The oak is Britain's pride!The lordliest of trees,The glory of her forest side,The guardian of her seas!Its hundred arms are brandish'd wide,To brave the wintry breeze.Our hearts shall never quailBelow the servile yoke,Long as our seamen trim the sail,And wake the battle smoke—Long as they stem the stormy gale,On planks of British oak!Then in its native mead,The golden acorn lay;And watch with care the bursting seed,And guard the tender spray;England will bless us for the deed,In some far future day!Oh! plant the acorn treeUpon each Briton's grave;So shall our island ever be,The island of the brave—The mother-nurse of liberty,And empress o'er the wave!
The oak is Britain's pride!The lordliest of trees,The glory of her forest side,The guardian of her seas!Its hundred arms are brandish'd wide,To brave the wintry breeze.
Our hearts shall never quailBelow the servile yoke,Long as our seamen trim the sail,And wake the battle smoke—Long as they stem the stormy gale,On planks of British oak!
Then in its native mead,The golden acorn lay;And watch with care the bursting seed,And guard the tender spray;England will bless us for the deed,In some far future day!
Oh! plant the acorn treeUpon each Briton's grave;So shall our island ever be,The island of the brave—The mother-nurse of liberty,And empress o'er the wave!
Peace be upon their banners!When our war-ships leave the bay—When the anchor is weigh'd,And the galesFill the sails,As they stray—When the signals are made,And the anchor is weigh'd,And the shores of England fadeFast away!Peace be upon their banners,As they cross the stormy main!May they no aggressors prove,But unite,Britain's rightTo maintain;And, unconquer'd, as they move,May they no aggressors prove;But to guard the land we love,Come again!Long flourish England's commerce!May her navies ever glide,With concord in their lead,Ranging freeEvery sea,Far and wide;And at their country's need,With thunders in their lead,May the ocean eagles speedTo her side!
Peace be upon their banners!When our war-ships leave the bay—When the anchor is weigh'd,And the galesFill the sails,As they stray—When the signals are made,And the anchor is weigh'd,And the shores of England fadeFast away!
Peace be upon their banners,As they cross the stormy main!May they no aggressors prove,But unite,Britain's rightTo maintain;And, unconquer'd, as they move,May they no aggressors prove;But to guard the land we love,Come again!
Long flourish England's commerce!May her navies ever glide,With concord in their lead,Ranging freeEvery sea,Far and wide;And at their country's need,With thunders in their lead,May the ocean eagles speedTo her side!
Alexander Maclagan was born at Bridgend, Perth, on the 3d of April 1811. His father, Thomas Maclagan, was bred to farming, but early abandoning this occupation, he settled in Perth as a manufacturer. Unfortunate in business, he removed to Edinburgh, with a young family of three children; the subject of the present memoir being the eldest. Catherine Stuart, the poet's mother, was descended from the Stuarts of Breadalbane, a family of considerable rank in that district. At the period of his father's removal to Edinburgh, Alexander was only in his fifth year. Not more successful in his pursuits in Edinburgh, where three additional children were born to him, Thomas Maclagan was unable to bestow upon his son Alexander the liberal education which his strong natural capacity demanded; but acquiring the common rudiments of knowledge at several schools in the Old Town, he was at the early age of ten years taken thence, and placed in a jeweller's shop, where he remained two years. Being naturally strong, and now of an age to undertake more laborious employment, his father, rather against the son's inclinations, bound him apprentice to a plumber in Edinburgh, with whom he served six years. About this time he produced many excellent drawings, which received the approbation of the managers of the Edinburgh School of Design, but the arduous duties of his occupation precluded the possibility of his followinghis natural bent. His leisure time was chiefly devoted to the cultivation of literature. So early as his thirteenth year he entered the Edinburgh Mechanics' Library as a member; and from this early age he dates his taste for poetry.
In 1829, while yet an apprentice, Maclagan became connected with theEdinburgh Literary Journal, edited by Mr Glassford Bell. As a contributor to that publication, he was introduced to the Ettrick Shepherd, Professor Wilson, William Tennant, and William Motherwell, who severally commended his verses. On the expiry of his apprenticeship he worked for some time as a journeyman plumber. He was married in his eighteenth year; and he has three surviving children. In 1831, he commenced on his own account, in a shop at the head of the Mound, Edinburgh; but finding he had inadequate capital, he proceeded to London in quest of employment in some managing department of his trade. In the metropolis he was well received by Allan Cunningham, and was, through his recommendation, offered an appointment under Mr Cubitt, the well known builder. A strike among Mr Cubitt's workmen unfortunately interfered with the completion of the arrangement, and the poet, much disappointed, returned to Edinburgh. He now accepted an engagement as manager of a plumbery establishment in Dunfermline, where he continued two years. He afterwards devoted himself to literary and educational pursuits.
In 1841, Maclagan published a collected edition of his poems, which immediately attracted the favourable notice of Lord Jeffrey. He invited the poet to his residence, and on many occasions proved his benefactor. On the publication, in 1849, of another volume, entitled, "Sketches from Nature, and other Poems," the criticwrote to the poet in these words, "I can remember when the appearance of such a work would have produced a great sensation, and secured to its author both distinction and more solid advantages." Among the last written of Lord Jeffrey's letters, was one addressed to Mr Maclagan in regard to the second edition of his Poems. Shortly after his patron's death, the poet found a new friend in Lord Cockburn, who procured for him a junior clerkship in the office of the Inland Revenue, Edinburgh. This situation proved, however, most uncongenial; he found himself unsuited to the practice of lengthened arithmetical summations, and he resigned his post under the promise of being transferred to another department, more suitable to his habits. In 1851 he was, by a number of his admirers, entertained at a public dinner in the hall attached to Burns' Cottage, and more lately he received a similar compliment in his native town. Considerate attentions have been shewn him by the Duchess of Sutherland, the Duke of Argyle, the Rev. Dr Guthrie, and other distinguished individuals. In the autumn of 1856 he had conferred on him by the Queen a small Civil List pension.
