Oh, softly sighs the westlin' breezeThrough floweries pearl'd wi' dew;An' brightly lemes the gowden sky,That skirts the mountain blue.An' sweet the birken trees amang,Swells many a blithesome lay;An' loud the bratlin burnie's voiceComes soundin' up the brae.But, ah! nae mair the sweets o' springCan glad my wearied e'e;Nae mair the summer's op'ning bloomGies ought o' joy to me.Dark, dark to me the pearly flowers,An' sad the mavis sang,An' little heart hae I to roamThese leafy groves amang.She 's gane! she 's gane! the loveliest maid!An' wae o'erpress'd I pine;The grass waves o'er my Myra's grave!Ah! ance I ca'd her mine.What ither choice does fate afford,Than just to mourn and dee,Sin' gane the star that cheer'd my sky,The beam that bless'd my e'e?At gloamin' hour alang the burn,Alane she lo'ed to stray,To pu' the rose o' crimson bloom,An' haw-flower purple gray.Their siller leaves the willows wavedAs pass'd that maiden by;An' sweeter burst the burdies' sangFrae poplar straight an' high.Fu' aften have I watch'd at e'enThese birken trees amang,To bless the bonnie face that turn'dTo where the mavis sang;An' aft I 've cross'd that grassy path,To catch my Myra's e'e;Oh, soon this winding dell becameA blissful haunt to me.Nae mair a wasting form within,A wretched heart I bore;Nae mair unkent, unloved, and lone,The warl' I wander'd o'er.Not then like now my life was wae,Not then this heart repined,Nor aught of coming ill I thought,Nor sigh'd to look behind.Cheer'd by gay hope's enliv'ning ray,An' warm'd wi' minstrel fire,Th' expected meed that maiden's smile,I strung my rustic lyre.That lyre a pitying Muse had givenTo me, for, wrought wi' toil,She bade, wi' its simple tones,The weary hours beguile.Lang had it been my secret pride,Though nane its strains might hear;For ne'er till then trembled its chordsTo woo a list'ning ear.The forest echoes to its voiceFu' sad, had aft complain'd,Whan, mingling wi' its wayward strain,Murmur'd the midnight wind.Harsh were its tones, yet Myra praisedThe wild and artless strain;In pride I strung my lyre anew,An' waked its chords again.The sound was sad, the sparkling tearArose in Myra's e'e,An' mair I lo'ed that artless drap,Than a' the warl' could gie.To wean the heart frae warldly grief,Frae warldly moil an' care,Could maiden smile a lovelier smile,Or drap a tend'rer tear?But now she 's gane,—dark, dark an' drear,Her lang, lang sleep maun be;But, ah! mair drear the years o' lifeThat still remain to me!Whan o'er the raging ocean waveThe gloom o' night is spread,If lemes the twinkling beacon-light,The sailor's heart is glad;In hope he steers, but, 'mid the storm,If sinks the waning ray,Dees a' that hope, an' fails his saul,O'erpress'd wi' loads o' wae.
Oh, softly sighs the westlin' breezeThrough floweries pearl'd wi' dew;An' brightly lemes the gowden sky,That skirts the mountain blue.An' sweet the birken trees amang,Swells many a blithesome lay;An' loud the bratlin burnie's voiceComes soundin' up the brae.
But, ah! nae mair the sweets o' springCan glad my wearied e'e;Nae mair the summer's op'ning bloomGies ought o' joy to me.Dark, dark to me the pearly flowers,An' sad the mavis sang,An' little heart hae I to roamThese leafy groves amang.
She 's gane! she 's gane! the loveliest maid!An' wae o'erpress'd I pine;The grass waves o'er my Myra's grave!Ah! ance I ca'd her mine.What ither choice does fate afford,Than just to mourn and dee,Sin' gane the star that cheer'd my sky,The beam that bless'd my e'e?
At gloamin' hour alang the burn,Alane she lo'ed to stray,To pu' the rose o' crimson bloom,An' haw-flower purple gray.Their siller leaves the willows wavedAs pass'd that maiden by;An' sweeter burst the burdies' sangFrae poplar straight an' high.
Fu' aften have I watch'd at e'enThese birken trees amang,To bless the bonnie face that turn'dTo where the mavis sang;An' aft I 've cross'd that grassy path,To catch my Myra's e'e;Oh, soon this winding dell becameA blissful haunt to me.
Nae mair a wasting form within,A wretched heart I bore;Nae mair unkent, unloved, and lone,The warl' I wander'd o'er.Not then like now my life was wae,Not then this heart repined,Nor aught of coming ill I thought,Nor sigh'd to look behind.
Cheer'd by gay hope's enliv'ning ray,An' warm'd wi' minstrel fire,Th' expected meed that maiden's smile,I strung my rustic lyre.That lyre a pitying Muse had givenTo me, for, wrought wi' toil,She bade, wi' its simple tones,The weary hours beguile.
Lang had it been my secret pride,Though nane its strains might hear;For ne'er till then trembled its chordsTo woo a list'ning ear.The forest echoes to its voiceFu' sad, had aft complain'd,Whan, mingling wi' its wayward strain,Murmur'd the midnight wind.
Harsh were its tones, yet Myra praisedThe wild and artless strain;In pride I strung my lyre anew,An' waked its chords again.The sound was sad, the sparkling tearArose in Myra's e'e,An' mair I lo'ed that artless drap,Than a' the warl' could gie.
To wean the heart frae warldly grief,Frae warldly moil an' care,Could maiden smile a lovelier smile,Or drap a tend'rer tear?But now she 's gane,—dark, dark an' drear,Her lang, lang sleep maun be;But, ah! mair drear the years o' lifeThat still remain to me!
