O dear, dear to meIs my ain gudeman,For kindly, frank, an' freeIs my ain gudeman.An' though thretty years ha'e fled,An' five sin' we were wed,Nae bitter words I 've hadWi' my ain gudeman.I 've had seven bonnie bairnsTo my ain gudeman,An' I 've nursed them i' their turnsFor my ain gudeman;An' ane did early dee,But the lave frae skaith are free,An' a blessin' they 're to meAn' my ain gudeman.I cheerie clamb the hillWi' my ain gudeman;An', if it 's Heaven's will,Wi' my ain gudeman,In life's calm afternoon,I wad toddle cannie doun,Syne at the foot sleep soun'Wi' my ain gudeman.
O dear, dear to meIs my ain gudeman,For kindly, frank, an' freeIs my ain gudeman.An' though thretty years ha'e fled,An' five sin' we were wed,Nae bitter words I 've hadWi' my ain gudeman.
I 've had seven bonnie bairnsTo my ain gudeman,An' I 've nursed them i' their turnsFor my ain gudeman;An' ane did early dee,But the lave frae skaith are free,An' a blessin' they 're to meAn' my ain gudeman.
I cheerie clamb the hillWi' my ain gudeman;An', if it 's Heaven's will,Wi' my ain gudeman,In life's calm afternoon,I wad toddle cannie doun,Syne at the foot sleep soun'Wi' my ain gudeman.
Robert Cathcart was born in 1817, and follows the occupation of a weaver in Paisley. Besides a number of fugitive pieces of some merit, he published, in 1842, a small collection of verses entitled, "The Early Blossom."
Sweet 's the gloamin's dusky gloom,Spreadin' owre the lea, Mary;Sweeter far thy love in bloom,Whilk blaws alane for me, Mary.When the woods in silence sleep,And is hid in dusk the steep,When the flowers in sorrow weepI 'll sigh and smile wi' thee, Mary.When love plays in rosy beamsRoun' the hawthorn-tree, Mary,Then thine e'e a language gleamsWhilk tells o' love for me, Mary.When thy sigh blends wi' my smile,Silence reigns o'er us the while,Then my heart, 'mid flutt'ring toil,Tells thy love's bloom'd for me, Mary.When our hands are join'd in love,Ne'er to part again, Mary,Till death ance mair his arrows proveAnd tak us for his ain, Mary;Then our joys are crown'd wi' bliss!In a hallow'd hour like this,We in rapture join to kissAnd taste o' heaven again, Mary.
Sweet 's the gloamin's dusky gloom,Spreadin' owre the lea, Mary;Sweeter far thy love in bloom,Whilk blaws alane for me, Mary.When the woods in silence sleep,And is hid in dusk the steep,When the flowers in sorrow weepI 'll sigh and smile wi' thee, Mary.
When love plays in rosy beamsRoun' the hawthorn-tree, Mary,Then thine e'e a language gleamsWhilk tells o' love for me, Mary.When thy sigh blends wi' my smile,Silence reigns o'er us the while,Then my heart, 'mid flutt'ring toil,Tells thy love's bloom'd for me, Mary.
When our hands are join'd in love,Ne'er to part again, Mary,Till death ance mair his arrows proveAnd tak us for his ain, Mary;Then our joys are crown'd wi' bliss!In a hallow'd hour like this,We in rapture join to kissAnd taste o' heaven again, Mary.
William Jamie was born on the 25th December 1818, in the parish of Marykirk, Kincardineshire. He received his education at the parish school of Maryculter, Aberdeenshire, whither his father removed during his boyhood. After working for some time with his father as a blacksmith, he engaged for several years in the work of tuition. From early manhood a writer of verses, he published, in 1844, at Laurencekirk, a small volume of poems, entitled, "The Muse of the Mearns," which passed through two editions. Of his various subsequent publications may be enumerated, "The Emigrant's Family, and other Poems;" "The Musings of a Wanderer," and a prose tale, entitled, "The Jacobite's Son." Since 1851 he has resided at Pollockshaws, in the vicinity of Glasgow. On the sale of his poetical works he is wholly dependent for subsistence.
Although the lays o' ither landsHa'e mony an artfu' air,They want the stirrin' melodyAn auld man lo'es to hear.Auld Scotia's sangs hae winnin' charmsWhich maks the bosom fain;And to her sons, that 's far awa',Wi' thochts o' hame again.Sweet bygane scenes, and native charms,They fondly bring to min'The trystin'-tree and bonny lass,Wi a' love's dreams langsyne.Oh! lilt me owre some tender strain,For weel I lo'e to hear—Be 't bonny "Broom o' Cowdenknowes,"And "Bush aboon Traquair."Or "Banks and braes o' bonny Doon,"Whaur Robin tuned his lyre;And "Roslin Castle's" ruined wa's—Oh! sing, and I'll admire!For I hae heard auld Scotia's sangsSung owre and owre wi' glee;And the mair I hear their artless strainsThey dearer grow to me.Enchanting strains again they bring,Fond memory glints alangTo humble bards wha woke the lyre,And wove the patriot's sang.Oh! leeze me on our ain auld sangs,The sangs o' youth and glee;They tell o' Bruce and glorious deeds,Which made our country free.
