Your foes are at hand, and the brand that they wield,Soon, soon will emblazon your plain;But, ah! may the arm of the brave be your shield,And the song of the victory your strain.Remember the fetters and chains that are wove,And fated by slavery's decree,Are not like the fetters of union and love,That bind and encircle the free.Though rich be your fields, they will blight in their bloom,With the glow of the patriot's fires;And the sun that now gladdens, shall sink into gloom,And grow dark when your freedom expires.Be yours, then, the triumph to brave ones that 's meet,And your country, with laurels in store,Each weary and toil-worn warrior will greetWhen the tumult of battle is o'er.
Your foes are at hand, and the brand that they wield,Soon, soon will emblazon your plain;But, ah! may the arm of the brave be your shield,And the song of the victory your strain.Remember the fetters and chains that are wove,And fated by slavery's decree,Are not like the fetters of union and love,That bind and encircle the free.
Though rich be your fields, they will blight in their bloom,With the glow of the patriot's fires;And the sun that now gladdens, shall sink into gloom,And grow dark when your freedom expires.Be yours, then, the triumph to brave ones that 's meet,And your country, with laurels in store,Each weary and toil-worn warrior will greetWhen the tumult of battle is o'er.
Archibald Mackay was born at Kilmarnock in 1801. Receiving a common school education, he was apprenticed to a handloom weaver. Abandoning the loom, he subsequently acquired a knowledge of bookbinding, and has continued to prosecute that trade. From his youth devoted to the Muse, he produced in 1828 a metrical tale, entitled "Drouthy Tam," which, passing through numerous editions, brought a local reputation to the writer. In 1830 he published a small volume of poems, and in 1832 a little work in prose and verse, entitled "Recreations of Leisure Hours." In 1848 appeared from his pen a "History of Kilmarnock," in a well-written octavo volume. A collection of his best songs was published in 1855, under the title of "Ingleside Lilts." Mackay has contributed extensively to the local journals, and has established a circulating library for the benefit of his fellow-townsmen.
Air—"Traveller's Return."
Oh, weel I lo'e our auld Scots sangs,The mournfu' and the gay;They charm'd me by a mither's knee,In bairnhood's happy day:And even yet, though owre my powThe snaws of age are flung,The bluid loups joyfu' in my veinsWhene'er I hear them sung.They bring the fond smile to the cheek,Or tear-drap to the e'e;They bring to mind auld cronies kind,Wha sung them aft wi' glee.We seem again to hear the voiceOf mony a lang-lost frien';We seem again to grip the handThat lang in dust has been.And, oh, how true our auld Scots sangsWhen nature they portray!We think we hear the wee bit burnGaun bickering doun the brae;We see the spot, though far awa',Where first life's breath we drew,And a' the gowden scenes of youthSeem rising to the view.And dear I lo'e the wild war strainsOur langsyne minstrels sung—They rouse wi' patriotic firesThe hearts of auld and young;And even the dowie dirge that wailsSome brave but ruin'd band,Inspires us wi' a warmer loveFor hame and fatherland.Yes, leese me on our auld Scots sangs—The sangs of love and glee,The sangs that tell of glorious deedsThat made auld Scotland free.What though they sprung frae simple bards,Wha kent nae rules of art?They ever, ever yield a charmThat lingers round the heart.
Oh, weel I lo'e our auld Scots sangs,The mournfu' and the gay;They charm'd me by a mither's knee,In bairnhood's happy day:And even yet, though owre my powThe snaws of age are flung,The bluid loups joyfu' in my veinsWhene'er I hear them sung.
They bring the fond smile to the cheek,Or tear-drap to the e'e;They bring to mind auld cronies kind,Wha sung them aft wi' glee.We seem again to hear the voiceOf mony a lang-lost frien';We seem again to grip the handThat lang in dust has been.
And, oh, how true our auld Scots sangsWhen nature they portray!We think we hear the wee bit burnGaun bickering doun the brae;We see the spot, though far awa',Where first life's breath we drew,And a' the gowden scenes of youthSeem rising to the view.
And dear I lo'e the wild war strainsOur langsyne minstrels sung—They rouse wi' patriotic firesThe hearts of auld and young;And even the dowie dirge that wailsSome brave but ruin'd band,Inspires us wi' a warmer loveFor hame and fatherland.
Yes, leese me on our auld Scots sangs—The sangs of love and glee,The sangs that tell of glorious deedsThat made auld Scotland free.What though they sprung frae simple bards,Wha kent nae rules of art?They ever, ever yield a charmThat lingers round the heart.
Alas! how true the boding voiceThat whisper'd aft to me,"Thy bonnie lad will ne'er returnTo Scotland or to thee!"Oh! true it spoke, though hope the whileShed forth its brightest beam;For low in death my laddie liesBy Alma's bloody stream.I heard the village bells proclaimThat glorious deeds were done;I heard wi' joy the gladsome shout,"The field, the field is won!"And I thought my lad, wi' glory crown'd,Might come to me again;But vain the thought! cold, cold he liesOn Alma's gory plain.Oh! woe to him whose thirst for powerHas roll'd the bolts of war,And made my laddie bleed and dieFrae hame and friends afar.Alas! his form I ne'er shall see,Except in fancy's dream;For low he lies, where brave he fought,By Alma's bloody stream.
Alas! how true the boding voiceThat whisper'd aft to me,"Thy bonnie lad will ne'er returnTo Scotland or to thee!"Oh! true it spoke, though hope the whileShed forth its brightest beam;For low in death my laddie liesBy Alma's bloody stream.
