The winter's cauld and cheerless blastMay rob the feckless tree, Mary,And lay the young flowers in the dust,Whar' ance they bloom'd in glee, Mary.It canna chill my bosom's hopes—It canna alter thee, Mary;The summer o' thy winsome faceIs aye the same to me, Mary.The gloom o' life, its cruel strife,May wear me fast awa', Mary;An' lea'e me like a cauld, cauld corpse,Amang the drifting snaw, Mary.Yet 'mid the drift, wert thou but nigh,I 'd fauld my weary e'e, Mary;And deem the wild and raging storm,A laverock's sang o' glee, Mary.My heart can lie in ruin's dust,And fortune's winter dree, Mary;While o'er it shines the diamond ray,That glances frae thine e'e, Mary.The rending pangs and waes o' life,The dreary din o' care, Mary,I 'll welcome, gin they lea'e but thee,My lanely lot to share, Mary.As o'er yon hill the evening starIs wilin' day awa', Mary;Sae sweet and fair art thou to me,At life's sad gloamin' fa', Mary.It gars me greet wi' vera joy,Whene'er I think on thee, Mary,That sic a heart sae true as thine,Should e'er ha'e cared for me, Mary.
The winter's cauld and cheerless blastMay rob the feckless tree, Mary,And lay the young flowers in the dust,Whar' ance they bloom'd in glee, Mary.It canna chill my bosom's hopes—It canna alter thee, Mary;The summer o' thy winsome faceIs aye the same to me, Mary.
The gloom o' life, its cruel strife,May wear me fast awa', Mary;An' lea'e me like a cauld, cauld corpse,Amang the drifting snaw, Mary.Yet 'mid the drift, wert thou but nigh,I 'd fauld my weary e'e, Mary;And deem the wild and raging storm,A laverock's sang o' glee, Mary.
My heart can lie in ruin's dust,And fortune's winter dree, Mary;While o'er it shines the diamond ray,That glances frae thine e'e, Mary.The rending pangs and waes o' life,The dreary din o' care, Mary,I 'll welcome, gin they lea'e but thee,My lanely lot to share, Mary.
As o'er yon hill the evening starIs wilin' day awa', Mary;Sae sweet and fair art thou to me,At life's sad gloamin' fa', Mary.It gars me greet wi' vera joy,Whene'er I think on thee, Mary,That sic a heart sae true as thine,Should e'er ha'e cared for me, Mary.
James Ballantine, one of the most successful of living Scottish song writers, was born in 1808 at the West Port of Edinburgh. Of this locality, now considerably changed in its character, but still endeared to him by the associations of his boyhood, he has given a graphic description in a poem, in which he records some of the cherished recollections of the days when amid its "howffs," and "laigh" half-doored shops he "gat schulin' and sport." He lost his father, who was a brewer, when he was only ten years old, and, being the youngest of the family, which consisted of three daughters and himself, his early training devolved upon his mother, who contrived to obtain for her children the advantage of an ordinary education. James Ballantine must, however, be considered as a self-taught man. Beyond the training which he received in early life, he owes his present position to his own indefatigable exertions.
By his father's death, the poet was necessitated, while yet a mere boy, to exert himself for his own support and the assistance of the family. He was, accordingly, apprenticed to a house-painter in the city, and very soon attained to considerable proficiency in his trade. On growing up to manhood, he made strenuous exertions to obtain the educational advantages which were not within his reach at an earlier period of life, and about his twentieth year he attended the University of Edinburgh for the study of anatomy, with a view to his professionalimprovement. At a subsequent period he turned his attention to the art of painting on glass, and he has long been well-known as one of the most distinguished of British artists in that department. At the period Mr Ballantine began his career as a glass-painter, the art had greatly degenerated in character; and the position to which it has of late years attained is chiefly owing to his good taste and archæological researches. When the designs and specimens of glass-painting for the windows of the House of Lords were publicly competed for, the Royal Commissioners of the Fine Arts adjudged those produced by Mr Ballantine as the best which were exhibited, and the execution of the work was intrusted to him. A few years ago he published a work on stained glass, which has been translated and published in Germany, where it retains its popularity. Mr Ballantine has thus never allowed his literary pursuits to interfere with the exercise of his chosen avocations; "he has," in the words of Lord Cockburn, "made the business feed the Muses, and the Muses grace the business."
Although Mr Ballantine began at a very early age to woo the Muse, some of his most popular pieces having been produced about his sixteenth year, he made his first appearance in print in the pages of "Whistle Binkie." In 1843 his well-known work, "The Gaberlunzie's Wallet," was published in monthly numbers, illustrated by the late Alexander Ritchie. This production was enriched with some of his best lyrics. His second work, "The Miller of Deanhaugh," likewise contains a number of songs and ballads. In 1856 Messrs Constable & Co., of Edinburgh, published an edition of his poems, including many of those which had been previously given to the world. This volume contains the happiest effusions of his genius, and will procure him a prominent place inhis country's literature. Mr Ballantine is the poet of the affections, a lover of the beautiful and tender among the humbler walks of life, and an exponent of the lessons to be drawn from familiar customs, common sayings, and simple character.
