My native land! my native land!Where liberty shall firmly stand,Where men are brave in heart and hand,In ancient Caledonia!How dear to me those gurgling rillsThat wander free amang the hills!How sweet to me the sang that fillsThe groves o' Caledonia!They tell me o' a distant isleWhere summer suns for ever smile;But frae my heart they 'll never wileMy love for Caledonia!And what are a' their flowery plains,If fill'd with weeping slav'ry's chains?Nae foot o' slavery ever stainsMy native Caledonia!Though cauld 's the sun that shed's his raysO'er Scotland's bonnie woods and braes,Oh, let me spend my latest daysIn ancient Caledonia!My native land! my native land!Where liberty shall firmly stand,Where men are brave in heart and hand—True sons of Caledonia!
My native land! my native land!Where liberty shall firmly stand,Where men are brave in heart and hand,In ancient Caledonia!How dear to me those gurgling rillsThat wander free amang the hills!How sweet to me the sang that fillsThe groves o' Caledonia!
They tell me o' a distant isleWhere summer suns for ever smile;But frae my heart they 'll never wileMy love for Caledonia!And what are a' their flowery plains,If fill'd with weeping slav'ry's chains?Nae foot o' slavery ever stainsMy native Caledonia!
Though cauld 's the sun that shed's his raysO'er Scotland's bonnie woods and braes,Oh, let me spend my latest daysIn ancient Caledonia!My native land! my native land!Where liberty shall firmly stand,Where men are brave in heart and hand—True sons of Caledonia!
Land of my fathers, I leave thee in sadness—Far from my dear native country I roam;Fondly I cling to the bright scenes of gladnessThat shone o'er my heart in my dear happy home.Far from the home of my childhood I wander,Far from the friends I may never meet more;Oft on those visions of bliss I shall ponder—Visions that memory alone can restore.Friends of my youth I shall love you for ever—Closer and firmer ye twine round my heart;Though now the wide sea our lot may dissever,Affection and friendship can never depart.Land of my fathers, I leave thee in sadness—Dear to my heart thou shalt ever remain!Oh, when shall I gaze on those bright scenes of gladness?When shall I visit my country again?
Land of my fathers, I leave thee in sadness—Far from my dear native country I roam;Fondly I cling to the bright scenes of gladnessThat shone o'er my heart in my dear happy home.
Far from the home of my childhood I wander,Far from the friends I may never meet more;Oft on those visions of bliss I shall ponder—Visions that memory alone can restore.
Friends of my youth I shall love you for ever—Closer and firmer ye twine round my heart;Though now the wide sea our lot may dissever,Affection and friendship can never depart.
Land of my fathers, I leave thee in sadness—Dear to my heart thou shalt ever remain!Oh, when shall I gaze on those bright scenes of gladness?When shall I visit my country again?
Down by a crystal streamMusing I stray'd,As 'neath the summer beamLightly it play'd,Winding by field and fen,Mountain and meadow, thenStealing through wood and glen,Soft'ning the shade.Thus, then, methought, is life;Onward it flows—Now mingling peace with strife,Toil with repose—Now sparkling joyouslyUnder the glare of day,Drinking each sunny ray,Purely it flows.Now gliding peacefully,Calm and serene,Smoothly it takes its way,Softly I weenMurmur its waters past—Oh, will that stillness last?See, rocks are nearing fast,Changing the scene.Wildly it dashes now,Loudly it roars,Over the craggy browFiercely it pours.All in commotion lost,Wave over wave is toss'd;Spray, white as winter's frost,Up from it soars.Yet where the conflict 's worstBrightest it gleams;Rays long in silence nursedShoot forth in streams:Beauties before unknownOut from its breast are thrown;Light, like a golden zone,Brilliantly beams.Thus in the Christian's breastPure faith may lie,Hid in the day of restDeep from the eye;But when life's shadows lowerFaith lights the darkest hour,Driving, by heavenly power,Gloom from the sky.
Down by a crystal streamMusing I stray'd,As 'neath the summer beamLightly it play'd,Winding by field and fen,Mountain and meadow, thenStealing through wood and glen,Soft'ning the shade.
Thus, then, methought, is life;Onward it flows—Now mingling peace with strife,Toil with repose—Now sparkling joyouslyUnder the glare of day,Drinking each sunny ray,Purely it flows.
Now gliding peacefully,Calm and serene,Smoothly it takes its way,Softly I weenMurmur its waters past—Oh, will that stillness last?See, rocks are nearing fast,Changing the scene.
Wildly it dashes now,Loudly it roars,Over the craggy browFiercely it pours.All in commotion lost,Wave over wave is toss'd;Spray, white as winter's frost,Up from it soars.
