The dreary reign of Winter 's past,The frost, the snow, the surly blast,To polar hills are scouring fast;For balmy Spring 's returning.Adown Glen-Garnock's lonely vale,The torrent's voice has ceased to wail;But soft low notes, borne on the gale,Dispel dull gloom and mourning.With toil and long fatigue depress'd,Exhausted nature sunk oppress'd,Till waken'd from her slumbering rest,By balmy Spring returning.Now in flower'd vesture, green and gay,Lovelier each succeeding day;Soon from her face shall pass away,Each trace of Winter's mourning.Lo, at her mild benign command,Life rouses up on every hand;While bursts of joy o'er all the land,Hail balmy Spring returning.E'en murmuring stream and raving linn,And solemn wood in softened din,All join great Nature's praise to hymn,That fled is Winter's mourning.While all on earth, and in the skies,In transports fervently rejoice,Shall man refuse to raise his voice,And welcome Spring returning?If such ingrates exist below,They ne'er can feel the sacred glow,That Nature and the Muse bestow,To cheer the gloom of mourning.
The dreary reign of Winter 's past,The frost, the snow, the surly blast,To polar hills are scouring fast;For balmy Spring 's returning.Adown Glen-Garnock's lonely vale,The torrent's voice has ceased to wail;But soft low notes, borne on the gale,Dispel dull gloom and mourning.
With toil and long fatigue depress'd,Exhausted nature sunk oppress'd,Till waken'd from her slumbering rest,By balmy Spring returning.Now in flower'd vesture, green and gay,Lovelier each succeeding day;Soon from her face shall pass away,Each trace of Winter's mourning.
Lo, at her mild benign command,Life rouses up on every hand;While bursts of joy o'er all the land,Hail balmy Spring returning.E'en murmuring stream and raving linn,And solemn wood in softened din,All join great Nature's praise to hymn,That fled is Winter's mourning.
While all on earth, and in the skies,In transports fervently rejoice,Shall man refuse to raise his voice,And welcome Spring returning?If such ingrates exist below,They ne'er can feel the sacred glow,That Nature and the Muse bestow,To cheer the gloom of mourning.
A man of unobtrusive literary merit, and no inconsiderable poetical ability, Robert Hendry was born at Paisley on the 7th October 1791. Descended from a respectable family in Morayshire, his paternal great-grandfather fixed his residence in Glasgow. His grandfather, after serving as a lieutenant under the Duke of Cumberland in Holland, quitted the army, and settled as a silk manufacturer in Paisley. Under the name of "The Hollander," this gentleman had the distinction of being lampooned by Alexander Wilson, during the days of his hot youth, prior to his embarkation for America. Of his two sons, the elder removed to London, where he became senior Alderman, and died on the eve of his nomination as Lord Mayor.
The grandson of "The Hollander," by his second son, the subject of this memoir, was, in his twelfth year, apprenticed to his maternal uncle, a medical practitioner. On the completion of a course of philosophical and medical study at the University of Glasgow, he obtained his diploma, and settled as a surgeon in his native town. Amidst due attention to his professional duties, he became ardently devoted to literary pursuits. Besides conducting several local periodicals, he contributed to some of the more important serials. During the year 1826, which proved so disastrous to the manufacturing interests in Paisley, he devised a scheme for the relief of the unemployed, and his services were appropriately acknowledged by the magistrates. He afterwards sought the general improvement of the burgh, and among many other fiscal and sanitary reforms, succeeded in introducing into the place a supply of excellent water. Declining the provostship offered him by the Town Council, he retired a few years since to the village of Helensburgh, where he continues to reside.
Dr Hendry was an intimate acquaintance of Tannahill; and afterwards ranked among his friends the poet Motherwell and Robert Archibald Smith. He has at various time contributed verses to the periodicals. Latterly his attention has been more especially directed to scientific pursuits.
Oh, let na gang yon bonnie lassieCam' to see you a' yestreen;A winning gate 's about that lassie,Something mair than meets the een.Had she na baked the Christmas pasty,Think ye it had been sae fine?Or yet the biscuit sae deliciousThat we crumpit to the wine?Her ringlets are the gift o' nature,Flowing gracefu' o'er her brow;The turn, the hue o' ilka feature,Form, and colour, nature drew.She 's meikle sought, and meikle thought o',Lang unwedded canna be;Wi' kindness court the comely creature,Cast the glaumrie o'er her e'e.Have ye an ear can be delighted?Like a seraph she can sing,Wi' charming grace and witching manner,Thrilling o'er the music string.Her tell the tale that moves to pity,But wi' heart and feeling speak;Then watch the turn o' ilka feature,Kiss the tear that weets her cheek.She sooms na aye in silk or satin,Flaunting like a modern belle;Her robe and plaid 's the simple tartan,Sweet and modest like hersel'.The shapely robe adorns her personThat her eident hand wad sew;The plaid sae graceful flung around her,'Twas her tastefu' manner threw.She 'll mak' a thrifty loving womanTo a kind weel-doing man,Forby a tender-hearted mother—Win the lassie if ye can.For weel she 's worth your heart and treasure;May your bridal day be near—Then half a score o' bairns hereafter—May ye live a hunder year.