She was Naebody's bairn, she was Naebody's bairn,She had mickle to thole, she had mickle to learn,Afore a kind word or kind look she could earn,For naebody cared about Naebody's bairn.Though faither or mither ne'er own'd her ava,Though rear'd by the fremmit for fee unco sma',She grew in the shade like a young lady-fern,For Nature was bounteous to Naebody's bairn.Though toited by some, and though lightlied by mair,She never compleened, though her young heart was sair,And warm virgin tears that might melted cauld airnWhiles glist in the blue e'e o' Naebody's bairn.Though nane cheer'd her childhood, an' nane hail'd her birth,Heaven sent her an angel to gladden the earth;And when the earth doom'd her in laigh nook to dern,Heaven couldna but tak again Naebody's bairn.She cam smiling sweetly as young mornin' daw,Like lown simmer gloamin' she faded awa,And lo! how serenely that lone e'ening starnShines on the greensward that haps Naebody's bairn!
She was Naebody's bairn, she was Naebody's bairn,She had mickle to thole, she had mickle to learn,Afore a kind word or kind look she could earn,For naebody cared about Naebody's bairn.
Though faither or mither ne'er own'd her ava,Though rear'd by the fremmit for fee unco sma',She grew in the shade like a young lady-fern,For Nature was bounteous to Naebody's bairn.
Though toited by some, and though lightlied by mair,She never compleened, though her young heart was sair,And warm virgin tears that might melted cauld airnWhiles glist in the blue e'e o' Naebody's bairn.
Though nane cheer'd her childhood, an' nane hail'd her birth,Heaven sent her an angel to gladden the earth;And when the earth doom'd her in laigh nook to dern,Heaven couldna but tak again Naebody's bairn.
She cam smiling sweetly as young mornin' daw,Like lown simmer gloamin' she faded awa,And lo! how serenely that lone e'ening starnShines on the greensward that haps Naebody's bairn!
The bonnie, bonnie bairn sits pokin' in the ase,Glowerin' in the fire wi' his wee round face;Laughin' at the fuffin low—what sees he there?Ha! the young dreamer 's biggin' castles in the air!His wee chubby face, an' his towzy curly pow,Are laughin' an noddin' to the dancin' lowe,He 'll brown his rosy cheeks, and singe his sunny hair,Glowerin' at the imps wi' their castles in the air.He sees muckle castles towerin' to the moon,He sees little sodgers puin' them a' doun;Warlds whomlin' up an' doun, blazin' wi' a flare,Losh! how he loups, as they glimmer in the air.For a' sae sage he looks, what can the laddie ken?He 's thinkin' upon naething, like mony mighty men,A wee thing mak's us think, a sma' thing mak's us stare,—There are mair folks than him biggin' castles in the air.Sic a night in winter may weel mak' him cauld;His chin upon his buffy hand will soon mak' him auld;His brow is brent sae braid, oh, pray that Daddy CareWad let the wean alane wi' his castles in the air.He 'll glower at the fire, an' he 'll keek at the light;But mony sparkling stars are swallow'd up by night;Aulder e'en than his are glamour'd by a glare,Hearts are broken—heads are turn'd—wi' castles in the air.
The bonnie, bonnie bairn sits pokin' in the ase,Glowerin' in the fire wi' his wee round face;Laughin' at the fuffin low—what sees he there?Ha! the young dreamer 's biggin' castles in the air!
His wee chubby face, an' his towzy curly pow,Are laughin' an noddin' to the dancin' lowe,He 'll brown his rosy cheeks, and singe his sunny hair,Glowerin' at the imps wi' their castles in the air.
He sees muckle castles towerin' to the moon,He sees little sodgers puin' them a' doun;Warlds whomlin' up an' doun, blazin' wi' a flare,Losh! how he loups, as they glimmer in the air.
For a' sae sage he looks, what can the laddie ken?He 's thinkin' upon naething, like mony mighty men,A wee thing mak's us think, a sma' thing mak's us stare,—There are mair folks than him biggin' castles in the air.
Sic a night in winter may weel mak' him cauld;His chin upon his buffy hand will soon mak' him auld;His brow is brent sae braid, oh, pray that Daddy CareWad let the wean alane wi' his castles in the air.
He 'll glower at the fire, an' he 'll keek at the light;But mony sparkling stars are swallow'd up by night;Aulder e'en than his are glamour'd by a glare,Hearts are broken—heads are turn'd—wi' castles in the air.
Confide ye aye in Providence, for Providence is kind,An' bear ye a' life's changes wi' a calm an' tranquil mind,Though press'd an' hemm'd on every side, hae faith an' ye 'll win through,For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.Gin reft frae friends, or crost in love, as whiles nae doubt ye 've been,Grief lies deep-hidden in your heart, or tears flow frae your e'en,Believe it for the best, and trow there 's good in store for you,For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.In lang, lang days o' simmer when the clear and cludless skyRefuses ae wee drap o' rain to Nature parch'd and dry,The genial night, wi balmy breath, gaurs verdure spring anew,An' ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.Sae lest 'mid fortune's sunshine we should feel ower proud an' hie,An' in our pride forget to wipe the tear frae poortith's e'e,Some wee dark cluds o' sorrow come, we ken na whence or hoo,But ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.
Confide ye aye in Providence, for Providence is kind,An' bear ye a' life's changes wi' a calm an' tranquil mind,Though press'd an' hemm'd on every side, hae faith an' ye 'll win through,For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.
Gin reft frae friends, or crost in love, as whiles nae doubt ye 've been,Grief lies deep-hidden in your heart, or tears flow frae your e'en,Believe it for the best, and trow there 's good in store for you,For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.
In lang, lang days o' simmer when the clear and cludless skyRefuses ae wee drap o' rain to Nature parch'd and dry,The genial night, wi balmy breath, gaurs verdure spring anew,An' ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.
