Name the leaves on all the trees,Name the waves on all the seas,Name the notes of all the groves—Thus thou namest all my loves.I do love the dark, the fair,Golden ringlets, raven hair,Eye that swims in sunny light,Glance that shoots like lightning bright.I do love the stately dameAnd the sportive girl the same;Every changeful phase betweenBlooming cheek and brow serene.I do love the young, the old,Maiden modest, virgin bold,Tiny beauties, and the tall—Earth has room enough for all.Which is better—who can say?—Lucy grave or Mary gay?She who half her charms conceals?She who sparkles while she feels?Why should I confine my love?Nature bids us freely rove;God hath scatter'd wide the fair,Blooms and beauties everywhere.Paris was a pedant fool,Meting beauty by a rule:Pallas? Juno? Venus?—heShould have chosen all the three.I am wise, life's every blissThankful tasting; and a kissIs a sweet thing, I declare,From a dark maid or a fair.
Name the leaves on all the trees,Name the waves on all the seas,Name the notes of all the groves—Thus thou namest all my loves.
I do love the dark, the fair,Golden ringlets, raven hair,Eye that swims in sunny light,Glance that shoots like lightning bright.
I do love the stately dameAnd the sportive girl the same;Every changeful phase betweenBlooming cheek and brow serene.
I do love the young, the old,Maiden modest, virgin bold,Tiny beauties, and the tall—Earth has room enough for all.
Which is better—who can say?—Lucy grave or Mary gay?She who half her charms conceals?She who sparkles while she feels?
Why should I confine my love?Nature bids us freely rove;God hath scatter'd wide the fair,Blooms and beauties everywhere.
Paris was a pedant fool,Meting beauty by a rule:Pallas? Juno? Venus?—heShould have chosen all the three.
I am wise, life's every blissThankful tasting; and a kissIs a sweet thing, I declare,From a dark maid or a fair.
Liking is a little boyDreaming of a sea employ,Sitting by the stream, with joyPaper frigates sailing:Love 's an earnest-hearted man,Champion of beauty's clan,Fighting bravely in the van,Pushing and prevailing.Liking hovers round and round,Capers with a nimble bound,Plants his foot on easy ground,Through the glass to view it:Love shoots sudden glance for glance,Spurs the steed, and rests the lance,With a brisk and bold advance,Sworn to die or do it.Liking 's ever on the wing,From new blooms new sweets to bring;Nibbling aye, the nimble thingFrom the hook is free still:Love 's a tar of British blue,Let mad winds their maddest do,To his haven carded true,As I am to thee still.
Liking is a little boyDreaming of a sea employ,Sitting by the stream, with joyPaper frigates sailing:Love 's an earnest-hearted man,Champion of beauty's clan,Fighting bravely in the van,Pushing and prevailing.
Liking hovers round and round,Capers with a nimble bound,Plants his foot on easy ground,Through the glass to view it:Love shoots sudden glance for glance,Spurs the steed, and rests the lance,With a brisk and bold advance,Sworn to die or do it.
Liking 's ever on the wing,From new blooms new sweets to bring;Nibbling aye, the nimble thingFrom the hook is free still:Love 's a tar of British blue,Let mad winds their maddest do,To his haven carded true,As I am to thee still.
William Stirling of Keir, parliamentary representative of the county of Perth, was born on the 8th March 1818, in the mansion of Kenmure, in the vicinity of Glasgow. The only son of the late Archibald Stirling of Keir, his paternal ancestors, for a course of centuries, have been extensive landowners in the counties of Lanark and Perth. The representative of the house, Sir George Stirling, was a conspicuous supporter of the famous Marquis of Montrose. On the side of his mother, who was a daughter of Sir John Maxwell, Bart., of Polloc, he is descended from a family who adhered to the Covenant and the Revolution of 1688.
Mr Stirling took the degrees of B.A. and M.A. at Trinity College, Cambridge. To literary pursuits ardently devoted from his youth, he afforded the first indication of his peculiar tastes in a small poeticalbrochure. "The Songs of the Holy Land," composed chiefly during a visit to Palestine, were printed for private circulation in 1846, but were published with considerable additions in a handsome octavo volume in 1848. Two specimens of these sacred lays are inserted in the present work with the author's permission.
During a residence in Spain, Mr Stirling was led to direct his attention to the state of the Fine Arts in that country; and in 1848 he produced a work of much research and learning, entitled "Annals of the Artists of Spain," in three volumes octavo. In 1852 appeared "The Cloister Life of the Emperor Charles V.,"which has already passed through several editions, and has largely increased the reputation of the writer. His latest publication, "Velasquez and his Works" was published in 1855.
In 1852 Mr Stirling was elected, without opposition, member of Parliament for the county of Perth, and was again returned at the general election in April 1857. Recently he has evinced a deep interest in the literary improvement of the industrial population, by delivering lectures to the district Mechanics' Institutions.