Although the lays o' ither landsHa'e mony an artfu' air,They want the stirrin' melodyAn auld man lo'es to hear.Auld Scotia's sangs hae winnin' charmsWhich maks the bosom fain;And to her sons, that 's far awa',Wi' thochts o' hame again.
Sweet bygane scenes, and native charms,They fondly bring to min'The trystin'-tree and bonny lass,Wi a' love's dreams langsyne.Oh! lilt me owre some tender strain,For weel I lo'e to hear—Be 't bonny "Broom o' Cowdenknowes,"And "Bush aboon Traquair."
Or "Banks and braes o' bonny Doon,"Whaur Robin tuned his lyre;And "Roslin Castle's" ruined wa's—Oh! sing, and I'll admire!For I hae heard auld Scotia's sangsSung owre and owre wi' glee;And the mair I hear their artless strainsThey dearer grow to me.
Enchanting strains again they bring,Fond memory glints alangTo humble bards wha woke the lyre,And wove the patriot's sang.Oh! leeze me on our ain auld sangs,The sangs o' youth and glee;They tell o' Bruce and glorious deeds,Which made our country free.
A poet possessing, in an eminent degree, the lyrical simplicity and power of the Bard of Coila, John Crawford was, in the year 1816, born at Greenock, in the same apartment which, thirty years before, had witnessed the death of Burns' "Highland Mary," his mother's cousin. With only a few months' attendance at school, he was, in boyhood, thrown on his own resources for support. Selecting the profession of a house-painter, he left Greenock in his eighteenth year, and has since prosecuted his vocation in the town of Alloa. Of strong native genius, he early made himself acquainted with general literature, while he has sought recreation in the composition of verses. In 1850 he published a small duodecimo volume of lyrics, entitled, "Doric Lays; being snatches of Song and Ballad." This little work was much commended by Lord Jeffrey, and received the strong approbation of the late amiable Miss Mitford. "There is," wrote the latter to a correspondent, "an originality in his writings very rare in a follower of Burns.... This is the true thing—a flower springing from the soil, not merely cut and stuck into the earth. Will you tell Mr Crawford how much pleasure he has given to a poor invalid?"
Crawford is an occasional contributor to the public journals. He is at present preparing an historical and descriptive work, to be entitled, "Memorials of the Town and Parish of Alloa." The following poeticalepistle in tribute to his genius is from the pen of Mr Scott Riddell.
The days, when write wad minstrel menTo ane anither thus, are gone,And days ha'e come upon us whenBards praise nae anthems but their own:But I will love the fashion oldWhile breath frae heaven this breast can draw,And joy when I my tale have toldAnent the Bard of Alloa.Thou, Crawford, sung hast mony a lay.Far mair through nature's power than art's,Pouring them frae thine ain, that theyMight reach and gladden other hearts;Therefore our hearts shall honour thee,And say't alike in cot and ha'—Sublime thro' pure simplicityIs he—the Bard of Alloa.Though far o'er earth these lays shall roam,And make to mankind their appeal;'Tis not because they 'll lack a home,While Scottish hearts, as wont, can feel:The swains shall sing them on the hill,The maidens in the greenwood-shaw,And mothers bless, wi' warm guid-will,The gifted Bard of Alloa.E'en weans, wi' their shauchled shoon,And clouted hose, and pinafores,Will lilt, methinks, these lays, sae soonAs they can staucher 'boot the doors:Sae shall they sing anent themsellsTo nature true, as its ain law;For minstrel nane on earth excelsIn this the Bard of Alloa.Fresh as the moorland's early dews,And glowing as the woodland rose,Of hearts, his thought gives forth the hues,As richly bright as heaven's ain bow 's—With me, my native land, rejoice,And let the bard thy bosom thaw,As Spring's sweet breathing comes the voiceOf him wha sings frae Alloa.Then rest thee, Crawford, on the lawn,And thus, if song thy soul shall sway,I'll bless thee, while thy toil-worn han'Pu's for itsel' a flower or twa;'Tis idle—gowd-gear hearts will say—But maist for whilk will tear-drops fa'When death has come, and flowers shall bloomAboon the Bard of Alloa?Oh, sing, ye bards, to nature true,And glory shall your brows adorn,And else than this, by none or few,The poet's wreath will long be worn.Cauld fa' the notes o' him wha singsO' scenes whilk man yet never saw—Pour then, frae nature's ain heart-strings,Your strains like him of Alloa.Possess maun he a poet's heart,And he maun ha'e a poet's mindWha deftly plays the generous partThat warms the cauld, and charms the kind.Nor scorn, ye frozen anes, the powersWhilk hinder other hearts to fa'Into a sordid sink—like yours—But bless the Bard of Alloa.Ah! little ye may trow or kenThe mony cares, and waes, and toils,'Mang hearts and hames o' lowly menWhilk nought save poetry beguiles;It lifts fu' mony fortune 'boon,When she begins her face to thraw,That ne'er sae sweet a harp could tuneAs his that sounds frae Alloa.And as for me, ere this I'd lainWhere mark'd my head a mossy stane,Had it not made the joys my ainWhen a' life's other joys were gane.If 'mang the mountains lone and gray,Unknown, my early joys I sung,When cares and woes wad life belay,How could my harp away be flung?The dearest power in life below,Is life's ain native power of song,As he alone can truly know,To whom it truly may belong.Lighten'd hath it fu' mony a step,And lessen'd hath it mony a hill,And lighted up the rays o' hope,Ay, and it up shall light them still.Lo! avarice cauld can gowd secure,Ambition win the wreath o' fame,Wealth gies reputed wit and power,And crowns wi' joy the owner's aim.But be my meed the generous heart,For nought can charm this heart o' mine,Like those who own the undying artThat gies a claim to Ossian's line.Hale be thy heart, dear Crawford—haleBe every heart belonging thee,—The day whan fortune gies ye kaleOut through the reek, may ye ne'er see.Ilk son o' song is dear to me;And though thy face I never saw,I'll honour till the day I deeThe gifted Bard o' Alloa.