Mr Maclagan's latest publication, entitled, "Ragged and Industrial School Rhymes," appeared in 1854, and has well sustained his reputation. Imbued with a keen perception of the beautiful and pleasing, alike in the natural and moral world, his poetry is marked by refinement of thought, elegance of expression, and an earnest devotedness. In social life he delights to depict the praises of virtue. The lover's tale he has told with singular simplicity and tenderness.
Hurrah for Scotland's worth and fame,A health to a' that love the name;Hurrah for Scotland's darling game,The pastime o' the free, boys.While head, an' heart, an' arm are strang,We 'll a' join in a patriot's sang,And sing its praises loud and lang—The roarin' rink for me, boys.Hurrah, hurrah, for Scotland's fame,A health to a' that love the name;Hurrah for Scotland's darling game;The roarin' rink for me, boys.Gie hunter chaps their break-neck hours,Their slaughtering guns amang the muirs;Let wily fisher prove his powersAt the flinging o' the flee, boys.But let us pledge ilk hardy chiel,Wha's hand is sure, wha's heart is leal,Wha's glory 's on a brave bonspiel—The roarin' rink for me, boys.In ancient days—fame tells the fact—That Scotland's heroes werena slackThe heads o' stubborn foes to crack,And mak' the feckless flee, boys.Wi' brave hearts, beating true and warm,They aften tried the curlin' charmTo cheer the heart and nerve the arm—The roarin' rink for me, boys.May love and friendship crown our cheerWi' a' the joys to curlers dear;We hae this nicht some heroes here,We aye are blythe to see, boys.A' brithers brave are they, I ween,May fickle Fortune, slippery queen,Aye keep their ice baith clear and clean—The roarin' rink for me, boys.May health an' strength their toils reward,And should misfortune's gales blow hard,Our task will be to plant a guardOr guide them to the tee, boys.Here 's three times three for curlin' scenes,Here 's three times three for curlin' freen's,Here 's three times three for beef an' greens—The roarin' rink for me, boys.A' ye that love auld Scotland's name,A' ye that love auld Scotland's fame,A' ye that love auld Scotland's game,A glorious sicht to see, boys—Up, brothers, up, drive care awa';Up, brothers, up, ne'er think o' thaw;Up, brothers, up, and sing hurrah—The roarin' rink for me, boys.
Hurrah for Scotland's worth and fame,A health to a' that love the name;Hurrah for Scotland's darling game,The pastime o' the free, boys.While head, an' heart, an' arm are strang,We 'll a' join in a patriot's sang,And sing its praises loud and lang—The roarin' rink for me, boys.Hurrah, hurrah, for Scotland's fame,A health to a' that love the name;Hurrah for Scotland's darling game;The roarin' rink for me, boys.
Gie hunter chaps their break-neck hours,Their slaughtering guns amang the muirs;Let wily fisher prove his powersAt the flinging o' the flee, boys.But let us pledge ilk hardy chiel,Wha's hand is sure, wha's heart is leal,Wha's glory 's on a brave bonspiel—The roarin' rink for me, boys.
In ancient days—fame tells the fact—That Scotland's heroes werena slackThe heads o' stubborn foes to crack,And mak' the feckless flee, boys.Wi' brave hearts, beating true and warm,They aften tried the curlin' charmTo cheer the heart and nerve the arm—The roarin' rink for me, boys.
May love and friendship crown our cheerWi' a' the joys to curlers dear;We hae this nicht some heroes here,We aye are blythe to see, boys.A' brithers brave are they, I ween,May fickle Fortune, slippery queen,Aye keep their ice baith clear and clean—The roarin' rink for me, boys.
May health an' strength their toils reward,And should misfortune's gales blow hard,Our task will be to plant a guardOr guide them to the tee, boys.Here 's three times three for curlin' scenes,Here 's three times three for curlin' freen's,Here 's three times three for beef an' greens—The roarin' rink for me, boys.
A' ye that love auld Scotland's name,A' ye that love auld Scotland's fame,A' ye that love auld Scotland's game,A glorious sicht to see, boys—Up, brothers, up, drive care awa';Up, brothers, up, ne'er think o' thaw;Up, brothers, up, and sing hurrah—The roarin' rink for me, boys.