The golden smile of morningOn the hills of Moab play'd,When at the city's western gateTheir steps three women stay'd.One laden was with years and care,A gray and faded dame,Of Judah's ancient lineage,And Naomi her name;And two were daughters of the land,Fair Orpah and sweet Ruth,Their faces wearing still the bloom,Their eyes the light of youth;But all were childless widows,And garb'd in weeds of woe,And their hearts were full of sorrow,And fast their tears did flow.For the Lord God from NaomiHer spouse and sons had taken,And she and these that were their wives,Are widow'd and forsaken;And wish or hope her bosom knowsNone other but to die,And lay her bones in Bethlehem,Where all her kindred lie.So gives she now upon the wayTo Jordan's western watersHer farewell kisses and her tearsUnto her weeping daughters:"Sweet daughters mine, now turn againUnto your homes," she said,"And for the love ye bear to me,The love ye bear the dead,The Lord with you deal kindly,And give you joy and restAnd send to each a faithful mateTo cheer her widow'd breast."Then long and loud their weeping was,And sore was their lament,And Orpah kiss'd sad Naomi,And back to Moab went;But gentle Ruth to NaomiDid cleave with close embrace,And earnest spoke, with loving eyesUp-gazing in her face—"Entreat me not to leave thee,Nor sever from thy side,For where thou goest I will go,Where thou bidest I will bide,Thy people still my people,And thy God my God shall be,And where thou diest I will die,And make my grave with thee."So Naomi, not loath, was wonUnto her gentle will;And thence, with faces westward set,They fared o'er plain and hill;The Lord their staff, till BethlehemRose fair upon their sight,A rock-built town with towery crown,In evening's purple light,Midst slopes in vine and olive clad,And spread along the brook,White fields, with barley waving,That woo'd the reaper's hook.* * * * *Now for the sunny harvest fieldSweet Ruth her mother leaves,And goes a-gleaning afterThe maids that bind the sheaves.And the great lord of the harvestIs of her husband's race,And looks upon the lonely oneWith gentleness and grace;And he loves her for the brightnessAnd freshness of her youth,And for her unforgetting love,Her firm enduring truth—The love and truth that guided RuthThe border mountains o'er,Where her people and her own landShe left for evermore.So he took her to his home and heart,And years of soft reposeDid recompense her patient faith,Her meekly-suffer'd woes;And she became the noblest dameOf palmy Palestine,And the stranger was the motherOf that grand and glorious lineWhence sprang our royal David,In the tide of generations,The anointed king of Israel,The terror of the nations:Of whose pure seed hath God decreedMessiah shall be born,When the day-spring from on high shall lightThe golden lands of morn;Then heathen tongues shall tell the taleOf tenderness and truth—Of the gentle deed of BoazAnd the tender love of Ruth.
The golden smile of morningOn the hills of Moab play'd,When at the city's western gateTheir steps three women stay'd.One laden was with years and care,A gray and faded dame,Of Judah's ancient lineage,And Naomi her name;And two were daughters of the land,Fair Orpah and sweet Ruth,Their faces wearing still the bloom,Their eyes the light of youth;But all were childless widows,And garb'd in weeds of woe,And their hearts were full of sorrow,And fast their tears did flow.
For the Lord God from NaomiHer spouse and sons had taken,And she and these that were their wives,Are widow'd and forsaken;And wish or hope her bosom knowsNone other but to die,And lay her bones in Bethlehem,Where all her kindred lie.So gives she now upon the wayTo Jordan's western watersHer farewell kisses and her tearsUnto her weeping daughters:"Sweet daughters mine, now turn againUnto your homes," she said,"And for the love ye bear to me,The love ye bear the dead,The Lord with you deal kindly,And give you joy and restAnd send to each a faithful mateTo cheer her widow'd breast."
Then long and loud their weeping was,And sore was their lament,And Orpah kiss'd sad Naomi,And back to Moab went;But gentle Ruth to NaomiDid cleave with close embrace,And earnest spoke, with loving eyesUp-gazing in her face—"Entreat me not to leave thee,Nor sever from thy side,For where thou goest I will go,Where thou bidest I will bide,Thy people still my people,And thy God my God shall be,And where thou diest I will die,And make my grave with thee."
So Naomi, not loath, was wonUnto her gentle will;And thence, with faces westward set,They fared o'er plain and hill;The Lord their staff, till BethlehemRose fair upon their sight,A rock-built town with towery crown,In evening's purple light,Midst slopes in vine and olive clad,And spread along the brook,White fields, with barley waving,That woo'd the reaper's hook.
* * * * *
Now for the sunny harvest fieldSweet Ruth her mother leaves,And goes a-gleaning afterThe maids that bind the sheaves.And the great lord of the harvestIs of her husband's race,And looks upon the lonely oneWith gentleness and grace;And he loves her for the brightnessAnd freshness of her youth,And for her unforgetting love,Her firm enduring truth—The love and truth that guided RuthThe border mountains o'er,Where her people and her own landShe left for evermore.
So he took her to his home and heart,And years of soft reposeDid recompense her patient faith,Her meekly-suffer'd woes;And she became the noblest dameOf palmy Palestine,And the stranger was the motherOf that grand and glorious lineWhence sprang our royal David,In the tide of generations,The anointed king of Israel,The terror of the nations:Of whose pure seed hath God decreedMessiah shall be born,When the day-spring from on high shall lightThe golden lands of morn;Then heathen tongues shall tell the taleOf tenderness and truth—Of the gentle deed of BoazAnd the tender love of Ruth.