I heard the village bells proclaimThat glorious deeds were done;I heard wi' joy the gladsome shout,"The field, the field is won!"And I thought my lad, wi' glory crown'd,Might come to me again;But vain the thought! cold, cold he liesOn Alma's gory plain.
Oh! woe to him whose thirst for powerHas roll'd the bolts of war,And made my laddie bleed and dieFrae hame and friends afar.Alas! his form I ne'er shall see,Except in fancy's dream;For low he lies, where brave he fought,By Alma's bloody stream.
Air—"Jockie's Gray Breeks."
Oh! say not life is ever drear,For midst its scenes of toil and careThere 's aye some joy the heart to cheer—There 's aye some spot that 's green and fair.To gain that spot the aim be ours,For nocht we 'll get unless we try;And when misfortune round us lours,We 'll jouk and let the jaw gae by.The wee bit flow'ret in the glenMaun bend beneath the surly blast;The birdie seeks some leafy den,And shelters till the storm is past:The "owrie sheep," when winds blaw snell,To some lowne spot for refuge hie;And sae, frae ills we canna quell,We 'll jouk and let the jaw gae by.Yet there are ills we a' should brave—The ills that man on man would throw;For oh! he 's but a thowless slave,That patient bears Oppression's woe.But if 'tis but the taunts of pride,Of envy's tongue that would annoy,'Tis nobler far to turn aside,And jouk and let the jaw gae by.In worldly gear we may be bare,We may hae mony a dreary hour;But never, never nurse despair,For ilka ane maun taste the sour:Even kings themsels, wi' a' their power,Wi' a' their pomp and honours high,'Neath adverse blasts are forced to cower,And jouk to let the jaw gae by.But mark this truth—the ills that blightAre aft the fruits that folly brings;Then shun the wrong, pursue the right—Frae this the truest pleasure springs;And fret not though dark clouds should spreadAt times across life's troubled sky;Sweet sunshine will the gloom succeed—Sae jouk and let the jaw gae by.
Oh! say not life is ever drear,For midst its scenes of toil and careThere 's aye some joy the heart to cheer—There 's aye some spot that 's green and fair.To gain that spot the aim be ours,For nocht we 'll get unless we try;And when misfortune round us lours,We 'll jouk and let the jaw gae by.
The wee bit flow'ret in the glenMaun bend beneath the surly blast;The birdie seeks some leafy den,And shelters till the storm is past:The "owrie sheep," when winds blaw snell,To some lowne spot for refuge hie;And sae, frae ills we canna quell,We 'll jouk and let the jaw gae by.
Yet there are ills we a' should brave—The ills that man on man would throw;For oh! he 's but a thowless slave,That patient bears Oppression's woe.But if 'tis but the taunts of pride,Of envy's tongue that would annoy,'Tis nobler far to turn aside,And jouk and let the jaw gae by.
In worldly gear we may be bare,We may hae mony a dreary hour;But never, never nurse despair,For ilka ane maun taste the sour:Even kings themsels, wi' a' their power,Wi' a' their pomp and honours high,'Neath adverse blasts are forced to cower,And jouk to let the jaw gae by.
But mark this truth—the ills that blightAre aft the fruits that folly brings;Then shun the wrong, pursue the right—Frae this the truest pleasure springs;And fret not though dark clouds should spreadAt times across life's troubled sky;Sweet sunshine will the gloom succeed—Sae jouk and let the jaw gae by.
Hurrah! hurrah! we 've glory won,And brighter blazes freedom's sun;But daring deeds must yet be doneTo curb Oppression's reign, boys.Like wintry clouds in masses roll'd,Our foes are thick'ning on the wold;Then up! then up! be firm—be bold—Victorious be again, boys.The hearts—the blessings of the brave—Of those who scorn the name of slave,Are with you on the ocean's wave,And on the battle-plain, boys:Then rouse ye, rouse ye, every one,And gird your brightest armour on;Complete the work so well begun—Victorious be again, boys!Though red with gore your path may be,It leads to glorious liberty;Remember, God is with the free,The brave He will sustain, boys:The tyrant fears the coming fight,He fears the power of Truth and Right;Then up! then up! in all your might—Victorious be again, boys.
Hurrah! hurrah! we 've glory won,And brighter blazes freedom's sun;But daring deeds must yet be doneTo curb Oppression's reign, boys.Like wintry clouds in masses roll'd,Our foes are thick'ning on the wold;Then up! then up! be firm—be bold—Victorious be again, boys.
The hearts—the blessings of the brave—Of those who scorn the name of slave,Are with you on the ocean's wave,And on the battle-plain, boys:Then rouse ye, rouse ye, every one,And gird your brightest armour on;Complete the work so well begun—Victorious be again, boys!
Though red with gore your path may be,It leads to glorious liberty;Remember, God is with the free,The brave He will sustain, boys:The tyrant fears the coming fight,He fears the power of Truth and Right;Then up! then up! in all your might—Victorious be again, boys.
The author of some spirited effusions in Scottish verse, William Air Foster, was born at Coldstream on the 16th June 1801. He has followed the occupation of a bootmaker, first in his native town, and latterly in Glasgow. Devoted to the Border sports, in which he was formerly an active performer, he has celebrated them in animated verse. To "Whistle Binkie" he has contributed a number of sporting and angling songs, and he has composed some volumes of poetry which are still in manuscript.