The days, when write wad minstrel menTo ane anither thus, are gone,And days ha'e come upon us whenBards praise nae anthems but their own:But I will love the fashion oldWhile breath frae heaven this breast can draw,And joy when I my tale have toldAnent the Bard of Alloa.
Thou, Crawford, sung hast mony a lay.Far mair through nature's power than art's,Pouring them frae thine ain, that theyMight reach and gladden other hearts;Therefore our hearts shall honour thee,And say't alike in cot and ha'—Sublime thro' pure simplicityIs he—the Bard of Alloa.
Though far o'er earth these lays shall roam,And make to mankind their appeal;'Tis not because they 'll lack a home,While Scottish hearts, as wont, can feel:The swains shall sing them on the hill,The maidens in the greenwood-shaw,And mothers bless, wi' warm guid-will,The gifted Bard of Alloa.
E'en weans, wi' their shauchled shoon,And clouted hose, and pinafores,Will lilt, methinks, these lays, sae soonAs they can staucher 'boot the doors:Sae shall they sing anent themsellsTo nature true, as its ain law;For minstrel nane on earth excelsIn this the Bard of Alloa.
Fresh as the moorland's early dews,And glowing as the woodland rose,Of hearts, his thought gives forth the hues,As richly bright as heaven's ain bow 's—With me, my native land, rejoice,And let the bard thy bosom thaw,As Spring's sweet breathing comes the voiceOf him wha sings frae Alloa.
Then rest thee, Crawford, on the lawn,And thus, if song thy soul shall sway,I'll bless thee, while thy toil-worn han'Pu's for itsel' a flower or twa;'Tis idle—gowd-gear hearts will say—But maist for whilk will tear-drops fa'When death has come, and flowers shall bloomAboon the Bard of Alloa?
Oh, sing, ye bards, to nature true,And glory shall your brows adorn,And else than this, by none or few,The poet's wreath will long be worn.Cauld fa' the notes o' him wha singsO' scenes whilk man yet never saw—Pour then, frae nature's ain heart-strings,Your strains like him of Alloa.
Possess maun he a poet's heart,And he maun ha'e a poet's mindWha deftly plays the generous partThat warms the cauld, and charms the kind.Nor scorn, ye frozen anes, the powersWhilk hinder other hearts to fa'Into a sordid sink—like yours—But bless the Bard of Alloa.
Ah! little ye may trow or kenThe mony cares, and waes, and toils,'Mang hearts and hames o' lowly menWhilk nought save poetry beguiles;It lifts fu' mony fortune 'boon,When she begins her face to thraw,That ne'er sae sweet a harp could tuneAs his that sounds frae Alloa.
And as for me, ere this I'd lainWhere mark'd my head a mossy stane,Had it not made the joys my ainWhen a' life's other joys were gane.If 'mang the mountains lone and gray,Unknown, my early joys I sung,When cares and woes wad life belay,How could my harp away be flung?
The dearest power in life below,Is life's ain native power of song,As he alone can truly know,To whom it truly may belong.Lighten'd hath it fu' mony a step,And lessen'd hath it mony a hill,And lighted up the rays o' hope,Ay, and it up shall light them still.
Lo! avarice cauld can gowd secure,Ambition win the wreath o' fame,Wealth gies reputed wit and power,And crowns wi' joy the owner's aim.But be my meed the generous heart,For nought can charm this heart o' mine,Like those who own the undying artThat gies a claim to Ossian's line.
Hale be thy heart, dear Crawford—haleBe every heart belonging thee,—The day whan fortune gies ye kaleOut through the reek, may ye ne'er see.Ilk son o' song is dear to me;And though thy face I never saw,I'll honour till the day I deeThe gifted Bard o' Alloa.
Air—"There 'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame."