Oh, waste not thy woe on the dead, nor bemoan himWho finds with his fathers the grave of his rest;Sweet slumber is his, who at night-fall hath thrown himNear bosoms that waking did love him the best.But sorely bewail him, the weary world-ranger,Shall ne'er to the home of his people return;His weeping worn eyes must be closed by the stranger,No tear of true sorrow shall hallow his urn.And mourn for the monarch that went out of Zion,King Shallum, the son of Josiah the Just;For he the cold bed of the captive shall die on,Afar from his land, nor return to its dust.
Oh, waste not thy woe on the dead, nor bemoan himWho finds with his fathers the grave of his rest;Sweet slumber is his, who at night-fall hath thrown himNear bosoms that waking did love him the best.
But sorely bewail him, the weary world-ranger,Shall ne'er to the home of his people return;His weeping worn eyes must be closed by the stranger,No tear of true sorrow shall hallow his urn.
And mourn for the monarch that went out of Zion,King Shallum, the son of Josiah the Just;For he the cold bed of the captive shall die on,Afar from his land, nor return to its dust.
A song-writer of considerable popularity, Thomas C. Latto was born in 1818, in the parish of Kingsbarns, Fifeshire. Instructed in the elementary branches at the parochial seminary, he entered, in his fourteenth year, the United College of St Andrews. Having studied during five sessions at this University, he was in 1838 admitted into the writing-chambers of Mr John Hunter, W.S., Edinburgh, now Auditor of the Court of Session. He subsequently became advocate's clerk to Mr William E. Aytoun, Professor of Rhetoric in the University of Edinburgh. After a period of employment as a Parliament House clerk, he accepted the situation of managing clerk to a writer in Dundee. In 1852 he entered into business as a commission-agent in Glasgow. Subsequently emigrating to the United States, he has for some years been engaged in mercantile concerns at New York.
Latto first became known as a song-writer in the pages of "Whistle-binkie." In 1845 he edited a poem, entitled "The Minister's Kail-yard," which, with a number of lyrics of his own composition, appeared in a duodecimo volume. To the "Book of Scottish Song" he made several esteemed contributions. Verses from his pen have appeared inBlackwood'sandTait's Magazines.
Tune—"There 's nae Luck about the House."
There 's meikle bliss in ae fond kiss,Whiles mair than in a score;But wae betak' the stouin smackI took ahint the door.O laddie, whisht! for sic a frichtI ne'er was in afore;Fou brawly did my mither hearThe kiss ahint the door.The wa's are thick—ye needna fear;But, gin they jeer and mock,I 'll swear it was a startit cork,Or wyte the rusty lock.There 's meikle bliss, &c.We stappit ben, while Maggie's faceWas like a lowin' coal;An' as for me, I could hae creptInto a mouse's hole.The mither look't—saffs how she look't!—Thae mithers are a bore,An' gleg as ony cat to hearA kiss ahint the door.Their 's meikle bliss, &c.The douce gudeman, tho' he was there,As weel micht been in Rome,For by the fire he puff'd his pipe,An' never fash'd his thumb;But, titterin' in a corner, stoodThe gawky sisters four—A winter's nicht for me they michtHae stood ahint the door.There 's meikle bliss, &c."How daur ye tak' sic freedoms here?"The bauld gudewife began;Wi' that a foursome yell got up—I to my heels and ran.A besom whiskit by my lug,An' dishclouts half-a-score:Catch me again, tho' fidgin' fain,At kissin 'hint the door.There 's meikle bliss, &c.
There 's meikle bliss in ae fond kiss,Whiles mair than in a score;But wae betak' the stouin smackI took ahint the door.
O laddie, whisht! for sic a frichtI ne'er was in afore;Fou brawly did my mither hearThe kiss ahint the door.The wa's are thick—ye needna fear;But, gin they jeer and mock,I 'll swear it was a startit cork,Or wyte the rusty lock.There 's meikle bliss, &c.
We stappit ben, while Maggie's faceWas like a lowin' coal;An' as for me, I could hae creptInto a mouse's hole.The mither look't—saffs how she look't!—Thae mithers are a bore,An' gleg as ony cat to hearA kiss ahint the door.Their 's meikle bliss, &c.
The douce gudeman, tho' he was there,As weel micht been in Rome,For by the fire he puff'd his pipe,An' never fash'd his thumb;But, titterin' in a corner, stoodThe gawky sisters four—A winter's nicht for me they michtHae stood ahint the door.There 's meikle bliss, &c.
"How daur ye tak' sic freedoms here?"The bauld gudewife began;Wi' that a foursome yell got up—I to my heels and ran.A besom whiskit by my lug,An' dishclouts half-a-score:Catch me again, tho' fidgin' fain,At kissin 'hint the door.There 's meikle bliss, &c.
Tune—"My only Jo and Dearie, O!"