The auld meal mill—oh, the auld meal mill,Like a dream o' my schule-days, it haunts me still;Like the sun's simmer blink on the face o' a hill,Stands the love o' my boyhood, the auld meal mill.The stream frae the mountain, rock-ribbit and brown,Like a peal o' loud laughter, comes rattlin' down;Tak' my word for 't, my friend, 'tis na puny rillThat ca's the big wheel o' the auld meal mill.When flashin' and dashin' the paddles flee round,The miller's blythe whistle aye blends wi' the sound;The spray, like the bricht draps whilk rainbows distil,Fa' in showers o' red gowd round the auld meal mill.The wild Hielan' heather grows thick on its thack,The ivy and apple-tree creep up its back;The lightning-wing'd swallow, wi' Nature's ain skill,Builds its nest 'neath the eaves o' the auld meal mill.Keep your e'e on the watch-dog, for Cæsar kens weelWhen the wild gipsy laddies are tryin' to steal;But he lies like a lamb, and licks wi' good willThe hard, horny hand that brings grist to the mill.There are mony queer jokes 'bout the auld meal mill—They are noo sober folks 'bout the auld meal mill—But ance it was said that a het Hielan' stillWas aften at wark near the auld meal mill.When the plough 's at its rest, the sheep i' the fauld,Sic' gatherin's are there, baith o' young folk and auld;The herd blaws his horn, richt bauldly and shrill,A' to bring doon his clan to the auld meal mill.Then sic jumpin' o'er barrows, o'er hedges and harrows,The men o' the mill can scarce fin' their marrows;Their lang-barrell'd guns wad an armory fill—There 's some capital shots near the auld meal mill.At blithe penny-weddin' or christ'nin' a wee ane,Sic' ribbons, sic' ringlets, sic feather's are fleein';Sic' laughin', sic' daffin', sic dancin', untilThe laft near comes doon o' the auld meal mill.I hae listen'd to music—ilk varying tone,Frae the harp's deein' fa' to the bagpipe's drone;But nane stirs my heart wi' sae happy a thrillAs the sound o' the wheel o' the auld meal mill.Success to the mill and the merry mill-wheel!Lang, lang may it grind aye the wee bairnies' meal!Bless the miller—wha often, wi' heart and good-will,Fills the widow's toom pock at the auld meal mill.The auld meal mill—oh, the auld meal mill,Like a dream o' my schule days it haunts me still;Like the sun's summer blink on the face o' a hill,Stands the love o' my boyhood, the auld meal mill.
The auld meal mill—oh, the auld meal mill,Like a dream o' my schule-days, it haunts me still;Like the sun's simmer blink on the face o' a hill,Stands the love o' my boyhood, the auld meal mill.
The stream frae the mountain, rock-ribbit and brown,Like a peal o' loud laughter, comes rattlin' down;Tak' my word for 't, my friend, 'tis na puny rillThat ca's the big wheel o' the auld meal mill.
When flashin' and dashin' the paddles flee round,The miller's blythe whistle aye blends wi' the sound;The spray, like the bricht draps whilk rainbows distil,Fa' in showers o' red gowd round the auld meal mill.
The wild Hielan' heather grows thick on its thack,The ivy and apple-tree creep up its back;The lightning-wing'd swallow, wi' Nature's ain skill,Builds its nest 'neath the eaves o' the auld meal mill.
Keep your e'e on the watch-dog, for Cæsar kens weelWhen the wild gipsy laddies are tryin' to steal;But he lies like a lamb, and licks wi' good willThe hard, horny hand that brings grist to the mill.
There are mony queer jokes 'bout the auld meal mill—They are noo sober folks 'bout the auld meal mill—But ance it was said that a het Hielan' stillWas aften at wark near the auld meal mill.
When the plough 's at its rest, the sheep i' the fauld,Sic' gatherin's are there, baith o' young folk and auld;The herd blaws his horn, richt bauldly and shrill,A' to bring doon his clan to the auld meal mill.
Then sic jumpin' o'er barrows, o'er hedges and harrows,The men o' the mill can scarce fin' their marrows;Their lang-barrell'd guns wad an armory fill—There 's some capital shots near the auld meal mill.
At blithe penny-weddin' or christ'nin' a wee ane,Sic' ribbons, sic' ringlets, sic feather's are fleein';Sic' laughin', sic' daffin', sic dancin', untilThe laft near comes doon o' the auld meal mill.
I hae listen'd to music—ilk varying tone,Frae the harp's deein' fa' to the bagpipe's drone;But nane stirs my heart wi' sae happy a thrillAs the sound o' the wheel o' the auld meal mill.
Success to the mill and the merry mill-wheel!Lang, lang may it grind aye the wee bairnies' meal!Bless the miller—wha often, wi' heart and good-will,Fills the widow's toom pock at the auld meal mill.
The auld meal mill—oh, the auld meal mill,Like a dream o' my schule days it haunts me still;Like the sun's summer blink on the face o' a hill,Stands the love o' my boyhood, the auld meal mill.
Hurrah for the thistle! the brave Scottish thistle,The evergreen thistle of Scotland for me!A fig for the flowers, in your lady-built bowers—The strong-bearded, weel-guarded thistle for me!'Tis the flower the proud eagle greets in its flight,When he shadows the stars with the wings of his might;'Tis the flower that laughs at the storm as it blows,For the stronger the tempest, the greener it grows!Hurrah for the thistle,&c.Round the love-lighted hames o' our ain native land—On the bonneted brow, on the hilt of the brand—On the face o' the shield, 'mid the shouts o' the free,May the thistle be seen where the thistle should be!Hurrah for the thistle, &c.Hale hearts we hae yet to bleed in its cause;Bold harps we hae yet to sound its applause;How, then, can it fade, when sic chiels an' sic cheer,And sae mony braw sprouts o' the thistle are here?Then hurrah for the thistle! the brave Scottish thistle,The evergreen thistle of Scotland for me!A fig for the flowers in your lady-built bowers—The strong-bearded, well-guarded thistle for me!
Hurrah for the thistle! the brave Scottish thistle,The evergreen thistle of Scotland for me!A fig for the flowers, in your lady-built bowers—The strong-bearded, weel-guarded thistle for me!
'Tis the flower the proud eagle greets in its flight,When he shadows the stars with the wings of his might;'Tis the flower that laughs at the storm as it blows,For the stronger the tempest, the greener it grows!Hurrah for the thistle,&c.