Yet where the conflict 's worstBrightest it gleams;Rays long in silence nursedShoot forth in streams:Beauties before unknownOut from its breast are thrown;Light, like a golden zone,Brilliantly beams.
Thus in the Christian's breastPure faith may lie,Hid in the day of restDeep from the eye;But when life's shadows lowerFaith lights the darkest hour,Driving, by heavenly power,Gloom from the sky.
There are moments when my spirit wanders back to other years,And time long, long departed, like the present still appears;And I revel in the sunshine of those happy, happy hours,When the sky of youth was cloudless, and its path was strewn with flowers.O those days of dreamy sweetness! O those visions of delight!Weaving garlands for the future, making all of earth too bright;They come creeping through my memory like messengers of peace,Telling tales of bygone blessings, bidding present sorrows cease.Long-lost friends are gath'ring round me, smiling faces, gentle forms,All unconscious of earth's struggles, all unmindful of its storms—Beaming radiantly and beautiful, as in the days of youth,When friendship was no mockery, when every thought was truth.Joy, illuming every bosom, made fair nature fairer still—Mirth sported on each summer breeze, and sung in every rill;Beauty gleaming all around us, bright as dreams of fairy land—Oh, faded now that lustre, scatter'd far that happy band!Now deeply traced with sorrow is the once unclouded brow,And eyes that sparkled joyously are dim with weeping now;We are tasting life in earnest—all its vain illusions gone—And the stars that glisten'd o'er our path are falling one by one.Some are sleeping with their kindred—summer blossoms o'er them wave;Some, lonely and unfriended, with the stranger found a grave;While others now are wand'ring on a far and foreign shore,And that happy, loving company shall meet—ah! never more.But afar in mem'ry's garden, like a consecrated spot,The heart's first hopes are hidden, and can never be forgot;And the light that cheer'd us onward, in our airy early days—Oft we linger in the distance to look back upon its rays.Old Time, with hand relentless, may shed ruins o'er the earth,May strew our path with sorrow, make a desert of our hearth—Change may blight our fairest blossoms, shroud our clearest light in gloom;But the flow'ry fields of early years shall never lose their bloom.
There are moments when my spirit wanders back to other years,And time long, long departed, like the present still appears;And I revel in the sunshine of those happy, happy hours,When the sky of youth was cloudless, and its path was strewn with flowers.
O those days of dreamy sweetness! O those visions of delight!Weaving garlands for the future, making all of earth too bright;They come creeping through my memory like messengers of peace,Telling tales of bygone blessings, bidding present sorrows cease.
Long-lost friends are gath'ring round me, smiling faces, gentle forms,All unconscious of earth's struggles, all unmindful of its storms—Beaming radiantly and beautiful, as in the days of youth,When friendship was no mockery, when every thought was truth.
Joy, illuming every bosom, made fair nature fairer still—Mirth sported on each summer breeze, and sung in every rill;Beauty gleaming all around us, bright as dreams of fairy land—Oh, faded now that lustre, scatter'd far that happy band!
Now deeply traced with sorrow is the once unclouded brow,And eyes that sparkled joyously are dim with weeping now;We are tasting life in earnest—all its vain illusions gone—And the stars that glisten'd o'er our path are falling one by one.
Some are sleeping with their kindred—summer blossoms o'er them wave;Some, lonely and unfriended, with the stranger found a grave;While others now are wand'ring on a far and foreign shore,And that happy, loving company shall meet—ah! never more.
But afar in mem'ry's garden, like a consecrated spot,The heart's first hopes are hidden, and can never be forgot;And the light that cheer'd us onward, in our airy early days—Oft we linger in the distance to look back upon its rays.
Old Time, with hand relentless, may shed ruins o'er the earth,May strew our path with sorrow, make a desert of our hearth—Change may blight our fairest blossoms, shroud our clearest light in gloom;But the flow'ry fields of early years shall never lose their bloom.
Away on the breast of the ocean,Far away o'er the billowy brine,'Mid the strife of the boiling commotion,Where the storm and the tempest combine,Roams my heart, of its wand'ring ne'er weary;While Hope, with her heavenly smile,Cheers the bosom that else would be dreary,And points me to blessings the while.Of the far-hidden future still dreaming,On the wild wings of fancy I fly,And the star of affection, bright beaming,Is piercing the gloom of our sky;And my home is away o'er the ocean,Afar o'er the wide swelling sea,Where a heart, in its purest devotion,Is breathing fond blessings on me.
Away on the breast of the ocean,Far away o'er the billowy brine,'Mid the strife of the boiling commotion,Where the storm and the tempest combine,Roams my heart, of its wand'ring ne'er weary;While Hope, with her heavenly smile,Cheers the bosom that else would be dreary,And points me to blessings the while.