Oh, guess ye wha I met yestreenOn Kenly banks sae grassy, O!Wha cam' to bless my waitin' een?—The widow's ae bit lassie, O!She brak' my gloamin' dream sae sweet,Just whaur the wimplin' burnies meet;The smother'd laugh—I flew to greetThe widow's ae bit lassie, O!They glintit slee—the moon and she—The widow's ae bit lassie, O!—On tremblin' stream an' tremblin' me:She is a dear wee lassie, O!How rapture's pulse was beating fastAs Mary to my heart I claspt!Oh, bliss divine—owre sweet to last—I 've kiss'd the dear bit lassie, O!She nestled close, like croodlin' doo—The widow's ae bit lassie, O!My cheek to hers, syne mou' to mou'—The widow's ae bit lassie, O!Unto my breast again, again,I prest her guileless heart sae fain;Sae blest were baith—now she 's my ain,The widow's ae bit lassie, O!Ye powers aboon, wha made her mine—The widow's ae bit lassie, O!My heart wad break gin I should tyneThe widow's ae bit lassie, O!Our hearth shall glad the angels' sight;The lamp o' love shall lowe sae brightOn me and her, my soul's delight,The widow's ae bit lassie, O!
Oh, guess ye wha I met yestreenOn Kenly banks sae grassy, O!Wha cam' to bless my waitin' een?—The widow's ae bit lassie, O!She brak' my gloamin' dream sae sweet,Just whaur the wimplin' burnies meet;The smother'd laugh—I flew to greetThe widow's ae bit lassie, O!
They glintit slee—the moon and she—The widow's ae bit lassie, O!—On tremblin' stream an' tremblin' me:She is a dear wee lassie, O!How rapture's pulse was beating fastAs Mary to my heart I claspt!Oh, bliss divine—owre sweet to last—I 've kiss'd the dear bit lassie, O!
She nestled close, like croodlin' doo—The widow's ae bit lassie, O!My cheek to hers, syne mou' to mou'—The widow's ae bit lassie, O!Unto my breast again, again,I prest her guileless heart sae fain;Sae blest were baith—now she 's my ain,The widow's ae bit lassie, O!
Ye powers aboon, wha made her mine—The widow's ae bit lassie, O!My heart wad break gin I should tyneThe widow's ae bit lassie, O!Our hearth shall glad the angels' sight;The lamp o' love shall lowe sae brightOn me and her, my soul's delight,The widow's ae bit lassie, O!
The maidens are smiling in rocky Glencoe,The clansmen are arming to rush on the foe;Gay banners are streaming as forth pours the clan,The yellow-haired laddie is first in the van.The pibroch is kindling each heart to the war,The Cameron's slogan is heard from afar;They close for the struggle where many shall fall,But the yellow-haired laddie is foremost of all.He towers like a wave in the fierce rolling tide,No kinsman of Evan's may stand by his side;The Camerons gather around him alone—He heeds not the danger, and fear is unknown.The plumes of his bonnet are seen through the fight—A beacon for valour, which fires at the sight;But he sees not yon claymore—ah! traitorous thrust!The plumes and the bonnet are laid in the dust.The maidens are smiling in rocky Glencoe—The clansmen approach—they have vanquish'd the foe;But sudden the cheeks of the maidens are pale,For the sound of the coronach comes on the gale.The maidens are weeping in rocky Glencoe,From warriors' eyelids the bitter drops flow;They come—but, oh! where is their chieftain so dear?The yellow-haired laddie is low on the bier.The maidens are wailing in rocky Glencoe—There 's gloom in the valley, at sunrise 'twill go;But no sun can the gloom from their hearts chase away—The yellow-haired laddie lies cauld in the clay.
The maidens are smiling in rocky Glencoe,The clansmen are arming to rush on the foe;Gay banners are streaming as forth pours the clan,The yellow-haired laddie is first in the van.
The pibroch is kindling each heart to the war,The Cameron's slogan is heard from afar;They close for the struggle where many shall fall,But the yellow-haired laddie is foremost of all.
He towers like a wave in the fierce rolling tide,No kinsman of Evan's may stand by his side;The Camerons gather around him alone—He heeds not the danger, and fear is unknown.
The plumes of his bonnet are seen through the fight—A beacon for valour, which fires at the sight;But he sees not yon claymore—ah! traitorous thrust!The plumes and the bonnet are laid in the dust.
The maidens are smiling in rocky Glencoe—The clansmen approach—they have vanquish'd the foe;But sudden the cheeks of the maidens are pale,For the sound of the coronach comes on the gale.
The maidens are weeping in rocky Glencoe,From warriors' eyelids the bitter drops flow;They come—but, oh! where is their chieftain so dear?The yellow-haired laddie is low on the bier.
The maidens are wailing in rocky Glencoe—There 's gloom in the valley, at sunrise 'twill go;But no sun can the gloom from their hearts chase away—The yellow-haired laddie lies cauld in the clay.
Air—"Loudon's bonnie Woods and Braes."
Tell me dear! in mercy speak,Has Heaven heard my prayer, lassie?Faint the rose is on thy cheek,But still the rose is there, lassie!Away, away each dark foreboding,Heavy days with anguish clouding,Youthfu' love in sorrow shrouding,Heaven could ne'er allow, lassie!Day and night I've tended thee,Watching, love, thy changing e'e;Dearest gift that Heaven could gi'e,Say thou 'rt happy now, lassie!Willie, lay thy cheek to mine—Kiss me, oh! my ain laddie!Never mair may lip o' thinePress where it hath lain, laddie!Hark! I hear the angels calling,Heavenly strains are round me falling,But the stroke—thy soul appalling—'Tis my only pain, laddie!Yet the love I bear to theeShall follow where I soon maun be;I 'll tell how gude thou wert to me—We part to meet again, laddie!Lay thine arm beneath my head—Grieve na sae for me, laddie!I'll thole the doom that lays me dead,But no a tear frae thee, laddie!Aft where yon dark tree is spreading,When the sun's last beam is shedding,Where no earthly foot is treading,By my grave thou 'lt be, laddie!Though my sleep be wi' the dead,Frae on high my soul shall speed,And hover nightly round thy head,Although thou wilt na see, laddie.