Whan o'er the raging ocean waveThe gloom o' night is spread,If lemes the twinkling beacon-light,The sailor's heart is glad;In hope he steers, but, 'mid the storm,If sinks the waning ray,Dees a' that hope, an' fails his saul,O'erpress'd wi' loads o' wae.
The author of "The Social Curse, and other Poems," Alexander Macansh, was born at Dunfermline in 1803. At the age of eleven apprenticed to a flaxdresser, he followed this occupation during a period of thirty-eight years, of which the greater portion was spent in Harribrae factory, in his native town. During the intervals of his occupation, which demanded his attention about fourteen hours daily, he contrived to become familiar with British and continental authors, and with the more esteemed Latin classics. He likewise formed an intimate acquaintance with mathematical science. Of decided poetical tastes, he contributed verses toTait's Magazine, theEdinburgh Literary Journal, and theScotsmannewspaper. In 1850, he published, by subscription, his volume of poems, entitled "The Social Curse, and other Poems," which has secured him a local reputation. Continuing to reside in Dunfermline, he has, for several years, possessed a literary connexion with some of the provincial newspapers, and has delivered lectures on science to the district institutions. To Mr Joseph Paton, of Dunfermline, so well known for his antiquarian pursuits, he has been indebted for generous support and kindly encouragement. Mr Macansh labours under severe physical debility.
The mother, with her blooming child,Sat by the river pool,Deep in whose waters lay the sky,So stilly beautiful.She held her babe aloft, to seeIts infant image lookUp joyous, laughing, leaping fromThe bosom of the brook.And as it gazed upon the stream,The wondering infant smiled,And stretched its little hands, and triedTo clasp the shadow'd child,Which, in that silent underwold,With eager gesture stroveTo meet it with a brother-kiss,A brother-clasp of love.Laugh on, laugh on, my happy child,('Twas thus the mother sung;)The shrew, Experience, has not yetWith envious gesture flungAside the enchanted veil which hidesLife's pale and dreary look;An angel lurks in every stream,A heaven in every brook.Laugh on, laugh on, my happy child,Ere drop the tears of woeUpon that mirror, scattering allThose glorious shapes, and showA fleeting shadow, which thou think'stAn angel, breathing, living—A shallow pebbly brook which thouHast fondly deem'd a heaven.
The mother, with her blooming child,Sat by the river pool,Deep in whose waters lay the sky,So stilly beautiful.She held her babe aloft, to seeIts infant image lookUp joyous, laughing, leaping fromThe bosom of the brook.
And as it gazed upon the stream,The wondering infant smiled,And stretched its little hands, and triedTo clasp the shadow'd child,Which, in that silent underwold,With eager gesture stroveTo meet it with a brother-kiss,A brother-clasp of love.
Laugh on, laugh on, my happy child,('Twas thus the mother sung;)The shrew, Experience, has not yetWith envious gesture flungAside the enchanted veil which hidesLife's pale and dreary look;An angel lurks in every stream,A heaven in every brook.
Laugh on, laugh on, my happy child,Ere drop the tears of woeUpon that mirror, scattering allThose glorious shapes, and showA fleeting shadow, which thou think'stAn angel, breathing, living—A shallow pebbly brook which thouHast fondly deem'd a heaven.
Change! change! the mournful storyOf all that 's been before;The wrecks of perish'd gloryBestrewing every shore:The shatter'd tower and palace,In every vale and glen,In broken language tell usOf the fleeting power of men.Change! change! the plough is sweepingO'er some scene of household mirth,The sickle hand is reapingO'er some ancient rural hearth—Where the mother and the daughterIn the evenings used to spin,And where little feet went patter,Full often out and in.Change! change! for all things human,Thrones, powers of amplest wing,Have their flight, and fall in commonWith the meanest mortal thing—With beauty, love, and passion,With all of earthly trust,With life's tiniest wavelet dashing,Curling, breaking into dust.Where arose in marble grandeurThe wall'd cities of the past,The sullen winds now wanderO'er a ruin-mounded waste.Low lies each lofty column;The owl in silence wingsO'er floors, where, slow and solemn,Paced the sandal'd feet of kings.Still change! Go thou and view it,All desolately sunk,The circle of the Druid,The cloister of the monk;The abbey boled and squalid,With its bush-maned, staggering wall;Ask by whom these were unhallow'd—Change, change hath done it all.
Change! change! the mournful storyOf all that 's been before;The wrecks of perish'd gloryBestrewing every shore:The shatter'd tower and palace,In every vale and glen,In broken language tell usOf the fleeting power of men.
Change! change! the plough is sweepingO'er some scene of household mirth,The sickle hand is reapingO'er some ancient rural hearth—Where the mother and the daughterIn the evenings used to spin,And where little feet went patter,Full often out and in.
Change! change! for all things human,Thrones, powers of amplest wing,Have their flight, and fall in commonWith the meanest mortal thing—With beauty, love, and passion,With all of earthly trust,With life's tiniest wavelet dashing,Curling, breaking into dust.
Where arose in marble grandeurThe wall'd cities of the past,The sullen winds now wanderO'er a ruin-mounded waste.Low lies each lofty column;The owl in silence wingsO'er floors, where, slow and solemn,Paced the sandal'd feet of kings.
Still change! Go thou and view it,All desolately sunk,The circle of the Druid,The cloister of the monk;The abbey boled and squalid,With its bush-maned, staggering wall;Ask by whom these were unhallow'd—Change, change hath done it all.
