Young Love once woo'd a budding Rose,(Sing hey down ho, the bleak winds blow.)With fond delight his bosom glows,(How softly fall the flakes of snow.)Love watch'd the flower whose ruby tipsPeep'd coyly forth, like pouting lips,Then nearer to the Rose he trips;(The stately oak will soon lie low.)Young Love was fond and bashful too,(Sing hey down ho, the sea rolls aye.)He sigh'd and knew not what to do;(Life like an arrow flies away.)Then whispering low his cherish'd wish,The Rose-bud trembled on her bush,While redder grew her maiden blush;(Ruddy eve forecasts the brightest day.)To pull this Rose young Love then tried;('Tis sweet to hear the skylark sing.)Her blush of hope she strove to hide;(Joy soars aloft on painted wing.)Love press'd the Rose-bud to his breast,He felt the thorn, but well he guess'dSuch "Nay" meant "Yea," 'twas fond Love's jest;('Tis honey soothes the bee's fell sting.)
Young Love once woo'd a budding Rose,(Sing hey down ho, the bleak winds blow.)With fond delight his bosom glows,(How softly fall the flakes of snow.)Love watch'd the flower whose ruby tipsPeep'd coyly forth, like pouting lips,Then nearer to the Rose he trips;(The stately oak will soon lie low.)
Young Love was fond and bashful too,(Sing hey down ho, the sea rolls aye.)He sigh'd and knew not what to do;(Life like an arrow flies away.)Then whispering low his cherish'd wish,The Rose-bud trembled on her bush,While redder grew her maiden blush;(Ruddy eve forecasts the brightest day.)
To pull this Rose young Love then tried;('Tis sweet to hear the skylark sing.)Her blush of hope she strove to hide;(Joy soars aloft on painted wing.)Love press'd the Rose-bud to his breast,He felt the thorn, but well he guess'dSuch "Nay" meant "Yea," 'twas fond Love's jest;('Tis honey soothes the bee's fell sting.)
Tune—"The Brave Old Oak."
'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! all eyes are bright,And joyous songs abound;Our log burns high, but it glows less brightThan the eyes which sparkle round.The merry laugh, and the jocund tale,And the kiss 'neath the mistletoe,Make care fly as fast as the blustering galeThat wreaths the new fallen snow.'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! all eyes are bright,And joyous thoughts abound;The log burns high, but it glows less brightThan the eyes which sparkle round.'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! see the old grandsireForgets his weight of years;He laughs with the young, and a fitful fireBeams through his unbidden tears.With tremulous tenor he joins the strain—The song of his manhood's prime;For his thoughts grow young, and he laughs again,While his aged head nods time.'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! &c.'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! and the infant's heartBeats high with a new delight,And youths and maidens, with guileless art,Make merry the livelong night.The time flies on with gladsome cheer,And welcomes pass around—'Tis the warmest night of all the year,Though winter hath chain'd the ground.'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! &c.
'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! all eyes are bright,And joyous songs abound;Our log burns high, but it glows less brightThan the eyes which sparkle round.The merry laugh, and the jocund tale,And the kiss 'neath the mistletoe,Make care fly as fast as the blustering galeThat wreaths the new fallen snow.'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! all eyes are bright,And joyous thoughts abound;The log burns high, but it glows less brightThan the eyes which sparkle round.
'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! see the old grandsireForgets his weight of years;He laughs with the young, and a fitful fireBeams through his unbidden tears.With tremulous tenor he joins the strain—The song of his manhood's prime;For his thoughts grow young, and he laughs again,While his aged head nods time.'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! &c.
'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! and the infant's heartBeats high with a new delight,And youths and maidens, with guileless art,Make merry the livelong night.The time flies on with gladsome cheer,And welcomes pass around—'Tis the warmest night of all the year,Though winter hath chain'd the ground.'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! &c.
James Hedderwick, proprietor and editor of theGlasgow Citizen, was born at Glasgow on the 18th January 1814. His father, who bore the same Christian name, was latterly Queen's printer in that city. At an early age the subject of this sketch was put to the printing business in his father's office. His tastes, however, being more literary than mechanical, he gradually became dissatisfied with his position, and occupied his leisure hours by contributing, in prose and verse, to sundry periodicals. In his sixteenth year he spent some time in London, in the course of which he attended the Rhetoric class of the London University, and carried off the first prize. When little more than twenty years of age, he obtained the situation of sub-editor of theScotsmannewspaper. He now applied himself assiduously to political writing, but continued, at the same time, to seek recreation in those lighter departments of literature which were more in accordance with his personal tastes. Several of his poetical pieces, contributed to theScotsman, were copied intoChambers' Edinburgh Journal, and have since frequently appeared in different periodicals. One of these, entitled "First Grief," was lately quoted in terms of approbation by a writer inFraser's Magazine. Others have found their way, in an anonymous shape, into a London publication entitled "Beautiful Poetry." In 1842 Mr Hedderwick returned to his native city, and started theGlasgowCitizen—a weekly newspaper which continues to maintain an honourable position. Previous to leaving Edinburgh he was entertained at a public dinner, attended by men of letters and other leading individuals. The drudgery of newspaper life has left Mr Hedderwick little leisure for contributions to polite literature. While in Edinburgh, however, he wrote one number of "Wilson's Tales of the Border," and has since contributed occasionally to other works. In 1844 he published a small collection of poems, but in too costly a form for general circulation.
