He left his native land, and, far awayAcross the waters sought a world unknown,Though well he knew that he in vain might strayIn search of one so lovely as his own.He left his home, around whose humble hearthHis parents, kindred, all he valued, smil'd—Friends who had known and loved him from his birth,And who still loved him as a fav'rite child.He left the scenes by youthful hopes endear'd,The woods, the streams, that sooth'd his infant ear;The plants, the trees that he himself had rear'd,And every charm to love and fancy dear.All these he left, with sad but willing heart,Though unallur'd by honours, wealth, or fame;In them not even his wishes claim'd a part,And the world knew not of his very name.Canst thou not guess what taught his steps to stray?'Twas love, but not such love as worldlings own,That often smiles its sweetest to betray,And stabs the breast that offered it a throne!'Twas love to God, and love to all mankind!His Master bade the obedient servant go,And try if he in distant realms could findSome who His name and saving grace would know.'Twas this that nerved him when he saw the tearsHis aged mother at their parting shed;'Twas this that taught her how to calm her fears,And beg a heavenly blessing on his head.'Twas this that made his father calmly bearA godly sorrow, deep, but undismay'd,And bade him humbly ask of God in prayer,His virtuous son to counsel, guide, and aid.And when he rose to bless, and wish him well,And bent a head with age and sorrow gray—E'en when he breath'd a fond and last farewell,Half sad, half joyful, dashed his tears away."And go," he said, "though I with mortal eyesShall ne'er behold thy filial reverence more;But when from earth to heaven our spirits rise,The Hand that gave him shall my child restore."I bid thee go, though human tears will stealFrom eyes that see the course thou hast to run;And God forgive me if I wrongly feel,Like Abraham call'd to sacrifice his son!"And he is gone, with ardent steps he prestAcross the hills to where the vessel lay,And soon I ween upon the ocean's breastThey saw the white sails bearing him away.And did he go unfriended, poor, alone?Did none of those who, in a favour'd landThe shelter of the gospel tree had known,Desire to see its peaceful shade expand?'Tis not for me to answer questions here—Let ev'ry heart its own responses give,And those to whom their fellow-men are dear,Bestow the bread by which their souls may live!
He left his native land, and, far awayAcross the waters sought a world unknown,Though well he knew that he in vain might strayIn search of one so lovely as his own.
He left his home, around whose humble hearthHis parents, kindred, all he valued, smil'd—Friends who had known and loved him from his birth,And who still loved him as a fav'rite child.
He left the scenes by youthful hopes endear'd,The woods, the streams, that sooth'd his infant ear;The plants, the trees that he himself had rear'd,And every charm to love and fancy dear.
All these he left, with sad but willing heart,Though unallur'd by honours, wealth, or fame;In them not even his wishes claim'd a part,And the world knew not of his very name.
Canst thou not guess what taught his steps to stray?'Twas love, but not such love as worldlings own,That often smiles its sweetest to betray,And stabs the breast that offered it a throne!
'Twas love to God, and love to all mankind!His Master bade the obedient servant go,And try if he in distant realms could findSome who His name and saving grace would know.
'Twas this that nerved him when he saw the tearsHis aged mother at their parting shed;'Twas this that taught her how to calm her fears,And beg a heavenly blessing on his head.
'Twas this that made his father calmly bearA godly sorrow, deep, but undismay'd,And bade him humbly ask of God in prayer,His virtuous son to counsel, guide, and aid.
And when he rose to bless, and wish him well,And bent a head with age and sorrow gray—E'en when he breath'd a fond and last farewell,Half sad, half joyful, dashed his tears away.
"And go," he said, "though I with mortal eyesShall ne'er behold thy filial reverence more;But when from earth to heaven our spirits rise,The Hand that gave him shall my child restore.
"I bid thee go, though human tears will stealFrom eyes that see the course thou hast to run;And God forgive me if I wrongly feel,Like Abraham call'd to sacrifice his son!"
And he is gone, with ardent steps he prestAcross the hills to where the vessel lay,And soon I ween upon the ocean's breastThey saw the white sails bearing him away.
And did he go unfriended, poor, alone?Did none of those who, in a favour'd landThe shelter of the gospel tree had known,Desire to see its peaceful shade expand?
'Tis not for me to answer questions here—Let ev'ry heart its own responses give,And those to whom their fellow-men are dear,Bestow the bread by which their souls may live!
The author of "Woodnotes of a Wanderer," John Ramsay, was born at Kilmarnock in 1802. With a limited school education, he was early apprenticed in a carpet manufactory in his native place. He afterwards traded for some years as a retail grocer. During his connexion with the carpet factory, he composed some spirited verses, which were inserted in theEdinburgh Literary Journal; and having subsequently suffered misfortune in business, he resolved to repair his losses by publishing a collected edition of his poetical writings, and personally pushing the sale. For the long period of fifteen years, he travelled over the country, vending his volume of "Woodnotes." This creditable enterprise has been rewarded by his appointment to the agency of a benevolent society in Edinburgh.