Yon old temple pile, where the moon dimly flashesO'er gray roof, tall window, sloped buttress, and base,O'erarches the ashes, the now silent ashes,Of the noblest, the bravest, of Scotia's race.How hallow'd yon spot where a hero is lying,Embalm'd in the holiness worship bedews,The lamb watching over the sleep of the lion,Religion enthroned on the tomb of the Bruce!Far other and fiercer the moments that crown'd him,Than those that now creep o'er yon old temple pile,And sterner the music that storm'd around him,Than the anthem that peals through the long-sounding aisle,When his bugle's fierce tones with the war-hum was blending,And, with claymores engirdled, and banners all loose,His rough-footed warriors, to battle descending,Peal'd up to the heavens the war-cry of Bruce.I hear him again, with deep voice proclaiming—Let our country be free, or with freedom expire;I see him again, with his great sword o'erflamingThe plume-nodding field, like a banner of fire.Still onward it blazes, that red constellation,In its passage no pause, to its flashing no truce:Oh, the pillar of glory that led forth our nationFrom shackles and chains, was the sword of the Bruce.But now he is sleeping in darkness; the thunderOf battle to him is now silent and o'er,And the sword, that, like threads, sever'd shackles asunder,Shall gleam in the vanguard of Scotland no more.Yet, oh, though his banner for ever be furled,Though his great sword be rusted and red with disuse,Can freemen, when tyrants would handcuff the world—Can freemen be mute at the Tomb of the Bruce?
Yon old temple pile, where the moon dimly flashesO'er gray roof, tall window, sloped buttress, and base,O'erarches the ashes, the now silent ashes,Of the noblest, the bravest, of Scotia's race.How hallow'd yon spot where a hero is lying,Embalm'd in the holiness worship bedews,The lamb watching over the sleep of the lion,Religion enthroned on the tomb of the Bruce!
Far other and fiercer the moments that crown'd him,Than those that now creep o'er yon old temple pile,And sterner the music that storm'd around him,Than the anthem that peals through the long-sounding aisle,When his bugle's fierce tones with the war-hum was blending,And, with claymores engirdled, and banners all loose,His rough-footed warriors, to battle descending,Peal'd up to the heavens the war-cry of Bruce.
I hear him again, with deep voice proclaiming—Let our country be free, or with freedom expire;I see him again, with his great sword o'erflamingThe plume-nodding field, like a banner of fire.Still onward it blazes, that red constellation,In its passage no pause, to its flashing no truce:Oh, the pillar of glory that led forth our nationFrom shackles and chains, was the sword of the Bruce.
But now he is sleeping in darkness; the thunderOf battle to him is now silent and o'er,And the sword, that, like threads, sever'd shackles asunder,Shall gleam in the vanguard of Scotland no more.Yet, oh, though his banner for ever be furled,Though his great sword be rusted and red with disuse,Can freemen, when tyrants would handcuff the world—Can freemen be mute at the Tomb of the Bruce?
James Pringle was born in the parish of Collessie, Fifeshire, on the 11th December 1803. At the parochial school of Kettle having received an ordinary education, he was in his seventeenth year apprenticed to a mill-wright. For many years he has prosecuted this occupation in the district of his nativity. His present residence is in the Den of Lindores, in the parish of Abdie. From his youth he has cherished an enthusiastic love of poetry, and composed verses. In 1853, he published a duodecimo volume, entitled "Poems and Songs on Various Subjects."
Blithe be the mind of the ploughman,Unruffled by passion or guile;And fair be the face of the womanWho blesses his love with a smile.His clothing, though russet and homely,With royalty's robe may compare;His cottage, though simple, is comely,For peace and contentment are there.Let monarchs exult in their splendour,When courtiers obsequiously bow;But are not their greatness and grandeurSustain'd by the toils of the plough?The soldier may glory discoverIn havock which warfare hath made;For the shout of his fame rises overThe vanquish'd, the bleeding, the dead.Though pride, in her trappings so dainty,May sneer with contemptuous air;Fertility, pleasure, and plenty,Still follow the track of the share.And long may the heart of the ploughmanIn virtue and vigour beat high;His calling, though simple and common,Our wants and our comforts supply.
Blithe be the mind of the ploughman,Unruffled by passion or guile;And fair be the face of the womanWho blesses his love with a smile.
His clothing, though russet and homely,With royalty's robe may compare;His cottage, though simple, is comely,For peace and contentment are there.
Let monarchs exult in their splendour,When courtiers obsequiously bow;But are not their greatness and grandeurSustain'd by the toils of the plough?
The soldier may glory discoverIn havock which warfare hath made;For the shout of his fame rises overThe vanquish'd, the bleeding, the dead.
Though pride, in her trappings so dainty,May sneer with contemptuous air;Fertility, pleasure, and plenty,Still follow the track of the share.
And long may the heart of the ploughmanIn virtue and vigour beat high;His calling, though simple and common,Our wants and our comforts supply.
William Anderson, an accomplished biographical and genealogical writer, and author of "Landscape Lyrics," a volume of descriptive poetry, was born at Edinburgh on the 10th December 1805. His father, James Anderson, supervisor of Excise at Oban, Argyleshire, died there in 1812. His mother was the daughter of John Williams, author of "The Mineral Kingdom," a work much valued by geologists. His brother, Mr John Anderson, surgeon, Royal Lanarkshire Militia, was the author of the "Historical and Genealogical Memoirs of the House of Hamilton."