Oh, let na gang yon bonnie lassieCam' to see you a' yestreen;A winning gate 's about that lassie,Something mair than meets the een.Had she na baked the Christmas pasty,Think ye it had been sae fine?Or yet the biscuit sae deliciousThat we crumpit to the wine?
Her ringlets are the gift o' nature,Flowing gracefu' o'er her brow;The turn, the hue o' ilka feature,Form, and colour, nature drew.She 's meikle sought, and meikle thought o',Lang unwedded canna be;Wi' kindness court the comely creature,Cast the glaumrie o'er her e'e.
Have ye an ear can be delighted?Like a seraph she can sing,Wi' charming grace and witching manner,Thrilling o'er the music string.Her tell the tale that moves to pity,But wi' heart and feeling speak;Then watch the turn o' ilka feature,Kiss the tear that weets her cheek.
She sooms na aye in silk or satin,Flaunting like a modern belle;Her robe and plaid 's the simple tartan,Sweet and modest like hersel'.The shapely robe adorns her personThat her eident hand wad sew;The plaid sae graceful flung around her,'Twas her tastefu' manner threw.
She 'll mak' a thrifty loving womanTo a kind weel-doing man,Forby a tender-hearted mother—Win the lassie if ye can.For weel she 's worth your heart and treasure;May your bridal day be near—Then half a score o' bairns hereafter—May ye live a hunder year.
Hew Ainslie was born on the 5th April 1792, at Bargeny Mains, in the parish of Dailly, and county of Ayr. Receiving the rudiments of education from a private teacher in his father's house, he entered the parish school of Ballantrae in his tenth year, and afterwards became a pupil in the academy of Ayr. A period of bad health induced him to forego the regular prosecution of learning, and, having quitted the academy, he accepted employment as an assistant landscape gardener on the estate of Sir Hew Dalrymple Hamilton. At the age of sixteen he entered the writing chambers of a legal gentleman in Glasgow, but the confinement of the office proving uncongenial, he took a hasty departure, throwing himself on the protection of some relatives at Roslin, near Edinburgh. His father's family soon after removed to Roslin, and through the kindly interest of Mr Thomas Thomson, Deputy-Clerk Register, he procured a clerkship in the General Register House, Edinburgh. For some months he acted as amanuensis to Professor Dugald Stewart, in transcribing his last work for the press.
Having entered into the married state, and finding the salary of his office in the Register House unequal to the comfortable maintenance of his family, he resolved to emigrate to the United States, in the hope of bettering his circumstances. Arriving at New York in July 1822, he made purchase of a farm in that State, and there resided the three following years. He next made a trial of theSocial System of Robert Owen, at New Harmony, but abandoned the project at the close of a year. In 1827 he entered into partnership with Messrs Price & Wood, brewers, in Cincinnati, and set up a branch of the establishment at Louisville. Removing to New Albany, Indiana, he there built a large brewery for a joint-stock company, and in 1832 erected in that place similar premises on his own account. The former was ruined by the great Ohio flood of 1832, and the latter perished by fire in 1834. He has since followed the occupation of superintending the erection of mills and factories; and has latterly fixed his abode in Jersey, a suburb of New York.
Early imbued with the love of song, Mr Ainslie composed verses when a youth on the mountains of Carrick. A visit to his native country in 1820 revived the ardour of his muse; and shortly before his departure to America, he published the whole of his rhyming effusions in a duodecimo volume, with the title, "Pilgrimage to the Land of Burns." A second volume from his pen, entitled, "Scottish Songs, Ballads, and Poems," was in 1855 published at New York.
Each whirl of the wheel,Each step brings me nearerThe hame of my youth—Every object grows dearer.Thae hills and thae huts,And thae trees on that green,Losh! they glower in my faceLike some kindly auld frien'.E'en the brutes they look social,As gif they would crack;And the sang o' the birdsSeems to welcome me back.Oh, dear to our heartsIs the hand that first fed us,And dear is the landAnd the cottage that bred us.And dear are the comradesWith whom we once sported,And dearer the maidenWhose love we first courted.Joy's image may perish,E'en grief die away;But the scenes of our youthAre recorded for aye.
Each whirl of the wheel,Each step brings me nearerThe hame of my youth—Every object grows dearer.Thae hills and thae huts,And thae trees on that green,Losh! they glower in my faceLike some kindly auld frien'.
E'en the brutes they look social,As gif they would crack;And the sang o' the birdsSeems to welcome me back.Oh, dear to our heartsIs the hand that first fed us,And dear is the landAnd the cottage that bred us.
And dear are the comradesWith whom we once sported,And dearer the maidenWhose love we first courted.Joy's image may perish,E'en grief die away;But the scenes of our youthAre recorded for aye.