Tell me dear! in mercy speak,Has Heaven heard my prayer, lassie?Faint the rose is on thy cheek,But still the rose is there, lassie!Away, away each dark foreboding,Heavy days with anguish clouding,Youthfu' love in sorrow shrouding,Heaven could ne'er allow, lassie!Day and night I've tended thee,Watching, love, thy changing e'e;Dearest gift that Heaven could gi'e,Say thou 'rt happy now, lassie!
Willie, lay thy cheek to mine—Kiss me, oh! my ain laddie!Never mair may lip o' thinePress where it hath lain, laddie!Hark! I hear the angels calling,Heavenly strains are round me falling,But the stroke—thy soul appalling—'Tis my only pain, laddie!Yet the love I bear to theeShall follow where I soon maun be;I 'll tell how gude thou wert to me—We part to meet again, laddie!
Lay thine arm beneath my head—Grieve na sae for me, laddie!I'll thole the doom that lays me dead,But no a tear frae thee, laddie!Aft where yon dark tree is spreading,When the sun's last beam is shedding,Where no earthly foot is treading,By my grave thou 'lt be, laddie!Though my sleep be wi' the dead,Frae on high my soul shall speed,And hover nightly round thy head,Although thou wilt na see, laddie.
William Cadenhead was born at Aberdeen on the 6th April 1819. With a limited education at school, he was put to employment in a factory in his ninth year. His leisure hours were devoted to mental culture, and ramblings in the country. The perusal of Beattie'sMinstrelinspired him with the love of poetry, and at an early age his compositions in verse were admitted in the Poet's Corner of theAberdeen Herald. In 1819 he published a small poetical work, entitled "The Prophecy," which, affording decided evidence of power, established his local reputation. Having contributed verses for some years to several periodicals and the local journals, he published a collection of these in 1853, with the title, "Flights of Fancy, and Lays of Bon-Accord." "The New Book of Bon-Accord," a guide-book to his native town on an original plan, appeared from his pen in 1856. For three years he has held a comfortable and congenial appointment as confidential clerk to a merchant in his native city. He continues to contribute verses to the periodicals.
Do you know what the birds are singing?Can you tell their sweet refrains,When the green arch'd woods are ringingWith a thousand swelling strains?To the sad they sing of sadness,To the blythe, of mirth and glee,And to me, in my fond love's gladness,They sing alone of thee!They sing alone of thee, love,Of thee, through the whole day long,And each its own dear charm extols,And each with its own sweet song!Do you know what the soft winds whisperWhen they sigh through blooming trees—When each bough is a choral lisperOf the woodland melodies?To some they seem to be grievingFor the summer's short-lived glee;But to me they are always weavingSweet songs in praise of thee!Sweet songs in praise of thee, love,And telling the flowers below,How far thy charms outshine them all,Though brightly their soft leaves glow!Do you know what the streamlet trillethAs it glides or leaps along,While the cool green nook it fillethWith the gushes of its song?Do you think it sings its dreamingOf its distant home, the sea?Oh, no, but the voice of its streamingIs still of thee, of thee!Is still of thee, of thee, love,Till echoes and woodland fays—Yea, Nature all is eloquentAnd vocal in thy praise.
Do you know what the birds are singing?Can you tell their sweet refrains,When the green arch'd woods are ringingWith a thousand swelling strains?To the sad they sing of sadness,To the blythe, of mirth and glee,And to me, in my fond love's gladness,They sing alone of thee!They sing alone of thee, love,Of thee, through the whole day long,And each its own dear charm extols,And each with its own sweet song!
Do you know what the soft winds whisperWhen they sigh through blooming trees—When each bough is a choral lisperOf the woodland melodies?To some they seem to be grievingFor the summer's short-lived glee;But to me they are always weavingSweet songs in praise of thee!Sweet songs in praise of thee, love,And telling the flowers below,How far thy charms outshine them all,Though brightly their soft leaves glow!
Do you know what the streamlet trillethAs it glides or leaps along,While the cool green nook it fillethWith the gushes of its song?Do you think it sings its dreamingOf its distant home, the sea?Oh, no, but the voice of its streamingIs still of thee, of thee!Is still of thee, of thee, love,Till echoes and woodland fays—Yea, Nature all is eloquentAnd vocal in thy praise.