Sae lest 'mid fortune's sunshine we should feel ower proud an' hie,An' in our pride forget to wipe the tear frae poortith's e'e,Some wee dark cluds o' sorrow come, we ken na whence or hoo,But ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.
Wifie, come hame,My couthie wee dame!Oh, but ye 're far awa,Wifie, come hame!Come wi' the young bloom o' morn on thy broo,Come wi' the lown star o' love in thine e'e,Come wi' the red cherries ripe on thy mou',A' glist wi' balm, like the dew on the lea.Come wi' the gowd tassels fringin' thy hair,Come wi' thy rose cheeks a' dimpled wi' glee,Come wi' thy wee step, and wifie-like air,Oh, quickly come, and shed blessings on me!Wifie, come hame,My couthie wee dame!Oh, my heart wearies sair,Wifie, come hame!Come wi' our love pledge, our dear little dawtie,Clasping my neck round, an' clamb'rin' my knee;Come let me nestle and press the wee pettie,Gazing on ilka sweet feature o' thee.Oh, but the house is a cauld hame without ye,Lanely and eerie 's the life that I dree;Oh, come awa', an' I 'll dance round about ye,Ye 'll ne'er again win frae my arms till I dee.
Wifie, come hame,My couthie wee dame!Oh, but ye 're far awa,Wifie, come hame!Come wi' the young bloom o' morn on thy broo,Come wi' the lown star o' love in thine e'e,Come wi' the red cherries ripe on thy mou',A' glist wi' balm, like the dew on the lea.Come wi' the gowd tassels fringin' thy hair,Come wi' thy rose cheeks a' dimpled wi' glee,Come wi' thy wee step, and wifie-like air,Oh, quickly come, and shed blessings on me!
Wifie, come hame,My couthie wee dame!Oh, my heart wearies sair,Wifie, come hame!Come wi' our love pledge, our dear little dawtie,Clasping my neck round, an' clamb'rin' my knee;Come let me nestle and press the wee pettie,Gazing on ilka sweet feature o' thee.Oh, but the house is a cauld hame without ye,Lanely and eerie 's the life that I dree;Oh, come awa', an' I 'll dance round about ye,Ye 'll ne'er again win frae my arms till I dee.
Oh, dinna look ye pridefu' doon on a' aneath your ken,For he wha seems the farthest but aft wins the farthest ben;And whiles the doubie o' the school tak's lead o' a' the rest,The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.The cauld gray misty morn aft brings a sultry sunny day,The trees wha's buds are latest are the langest to decay;The heart sair tried wi' sorrow aye endures the sternest test—The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.The wee, wee stern that glints in heaven, may be a lowin' sun,Though like a speck o' light, scarce seen amid the welkin dun;The humblest sodger on the field may win the warrior's crest—The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.Then dinna be impatient wi' your bairnie when he 's slow,And dinna scorn the humble, though the world deem them low;The hindmost and the feeblest aft become the first and best—The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.
Oh, dinna look ye pridefu' doon on a' aneath your ken,For he wha seems the farthest but aft wins the farthest ben;And whiles the doubie o' the school tak's lead o' a' the rest,The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.
The cauld gray misty morn aft brings a sultry sunny day,The trees wha's buds are latest are the langest to decay;The heart sair tried wi' sorrow aye endures the sternest test—The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.
The wee, wee stern that glints in heaven, may be a lowin' sun,Though like a speck o' light, scarce seen amid the welkin dun;The humblest sodger on the field may win the warrior's crest—The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.
Then dinna be impatient wi' your bairnie when he 's slow,And dinna scorn the humble, though the world deem them low;The hindmost and the feeblest aft become the first and best—The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.
Creep awa', my bairnie, creep afore ye gang;Cock ye baith your lugs to your auld grannie's sang;Gin ye gang as far ye will think the road lang,Creep awa', my bairnie—creep afore ye gang.Creep awa', my bairnie, ye 're ower young to learnTo tot up and down yet, my bonnie wee bairn;Better creepin' cannie, as fa'in' wi' a bang,Duntin' a' your wee brow—creep afore ye gang.Ye 'll creep, an' ye 'll hotch, an' ye 'll nod to your mither,Watchin' ilka stap o' your wee donsy brither;Rest ye on the floor till your wee limbs grow strang,An' ye 'll be a braw cheil' yet—creep afore ye gang.The wee burdie fa's when it tries ower soon to flee;Folks are sure to tumble when they climb ower hie;They wha dinna walk right are sure to come to wrang—Creep awa', my bairnie—creep afore ye gang.
Creep awa', my bairnie, creep afore ye gang;Cock ye baith your lugs to your auld grannie's sang;Gin ye gang as far ye will think the road lang,Creep awa', my bairnie—creep afore ye gang.
Creep awa', my bairnie, ye 're ower young to learnTo tot up and down yet, my bonnie wee bairn;Better creepin' cannie, as fa'in' wi' a bang,Duntin' a' your wee brow—creep afore ye gang.
Ye 'll creep, an' ye 'll hotch, an' ye 'll nod to your mither,Watchin' ilka stap o' your wee donsy brither;Rest ye on the floor till your wee limbs grow strang,An' ye 'll be a braw cheil' yet—creep afore ye gang.
The wee burdie fa's when it tries ower soon to flee;Folks are sure to tumble when they climb ower hie;They wha dinna walk right are sure to come to wrang—Creep awa', my bairnie—creep afore ye gang.