Its dowie in the hint o' hairst,At the wa'-gang o' the swallow,When the wind grows cauld, and the burns grow bauld,And the wuds are hingin' yellow;But oh, its dowier far to seeThe wa-gang o' her the heart gangs wi',The dead-set o' a shinin' e'e—That darkens the weary warld on thee.There was mickle love atween us twa—Oh, twa could ne'er be fonder;And the thing on yird was never made,That could hae gart us sunder.But the way of heaven's aboon a' ken,And we maun bear what it likes to sen'—It's comfort, though, to weary men,That the warst o' this warld's waes maun en'.There's mony things that come and gae,Just kent, and just forgotten;And the flowers that busk a bonnie brae,Gin anither year lie rotten.But the last look o' that lovely e'e,And the dying grip she gae to me,They're settled like eternitie—Oh, Mary! that I were wi' thee.
Its dowie in the hint o' hairst,At the wa'-gang o' the swallow,When the wind grows cauld, and the burns grow bauld,And the wuds are hingin' yellow;But oh, its dowier far to seeThe wa-gang o' her the heart gangs wi',The dead-set o' a shinin' e'e—That darkens the weary warld on thee.
There was mickle love atween us twa—Oh, twa could ne'er be fonder;And the thing on yird was never made,That could hae gart us sunder.But the way of heaven's aboon a' ken,And we maun bear what it likes to sen'—It's comfort, though, to weary men,That the warst o' this warld's waes maun en'.
There's mony things that come and gae,Just kent, and just forgotten;And the flowers that busk a bonnie brae,Gin anither year lie rotten.But the last look o' that lovely e'e,And the dying grip she gae to me,They're settled like eternitie—Oh, Mary! that I were wi' thee.
Can you lo'e, my dear lassie,The hills wild and free;Whar' the sang o' the shepherdGars a' ring wi' glee?Or the steep rocky glens,Where the wild falcons bide?Then on wi' the tartan,And, fy, let us ride!Can ye lo'e the knowes, lassie,That ne'er war in rigs?Or the bonnie loune lee,Where the sweet robin bigs?Or the sang o' the lintie,Whan wooin' his bride?Then on wi' the tartan,And, fy, let us ride!Can ye lo'e the burn, lassie,That loups amang linns?Or the bonnie green howmes,Where it cannilie rins,Wi' a cantie bit housie,Sae snug by its side?Then on wi' the tartan,And, fy, let us ride!
Can you lo'e, my dear lassie,The hills wild and free;Whar' the sang o' the shepherdGars a' ring wi' glee?Or the steep rocky glens,Where the wild falcons bide?Then on wi' the tartan,And, fy, let us ride!
Can ye lo'e the knowes, lassie,That ne'er war in rigs?Or the bonnie loune lee,Where the sweet robin bigs?Or the sang o' the lintie,Whan wooin' his bride?Then on wi' the tartan,And, fy, let us ride!
Can ye lo'e the burn, lassie,That loups amang linns?Or the bonnie green howmes,Where it cannilie rins,Wi' a cantie bit housie,Sae snug by its side?Then on wi' the tartan,And, fy, let us ride!
The Rover o' Lochryan, he's gane,Wi' his merry men sae brave;Their hearts are o' the steel, an' a better keelNe'er bowl'd owre the back o' a wave.Its no when the loch lies dead in his troughWhen naething disturbs it ava;But the rack and the ride o' the restless tide,Or the splash o' the gray sea-maw.Its no when the yawl an' the light skiffs crawlOwre the breast o' the siller sea;That I look to the west for the bark I lo'e best,An' the rover that's dear to me,But when that the clud lays its cheek to the flud,An' the sea lays its shouther to the shore;When the win' sings high, and the sea-whaup's cry,As they rise frae the whitening roar.Its then that I look to the thickening rook,An' watch by the midnight tide;I ken the wind brings my rover hame,An' the sea that he glories to ride.Oh, merry he sits 'mang his jovial crew,Wi' the helm heft in his hand,An' he sings aloud to his boys in blue,As his e'e's upon Galloway's land:"Unstent and slack each reef an' tack,Gae her sail, boys, while it may sit;She has roar'd through a heavier sea afore,An' she'll roar through a heavier yet.When landsmen sleep, or wake an' creep,In the tempest's angry moan,We dash through the drift, and sing to the liftO' the wave that heaves us on."
The Rover o' Lochryan, he's gane,Wi' his merry men sae brave;Their hearts are o' the steel, an' a better keelNe'er bowl'd owre the back o' a wave.Its no when the loch lies dead in his troughWhen naething disturbs it ava;But the rack and the ride o' the restless tide,Or the splash o' the gray sea-maw.
Its no when the yawl an' the light skiffs crawlOwre the breast o' the siller sea;That I look to the west for the bark I lo'e best,An' the rover that's dear to me,But when that the clud lays its cheek to the flud,An' the sea lays its shouther to the shore;When the win' sings high, and the sea-whaup's cry,As they rise frae the whitening roar.