Of the far-hidden future still dreaming,On the wild wings of fancy I fly,And the star of affection, bright beaming,Is piercing the gloom of our sky;And my home is away o'er the ocean,Afar o'er the wide swelling sea,Where a heart, in its purest devotion,Is breathing fond blessings on me.
George Donald the younger was born on the 1st of March 1826, at Thornliebank, near Glasgow. His father, George Donald the elder, is noticed in an earlier part of the present volume. Sent to labour in a calico print-work in his tenth year, his education was chiefly obtained at evening schools, and afterwards by self-application during the intervals of toil. In his seventeenth year he became apprenticed to a pattern-designer, and having fulfilled his indenture, he has since prosecuted this occupation. From his youth a writer of verses, he has contributed poetical compositions to the GlasgowExaminerandCitizennewspapers.
They tell me o' a land whar the sky is ever clear,Whar rivers row ower gowden sands, and flower unfading blaw,But, oh! nae joys o' nature to me are half sae dearAs the flow'rets springing wild in our ain green shaw.They speak o' gilded palaces, o' lords and leddies fair,And scenes that charm the weary heart in cities far awa';But nane o' a' their gaudy shows and pleasures can compareWi' the happiness that dwells in our ain green shaw.Oh weel I lo'e when summer comes wi' sunny days an' glee,And brings to gladden ilka heart her rural pleasures a',When on the thorn the mavis sings and gowans deck the lea,—Oh, then nae spot 's sae bonnie as our ain green shaw.While Heaven supplies each simple want and leaves me still my cot,I'll bear through life a cheerfu' heart whatever may befa',Nor envy ither's joys, but aye be happy wi' my lotWhen wand'ring in the e'enin' through our ain green shaw.
They tell me o' a land whar the sky is ever clear,Whar rivers row ower gowden sands, and flower unfading blaw,But, oh! nae joys o' nature to me are half sae dearAs the flow'rets springing wild in our ain green shaw.
They speak o' gilded palaces, o' lords and leddies fair,And scenes that charm the weary heart in cities far awa';But nane o' a' their gaudy shows and pleasures can compareWi' the happiness that dwells in our ain green shaw.
Oh weel I lo'e when summer comes wi' sunny days an' glee,And brings to gladden ilka heart her rural pleasures a',When on the thorn the mavis sings and gowans deck the lea,—Oh, then nae spot 's sae bonnie as our ain green shaw.
While Heaven supplies each simple want and leaves me still my cot,I'll bear through life a cheerfu' heart whatever may befa',Nor envy ither's joys, but aye be happy wi' my lotWhen wand'ring in the e'enin' through our ain green shaw.
In her chamber, vigil keeping,Fair Eliza sitteth weeping,Weeping for her lover slain:Fair Eliza, sorrow-laden,Once a joyous-hearted maidenTill her William cross'd the main.Fatal day that saw them parted!For it left her lonely-hearted—Her so full of joy before—Brought to her the thought of sadness,Clouding her young spirit's gladness,That she ne'er might see him more!Sad Eliza, no blest morrowWill dispel thy secret sorrow,Bring thine own true love again.Mournful is thy William's story:On the field of martial glory,Fighting bravely, he was slain!Now the silent stars above herSeem to tell her of her lover,For each night, with pensive gazeOn the blue vault shining o'er her,Sits Eliza, while before herFleet the scenes of other days.Thus her lonely vigil keeping,Fair Eliza sitteth weeping,Weeping for her lover slain:Fair Eliza, sorrow-laden,Once a joyous-hearted maidenTill her William cross'd the main.
In her chamber, vigil keeping,Fair Eliza sitteth weeping,Weeping for her lover slain:Fair Eliza, sorrow-laden,Once a joyous-hearted maidenTill her William cross'd the main.
Fatal day that saw them parted!For it left her lonely-hearted—Her so full of joy before—Brought to her the thought of sadness,Clouding her young spirit's gladness,That she ne'er might see him more!
Sad Eliza, no blest morrowWill dispel thy secret sorrow,Bring thine own true love again.Mournful is thy William's story:On the field of martial glory,Fighting bravely, he was slain!
Now the silent stars above herSeem to tell her of her lover,For each night, with pensive gazeOn the blue vault shining o'er her,Sits Eliza, while before herFleet the scenes of other days.
Thus her lonely vigil keeping,Fair Eliza sitteth weeping,Weeping for her lover slain:Fair Eliza, sorrow-laden,Once a joyous-hearted maidenTill her William cross'd the main.