My couthie auld wifie, aye blythsome to see,As years slip awa' aye the dearer to me;For ferlies o' fashion I carena ae preenWhen I cleek to the kirk wi' my auld wifie Jean.The thoughts o' the past are aye pleasin' to me,And mair sae when love lights my auld wifie's e'e;For then I can speak o' the days I ha'e seenWhen care found nae hame i' the heart o' my Jean.A hantle we've borne since that moment o' bliss,Frae thy lips, breathin' balm, when I stole the first kiss,When I read a response to my vows in thy e'en.An, blushin', I prest to my bosom my Jean.Like a rose set in snaw was the bloom on thy cheek,Thy hair, wi' its silken snood, glossy and sleek,When the Laird o' Drumlochie, sae lithless and lean,Wad ha'e gane a lang mile for ae glisk o' my Jean.Thy mither was dead, and thy faither was fainThat the lang-luggit lairdie wad ca' thee his ain;But auld age and frailty could ne'er gang atweenThe vows I had niffer'd wi' bonnie young Jean.I canna weel work, an' ye 're weary an' worn,The gudes and the ills lang o' life we ha'e borne;But we ha'e a hame, an' we 're cozie and bein,And the thrift I've to thank o' my auld wifie Jean.Baith beddin' an' cleadin' o' a' kind ha'e we,A sowp for the needy we 've aye had to gie,A bite and a drap for baith fremit an' frien',Was aye the warst wish o' my auld wifie Jean.The puir beildless body has scugg'd the cauld blast,'Yont our hallan he 's houft till the gurl gaed past,An' a bite aff our board, aye sae tidy an' clean,He 's gat wi' gudewill frae my auld wifie Jean.Our hopes we ha'e set where our bairnies ha'e gaen;Though lyart we've grown since they frae us were ta'en;The thoughts o' them yet brings the tears to our e'en,And aft I 've to comfort my auld wifie Jean.The paughty and proud ha'e been laid i' the dust,Since the first hairst I shore, since the first clod I cuist;And soon we'll lie laigh; but aboon we 've a Frien',And bright days are comin' for me an' my Jean.
My couthie auld wifie, aye blythsome to see,As years slip awa' aye the dearer to me;For ferlies o' fashion I carena ae preenWhen I cleek to the kirk wi' my auld wifie Jean.
The thoughts o' the past are aye pleasin' to me,And mair sae when love lights my auld wifie's e'e;For then I can speak o' the days I ha'e seenWhen care found nae hame i' the heart o' my Jean.
A hantle we've borne since that moment o' bliss,Frae thy lips, breathin' balm, when I stole the first kiss,When I read a response to my vows in thy e'en.An, blushin', I prest to my bosom my Jean.
Like a rose set in snaw was the bloom on thy cheek,Thy hair, wi' its silken snood, glossy and sleek,When the Laird o' Drumlochie, sae lithless and lean,Wad ha'e gane a lang mile for ae glisk o' my Jean.
Thy mither was dead, and thy faither was fainThat the lang-luggit lairdie wad ca' thee his ain;But auld age and frailty could ne'er gang atweenThe vows I had niffer'd wi' bonnie young Jean.
I canna weel work, an' ye 're weary an' worn,The gudes and the ills lang o' life we ha'e borne;But we ha'e a hame, an' we 're cozie and bein,And the thrift I've to thank o' my auld wifie Jean.
Baith beddin' an' cleadin' o' a' kind ha'e we,A sowp for the needy we 've aye had to gie,A bite and a drap for baith fremit an' frien',Was aye the warst wish o' my auld wifie Jean.
The puir beildless body has scugg'd the cauld blast,'Yont our hallan he 's houft till the gurl gaed past,An' a bite aff our board, aye sae tidy an' clean,He 's gat wi' gudewill frae my auld wifie Jean.
Our hopes we ha'e set where our bairnies ha'e gaen;Though lyart we've grown since they frae us were ta'en;The thoughts o' them yet brings the tears to our e'en,And aft I 've to comfort my auld wifie Jean.
The paughty and proud ha'e been laid i' the dust,Since the first hairst I shore, since the first clod I cuist;And soon we'll lie laigh; but aboon we 've a Frien',And bright days are comin' for me an' my Jean.
Hurra! for the land o' the broom-cover'd brae,The land o' the rowan, the haw, and the slae;Where waves the blue harebell in dingle and glade—The land o' the pibroch, the bonnet, and plaid.Hurra! for the hills o' the cromlech and cairn,Where blossoms the thistle by hillocks o' fern;There Freedom in triumph an altar has madeFor holiest rites in the land o' the plaid.A coronal wreath, where the wild flowers bloom,To garnish the martyr and patriot's tomb:Shall their names ever perish—their fame ever fadeWho ennobled the land o' the bonnet and plaid?Oh, hame o' my bairnhood, ye hills o' my love!The haunt o' the freeman for aye may ye prove;And honour'd forever be matron and maidIn the land o' the heather, the bonnet, and plaid.Hurra! for the land o' the deer and the rae,O' the gowany glen and the bracken-clad brae,Where blooms our ain thistle, in sunshine and shade—Dear badge o' the land o' the bonnet and plaid.
Hurra! for the land o' the broom-cover'd brae,The land o' the rowan, the haw, and the slae;Where waves the blue harebell in dingle and glade—The land o' the pibroch, the bonnet, and plaid.
Hurra! for the hills o' the cromlech and cairn,Where blossoms the thistle by hillocks o' fern;There Freedom in triumph an altar has madeFor holiest rites in the land o' the plaid.
A coronal wreath, where the wild flowers bloom,To garnish the martyr and patriot's tomb:Shall their names ever perish—their fame ever fadeWho ennobled the land o' the bonnet and plaid?
Oh, hame o' my bairnhood, ye hills o' my love!The haunt o' the freeman for aye may ye prove;And honour'd forever be matron and maidIn the land o' the heather, the bonnet, and plaid.
Hurra! for the land o' the deer and the rae,O' the gowany glen and the bracken-clad brae,Where blooms our ain thistle, in sunshine and shade—Dear badge o' the land o' the bonnet and plaid.