Thou dark stream slow wending thy deep rocky way,By foliage oft hid from the bright eye of day,I 've view'd thee with pleasure, but now must with pain,Farewell! for I never may see you again.Ye woods, whence fond fancy a spirit would bring,That trimm'd the bright pinions of thought's hallow'd wing,Your beauties will gladden some happier swain;Farewell! for I never may see you again.I 've roam'd you, unknown to care's life-sapping sigh,When prospects seem'd fair and my young hopes were high;These prospects were false, and those hopes have proved vain;Farewell! for I never may see you again.Soon distance shall bid my reft heart undergoThose pangs that alone the poor exile can know—Away! like a craven why should I complain?Farewell! for I never may see you again.
Thou dark stream slow wending thy deep rocky way,By foliage oft hid from the bright eye of day,I 've view'd thee with pleasure, but now must with pain,Farewell! for I never may see you again.
Ye woods, whence fond fancy a spirit would bring,That trimm'd the bright pinions of thought's hallow'd wing,Your beauties will gladden some happier swain;Farewell! for I never may see you again.
I 've roam'd you, unknown to care's life-sapping sigh,When prospects seem'd fair and my young hopes were high;These prospects were false, and those hopes have proved vain;Farewell! for I never may see you again.
Soon distance shall bid my reft heart undergoThose pangs that alone the poor exile can know—Away! like a craven why should I complain?Farewell! for I never may see you again.
James Parker, author of a duodecimo volume of poetry, entitled "Poems of Past Years," was born in Glasgow, and originally followed the trade of a master baker. He now holds a respectable appointment in the navy. He has contributed verses to the periodicals.
Oh merrily and gallantlyWe sweep across the seas,Like the wild ocean birds which plyTheir pinions on the breeze;We quail not at the tempest's voiceWhen the billow dashes o'er us,Firm as a rock, we bear the shock,And join its dreadful chorus.Across the foaming surge we glideWith bosoms true and brave,It is our home—our throne of pride—It soon may be our grave;Yet fearlessly we rush to meetThe foe that comes before us;The fight begun, we man the gun,And join its thundering chorus.Our lives may be as fierce and freeAs the waves o'er which we roam,But let not landsmen think that weForget our native home;And when the winds shall waft us backTo the shores from which they bore us,Amid the throng of mirth and song,We'll join the jovial chorus.
Oh merrily and gallantlyWe sweep across the seas,Like the wild ocean birds which plyTheir pinions on the breeze;We quail not at the tempest's voiceWhen the billow dashes o'er us,Firm as a rock, we bear the shock,And join its dreadful chorus.
Across the foaming surge we glideWith bosoms true and brave,It is our home—our throne of pride—It soon may be our grave;Yet fearlessly we rush to meetThe foe that comes before us;The fight begun, we man the gun,And join its thundering chorus.
Our lives may be as fierce and freeAs the waves o'er which we roam,But let not landsmen think that weForget our native home;And when the winds shall waft us backTo the shores from which they bore us,Amid the throng of mirth and song,We'll join the jovial chorus.
Her lip is o' the rose's hue,Like links o' goud her hair,Her e'e is o' the azure blue,An' love beams ever there;Her step is like the mountain goat'sThat climbs the stately Ben,Her voice sweet as the mavis' notesThat haunt her native glen.There is a sweet wee hazel bowerWhere woodbine blossoms twine,There Jeanie, ae auspicious hour,Consented to be mine;An' there we meet whene'er we haeAn idle hour to spen',An' Jeanie ne'er has rued the dayShe met me in the glen.Oh bricht, bricht are the evenin' beams,An' sweet the pearly dew,An' lovely is the star that gleamsIn gloamin's dusky brow;But brichter, sweeter, lovelier far,Aboon a' human ken,Is my sweet pearl—my lovely star—My Jeanie o' the glen.
Her lip is o' the rose's hue,Like links o' goud her hair,Her e'e is o' the azure blue,An' love beams ever there;Her step is like the mountain goat'sThat climbs the stately Ben,Her voice sweet as the mavis' notesThat haunt her native glen.
There is a sweet wee hazel bowerWhere woodbine blossoms twine,There Jeanie, ae auspicious hour,Consented to be mine;An' there we meet whene'er we haeAn idle hour to spen',An' Jeanie ne'er has rued the dayShe met me in the glen.
Oh bricht, bricht are the evenin' beams,An' sweet the pearly dew,An' lovely is the star that gleamsIn gloamin's dusky brow;But brichter, sweeter, lovelier far,Aboon a' human ken,Is my sweet pearl—my lovely star—My Jeanie o' the glen.
The following compositions are, with permission, transcribed from a small volume of juvenile poems, with the title "Miscellanies, by N. R.," which was printed many years ago, for private circulation only, by Mr John Hunter, now auditor of the Court of Session.