Away, away, like a child at play,Like a living ocean-child,Through the feathery spray she cleaves her wayTo the billows' music wild;The sea is her wide-spread pleasure ground,And the waves around her leap,As with joyous bound, to their mystic sound,She dances o'er the deep!Sometimes at rest, on the water's breast,She lies with folded wing,But now, wind-chased and wave-caress'd,She moves a joyous thing!And away she flies all gleaming bright,While a wave in lofty pride,Like a gallant knight, in plumage white,Is bounding by her side!For her glorious path the sea she hath,And she wanders bold and free,And the tempest's breath and the billows' wrathAre her mighty minstrelsy!A queen the crested waves among,A light and graceful form,She sweeps along, to the wild-winds' song,Like the genius of the storm!
Away, away, like a child at play,Like a living ocean-child,Through the feathery spray she cleaves her wayTo the billows' music wild;The sea is her wide-spread pleasure ground,And the waves around her leap,As with joyous bound, to their mystic sound,She dances o'er the deep!
Sometimes at rest, on the water's breast,She lies with folded wing,But now, wind-chased and wave-caress'd,She moves a joyous thing!And away she flies all gleaming bright,While a wave in lofty pride,Like a gallant knight, in plumage white,Is bounding by her side!
For her glorious path the sea she hath,And she wanders bold and free,And the tempest's breath and the billows' wrathAre her mighty minstrelsy!A queen the crested waves among,A light and graceful form,She sweeps along, to the wild-winds' song,Like the genius of the storm!
Weep not over poet's wrong,Mourn not his mischances;Sorrow is the source of song,And of gentle fancies.Rills o'er rocky beds are borneEre they gush in whiteness;Pebbles are wave-chafed and wornEre they shew their brightness.Sweetest gleam the morning flowersWhen in tears they waken;Earth enjoys refreshing showersWhen the boughs are shaken.Ceylon's glistening pearls are soughtIn its deepest waters;From the darkest mines are broughtGems for beauty's daughters.Through the rent and shiver'd rockLimpid water breaketh;'Tis but when the chords are struckThat their music waketh.Flowers, by heedless footstep press'd,All their sweets surrender;Gold must brook the fiery testEre it shew its splendour.When the twilight, cold and damp,Gloom and silence bringeth,Then the glow-worm lights its lamp,And the night-bird singeth.Stars come forth when Night her shroudDraws as Daylight fainteth;Only on the tearful cloudGod his rainbow painteth.Weep not, then, o'er poet's wrong,Mourn not his mischances;Sorrow is the source of songAnd of gentle fancies.
Weep not over poet's wrong,Mourn not his mischances;Sorrow is the source of song,And of gentle fancies.
Rills o'er rocky beds are borneEre they gush in whiteness;Pebbles are wave-chafed and wornEre they shew their brightness.
Sweetest gleam the morning flowersWhen in tears they waken;Earth enjoys refreshing showersWhen the boughs are shaken.
Ceylon's glistening pearls are soughtIn its deepest waters;From the darkest mines are broughtGems for beauty's daughters.
Through the rent and shiver'd rockLimpid water breaketh;'Tis but when the chords are struckThat their music waketh.
Flowers, by heedless footstep press'd,All their sweets surrender;Gold must brook the fiery testEre it shew its splendour.
When the twilight, cold and damp,Gloom and silence bringeth,Then the glow-worm lights its lamp,And the night-bird singeth.
Stars come forth when Night her shroudDraws as Daylight fainteth;Only on the tearful cloudGod his rainbow painteth.
Weep not, then, o'er poet's wrong,Mourn not his mischances;Sorrow is the source of songAnd of gentle fancies.
I 've been upon the moonlit deepWhen the wind had died away,And like an Ocean-god asleepThe bark majestic lay;But lovelier is the varied scene,The hill, the lake, the tree,When bathed in light of Midnight's Queen;The land! the land! for me.The glancing waves I 've glided o'erWhen gently blew the breeze;But sweeter was the distant shore,The zephyr 'mong the trees.The murmur of the mountain rill,The blossoms waving free,The song of birds on every hill;The land! the land! for me.The billows I have been amongWhen they roll'd in mountains dark,And Night her blackest curtain hungAround our heaving bark;But give me, when the storm is fierce,My home and fireside glee,Where winds may howl, but dare not pierce;The land! the land! for me.And when around the lightning flash'dI 've been upon the deep,And to the gulf beneath I 've dash'dAdown the liquid steep;But now that I am safe on shore,There let me ever be;The sea let others wander o'er;The land! the land! for me.
I 've been upon the moonlit deepWhen the wind had died away,And like an Ocean-god asleepThe bark majestic lay;But lovelier is the varied scene,The hill, the lake, the tree,When bathed in light of Midnight's Queen;The land! the land! for me.