Fareweel to ilk hill whar the red heather grows,To ilk bonnie green glen whar the mountain stream rows,To the rock that re-echoes the torrent's wild din,To the graves o' my sires, and the hearths o' my kin.Fareweel to ilk strath an' the lav'rock's sweet sang—For trifles grow dear whan we 've kenn'd them sae lang;Round the wanderer's heart a bright halo they shed,A dream o' the past, when a' other's hae fled.The young hearts may kythe, though they 're forced far away,But its dool to the spirit when haffets are gray;The saplin transplanted may flourish a tree,Whar the hardy auld aik wad but wither and dee.They tell me I gang whar the tropic suns shineOwre landscapes as lovely and fragrant as thine;For the objects sae dear that the heart had entwinedTurn eerisome hame-thoughts, and sicken the mind.No, my spirit shall stray whar the red heather grows!In the bonnie green glen whar the mountain stream rows,'Neath the rock that re-echoes the torrent's wild din,'Mang the graves o' my sires, round the hearths o' my kin.
Fareweel to ilk hill whar the red heather grows,To ilk bonnie green glen whar the mountain stream rows,To the rock that re-echoes the torrent's wild din,To the graves o' my sires, and the hearths o' my kin.
Fareweel to ilk strath an' the lav'rock's sweet sang—For trifles grow dear whan we 've kenn'd them sae lang;Round the wanderer's heart a bright halo they shed,A dream o' the past, when a' other's hae fled.
The young hearts may kythe, though they 're forced far away,But its dool to the spirit when haffets are gray;The saplin transplanted may flourish a tree,Whar the hardy auld aik wad but wither and dee.
They tell me I gang whar the tropic suns shineOwre landscapes as lovely and fragrant as thine;For the objects sae dear that the heart had entwinedTurn eerisome hame-thoughts, and sicken the mind.
No, my spirit shall stray whar the red heather grows!In the bonnie green glen whar the mountain stream rows,'Neath the rock that re-echoes the torrent's wild din,'Mang the graves o' my sires, round the hearths o' my kin.
Air—"There 's nae luck about the house."
I sing of gentle woodcroft gay, for well I love to rove,With the spaniel at my side and the falcon on my glove;For the noble bird which graced my hand I feel my spirit swell,Array'd in all her hunting-gear—hood, jessy, leash, and bell.I have watch'd her through the moult, till her castings all were pure,And have steep'd and clean'd each gorge ere 'twas fix'd upon the lure;While now to field or forest glade I can my falcon bringWithout a pile of feather wrong, on body, breast, or wing.When drawn the leash, and slipt the hood, her eye beams black and bright,And from my hand the gallant bird is cast upon her flight;Away she darts, on pinions free, above the mountains far,Until in less'ning size she seems no bigger than a star.Away, away, in farthest flight I feel no fear or dread,When a whistle or a whoop brings her tow'ring o'er my head;While poised on moveless wing, from her voice a murmur swells,To speak her presence near, above the chiming from her bells.'Tis Rover's bark—halloo! see the broad-wing'd heron rise,And soaring round my falcon queen, above her quarry flies,With outstretch'd neck the wary game shoots for the covert nigh;But o'er him for a settled stoop my hawk is tow'ring high.My falcon 's tow'ring o'er him with an eye of fire and pride,Her pinions strong, with one short pull, are gather'd to her side,When like a stone from off the sling, or bolt from out the bow,In meteor flight, with sudden dart, she stoops upon her foe.The vanquish'd and the vanquisher sink rolling round and round,With wounded wing the quarried game falls heavy on the ground.Away, away, my falcon fair has spread her buoyant wings,While on the ear her silver voice as clear as metal rings.Though high her soar, and far her flight, my whoop has struck her ear,And reclaiming for the lure, o'er my head she sallies near.No other sport like falconry can make the bosom glow,When flying at the stately game, or raking at the crow.Who mews a hawk must nurse her as a mother would her child,And soothe the wayward spirit of a thing so fierce and wild;Must woo her like a bride, while with love his bosom swellsFor the noble bird that bears the hood, the jessy, leash, and bells.
I sing of gentle woodcroft gay, for well I love to rove,With the spaniel at my side and the falcon on my glove;For the noble bird which graced my hand I feel my spirit swell,Array'd in all her hunting-gear—hood, jessy, leash, and bell.
I have watch'd her through the moult, till her castings all were pure,And have steep'd and clean'd each gorge ere 'twas fix'd upon the lure;While now to field or forest glade I can my falcon bringWithout a pile of feather wrong, on body, breast, or wing.
When drawn the leash, and slipt the hood, her eye beams black and bright,And from my hand the gallant bird is cast upon her flight;Away she darts, on pinions free, above the mountains far,Until in less'ning size she seems no bigger than a star.
Away, away, in farthest flight I feel no fear or dread,When a whistle or a whoop brings her tow'ring o'er my head;While poised on moveless wing, from her voice a murmur swells,To speak her presence near, above the chiming from her bells.
'Tis Rover's bark—halloo! see the broad-wing'd heron rise,And soaring round my falcon queen, above her quarry flies,With outstretch'd neck the wary game shoots for the covert nigh;But o'er him for a settled stoop my hawk is tow'ring high.
My falcon 's tow'ring o'er him with an eye of fire and pride,Her pinions strong, with one short pull, are gather'd to her side,When like a stone from off the sling, or bolt from out the bow,In meteor flight, with sudden dart, she stoops upon her foe.