On fair Clydeside thair wonnit ane dame,Ane dame of wondrous courtesie,An' bonny was the kindly flameThat stremit frae her saft blue e'e.Her saft blue e'e, 'mid the hinney dew,That meltit to its tender licht,Was bonnier far than the purest starreThat sails thro' the dark blue hevin at nicht.If ony culd luke and safely seeHer dimplit cheek, and her bonny red mou,Nor seek to sip the dew frae her lip,A lifeless lump was he, I trow.But it wuld haif saften'd the dullest wicht,If ae moment that wicht might seeHer bonny breast o' the purest snaw,That heavit wi' luve sae tenderlie.An' dear, dear was this bonny dame,Dear, dear was she to me,An' my heart was tane, an' my sense was gane,At ae blink o' her bonny blue e'e.An' sair an' saft I pleadit my luve,Tho' still she hardly wuld seem to hear,An' wuld cauldly blame the words o' flameThat I breathit so warmly in her ear.Yet aye as she turn'd her frae my look,Thair was kindness beamit in her e'e,An' aye as she drew back her lily han',I faund that it tremblit tenderlie.But the time sune cam, the waesome time,When I maun awa frae my dear,An' oh! that thocht, how aften it brochtThe deep-heavit sigh an' the cauld bitter tear!Then socht I my luve, her cauld heart to muve,Wi' my tears, an' my sighs, an' my prayers,An' I gaed by her side doun the banks o' the Clyde,An' the hours stal awa unawares.'Twas a still summer nicht, at the fa'ing o' licht,At the gloamin's saft an' schadowie hour,An' we wander'd alane till the daylicht was gane,An' we cam' to a sweet simmer bour.The mune was up i' the clear blue skye,The mune an' her single wee starre,The winds gaed gently whisperin' bye,Thair was stillness near an' farre.Alane we sat i' the green summer bour,I tauld her a' that was kind and dear,An' she did na blame the words o' flameThat I breathit sae warmly in her ear.She listenit to the luve-sang warm,Her breast it throbbit and heavit high;She culd hear nae mair, but her gentill armShe lean't upon mine, wi' a tender sigh.Then warmly I prest wi' my burning lips,Ae kiss on her bonny red mow,An' aften I prest her form to my breast,An' fondly an' warmly I vowit to be true.An' oh! that hour, that hallowit hour,My fond heart will never forget;Though drear is the dule I haif suffer'd sin syne,That hour gars my heart beat warmly yet.The parting time cam, an' the parting time past,An' it past nae without the saut tear,An' awa' to anither an' farre awa' landI gaed, an' I left my ain dear.I gaed, an' though ither and brichter maidsWuld smile wi' fond luve i' their e'e,I but thocht o' the sweet green hour by the Clyde,An' that thocht was enough for me.
On fair Clydeside thair wonnit ane dame,Ane dame of wondrous courtesie,An' bonny was the kindly flameThat stremit frae her saft blue e'e.
Her saft blue e'e, 'mid the hinney dew,That meltit to its tender licht,Was bonnier far than the purest starreThat sails thro' the dark blue hevin at nicht.
If ony culd luke and safely seeHer dimplit cheek, and her bonny red mou,Nor seek to sip the dew frae her lip,A lifeless lump was he, I trow.
But it wuld haif saften'd the dullest wicht,If ae moment that wicht might seeHer bonny breast o' the purest snaw,That heavit wi' luve sae tenderlie.
An' dear, dear was this bonny dame,Dear, dear was she to me,An' my heart was tane, an' my sense was gane,At ae blink o' her bonny blue e'e.
An' sair an' saft I pleadit my luve,Tho' still she hardly wuld seem to hear,An' wuld cauldly blame the words o' flameThat I breathit so warmly in her ear.
Yet aye as she turn'd her frae my look,Thair was kindness beamit in her e'e,An' aye as she drew back her lily han',I faund that it tremblit tenderlie.
But the time sune cam, the waesome time,When I maun awa frae my dear,An' oh! that thocht, how aften it brochtThe deep-heavit sigh an' the cauld bitter tear!
Then socht I my luve, her cauld heart to muve,Wi' my tears, an' my sighs, an' my prayers,An' I gaed by her side doun the banks o' the Clyde,An' the hours stal awa unawares.
'Twas a still summer nicht, at the fa'ing o' licht,At the gloamin's saft an' schadowie hour,An' we wander'd alane till the daylicht was gane,An' we cam' to a sweet simmer bour.
The mune was up i' the clear blue skye,The mune an' her single wee starre,The winds gaed gently whisperin' bye,Thair was stillness near an' farre.
Alane we sat i' the green summer bour,I tauld her a' that was kind and dear,An' she did na blame the words o' flameThat I breathit sae warmly in her ear.
She listenit to the luve-sang warm,Her breast it throbbit and heavit high;She culd hear nae mair, but her gentill armShe lean't upon mine, wi' a tender sigh.
Then warmly I prest wi' my burning lips,Ae kiss on her bonny red mow,An' aften I prest her form to my breast,An' fondly an' warmly I vowit to be true.
An' oh! that hour, that hallowit hour,My fond heart will never forget;Though drear is the dule I haif suffer'd sin syne,That hour gars my heart beat warmly yet.
The parting time cam, an' the parting time past,An' it past nae without the saut tear,An' awa' to anither an' farre awa' landI gaed, an' I left my ain dear.
I gaed, an' though ither and brichter maidsWuld smile wi' fond luve i' their e'e,I but thocht o' the sweet green hour by the Clyde,An' that thocht was enough for me.
Oh! Mary, while thy gentle cheekIs on my breast reclining,And while these arms around thy formAre fondly thus entwining;It seems as if no earthly powerOur beating hearts could sever,And that in ecstasy of blissWe thus could hang for ever!Yet ah! too well, too well we know,The fiat fate hath spoken—The spell that bound our souls in one,The world's cold breath hath broken.The hours—the days—whose heavenly lightHath beam'd in beauty o'er us,When Love his sunshine shed around,And strew'd his flowers before us,Must now be but as golden dreams,Whose loveliness hath perish'd;Wild dreams of hope, in human heartsToo heavenly to be cherish'd.Yet, oh! where'er our lot is cast,The love that once hath bound us—The thought that looks to days long past,Will breathe a halo round us.