The author of "Lays of the Revolutions," John Jeffrey, was born on the 29th March 1822, at the manse of Girthon, in the stewartry of Kirkcudbright. His maternal granduncle was the celebrated Dr Thomas Brown of Edinburgh. From his father, who was parish minister of Girthon, and a man of accomplished learning, he received an education sufficient to qualify him for entering, in 1836, the University of Edinburgh. In 1844 he became a licentiate of the Free Church, and after declining several calls, accepted, in 1846, the charge of the Free Church congregation at Douglas, Lanarkshire. Mr Jeffrey was early devoted to poetical studies. In his eighteenth year he printed, for private circulation, a small volume of poems, entitled "Hymns of a Neophyte." In 1849 appeared his "Lays of the Revolutions," a work which, vindicating in powerful verse the cause of oppressed European nationalities, was received with much favour by the public. To several of the leading periodicals Mr Jeffrey has contributed spirited articles in support of liberal politics. A pamphlet from his pen, on the decay of traditional influence in Parliament, entitled "The Fall of the Great Factions," has obtained considerable circulation. More recently he has devoted himself to the study of the modern languages, and to inquiries in ethnological science.
Rise, Romans, rise at last,Craft's kingdom now is past;Brook no delay!Lombard blades long ago,Swifter than whirlwinds blow,Swept from Milan the foe:Why should we stay?Rise, then, for fatherland;In rock-like phalanx stand,Cowards no more.Rise in colossal might,Rise till the storm of fightWrap us in lurid lightWhere cannons roar!In this great dawn of time,In this great death of crime,Quit us like men;By our deeds, by our words,By our songs, by our swords—Use all against the hordes,Sabre or pen!More than fame, duty calls,Trumpet-tongued from the wallsGirding great Rome;Battle for truth and faith,Battle lest hostile scatheCrush us, or fetters swatheFree hearth and home!Hark! how God's thunders roll,Booming from pole to poleOf the wide world!"Old lies are crush'd for aye,Now truths assume their sway,Bright shines the flag of dayO'er night unfurl'd!"Tower, then, the barricades!Flash forth the lightning blades!Romans, awake!Storm as the tempests burst,Down with the brood accursed!Sparks long in silence nursedEtna-like break;And that volcano's thirstSeas cannot slake!
Rise, Romans, rise at last,Craft's kingdom now is past;Brook no delay!Lombard blades long ago,Swifter than whirlwinds blow,Swept from Milan the foe:Why should we stay?
Rise, then, for fatherland;In rock-like phalanx stand,Cowards no more.Rise in colossal might,Rise till the storm of fightWrap us in lurid lightWhere cannons roar!
In this great dawn of time,In this great death of crime,Quit us like men;By our deeds, by our words,By our songs, by our swords—Use all against the hordes,Sabre or pen!
More than fame, duty calls,Trumpet-tongued from the wallsGirding great Rome;Battle for truth and faith,Battle lest hostile scatheCrush us, or fetters swatheFree hearth and home!
Hark! how God's thunders roll,Booming from pole to poleOf the wide world!"Old lies are crush'd for aye,Now truths assume their sway,Bright shines the flag of dayO'er night unfurl'd!"
Tower, then, the barricades!Flash forth the lightning blades!Romans, awake!Storm as the tempests burst,Down with the brood accursed!Sparks long in silence nursedEtna-like break;And that volcano's thirstSeas cannot slake!
The author of several meritorious poetical works, Patrick Scott was born at Macao in China, but is eminently of Scottish descent. His father, Helenus Scott, M.D., a cadet of the ducal house of Buccleuch, was a distinguished member of the Medical Board of Bombay, of which he was some time president. Receiving an elementary education at the Charterhouse, London, the subject of this notice entered, in his sixteenth year, the East India College at Haileybury. At the age of eighteen he proceeded to India, to occupy a civil appointment at Bombay. In 1845, after eleven years' service, he returned to Britain in impaired health, and he has since resided chiefly in London.
Mr Scott first appeared as an author in 1851, by the publication of "Lelio, and other Poems," a volume which was received with warm encomiums by the press. In 1853, he published "Love in the Moon: a Poem," which was followed in the same year by "Thomas á Becket, and other Poems." His latest poetical publication appeared in 1854, under the title of "A Poet's Children."
With drooping heart he turn'd awayTo seek a distant clime,Where friends were kind, and life was gay,In early boyhood's time.And still with years and seas between,To one fond hope he clung—To see once more, as he had seen,The home he loved when young.His youthful brow was touch'd with thought,And life had lost its morn,When glad again the wanderer soughtThe soil where he was born.Alas! that long expected shoreDenied the wonted joy,And the man felt not, as of yoreHad felt the happier boy.For formal friends scarce grasp'd his hand—The friends he knew of old;What cared he for a sunny land,If human hearts were cold?Again he cast his alter'd lot'Mid alien tribes to roam;And fail'd to find another spotSo foreign as his home.His heavy grief no bosom shared,No eye would weep his fall;What matter ifhislife were spared,Who lived unloved by all!And when had ceased his earthly toilUpon that distant shore,His bones were gather'd to the soil—His heart had died before.