The glancing waves I 've glided o'erWhen gently blew the breeze;But sweeter was the distant shore,The zephyr 'mong the trees.The murmur of the mountain rill,The blossoms waving free,The song of birds on every hill;The land! the land! for me.
The billows I have been amongWhen they roll'd in mountains dark,And Night her blackest curtain hungAround our heaving bark;But give me, when the storm is fierce,My home and fireside glee,Where winds may howl, but dare not pierce;The land! the land! for me.
And when around the lightning flash'dI 've been upon the deep,And to the gulf beneath I 've dash'dAdown the liquid steep;But now that I am safe on shore,There let me ever be;The sea let others wander o'er;The land! the land! for me.
The daylight was dying, the twilight was dreary,And eerie the face of the fast-falling night,But closing the shutters, we made ourselves cheeryWith gas-light and fire-light, and young faces bright.When, hark! came a chorus of wailing and anguish!We ran to the door and look'd out through the dark;Till gazing, at length we began to distinguishThe slow-moving masts of an ocean-bound bark.Alas! 'twas the emigrants leaving the river,Their homes in the city, their haunts in the dell;From kindred and friends they had parted for ever,But their voices still blended in cries of farewell.We saw not the eyes that their last looks were taking;We heard but the shouts that were meant to be cheers,But which told of the aching of hearts that were breaking,A past of delight and a future of tears.And long as we listen'd, in lulls of the night breeze,On our ears the sad shouting in faint music fell,Till methought it seem'd lost in the roll of the white seas,And the rocks and the winds only echoed farewell.More bright was our home-hearth, more bright and more cosy,As we shut out the night and its darkness once more;But pale were the cheeks, that so radiant and rosy,Were flush'd with delight a few moments before.So I told how the morning, all lovely and tender,Sweet dew on the hills, and soft light on the sea,Would follow the exiles and float with its splendour,To gild the far land where their homes were to be.In the eyes of my children were gladness and gleaming,Their little prayer utter'd, how calm was their sleep!But I in my dreaming could hear the wind screaming,And fancy I heard hoarse replies from the deep.And often, when slumber had cool'd my brow's fever,A dream-utter'd shriek of despair broke the spell;'Twas the voice of the emigrants leaving the river,And startling the night with their cries of farewell.
The daylight was dying, the twilight was dreary,And eerie the face of the fast-falling night,But closing the shutters, we made ourselves cheeryWith gas-light and fire-light, and young faces bright.
When, hark! came a chorus of wailing and anguish!We ran to the door and look'd out through the dark;Till gazing, at length we began to distinguishThe slow-moving masts of an ocean-bound bark.
Alas! 'twas the emigrants leaving the river,Their homes in the city, their haunts in the dell;From kindred and friends they had parted for ever,But their voices still blended in cries of farewell.
We saw not the eyes that their last looks were taking;We heard but the shouts that were meant to be cheers,But which told of the aching of hearts that were breaking,A past of delight and a future of tears.
And long as we listen'd, in lulls of the night breeze,On our ears the sad shouting in faint music fell,Till methought it seem'd lost in the roll of the white seas,And the rocks and the winds only echoed farewell.
More bright was our home-hearth, more bright and more cosy,As we shut out the night and its darkness once more;But pale were the cheeks, that so radiant and rosy,Were flush'd with delight a few moments before.
So I told how the morning, all lovely and tender,Sweet dew on the hills, and soft light on the sea,Would follow the exiles and float with its splendour,To gild the far land where their homes were to be.
In the eyes of my children were gladness and gleaming,Their little prayer utter'd, how calm was their sleep!But I in my dreaming could hear the wind screaming,And fancy I heard hoarse replies from the deep.
And often, when slumber had cool'd my brow's fever,A dream-utter'd shriek of despair broke the spell;'Twas the voice of the emigrants leaving the river,And startling the night with their cries of farewell.
They tell me first and early loveOutlives all after dreams;But the memory of a first great griefTo me more lasting seems;The grief that marks our dawning youthTo memory ever clings,And o'er the path of future yearsA lengthen'd shadow flings.Oh, oft my mind recalls the hourWhen to my father's homeDeath came—an uninvited guest—From his dwelling in the tomb!I had not seen his face before,I shudder'd at the sight,And I shudder still to think uponThe anguish of that night!A youthful brow and ruddy cheekBecame all cold and wan;An eye grew dim in which the lightOf radiant fancy shone.Cold was the cheek, and cold the brow,The eye was fix'd and dim;And one there mourn'd a brother deadWho would have died for him!I know not if 'twas summer then,I know not if 'twas spring,But if the birds sang on the treesI did not hear them sing!If flowers came forth to deck the earthTheir bloom I did not see;I look'd upon one wither'd flower,And none else bloom'd for me!A sad and silent time it wasWithin that house of woe,All eyes were dull and overcast,And every voice was low!And from each cheek at intervalsThe blood appear'd to start,As if recall'd in sudden hasteTo aid the sinking heart!Softly we trod, as if afraidTo mar the sleeper's sleep,And stole last looks of his pale faceFor memory to keep!With him the agony was o'er,And now the pain was ours,As thoughts of his sweet childhood roseLike odour from dead flowers!And when at last he was borne afarFrom the world's weary strife,How oft in thought did we againLive o'er his little life!His every look—his every word—His very voice's tone—Came back to us like things whose worthIs only prized when gone!The grief has pass'd with years awayAnd joy has been my lot;But the one is oft remember'd,And the other soon forgot.The gayest hours trip lightest by,And leave the faintest trace;But the deep, deep track that sorrow wearsTime never can efface!