Lat me look into thy face, Jeanie,As I 've look'd in days gane by,When you gae me kiss for kiss, Jeanie,And answer'd sigh for sigh;When in our youth's first flame, Jeanie,Although poor and lane together,We had wealth in our ain love, Jeanie,And were a' to ane anither!Oh, blessin's on thy lips, Jeanie,They ance were dear to me,As the honey-savour'd blossomsTo the nectar-hunting bee!It kens whar dwalls the banquetsO' the sweetest dewy wine—And as the chosen flower to it,Sae were thy lips to mine.I see thy very thochts, Jeanie,Deep in thy clear blue e'e,As ye 'll see the silver fishes flash,When ye sail the midnicht sea;And ye needna close the lids, Jeanie,Though the thochts they are nae mine,For I see there 's nae repentant ane,That they ance were sae langsyne.Oh, lat me hear thy voice, Jeanie—Ay, that 's the very chime,Whase silver echoes haunted meThrough a' my youthfu' prime.Speak on! thy gentle words, Jeanie,Awake a blessed trainOf memories that I thocht had sleptTo never wake again!God's blessin's on your heart, Jeanie,And your face sae angel fair!May the ane be never pierced wi' grief,Nor the ither blanch'd wi' care;And he wha has your love, Jeanie,May he be dear to thee,As I may aiblins ance have been—And as thou 'rt still to me!
Lat me look into thy face, Jeanie,As I 've look'd in days gane by,When you gae me kiss for kiss, Jeanie,And answer'd sigh for sigh;When in our youth's first flame, Jeanie,Although poor and lane together,We had wealth in our ain love, Jeanie,And were a' to ane anither!
Oh, blessin's on thy lips, Jeanie,They ance were dear to me,As the honey-savour'd blossomsTo the nectar-hunting bee!It kens whar dwalls the banquetsO' the sweetest dewy wine—And as the chosen flower to it,Sae were thy lips to mine.
I see thy very thochts, Jeanie,Deep in thy clear blue e'e,As ye 'll see the silver fishes flash,When ye sail the midnicht sea;And ye needna close the lids, Jeanie,Though the thochts they are nae mine,For I see there 's nae repentant ane,That they ance were sae langsyne.
Oh, lat me hear thy voice, Jeanie—Ay, that 's the very chime,Whase silver echoes haunted meThrough a' my youthfu' prime.Speak on! thy gentle words, Jeanie,Awake a blessed trainOf memories that I thocht had sleptTo never wake again!
God's blessin's on your heart, Jeanie,And your face sae angel fair!May the ane be never pierced wi' grief,Nor the ither blanch'd wi' care;And he wha has your love, Jeanie,May he be dear to thee,As I may aiblins ance have been—And as thou 'rt still to me!
A poet of sentiment and moral feeling, Allan Gibson was removed from the scene at the threshold of a promising career. He was born at Paisley on the 2d October 1820. In his boyhood he devoted himself to the perusal of works of history and romance; and he acquired a familiarity with the more distinguished British poets. It was his delight to stray amidst rural scenes, and to imbibe inspiration among the solitudes of nature. His verses were composed at such periods. They are prefaced by prose reflections, and abound in delicate colouring and gentle pathos. Several detached specimens of his prose writing are elegant and masterly. He followed an industrial occupation, but was unfortunate in business. After an illness of two years, he died on the 9th August 1849, at the early age of twenty-nine. He was possessed of much general talent; was fond of society, fluent in conversation, and eloquent as a public speaker. His habits were sober and retiring. He left a widow and four children. A thin 8vo volume of his "Literary Remains" was published in 1850, for the benefit of his family.
He sorrowfu' sat by the ingle cheek,Its hearth was cauld to his weary feet,For a' were gane, an' nae mair would meetBy the side o' the lane auld man.To the wreck o' his hopes fond memory clungWhen flowers o' his heart on his hearthstane sprung;But death's cauld hand had cruelly wrungThe heart o' the lane auld man.A leafless tree in life's wintry blast,He stood alane o' his kin the last,For ane by ane frae his side they pass'd,An' left him a lane auld man.His bonnie bairns, o' his heart the prize,Wi' their bounding step and sunny eyes,Hae left his hearth for hame in the skies;Alack for the lane auld man!The weel lo'ed form o' his ain auld wife,Wha sooth'd the cares o' a lang bleak life,Has gane to rest wi' her weans frae strife,An' heeds na her lane auld man.Owre the turf on their breast he lo'ed to weep,And sair he lang'd wi' the lost to meet,Till death did close, in his ain calm sleep,The een o' the lane auld man.Whar yew-trees bend owre the dark kirk-yard,An' gowans peep frae the lang green-sward,The moss-clad stanes o' the cauld grave guardThe last o' the lane auld man.
He sorrowfu' sat by the ingle cheek,Its hearth was cauld to his weary feet,For a' were gane, an' nae mair would meetBy the side o' the lane auld man.
To the wreck o' his hopes fond memory clungWhen flowers o' his heart on his hearthstane sprung;But death's cauld hand had cruelly wrungThe heart o' the lane auld man.
A leafless tree in life's wintry blast,He stood alane o' his kin the last,For ane by ane frae his side they pass'd,An' left him a lane auld man.
His bonnie bairns, o' his heart the prize,Wi' their bounding step and sunny eyes,Hae left his hearth for hame in the skies;Alack for the lane auld man!
The weel lo'ed form o' his ain auld wife,Wha sooth'd the cares o' a lang bleak life,Has gane to rest wi' her weans frae strife,An' heeds na her lane auld man.
Owre the turf on their breast he lo'ed to weep,And sair he lang'd wi' the lost to meet,Till death did close, in his ain calm sleep,The een o' the lane auld man.
Whar yew-trees bend owre the dark kirk-yard,An' gowans peep frae the lang green-sward,The moss-clad stanes o' the cauld grave guardThe last o' the lane auld man.