Ye mauna be proud, although ye be great,The puirest bodie is still your brither;The king may come in the cadger's gate—Ae gude turn deserves anither.The hale o' us rise frae the same cauld clay,Ae hour we bloom, ae hour we wither;Let ilk help ither to climb the brae—Ae gude turn deserves anither.The highest among us are unco wee,Frae Heaven we get a' our gifts thegither;Hoard na, man, what ye get sae free!—Ae gude turn deserves anither.Life is a weary journey alane,Blithe 's the road when we wend wi' ither;Mutual gi'ing is mutual gain—Ae gude turn deserves anither.
Ye mauna be proud, although ye be great,The puirest bodie is still your brither;The king may come in the cadger's gate—Ae gude turn deserves anither.
The hale o' us rise frae the same cauld clay,Ae hour we bloom, ae hour we wither;Let ilk help ither to climb the brae—Ae gude turn deserves anither.
The highest among us are unco wee,Frae Heaven we get a' our gifts thegither;Hoard na, man, what ye get sae free!—Ae gude turn deserves anither.
Life is a weary journey alane,Blithe 's the road when we wend wi' ither;Mutual gi'ing is mutual gain—Ae gude turn deserves anither.
There 's nane may ever guess or trow my bonnie lassie's name,There 's nane may ken the humble cot my lassie ca's her hame;Yet though my lassie's nameless, an' her kin o' low degree,Her heart is warm, her thochts are pure, and, oh! she 's dear to me.She 's gentle as she 's bonnie, an' she 's modest as she 's fair,Her virtues, like her beauties a', are varied as they 're rare;While she is light an' merry as the lammie on the lea—For happiness an' innocence thegither aye maun be!Whene'er she shews her blooming face, the flowers may cease to blaw,An' when she opes her hinnied lips, the air is music a';But when wi' ither's sorrows touch'd, the tear starts to her e'e,Oh! that 's the gem in beauty's crown, the priceless pearl to me.Within my soul her form 's enshrined, her heart is a' my ain,An' richer prize or purer bliss nae mortal e'er can gain;The darkest paths o' life I tread wi' steps o' bounding glee,Cheer'd onward by the love that lichts my nameless lassie's e'e.
There 's nane may ever guess or trow my bonnie lassie's name,There 's nane may ken the humble cot my lassie ca's her hame;Yet though my lassie's nameless, an' her kin o' low degree,Her heart is warm, her thochts are pure, and, oh! she 's dear to me.
She 's gentle as she 's bonnie, an' she 's modest as she 's fair,Her virtues, like her beauties a', are varied as they 're rare;While she is light an' merry as the lammie on the lea—For happiness an' innocence thegither aye maun be!
Whene'er she shews her blooming face, the flowers may cease to blaw,An' when she opes her hinnied lips, the air is music a';But when wi' ither's sorrows touch'd, the tear starts to her e'e,Oh! that 's the gem in beauty's crown, the priceless pearl to me.
Within my soul her form 's enshrined, her heart is a' my ain,An' richer prize or purer bliss nae mortal e'er can gain;The darkest paths o' life I tread wi' steps o' bounding glee,Cheer'd onward by the love that lichts my nameless lassie's e'e.
Bonnie Bonaly's wee fairy-led stream,Murmurs and sobs like a child in a dream;Falling where silver light gleams on its breast,Gliding through nooks where the dark shadows rest,Flooding with music its own tiny valley,Dances in gladness the stream o' Bonaly.Proudly Bonaly's gray-brow'd castle towers,Bounded by mountains, and bedded in flowers;Here hangs the blue bell, and there waves the broom;Nurtured by art, rarest garden sweets bloom;Heather and thyme scent the breezes that dally,Playing amang the green knolls o' Bonaly.Pentland's high hills raise their heather-crown'd crest,Peerless Edina expands her white breast,Beauty and grandeur are blent in the scene,Bonnie Bonaly lies smiling between;Nature and Art, like fair twins, wander gaily;Friendship and love dwell in bonnie Bonaly.
Bonnie Bonaly's wee fairy-led stream,Murmurs and sobs like a child in a dream;Falling where silver light gleams on its breast,Gliding through nooks where the dark shadows rest,Flooding with music its own tiny valley,Dances in gladness the stream o' Bonaly.
Proudly Bonaly's gray-brow'd castle towers,Bounded by mountains, and bedded in flowers;Here hangs the blue bell, and there waves the broom;Nurtured by art, rarest garden sweets bloom;Heather and thyme scent the breezes that dally,Playing amang the green knolls o' Bonaly.
Pentland's high hills raise their heather-crown'd crest,Peerless Edina expands her white breast,Beauty and grandeur are blent in the scene,Bonnie Bonaly lies smiling between;Nature and Art, like fair twins, wander gaily;Friendship and love dwell in bonnie Bonaly.
Oh, saft is the blink o' thine e'e, lassie,Saft is the blink o' thine e'e;An' a bonnie wee sun glimmers in its blue orb,As kindly it glints upon me.The ringlets that twine round thy brow, lassie,Are gowden, as gowden may be;Like the wee curly cluds that play round the sun,When he 's just going to drap in the sea.Thou hast a bonnie wee mou', lassie,As sweet as a body may pree;And fondly I 'll pree that wee hinny mou',E'en though thou shouldst frown upon me.Thou hast a lily-white hand, lassie,As fair as a body may see;An' saft is the touch o' that wee genty hand,At e'en when thou partest wi' me.Thy thoughts are sae haly and pure, lassie,Thy heart is sae kind and sae free;My bosom is flooded wi' sunshine an' joy,Wi' ilka blithe blink o' thine e'e.