Its then that I look to the thickening rook,An' watch by the midnight tide;I ken the wind brings my rover hame,An' the sea that he glories to ride.Oh, merry he sits 'mang his jovial crew,Wi' the helm heft in his hand,An' he sings aloud to his boys in blue,As his e'e's upon Galloway's land:
"Unstent and slack each reef an' tack,Gae her sail, boys, while it may sit;She has roar'd through a heavier sea afore,An' she'll roar through a heavier yet.When landsmen sleep, or wake an' creep,In the tempest's angry moan,We dash through the drift, and sing to the liftO' the wave that heaves us on."
Bare was our burn brae,December's blast had blawn,The last flower was dead,An' the brown leaf had fa'n:It was dark in the deep glen,Hoary was our hill;An' the win' frae the cauld north,Cam' heavy and chill:When I said fare-ye-weel,To my kith and my kin;My barque it lay ahead,An' my cot-house ahin';I had nought left to tine,I'd a wide warl' to try;But my heart it wadna lift,An' my e'e it wadna dry.I look'd lang at the ha',Through the mist o' my tears,Where the kind lassie lived,I had run wi' for years;E'en the glens where we sat,Wi' their broom-covered knowes,Took a haud on this heartThat I ne'er can unloose.I hae wander'd sin' syne,By gay temples and towers,Where the ungather'd spiceScents the breeze in their bowers;Oh! sic scenes I could leaveWithout pain or regret;But the last look o' hameI ne'er can forget.
Bare was our burn brae,December's blast had blawn,The last flower was dead,An' the brown leaf had fa'n:It was dark in the deep glen,Hoary was our hill;An' the win' frae the cauld north,Cam' heavy and chill:
When I said fare-ye-weel,To my kith and my kin;My barque it lay ahead,An' my cot-house ahin';I had nought left to tine,I'd a wide warl' to try;But my heart it wadna lift,An' my e'e it wadna dry.
I look'd lang at the ha',Through the mist o' my tears,Where the kind lassie lived,I had run wi' for years;E'en the glens where we sat,Wi' their broom-covered knowes,Took a haud on this heartThat I ne'er can unloose.
I hae wander'd sin' syne,By gay temples and towers,Where the ungather'd spiceScents the breeze in their bowers;Oh! sic scenes I could leaveWithout pain or regret;But the last look o' hameI ne'er can forget.
Air—'My ain fireside.'
When I think on the lads an' the land I hae left,An' how love has been lifted, an' friendship been reft;How the hinnie o' hope has been jumbled wi' ga',Then I sigh for the lads an' the land far awa'.When I think on the days o' delight we hae seen,When the flame o' the spirit would spark in the e'en;Then I say, as in sorrow I think on ye a',Where will I find hearts like the hearts far awa?When I think on the nights we hae spent hand in hand,Wi' mirth for our sowther, and friendship our band,This world gets dark; but ilk night has a daw',And I yet may rejoice in the land far awa'!
When I think on the lads an' the land I hae left,An' how love has been lifted, an' friendship been reft;How the hinnie o' hope has been jumbled wi' ga',Then I sigh for the lads an' the land far awa'.
When I think on the days o' delight we hae seen,When the flame o' the spirit would spark in the e'en;Then I say, as in sorrow I think on ye a',Where will I find hearts like the hearts far awa?
When I think on the nights we hae spent hand in hand,Wi' mirth for our sowther, and friendship our band,This world gets dark; but ilk night has a daw',And I yet may rejoice in the land far awa'!
My bonnie wee Bell was a mitherless bairn,Her aunty was sour, an' her uncle was stern;While her cousin was aft in a cankersome mood;But that hinder'd na Bell growing bonnie and gude.When we ran to the schule, I was aye by her han',To wyse off the busses, or help owre a stran';An' as aulder we grew, a' the neighbours could tellHoo my liking grew wi' thee, my bonnie wee Bell.Thy cousin gangs dinkit, thy cousin gangs drest,In her silks and her satins, the brawest and best;But the gloss o' a cheek, the glint o' an e'e,Are jewels frae heaven, nae tocher can gie.Some goud, an' some siller, my auld gutcher left,An' in houses an' mailins I'll soon be infeft;I've a vow in the heaven, I've an aith wi' thysel',I'll make room in this world for thee, bonnie Bell.
My bonnie wee Bell was a mitherless bairn,Her aunty was sour, an' her uncle was stern;While her cousin was aft in a cankersome mood;But that hinder'd na Bell growing bonnie and gude.
When we ran to the schule, I was aye by her han',To wyse off the busses, or help owre a stran';An' as aulder we grew, a' the neighbours could tellHoo my liking grew wi' thee, my bonnie wee Bell.
Thy cousin gangs dinkit, thy cousin gangs drest,In her silks and her satins, the brawest and best;But the gloss o' a cheek, the glint o' an e'e,Are jewels frae heaven, nae tocher can gie.
Some goud, an' some siller, my auld gutcher left,An' in houses an' mailins I'll soon be infeft;I've a vow in the heaven, I've an aith wi' thysel',I'll make room in this world for thee, bonnie Bell.