With drooping heart he turn'd awayTo seek a distant clime,Where friends were kind, and life was gay,In early boyhood's time.And still with years and seas between,To one fond hope he clung—To see once more, as he had seen,The home he loved when young.
His youthful brow was touch'd with thought,And life had lost its morn,When glad again the wanderer soughtThe soil where he was born.Alas! that long expected shoreDenied the wonted joy,And the man felt not, as of yoreHad felt the happier boy.
For formal friends scarce grasp'd his hand—The friends he knew of old;What cared he for a sunny land,If human hearts were cold?Again he cast his alter'd lot'Mid alien tribes to roam;And fail'd to find another spotSo foreign as his home.
His heavy grief no bosom shared,No eye would weep his fall;What matter ifhislife were spared,Who lived unloved by all!And when had ceased his earthly toilUpon that distant shore,His bones were gather'd to the soil—His heart had died before.
An able theologian and accomplished writer of verses, John Bathurst Dickson was born on the 25th December 1823, in the town of Kelso, Roxburghshire. His father was a respectable writer or attorney in that place. Having studied at the University of Edinburgh, and passed through a theological curriculum at the New College of that city, he became, in 1851, a licentiate of the Free Church. In June 1852, he was ordained to the ministerial charge of the Free High Church, Paisley.
During the period of his attendance at college, Mr Dickson was an extensive contributor toTait's Magazine, and different religious periodicals. In 1855, he published "Theodoxia; or, Glory to God an Evidence for the Truth of Christianity;" and in 1857 appeared from his pen "The Temple Lamp," a periodical publication. He has written verses on a variety of topics. His song, "The American Flag," has been widely published in the United States.
Float forth, thou flag of the free;Flash far over land and sea,Proud ensign of Liberty—Hail, hail to thee!The blue of the heavens is thine,The stars on thy canvas shine;Thy heraldry tells thee divine—Hail, hail to thee!Thy white proclaims thee unstain'd,Thy crimson thy love unfeign'dTo man, by despots enchain'd—Hail, hail to thee!Under thy God-given lightOur fathers went forth to fight'Gainst sceptred wrong for the right—Hail, hail to thee!The Lion of England no more'Gainst thy proud Eagle shall roar:Peace strideth from shore to shore—Hail, hail to thee!Float forth, thou flag of the free—Flash far over land and sea,Till the world shout, Liberty—Hail, hail to thee!
Float forth, thou flag of the free;Flash far over land and sea,Proud ensign of Liberty—Hail, hail to thee!
The blue of the heavens is thine,The stars on thy canvas shine;Thy heraldry tells thee divine—Hail, hail to thee!
Thy white proclaims thee unstain'd,Thy crimson thy love unfeign'dTo man, by despots enchain'd—Hail, hail to thee!
Under thy God-given lightOur fathers went forth to fight'Gainst sceptred wrong for the right—Hail, hail to thee!
The Lion of England no more'Gainst thy proud Eagle shall roar:Peace strideth from shore to shore—Hail, hail to thee!
Float forth, thou flag of the free—Flash far over land and sea,Till the world shout, Liberty—Hail, hail to thee!
A writer both of English and Gaelic songs, Evan M'Coll was born in 1808, at Kenmore, Lochfineside, Argyllshire. His father, Dugald M'Coll, followed an industrial occupation, but contrived to afford his son a somewhat liberal education. The leisure hours of the youthful poet were ardently devoted to literary culture. In 1837, he became a contributor of Gaelic poetry to a Glasgow periodical, and his compositions began to excite an interest in the Highlands. Two influential Highland gentlemen secured him an appointment in the Customs at Liverpool. He subsequently emigrated to America, and is now resident at Kingston.
Besides many fugitive pieces, Mr M'Coll has published a volume of lyrics, entitled "The Mountain Minstrel," and a volume of Gaelic poetry. A specimen of his Gaelic minstrelsy will be found among the translations at the end of the present volume.
Give the swains of Italia'Mong myrtles to rove,Give the proud, sullen SpaniardHis bright orange grove;Give gold-sanded streamsTo the sons of Chili,But, oh! give the hillsOf the heather to me.The hills where the hunterOft soundeth his horn,Where sweetest the skylarkAwakens the morn;The gray cliff, the blue lake,The stream's dashing glee,Endear the red hillsOf the heather to me.There Health, rosy virgin,For ever doth dwell;There Love fondly whispersTo Beauty his tale;There Freedom's own darling!The Gael, lives free,Then, oh! give the hillsOf the heather to me.