The vanquish'd and the vanquisher sink rolling round and round,With wounded wing the quarried game falls heavy on the ground.Away, away, my falcon fair has spread her buoyant wings,While on the ear her silver voice as clear as metal rings.
Though high her soar, and far her flight, my whoop has struck her ear,And reclaiming for the lure, o'er my head she sallies near.No other sport like falconry can make the bosom glow,When flying at the stately game, or raking at the crow.
Who mews a hawk must nurse her as a mother would her child,And soothe the wayward spirit of a thing so fierce and wild;Must woo her like a bride, while with love his bosom swellsFor the noble bird that bears the hood, the jessy, leash, and bells.
Air—"The brave old Oak."
Oh! away to the Tweed,To the beautiful Tweed,My much-loved native stream;Where the fish from his hold,'Neath some cataract bold,Starts up like a quivering gleam.From his iron-bound keep,Far down in the deep,He holds on his sovereign sway;Or darts like a lance,Or the meteor's glance,Afar on his bright-wing'd prey.As he roves through the tide,Then his clear glitt'ring sideIs burnish'd with silver and gold;And the sweep of his flightSeems a rainbow of light,As again he sinks down in his hold.With a soft western breeze,That just thrills through the trees,And ripples the beautiful bay;Throw the fly for a lure—That 's a rise! strike him sure—A clean fish—with a burst he 's away.Hark! the ravel line sweel,From the fast-whirring reel,With a music that gladdens the ear;And the thrill of delight,In that glorious fight,To the heart of the angler is dear.Hold him tight—for the leap;Where the waters are deep,Give out line in the far steady run;Reel up quick, if he tire,Though the wheel be on fire,For in earnest to work he 's begun.Aroused up at length,How he rolls in his strength,And springs with a quivering bound;Then away with a dash,Like the lightning's flash,Far o'er the smooth pebbly ground.Though he strain on the thread,Down the stream with his head,That burst from the run makes him cool;Then spring out for the land,On the rod change the hand,And draw down for the deepening pool.Mark the gleam of his side,As he shoots through the tide!Are the dyes of the dolphin more fair?Fatigue now begins,For his quivering finsOn the shallows are spread in despair.
Oh! away to the Tweed,To the beautiful Tweed,My much-loved native stream;Where the fish from his hold,'Neath some cataract bold,Starts up like a quivering gleam.
From his iron-bound keep,Far down in the deep,He holds on his sovereign sway;Or darts like a lance,Or the meteor's glance,Afar on his bright-wing'd prey.
As he roves through the tide,Then his clear glitt'ring sideIs burnish'd with silver and gold;And the sweep of his flightSeems a rainbow of light,As again he sinks down in his hold.
With a soft western breeze,That just thrills through the trees,And ripples the beautiful bay;Throw the fly for a lure—That 's a rise! strike him sure—A clean fish—with a burst he 's away.
Hark! the ravel line sweel,From the fast-whirring reel,With a music that gladdens the ear;And the thrill of delight,In that glorious fight,To the heart of the angler is dear.
Hold him tight—for the leap;Where the waters are deep,Give out line in the far steady run;Reel up quick, if he tire,Though the wheel be on fire,For in earnest to work he 's begun.
Aroused up at length,How he rolls in his strength,And springs with a quivering bound;Then away with a dash,Like the lightning's flash,Far o'er the smooth pebbly ground.
Though he strain on the thread,Down the stream with his head,That burst from the run makes him cool;Then spring out for the land,On the rod change the hand,And draw down for the deepening pool.
Mark the gleam of his side,As he shoots through the tide!Are the dyes of the dolphin more fair?Fatigue now begins,For his quivering finsOn the shallows are spread in despair.
The Rev. Charles Marshall, author of "Homely Words and Songs for Working Men and Women," is a native of Paisley. In early life he was engaged in mercantile concerns. At the University of Glasgow he studied for two sessions, and in 1826 completed a philosophical curriculum at the University of Edinburgh. In the following year he was chosen governor of John Watson's Institution, Edinburgh, where he remained for thirteen years. During that time the directors of the institution expressed their approbation of his services by large pecuniary donations, and by increasing his official emoluments. In addition to these expressions of liberality, they afforded him permission to attend the Divinity Hall. In 1840, on the completion of his theological studies, he was licensed as a probationer of the Established Church. In 1841 he accepted a call to the North Extension Church, Dunfermline. At the Disruption in 1843, he adhered to the Free Church. He continues to labour as minister of the Free North Church, Dunfermline.
To the moral and religious reformation of the industrial classes, as well as the improvement of their physical condition, Mr Marshall has long been earnestly devoted. In 1853 he published a small volume of prose and poetry, addressed to industrial females, with the title, "Lays and Lectures to Scotia's Daughters of Industry." This work rapidly passed through various editions. In 1856 he appeared as the author of a similar publication, entitled "Homely Words and Songs for Working Men and Women," to which his former work has been added as a second part. For terse and homely counsels, and vigorous and manly sentiments, adapted to the peculiar feelings and condition of the Scottish peasantry, thesebrochuresare without a parallel. Mr Marshall proposes to add to the series two other parts, addressed to "Husbands and Fathers," and to "Young Men."