Oh, saft is the blink o' thine e'e, lassie,Saft is the blink o' thine e'e;An' a bonnie wee sun glimmers in its blue orb,As kindly it glints upon me.
The ringlets that twine round thy brow, lassie,Are gowden, as gowden may be;Like the wee curly cluds that play round the sun,When he 's just going to drap in the sea.
Thou hast a bonnie wee mou', lassie,As sweet as a body may pree;And fondly I 'll pree that wee hinny mou',E'en though thou shouldst frown upon me.
Thou hast a lily-white hand, lassie,As fair as a body may see;An' saft is the touch o' that wee genty hand,At e'en when thou partest wi' me.
Thy thoughts are sae haly and pure, lassie,Thy heart is sae kind and sae free;My bosom is flooded wi' sunshine an' joy,Wi' ilka blithe blink o' thine e'e.
Be eident, be eident, fleet time rushes on,Be eident, be eident, bricht day will be gone;To stand idle by is a profitless sin:The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.The earth gathers fragrance while nursing the flower,The wave waxes stronger while feeding the shower,The stream gains in speed as it sweeps o'er the linn:The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.There 's nought got by idling, there 's nought got for nought,Health, wealth, and contentment, by labour are bought;In raising yoursel', ye may help up your kin:The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.Let every man aim in his heart to excel,Let every man ettle to fend for himsel';Aye nourish ye stern independence within:The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.
Be eident, be eident, fleet time rushes on,Be eident, be eident, bricht day will be gone;To stand idle by is a profitless sin:The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.
The earth gathers fragrance while nursing the flower,The wave waxes stronger while feeding the shower,The stream gains in speed as it sweeps o'er the linn:The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.
There 's nought got by idling, there 's nought got for nought,Health, wealth, and contentment, by labour are bought;In raising yoursel', ye may help up your kin:The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.
Let every man aim in his heart to excel,Let every man ettle to fend for himsel';Aye nourish ye stern independence within:The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.
The widow is feckless, the widow 's alane,Yet nae ane e'er hears the puir widow complain;For, ah! there 's a Friend that the world wots na o',Wha brightens her ken, and wha lightens her wo.She looks a' around her, and what sees she thereBut quarrels and cavils, but sorrow and care?She looks in within, and she feels in her breastA dawning o' glory, a foretaste o' rest.The hope o' hereafter her lane bosom cheers,She langs sair to meet him wha left her in tears;And life's flickerin' licht, as it wanes fast awa',But fades to gie place to a far brichter daw.The God o' high heaven is her comfort and guide,When earthly friends leave her, He stands by her side;He soothes a' her sorrows, an' hushes her fears,An' fountains o' joy rise frae well-springs o' tears.Then, oh! shew the widow the smile on your face,She 's aft puir in gear, but she 's aft rich in grace;Be kind to the widow, her Friend is on high,You 'll meet wi' the widow again in the sky.
The widow is feckless, the widow 's alane,Yet nae ane e'er hears the puir widow complain;For, ah! there 's a Friend that the world wots na o',Wha brightens her ken, and wha lightens her wo.
She looks a' around her, and what sees she thereBut quarrels and cavils, but sorrow and care?She looks in within, and she feels in her breastA dawning o' glory, a foretaste o' rest.
The hope o' hereafter her lane bosom cheers,She langs sair to meet him wha left her in tears;And life's flickerin' licht, as it wanes fast awa',But fades to gie place to a far brichter daw.
The God o' high heaven is her comfort and guide,When earthly friends leave her, He stands by her side;He soothes a' her sorrows, an' hushes her fears,An' fountains o' joy rise frae well-springs o' tears.
Then, oh! shew the widow the smile on your face,She 's aft puir in gear, but she 's aft rich in grace;Be kind to the widow, her Friend is on high,You 'll meet wi' the widow again in the sky.
The accomplished author of some poetical works, Mrs Eliza A. H. Ogilvy, is the daughter of Abercromby Dick, Esq., who for many years held an appointment in the civil service of the Honourable East India Company. Her childhood was passed in Scotland, under the care of her paternal uncle, Sir Robert Dick of Tullymett, who, at the head of his division, fell at the battle of Sobraon. After a period of residence in India, to which she had gone in early youth, she returned to Britain. In 1843, she was united in marriage to David Ogilvy, Esq., a cadet of the old Scottish family of Inverquharity. Several years of her married life have been spent in Italy; at present she resides with her husband and children at Sydenham, Kent. "A Book of Scottish Minstrelsy," being a series of ballads founded on legendary tales of the Scottish Highlands, appeared from her pen in 1846, and was well received by the press. She has since published "Traditions of Tuscany," and "Poems of Ten Years."