Round the love-lighted hames o' our ain native land—On the bonneted brow, on the hilt of the brand—On the face o' the shield, 'mid the shouts o' the free,May the thistle be seen where the thistle should be!Hurrah for the thistle, &c.
Hale hearts we hae yet to bleed in its cause;Bold harps we hae yet to sound its applause;How, then, can it fade, when sic chiels an' sic cheer,And sae mony braw sprouts o' the thistle are here?Then hurrah for the thistle! the brave Scottish thistle,The evergreen thistle of Scotland for me!A fig for the flowers in your lady-built bowers—The strong-bearded, well-guarded thistle for me!
The Scotch blue-bell, the Scotch blue-bell,The dear blue-bell for me!Oh! I wadna gie the Scotch blue-bellFor a' the flowers I see.I lo'e thee weel, thou Scotch blue-bell,I hail thee, floweret fair;Whether thou bloom'st in lanely dell,Or wavest mid mountain air—Blithe springing frae our bare, rough rocks,Or fountain's flowery brink:Where, fleet as wind, in thirsty flocks,The deer descend to drink.The Scotch blue-bell,&c.Sweet flower! thou deck'st the sacred nookBeside love's trystin' tree;I see thee bend to kiss the brook,That kindly kisseth thee.'Mang my love's locks ye 're aften seen,Blithe noddin' o'er her brow,Meet marrows to her lovely eenO' deep endearin' blue!The Scotch blue-bell, &c.When e'enin's gowden curtains hingO'er moor and mountain gray,Methinks I hear the blue-bells ringA dirge to deein' day;But when the licht o' mornin' wakesThe young dew-drooket flowers,I hear amid their merry peals,The mirth o' bridal hours!The Scotch blue-bell, &c.How oft wi' rapture hae I stray'd,The mountain's heather crest,There aft wi' thee hae I array'dMy Mary's maiden breast;Oft tremblin' mark'd amang thy bells,Her bosom fa' and rise,Like snawy cloud that sinks and swells,'Neath summer's deep blue skies.The Scotch blue-bell, &c.Oh! weel ye guess when morning daws,I seek the blue-bell grot;An' weel ye guess, when e'enin' fa'sSae sweet, I leave it not;An' when upon my tremblin' breast,Reclines my maiden fair,Thou know'st full well that I am blest,And free frae ilka care.The Scotch blue-bell, the Scotch blue-bell,The dear blue-bell for me!Oh! I wadna gie the Scotch blue-bell,For a' the flowers I see.
The Scotch blue-bell, the Scotch blue-bell,The dear blue-bell for me!Oh! I wadna gie the Scotch blue-bellFor a' the flowers I see.
I lo'e thee weel, thou Scotch blue-bell,I hail thee, floweret fair;Whether thou bloom'st in lanely dell,Or wavest mid mountain air—Blithe springing frae our bare, rough rocks,Or fountain's flowery brink:Where, fleet as wind, in thirsty flocks,The deer descend to drink.The Scotch blue-bell,&c.
Sweet flower! thou deck'st the sacred nookBeside love's trystin' tree;I see thee bend to kiss the brook,That kindly kisseth thee.'Mang my love's locks ye 're aften seen,Blithe noddin' o'er her brow,Meet marrows to her lovely eenO' deep endearin' blue!The Scotch blue-bell, &c.
When e'enin's gowden curtains hingO'er moor and mountain gray,Methinks I hear the blue-bells ringA dirge to deein' day;But when the licht o' mornin' wakesThe young dew-drooket flowers,I hear amid their merry peals,The mirth o' bridal hours!The Scotch blue-bell, &c.
How oft wi' rapture hae I stray'd,The mountain's heather crest,There aft wi' thee hae I array'dMy Mary's maiden breast;Oft tremblin' mark'd amang thy bells,Her bosom fa' and rise,Like snawy cloud that sinks and swells,'Neath summer's deep blue skies.The Scotch blue-bell, &c.
Oh! weel ye guess when morning daws,I seek the blue-bell grot;An' weel ye guess, when e'enin' fa'sSae sweet, I leave it not;An' when upon my tremblin' breast,Reclines my maiden fair,Thou know'st full well that I am blest,And free frae ilka care.
The Scotch blue-bell, the Scotch blue-bell,The dear blue-bell for me!Oh! I wadna gie the Scotch blue-bell,For a' the flowers I see.
The ingle cheek is bleezin' bricht,The croozie sheds a cheerfu' licht,An' happy hearts are here the nicht,To haud a rantin' rockin'!There 's laughin' Lizzie, free o' care;There 's Mary, wi' the modest air;An' Kitty, wi' the gowden hair,Will a' be at the rockin'.There 's Bessie, wi' her spinnin' wheel;There 's Jeanie Deans, wha sings sae weel;An' Meg, sae daft about a reel,Will a' be at the rockin'.The ploughman, brave as Wallace wicht;The weaver, wi' his wit sae bricht;The vulcan, wi' his arm o' micht,Will a' be at the rockin'.The shepherd, wi' his eagle e'e,Kindly heart an' rattlin' glee;The wonder-workin' dominie,Will a' be at the rockin'.The miller, wi' his mealy mou',Wha kens sae weel the way to woo—His faither's pipes frae WaterlooHe 'll bring to cheer our rockin'.The souter, wi' his bristly chin,Frae whilk the lasses screechin' rin;The curly-headed whupper-in,Will a' be at the rockin'.There 's merry jokes to cheer the auld,There 's love an' joy to warm the cauld,There 's sangs o' weir to fire the bauld;Sae prove our merry rockin'.The tales they tell, the sangs they sing,Will gar the auld clay biggin' ring,And some will dance the Highland fling,Right blithely at the rockin'.Wi' wit, an' love, an' fun, an' fire,Fond friendship will each soul inspire,An' mirth will get her heart's desireO' rantin', at the rockin'.When sair foredung wi' crabbit care,When days come dark whilk promised fair,To cheer the gloom, just come an' shareThe pleasures o' our rockin'.