I like to spring in the morning bricht,Before the mill bell rings;When waukening blithe in gowden licht,My joyfu' spirit sings.I like to hear, when the pearly tearGems morning's floweret cup,The trumpet summons of chanticleerPipe "drowsy mortals up."I tread as lightly as silent puss,While a' the household sleep;And gird me to clean and redd the houseBefore the bairnies cheep.I like to dress and mak me cleanAs ony winsome bride;And think na shame, though my face be seen,At morn or eventide.I like to handle, before I rin,The word o' truth and love;And seek, or the daily wark begin,Gude counsel from above.Then skipping wi' lichtsome heart, I hieTo earn my bit o' bread;The wark spins on, and the time rins by,Wi' pleasant, blessed speed.
I like to spring in the morning bricht,Before the mill bell rings;When waukening blithe in gowden licht,My joyfu' spirit sings.
I like to hear, when the pearly tearGems morning's floweret cup,The trumpet summons of chanticleerPipe "drowsy mortals up."
I tread as lightly as silent puss,While a' the household sleep;And gird me to clean and redd the houseBefore the bairnies cheep.
I like to dress and mak me cleanAs ony winsome bride;And think na shame, though my face be seen,At morn or eventide.
I like to handle, before I rin,The word o' truth and love;And seek, or the daily wark begin,Gude counsel from above.
Then skipping wi' lichtsome heart, I hieTo earn my bit o' bread;The wark spins on, and the time rins by,Wi' pleasant, blessed speed.
Air—"Fye, gae rub her owre wi' strae."
As sunshine to the flowers in May,As wild flowers to the hinny bee,As fragrant scent o' new mown hay,So my true love is sweet to me.As costly jewels to the bride,As beauty to the bridegroom's e'e—To sailors, as fair wind and tide,So my true love is dear to me.As rain-draps to the thirsty earth,As waters to the willow-tree,As mother's joy at baby's birth,So my true love is dear to me.Though owning neither wealth nor lan',He 's ane o' Heaven's pedigree;His love to God, his love to man,His goodness makes him dear to me.The lass that weds a warly foolMay laugh, and sing, and dance a wee;But earthly love soon waxes cool,And foolish fancies turn ajee.My laddie's heart is fu' o' grace,His loving e'e blinks bonnily,A heavenly licht illumes his face;Nae wonder though he 's dear to me.
As sunshine to the flowers in May,As wild flowers to the hinny bee,As fragrant scent o' new mown hay,So my true love is sweet to me.
As costly jewels to the bride,As beauty to the bridegroom's e'e—To sailors, as fair wind and tide,So my true love is dear to me.
As rain-draps to the thirsty earth,As waters to the willow-tree,As mother's joy at baby's birth,So my true love is dear to me.
Though owning neither wealth nor lan',He 's ane o' Heaven's pedigree;His love to God, his love to man,His goodness makes him dear to me.
The lass that weds a warly foolMay laugh, and sing, and dance a wee;But earthly love soon waxes cool,And foolish fancies turn ajee.
My laddie's heart is fu' o' grace,His loving e'e blinks bonnily,A heavenly licht illumes his face;Nae wonder though he 's dear to me.
Musing, we sat in our garden bower,In the balmy month of June,Enjoying the pensive gloamin' hourWhen our daily task was done.We spake of the friends of our early days,Some living, some dead and gane,And fancy skimm'd o'er the flow'ry braesOf our morning life again.A bless'd, a lightsome hour was that,And joyful were we to seeThe sunny face of ilk bonnie brat,So full of frolicsome glee.They ran, they row'd, they warsl'd, they fell,Whiles whirl'd in a fairy ring—Our hearts ran o'er like a gushing well,And we bless'd each happy thing.In our wee dwelling the lamp of love,Trimm'd daily by faith and prayer,Flings light on earth, on heaven above,Sheds glory everywhere.This golden lamp shines clear and bright,When the world looks dark and doure,It brightens our morning, noon, and night,And gladdens our gloamin' hour.
Musing, we sat in our garden bower,In the balmy month of June,Enjoying the pensive gloamin' hourWhen our daily task was done.
We spake of the friends of our early days,Some living, some dead and gane,And fancy skimm'd o'er the flow'ry braesOf our morning life again.
A bless'd, a lightsome hour was that,And joyful were we to seeThe sunny face of ilk bonnie brat,So full of frolicsome glee.
They ran, they row'd, they warsl'd, they fell,Whiles whirl'd in a fairy ring—Our hearts ran o'er like a gushing well,And we bless'd each happy thing.
In our wee dwelling the lamp of love,Trimm'd daily by faith and prayer,Flings light on earth, on heaven above,Sheds glory everywhere.
This golden lamp shines clear and bright,When the world looks dark and doure,It brightens our morning, noon, and night,And gladdens our gloamin' hour.
William Wilson was born on the 25th December 1801, in the village of Crieff, Perthshire. His parents being of the industrial class and in indigent circumstances, he was early devoted to a life of manual labour. While employed in a factory at Dundee, some of his poetical compositions were brought under the notice of Mrs Grant, of Laggan, who interested herself in his behalf, and enabled him to begin business as a coal merchant. He married early in life, and continued after marriage to write as ardent poetry about his wife as he had done before marriage. On her death, he married a lady of respectable connexions in the county of Roxburgh. In December 1833, he emigrated to America, and has since been in business as a publisher at Poughkeepsie, in the state of New York. He has repeatedly delivered lectures to scientific institutions, and is well known to the higher class of literary men in America. Many of his earlier poems were contributed to theEdinburgh Literary Journal; and he has published several of his own and other songs, with music of his own composition.