Sing on, fairy Devon,'Mong gardens and bowers,Where love's feast lies spreadIn an Eden o' flowers.What visions o' beautyMy mind has possess'd,In thy gowany dellWhere a seraph might rest.Sing on, lovely river,To hillock and treeA lay o' the lovesO' my Jessie and me;For nae angel lightin',A posie to pu',Can match the fair formO' the lassie I lo'e.Sweet river, dear river,Sing on in your glee,In thy pure breast the mindO' my Jessie I see.How aft ha'e I wander'd,As gray gloamin' fell,Rare dreamin's o' heavenMy lassie to tell.Sing on, lovely Devon,The sang that ye sungWhen earth in her beautyFrae night's bosom sprung,For lanesome and eerieThis warld aye would beDid clouds ever fa'Atween Jessie and me.
Sing on, fairy Devon,'Mong gardens and bowers,Where love's feast lies spreadIn an Eden o' flowers.What visions o' beautyMy mind has possess'd,In thy gowany dellWhere a seraph might rest.
Sing on, lovely river,To hillock and treeA lay o' the lovesO' my Jessie and me;For nae angel lightin',A posie to pu',Can match the fair formO' the lassie I lo'e.
Sweet river, dear river,Sing on in your glee,In thy pure breast the mindO' my Jessie I see.How aft ha'e I wander'd,As gray gloamin' fell,Rare dreamin's o' heavenMy lassie to tell.
Sing on, lovely Devon,The sang that ye sungWhen earth in her beautyFrae night's bosom sprung,For lanesome and eerieThis warld aye would beDid clouds ever fa'Atween Jessie and me.
Gaelic Air—"Soraiadh slan do'un Ailleagan."
I 'll twine a gowany garlandWi' lilies frae the spring;The fairest flowers by Clutha's sideIn a' their bloom I 'll bring.I 'll wreath a flowery wreath to shadeMy lassie's scornfu' e'e—For oh, I canna bide the frownO' Ann o' Cornylee.Nae gilded ha', nae downie bedMy lowly lot maun cheer,A sheilin' on the banks o' GryfeIs a' my worldly gear;A lanely cot, wi' moss o'ergrown,Is a' I ha'e to gie;A leal heart, sinking 'neath the scornO' Ann o' Cornylee.The linty 'mang the yellow broom,The laverock in the liftHa'e never sang the waes o' loveO' hope and joy bereft;Nor has the mavis ever sangThe ills I ha'e to dree,For lovin' o' a paughty maid,Fair Ann o' Cornylee.
I 'll twine a gowany garlandWi' lilies frae the spring;The fairest flowers by Clutha's sideIn a' their bloom I 'll bring.I 'll wreath a flowery wreath to shadeMy lassie's scornfu' e'e—For oh, I canna bide the frownO' Ann o' Cornylee.
Nae gilded ha', nae downie bedMy lowly lot maun cheer,A sheilin' on the banks o' GryfeIs a' my worldly gear;A lanely cot, wi' moss o'ergrown,Is a' I ha'e to gie;A leal heart, sinking 'neath the scornO' Ann o' Cornylee.
The linty 'mang the yellow broom,The laverock in the liftHa'e never sang the waes o' loveO' hope and joy bereft;Nor has the mavis ever sangThe ills I ha'e to dree,For lovin' o' a paughty maid,Fair Ann o' Cornylee.
Tune—"Annie Laurie."
The gloamin' star was showerin'Its siller glories doun,And nestled in its mossy lairThe lintie sleepit soun';The lintie sleepit soun',And the starnies sparklet clear,When on a gowany bank I satAside my Mary dear.The burnie wanders eerieRoun' rock and ruin'd tower,By mony a fairy hillockAnd mony a lanely bower;Roun' mony a lanely bower,Love's tender tale to hear,Where I in whisper'd vows ha'e woo'dAnd won my Mary dear.Oh, hallow'd hours o' happinessFrae me for ever ta'en!Wi' summer's flowery lovelinessYe come na back again!Ye come na back again,The waefu' heart to cheer,For lang the greedy grave has closedAboon my Mary dear.
The gloamin' star was showerin'Its siller glories doun,And nestled in its mossy lairThe lintie sleepit soun';The lintie sleepit soun',And the starnies sparklet clear,When on a gowany bank I satAside my Mary dear.
The burnie wanders eerieRoun' rock and ruin'd tower,By mony a fairy hillockAnd mony a lanely bower;Roun' mony a lanely bower,Love's tender tale to hear,Where I in whisper'd vows ha'e woo'dAnd won my Mary dear.
Oh, hallow'd hours o' happinessFrae me for ever ta'en!Wi' summer's flowery lovelinessYe come na back again!Ye come na back again,The waefu' heart to cheer,For lang the greedy grave has closedAboon my Mary dear.
(For an old Gaelic air.)