Blue are the hills above the Spey,The rocks are red that line his way;Green is the strath his waters lave,And fresh the turf upon the graveWhere sleep my sire and sisters three,Where none are left to mourn for me:Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!The roofs that shelter'd me and mineHold strangers of a Sassenach line;Our hamlet thresholds ne'er can shewThe friendly forms of long ago;The rooks upon the old yew-treeWould e'en have stranger notes to me:Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!The cattle feeding on the hills,We tended once o'er moors and rills,Like us have gone; the silly sheepNow fleck the brown sides of the steep,And southern eyes their watchers be,And Gael and Sassenach ne'er agree:Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!Where are the elders of our glen,Wise arbiters for meaner men?Where are the sportsmen, keen of eye,Who track'd the roe against the sky;The quick of hand, of spirit free?Pass'd, like a harper's melody:Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!Where are the maidens of our vale,Those fair, frank daughters of the Gael?Changed are they all, and changed the wife,Who dared, for love, the Indian's life;The little child she bore to meSunk in the vast Atlantic sea:Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!Bare are the moors of broad Strathspey,Shaggy the western forests gray;Wild is the corri's autumn roar,Wilder the floods of this far shore;Dark are the crags of rushing Dee,Darker the shades of Tennessee:Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!Great rock, by which the Grant hath sworn,Since first amid the mountains born;Great rock, whose sterile granite heartKnows not, like us, misfortune's smart,The river sporting at thy knee,On thy stern brow no change can see:Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!Stand fast on thine own Scottish ground,By Scottish mountains flank'd around,Though we uprooted, cast awayFrom the warm bosom of Strathspey,Flung pining by this western sea,The exile's hopeless lot must dree:Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!Yet strong as thou the Grant shall rise,Cleft from his clansmen's sympathies;In these grim wastes new homes we 'll rear,New scenes shall wear old names so dear;And while our axes fell the tree,Resound old Scotia's minstrelsy:Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!Here can no treacherous chief betrayFor sordid gain our new Strathspey;No fearful king, no statesmen pale,Wrench the strong claymore from the Gael.With arm'd wrist and kilted knee,No prairie Indian half so free:Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!
Blue are the hills above the Spey,The rocks are red that line his way;Green is the strath his waters lave,And fresh the turf upon the graveWhere sleep my sire and sisters three,Where none are left to mourn for me:Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!
The roofs that shelter'd me and mineHold strangers of a Sassenach line;Our hamlet thresholds ne'er can shewThe friendly forms of long ago;The rooks upon the old yew-treeWould e'en have stranger notes to me:Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!
The cattle feeding on the hills,We tended once o'er moors and rills,Like us have gone; the silly sheepNow fleck the brown sides of the steep,And southern eyes their watchers be,And Gael and Sassenach ne'er agree:Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!
Where are the elders of our glen,Wise arbiters for meaner men?Where are the sportsmen, keen of eye,Who track'd the roe against the sky;The quick of hand, of spirit free?Pass'd, like a harper's melody:Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!
Where are the maidens of our vale,Those fair, frank daughters of the Gael?Changed are they all, and changed the wife,Who dared, for love, the Indian's life;The little child she bore to meSunk in the vast Atlantic sea:Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!
Bare are the moors of broad Strathspey,Shaggy the western forests gray;Wild is the corri's autumn roar,Wilder the floods of this far shore;Dark are the crags of rushing Dee,Darker the shades of Tennessee:Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!
Great rock, by which the Grant hath sworn,Since first amid the mountains born;Great rock, whose sterile granite heartKnows not, like us, misfortune's smart,The river sporting at thy knee,On thy stern brow no change can see:Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!
Stand fast on thine own Scottish ground,By Scottish mountains flank'd around,Though we uprooted, cast awayFrom the warm bosom of Strathspey,Flung pining by this western sea,The exile's hopeless lot must dree:Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!
Yet strong as thou the Grant shall rise,Cleft from his clansmen's sympathies;In these grim wastes new homes we 'll rear,New scenes shall wear old names so dear;And while our axes fell the tree,Resound old Scotia's minstrelsy:Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!
Here can no treacherous chief betrayFor sordid gain our new Strathspey;No fearful king, no statesmen pale,Wrench the strong claymore from the Gael.With arm'd wrist and kilted knee,No prairie Indian half so free:Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!
John Finlay was born at Glasgow in 1808, and is one of the partners in the respectable firm of R. G. Finlay & Co., manufacturers in that city. Amidst due attention to the active prosecution of business, he has long been keenly devoted to the principal national games—curling, angling, bowling, quoiting, and archery—in all of which he has frequently carried off prizes at the various competitions throughout the country. To impart humorous sociality to the friendly meetings of the different societies of which he is a member, Mr Finlay was led to become a song-writer. There is scarcely a characteristic of any of his favourite games which he has not celebrated in racy verse. Some of his songs have obtained celebrity in certain counties where the national sports are peculiarly cultivated.
Air—"Castles in the Air."
The King is on the throne wi' his sceptre an' his croon,The elements o' cauld are the courtiers staunin' roun';He lifts his icy haun', an' he speaks wi' awe profound,He chills the balmy air, and he binds the yielding ground;He calms the raging winds when they moan and loudly rave,He stops the rinnin' stream, and he stills the dancin' wave;He calls the curlers on to the field of hope and fame,An' the spreading lake resounds wi' the noble Scottish game!The hedges an' the trees are a' hung wi' pearls braw,An' the rinks are glancing clear 'mang the heaps o' shinin' snaw;The wee birds in the blast are a' tremblin' wi' the cauld;The sheep are lyin' close in the safely guarded fauld;The farmer leaves the plough, an' the weaver leaves the loom,Auld age gangs totterin' by wi' the youth in manhood's bloom;The miseries o' life are a' banish'd far frae hame,When the curlers meet to play at the brave old Scottish game!It makes the auld folk young, an' the crimson tide to flow,It gars the pale face shine wi' a fresh and ruddy glow;The rich forget their state and the charms o' wealth and power,When the bosom swells wi' joy in the bright triumphant hour.The wise may laugh an' sneer, and the unco guid may gloomAt the happy, happy man, wi' his curlin' stanes and broom;The melody to charm is the sport we love to name,Ah! there 's music in the stanes, at the rare old Scottish game!The warm and glowin' clime will subdue the manly form;The curler's happy hame is the land o' mist an' storm,Where the dreary winter reigns wi' a wide extended sway,An' the heathy moors are clad in a robe o' white array,Till the gentle breath o' spring blaws the icy fields awa',To woo the springin' flowers, and to melt the frozen snaw.When the curlin' days are o'er, a' the joys o' life are tame—There 's naething warms the heart like the noble Scottish game!