Mr Anderson received his education at Edinburgh, and in 1820 was apprenticed to a merchant in Leith; but not liking the employment, he was afterwards placed in the office of a writer in Edinburgh, with the view of studying the law. Having a strong bent towards literature, he began to write poetry, and in 1828 became a regular contributor to the press. In 1830 he published a volume of poems designated, "Poetical Aspirations," and soon after issued a thin volume of prose and verse, entitled, "Odd Sketches." Proceeding to London in 1831, he formed the acquaintance of Maginn, Allan Cunningham, and other eminent men of letters. Towards the close of that year he joined theAberdeen Journal, and in 1835 edited for a short time theAdvertiser, another newspaper published in that city. He returned to London in 1836, and resided there for several years, contributing to different periodicals. His "Landscape Lyrics" appeared in 1839, in a quarto volume.In 1840 he commenced writing the lives of distinguished Scotsmen, and the result of his researches appeared in 1842, in a valuable work, entitled, "The Popular Scottish Biography." Previous to the appearance of this volume, he published at London, "The Gift for All Seasons," an annual, which contained contributions from Campbell, Sheridan Knowles, the Countess of Blessington, Miss Pardoe, and other writers of reputation. In 1842 he returned to Scotland, to editThe Western Watchman, a weekly journal published at Ayr. In 1844 he became connected with theWitnessnewspaper; but in the following year removed to Glasgow, to assist in the establishment of the first Scottish daily newspaper. With that journal, theDaily Mail, he continued two years, till severe nocturnal labour much affecting his health, obliged him temporarily to abandon literary pursuits. He has been a contributor toTait's Magazine, and was intrusted with the literary superintendence of Major De Renzy's "Poetical Illustrations and Achievements of the Duke of Wellington," a work to which he contributed several poems. He has edited Lord Byron's works, in two octavo volumes, with numerous notes, and a copious Memoir of the poet. Besides a number of smaller works, he is the editor of five volumes, forming a series, entitled, "Treasury of Discovery, Enterprise, and Adventure;" "Treasury of the Animal World;" "Treasury of Ceremonies, Manners, and Customs;" "Treasury of Nature, Science, and Art;" and "Treasury of History and Biography." "The Young Voyager," a poem descriptive of the search after Franklin, with illustrations, intended for children, appeared in 1855. He contributed the greater number of the biographical notices of Scotsmen inserted in "The Men of the Time" for 1856. A large and important national work,devoted to the biography, history, and antiquities of Scotland, has engaged his attention for some years, and is in a forward state for publication.
As a writer of verses, Mr Anderson is possessed of considerable power of fancy, and a correct taste. His song, beginning "I'm naebody noo," has been translated into the German language.
Will you go to the woodlands with me, with me,Will you go to the woodlands with me—When the sun 's on the hill, and all nature is still,Save the sound of the far dashing sea?For I love to lie lone on the hill, on the hill,I love to lie lone on the hill,When earth, sea, and sky, in loveliness vie,And all nature around me is still.Then my fancy is ever awake, awake,My fancy is never asleep;Like a bird on the wing, like a swan on the lake,Like a ship far away on the deep.And I love 'neath the green boughs to lie, to lie;I love 'neath the green boughs to lie;And see far above, like the smiling of love,A glimpse now and then of the sky.When the hum of the forest I hear, I hear,When the hum of the forest I hear,—'Tis solitude's prayer, pure devotion is there,And its breathings I ever revere.I kneel myself down on the sod, the sod,I kneel myself down on the sod,'Mong the flowers and wild heath, and an orison breatheIn lowliness up to my God.Then peace doth descend on my mind, my mind,Then peace doth descend on my mind;And I gain greater scope to my spirit and hope,For both then become more refined.Oh! whatever my fate chance to be, to be,My spirit shall never repine,If a stroll on the hill, if a glimpse of the sea,If the hum of the forest be mine.
Will you go to the woodlands with me, with me,Will you go to the woodlands with me—When the sun 's on the hill, and all nature is still,Save the sound of the far dashing sea?
For I love to lie lone on the hill, on the hill,I love to lie lone on the hill,When earth, sea, and sky, in loveliness vie,And all nature around me is still.
Then my fancy is ever awake, awake,My fancy is never asleep;Like a bird on the wing, like a swan on the lake,Like a ship far away on the deep.
And I love 'neath the green boughs to lie, to lie;I love 'neath the green boughs to lie;And see far above, like the smiling of love,A glimpse now and then of the sky.
When the hum of the forest I hear, I hear,When the hum of the forest I hear,—'Tis solitude's prayer, pure devotion is there,And its breathings I ever revere.
I kneel myself down on the sod, the sod,I kneel myself down on the sod,'Mong the flowers and wild heath, and an orison breatheIn lowliness up to my God.
Then peace doth descend on my mind, my mind,Then peace doth descend on my mind;And I gain greater scope to my spirit and hope,For both then become more refined.
Oh! whatever my fate chance to be, to be,My spirit shall never repine,If a stroll on the hill, if a glimpse of the sea,If the hum of the forest be mine.
Down in the valley lone,Far in the wild wood,Bubble forth springs, each oneWeeping like childhood;Bright on their rushy banks,Like joys among sadness,Little flowers bloom in ranks—Glimpses of gladness.Sweet 'tis to wander forth,Like pilgrims at even;Lifting our souls from earthTo fix them on Heaven;Then in our transport deep,This world forsaking:Sleeping as angels sleep,Mortals awaking!
Down in the valley lone,Far in the wild wood,Bubble forth springs, each oneWeeping like childhood;Bright on their rushy banks,Like joys among sadness,Little flowers bloom in ranks—Glimpses of gladness.