Give the swains of Italia'Mong myrtles to rove,Give the proud, sullen SpaniardHis bright orange grove;Give gold-sanded streamsTo the sons of Chili,But, oh! give the hillsOf the heather to me.
The hills where the hunterOft soundeth his horn,Where sweetest the skylarkAwakens the morn;The gray cliff, the blue lake,The stream's dashing glee,Endear the red hillsOf the heather to me.
There Health, rosy virgin,For ever doth dwell;There Love fondly whispersTo Beauty his tale;There Freedom's own darling!The Gael, lives free,Then, oh! give the hillsOf the heather to me.
One of the most interesting sacred poets of the present age, James D. Burns, was born at Edinburgh on the 18th February 1823. A pupil of Heriot's Hospital, he became a student in the University of Edinburgh, where he took the degree of Master of Arts, and completed, with marked distinction, a course of theology. Receiving license as a probationer of the Free Church, he was in 1845 ordained to the ministry at Dunblane. Having resigned his charge from bad health in 1848, he proceeded to Madeira, where he undertook the pastoral superintendence of a Presbyterian congregation. He subsequently travelled in Spain and Italy. In 1854 he published "The Vision of Prophecy, and other Poems," a collection of his poetical compositions, of which the greater number are of a scriptural or sacred character. Mr Burns is now minister of a Presbyterian church at Hampstead, Middlesex.
Rise, little star!O'er the dusky hill,—See the bright course openThou hast to fulfil.Climb, little star!Higher still and higher.With a silent swiftnessAnd a pulse of fire.Stand, little star!On the peak of heaven;But for one brief momentIs the triumph given.Sink, little star!Yet make heaven bright,Even while thou art sinking,With thy gentle light.Set, little star!Gladly fade and die,With the blush of morningComing up the sky.Each little starCrieth, Life, O man!Should have one clear purposeShining round its span.
Rise, little star!O'er the dusky hill,—See the bright course openThou hast to fulfil.
Climb, little star!Higher still and higher.With a silent swiftnessAnd a pulse of fire.
Stand, little star!On the peak of heaven;But for one brief momentIs the triumph given.
Sink, little star!Yet make heaven bright,Even while thou art sinking,With thy gentle light.
Set, little star!Gladly fade and die,With the blush of morningComing up the sky.
Each little starCrieth, Life, O man!Should have one clear purposeShining round its span.
Though long the wanderer may depart,And far his footsteps roam,He clasps the closer to his heartThe image of his home.To that loved land, where'er he goes,His tend'rest thoughts are cast,And dearer still through absence growsThe memory of the past.Though nature on another shoreHer softest smile may wear,The vales, the hills, he loved beforeTo him are far more fair.The heavens that met his childhood's eye,All clouded though they be,Seem brighter than the sunniest skyOf climes beyond the sea.So Faith, a stranger on the earth,Still turns its eye above;The child of an immortal birthSeeks more than mortal love.The scenes of earth, though very fair,Want home's endearing spell;And all his heart and hope are whereHis God and Saviour dwell.He may behold them dimly here,And see them as not nigh,But all he loves will yet appearUnclouded to his eye.To that fair city, now so far,Rejoicing he will come,A better light than Bethlehem's starGuides every wanderer home.
Though long the wanderer may depart,And far his footsteps roam,He clasps the closer to his heartThe image of his home.To that loved land, where'er he goes,His tend'rest thoughts are cast,And dearer still through absence growsThe memory of the past.
Though nature on another shoreHer softest smile may wear,The vales, the hills, he loved beforeTo him are far more fair.The heavens that met his childhood's eye,All clouded though they be,Seem brighter than the sunniest skyOf climes beyond the sea.
So Faith, a stranger on the earth,Still turns its eye above;The child of an immortal birthSeeks more than mortal love.The scenes of earth, though very fair,Want home's endearing spell;And all his heart and hope are whereHis God and Saviour dwell.
He may behold them dimly here,And see them as not nigh,But all he loves will yet appearUnclouded to his eye.To that fair city, now so far,Rejoicing he will come,A better light than Bethlehem's starGuides every wanderer home.
George Henderson was born on the 5th May 1800, in the parish of Bunkle and county of Berwick. With a rudimentary education obtained at different schools, he entered, in his nineteenth year, the University of Edinburgh. After the close of his second session, he temporarily abandoned literary pursuits. Resolving to adopt the medical profession, he subsequently resumed attendance at the University. In 1829 he obtained his diploma from the Royal College of Surgeons. He has since engaged in medical practice in the village of Chirnside, Berwickshire.
By the cultivation of polite literature, Mr Henderson has experienced relaxation from the active duties of his profession. In 1856 he published a volume of curious researches, entitled "The Popular Rhymes, &c., of the County of Berwick." He is understood to be preparing for the press a volume of his poetical compositions, to be entitled "Lays and Legends of the Merse."