O blessing on her starlike e'en,Wi' their glance o' love divine;And blessing on the red, red lip,Was press'd yestreen to mine!Her braided locks that waved sae light,As she danced through the lofty ha',Were like the cluds on the brow o' night,Or the wing o' the hoodie craw.O mony a jimp an' gentle dame,In jewell'd pomp was there;But she was first among them a',In peerless beauty rare!Her bosom is a holy shrine,Unstain'd by mortal sin,An' spotless as the snaw-white foam,On the breast o' the siller linn.Her voice—hae ye heard the goudspink's note,By bowery glen or brake?Or listen'd ye e'er to the mermaid's lay,By sea or mountain lake?Hae ye dreamt ye heard, i' the bowers o' heaven,The angel's melodie?Or fancied ye listen'd the sang o' the spheresAs they swung on their path on hie?Far sweeter to me was her lay o' love,At the gloamin' hour yestreen;An', oh! were I king o' the warld wide,I would mak' that maiden my queen.
O blessing on her starlike e'en,Wi' their glance o' love divine;And blessing on the red, red lip,Was press'd yestreen to mine!
Her braided locks that waved sae light,As she danced through the lofty ha',Were like the cluds on the brow o' night,Or the wing o' the hoodie craw.
O mony a jimp an' gentle dame,In jewell'd pomp was there;But she was first among them a',In peerless beauty rare!
Her bosom is a holy shrine,Unstain'd by mortal sin,An' spotless as the snaw-white foam,On the breast o' the siller linn.
Her voice—hae ye heard the goudspink's note,By bowery glen or brake?Or listen'd ye e'er to the mermaid's lay,By sea or mountain lake?
Hae ye dreamt ye heard, i' the bowers o' heaven,The angel's melodie?Or fancied ye listen'd the sang o' the spheresAs they swung on their path on hie?
Far sweeter to me was her lay o' love,At the gloamin' hour yestreen;An', oh! were I king o' the warld wide,I would mak' that maiden my queen.
Oh! blessing on thee, landOf love and minstrel song;For Freedom found a dwelling-placeThy mountain cliffs among!And still she loves to roamAmong thy heath-clad hills;And blend her wild-wood harp's sweet strainWith the voice of mountain rills.Her song is on the gale,Her step upon the wold;And morning diamonds brightly gemHer braided locks of gold.Far up the pine-wood glen,Her sylph-like form is seen,By hunter in the hazy dawn,Or wandering bard at e'en.My own dear native home,The birthplace of the brave,O never may thy soil be trodBy tyrant or by slave!Then, blessing on thee, landOf love and minstrel song;For Freedom found a dwelling-place,Thy mountain cliffs among!
Oh! blessing on thee, landOf love and minstrel song;For Freedom found a dwelling-placeThy mountain cliffs among!And still she loves to roamAmong thy heath-clad hills;And blend her wild-wood harp's sweet strainWith the voice of mountain rills.
Her song is on the gale,Her step upon the wold;And morning diamonds brightly gemHer braided locks of gold.Far up the pine-wood glen,Her sylph-like form is seen,By hunter in the hazy dawn,Or wandering bard at e'en.
My own dear native home,The birthplace of the brave,O never may thy soil be trodBy tyrant or by slave!Then, blessing on thee, landOf love and minstrel song;For Freedom found a dwelling-place,Thy mountain cliffs among!
We part,—yet wherefore should I weep,From faithless thing like thee to sever?Or let one tear mine eyelids steep,While thus I cast thee off for ever?I loved thee—need I say how well?Few, few have ever loved so dearly;As many a sleepless hour can tell,And many a vow breath'd too sincerely.But late, beneath its jetty lash,I loved to mark thy blue eyes' splendour,Which wont, all witchingly, to flashOn me its light so soft and tender;Now, from that glance I turn away,As if its thrilling gaze could wound me;Though not, as once, in love's young day,When thoughtless passion's fetters bound me.The dimpling smile, with sweetness fraught,The bosom, 'mid its snow, upheaving;Who, that had seen them, could have thoughtThat things so fair could be deceiving?The moon, the sky, the wave, the wind,In all their fitful moods of changing,Are nought to wavering woman's mind,For ever shifting, ever ranging!Farewell! I'd rather launch my barkUpon the angry ocean billow,'Mid wintry winds, and tempests dark,Than make thy faithless breast my pillow.Thy broken vow now cannot bind,Thy streaming tears no more can move me,And thus I turn from thee, to findA heart that may more truly love me.
We part,—yet wherefore should I weep,From faithless thing like thee to sever?Or let one tear mine eyelids steep,While thus I cast thee off for ever?I loved thee—need I say how well?Few, few have ever loved so dearly;As many a sleepless hour can tell,And many a vow breath'd too sincerely.
But late, beneath its jetty lash,I loved to mark thy blue eyes' splendour,Which wont, all witchingly, to flashOn me its light so soft and tender;Now, from that glance I turn away,As if its thrilling gaze could wound me;Though not, as once, in love's young day,When thoughtless passion's fetters bound me.
The dimpling smile, with sweetness fraught,The bosom, 'mid its snow, upheaving;Who, that had seen them, could have thoughtThat things so fair could be deceiving?The moon, the sky, the wave, the wind,In all their fitful moods of changing,Are nought to wavering woman's mind,For ever shifting, ever ranging!