The King is on the throne wi' his sceptre an' his croon,The elements o' cauld are the courtiers staunin' roun';He lifts his icy haun', an' he speaks wi' awe profound,He chills the balmy air, and he binds the yielding ground;He calms the raging winds when they moan and loudly rave,He stops the rinnin' stream, and he stills the dancin' wave;He calls the curlers on to the field of hope and fame,An' the spreading lake resounds wi' the noble Scottish game!
The hedges an' the trees are a' hung wi' pearls braw,An' the rinks are glancing clear 'mang the heaps o' shinin' snaw;The wee birds in the blast are a' tremblin' wi' the cauld;The sheep are lyin' close in the safely guarded fauld;The farmer leaves the plough, an' the weaver leaves the loom,Auld age gangs totterin' by wi' the youth in manhood's bloom;The miseries o' life are a' banish'd far frae hame,When the curlers meet to play at the brave old Scottish game!
It makes the auld folk young, an' the crimson tide to flow,It gars the pale face shine wi' a fresh and ruddy glow;The rich forget their state and the charms o' wealth and power,When the bosom swells wi' joy in the bright triumphant hour.The wise may laugh an' sneer, and the unco guid may gloomAt the happy, happy man, wi' his curlin' stanes and broom;The melody to charm is the sport we love to name,Ah! there 's music in the stanes, at the rare old Scottish game!
The warm and glowin' clime will subdue the manly form;The curler's happy hame is the land o' mist an' storm,Where the dreary winter reigns wi' a wide extended sway,An' the heathy moors are clad in a robe o' white array,Till the gentle breath o' spring blaws the icy fields awa',To woo the springin' flowers, and to melt the frozen snaw.When the curlin' days are o'er, a' the joys o' life are tame—There 's naething warms the heart like the noble Scottish game!
Air—"Castles in the Air."
The gloomy days are goneWith the blasts o' winter keen;The flowers are blooming fair,And the trees are budding green;The lark is in the sky,With his music ringing loud,Raining notes of joyFrom the sunny Summer cloud—Springing at the dawnWith the blushing light of day,And quivering with delightIn the morning's golden ray;But there 's rapture dearer farIn the warm and social powerOf the merry bowling-green,In the happy evening hour!The lights and shades of life,Like an April day, are seen,'Mid the melting sunny showers,On the lively bowling-green.The Spring and Autumn meetWhen the old and young are there,And mirth and wisdom chaseFrom the heart the thoughts of care.When the creaking wheels of lifeAre revolving weak and slow,And the dashing tide of hopeMay be ebbing dark and low,The sons of wealth and toilFeel the sweet and soothing powerOf the merry bowling-green,In the charming leisure hour!The streams of life run onTill they fall into the sea;And the flowers are left behind,With their fragrance on the lea.The circling flight of timeWill soon make the young folk old;And pleasure dances onTill the springs of life grow cold.We 'll taste the joys of lifeAs the hours are gliding fast,And learn to live and loveFrom the follies of the past;And remember with delight,When misfortunes intervene,The happy days we 've spentOn the merry bowling-green.
The gloomy days are goneWith the blasts o' winter keen;The flowers are blooming fair,And the trees are budding green;The lark is in the sky,With his music ringing loud,Raining notes of joyFrom the sunny Summer cloud—Springing at the dawnWith the blushing light of day,And quivering with delightIn the morning's golden ray;But there 's rapture dearer farIn the warm and social powerOf the merry bowling-green,In the happy evening hour!
The lights and shades of life,Like an April day, are seen,'Mid the melting sunny showers,On the lively bowling-green.The Spring and Autumn meetWhen the old and young are there,And mirth and wisdom chaseFrom the heart the thoughts of care.When the creaking wheels of lifeAre revolving weak and slow,And the dashing tide of hopeMay be ebbing dark and low,The sons of wealth and toilFeel the sweet and soothing powerOf the merry bowling-green,In the charming leisure hour!
The streams of life run onTill they fall into the sea;And the flowers are left behind,With their fragrance on the lea.The circling flight of timeWill soon make the young folk old;And pleasure dances onTill the springs of life grow cold.We 'll taste the joys of lifeAs the hours are gliding fast,And learn to live and loveFrom the follies of the past;And remember with delight,When misfortunes intervene,The happy days we 've spentOn the merry bowling-green.
Thomas Tod Stoddart, well-known through his ingenious works on angling, was born on the 14th February 1810 in Argyle Square, Edinburgh. In the chamber of his birth Dr Robertson is said to have written the "History of Scotland." His father, a rear-admiral in the navy, shared in several distinguished services: he was present at Lord Howe's victory at the landing in Egypt; at the battles of the Nile and Copenhagen, and in many desperate encounters between Russia and Sweden. Young Stoddart was educated at a Moravian establishment at Fairfield, near Manchester, and subsequently passed through a course of philosophy and law in the University of Edinburgh. Early devoted to verse-making, he composed a tragedy in his ninth year; and at the age of sixteen was the successful competitor in Professor Wilson's class, for a poem on "Idolatry." He was an early contributor to theEdinburgh Literary Journal.