Shadows of glory the twilight is parting,The day-star is seeking its home in the west,The herd from the field to the fold is departing,As, Lochwinnoch, sad on thy summits I rest.And far o'er the scene, while the evening is veilingThy waters that spread their still breast on the lea,On his broad truant wing the lone heron is sailing,To rest with his mate by the rock on the sea.But, houseless and homeless, around thee I wander,The faces are gone I have panted to see,And cold is the hearth to the feet of the stranger,Which once had a seat in its circle for me.Here youth's golden hours of my being were number'd,When joy in my bosom was breathing its lay;If care on the light of my happiness linger'd,Hope hasted the heartless intruder away.Then sweetly the brow of the beaming-eyed futureWas smiling my welcome to life's rosy way,And fondly I sigh'd in her Eden to meet her,And bask in the bowers where her happiness lay.While fancy on light airy pinion was mounting,I strain'd my young vision in rapture to seeThe land of my dreams, with its love-mirror'd fountains,And breath'd in the balm of the south's sunny sea.Then, far on the track of ambition, I follow'dThe footsteps of fortune through perilous climes,And trod the bright scenes which my childhood had hallow'dBut found not the charms which fond fancy enshrines.The gold I have won, can it purchase the treasureOf hearts' warm affections left bleeding behind,Restore me the ties which are parted for ever,And gild the dark gloom of my desolate mind?The gold I have won! but, unblest and beguiling,It came like the sun when unclouded and gay;Its light on the cold face of winter is smiling,But cheers not the earth with the warmth of its ray.Again fare-thee-well, for the heart-broken roverNow bids thee a long and a lasting adieu;Yet o'er thee the dreams of my spirit will hover,And burn as it broods on life's dismal review.
Shadows of glory the twilight is parting,The day-star is seeking its home in the west,The herd from the field to the fold is departing,As, Lochwinnoch, sad on thy summits I rest.And far o'er the scene, while the evening is veilingThy waters that spread their still breast on the lea,On his broad truant wing the lone heron is sailing,To rest with his mate by the rock on the sea.
But, houseless and homeless, around thee I wander,The faces are gone I have panted to see,And cold is the hearth to the feet of the stranger,Which once had a seat in its circle for me.Here youth's golden hours of my being were number'd,When joy in my bosom was breathing its lay;If care on the light of my happiness linger'd,Hope hasted the heartless intruder away.
Then sweetly the brow of the beaming-eyed futureWas smiling my welcome to life's rosy way,And fondly I sigh'd in her Eden to meet her,And bask in the bowers where her happiness lay.While fancy on light airy pinion was mounting,I strain'd my young vision in rapture to seeThe land of my dreams, with its love-mirror'd fountains,And breath'd in the balm of the south's sunny sea.
Then, far on the track of ambition, I follow'dThe footsteps of fortune through perilous climes,And trod the bright scenes which my childhood had hallow'dBut found not the charms which fond fancy enshrines.The gold I have won, can it purchase the treasureOf hearts' warm affections left bleeding behind,Restore me the ties which are parted for ever,And gild the dark gloom of my desolate mind?
The gold I have won! but, unblest and beguiling,It came like the sun when unclouded and gay;Its light on the cold face of winter is smiling,But cheers not the earth with the warmth of its ray.Again fare-thee-well, for the heart-broken roverNow bids thee a long and a lasting adieu;Yet o'er thee the dreams of my spirit will hover,And burn as it broods on life's dismal review.
The author of a small volume of very meritorious poems and lyrics, Thomas Elliott is descended from a branch of the old Border family of that name, which settled in the north of Ireland subsequent to the Revolution. His father was a shoemaker at Bally-ho-bridge, a hamlet in county Fermanagh, province of Ulster, where the poet was born on the 22d December 1820. Entering school at the age of five years, he was not removed till he had acquired a considerable acquaintance with the ordinary branches of popular education. In his fifteenth year he apprenticed himself to his father. The family removed to Belfast in 1836, and there he had opportunities of occupying his leisure hours in extensive and varied reading. After a few years of somewhat desultory employment, he visited Glasgow in 1847, and there, following his original trade, he has continued to reside.
Elliott assigns the commencement of his poetical efforts to the year 1842, when he was led to satirise a pedagogue teacher of music, who had given him offence. His poetical volume, entitled "Doric Lays and Attic Chimes," appeared in 1856, and has been well received. Several of his lyrics have been published with music in "The Lyric Gems of Scotland," a collection of songs published at Glasgow.
Up with the dawn, ye sons of toil,And bare the brawny arm,To drive the harness'd team afield,And till the fruitful farm;To dig the mine for hidden wealth,Or make the woods to ringWith swinging axe and sturdy stroke,To fell the forest king.With ocean car and iron steedTraverse the land and sea,And spread our commerce round the globeAs winds that wander free.Subdue the earth, and conquer fate,Outspeed the flight of time;Old earth is rich, and man is young,Nor near his jocund prime.Work, and the clouds of care will fly,Pale want will pass away;Work, and the leprosy of crimeAnd tyrants must decay.Leave the dead ages in their urns;The present time be ours,To grapple bravely with our lot,And strew our path with flowers.