William Thomson was born in 1797, in the village of Kennoway, Fifeshire. He has constantly resided in his native place. After obtaining an ordinary education at the parish school, he engaged in the business of a manufacturer. Relinquishing this occupation, he became a grocer and general merchant; and since 1824, he has held the office of Postmaster. He composed verses at an early period. In 1825, some of his verses appeared in thePaisley Advertiser, and the favour with which they were received induced him to offer some poetical compositions to theFife Herald, a newspaper which had just been established in the capital of his native county. Under the signature ofTheta, he has since been a regular contributor of verses to that journal. He has likewise contributed articles in prose and poetry to other newspapers and some of the periodicals.
The soldier waves the shining sword, the shepherd boy his crook,The boatman plies the splashing oar, but well I love the hook.When swift I haste at sunny morn, unto the spreading plain,And view before me, like a sea, the fields of golden grain,And listen to the cheerful sound of harvest's echoing horn,Or join the merry reaper band, that gather in the corn;How sweet the friendly welcoming, how gladsome every look,Ere we begin, with busy hands, to wield the Reaping Hook.My Reaping Hook! my Reaping Hook! I love thee better far,Than glancing spear and temper'd sword, bright instruments of war;As thee I grasp with willing hand, and feel a reaper's glee,When, waving in the rustling breeze, the ripen'd field I see;Or listen to the harmless jest, the bandsman's cheerful song,The hearty laugh, the rustic mirth, while mingling 'mid the throng;With joy I see the well-fill'd sheaf, and mark each rising stook,As thee I ply with agile arm, my trusty Reaping Hook!They tell of glorious battle-fields, strew'd thick with heaps of slain!Alas! the triumphs of the sword bring only grief and pain;But thou, my shining Reaping Hook, the symbol art of peace,And fill'st a thousand families with smiles and happiness;While conquering warrior's burning brand, amid his gory path,The emblem is of pain and woe, of man's destructive wrath.Soon therefore may the spear give place unto the shepherd's crook,And the conqueror's flaming sword be turn'd into a Reaping Hook!
The soldier waves the shining sword, the shepherd boy his crook,The boatman plies the splashing oar, but well I love the hook.When swift I haste at sunny morn, unto the spreading plain,And view before me, like a sea, the fields of golden grain,And listen to the cheerful sound of harvest's echoing horn,Or join the merry reaper band, that gather in the corn;How sweet the friendly welcoming, how gladsome every look,Ere we begin, with busy hands, to wield the Reaping Hook.
My Reaping Hook! my Reaping Hook! I love thee better far,Than glancing spear and temper'd sword, bright instruments of war;As thee I grasp with willing hand, and feel a reaper's glee,When, waving in the rustling breeze, the ripen'd field I see;Or listen to the harmless jest, the bandsman's cheerful song,The hearty laugh, the rustic mirth, while mingling 'mid the throng;With joy I see the well-fill'd sheaf, and mark each rising stook,As thee I ply with agile arm, my trusty Reaping Hook!
They tell of glorious battle-fields, strew'd thick with heaps of slain!Alas! the triumphs of the sword bring only grief and pain;But thou, my shining Reaping Hook, the symbol art of peace,And fill'st a thousand families with smiles and happiness;While conquering warrior's burning brand, amid his gory path,The emblem is of pain and woe, of man's destructive wrath.Soon therefore may the spear give place unto the shepherd's crook,And the conqueror's flaming sword be turn'd into a Reaping Hook!
Alexander Smart was born at Montrose on the 26th April 1798. His father was a respectable shoemaker in the place. A portion of his school education was conducted under the care of one Norval, a teacher in the Montrose Academy, whose mode of infusing knowledge he has not unjustly satirised in his poem, entitled "Recollections of Auld Lang Syne." Norval was a model among the tyrant pedagogues of the past; and as an illustration of Scottish school life fifty years since, we present our author's reminiscences of the despot. "Gruesome in visage and deformed in body, his mind reflected the grim and tortuous aspects of his person. The recollection of his monstrous cruelties,—his cruel flagellations,—is still unaccountably depressing. One day of horrors I shall never cease to remember. Every Saturday he caused the pupils to repeat a prayer which he had composed for their use; and in hearing which he stood over each with a paper ruler, ready, in the event of omission of word or phrase, to strike down the unfortunate offender, who all the while drooped tremblingly before him. On one of these days of extorted prayer, I was found at fault in my grammar lesson, and the offence was deemed worthy of peculiar castigation. The school was dismissed at the usual time, but, along with a few other boys who were to become witnesses of my punishment and disgrace, I was detained in the class-room, and dragged to the presence of the tyrant. Despite of his every effort, I resisted being bound to the bench, andflogged after the fashion of the times. So the punishment was commuted into 'palmies.' Horrible commutation! Sixty lashes with leather thongs on my right hand, inflicted with all the severity of a tyrant's wrath, made me scream in the anguish of desperation. My pitiless tormentor, unmoved by the sight of my hand sorely lacerated, and swollen to twice its natural size, threatened to cut out my tongue if I continued to complain; and so saying, laid hold on a pair of scissors, and inflicted a deep cut on my lip. The horrors of the day fortunately emancipated me from the further control of the despot."