Mr Stoddart studied for the Bar, and passed advocate in 1833. Finding the legal profession uncongenial, he soon relinquished it; and entering upon the married state in 1836, he has since resided at Kelso. For many years he has divided his time between the pursuits of literature, and the recreation of angling. In 1831, he published "The Deathwake, or Lunacy, a Poem;" in 1834, "The Art of Angling;" in 1836, "Angling Reminiscences;" in 1839, "Songs and Poems;" and in 1844, "Abel Massinger; or the Aëronaut, a Romance." Thesecond of these publications has been remodelled, and under the title of "The Angler's Companion," has exhausted several impressions, and continues in general favour. The volume of "Songs" having been sold out, a new edition, along with a tragedy, entitled "The Crown Jewel," and "The Aëronaut," both still in MS., may be expected. Living at Kelso, Mr Stoddart has every opportunity of prosecuting his favourite pastime in the Tweed, and enjoying scenery calculated to foster the poetic temperament.
Bring the rod, the line, the reel!Bring, oh, bring the osier creel!Bring me flies of fifty kinds,Bring me showers, and clouds, and winds,All things right and tight,All things well and proper,Trailer red and bright,Dark and wily dropper;Casts of midges bring,Made of plover hackle,With a gaudy wing,And a cobweb tackle.Lead me where the river flows,Shew me where the alder grows,Reel and rushes, moss and mead,To them lead me—quickly lead,Where the roving troutWatches round an eddy,With his eager snoutPointed up and ready,Till a careless fly,On the surface wheeling,Tempts him, rising slyFrom his safe concealing.There, as with a pleasant friend,I the happy hours will spend,Urging on the subtle hook,O'er the dark and chancy nook,With a hand expertEvery motion swaying,And on the alertWhen the trout are playing;Bring me rod and reel,Flies of every feather,Bring the osier creel,Send me glorious weather!
Bring the rod, the line, the reel!Bring, oh, bring the osier creel!Bring me flies of fifty kinds,Bring me showers, and clouds, and winds,All things right and tight,All things well and proper,Trailer red and bright,Dark and wily dropper;Casts of midges bring,Made of plover hackle,With a gaudy wing,And a cobweb tackle.
Lead me where the river flows,Shew me where the alder grows,Reel and rushes, moss and mead,To them lead me—quickly lead,Where the roving troutWatches round an eddy,With his eager snoutPointed up and ready,Till a careless fly,On the surface wheeling,Tempts him, rising slyFrom his safe concealing.
There, as with a pleasant friend,I the happy hours will spend,Urging on the subtle hook,O'er the dark and chancy nook,With a hand expertEvery motion swaying,And on the alertWhen the trout are playing;Bring me rod and reel,Flies of every feather,Bring the osier creel,Send me glorious weather!
Let ither anglers choose their ain,An' ither waters tak' the lead;O' Hieland streams we covet nane,But gie to us the bonnie Tweed!An' gie to us the cheerfu' burnThat steals into its valley fair—The streamlets that at ilka turn,Sae saftly meet an' mingle there.The lanesome Tala and the Lyne,An' Manor wi' its mountain rills,An' Etterick, whose waters twineWi' Yarrow, frae the forest hills;An' Gala, too, an' Teviot bright,An' mony a stream o' playfu' speed;Their kindred valleys a' uniteAmang the braes o' bonnie Tweed.There 's no a hole abune the Crook,Nor stane nor gentle swirl aneath,Nor drumlie rill, nor fairy brook,That daunders through the flowrie heath,But ye may fin' a subtle troot,A' gleamin' ower wi' starn an' bead,An' mony a sawmon sooms aboot,Below the bields o' bonnie Tweed.Frae Holylee to Clovenford,A chancier bit ye canna hae,So gin ye tak' an' angler's word,Ye 'd through the whins an' ower the brae,An' work awa' wi' cunnin' handYer birzy hackles black and reid;The saft sough o' a slender wandIs meetest music for the Tweed!
Let ither anglers choose their ain,An' ither waters tak' the lead;O' Hieland streams we covet nane,But gie to us the bonnie Tweed!An' gie to us the cheerfu' burnThat steals into its valley fair—The streamlets that at ilka turn,Sae saftly meet an' mingle there.
The lanesome Tala and the Lyne,An' Manor wi' its mountain rills,An' Etterick, whose waters twineWi' Yarrow, frae the forest hills;An' Gala, too, an' Teviot bright,An' mony a stream o' playfu' speed;Their kindred valleys a' uniteAmang the braes o' bonnie Tweed.
There 's no a hole abune the Crook,Nor stane nor gentle swirl aneath,Nor drumlie rill, nor fairy brook,That daunders through the flowrie heath,But ye may fin' a subtle troot,A' gleamin' ower wi' starn an' bead,An' mony a sawmon sooms aboot,Below the bields o' bonnie Tweed.
Frae Holylee to Clovenford,A chancier bit ye canna hae,So gin ye tak' an' angler's word,Ye 'd through the whins an' ower the brae,An' work awa' wi' cunnin' handYer birzy hackles black and reid;The saft sough o' a slender wandIs meetest music for the Tweed!