Sweet 'tis to wander forth,Like pilgrims at even;Lifting our souls from earthTo fix them on Heaven;Then in our transport deep,This world forsaking:Sleeping as angels sleep,Mortals awaking!
I 'm naebody noo; though in days that are gane,When I 'd hooses, and lands, and gear o' my ain,Ther war' mony to flatter, and mony to praise—And wha but mysel' was sae prood in those days!Ah! then roun' my table wad visitors thrang,Wha laugh'd at my joke, and applauded my sang,Though the tane had nae point, and the tither nae glee;But, of coorse, they war' grand when comin' frae me!Whan I 'd plenty to gie, o' my cheer and my crack,Ther war' plenty to come, and wi' joy to partak';But whanever the water grew scant at the well,I was welcome to drink all alane by mysel'!Whan I 'd nae need o' aid, there were plenty to proffer;And noo whan I want it, I ne'er get the offer;I could greet whan I think hoo my siller decreast,In the feasting o' those who came only to feast.The fulsome respec' to my gowd they did gie,I thoucht a' the time was intended for me;But whanever the end o' my money they saw,Their friendship, like it, also flicker'd awa'.My advice ance was sought for by folks far and near,Sic great wisdom I had ere I tint a' my gear;I 'm as weel able yet to gie counsel, that 's true,But I may jist haud my wheesht, for I 'm naebody noo.
I 'm naebody noo; though in days that are gane,When I 'd hooses, and lands, and gear o' my ain,Ther war' mony to flatter, and mony to praise—And wha but mysel' was sae prood in those days!
Ah! then roun' my table wad visitors thrang,Wha laugh'd at my joke, and applauded my sang,Though the tane had nae point, and the tither nae glee;But, of coorse, they war' grand when comin' frae me!
Whan I 'd plenty to gie, o' my cheer and my crack,Ther war' plenty to come, and wi' joy to partak';But whanever the water grew scant at the well,I was welcome to drink all alane by mysel'!
Whan I 'd nae need o' aid, there were plenty to proffer;And noo whan I want it, I ne'er get the offer;I could greet whan I think hoo my siller decreast,In the feasting o' those who came only to feast.
The fulsome respec' to my gowd they did gie,I thoucht a' the time was intended for me;But whanever the end o' my money they saw,Their friendship, like it, also flicker'd awa'.
My advice ance was sought for by folks far and near,Sic great wisdom I had ere I tint a' my gear;I 'm as weel able yet to gie counsel, that 's true,But I may jist haud my wheesht, for I 'm naebody noo.
I canna sleep a wink, lassie,When I gang to bed at night,But still o' thee I think, lassie,Till morning sheds its light.I lie an' think o' thee, lassie,And I toss frae side to side,Like a vessel on the sea, lassie,When stormy is the tide.My heart is no my ain, lassie,It winna bide wi' me;Like a birdie it has gane, lassie,To nestle saft wi' thee.I canna lure it back, lassie,Sae keep it to yoursel';But oh! it sune will break, lassie,If you dinna use it well.Where the treasure is, they say, lassie,The spirit lingers there;An' mine has fled away, lassie—You needna ask me where.I marvel oft if rest, lassie,On my eyes and heart would bide,If I thy troth possess'd, lassie,And thou wert at my side.
I canna sleep a wink, lassie,When I gang to bed at night,But still o' thee I think, lassie,Till morning sheds its light.I lie an' think o' thee, lassie,And I toss frae side to side,Like a vessel on the sea, lassie,When stormy is the tide.
My heart is no my ain, lassie,It winna bide wi' me;Like a birdie it has gane, lassie,To nestle saft wi' thee.I canna lure it back, lassie,Sae keep it to yoursel';But oh! it sune will break, lassie,If you dinna use it well.
Where the treasure is, they say, lassie,The spirit lingers there;An' mine has fled away, lassie—You needna ask me where.I marvel oft if rest, lassie,On my eyes and heart would bide,If I thy troth possess'd, lassie,And thou wert at my side.
An accomplished theologian and historical writer, William Hetherington was born on the Galloway side of the valley of the Nith, about the year 1805. With an average education at the parish school, he entered the University of Edinburgh, where he speedily acquired distinction. Amidst studies of a severer nature, he found relaxation in the composition of verses, celebrating the national manners and the interesting scenes of his nativity. These appeared in 1829, in a duodecimo volume, entitled, "Twelve Dramatic Sketches, founded on the Pastoral Poetry of Scotland." Having obtained licence as a probationer of the Established Church, he was in 1836 ordained to the ministerial charge of the parish of Torphichen in the Presbytery of Linlithgow. He joined the Free Church in 1843, and was afterwards translated to St Andrews. In 1848 he became minister of Free St Paul's Church, Edinburgh.
Besides his poetical work, Dr Hetherington has published, "The Fulness of Time," "History of the Church of Scotland," "The Minister's Family," and several separate lectures on different subjects. He was, during the first four years of its existence, editor of theFree Church Magazine. Formerly a frequent contributor to the more esteemed religious periodicals, he has latterly written chiefly for theBritish and Foreign Evangelical Review.
'Tis sweet wi' blithesome heart to stray,In the blushing dawn o' infant day;But sweeter than dewy morn can be,Is an hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee;An hour wi' thee, an hour wi' thee,An hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee;The half o' my life I 'd gladly gieFor an hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee.The garish sun has sunk to rest;The star o' gloaming gilds the west;The gentle moon comes smiling on,And her veil o'er the silent earth is thrown:Then come, sweet maid, oh, come wi' me!The whispering night-breeze calls on thee;Oh, come and roam o'er the lily lea,An hour i' the mild moonlight wi' me.For wealth let warldlings cark and moil,Let pride for empty honours toil,I 'd a' their wealth and honours gieFor ae sweet hour, dear maid, wi' thee.An hour wi' thee, an hour wi' thee,An hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee;Earth's stores and titles a' I 'd gieFor an hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee.