At another seminary Smart completed his education. He was now apprenticed to a watchmaker in his native town, his hours of leisure being sedulously devoted to the perusal of the more distinguished British poets. It was his delight to repeat his favourite passages in solitary rambles on the sea beach. In 1819, on the completion of his apprenticeship, he proceeded to Edinburgh, where, during a period of six months, he wrought at his trade. But the sedentary life of a watchmaker proving injurious to his health, he was led to seek employment in a printing-office. Soon after, he became editor, printer, and publisher of theMontrose Chronicle, a newspaper which was originated in his native town, but which proved unsuccessful. He thereafter held an appointment in the office of theDundee Courier. Returning to Edinburgh, he accepted employment as a pressman in a respectable printing-office, and afterwards attained the position of press overseer in one of the most important printing establishments of the city.
In his twentieth year Smart adventured on the composition of verses, but being dissatisfied with his efforts, he consigned them to oblivion. He subsequently renewed his invocation of the Muse, and in 1834 published a small duodecimo volume of poems and songs, entitled "Rambling Rhymes." This publication attracted considerable attention, and secured for the author the personal favour of Lord Jeffrey. He also received the commendation of Thomas Campbell, Charles Dickens, Thomas Babington Macaulay, Charles Mackay, and other literary and poetical celebrities. A new and enlarged edition of his volume appeared in 1845, and was dedicated by permission to Lord Jeffrey.
Smart was one of the principal contributors to "Whistle Binkie." At different periods he has composed excellent prose essays and sketches, some of which have appeared inHogg's Instructor. Those papers entitled "Burns and his Ancestors," "Leaves from an Autobiography," and "Scenes from the Life of a Sufferer," may be especially enumerated. Of a peculiarly nervous temperament, he has more than once experienced the miseries of mental aberration. Latterly he has completely recovered his health, and living in Edinburgh with his wife and family, he divides his time between the mechanical labours of the printing-office and the more congenial pursuits of literature.
When the bee has left the blossom,And the lark has closed his lay,And the daisy folds its bosomIn the dews of gloaming gray;When the virgin rose is bending,Wet with evening's pensive tear,And the purple light is blendingWith the soft moon rising clear;Meet me then, my own true maiden,Where the wild flowers shed their bloomAnd the air with fragrance laden,Breathes around a rich perfume.With my true love as I wander,Captive led by beauty's power,Thoughts and feelings sweet and tenderHallow that delightful hour.Give ambition dreams of glory,Give the poet laurell'd fame,Let renown in song and storyConsecrate the hero's name;Give the great their pomp and pleasure,Give the courtier place and power;Give to me my bosom's treasure,And the lonely gloaming hour.
When the bee has left the blossom,And the lark has closed his lay,And the daisy folds its bosomIn the dews of gloaming gray;When the virgin rose is bending,Wet with evening's pensive tear,And the purple light is blendingWith the soft moon rising clear;
Meet me then, my own true maiden,Where the wild flowers shed their bloomAnd the air with fragrance laden,Breathes around a rich perfume.With my true love as I wander,Captive led by beauty's power,Thoughts and feelings sweet and tenderHallow that delightful hour.
Give ambition dreams of glory,Give the poet laurell'd fame,Let renown in song and storyConsecrate the hero's name;Give the great their pomp and pleasure,Give the courtier place and power;Give to me my bosom's treasure,And the lonely gloaming hour.
Oh, leave me not! the evening hour,So soft, so still, is all our own;The dew descends on tree and flower,They breathe their sweets for thee alone.Oh, go not yet! the evening star,The rising moon, all bid thee stay;And dying echoes, faint and far,Invite our lingering steps to stray.Far from the city's noisy din,Beneath the pale moon's trembling light,That lip to press, those smiles to win,Will lend a rapture to the night.Let fortune fling her favours freeTo whom she will, I'll ne'er repine:Oh, what is all the world to me,While thus I clasp and call thee mine!
Oh, leave me not! the evening hour,So soft, so still, is all our own;The dew descends on tree and flower,They breathe their sweets for thee alone.Oh, go not yet! the evening star,The rising moon, all bid thee stay;And dying echoes, faint and far,Invite our lingering steps to stray.
Far from the city's noisy din,Beneath the pale moon's trembling light,That lip to press, those smiles to win,Will lend a rapture to the night.Let fortune fling her favours freeTo whom she will, I'll ne'er repine:Oh, what is all the world to me,While thus I clasp and call thee mine!