The ingle cheek is bleezin' bricht,The croozie sheds a cheerfu' licht,An' happy hearts are here the nicht,To haud a rantin' rockin'!
There 's laughin' Lizzie, free o' care;There 's Mary, wi' the modest air;An' Kitty, wi' the gowden hair,Will a' be at the rockin'.
There 's Bessie, wi' her spinnin' wheel;There 's Jeanie Deans, wha sings sae weel;An' Meg, sae daft about a reel,Will a' be at the rockin'.
The ploughman, brave as Wallace wicht;The weaver, wi' his wit sae bricht;The vulcan, wi' his arm o' micht,Will a' be at the rockin'.
The shepherd, wi' his eagle e'e,Kindly heart an' rattlin' glee;The wonder-workin' dominie,Will a' be at the rockin'.
The miller, wi' his mealy mou',Wha kens sae weel the way to woo—His faither's pipes frae WaterlooHe 'll bring to cheer our rockin'.
The souter, wi' his bristly chin,Frae whilk the lasses screechin' rin;The curly-headed whupper-in,Will a' be at the rockin'.
There 's merry jokes to cheer the auld,There 's love an' joy to warm the cauld,There 's sangs o' weir to fire the bauld;Sae prove our merry rockin'.
The tales they tell, the sangs they sing,Will gar the auld clay biggin' ring,And some will dance the Highland fling,Right blithely at the rockin'.
Wi' wit, an' love, an' fun, an' fire,Fond friendship will each soul inspire,An' mirth will get her heart's desireO' rantin', at the rockin'.
When sair foredung wi' crabbit care,When days come dark whilk promised fair,To cheer the gloom, just come an' shareThe pleasures o' our rockin'.
Oh, there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain,Oh, there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain;Though the heart o' this warld 's as hard as a stane,Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain.Though totterin' noo, like her auld crazy biel,Her step ance the lichtest on hairst-rig or reel;Though sighs tak' the place o' the heart-cheerin' strain,Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!Though humble her biggin', and scanty her store,The beggar ne'er yet went unserved frae her door;Though she aft lifts the lid o' her girnel in vain,Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!Though thin, thin her locks, noo like hill-drifted snaw,Ance sae glossy and black, like the wing o' the craw;Though grief frae her mild cheek the red rose has ta'en,Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!The sang o' the lark finds the Widow asteer,The birr o' her wheel starts the nicht's dreamy ear;The tears o'er the tow-tap will whiles fa' like rain,Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!Ye may hear in her speech, ye may see in her claes,That auld Widow Miller has seen better days,Ere her auld Robin dee'd, sae fond an' sae fain'—Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!Oh, sad was the hour when the brave Forty-twa,Wi' their wild-sounding pipes, march'd her callant awa';Though she schules, feeds, an' cleeds his wee orphan wean,Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!Ye wild wintry winds, ye blaw surly and sair,On the heart that is sad, on the wa's that are bare;When care counts the links o' life's heavy chain,The poor heart is hopeless that winna complain.The Sabbath-day comes, and the Widow is seen,I' the aisle o' the auld kirk, baith tidy and clean;Though she aft sits for hours on the mossy grave-stane,Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!An' then when she turns frae the grave's lanely sod,To breathe out her soul in the ear of her God,What she utters to Him is no kent to ane,But there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!Ye wealthy an' wise in this fair world o' ours,When your fields wave wi' gowd, your gardens wi' flowers;When ye bind up the sheaves, leave out a few grains,To the heart-broken Widow wha never complains.
Oh, there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain,Oh, there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain;Though the heart o' this warld 's as hard as a stane,Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain.
Though totterin' noo, like her auld crazy biel,Her step ance the lichtest on hairst-rig or reel;Though sighs tak' the place o' the heart-cheerin' strain,Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!
Though humble her biggin', and scanty her store,The beggar ne'er yet went unserved frae her door;Though she aft lifts the lid o' her girnel in vain,Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!
Though thin, thin her locks, noo like hill-drifted snaw,Ance sae glossy and black, like the wing o' the craw;Though grief frae her mild cheek the red rose has ta'en,Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!
The sang o' the lark finds the Widow asteer,The birr o' her wheel starts the nicht's dreamy ear;The tears o'er the tow-tap will whiles fa' like rain,Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!
Ye may hear in her speech, ye may see in her claes,That auld Widow Miller has seen better days,Ere her auld Robin dee'd, sae fond an' sae fain'—Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!
Oh, sad was the hour when the brave Forty-twa,Wi' their wild-sounding pipes, march'd her callant awa';Though she schules, feeds, an' cleeds his wee orphan wean,Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!
Ye wild wintry winds, ye blaw surly and sair,On the heart that is sad, on the wa's that are bare;When care counts the links o' life's heavy chain,The poor heart is hopeless that winna complain.
The Sabbath-day comes, and the Widow is seen,I' the aisle o' the auld kirk, baith tidy and clean;Though she aft sits for hours on the mossy grave-stane,Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!
An' then when she turns frae the grave's lanely sod,To breathe out her soul in the ear of her God,What she utters to Him is no kent to ane,But there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!