I canna leave my native land,I canna sail the sea;The trees around my cottage stand,The gowans deck the lea;The primrose blooms beside the burn,The wild flower on the brae;To leave them a' my heart wad mourn,I canna gang away.The dew-draps gem the clover leaves,The laverock sings aboon,The blae-berry bush wi' spring revives,And it will blossom soon;I canna leave the bonnie braeWhere waves the new-sprung fern,Where oft I 've pass'd the summer's day,And look'd upon the burn.I canna leave the green-croft well,Its waters cool and clear,For oft its pleasant murmurs dwellLike music in mine ear;The elder bush, the garden bower,Where robin sings sae sweet,The auld gray dike, the bee-house tower,The cosie garden seat.
I canna leave my native land,I canna sail the sea;The trees around my cottage stand,The gowans deck the lea;The primrose blooms beside the burn,The wild flower on the brae;To leave them a' my heart wad mourn,I canna gang away.
The dew-draps gem the clover leaves,The laverock sings aboon,The blae-berry bush wi' spring revives,And it will blossom soon;I canna leave the bonnie braeWhere waves the new-sprung fern,Where oft I 've pass'd the summer's day,And look'd upon the burn.
I canna leave the green-croft well,Its waters cool and clear,For oft its pleasant murmurs dwellLike music in mine ear;The elder bush, the garden bower,Where robin sings sae sweet,The auld gray dike, the bee-house tower,The cosie garden seat.
One of the most esteemed of living Scottish theological writers, Horatius Bonar, is likewise favourably known as a sacred lyric poet. He is a native of Edinburgh, where his father, the late James Bonar, Esq., a man of eminent piety and accomplished scholarship, held the office of a Solicitor of Excise. His ancestors for several successive generations were ministers of the Church of Scotland. He was educated at the High School and the University of his native city. After engaging for some time in missionary labour at Leith, he was ordained to the ministry at Kelso in November 1837, and has since prosecuted his pastoral duties in that place. His first literary efforts appeared in the shape of religious tracts, now published in a volume under the title of "The Kelso Tracts." He next published the work by which he has become most widely known, "The Night of Weeping," which was followed by other two works of the same series, "The Morning of Joy," and "The Eternal Day." Of his subsequent publications, the more conspicuous are, "Prophetical Landmarks," "The Coming and the Kingdom of the Lord Jesus," "A Stranger Here," "Man; his Religion and his World," "The Story of Grace," "The Blood of the Cross," and "The Desert of Sinai, or Notes of a Tour from Cairo to Beersheba." Dr Bonar was for many years editor of thePresbyterian Review; he now editsThe Quarterly Journal of Prophecy. The following spiritual songs, well adapted for music, are from his volume entitled "Hymns of Faith and Hope."
Where the faded flower shall freshen,Freshen never more to fade;Where the shaded sky shall brighten,Brighten never more to shade:Where the sun-blaze never scorches,Where the star-beams cease to chill;Where no tempest stirs the echoesOf the wood, or wave, or hill:Where the morn shall wake in gladness,And the noon the joy prolong,Where the daylight dies in fragrance,'Mid the burst of holy song:Brother, we shall meet and rest'Mid the holy and the blest!Where no shadow shall bewilder,Where life's vain parade is o'er,Where the sleep of sin is broken,And the dreamer dreams no more;Where the bond is never sever'd,Partings, claspings, sob and moan,Midnight waking, twilight weeping,Heavy noontide, all are done:Where the child has found its mother,Where the mother finds the child,Where dear families are gather'dThat were scatter'd on the wild:Brother, we shall meet and rest'Mid the holy and the blest!Where the hidden wound is healèd,Where the blighted life re-blooms,Where the smitten heart the freshnessOf its buoyant youth resumes;Where the love that here we lavishOn the withering leaves of time,Shall have fadeless flowers to fix onIn an ever spring-bright clime:Where we find the joy of loving,As we never loved before,Loving on, unchill'd, unhinder'd,Loving once and evermore:Brother, we shall meet and rest'Mid the holy and the blest!Where a blasted world shall brightenUnderneath a bluer sphere,And a softer, gentler sunshine,Shed its healing splendour here;Where earth's barren vales shall blossom,Putting on their robe of green,And a purer, fairer Eden,Be where only wastes have been:Where a king in kingly glory,Such as earth has never known,Shall assume the righteous sceptre,Claim and wear the holy crown:Brother, we shall meet and rest'Mid the holy and the blest!
Where the faded flower shall freshen,Freshen never more to fade;Where the shaded sky shall brighten,Brighten never more to shade:Where the sun-blaze never scorches,Where the star-beams cease to chill;Where no tempest stirs the echoesOf the wood, or wave, or hill:Where the morn shall wake in gladness,And the noon the joy prolong,Where the daylight dies in fragrance,'Mid the burst of holy song:Brother, we shall meet and rest'Mid the holy and the blest!