Never despair! when the dark cloud is lowering,The sun, though obscured, never ceases to shine;Above the black tempest his radiance is pouringWhile faithless and faint-hearted mortals repine.The journey of life has its lights and its shadows,And Heaven in its wisdom to each sends a share;Though rough be the road, yet with reason to guide us,And courage to conquer, we'll never despair!Never despair! when with troubles contending,Make labour and patience a sword and a shield,And win brighter laurels, with courage unbending,Than ever were gained on the blood-tainted field.As gay as the lark in the beam of the morning,When young hearts spring upward to do and to dare,The bright star of promise their future adorning,Will light them along, and they'll never despair!The oak in the tempest grows strong by resistance,The arm at the anvil gains muscular power,And firm self-reliance, that seeks no assistance,Goes onward, rejoicing, through sunshine and shower;For life is a struggle, to try and to prove us,And true hearts grow stronger by labour and care,While Hope, like a seraph, still whispers above us,—Look upward and onward, and never despair!
Never despair! when the dark cloud is lowering,The sun, though obscured, never ceases to shine;Above the black tempest his radiance is pouringWhile faithless and faint-hearted mortals repine.The journey of life has its lights and its shadows,And Heaven in its wisdom to each sends a share;Though rough be the road, yet with reason to guide us,And courage to conquer, we'll never despair!
Never despair! when with troubles contending,Make labour and patience a sword and a shield,And win brighter laurels, with courage unbending,Than ever were gained on the blood-tainted field.As gay as the lark in the beam of the morning,When young hearts spring upward to do and to dare,The bright star of promise their future adorning,Will light them along, and they'll never despair!
The oak in the tempest grows strong by resistance,The arm at the anvil gains muscular power,And firm self-reliance, that seeks no assistance,Goes onward, rejoicing, through sunshine and shower;For life is a struggle, to try and to prove us,And true hearts grow stronger by labour and care,While Hope, like a seraph, still whispers above us,—Look upward and onward, and never despair!
The author of some popular songs, and of four volumes of MS. poetry, John Dunlop is entitled to a place in the catalogue of Caledonian lyrists. The younger son of Colin Dunlop of Carmyle, he was born in November 1755, in the mansion of the paternal estate, in the parish of Old Monkland, and county of Lanark. Commencing his career as a merchant in Glasgow, he was in 1796 elevated to the Lord Provostship of the city. He afterwards accepted the office of Collector of Customs at Borrowstounness, and subsequently occupied the post of Collector at Port-Glasgow. His death took place at Port-Glasgow, in October 1820.
Possessed of fine poetic tastes and an elegant fancy, Dunlop composed verses on every variety of theme, with facility and power. His MS. volumes, which have been kindly submitted to our inspection by a descendant, and from which we have made some extracts, contain numerous poetical compositions worthy of being presented to the public. A vein of humour pervades the majority of his verses; in the elegiac strain he is eminently plaintive. He is remembered as a man of excellent dispositions and eminent social qualities: he sung with grace the songs of his country, and delighted in humorous conversation. His elder brother was proprietor of Garnkirk, and his son, who bore the same Christian name, became Sheriff of Renfrewshire. The latter is entitled to remembrance as the author of "The History of Fiction."
Here's to the year that's awa'!We will drink it in strong and in sma';And here's to ilk bonnie young lassie we lo'ed,While swift flew the year that's awa'.And here's to ilk, &c.Here's to the sodger who bled,And the sailor who bravely did fa';Their fame is alive, though their spirits are fledOn the wings of the year that's awa'.Their fame is alive, &c.Here's to the friends we can trustWhen the storms of adversity blaw;May they live in our song, and be nearest our hearts,Nor depart like the year that's awa'.May they live, &c.
Here's to the year that's awa'!We will drink it in strong and in sma';And here's to ilk bonnie young lassie we lo'ed,While swift flew the year that's awa'.And here's to ilk, &c.
Here's to the sodger who bled,And the sailor who bravely did fa';Their fame is alive, though their spirits are fledOn the wings of the year that's awa'.Their fame is alive, &c.
Here's to the friends we can trustWhen the storms of adversity blaw;May they live in our song, and be nearest our hearts,Nor depart like the year that's awa'.May they live, &c.
Tune—'Comin' through the rye.'
Oh, dinna ask me gin I lo'e thee;Troth, I daurna tell:Dinna ask me gin I lo'e ye;Ask it o' yoursel'.Oh, dinna look sae sair at me,For weel ye ken me true;Oh, gin ye look sae sair at me,I daurna look at you.When ye gang to yon braw, braw town,And bonnie lassies see,Oh, dinna, Jamie, look at them,Lest you should mind na me.For I could never bide the lassThat ye'd lo'e mair than me;And oh, I'm sure, my heart would break,Gin ye'd prove false to me.
Oh, dinna ask me gin I lo'e thee;Troth, I daurna tell:Dinna ask me gin I lo'e ye;Ask it o' yoursel'.
Oh, dinna look sae sair at me,For weel ye ken me true;Oh, gin ye look sae sair at me,I daurna look at you.
When ye gang to yon braw, braw town,And bonnie lassies see,Oh, dinna, Jamie, look at them,Lest you should mind na me.
For I could never bide the lassThat ye'd lo'e mair than me;And oh, I'm sure, my heart would break,Gin ye'd prove false to me.