'Tis sweet wi' blithesome heart to stray,In the blushing dawn o' infant day;But sweeter than dewy morn can be,Is an hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee;An hour wi' thee, an hour wi' thee,An hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee;The half o' my life I 'd gladly gieFor an hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee.
The garish sun has sunk to rest;The star o' gloaming gilds the west;The gentle moon comes smiling on,And her veil o'er the silent earth is thrown:Then come, sweet maid, oh, come wi' me!The whispering night-breeze calls on thee;Oh, come and roam o'er the lily lea,An hour i' the mild moonlight wi' me.
For wealth let warldlings cark and moil,Let pride for empty honours toil,I 'd a' their wealth and honours gieFor ae sweet hour, dear maid, wi' thee.An hour wi' thee, an hour wi' thee,An hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee;Earth's stores and titles a' I 'd gieFor an hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee.
O sweet is the blossom o' the hawthorn tree,The bonnie milky blossom o' the hawthorn tree,When the saft westlin wind, as it wanders o'er the lea,Comes laden wi' the breath o' the hawthorn tree.Lovely is the rose in the dewy month o' June,An' the lily gently bending beneath the sunny noon;But dewy rose nor lily fair is half sae sweet to me,As the bonnie milky blossom o' the hawthorn tree.Oh, blithe at fair an' market fu' aften I hae been,An' wi' a crony frank an' leal, some happy hours I 've seen;But the happiest hours I ere enjoy'd, were shared, my love, wi' thee,In the gloaming 'neath the bonnie, bonnie hawthorn tree.Sweetly sang the blackbird, low in the woody glen,And fragrance sweet spread on the gale, light o'er the dewy plain;But thy saft voice an' sighing breath were sweeter far to me,While whispering o' love beneath the hawthorn tree.Old Time may wave his dusky wing, an' Chance may cast his die,And the rainbow hues of flatterin' Hope may darken in the sky;Gay Summer pass, an' Winter stalk stern o'er the frozen lea,Nor leaf, nor milky blossom deck the hawthorn tree:But still'd maun be the pulse that wakes this glowing heart o' mine,For me nae mair the spring maun bud, nor summer blossoms shine,An' low maun be my hame, sweet maid, ere I be false to thee,Or forget the vows I breathed beneath the hawthorn tree.
O sweet is the blossom o' the hawthorn tree,The bonnie milky blossom o' the hawthorn tree,When the saft westlin wind, as it wanders o'er the lea,Comes laden wi' the breath o' the hawthorn tree.
Lovely is the rose in the dewy month o' June,An' the lily gently bending beneath the sunny noon;But dewy rose nor lily fair is half sae sweet to me,As the bonnie milky blossom o' the hawthorn tree.
Oh, blithe at fair an' market fu' aften I hae been,An' wi' a crony frank an' leal, some happy hours I 've seen;But the happiest hours I ere enjoy'd, were shared, my love, wi' thee,In the gloaming 'neath the bonnie, bonnie hawthorn tree.
Sweetly sang the blackbird, low in the woody glen,And fragrance sweet spread on the gale, light o'er the dewy plain;But thy saft voice an' sighing breath were sweeter far to me,While whispering o' love beneath the hawthorn tree.
Old Time may wave his dusky wing, an' Chance may cast his die,And the rainbow hues of flatterin' Hope may darken in the sky;Gay Summer pass, an' Winter stalk stern o'er the frozen lea,Nor leaf, nor milky blossom deck the hawthorn tree:
But still'd maun be the pulse that wakes this glowing heart o' mine,For me nae mair the spring maun bud, nor summer blossoms shine,An' low maun be my hame, sweet maid, ere I be false to thee,Or forget the vows I breathed beneath the hawthorn tree.
Thomas Watson, author of "The Rhymer's Family," a small volume of poems, published in 1847, was born at Arbroath about the year 1807. He some time wrought as a weaver, but has latterly adopted the trade of a house-painter. He continues to reside in his native place.
My luve 's a flower in garden fair,Her beauty charms the sicht o' men;And I 'm a weed upon the wolde,For nane reck how I fare or fen'.She blooms in beild o' castle wa',I bide the blast o' povertie;My covert looks are treasures stown—Sae how culd my luve think o' me?My luve is like the dawn o' day,She wears a veil o' woven mist;And hoary cranreuch deftly flower'd,Lies paling on her maiden breast;Her kirtle at her jimpy waist,Has studs o' gowd to clasp it wi'She decks her hair wi' pearlis rare—And how culd my luve think o' me?My cloak is o' the Friesland gray,My doublet o' the gay Walloon,I wear the spurs o' siller sheen,And yet I am a landless loon;I ride a steed o' Flanders breed,I beare a sword upon my theigh,And that is a' my graith and gear—Sae how culd my luve think o' me?My luve's rose lips breathe sweet perfume,Twa pearlie raws pure faire atween,The happie dimples dent her cheeks,And diamonds low in her dark e'en;Her haire is o' the gowden licht,But dark the fringes o' her bree;Her smile wuld warm cauld winter's heart—But how culd my luve think o' me?My luve is tended like a queen,She sits among her maidens fair;There 's ane to send, and ane to sew,And ane to kame her gowden hair;The lutestrings luve her fingers sma',Her lips are steept in melodie;My heart is fu'—my e'en rin ower—Oh, how culd my luve think o' me?My luve she sits her palfrey white,Mair fair to see than makar's dreamO' faery queen on moonbeam bricht,Or mermaid on the saut sea faem.A belted knicht is by her side,I 'm but a squire o' low degree;A baron halds her bridle-rein—And how culd my luve think o' me?But I will don the pilgrim's weeds,And boune me till the Holy Land,A' for the sake o' my dear luve,To keep unstain'd my heart and hand.And when this world is gane to wreck,Wi' a' its pride and vanitie,Within the blessed bouris o' heaven,We then may meet—my luve and me.