They tell me first and early loveOutlives all after dreams;But the memory of a first great griefTo me more lasting seems;The grief that marks our dawning youthTo memory ever clings,And o'er the path of future yearsA lengthen'd shadow flings.
Oh, oft my mind recalls the hourWhen to my father's homeDeath came—an uninvited guest—From his dwelling in the tomb!I had not seen his face before,I shudder'd at the sight,And I shudder still to think uponThe anguish of that night!
A youthful brow and ruddy cheekBecame all cold and wan;An eye grew dim in which the lightOf radiant fancy shone.Cold was the cheek, and cold the brow,The eye was fix'd and dim;And one there mourn'd a brother deadWho would have died for him!
I know not if 'twas summer then,I know not if 'twas spring,But if the birds sang on the treesI did not hear them sing!If flowers came forth to deck the earthTheir bloom I did not see;I look'd upon one wither'd flower,And none else bloom'd for me!
A sad and silent time it wasWithin that house of woe,All eyes were dull and overcast,And every voice was low!And from each cheek at intervalsThe blood appear'd to start,As if recall'd in sudden hasteTo aid the sinking heart!
Softly we trod, as if afraidTo mar the sleeper's sleep,And stole last looks of his pale faceFor memory to keep!With him the agony was o'er,And now the pain was ours,As thoughts of his sweet childhood roseLike odour from dead flowers!
And when at last he was borne afarFrom the world's weary strife,How oft in thought did we againLive o'er his little life!His every look—his every word—His very voice's tone—Came back to us like things whose worthIs only prized when gone!
The grief has pass'd with years awayAnd joy has been my lot;But the one is oft remember'd,And the other soon forgot.The gayest hours trip lightest by,And leave the faintest trace;But the deep, deep track that sorrow wearsTime never can efface!
Tuck, tuck, feer—from the green and growing leaves;Ic, ic, ic—from the little song-bird's throat;How the silver chorus weaves in the sun and 'neath the eaves,While from dewy clover fields comes the lowing of the beeves,And the summer in the heavens is afloat!Wye, wye, chir—'tis the little linnet sings;Weet, weet, weet—how his pipy treble trills!In his bill and on his wings what a joy the linnet brings,As over all the sunny earth his merry lay he flings,Giving gladness to the music of the rills!Ic, ic, ir—from a happy heart unbound;Lug, lug, jee—from the dawn till close of day!There is rapture in the sound as it fills the sunshine round,Till the ploughman's careless whistle, and the shepherd's pipe are drown'd,And the mower sings unheeded 'mong the hay!Jug, jug, joey—oh, how sweet the linnet's theme!Peu, peu, poy—is he wooing all the while?Does he dream he is in heaven, and is telling now his dream,To soothe the heart of pretty girl basking by the stream,Or waiting for her lover at the stile?Pipe, pipe, chow—will the linnet never weary?Bel bel, tyr—is he pouring forth his vows?The maiden lone and dreary may feel her heart grow cheery,Yet none may know the linnet's bliss except his own sweet dearie,With her little household nestled 'mong the boughs!
Tuck, tuck, feer—from the green and growing leaves;Ic, ic, ic—from the little song-bird's throat;How the silver chorus weaves in the sun and 'neath the eaves,While from dewy clover fields comes the lowing of the beeves,And the summer in the heavens is afloat!
Wye, wye, chir—'tis the little linnet sings;Weet, weet, weet—how his pipy treble trills!In his bill and on his wings what a joy the linnet brings,As over all the sunny earth his merry lay he flings,Giving gladness to the music of the rills!
Ic, ic, ir—from a happy heart unbound;Lug, lug, jee—from the dawn till close of day!There is rapture in the sound as it fills the sunshine round,Till the ploughman's careless whistle, and the shepherd's pipe are drown'd,And the mower sings unheeded 'mong the hay!
Jug, jug, joey—oh, how sweet the linnet's theme!Peu, peu, poy—is he wooing all the while?Does he dream he is in heaven, and is telling now his dream,To soothe the heart of pretty girl basking by the stream,Or waiting for her lover at the stile?
Pipe, pipe, chow—will the linnet never weary?Bel bel, tyr—is he pouring forth his vows?The maiden lone and dreary may feel her heart grow cheery,Yet none may know the linnet's bliss except his own sweet dearie,With her little household nestled 'mong the boughs!