Oh! Mary, while thy gentle cheekIs on my breast reclining,And while these arms around thy formAre fondly thus entwining;It seems as if no earthly powerOur beating hearts could sever,And that in ecstasy of blissWe thus could hang for ever!
Yet ah! too well, too well we know,The fiat fate hath spoken—The spell that bound our souls in one,The world's cold breath hath broken.The hours—the days—whose heavenly lightHath beam'd in beauty o'er us,When Love his sunshine shed around,And strew'd his flowers before us,
Must now be but as golden dreams,Whose loveliness hath perish'd;Wild dreams of hope, in human heartsToo heavenly to be cherish'd.Yet, oh! where'er our lot is cast,The love that once hath bound us—The thought that looks to days long past,Will breathe a halo round us.
In distant years! when other armsAround thy form are prest,Oh! heave one fond regretful sighFor him thy love once blest!Oh! drop one tear from that dark eye,That was his guiding light,And cast the same deep tender glance,That thrills his soul to-night.And oh! believe, though dark his fate,And devious his career,The music of that gentle voiceWill tremble in his ear;And breathing o'er his troubled soul,Storm-tost and tempest riven,Will still fierce passion's wild control,And win him back to Heaven.
In distant years! when other armsAround thy form are prest,Oh! heave one fond regretful sighFor him thy love once blest!Oh! drop one tear from that dark eye,That was his guiding light,And cast the same deep tender glance,That thrills his soul to-night.
And oh! believe, though dark his fate,And devious his career,The music of that gentle voiceWill tremble in his ear;And breathing o'er his troubled soul,Storm-tost and tempest riven,Will still fierce passion's wild control,And win him back to Heaven.
Robert Chambers, well known for his connexion with the publishing house of W. & R. Chambers, Edinburgh, and as the author of several meritorious works of a national character, was born in 1802 at Peebles, where his parents occupied a respectable position. Robert was the second of a family of six children, his elder brother William being about two years his senior. In consequence of misfortunes in business, James Chambers, the father of these youths, found it desirable to remove to Edinburgh with his family in 1813. While still in childhood Robert manifested a remarkable aptitude for learning, as well as a taste for music and poetry—a taste inherited from his father, who was a good performer on several instruments, and possessed a taste for both literature and science. Before completing his twelfth year, he had passed through a complete classical course at the grammar school of his native burgh, had perused no small portion of the books within his reach including those of a circulating library, and mastered much of the general information contained in a copy of the "Encyclopædia Britannica," of which his father possessed a copy of the then latest edition. Left very much to their own resources, William became an apprentice to a bookseller in 1814; and Robert, at the age of sixteen, threw himself on the world, as a dealer in old books, a step in accordance with his natural tastes, and which proved fortunate. How the two lads struggled on obscurely, but always improving their circumstances; how they were cheered onward by the counsels of theirwidowed mother; how they finally went into partnership for the purpose of prosecuting literary undertakings—need not here be detailed. Robert, in 1822-3, began to write the "Traditions of Edinburgh," which first brought him prominently into notice. This amusing work was followed by the "Popular Rhymes of Scotland." Next came his "Picture of Scotland," an interesting topographical work in two volumes; "Histories of the Scottish Rebellions;" three volumes of "Scottish Ballads and Songs;" and "Biography of Distinguished Scotsmen," in four volumes. Besides various popular works, he produced, for private circulation, a volume of poetical pieces, distinguished for their fine taste and feeling. William having startedChambers's Edinburgh Journalin February 1832, Robert became an efficient coadjutor, and mainly helped to give the work its extensive popularity. In the more early volumes, in particular, there appear many admirable essays, humorous and pathetic, from his pen. Besides these professional avocations, Mr Robert Chambers takes part in the proceedings of the scientific and other learned bodies in Edinburgh. Among his latest detached works is a volume, of a geological character, on the "Ancient Sea Margins of Scotland;" also, "Tracings of Iceland," the result of a visit to that interesting island in the summer of 1855. Living respected in Edinburgh, in the bosom of his family, and essentially a self-made man, Mr Robert Chambers is peculiarly distinguished for his kindly disposition and unobtrusive manners—for his enlightened love of country, and diligence in professional labours, uniting, in a singularly happy manner, the man of refined literary taste with the man of business and the useful citizen.
Tune—'There grows a bonnie brier bush.'