My luve 's a flower in garden fair,Her beauty charms the sicht o' men;And I 'm a weed upon the wolde,For nane reck how I fare or fen'.She blooms in beild o' castle wa',I bide the blast o' povertie;My covert looks are treasures stown—Sae how culd my luve think o' me?
My luve is like the dawn o' day,She wears a veil o' woven mist;And hoary cranreuch deftly flower'd,Lies paling on her maiden breast;Her kirtle at her jimpy waist,Has studs o' gowd to clasp it wi'She decks her hair wi' pearlis rare—And how culd my luve think o' me?
My cloak is o' the Friesland gray,My doublet o' the gay Walloon,I wear the spurs o' siller sheen,And yet I am a landless loon;I ride a steed o' Flanders breed,I beare a sword upon my theigh,And that is a' my graith and gear—Sae how culd my luve think o' me?
My luve's rose lips breathe sweet perfume,Twa pearlie raws pure faire atween,The happie dimples dent her cheeks,And diamonds low in her dark e'en;Her haire is o' the gowden licht,But dark the fringes o' her bree;Her smile wuld warm cauld winter's heart—But how culd my luve think o' me?
My luve is tended like a queen,She sits among her maidens fair;There 's ane to send, and ane to sew,And ane to kame her gowden hair;The lutestrings luve her fingers sma',Her lips are steept in melodie;My heart is fu'—my e'en rin ower—Oh, how culd my luve think o' me?
My luve she sits her palfrey white,Mair fair to see than makar's dreamO' faery queen on moonbeam bricht,Or mermaid on the saut sea faem.A belted knicht is by her side,I 'm but a squire o' low degree;A baron halds her bridle-rein—And how culd my luve think o' me?
But I will don the pilgrim's weeds,And boune me till the Holy Land,A' for the sake o' my dear luve,To keep unstain'd my heart and hand.And when this world is gane to wreck,Wi' a' its pride and vanitie,Within the blessed bouris o' heaven,We then may meet—my luve and me.
A respectable writer of lyric poetry, James Macdonald was born in September 1807, in the parish of Fintry, and county of Stirling. His father was employed in the cotton factory of Culcruich. Of unwonted juvenile precocity, he attracted the attention of two paternal uncles, whose circumstances enabled them to provide him with a liberal education. Acquiring the rudiments of learning at Culcruich, he afterwards studied at the grammar school of Stirling, and proceeded, in 1822, to the university of Glasgow. Intended by his relations for the ministry of the Established Church, he attended the Divinity Hall during three sessions. Preferring secular employment, he now abandoned the study of theology, and occupied himself in educational pursuits. After teaching in several boarding establishments, he became corrector of the press in the printing-office of Messrs Blackie of Glasgow. Having suffered on account of bad health, he was induced to accept the appointment of Free Church schoolmaster at Blairgowrie. His health continuing to decline, he removed to the salubrious village of Catrine, in Ayrshire: he died there on the 27th May 1848. Macdonald was a devoted teacher of Sabbath schools; and his only separate publications are two collections of hymns for their use.
Or ere we part, my heart leaps hie to sing ae bonnie sang,Aboot my ain sweet lady-love, my darling Aggie Lang;It is na that her cheeks are like the blooming damask rose,It is na that her brow is white as stainless Alpine snows,It is na that her locks are black as ony raven's wing,Nor is 't her e'e o' winning glee that mak's me fondly sing.But, oh! her heart, a bonnie well, that gushes fresh an' freeO' maiden love, and happiness, and a' that sweet can be;Though saft the sang o' simmer winds, the warbling o' the stream,The carolling o' joyous birds, the murmur o' a dream,I 'd rather hear a'e gentle word frae Aggie's angel tongue,For weel I ken her heart is mine—the fountain whar it sprung.Yestreen I met her in a glen about the gloamin' hour;The moon was risen o'er the trees, the dew begemm'd ilk flower,The weary wind was hush'd asleep, an' no a sough cam' nigh,E'en frae the waukrife stream that ran in silver glintin' by;I press'd her milk-white han' in mine—she smiled as angels smile,But ah! frae me her tale o' love this warld manna wile.I saw the silver light o' heaven fa' on her bonnie brow,An' glitter on the honey-blabs upon her cherry mou';I saw the lily moonbeams steal the redness o' the rose,An' sleep upon her downy cheek in beautiful repose.The moon rose high, the stream gaed by, but aye she smiled on me,An' what she wadna breathe in words she tauld it wi' here e'e.I 've sat within a palace hall amid the grand an' gay,I 've listen'd to the carnival o' merry birds in May,I 've been in joyous companies, the wale o' mirth an' glee,An' danced in nature's fairy bowers by mountain, lake, and lea;But never has this heart o' mine career'd in purer pride,As in that moonlit glen an' bower, wi' Aggie by my side.
Or ere we part, my heart leaps hie to sing ae bonnie sang,Aboot my ain sweet lady-love, my darling Aggie Lang;It is na that her cheeks are like the blooming damask rose,It is na that her brow is white as stainless Alpine snows,It is na that her locks are black as ony raven's wing,Nor is 't her e'e o' winning glee that mak's me fondly sing.