William Brockie was born in the parish of Smailholm, Roxburghshire. He entered on the world of letters by the publication of a small periodical, entitledThe Galashiels Weekly Journal. He subsequently editedThe Border Watch, a newspaper originated at Kelso on behalf of the Free Church. This concern proving unfortunate, he obtained, after a short residence at Prestonkirk, East Lothian, the editorship of theShields Gazette. Compelled to relinquish editorial labour from impaired health, Mr Brockie has latterly established a private academy at South Shields, and has qualified himself to impart instruction in fourteen different languages. Besides a number of pamphlets on a variety of subjects, he has published a "History of South Shields," and a poem, entitled, "The Dusk and the Dawn."
What ails ye, my lassie, my dawtie, my ain?I 've gien ye my word, and I 'll gie ye 't again.There 's naething to fear ye—be lichtsome and cheerie;I 'll never forsake ye, nor leave ye yer lane.We 're sune to be married—I needna say mair;Our love will be leal, though our livin' be bare;In a house o' our ain we 'll be cantie and fain,An' ye 'll never gang back to yer mither nae mair.We needna be troubled ere trouble be sprung;The warld 's afore us—we 're puir, but we 're young;An' fate will be kind if we 're willint in mind—Sae keep up yer heart, lass, and dinna be dung.Folk a' hae their troubles, and we 'll get our share,But we 'll warsle out through them, and scorn to despair;Sae cheer up yer heart, for we never shall part,An' ye 'll never gang back to yer mither nae mair.While we live for each other, our lot will be blest;An' though freens sud forget us, they 'll never be miss'd;We 'll sit down at e'en by the ingle sae bien,An' the cares o' the world 'ill a' be dismiss'd.A couple that strive to be honest and fairMay be rich without siller, and guid without lear;Be gentle and true, an' yese never need rue,Nor sigh to win back to yer mither nae mair.
What ails ye, my lassie, my dawtie, my ain?I 've gien ye my word, and I 'll gie ye 't again.There 's naething to fear ye—be lichtsome and cheerie;I 'll never forsake ye, nor leave ye yer lane.We 're sune to be married—I needna say mair;Our love will be leal, though our livin' be bare;In a house o' our ain we 'll be cantie and fain,An' ye 'll never gang back to yer mither nae mair.
We needna be troubled ere trouble be sprung;The warld 's afore us—we 're puir, but we 're young;An' fate will be kind if we 're willint in mind—Sae keep up yer heart, lass, and dinna be dung.Folk a' hae their troubles, and we 'll get our share,But we 'll warsle out through them, and scorn to despair;Sae cheer up yer heart, for we never shall part,An' ye 'll never gang back to yer mither nae mair.
While we live for each other, our lot will be blest;An' though freens sud forget us, they 'll never be miss'd;We 'll sit down at e'en by the ingle sae bien,An' the cares o' the world 'ill a' be dismiss'd.A couple that strive to be honest and fairMay be rich without siller, and guid without lear;Be gentle and true, an' yese never need rue,Nor sigh to win back to yer mither nae mair.
Alexander M'Lachlan, author of the following song was born at Pinshall, in the parish of St Ninians, Stirlingshire. He has resided, since 1825, at Muirside in the vicinity of his native place.
Sweet summer 's awa, wi' her verdure sae fair;The ance bonny woodlands are leafless an' bare;To the cot wee robin returns for a screenFrae the cauld stormy blast o' the lang winter e'en.But charms there are still, though nature has nane,When the hard rackin' toils o' the day by are gane,Then round the fireside social hearts do convene,And pleasantly pass the lang winter e'en.O' warldly wealth I hae got little share,Yet riches and wealth breed but sorrow and care;Just gi'e me an hour wi' some auld honest frien',To crack o'er youth's joys in the lang winter e'en.The thochts o' our youth are lichtsome and dear,Like the strains o' the lute they fa' saft on the ear,But chiefly the bliss I ha'e shared wi' my JeanIn some love-screenin' shade on a lang winter e'en.
Sweet summer 's awa, wi' her verdure sae fair;The ance bonny woodlands are leafless an' bare;To the cot wee robin returns for a screenFrae the cauld stormy blast o' the lang winter e'en.
But charms there are still, though nature has nane,When the hard rackin' toils o' the day by are gane,Then round the fireside social hearts do convene,And pleasantly pass the lang winter e'en.
O' warldly wealth I hae got little share,Yet riches and wealth breed but sorrow and care;Just gi'e me an hour wi' some auld honest frien',To crack o'er youth's joys in the lang winter e'en.
The thochts o' our youth are lichtsome and dear,Like the strains o' the lute they fa' saft on the ear,But chiefly the bliss I ha'e shared wi' my JeanIn some love-screenin' shade on a lang winter e'en.
The author of "The Four Pilgrims, or, Life's Mission; and other Poems," a volume of respectable poetry, published at Dundee in 1849, Thomas Young, was born at Tulliebeltane, in the parish of Auchtergaven, Perthshire, in 1815. Receiving an ordinary school education, he accepted, in his twentieth year, a situation in the office of theDundee Advertiser, where he continued till 1851, when a change occurred in the proprietorship. He now proceeded to New York, where he remained about eighteen months. Disappointed in obtaining a suitable appointment, he sailed for Australia; but the vessel being unable to proceed further than Rio de Janeiro, he there procured a situation, with an annual salary of £300. The climate of Rio proving unfavourable, he afterwards sailed to Australia, where he readily found occupation at Mount Alexander. He has been successful at the gold diggings.