Farewell! I'd rather launch my barkUpon the angry ocean billow,'Mid wintry winds, and tempests dark,Than make thy faithless breast my pillow.Thy broken vow now cannot bind,Thy streaming tears no more can move me,And thus I turn from thee, to findA heart that may more truly love me.
My soul is ever with thee,My thoughts are ever with thee,As the flower to the sun, as the lamb to the lea,So turns my fond spirit to thee.'Mid the cares of the lingering day,When troubles around me be,Fond Fancy for aye will be flitting away—Away, my beloved, to thee.When the night-pall darkly spreadO'er shadows, tower, and tree,Then the visions of my restless bedAre all, my beloved, of thee.When I greet the morning beams,When the midnight star I see,Alone—in crowded halls—my dreams—My dreams are for ever of thee.As spring to the leafless spray,As calm to the surging sea,To the weary, rest—to the watcher, day—So art thou, loved Mary, to me.
My soul is ever with thee,My thoughts are ever with thee,As the flower to the sun, as the lamb to the lea,So turns my fond spirit to thee.
'Mid the cares of the lingering day,When troubles around me be,Fond Fancy for aye will be flitting away—Away, my beloved, to thee.
When the night-pall darkly spreadO'er shadows, tower, and tree,Then the visions of my restless bedAre all, my beloved, of thee.
When I greet the morning beams,When the midnight star I see,Alone—in crowded halls—my dreams—My dreams are for ever of thee.
As spring to the leafless spray,As calm to the surging sea,To the weary, rest—to the watcher, day—So art thou, loved Mary, to me.
Dear Aunty, what think ye o' auld Johnny Graham?The carle sae pawkie an' slee!He wants a bit wifie to tend his bein hame,An' the body has ettled at me.Wi' bonnet sae vaunty, an owerlay sae clean,An' ribbon that waved 'boon his bree,He cam' doun the cleugh at the gloamin' yestreen,An' rappit, an' soon speert for me.I bade him come ben whare my minny sae thrangWas birlin' her wheel eidentlie,An', foul fa' the carle, he was na' that lang,Ere he tauld out his errand to me."Hech, Tibby, lass! a' yon braid acres o' land,Wi' ripe craps that wave bonnilie,An' meikle mair gear shall be at yer command,Gin' ye will look kindly on me."Yon herd o' fat owsen that rout i' the glen,Sax naigies that nibble the lea;The kye i' the sheugh, and the sheep i' the pen,I'se gie a', dear Tibby, to thee."An', lassie, I've goupins o' gowd in a stockin',An' pearlin's wad dazzle yer e'e;A mettl'd, but canny young yaud, for the yokin',When ye wad gae jauntin' wi' me."I 'll hap ye, and fend ye, and busk ye, and tend ye,And mak' ye the licht o' my e'e;I 'll comfort and cheer ye, and daut ye and dear ye,As couthy as couthy can be."I 've lo'ed ye, dear lassie, since first, a bit bairn,Ye ran up the knowe to meet me;An' deckit my bonnet wi' blue bells an' fern,Wi' meikle glad laughin' an' glee."An' noo woman grown, an' mensefu', an' fair,An' gracefu' as gracefu' can be—Will ye tak' an' auld carle wha ne'er had a careFor woman, dear Tibby, but thee?"Sae, Aunty, ye see I 'm a' in a swither,What answer the bodie to gie—But aften I wish he wad tak' my auld mither,And let puir young Tibby abee.
Dear Aunty, what think ye o' auld Johnny Graham?The carle sae pawkie an' slee!He wants a bit wifie to tend his bein hame,An' the body has ettled at me.
Wi' bonnet sae vaunty, an owerlay sae clean,An' ribbon that waved 'boon his bree,He cam' doun the cleugh at the gloamin' yestreen,An' rappit, an' soon speert for me.
I bade him come ben whare my minny sae thrangWas birlin' her wheel eidentlie,An', foul fa' the carle, he was na' that lang,Ere he tauld out his errand to me.
"Hech, Tibby, lass! a' yon braid acres o' land,Wi' ripe craps that wave bonnilie,An' meikle mair gear shall be at yer command,Gin' ye will look kindly on me.
"Yon herd o' fat owsen that rout i' the glen,Sax naigies that nibble the lea;The kye i' the sheugh, and the sheep i' the pen,I'se gie a', dear Tibby, to thee.
"An', lassie, I've goupins o' gowd in a stockin',An' pearlin's wad dazzle yer e'e;A mettl'd, but canny young yaud, for the yokin',When ye wad gae jauntin' wi' me.
"I 'll hap ye, and fend ye, and busk ye, and tend ye,And mak' ye the licht o' my e'e;I 'll comfort and cheer ye, and daut ye and dear ye,As couthy as couthy can be.
"I 've lo'ed ye, dear lassie, since first, a bit bairn,Ye ran up the knowe to meet me;An' deckit my bonnet wi' blue bells an' fern,Wi' meikle glad laughin' an' glee.
"An' noo woman grown, an' mensefu', an' fair,An' gracefu' as gracefu' can be—Will ye tak' an' auld carle wha ne'er had a careFor woman, dear Tibby, but thee?"
Sae, Aunty, ye see I 'm a' in a swither,What answer the bodie to gie—But aften I wish he wad tak' my auld mither,And let puir young Tibby abee.