The cranreuch 's on my heid,The mist 's now on my een,A lanesome life I lead,I'm no what I ha'e been.Ther 're runkles on my broo,Ther 're furrows on my cheek,My wither'd heart fills fu'Whan o' bygane days I speak.For I 'm weary,I 'm weary,I 'm weary o' care—Whare my bairnies ha'e gane,Oh, let me gang there.I ance was fu' o' glee,And wha was then sae gay,Whan dreamin' life wad beBut ae lang simmer day?My feet, like lichtnin', flewRoun' pleasure's dizzy ring,They gimply staucher nooAneath a feckless thing.For I 'm weary,I 'm weary,I 'm weary o' care—Whare my first luve lies cauld,Oh, let me lie there.The ourie breath o' eildHas blown ilk frien' frae me;They comena near my beildI ha'e dauted on my knee;They hand awa their heids,My frailties no to see;My blessing on them, ane and a'—I 've naething else to gie.For I 'm weary,I 'm weary,I 'm weary and worn—To the friens o' my youthI maun soon, soon return.
The cranreuch 's on my heid,The mist 's now on my een,A lanesome life I lead,I'm no what I ha'e been.Ther 're runkles on my broo,Ther 're furrows on my cheek,My wither'd heart fills fu'Whan o' bygane days I speak.For I 'm weary,I 'm weary,I 'm weary o' care—Whare my bairnies ha'e gane,Oh, let me gang there.
I ance was fu' o' glee,And wha was then sae gay,Whan dreamin' life wad beBut ae lang simmer day?My feet, like lichtnin', flewRoun' pleasure's dizzy ring,They gimply staucher nooAneath a feckless thing.For I 'm weary,I 'm weary,I 'm weary o' care—Whare my first luve lies cauld,Oh, let me lie there.
The ourie breath o' eildHas blown ilk frien' frae me;They comena near my beildI ha'e dauted on my knee;They hand awa their heids,My frailties no to see;My blessing on them, ane and a'—I 've naething else to gie.For I 'm weary,I 'm weary,I 'm weary and worn—To the friens o' my youthI maun soon, soon return.
John Stuart Blackie, Professor of Greek in the University of Edinburgh, was born at Glasgow in the year 1809. His father, who had originally come from Kelso, removed from Glasgow to Aberdeen, as agent for the Commercial Bank in that city, while his son was still very young. At the grammar school of Aberdeen, then under the rectorship of Dr Melvin, the boy began his classical education, and subsequently, according to the ridiculous Scottish custom, the folly of which he has done his best to expose, he became, in his twelfth year, a student in Marischal College. He was a student of arts for five years in Aberdeen and Edinburgh—and then he attended theological classes for three years. In 1829 he proceeded to the Continent, and studied at Gottingen and Berlin, where he mastered the German language, and dived deep into the treasures of German literature. From Germany he went to Rome, where he spent fifteen months, devoting himself to the Italian language and literature, and to the study of archæology. His first publication testifies to his success in both studies. It is entitled, "Osservazioni sopra un antico sarcophago." It was written in Italian, and published in theAnnali del Instituto Archæologico, Roma, 1831.
Mr Blackie had given up the idea of entering the Church, and on his return to Scotland he studied law, and passed advocate in 1834. The study of law wasnever very congenial to him, and the practice of the profession was still less so. Accordingly, at this period he occupied himself with literary work, principally writing for Reviews. It was at this time that his translation of "Faust" appeared. It is entitled, "Faust: a Tragedy, by J. W. Goethe. Translated into English Verse, with Notes, and Preliminary Remarks, by John S. Blackie, Fellow of the Society for Archæological Correspondence, Rome." Mr Blackie had taken upon him a very difficult task in attempting to translate the great work of the great German, and we need not wonder that he did not succeed entirely. We believe, with Mr Lewes, that the perfect accomplishment of this task is impossible, and that Goethe's work is fully intelligible only to the German scholar. But, at the same time, Mr Blackie fully succeeded in the aim which he set before him. He says in the preface, "The great principle on which the excellence of a poetical translation depends, seems to be, that it should not be a meretransposing, but are-casting, of the original. On this principle, it has been my first and chief endeavour to make my translation spirited—to seize, if possible, the very soul and living power of the German, rather than to give a careful and anxious transcription of every individual line, or every minute expression." If this is what a translator should do, there can be no question that the "Faust" of Blackie is all that can be desired—full of spirit and life, harmonious from beginning to end, and reading exactly like an original. The best proof of its success is that Mr Lewes, in his biography of Goethe, prefers it, as a whole, to any of the other poetical translations of Goethe. The preliminary remarks are very characteristic, written with that intense enthusiasm which still animates all his writings. The notes at the end are full of curious informationregarding the witchcraft and astrology of the Middle Ages, gathered with assiduous labour from the stores of the Advocates' Library.
The translation of "Faust" established Mr Blackie's reputation as a German scholar; and, for some time after this, he was chiefly occupied in reviewing German books for theForeign Quarterly Review. He was also a contributor toBlackwood,Tait, and theWestminster Review. The subjects on which he principally wrote were poetry, history or religion; and among his articles may be mentioned a genial one on Uhland, a deeply earnest article on Jung Stillung, whose life he seems to have studied very thoroughly, and several on the later campaigns of Napoleon. To this last subject he then gave very great attention, as almost every German and English book on the subject that appeared is reviewed by him; and the article which describes Napoleon's Leipzig campaign is one of the clearest military monographs that has been written. During this time, Mr Blackie was still pursuing his Latin and Greek studies; and one article, on a classical subject, deserves especial notice. It is a thorough criticism of all the dramas of Euripides, in which he takes a view of the dramatist exactly the reverse of that maintained by Walter Savage Landor—asserting that he was a bungler in the tragic art, and far too much addicted to foisting his stupid moralisings into his plays. Another article in theWestminster, on the Prussian Constitution, is worthy of remark for its thoroughness. The whole machinery of the Prussian bureaucracy is explained in a way very satisfactory to an English reader.