Love flies the haunts of pomp and power,To find the calm retreat;Loathing he leaves the velvet couch,To seek the moss-grown seat.Splendid attire and gilded crownsCan ne'er with love accord;But russet robes, and rosy wreathes,His purest joys afford.From pride, from business, and from care,His greatest sorrows flow;When these usurp the heart of man,That heart he ne'er can know.
Love flies the haunts of pomp and power,To find the calm retreat;Loathing he leaves the velvet couch,To seek the moss-grown seat.
Splendid attire and gilded crownsCan ne'er with love accord;But russet robes, and rosy wreathes,His purest joys afford.
From pride, from business, and from care,His greatest sorrows flow;When these usurp the heart of man,That heart he ne'er can know.
Tune—'Where they go, where they go.'
For twenty years and more,Bloody war,Bloody war;For twenty years and more,Bloody war.For twenty years and moreWe heard the cannons roarTo swell the tide of gore,Bloody war!A tyrant on a throneWe have seen,We have seen;A tyrant on a throneWho thought the earth his own,But now is hardly knownTo have been.Who rung the loud alarmTo be free,To be free?Who rung the loud alarmTo be free?'Twas Britain broke the charm,And with her red right armShe rung the loud alarmTo be free.The battle van she ledOf the brave,Of the brave;The battle van she ledOf the brave;The battle van she led,Till tyranny lay dead,And glory crown'd the headOf the brave.Give honour to the braveWhere they lie,Where they lie;Give honour to the braveWhere they lie;Give honour to the brave,And sacred be the grave,On land or in the wave,Where they lie.
For twenty years and more,Bloody war,Bloody war;For twenty years and more,Bloody war.For twenty years and moreWe heard the cannons roarTo swell the tide of gore,Bloody war!
A tyrant on a throneWe have seen,We have seen;A tyrant on a throneWho thought the earth his own,But now is hardly knownTo have been.
Who rung the loud alarmTo be free,To be free?Who rung the loud alarmTo be free?'Twas Britain broke the charm,And with her red right armShe rung the loud alarmTo be free.
The battle van she ledOf the brave,Of the brave;The battle van she ledOf the brave;The battle van she led,Till tyranny lay dead,And glory crown'd the headOf the brave.
Give honour to the braveWhere they lie,Where they lie;Give honour to the braveWhere they lie;Give honour to the brave,And sacred be the grave,On land or in the wave,Where they lie.
William Blair, author of "The Highland Maid," was, in the year 1800, born at Dunfermline. The son of respectable parents of the industrial class, he received an ordinary education at the burgh school. Apprenticed to the loom, he became known as a writer of verses; and having attracted the notice of an officer's lady, then resident in the place, he was at her expense sent to the grammar school. Having made some progress in classical learning, he was recommended for educational employment in Dollar Academy; but no suitable situation being vacant at the period of his application, he was led to despair of emanating from the humble condition of his birth. A settled melancholy was afterwards succeeded by symptoms of permanent imbecility. For a number of years Blair has been an inmate of the Dunfermline poor house.
Again the laverock seeks the sky,And warbles, dimly seen;And summer views, wi' sunny joy,Her gowany robe o' green.But ah! the summer's blithe return,In flowery pride array'd,Nae mair can cheer this heart forlorn,Or charm the Highland Maid.My true love fell by Charlie's side,Wi' mony a clansman dear;That fatal day—oh, wae betideThe cruel Southron's spear!His bonnet blue is fallen now,And bluidy is the plaid,That aften on the mountain's brow,Has wrapt his Highland Maid.My father's shieling on the hillIs dowie now and sad;The breezes whisper round me still,I 've lost my Highland lad.Upon Culloden's fatal heath,He spake o' me, they said,And falter'd, wi' his dying breath,"Adieu, my Highland Maid!"The weary nicht for rest I seek,The langsome day I mourn;The smile upon my wither'd cheekCan never mair return.But soon beneath the sod I 'll lie,In yonder lonely glade;And, haply, ilka passer byWill mourn the Highland Maid.
Again the laverock seeks the sky,And warbles, dimly seen;And summer views, wi' sunny joy,Her gowany robe o' green.But ah! the summer's blithe return,In flowery pride array'd,Nae mair can cheer this heart forlorn,Or charm the Highland Maid.
My true love fell by Charlie's side,Wi' mony a clansman dear;That fatal day—oh, wae betideThe cruel Southron's spear!His bonnet blue is fallen now,And bluidy is the plaid,That aften on the mountain's brow,Has wrapt his Highland Maid.
My father's shieling on the hillIs dowie now and sad;The breezes whisper round me still,I 've lost my Highland lad.Upon Culloden's fatal heath,He spake o' me, they said,And falter'd, wi' his dying breath,"Adieu, my Highland Maid!"
The weary nicht for rest I seek,The langsome day I mourn;The smile upon my wither'd cheekCan never mair return.But soon beneath the sod I 'll lie,In yonder lonely glade;And, haply, ilka passer byWill mourn the Highland Maid.
Tune—"Brian the Brave."