Ye wealthy an' wise in this fair world o' ours,When your fields wave wi' gowd, your gardens wi' flowers;When ye bind up the sheaves, leave out a few grains,To the heart-broken Widow wha never complains.
What though ye hae nor kith nor kin',An' few to tak' your part, love;A happy hame ye'll ever fin'Within my glowing heart, love.So! while I breathe the breath o' life,Misfortune ne'er shall steer ye;My Highland Plaid is warm an' wide—Creep closer, my wee dearie!The thunder loud, the burstin' cloud,May speak o' ghaists an' witches,An' spunkie lichts may lead puir wichtsThrough bogs an' droonin' ditches;There's no ae imp in a' the hostThis nicht will daur come near ye;My Highland Plaid is warm an' wide—Creep closer, my wee dearie!Why do you heave sic heavy sighs,Why do ye sab sae sair, love?Altho' beneath my rustic plaidAn earl's star I wear love,I woo'd ye as a shepherd youth,And as a queen revere thee;My Highland plaid is warm an' wide—Creep closer, my wee deerie!
What though ye hae nor kith nor kin',An' few to tak' your part, love;A happy hame ye'll ever fin'Within my glowing heart, love.So! while I breathe the breath o' life,Misfortune ne'er shall steer ye;My Highland Plaid is warm an' wide—Creep closer, my wee dearie!
The thunder loud, the burstin' cloud,May speak o' ghaists an' witches,An' spunkie lichts may lead puir wichtsThrough bogs an' droonin' ditches;There's no ae imp in a' the hostThis nicht will daur come near ye;My Highland Plaid is warm an' wide—Creep closer, my wee dearie!
Why do you heave sic heavy sighs,Why do ye sab sae sair, love?Altho' beneath my rustic plaidAn earl's star I wear love,I woo'd ye as a shepherd youth,And as a queen revere thee;My Highland plaid is warm an' wide—Creep closer, my wee deerie!
Oh! dear to my heart are my heather-clad mountains,An' the echoes that burst from their caverns below,The wild woods that darken the face of their fountains—The haunts of the wild deer an' fleet-footed roe;But dearer to me is the bower o' green bushesThat flowers the green bank where the Tay gladly gushes,For there, all in tears, an' deep crimson'd wi' blushes,I won the young heart o' the Flower o' Glencoe.Contented I lived in my canty auld biggin','Till Britain grew wud wi' the threats o' a foe;Then I drew my claymore frae the heather-clad riggin',My forefathers wielded some cent'ries ago.An' though Mary kent weel that my heart was nae ranger,Yet the thoughts o' my wa'-gaun, the dread an' the dangerO' famine and death in the land o' the stranger,Drave the bloom frae the cheek o' the Flower o' Glencoe.But success crown'd our toils—ye hae a' heard the story,How we beat the proud French, an' their eagles laid low—I've walth o' war's wounds, an' a share o' its glory,An' the love o' auld Scotland wherever I go.Come, now fill the wine cup! let love tell the measure;Toast the maid of your heart, an' I'll pledge you with pleasure;Then a bumper I claim to my heart's dearest treasure—The fair-bosom'd, warm-hearted Flower o' Glencoe.
Oh! dear to my heart are my heather-clad mountains,An' the echoes that burst from their caverns below,The wild woods that darken the face of their fountains—The haunts of the wild deer an' fleet-footed roe;But dearer to me is the bower o' green bushesThat flowers the green bank where the Tay gladly gushes,For there, all in tears, an' deep crimson'd wi' blushes,I won the young heart o' the Flower o' Glencoe.
Contented I lived in my canty auld biggin','Till Britain grew wud wi' the threats o' a foe;Then I drew my claymore frae the heather-clad riggin',My forefathers wielded some cent'ries ago.An' though Mary kent weel that my heart was nae ranger,Yet the thoughts o' my wa'-gaun, the dread an' the dangerO' famine and death in the land o' the stranger,Drave the bloom frae the cheek o' the Flower o' Glencoe.
But success crown'd our toils—ye hae a' heard the story,How we beat the proud French, an' their eagles laid low—I've walth o' war's wounds, an' a share o' its glory,An' the love o' auld Scotland wherever I go.Come, now fill the wine cup! let love tell the measure;Toast the maid of your heart, an' I'll pledge you with pleasure;Then a bumper I claim to my heart's dearest treasure—The fair-bosom'd, warm-hearted Flower o' Glencoe.
Jane Cross Bell, better known by her assumed name of "Gertrude," is the daughter of the late James Bell, Esq., Advocate, and was born in Glasgow. Her first effusions, written in early youth, were published in theGreenock Advertiser, while her father for a short time resided in that town, as assessor to the Magistrates. To the pages of theEdinburgh Literary Journalshe afterwards contributed numerous poetical compositions, and subsequently various articles in prose and verse to theScottish Christian Herald, then under the able editorship of the Rev. Dr Gardner. In 1836, "Gertrude" published a small volume of tales and sketches, entitled, "The Piety of Daily Life;" and, in 1838, a duodecimo volume of lyric poetry, named, "April Hours." Her latest work, "Woman's History," appeared in 1848.
In July 1837, Miss Bell was married to her cousin, Mr J. B. Simpson, and has since resided chiefly in Glasgow. Amidst numerous domestic avocations in which she has latterly been involved, Mrs Simpson continues to devote a considerable portion of her time to literary pursuits. She is at present engaged in a poetical work of a more ambitious description than any she has yet offered to the public.