In 1841, Mr Blackie was appointed Professor of Humanity in Marischal College, Aberdeen—a post which he held for eleven years. To this new labour he gavehimself with all his heart, and was eminently successful. The Aberdeen students were remarkable for their accurate knowledge of the grammatical forms and syntax of Latin, acquired under the careful training of Dr Melvin; but their reading, both classical and general, was restricted, and they were wanting in literary impulses. Professor Blackie strove to supply both deficiencies. He took his students over a great deal of ground, opening up to them the beauties of the authors read, and laying the foundation of higher criticism. Then he formed a class-library, delivered lectures on Roman literature in all its stages, and introduced the study of general history. From this period dates the incessant activity which he has displayed in educational, and especially University reform. At the time he commenced his work, the subject was a very disagreeable one to Scottish ears, and he had to bear the apathy not only of his fellow-countrymen, but also of his fellow-professors. He has never, however, bated a jot of heart, and he is now beginning to reap his reward. Several of the reforms which he advocated at the commencement of his agitation, and which were at first met with something approaching to contempt, have been adopted, and he has lived to see entrance examinations introduced into several Universities, and the test abolished. Many of the other reforms which he then proposed are on a fair way to accomplishment, and the subject is no longer treated with that indifference which met his early appeals. His principal publications on this subject are: 1. An appeal to the Scottish people on the improvement of their scholastic and academical institutions; 2. A plea for the liberties of the Scottish Universities; 3. University reform; with a letter to Professor Pillans.
Mr Blackie delivered public lectures on education inEdinburgh, Glasgow, and Aberdeen, and wrote various articles on it in the newspapers. He gave himself also to the study of the philosophy of education. His most noteworthy contributions in this direction are, his review of Beneche's masterly work on education, in theForeign Quarterly, and two lectures "On the Studying and Teaching of Languages."
During the whole of this period, his main strength was devoted to Latin and Greek philology. Some of the results of this labour were published in theClassical Museum. One of the contributions to that journal was published separately—"On the Rhythmical Declamation of the Ancients." It is a clear exposition of the principles of accentuation, drawing accurately the distinction between accent and quantity, and between the accents of common talk and the musical accents that occur in poetry. It is the best monograph on the subject, of which we know. Another article, "On Prometheus," clears Æschylus from the charge of impiety, because he appears to make Zeus act tyrannically towards Prometheus in the "Prometheus Vinctus." He also gave the results of some of his classical studies, in lectures in Edinburgh and Glasgow on Roman history and Greek literature. The principal works on which he was engaged at this time were translations of Horace and Æschylus. Translations of several odes of Horace have appeared in various publications. The translation of all the dramas of Æschylus appeared in 1850. It was dedicated to the Chevalier Bunsen and Edward Gerhard, Royal Archæologist, "the friends of his youth, and the directors of his early studies." This work is now universally admitted to be the best complete translation of Æschylus in English.
In 1852 he was elected to the chair of Greek in Edinburgh University. In that position he has carried on the same agitation in behalf of educational and university reform, which characterised his stay in Aberdeen. His lastbrochureon the subject is a letter to the Town Council of Edinburgh "On the Advancement of Learning in Scotland." Having made this matter a work of his life, he takes every opportunity to urge it, and, notwithstanding that he has got many gratuitous rebuffs, continues on his way cheerily, now delivering a lecture or speech on the subject, now writing letters in reply to this or that assailant, and now giving a more complete exposition of his views in theNorth British Review.
His first publication after his election to the Greek professorship was "The Pronunciation of Greek; Accent and Quantity. A Philological Inquiry:" 1852. In this work he sought to shew what authority there is for the modern Greek pronunciation of Greek, advocating a return, in the reading of prose, to that pronunciation of Greek which was the only one known in Europe anterior to the time of Erasmus. This method is consistently carried out in the Greek classes. In 1853 he travelled in Greece, living in Athens for two months and a-half, and acquiring a fluent use of the living Greek language. On his return, he gave the results of his journey in various articles, especially in one in theNorth Britishon Modern Greek Literature, and in another in theWestminsteron Greece. He also expressed some of them in an introductory lecture "On the Living Language of Greece." Since that time he has written principally inBlackwoodand theNorth British, discussing subjects of general literature, and introducing any new German book which he considers of especial interest. Among his papers may be mentioned his reviews, in theNorth British, of his friend Bunsen's "Signs of the Times," and of Perthos'Life. His articles more especially relating to his own department are Æschylus and Homer, in theEncyclopædia Britannica, an article on accents in theCambridge Philological, and an essay on Plato in the "Edinburgh Essays."
In 1857 was published the work which brings him into the list of Scottish poets—"Lays and Legends of Ancient Greece, with other Poems." The Lays and Legends are the work of the scholar, who, believing verse to be the proper vehicle for an exposition of these beautiful myths, gives them that form, instead of writing learned dissertations about them. The miscellaneous poems shew more of the inner man than any of his other works—deep religious feeling, great simplicity, earnestness, and manliness, confidence in the goodness of men, and delight in everything that is pure, beautiful, and honest, with thorough detestation of all falsehood.