By Niagara's floodAntoinette stood,And watch'd the wild waves rush on,As they leapt belowInto vapoury snow,Or fell into flakes of foam.The sun's last beamsFell in golden gleamsOn water and wave-girt isle,And in tinge all fairDipp'd the girl's bright hairAnd heighten'd her happy smile.Away—away!In wild ecstasyShe threads the abyss's brink,Where waters—black—Of the cataractInto drifted snow-waves sink.A father's eyeLooketh anxiouslyOn the freaks of his favour'd child,Till her spirit appalsHis soul, and he calls"Antoinette" in accents wild.A bolder heartLoves the girl's free sport,And he grasps her by the gown,Then tosseth her highIn the twilight sky—But, heavens! she falleth down!She sinks in the wave;He swimmeth to save!Oh, never was mortal armMore manfully braced,As it grasps her slim waist,And struggles in frantic alarm!In vain does he strike—The fresh waves break,And the doom'd ones are downward borne!Yet the swimmer's eyeSeemeth still to defyThe might of the merciless storm.More loud than beforeIs the cataract's roar,And the furrow'd wave is brightWith many a pearlFrom the shining swirlOf the water's lucid light.And down belowIs the woolly snowOf Niagara's wrathful bed,But the lip of the boldHath never toldThe secrets that there lie hid.A strong arm, press'dRound a maiden's waistOn the doleful morrow is seen,And her oozy hairLaves his forehead bareWith the waft of the wavy stream.
By Niagara's floodAntoinette stood,And watch'd the wild waves rush on,As they leapt belowInto vapoury snow,Or fell into flakes of foam.
The sun's last beamsFell in golden gleamsOn water and wave-girt isle,And in tinge all fairDipp'd the girl's bright hairAnd heighten'd her happy smile.
Away—away!In wild ecstasyShe threads the abyss's brink,Where waters—black—Of the cataractInto drifted snow-waves sink.
A father's eyeLooketh anxiouslyOn the freaks of his favour'd child,Till her spirit appalsHis soul, and he calls"Antoinette" in accents wild.
A bolder heartLoves the girl's free sport,And he grasps her by the gown,Then tosseth her highIn the twilight sky—But, heavens! she falleth down!
She sinks in the wave;He swimmeth to save!Oh, never was mortal armMore manfully braced,As it grasps her slim waist,And struggles in frantic alarm!
In vain does he strike—The fresh waves break,And the doom'd ones are downward borne!Yet the swimmer's eyeSeemeth still to defyThe might of the merciless storm.
More loud than beforeIs the cataract's roar,And the furrow'd wave is brightWith many a pearlFrom the shining swirlOf the water's lucid light.
And down belowIs the woolly snowOf Niagara's wrathful bed,But the lip of the boldHath never toldThe secrets that there lie hid.
A strong arm, press'dRound a maiden's waistOn the doleful morrow is seen,And her oozy hairLaves his forehead bareWith the waft of the wavy stream.
Robert Wilson was born in the parish of Carnbee, and county of Fife. He practised for some time as a surgeon in St Andrews. He has contributed many pieces of descriptive verse to the periodicals. In 1856, a duodecimo volume of "Poems" from his pen was published at Boston, U.S. His other publications are a small volume on "The Social Condition of France," "Lectures on the Game Laws," and severalbrochureson subjects of a socio-political nature. He has latterly resided at Aberdour, Fifeshire.
Away, away, my gallant bark!The waves are white and high;And fast the long becalmèd cloudsAre sailing in the sky.The merry breeze which wafts them on,And chafes the billow's spray,Will urge thee in thy watery flight:My gallant bark, away!Now, like the sea-bird's snowy plumes,Are spread thy wingèd sails,To soar above the mountain waves,And scoop their glassy vales;And, like the bird, thou 'lt calmly rest,Thy azure journey o'er,The shadow of thy folded wingsUpon the sunny shore.Away, away, my gallant bark!Across the billow's foam;I leave awhile, for ocean's strife,The quiet haunts of home;The green fields of my fatherlandFor many a stormy bay;The blazing hearth for beacon-light:My gallant bark, away!
Away, away, my gallant bark!The waves are white and high;And fast the long becalmèd cloudsAre sailing in the sky.The merry breeze which wafts them on,And chafes the billow's spray,Will urge thee in thy watery flight:My gallant bark, away!
Now, like the sea-bird's snowy plumes,Are spread thy wingèd sails,To soar above the mountain waves,And scoop their glassy vales;And, like the bird, thou 'lt calmly rest,Thy azure journey o'er,The shadow of thy folded wingsUpon the sunny shore.
Away, away, my gallant bark!Across the billow's foam;I leave awhile, for ocean's strife,The quiet haunts of home;The green fields of my fatherlandFor many a stormy bay;The blazing hearth for beacon-light:My gallant bark, away!