Oh, haud na' yer noddle sae hie, ma doo!Oh, haud na' yer noddle sae hie!The days that hae been, may be yet again seen,Sae look na sae lightly on me, ma doo!Sae look na' sae lightly on me!Oh, geck na' at hame hodden gray, Jean Linn!Oh, geck na' at hame hodden gray!Yer gutcher an mine wad thocht themsels fine,In cleedin' sae bein, bonnie May, bonnie May—In cleedin' sae bein, bonnie May.Ye mind when we won in Whinglen, Jean Linn—Ye mind when we won in Whinglen,Your daddy, douce carle, was cotter to mine,An' our herd was yer bonnie sel', then, Jean Linn,An' our herd was yer bonnie sel', then.Oh, then ye were a' thing to me, Jean Linn,Oh, then ye were a' thing to me!An' the moments scour'd by, like birds through the sky,When tentin' the owsen wi' thee, Jean Linn,When tentin' the owsen wi' thee.I twined ye a bower by the burn, Jean Linn,I twined ye a bower by the burn,But dreamt na that hour, as we sat in that bower,That fortune wad tak' sic a turn, Jean Linn.That fortune wad tak' sic a turn.Ye busk noo in satins fu' braw, Jean Linn!Ye busk noo in satins fu' braw!Yer daddy's a laird, mine 's i' the kirkyard,An' I 'm yer puir ploughman, Jock Law, Jean Linn,An' I 'm yer puir ploughman, Jock Law.
Oh, haud na' yer noddle sae hie, ma doo!Oh, haud na' yer noddle sae hie!The days that hae been, may be yet again seen,Sae look na sae lightly on me, ma doo!Sae look na' sae lightly on me!
Oh, geck na' at hame hodden gray, Jean Linn!Oh, geck na' at hame hodden gray!Yer gutcher an mine wad thocht themsels fine,In cleedin' sae bein, bonnie May, bonnie May—In cleedin' sae bein, bonnie May.
Ye mind when we won in Whinglen, Jean Linn—Ye mind when we won in Whinglen,Your daddy, douce carle, was cotter to mine,An' our herd was yer bonnie sel', then, Jean Linn,An' our herd was yer bonnie sel', then.
Oh, then ye were a' thing to me, Jean Linn,Oh, then ye were a' thing to me!An' the moments scour'd by, like birds through the sky,When tentin' the owsen wi' thee, Jean Linn,When tentin' the owsen wi' thee.
I twined ye a bower by the burn, Jean Linn,I twined ye a bower by the burn,But dreamt na that hour, as we sat in that bower,That fortune wad tak' sic a turn, Jean Linn.That fortune wad tak' sic a turn.
Ye busk noo in satins fu' braw, Jean Linn!Ye busk noo in satins fu' braw!Yer daddy's a laird, mine 's i' the kirkyard,An' I 'm yer puir ploughman, Jock Law, Jean Linn,An' I 'm yer puir ploughman, Jock Law.
When the sun gaes down, when the sun gaes down,I 'll meet thee, bonnie Mary, when the sun gaes down;I 'll row my apron up, an' I 'll leave the reeky town,And meet thee by the burnie, when the sun gaes down.By the burnie there 's a bower, we will gently lean us there,An' forget in ither's arms every earthly care,For the chiefest o' my joys, in this weary mortal roun',Is the burnside wi' Mary when the sun gaes down.When the sun gaes down, &c.There the ruin'd castle tower on the distant steep appears,Like a hoary auld warrior faded with years;An' the burnie stealing by wi' a fairy silver soun',Will soothe us wi' its music when the sun gaes down.When the sun gaes down, &c.The burnside is sweet when the dew is on the flower,But 'tis like a little heaven at the trystin' hour;And with pity I would look on the king who wears the crown,When wi' thee by the burnie, when the sun gaes down.When the sun gaes down, &c.When the sun gaes down, when the sun gaes down,I 'll meet thee by the burnie, when the sun gaes down;Come in thy petticoatie, and thy little drugget gown,And I 'll meet thee, bonnie Mary, when the sun gaes down.
When the sun gaes down, when the sun gaes down,I 'll meet thee, bonnie Mary, when the sun gaes down;I 'll row my apron up, an' I 'll leave the reeky town,And meet thee by the burnie, when the sun gaes down.
By the burnie there 's a bower, we will gently lean us there,An' forget in ither's arms every earthly care,For the chiefest o' my joys, in this weary mortal roun',Is the burnside wi' Mary when the sun gaes down.When the sun gaes down, &c.
There the ruin'd castle tower on the distant steep appears,Like a hoary auld warrior faded with years;An' the burnie stealing by wi' a fairy silver soun',Will soothe us wi' its music when the sun gaes down.When the sun gaes down, &c.
The burnside is sweet when the dew is on the flower,But 'tis like a little heaven at the trystin' hour;And with pity I would look on the king who wears the crown,When wi' thee by the burnie, when the sun gaes down.When the sun gaes down, &c.
When the sun gaes down, when the sun gaes down,I 'll meet thee by the burnie, when the sun gaes down;Come in thy petticoatie, and thy little drugget gown,And I 'll meet thee, bonnie Mary, when the sun gaes down.
Mrs Mary Waugh, the widow of Mr James Macarthur, merchant, Glasgow, published in 1842 a duodecimo volume of verses, with the title, "The Necropolis, and other Poems." One of the compositions in that publication, entitled "The Missionary," is inserted in the present work, as being worthy of a place among the productions of the national Muse. In early life Mrs Macarthur lived in the south of Scotland; she has for many years been resident in Glasgow.