Oh! the winning charm of gentleness, so beautiful to me,'Tis this has bound my soul so long, so tenderly, to thee;The gentle heart, like jewel bright, beneath the ocean blue,In every look and tone of thine, still shining sweetly through!What though the crowd with wonder bow, before great genius' fire,And wit, with lightning flash, commands to reverence and admire;'Tis gentleness alone that gains the tribute of our love,And falls upon the ear, like dew on flowers, from heaven above!Ah! many a day has pass'd since then, yet I remember well,Once from my lips an angry thought, in hasty accents fell;A word of wrath I utter'd, in a light and wayward mood—Of wrath to thee, my earliest friend, the noble and the good!No answering words were given for mine, but, calm and bright as now,Thy speaking eyes a moment dwelt upon my ruffled brow,And then a sweet, forgiving smile came o'er thy pensive face,And thy hand was softly tender'd me, with melancholy grace.An instant mute and motionless, before thee did I stand,And gazed upon thy placid mien, thy smile, thy proffer'd hand—Ah! ne'er could angel, sent to walk this earth of sinful men,Look lovelier in his robes of light, than thou to me wert then!I long'd to weep—I strove to speak—no words came from my tongue,Then silently to thy embrace, I wildly, fondly sprung;The sting of guilt, like lightning, struck to my awaken'd mind;I could have borne to meet thy wrath—'twas death to see thee kind!'Tis ever thus! when anger wins but anger in return,A trifle grows a thing of weight, and fast the fire will burn;But when reproachful words are still in mild forgiveness past,The proudest soul will own his fault, and melt in tears at last!O Gentleness! thy gentleness, so beautiful to me!It will ever bind my heart in love and tenderness to thee;I bless thee for all high-born thoughts, that fill that breast of thine,But most, I bless thee for that gift of gentleness divine!
Oh! the winning charm of gentleness, so beautiful to me,'Tis this has bound my soul so long, so tenderly, to thee;The gentle heart, like jewel bright, beneath the ocean blue,In every look and tone of thine, still shining sweetly through!
What though the crowd with wonder bow, before great genius' fire,And wit, with lightning flash, commands to reverence and admire;'Tis gentleness alone that gains the tribute of our love,And falls upon the ear, like dew on flowers, from heaven above!
Ah! many a day has pass'd since then, yet I remember well,Once from my lips an angry thought, in hasty accents fell;A word of wrath I utter'd, in a light and wayward mood—Of wrath to thee, my earliest friend, the noble and the good!
No answering words were given for mine, but, calm and bright as now,Thy speaking eyes a moment dwelt upon my ruffled brow,And then a sweet, forgiving smile came o'er thy pensive face,And thy hand was softly tender'd me, with melancholy grace.
An instant mute and motionless, before thee did I stand,And gazed upon thy placid mien, thy smile, thy proffer'd hand—Ah! ne'er could angel, sent to walk this earth of sinful men,Look lovelier in his robes of light, than thou to me wert then!
I long'd to weep—I strove to speak—no words came from my tongue,Then silently to thy embrace, I wildly, fondly sprung;The sting of guilt, like lightning, struck to my awaken'd mind;I could have borne to meet thy wrath—'twas death to see thee kind!
'Tis ever thus! when anger wins but anger in return,A trifle grows a thing of weight, and fast the fire will burn;But when reproachful words are still in mild forgiveness past,The proudest soul will own his fault, and melt in tears at last!O Gentleness! thy gentleness, so beautiful to me!It will ever bind my heart in love and tenderness to thee;I bless thee for all high-born thoughts, that fill that breast of thine,But most, I bless thee for that gift of gentleness divine!
He loved her for her merry eye,That, like the vesper star,In evening's blue and deepening sky,Shed light and joy afar!He loved her for her golden hair,That o'er her shoulders hung;He loved her for her happy voice,The music of her tongue.He loved her for her airy formOf animated grace;He loved her for the light of soul,That brighten'd in her face.He loved her for her simple heart,A shrine of gentle things;He loved her for her sunny hopes,Her gay imaginings.But not for him that bosom beat,Or glanced that merry eye,Beneath whose diamond light he feltIt would be heaven to die.He never told her of his love,He breathed no prayer—no vow;But sat in silence by her side,And gazed upon her brow.And when, at length, she pass'd away,Another's smiling bride,He made his home 'mid ocean's waves—He died upon its tide.
He loved her for her merry eye,That, like the vesper star,In evening's blue and deepening sky,Shed light and joy afar!
He loved her for her golden hair,That o'er her shoulders hung;He loved her for her happy voice,The music of her tongue.
He loved her for her airy formOf animated grace;He loved her for the light of soul,That brighten'd in her face.
He loved her for her simple heart,A shrine of gentle things;He loved her for her sunny hopes,Her gay imaginings.
But not for him that bosom beat,Or glanced that merry eye,Beneath whose diamond light he feltIt would be heaven to die.
He never told her of his love,He breathed no prayer—no vow;But sat in silence by her side,And gazed upon her brow.
And when, at length, she pass'd away,Another's smiling bride,He made his home 'mid ocean's waves—He died upon its tide.