Young Randal was a bonnie lad when he gaed awa',Young Randal was a bonnie lad when he gaed awa','Twas in the sixteen hundred year o' grace and thritty-twa,That Randal, the laird's youngest son, gaed awa'.It was to seek his fortune in the High Germanie,To fecht the foreign loons in the High Germanie,That he left his father's tower o' sweet Willanslee,And monie mae friends in the North Countrie.He left his mother in her bower, his father in the ha',His brother at the outer yett, but and his sisters twa',And his bonnie cousin Jean, that look'd owre the castle wa',And, mair than a' the lave, loot the tears down fa'."Oh, whan will ye be back," sae kindly did she speir,"Oh, whan will ye be back, my hinny and my dear?""Whenever I can win eneuch o' Spanish gear,To dress ye out in pearlins and silks, my dear."Oh, Randal's hair was coal-black when he gaed awa'—Oh, Randal's cheeks were roses red when he gaed awa',And in his bonnie e'e, a spark glintit high,Like the merrie, merrie look in the morning sky.Oh, Randal was an altert man whan he came hame—A sair altert man was he when he came hame;Wi' a ribbon at his breast, and a Sir at his name—And gray, gray cheeks did Randal come hame.He lichtit at the outer yett, and rispit with the ring,And down came a ladye to see him come in,And after the ladye came bairns feifteen:"Can this muckle wife be my true love Jean?""Whatna stoure carl is this," quo' the dame,"Sae gruff and sae grand, and sae feckless and sae lame?""Oh, tell me, fair madam, are ye bonnie Jeanie Graham?""In troth," quo' the ladye, "sweet sir, the very same."He turned him about wi' a waefu' e'e,And a heart as sair as sair could be;He lap on his horse, and awa' did wildly flee,And never mair came back to sweet Willanslee.Oh, dule on the poortith o' this countrie,And dule on the wars o' the High Germanie,And dule on the love that forgetfu' can be,For they 've wreck'd the bravest heart in this hale countrie.
Young Randal was a bonnie lad when he gaed awa',Young Randal was a bonnie lad when he gaed awa','Twas in the sixteen hundred year o' grace and thritty-twa,That Randal, the laird's youngest son, gaed awa'.
It was to seek his fortune in the High Germanie,To fecht the foreign loons in the High Germanie,That he left his father's tower o' sweet Willanslee,And monie mae friends in the North Countrie.
He left his mother in her bower, his father in the ha',His brother at the outer yett, but and his sisters twa',And his bonnie cousin Jean, that look'd owre the castle wa',And, mair than a' the lave, loot the tears down fa'.
"Oh, whan will ye be back," sae kindly did she speir,"Oh, whan will ye be back, my hinny and my dear?""Whenever I can win eneuch o' Spanish gear,To dress ye out in pearlins and silks, my dear."
Oh, Randal's hair was coal-black when he gaed awa'—Oh, Randal's cheeks were roses red when he gaed awa',And in his bonnie e'e, a spark glintit high,Like the merrie, merrie look in the morning sky.
Oh, Randal was an altert man whan he came hame—A sair altert man was he when he came hame;Wi' a ribbon at his breast, and a Sir at his name—And gray, gray cheeks did Randal come hame.
He lichtit at the outer yett, and rispit with the ring,And down came a ladye to see him come in,And after the ladye came bairns feifteen:"Can this muckle wife be my true love Jean?"
"Whatna stoure carl is this," quo' the dame,"Sae gruff and sae grand, and sae feckless and sae lame?""Oh, tell me, fair madam, are ye bonnie Jeanie Graham?""In troth," quo' the ladye, "sweet sir, the very same."
He turned him about wi' a waefu' e'e,And a heart as sair as sair could be;He lap on his horse, and awa' did wildly flee,And never mair came back to sweet Willanslee.
Oh, dule on the poortith o' this countrie,And dule on the wars o' the High Germanie,And dule on the love that forgetfu' can be,For they 've wreck'd the bravest heart in this hale countrie.
Were I a doughty cavalierOn fire for high-born dame,With sword and lance I would not fearTo win a warrior's fame.But since no more stern deeds of bloodThe gentle fair may move,I 'll woo in softer better moodThe ladye that I love.For helmet bright with steel and gold,And plumes that flout the sky,I 'll wear a soul of hardier mould,And thoughts that sweep as high.For scarf athwart my corslet cast,With her fair name y-wove;I 'll have her pictured in my breast,The ladye that I love.No crested steed through battle throngShall bear me bravely on,But pride shall make my spirit strong,Where honours may be won.Amidst the great of mind and heart,My prowess I will prove,And thus I 'll win, by gentler art,The ladye that I love.
Were I a doughty cavalierOn fire for high-born dame,With sword and lance I would not fearTo win a warrior's fame.But since no more stern deeds of bloodThe gentle fair may move,I 'll woo in softer better moodThe ladye that I love.
For helmet bright with steel and gold,And plumes that flout the sky,I 'll wear a soul of hardier mould,And thoughts that sweep as high.For scarf athwart my corslet cast,With her fair name y-wove;I 'll have her pictured in my breast,The ladye that I love.
No crested steed through battle throngShall bear me bravely on,But pride shall make my spirit strong,Where honours may be won.Amidst the great of mind and heart,My prowess I will prove,And thus I 'll win, by gentler art,The ladye that I love.
Thou gentle and kind one,Who com'st o'er my dreams,Like the gales of the west,Or the music of streams;Oh, softest and dearest,Can that time e'er be,When I could be forgetfulOr scornful of thee?No! my soul might be dark,Like a landscape in shade,And for thee not the halfOf its love be display'd,But one ray of thy kindnessWould banish my pain,And soon kiss every featureTo brightness again.And if, in contendingWith men and the world,My eye might be fierce,Or my brow might be curl'd;That brow on thy bosomAll smooth'd would recline,And that eye melt in kindnessWhen turn'd upon thine.If faithful in sorrow,More faithful in joy—Thou shouldst find that no changeCould affection destroy;All profit, all pleasure,As nothing would be,And each triumph despisedUnpartaken by thee.