Up with the dawn, ye sons of toil,And bare the brawny arm,To drive the harness'd team afield,And till the fruitful farm;To dig the mine for hidden wealth,Or make the woods to ringWith swinging axe and sturdy stroke,To fell the forest king.
With ocean car and iron steedTraverse the land and sea,And spread our commerce round the globeAs winds that wander free.Subdue the earth, and conquer fate,Outspeed the flight of time;Old earth is rich, and man is young,Nor near his jocund prime.
Work, and the clouds of care will fly,Pale want will pass away;Work, and the leprosy of crimeAnd tyrants must decay.Leave the dead ages in their urns;The present time be ours,To grapple bravely with our lot,And strew our path with flowers.
Music by A. Hume.
Leave the city's busy throng—Dip the oar, and wake the song,While on Cathkin Braes the moonRises with a star aboon:Hark! the boom of evening bellsTrembles through the dewy dells.Row, lads, row; row, lads, row,While the golden eventideLingers o'er the vale of Clyde,Row, lads, row; row, lads, row,O'er the tide, up the Clyde,Row, lads, row.Life 's a river, deep and old,Stemm'd by rowers, brave and bold;Now in shadow, then in light,Onward aye, a thing of might;Sons of Albyn's ancient land,Row with strong and steady hand,Row, lads, row; row, lads, row;Gaily row, and cheery sing,Till the woodland echoes ring;Row, lads, row; row lads, row,O'er the tide, up the Clyde,Row, lads, row.Hammers on the anvil rest,Dews upon the gowan's breast;Young hearts heave with tender thought,Low winds sigh, with odours fraught,Stars bedeck the blue above,Earth is full of joy and love;Row, lads, row; row, lads, row;Let your oars in concert beatMerry time, like dancers' feet;Row, lads, row; row, lads, row,With the tide, down the Clyde,Row, lads, row.
Leave the city's busy throng—Dip the oar, and wake the song,While on Cathkin Braes the moonRises with a star aboon:Hark! the boom of evening bellsTrembles through the dewy dells.Row, lads, row; row, lads, row,While the golden eventideLingers o'er the vale of Clyde,Row, lads, row; row, lads, row,O'er the tide, up the Clyde,Row, lads, row.
Life 's a river, deep and old,Stemm'd by rowers, brave and bold;Now in shadow, then in light,Onward aye, a thing of might;Sons of Albyn's ancient land,Row with strong and steady hand,Row, lads, row; row, lads, row;Gaily row, and cheery sing,Till the woodland echoes ring;Row, lads, row; row lads, row,O'er the tide, up the Clyde,Row, lads, row.
Hammers on the anvil rest,Dews upon the gowan's breast;Young hearts heave with tender thought,Low winds sigh, with odours fraught,Stars bedeck the blue above,Earth is full of joy and love;Row, lads, row; row, lads, row;Let your oars in concert beatMerry time, like dancers' feet;Row, lads, row; row, lads, row,With the tide, down the Clyde,Row, lads, row.
I love a sweet lassie, mair gentle and trueThan ony young, wood-loving, wild cushie doo;Her cheeks they are dimpled, her jimp waist is sma',She says she 's my ain lassie, dimples and a'—Dimples and a', dimples and a'—That bonnie wee lass wi' her dimples and a'.Her brown wavy hair has a dark gowden tinge,Her bonnie black e'e has a long jetty fringe,Her footstep is light as the thistle doun's fa',Her wee hand is lily-white, dimpled and a'—Dimpled and a', dimpled and a'—And I ken it 's my ain hand, dimples and a'.I 'll wed my dear lassie, and gie her my name,I 'll get a bit housie, and bring my love hame;When winter is eerie, and stormy winds blaw,She 'll mak' me fu' cheerie wi' dimples and a'—Dimples and a', dimples and a'—My ain bonnie wifie, wi' her dimples and a'.When the day's wark is done, and stars blink above,I 'll rest in her smile, and be bless'd wi' her love;She 'll sing a' the cares o' this world awa'Frae our cosie ingle, wi' dimples and a'.Dimples and a', dimples and a'—Our ain cosie ingle, wi' dimples and a'.
I love a sweet lassie, mair gentle and trueThan ony young, wood-loving, wild cushie doo;Her cheeks they are dimpled, her jimp waist is sma',She says she 's my ain lassie, dimples and a'—Dimples and a', dimples and a'—That bonnie wee lass wi' her dimples and a'.
Her brown wavy hair has a dark gowden tinge,Her bonnie black e'e has a long jetty fringe,Her footstep is light as the thistle doun's fa',Her wee hand is lily-white, dimpled and a'—Dimpled and a', dimpled and a'—And I ken it 's my ain hand, dimples and a'.
I 'll wed my dear lassie, and gie her my name,I 'll get a bit housie, and bring my love hame;When winter is eerie, and stormy winds blaw,She 'll mak' me fu' cheerie wi' dimples and a'—Dimples and a', dimples and a'—My ain bonnie wifie, wi' her dimples and a'.
When the day's wark is done, and stars blink above,I 'll rest in her smile, and be bless'd wi' her love;She 'll sing a' the cares o' this world awa'Frae our cosie ingle, wi' dimples and a'.Dimples and a', dimples and a'—Our ain cosie ingle, wi' dimples and a'.