To live in cities—and to joinThe loud and busy throng,Who press with mad and giddy haste,In pleasure's chase along;To yield the soul to fashion's rules,Ambition's varied strife;Borne like a leaf upon the stream—Oh! no—this is not life!To pass the calm and pleasant hours,By wild wood, hill, and grove,And find a heaven in solitude,With one we deeply love;To know the wealth of happiness,That each to each can give,And feel no power can sever us—Ah! this it is to live!It is not death, when on the couchOf sickness we are laid,With all our spirit wasted,And the bloom of youth decay'd;To feel the shadow dim our eyes,And pant for failing breath;Then break at length life's feeble hain—Oh, no! this is not death!To part from one beneath whose smilesWe long were used to dwell,To hear the lips we love pronounceA passionate farewell;To catch the lasttootender glanceOf an adoring eye,And weep in solitude of heart—Ah! this it is to die!
To live in cities—and to joinThe loud and busy throng,Who press with mad and giddy haste,In pleasure's chase along;To yield the soul to fashion's rules,Ambition's varied strife;Borne like a leaf upon the stream—Oh! no—this is not life!
To pass the calm and pleasant hours,By wild wood, hill, and grove,And find a heaven in solitude,With one we deeply love;To know the wealth of happiness,That each to each can give,And feel no power can sever us—Ah! this it is to live!
It is not death, when on the couchOf sickness we are laid,With all our spirit wasted,And the bloom of youth decay'd;To feel the shadow dim our eyes,And pant for failing breath;Then break at length life's feeble hain—Oh, no! this is not death!
To part from one beneath whose smilesWe long were used to dwell,To hear the lips we love pronounceA passionate farewell;To catch the lasttootender glanceOf an adoring eye,And weep in solitude of heart—Ah! this it is to die!
Good night! the silver stars are clear,On evening's placid brow;We have been long together, love—We must part now.Good night! I never can forgetThis long bright summer day,We pass'd among the woods and streams,Far, far away!Good night! we have had happy smiles,Fond dreams, and wishes true,And holier thoughts and communings,And weeping too.Good night! perchance I ne'er may spendAgain so sweet a time,Alone with Nature and with thee,In my life's prime!Good night! yet e'er we sever, love,Take thou this faded flower,And lay it next thy heart, againstOur meeting hour.Good night! the silver stars are clear,Thy homeward way to light;Remember this long summer day—Good night! good night!
Good night! the silver stars are clear,On evening's placid brow;We have been long together, love—We must part now.
Good night! I never can forgetThis long bright summer day,We pass'd among the woods and streams,Far, far away!
Good night! we have had happy smiles,Fond dreams, and wishes true,And holier thoughts and communings,And weeping too.
Good night! perchance I ne'er may spendAgain so sweet a time,Alone with Nature and with thee,In my life's prime!
Good night! yet e'er we sever, love,Take thou this faded flower,And lay it next thy heart, againstOur meeting hour.
Good night! the silver stars are clear,Thy homeward way to light;Remember this long summer day—Good night! good night!
The author of numerous poetical works, Andrew Park was born at Renfrew, on the 7th March 1811. After an ordinary education at the parish school, he attended during two sessions the University of Glasgow. In his fifteenth year he entered a commission warehouse in Paisley, and while resident in that town, published his first poem, entitled the "Vision of Mankind." About the age of twenty he went to Glasgow, as salesman in a hat manufactory; and shortly after, he commenced business on his own account. At this period he published several additional volumes of poems. His business falling off in consequence of a visitation of cholera in the city, he disposed of his stock and proceeded to London, to follow the career of a man of letters. After some years' residence in the metropolis, he returned to Glasgow in 1841; and having purchased the stock of the poet Dugald Moore, recently deceased, he became a bookseller in Ingram Street. The speculation proved unfortunate, and he finally retired from the concerns of business. He has since lived principally in Glasgow, but occasionally in London. In 1856 he visited Egypt and other Eastern countries, and the following year published a narrative of his travels in a duodecimo volume, entitled, "Egypt and the East."
Of the twelve volumes of poems which Mr Park has given to the public, that entitled "Silent Love" has been the most popular. It has appeared in a handsome form, with illustrations by J. Noel Paton, R.S.A. In one ofhis poems, entitled "Veritas," published in 1849, he has supplied a narrative of the principal events of his life up to that period. Of his numerous songs, several have obtained a wide popularity. The whole of his poetical works were published in 1854, by Bogue of London, in a handsome volume, royal octavo.
Hurrah for the Highlands! the stern Scottish Highlands,The home of the clansmen, the brave and the free;Where the clouds love to rest, on the mountain's rough breastEre they journey afar o'er the islandless sea.'Tis there where the cataract sings to the breeze,As it dashes in foam like a spirit of light;And 'tis there the bold fisherman bounds o'er the seas,In his fleet tiny bark, through the perilous night.'Tis the land of deep shadow, of sunshine, and shower,Where the hurricane revels in madness on high;For there it has might that can war with its power,In the wild dizzy cliffs that are cleaving the sky.I have trod merry England, and dwelt on its charms;I have wander'd through Erin, that gem of the sea;But the Highlands alone the true Scottish heart warms—Her heather is blooming, her eagles are free!
Hurrah for the Highlands! the stern Scottish Highlands,The home of the clansmen, the brave and the free;Where the clouds love to rest, on the mountain's rough breastEre they journey afar o'er the islandless sea.
'Tis there where the cataract sings to the breeze,As it dashes in foam like a spirit of light;And 'tis there the bold fisherman bounds o'er the seas,In his fleet tiny bark, through the perilous night.
'Tis the land of deep shadow, of sunshine, and shower,Where the hurricane revels in madness on high;For there it has might that can war with its power,In the wild dizzy cliffs that are cleaving the sky.
I have trod merry England, and dwelt on its charms;I have wander'd through Erin, that gem of the sea;But the Highlands alone the true Scottish heart warms—Her heather is blooming, her eagles are free!