Ben Cruachan is king of the mountainsThat gird in the lovely Loch Awe;Loch Etive is fed from his fountains,By the streams of the dark-rushing Awe.With his peak so highHe cleaves the skyThat smiles on his old gray crown,While the mantle green,On his shoulders seen,In many a fold flows down.He looks to the north, and he rendersA greeting to Nevis Ben;And Nevis, in white snowy splendours,Gives Cruachan greeting again.O'er dread GlencoeThe greeting doth goAnd where Etive winds fair in the glen;And he hears the callIn his steep north wall,"God bless thee, old Cruachan Ben."When the north winds their forces muster,And ruin rides high on the storm,All calm, in the midst of their bluster,He stands with his forehead enorm.When block on block,With thundering shock,Comes hurtled confusedly down,No whit recks he,But laughs to shake freeThe dust from his old gray crown.And while torrents on torrents are pouringDown his sides with a wild, savage glee,And when louder the loud Awe is roaring,And the soft lake swells to a sea,He smiles through the storm,And his heart grows warmAs he thinks how his streams feed the plainsAnd the brave old BenGrows young again,And swells with his lusty veins.For Cruachan is king of the mountainsThat gird in the lovely Loch Awe;Loch Etive is fed from his fountains,By the streams of the dark-rushing Awe.Ere Adam was madeHe rear'd his headSublime o'er the green winding glen;And when flame wraps the sphere,O'er earth's ashes shall peerThe peak of the old granite Ben.
Ben Cruachan is king of the mountainsThat gird in the lovely Loch Awe;Loch Etive is fed from his fountains,By the streams of the dark-rushing Awe.With his peak so highHe cleaves the skyThat smiles on his old gray crown,While the mantle green,On his shoulders seen,In many a fold flows down.
He looks to the north, and he rendersA greeting to Nevis Ben;And Nevis, in white snowy splendours,Gives Cruachan greeting again.O'er dread GlencoeThe greeting doth goAnd where Etive winds fair in the glen;And he hears the callIn his steep north wall,"God bless thee, old Cruachan Ben."
When the north winds their forces muster,And ruin rides high on the storm,All calm, in the midst of their bluster,He stands with his forehead enorm.When block on block,With thundering shock,Comes hurtled confusedly down,No whit recks he,But laughs to shake freeThe dust from his old gray crown.
And while torrents on torrents are pouringDown his sides with a wild, savage glee,And when louder the loud Awe is roaring,And the soft lake swells to a sea,He smiles through the storm,And his heart grows warmAs he thinks how his streams feed the plainsAnd the brave old BenGrows young again,And swells with his lusty veins.
For Cruachan is king of the mountainsThat gird in the lovely Loch Awe;Loch Etive is fed from his fountains,By the streams of the dark-rushing Awe.Ere Adam was madeHe rear'd his headSublime o'er the green winding glen;And when flame wraps the sphere,O'er earth's ashes shall peerThe peak of the old granite Ben.
Farewell ye braes of broad Braemar,From you my feet must travel far,Thou high-peak'd steep-cliff'd Loch-na-Gar,Farewell, farewell for ever!Thou lone green glen where I was born,Where free I stray'd in life's bright morn.From thee my heart is rudely torn,And I shall see thee never!The braes of Mar with heather glow,The healthful breezes o'er them blow,The gushing torrents from them flow,That swell the rolling river.Strong hills that nursed the brave and free,On banks of clear, swift-rushing Dee,My widow'd eyne no more shall seeYour birchen bowers for ever!Farewell thou broad and bare MuicdhuiYe stout old pines of lone Glen Lui,Thou forest wide of Ballochbuie,Farewell, farewell for ever!In you the rich may stalk the deer,Thou 'lt know the tread of prince and peer;But oh, the poor man's heart is drearTo part from you for ever!May God forgive our haughty lords,For whom our fathers drew their swords;No tear for us their pride affords,No bond of love they sever.Farewell ye braes of broad Braemar,From bleak Ben Aon to Loch-na-Gar—The friendless poor is banished farFrom your green glens for ever!
Farewell ye braes of broad Braemar,From you my feet must travel far,Thou high-peak'd steep-cliff'd Loch-na-Gar,Farewell, farewell for ever!Thou lone green glen where I was born,Where free I stray'd in life's bright morn.From thee my heart is rudely torn,And I shall see thee never!
The braes of Mar with heather glow,The healthful breezes o'er them blow,The gushing torrents from them flow,That swell the rolling river.Strong hills that nursed the brave and free,On banks of clear, swift-rushing Dee,My widow'd eyne no more shall seeYour birchen bowers for ever!
Farewell thou broad and bare MuicdhuiYe stout old pines of lone Glen Lui,Thou forest wide of Ballochbuie,Farewell, farewell for ever!In you the rich may stalk the deer,Thou 'lt know the tread of prince and peer;But oh, the poor man's heart is drearTo part from you for ever!
May God forgive our haughty lords,For whom our fathers drew their swords;No tear for us their pride affords,No bond of love they sever.Farewell ye braes of broad Braemar,From bleak Ben Aon to Loch-na-Gar—The friendless poor is banished farFrom your green glens for ever!