Thou gentle and kind one,Who com'st o'er my dreams,Like the gales of the west,Or the music of streams;Oh, softest and dearest,Can that time e'er be,When I could be forgetfulOr scornful of thee?
No! my soul might be dark,Like a landscape in shade,And for thee not the halfOf its love be display'd,But one ray of thy kindnessWould banish my pain,And soon kiss every featureTo brightness again.
And if, in contendingWith men and the world,My eye might be fierce,Or my brow might be curl'd;That brow on thy bosomAll smooth'd would recline,And that eye melt in kindnessWhen turn'd upon thine.
If faithful in sorrow,More faithful in joy—Thou shouldst find that no changeCould affection destroy;All profit, all pleasure,As nothing would be,And each triumph despisedUnpartaken by thee.
Oh, where are the pretty men of yore?Oh, where are the brave men gone?Oh, where are the heroes of the north?Each under his own gray stone.Oh, where now the broad bright claymore?Oh, where are the trews and plaid?Oh, where now the merry Highland heart?In silence for ever laid.Och on a rie, och on a rie,Och on a rie, all are gone;Och on a rie, the heroes of yore,Each under his own gray stone.The chiefs that were foremost of old,Macdonald and brave Lochiel,The Gordon, the Murray, and the Graham,With their clansmen true as steel;Who follow'd and fought with Montrose,Glencairn, and bold Dundee;Who to Charlie gave their swords and their all,And would aye rather fa' than flee.Och on a rie, &c.The hills that our brave fathers trodAre now to the stranger a store;The voice of the pipe and the bardShall awaken never more.Such things it is sad to think on—They come like the mist by day—And I wish I had less in this world to leave,And be with them that are away.Och on a rie, &c.
Oh, where are the pretty men of yore?Oh, where are the brave men gone?Oh, where are the heroes of the north?Each under his own gray stone.Oh, where now the broad bright claymore?Oh, where are the trews and plaid?Oh, where now the merry Highland heart?In silence for ever laid.Och on a rie, och on a rie,Och on a rie, all are gone;Och on a rie, the heroes of yore,Each under his own gray stone.
The chiefs that were foremost of old,Macdonald and brave Lochiel,The Gordon, the Murray, and the Graham,With their clansmen true as steel;Who follow'd and fought with Montrose,Glencairn, and bold Dundee;Who to Charlie gave their swords and their all,And would aye rather fa' than flee.Och on a rie, &c.
The hills that our brave fathers trodAre now to the stranger a store;The voice of the pipe and the bardShall awaken never more.Such things it is sad to think on—They come like the mist by day—And I wish I had less in this world to leave,And be with them that are away.Och on a rie, &c.
Thomas Aird, one of the most distinguished of the living Scottish poets, was born in the parish of Bowden, Roxburghshire, in 1802. He received the rudiments of his education at Bowden and Melrose parish schools; and went through a course of literary and philosophical study at the University of Edinburgh. In 1827 he published a little treatise, entitled "Religious Characteristics." After a residence of some years in Edinburgh, in the course of which he contributed occasionally toBlackwood's Magazine, and other periodicals, he was, in 1835, on the recommendation of his steadfast friend Professor Wilson, appointed editor of theDumfries Herald, a conservative journal newly started in Dumfries. The paper has prospered under his management, and he is editor still. In 1845 he published "The Old Bachelor in the Old Scottish Village," a collection of tales and sketches of Scottish scenery, character, and life. In 1848 he collected and published his poems. In 1852 he wrote a memoir of his friend, David Macbeth Moir (the well-known "Delta" ofBlackwood's Magazine), and prefixed it to an edition of Moir's poems, which he edited for behoof of the poet's family, under the generous instructions of the Messrs Blackwood. In 1856 a new edition of Mr Aird's poems appeared, with many fresh pieces, and the old carefully revised; Messrs Blackwood being the publishers.
The little comer 's coming, the comer o'er the sea,The comer of the summer, all the sunny days to be;How pleasant, through the pleasant sleep, thy early twitter heard—Oh, swallow by the lattice! glad days be thy reward!Thine be sweet morning, with the bee that 's out for honey-dew,And glowing be the noontide, for the grasshopper and you;And mellow shine, o'er days' decline, the sun to light thee home—What can molest thy airy nest? Sleep till the morrow come.The river blue, that lapses through the valley, hears thee sing,And murmurs much beneath the touch of thy light-dipping wing;The thunder-cloud, over us bow'd, in deeper gloom is seen,When quick relieved it glances to thy bosom's silvery sheen.The silent power that brings thee back, with leading-strings of love,To haunts where first the summer sun fell on thee from above,Shall bind thee more to come aye to the music of our leaves,For here thy young, where thou hast sprung, shall glad thee in our eaves.
The little comer 's coming, the comer o'er the sea,The comer of the summer, all the sunny days to be;How pleasant, through the pleasant sleep, thy early twitter heard—Oh, swallow by the lattice! glad days be thy reward!
Thine be sweet morning, with the bee that 's out for honey-dew,And glowing be the noontide, for the grasshopper and you;And mellow shine, o'er days' decline, the sun to light thee home—What can molest thy airy nest? Sleep till the morrow come.