But, oh! her heart, a bonnie well, that gushes fresh an' freeO' maiden love, and happiness, and a' that sweet can be;Though saft the sang o' simmer winds, the warbling o' the stream,The carolling o' joyous birds, the murmur o' a dream,I 'd rather hear a'e gentle word frae Aggie's angel tongue,For weel I ken her heart is mine—the fountain whar it sprung.
Yestreen I met her in a glen about the gloamin' hour;The moon was risen o'er the trees, the dew begemm'd ilk flower,The weary wind was hush'd asleep, an' no a sough cam' nigh,E'en frae the waukrife stream that ran in silver glintin' by;I press'd her milk-white han' in mine—she smiled as angels smile,But ah! frae me her tale o' love this warld manna wile.
I saw the silver light o' heaven fa' on her bonnie brow,An' glitter on the honey-blabs upon her cherry mou';I saw the lily moonbeams steal the redness o' the rose,An' sleep upon her downy cheek in beautiful repose.The moon rose high, the stream gaed by, but aye she smiled on me,An' what she wadna breathe in words she tauld it wi' here e'e.
I 've sat within a palace hall amid the grand an' gay,I 've listen'd to the carnival o' merry birds in May,I 've been in joyous companies, the wale o' mirth an' glee,An' danced in nature's fairy bowers by mountain, lake, and lea;But never has this heart o' mine career'd in purer pride,As in that moonlit glen an' bower, wi' Aggie by my side.
Oh, bonnie 's the lily that blooms in the valley,And fair is the cherry that grows on the tree;The primrose smiles sweet as it welcomes the simmer,And modest 's the wee gowan's love-talking e'e;Mair dear to my heart is that lown cosy dingle,Whar late i' the gloamin', by the lanely "Ha' den,"I met with the fairest ere bounded in beauty,By the banks o' the Endrick, the pride o' the glen.She 's pure as the spring cloud that smiles in the welkin,An blithe as the lambkin that sports on the lea;Her heart is a fount rinnin' owre wi' affection,And a warld o' feeling is the love o' her e'e.The prince may be proud o' his vast hoarded treasures,The heir o' his grandeur and high pedigree;They kenna the happiness dwalt in my bosom,When alane wi' the angel o' luve and o' le.I 've seen the day dawn in a shower-drappin' goud,The grass spread wi' dew, like a wide siller sea;The clouds shinin' bricht in a deep amber licht,And the earth blushin' back to the glad lift on hie.I 've dream'd o' a palace wi' gem-spangled ha's,And proud wa's a' glitterin' in rich diamond sheenWi' towers shinin' fair, through the rose-tinted air,And domes o' rare pearls and rubies atween.I 've sat in a garden, 'mid earth's gayest flowers,A' gaudily shawin' their beauteous dyes,And breathin' in calm the air's fragrant balm,Like angels asleep on the plains o' the skies;Yet the garden, and palace, and day's rosy dawning,Though in bless'd morning dreams they should aft come again,Can ne'er be sae sweet as the bonnie young lassie,That bloom'd by the Endrick, the pride of the glen.The exile, in sleep, haunts the land o' his fathers,The captive's ae dream is his hour to be free;The weary heart langs for the morning rays comin',The oppress'd, for his sabbath o' sweet liberty.But my life's only hope, my heart's only prayer,Is the day that I 'll ca' the young lassie my ain;Though a' should forsake me, wi' her I 'll be happy,On the banks o' the Endrick, the pride o' the glen.
Oh, bonnie 's the lily that blooms in the valley,And fair is the cherry that grows on the tree;The primrose smiles sweet as it welcomes the simmer,And modest 's the wee gowan's love-talking e'e;Mair dear to my heart is that lown cosy dingle,Whar late i' the gloamin', by the lanely "Ha' den,"I met with the fairest ere bounded in beauty,By the banks o' the Endrick, the pride o' the glen.
She 's pure as the spring cloud that smiles in the welkin,An blithe as the lambkin that sports on the lea;Her heart is a fount rinnin' owre wi' affection,And a warld o' feeling is the love o' her e'e.The prince may be proud o' his vast hoarded treasures,The heir o' his grandeur and high pedigree;They kenna the happiness dwalt in my bosom,When alane wi' the angel o' luve and o' le.
I 've seen the day dawn in a shower-drappin' goud,The grass spread wi' dew, like a wide siller sea;The clouds shinin' bricht in a deep amber licht,And the earth blushin' back to the glad lift on hie.I 've dream'd o' a palace wi' gem-spangled ha's,And proud wa's a' glitterin' in rich diamond sheenWi' towers shinin' fair, through the rose-tinted air,And domes o' rare pearls and rubies atween.
I 've sat in a garden, 'mid earth's gayest flowers,A' gaudily shawin' their beauteous dyes,And breathin' in calm the air's fragrant balm,Like angels asleep on the plains o' the skies;Yet the garden, and palace, and day's rosy dawning,Though in bless'd morning dreams they should aft come again,Can ne'er be sae sweet as the bonnie young lassie,That bloom'd by the Endrick, the pride of the glen.
The exile, in sleep, haunts the land o' his fathers,The captive's ae dream is his hour to be free;The weary heart langs for the morning rays comin',The oppress'd, for his sabbath o' sweet liberty.But my life's only hope, my heart's only prayer,Is the day that I 'll ca' the young lassie my ain;Though a' should forsake me, wi' her I 'll be happy,On the banks o' the Endrick, the pride o' the glen.