What fond, delicious ecstasy does early love impart!Resistless, as a spring-tide sea, it flows into the heart,Pervading with its living wave the bosom's inmost core,That thrills with many a gentle hope it never felt before.And o'er the stripling's glowing heart, extending far and wide,Through passion's troubled realm does Love with angel sway preside;And smiles are shed that cast a light o'er many a future year,And whispers soft are conjured up of lips that are not near.With promises of fairyland this daylight world teems,And sleep comes with forgetfulness or fraught with lovely dreams;And there is magic in the touch, and music in the sigh,And, far more eloquent than speech, a language in the eye.And hope the constant bosom cheers with prospects ever new;But if the favour'd one prove false, oh! who can then be true?Our fond illusions disappear, like slumber's shadowy train,And we ne'er recall those vanish'd hopes, nor feel that love again.
What fond, delicious ecstasy does early love impart!Resistless, as a spring-tide sea, it flows into the heart,Pervading with its living wave the bosom's inmost core,That thrills with many a gentle hope it never felt before.
And o'er the stripling's glowing heart, extending far and wide,Through passion's troubled realm does Love with angel sway preside;And smiles are shed that cast a light o'er many a future year,And whispers soft are conjured up of lips that are not near.
With promises of fairyland this daylight world teems,And sleep comes with forgetfulness or fraught with lovely dreams;And there is magic in the touch, and music in the sigh,And, far more eloquent than speech, a language in the eye.
And hope the constant bosom cheers with prospects ever new;But if the favour'd one prove false, oh! who can then be true?Our fond illusions disappear, like slumber's shadowy train,And we ne'er recall those vanish'd hopes, nor feel that love again.
A writer of prose and poetry, Edward Polin was born at Paisley on the 29th December 1816. He originally followed the business of a pattern-setter in his native town. Fond of literary pursuits, he extensively contributed to the local journals. He subsequently became sub-editor of theEdinburgh Weekly Chronicle. In 1843 he accepted the editorship of theNewcastle Courant—a situation which, proving unsuitable, he retained only a few months. Resolved to adventure on the literary field of London, he sailed from Newcastle in August 1843. The vessel being at anchor off Yarmouth, he obtained leave from the captain to bathe. He had left the vessel only a few yards, when his hands were observed to fall into the water. One of the seamen promptly descended with a rope, and he was speedily raised upon the deck. Every effort to restore animation however proved fruitless. This closing event of a hopeful career took place on the 22d August 1843, when the poet had attained only his 27th year. His remains were interred in St George's churchyard, Cripplegate, London.
A young man of no inconsiderable genius, Polin afforded indication of speedily attaining a literary reputation. By those to whom he was intimately known his premature death was deeply lamented. Many of his MS. compositions are in the hands of friends, who may yet give them to the world.
I have wander'd afar, 'neath stranger skies,And have revell'd amid their flowers;I have lived in the light of Italian eyes,And dream'd in Italian bowers,While the wondrous strains of their sunny climeHave been trill'd to enchant mine ears,But, oh, how I longed for the song and the timeWhen my heart could respond with its tears.Then sing me a song, a good old song—Not the foreign, the learn'd, the grand—But a simple song, a good old songOf my own dear fatherland.I have heard, with the great, and the proud, and the gayAll, all they would have me adoreOf that music divine that, enraptured, they sayCan be equall'd on earth never more.And it may be their numbers indeed are divine,Though they move not my heart through mine ears,But a ballad old of the dear "langsyne"Can alone claim my tribute of tears.I have come from a far and a foreign climeTo mine own loved haunts once more,With a yearning for all of my childhood's timeAnd the dear home-sounds of yore;And here, if there yet be love for me,Oh, away with those stranger lays,And now let my only welcome beAn old song of my boyhood's days.
I have wander'd afar, 'neath stranger skies,And have revell'd amid their flowers;I have lived in the light of Italian eyes,And dream'd in Italian bowers,While the wondrous strains of their sunny climeHave been trill'd to enchant mine ears,But, oh, how I longed for the song and the timeWhen my heart could respond with its tears.Then sing me a song, a good old song—Not the foreign, the learn'd, the grand—But a simple song, a good old songOf my own dear fatherland.
I have heard, with the great, and the proud, and the gayAll, all they would have me adoreOf that music divine that, enraptured, they sayCan be equall'd on earth never more.And it may be their numbers indeed are divine,Though they move not my heart through mine ears,But a ballad old of the dear "langsyne"Can alone claim my tribute of tears.
I have come from a far and a foreign climeTo mine own loved haunts once more,With a yearning for all of my childhood's timeAnd the dear home-sounds of yore;And here, if there yet be love for me,Oh, away with those stranger lays,And now let my only welcome beAn old song of my boyhood's days.
Alexander Buchanan was the son of a maltster at Bucklyvie, Stirlingshire, where he was born in 1817. He attended a school in Glasgow, but was chiefly self-taught. In his youth he composed verses, and continued to produce respectable poetry. For a period he carried on business as a draper in Cowcaddens, Glasgow. Retiring from merchandise, he fixed his residence in the village of Govan. His death took place on the 8th February 1852, in his thirty-fifth year. Buchanan has been celebrated, with other local bards, in a small Glasgow publication, entitled, "Lays of St Mungo." Numerous poems from his pen remain in MS. in the possession of his widow, who continues to reside at Govan.