The river blue, that lapses through the valley, hears thee sing,And murmurs much beneath the touch of thy light-dipping wing;The thunder-cloud, over us bow'd, in deeper gloom is seen,When quick relieved it glances to thy bosom's silvery sheen.
The silent power that brings thee back, with leading-strings of love,To haunts where first the summer sun fell on thee from above,Shall bind thee more to come aye to the music of our leaves,For here thy young, where thou hast sprung, shall glad thee in our eaves.
Eye of the brain and heart,O Genius, inner sight,Wonders from thee familiar start,In thy decisive light.Wide and deep the eye must go,The process of our world to know.Old mountains grated to the sea,Sow the young seed of isles to be.States dissolve, that Nature's planMay bear the broadening type of man.Passes ne'er the Past away;Child of the ages springs to-day.Life, death, and life! but circling change,Still working to a higher range!Make thee all science, Genius, clearOur world; all Muses, grace and cheer.And may the ideal thou hast shewn,With joy peculiar be thine own;For thee the starry belts of time,The inner laws, the heavenly chime;Thine storm and rack—the forests crack,The sea gives up her secrets hoary;And Beauty thine, on loom divine,Weaving the rainbow's woof of glory.Power of the civic heart,More than a power to know,Genius, incarnated in Art,By thee the nations grow.Lawgiver thine, and priest, and sage,Lit up the Oriental age.Persuasive groves, and musical,Of love the illumined mountains all.Eagles and rods, and axes clear,Forum and amphitheatre;These in thy plastic forming hand,Forth leapt to life the classic Land.Old and new, the worlds of light,Who bridged the gulf of Middle Night?See the purple passage rise,Many arch'd of centuries;Genius built it long and vast,And o'er it social knowledge pass'd.Far in the glad transmitted flame,Shinar, knit to Britain, came;Their state by thee our fathers free,O Genius, founded deep and wide,Majestic towers the fabric ours,And awes the world from side to side.Mart of the ties of blood,Mart of the souls of men!O Christ! to see thy BrotherhoodBought to be sold again,Front of hell, to trade therein.Genius face the giant sin;Shafts of thought, truth-headed clear,Temper'd all in Pity's tear,Every point and every tip,In the blood of Jesus dip;Pierce till the monster reel and cry,Pierce him till he fall and die.Yet cease not, rest not, onward quell,Power divine and terrible!See where yon bastion'd Midnight stands,On half the sunken central lands;Shoot! let thy arrow heads of flameSing as they pierce the blot of shame,Till all the dark economiesBecome the light of blessed skies.For this, above in wondering love,To Genius shall it first be given,To trace the lines of past designs,All confluent to the finish'd Heaven.
Eye of the brain and heart,O Genius, inner sight,Wonders from thee familiar start,In thy decisive light.Wide and deep the eye must go,The process of our world to know.Old mountains grated to the sea,Sow the young seed of isles to be.States dissolve, that Nature's planMay bear the broadening type of man.Passes ne'er the Past away;Child of the ages springs to-day.Life, death, and life! but circling change,Still working to a higher range!Make thee all science, Genius, clearOur world; all Muses, grace and cheer.And may the ideal thou hast shewn,With joy peculiar be thine own;For thee the starry belts of time,The inner laws, the heavenly chime;Thine storm and rack—the forests crack,The sea gives up her secrets hoary;And Beauty thine, on loom divine,Weaving the rainbow's woof of glory.
Power of the civic heart,More than a power to know,Genius, incarnated in Art,By thee the nations grow.Lawgiver thine, and priest, and sage,Lit up the Oriental age.Persuasive groves, and musical,Of love the illumined mountains all.Eagles and rods, and axes clear,Forum and amphitheatre;These in thy plastic forming hand,Forth leapt to life the classic Land.Old and new, the worlds of light,Who bridged the gulf of Middle Night?See the purple passage rise,Many arch'd of centuries;Genius built it long and vast,And o'er it social knowledge pass'd.Far in the glad transmitted flame,Shinar, knit to Britain, came;Their state by thee our fathers free,O Genius, founded deep and wide,Majestic towers the fabric ours,And awes the world from side to side.
Mart of the ties of blood,Mart of the souls of men!O Christ! to see thy BrotherhoodBought to be sold again,Front of hell, to trade therein.Genius face the giant sin;Shafts of thought, truth-headed clear,Temper'd all in Pity's tear,Every point and every tip,In the blood of Jesus dip;Pierce till the monster reel and cry,Pierce him till he fall and die.Yet cease not, rest not, onward quell,Power divine and terrible!See where yon bastion'd Midnight stands,On half the sunken central lands;Shoot! let thy arrow heads of flameSing as they pierce the blot of shame,Till all the dark economiesBecome the light of blessed skies.For this, above in wondering love,To Genius shall it first be given,To trace the lines of past designs,All confluent to the finish'd Heaven.
Robert White, an indefatigable antiquary, and pleasing writer of lyric poetry, is a native of Roxburghshire. His youth and early manhood were spent at Otterburn, in Redesdale, where his father rented a farm. Possessed of an ardent love of reading, he early became familiar with the English poets, and himself tried metrical composition. While still a young man, he ranked among the poetical contributors to theNewcastle Magazine. In 1825 he accepted a situation as clerk to a respectable tradesman in Newcastle, which he retained upwards of twenty years. Latterly he has occupied a post of respectable emolument, and with sufficient leisure for the improvement of his literary tastes.
