly, a star reappearing;If my heart in Dunolly was garner'd before,In Dunolly, my pride and my pleasure is more.The lowly, the gentle, the graceful, the mildThat in friendship or charity never beguiled,She is mine—to Dunduala[41]that traces her stem,As for kings to be proud of, 'tis prouder for them,Though Donald[42]the gracious be head of her line,And "our exiled and dear"[43]in her pedigree shine.Then hearken, ye men of the country I love!Despair not, unsmooth though the course of your love,Ere ye yield to your sorrow or die in your folly,May ye find, like the Brunach, another Dunolly.
The sundown had mantled Ben Nevis with night,And the stars were attired in the glory of light,And the hope of the lover was shining as day,When Dunolly's fair daughter was sprited away.
Away she has gone at the touch of the helm,And the shadows of darkness her lover o'erwhelm—But, would that his strength as his purpose was true,At Dunolly, Culloden were battled anew!
Yes! did they give courtesy, did they give time,The kindred of Cowal would meet at the prime,And theBrunach[40]would joy, in the succour they gave,To win him a bride, or to win him a grave.
My lost one! I'm not like the laggard thou'st found,Whose puissance scarce carries the sword he has bound;In the flush of my health and my penniless youth,I could well have rewarded thine honour and truth.
Five years they have pass'd, and the Brunach has shakenThe burden of woe that his spirit was breaking;A sister is salving a sister's annoy,And the eyes of the Brunach are treasured with joy.
A bride worth the princesses England is rearing,Comes forth from Dunolly, a star reappearing;If my heart in Dunolly was garner'd before,In Dunolly, my pride and my pleasure is more.
The lowly, the gentle, the graceful, the mildThat in friendship or charity never beguiled,She is mine—to Dunduala[41]that traces her stem,As for kings to be proud of, 'tis prouder for them,Though Donald[42]the gracious be head of her line,And "our exiled and dear"[43]in her pedigree shine.
Then hearken, ye men of the country I love!Despair not, unsmooth though the course of your love,Ere ye yield to your sorrow or die in your folly,May ye find, like the Brunach, another Dunolly.
The Rev. Dr Stewart was born at Appin, Argyllshire, in 1751. His mother was a daughter of Edmonstone of Cambuswallace, the representative of an old and distinguished family in the counties of Perth and Stirling; and his father was brother of Stewart of Invernachoil, who was actively engaged in the cause of Prince Charles Edward, and has been distinguished in the romance of Waverley as the Baron of Bradwardine. This daring Argyllshire chief, whom Scott represents as being fed in the cave by "Davie Gellatly," was actually tended in such a place of concealment by his own daughter, a child about ten years old.
On receiving license, Dr Stewart soon attained popularity as a preacher. In 1779, being in his twenty-eighth year, he was ordained to the pastoral charge of the parish of Strachur, Argyllshire. He died in the manse of Strachur on the 24th of May 1826, in the seventy-fifth year of his age, and the forty-seventh of his ministry. A tombstone was erected to his memory in the parochial burying-ground, by the members of the kirk-session. Possessed of superior talents, a vast fund of humour, and a delightful store of traditional information, he was much cherished by a wide circle of admiring friends. Faithful in the discharge of the public duties of his office, he was distinguished among his parishioners for his private amenities and acts of benevolence. He was the author only of one song, but this has attained much favour among the Gael.