Air—"Lucy's Flittin'."
I wander'd alane at the break o' the mornin',The dun clouds o' nicht were a' wearin' awa';The sun rose in glory, the gray hills adornin',A' glintin like gowd were their tappits o' snaw;Adown by my side row'd the rock-bedded Kelvin,While nature aroun' was beginnin' to green,An' auld cottar bodies their yardies were delvin',Kennin' thrift in the morn brocht pleasure at e'en.I leant me against an auld mossy-clad palin',An' noo an' then dichted a tear frae my e'e,I look'd on the bodies, an' envied their toilin'—Though lowly their lot, they seem'd happy by me;I thought on my riches, yet feckless the treasure,I tried to forget, but the labour was vain;My wifie an' bairn were a' my life's pleasure,An' they to the grave baith thegither had gane.The thochts o' her love had awaken'd my sorrow,The laugh o' my bairnie cam' back on mine ears,An', piercing my heart wi' the force o' an arrow,It open'd anew the saft channel o' tears.I grat an' I sabb'd till I thocht life wad lea' me,An' happy I then could hae parted wi' life—For naething on earth sic enjoyment could gie meAs the glee o' my bairn an' smile o' my wife.Oh, weary the day was when they were ta'en frae me,Leavin' me lane, the last leaf on the tree;Nae comfort the cauld look o' strangers can gie me—I 'm wae, and they a' look as waefu' on me.I wander me aften to break melancholy,On ilk thing that 's leevin' the maxim I see,Not walth to the weary 's like peace to the lowly;Sae, burden'd wi' grief, I maun gang till I die.
I wander'd alane at the break o' the mornin',The dun clouds o' nicht were a' wearin' awa';The sun rose in glory, the gray hills adornin',A' glintin like gowd were their tappits o' snaw;Adown by my side row'd the rock-bedded Kelvin,While nature aroun' was beginnin' to green,An' auld cottar bodies their yardies were delvin',Kennin' thrift in the morn brocht pleasure at e'en.
I leant me against an auld mossy-clad palin',An' noo an' then dichted a tear frae my e'e,I look'd on the bodies, an' envied their toilin'—Though lowly their lot, they seem'd happy by me;I thought on my riches, yet feckless the treasure,I tried to forget, but the labour was vain;My wifie an' bairn were a' my life's pleasure,An' they to the grave baith thegither had gane.
The thochts o' her love had awaken'd my sorrow,The laugh o' my bairnie cam' back on mine ears,An', piercing my heart wi' the force o' an arrow,It open'd anew the saft channel o' tears.I grat an' I sabb'd till I thocht life wad lea' me,An' happy I then could hae parted wi' life—For naething on earth sic enjoyment could gie meAs the glee o' my bairn an' smile o' my wife.
Oh, weary the day was when they were ta'en frae me,Leavin' me lane, the last leaf on the tree;Nae comfort the cauld look o' strangers can gie me—I 'm wae, and they a' look as waefu' on me.I wander me aften to break melancholy,On ilk thing that 's leevin' the maxim I see,Not walth to the weary 's like peace to the lowly;Sae, burden'd wi' grief, I maun gang till I die.
I 've met wi' mony maidens fairIn kintras far awa,I 've met wi' mony here at hame,Baith bonny dames an' braw;But nane e'er had the power to charmMy love into a snareTill ance I saw the witchin' e'eAn' smile o' Katie Blair.She wons by Kelvin's bonnie banks,Whar' thick the greenwoods grow,Whar' waters loupin' drouk the leavesWhile merrily they row.They drouk the lily an' the rose,An' mony flowerets fair,Yet they ne'er kiss a flower sae sweetAs winsome Katie Blair.She is a queen owre a' the flowersO' garden an' o' lea—Her ae sweet smile mair cheering isThan a' their balms to me.As licht to morn she's a' to me,My bosom's only care;An' worthy o' the truest loveIs winsome Katie Blair.
I 've met wi' mony maidens fairIn kintras far awa,I 've met wi' mony here at hame,Baith bonny dames an' braw;But nane e'er had the power to charmMy love into a snareTill ance I saw the witchin' e'eAn' smile o' Katie Blair.
She wons by Kelvin's bonnie banks,Whar' thick the greenwoods grow,Whar' waters loupin' drouk the leavesWhile merrily they row.They drouk the lily an' the rose,An' mony flowerets fair,Yet they ne'er kiss a flower sae sweetAs winsome Katie Blair.
She is a queen owre a' the flowersO' garden an' o' lea—Her ae sweet smile mair cheering isThan a' their balms to me.As licht to morn she's a' to me,My bosom's only care;An' worthy o' the truest loveIs winsome Katie Blair.
David Taylor was born, in April 1817, in the parish of Dollar, and county of Clackmannan. In early life his parents, having removed to the village of St Ninians, near Stirling, he was there apprenticed to a tartan manufacturer. He has continued to reside at St Ninians, and has been chiefly employed as a tartan weaver. He has written numerous poems and lyrics, and composed music to some of the more popular songs. Latterly he has occupied himself as a teacher of vocal music.