Besides contributing both in prose and verse to the local journals, and some of the periodicals, Mr White is the author of several publications. In 1829 appeared from his pen "The Tynemouth Nun," an elegantly versified tale; in 1853, "The Wind," a poem; and in 1856, "England," a poem. He has contributed songs to "Whistle Binkie," and "The Book of Scottish Song." At present he has in the press a "History of the Battle of Otterburn," prepared from original sources of information.
Fair Scotland! dear as life to meAre thy majestic hills;And sweet as purest melodyThe music of thy rills.The wildest cairn, the darkest dell,Within thy rocky strand,Possess o'er me a living spell—Thou art my native land.Loved country, when I muse uponThy dauntless men of old,Whose swords in battle foremost shone—Thy Wallace brave and bold;And Bruce who, for our liberty,Did England's sway withstand;I glory I was born in thee,Mine own ennobled land!Nor less thy martyrs I revere,Who spent their latest breathTo seal the cause they held so dear,And conquer'd even in death.Their graves evince, o'er hill and plain,No bigot's stern commandShall mould the faith thy sons maintain,My dear devoted land.And thou hast ties around my heart,Attraction deeper still—The gifted poet's sacred art,The minstrel's matchless skill.Yea; every scene that Burns and ScottHave touch'd with magic handIs in my sight a hallow'd spot,Mine own distinguish'd land!Oh! when I wander'd far from thee,I saw thee in my dreams;I mark'd thy forests waving free,I heard thy rushing streams.Thy mighty dead in life came forth,I knew the honour'd band;We spoke of thee—thy fame—thy worth—My high exalted land!Now if the lonely home be mineIn which my fathers dwelt,And I can worship at the shrineWhere they in fervour knelt;No glare of wealth, or honour high,Shall lure me from thy strand;Oh, I would yield my parting sighIn thee, my native land!
Fair Scotland! dear as life to meAre thy majestic hills;And sweet as purest melodyThe music of thy rills.The wildest cairn, the darkest dell,Within thy rocky strand,Possess o'er me a living spell—Thou art my native land.
Loved country, when I muse uponThy dauntless men of old,Whose swords in battle foremost shone—Thy Wallace brave and bold;And Bruce who, for our liberty,Did England's sway withstand;I glory I was born in thee,Mine own ennobled land!
Nor less thy martyrs I revere,Who spent their latest breathTo seal the cause they held so dear,And conquer'd even in death.Their graves evince, o'er hill and plain,No bigot's stern commandShall mould the faith thy sons maintain,My dear devoted land.
And thou hast ties around my heart,Attraction deeper still—The gifted poet's sacred art,The minstrel's matchless skill.Yea; every scene that Burns and ScottHave touch'd with magic handIs in my sight a hallow'd spot,Mine own distinguish'd land!
Oh! when I wander'd far from thee,I saw thee in my dreams;I mark'd thy forests waving free,I heard thy rushing streams.Thy mighty dead in life came forth,I knew the honour'd band;We spoke of thee—thy fame—thy worth—My high exalted land!
Now if the lonely home be mineIn which my fathers dwelt,And I can worship at the shrineWhere they in fervour knelt;No glare of wealth, or honour high,Shall lure me from thy strand;Oh, I would yield my parting sighIn thee, my native land!
Eliza fair, the mirth of MayResounds from glen and tree;Yet thy mild voice, I need not say,Is dearer far to me.And while I thus a garland cull,To grace that brow of thine,My cup of pure delight is full—A shepherd's life be mine!Believe me, maid, the means of wealth,Howe'er profuse they be,Produce not pleasure that in healthIs shared by you and me!'Tis when elate with thoughts of joyWe find a heart like thine,That objects grateful glad the eye—A shepherd's life be mine!O mark, Eliza, how the flowersAround us sweetly spring;And list how in these woodland bowersThe birds with rapture sing;Behold that vale whose streamlet clearFlows on in waving line;Can Paradise more bright appear?A shepherd's life be mine!Now, dearest, not the morning bright,That dawns o'er hill and lea,Nor eve, with all its golden light,Can charm me without thee.To feel the magic of thy smile—To catch that glance of thine—To talk to thee of love the while,A shepherd's life be mine!
Eliza fair, the mirth of MayResounds from glen and tree;Yet thy mild voice, I need not say,Is dearer far to me.And while I thus a garland cull,To grace that brow of thine,My cup of pure delight is full—A shepherd's life be mine!
Believe me, maid, the means of wealth,Howe'er profuse they be,Produce not pleasure that in healthIs shared by you and me!'Tis when elate with thoughts of joyWe find a heart like thine,That objects grateful glad the eye—A shepherd's life be mine!
O mark, Eliza, how the flowersAround us sweetly spring;And list how in these woodland bowersThe birds with rapture sing;Behold that vale whose streamlet clearFlows on in waving line;Can Paradise more bright appear?A shepherd's life be mine!
Now, dearest, not the morning bright,That dawns o'er hill and lea,Nor eve, with all its golden light,Can charm me without thee.To feel the magic of thy smile—To catch that glance of thine—To talk to thee of love the while,A shepherd's life be mine!