Where no shadow shall bewilder,Where life's vain parade is o'er,Where the sleep of sin is broken,And the dreamer dreams no more;Where the bond is never sever'd,Partings, claspings, sob and moan,Midnight waking, twilight weeping,Heavy noontide, all are done:Where the child has found its mother,Where the mother finds the child,Where dear families are gather'dThat were scatter'd on the wild:Brother, we shall meet and rest'Mid the holy and the blest!
Where the hidden wound is healèd,Where the blighted life re-blooms,Where the smitten heart the freshnessOf its buoyant youth resumes;Where the love that here we lavishOn the withering leaves of time,Shall have fadeless flowers to fix onIn an ever spring-bright clime:Where we find the joy of loving,As we never loved before,Loving on, unchill'd, unhinder'd,Loving once and evermore:Brother, we shall meet and rest'Mid the holy and the blest!
Where a blasted world shall brightenUnderneath a bluer sphere,And a softer, gentler sunshine,Shed its healing splendour here;Where earth's barren vales shall blossom,Putting on their robe of green,And a purer, fairer Eden,Be where only wastes have been:Where a king in kingly glory,Such as earth has never known,Shall assume the righteous sceptre,Claim and wear the holy crown:Brother, we shall meet and rest'Mid the holy and the blest!
Trust not these seas again,Though smooth and fair;Trust not these waves again,Shipwreck is there.Trust not these stars again,Though bright and fair;Trust not these skies again,Tempest is there.Trust not that breeze again,Gentle and fair;Trust not these clouds again,Lightning is there.Trust not that isle again,Flower-crown'd and fair;Trust not its rocks again,Earthquake is there.Trust not these flowers again,Fragrant and fair;Trust not that rose again,Blighting is there.Trust not that earth again,Verdant and fair;Trust not its fields again,Winter is there.Trust not these hopes again,Sunny and fair;Trust not that smile again,Peril is there.Trust not this world again,Smiling and fair;Trust not its sweets again,Wormwood is there;Trust not its love again,Sparkling and fair;Trust not its joy again,Sorrow is there.
Trust not these seas again,Though smooth and fair;Trust not these waves again,Shipwreck is there.
Trust not these stars again,Though bright and fair;Trust not these skies again,Tempest is there.
Trust not that breeze again,Gentle and fair;Trust not these clouds again,Lightning is there.
Trust not that isle again,Flower-crown'd and fair;Trust not its rocks again,Earthquake is there.
Trust not these flowers again,Fragrant and fair;Trust not that rose again,Blighting is there.
Trust not that earth again,Verdant and fair;Trust not its fields again,Winter is there.
Trust not these hopes again,Sunny and fair;Trust not that smile again,Peril is there.
Trust not this world again,Smiling and fair;Trust not its sweets again,Wormwood is there;
Trust not its love again,Sparkling and fair;Trust not its joy again,Sorrow is there.
A song-writer of merit, John Halliday was born on the 18th July 1821, at Hawickshielsgate, near Hawick, Roxburghshire. His father was an agricultural labourer; and, with an ordinary education at school, he was, at an early age, engaged as an assistant shepherd to a tenant farmer in his native district. Inheriting from his mother a taste for the elder Scottish ballad, he devoted his leisure hours to reading such scraps of songs as he could manage to procure. In his thirteenth year he essayed to compose verses, and at the age of twenty became a contributor of poetical stanzas to the provincial journals. Encouraged by a numerous list of subscribers, he published, in 1847, "The Rustic Bard," a duodecimo volume of poems and songs. After being several years resident at Hopekirk, Roxburghshire, he removed in 1854 to Bridge of Allan, where he is well employed as a florist and landscape gardener.
In a howm, by a burn, where the brown birks grow,And the green ferns nod when the wild winds blow,Stands the roofless kirk in the auld kirkyard,Where the gowans earliest gem the swaird;And the gray, gray moss on ilk cauld through staneShrouds in oblivion the lang, lang gane—Where the ance warm heart is a cauld, cauld clod,And the beauteous and brave give a green to the sod—On a time-worn tower, where the dim owls dwell,Tuneless and torn, hangs the auld kirk bell.On the auld kirk floor is the damp night dew,Where warm words flow'd in a worship true;Is the sugh o' the breeze, and the hum o' the beeAs it wings and sings in its taintless gleeThrough the nettles tall to the thistles red,Where they roughly wave o'er each deep, dark bed;And it plies its task on the wa'-flowers tall,Which bloom in the choir and wave on the wall;Then, soaring away with a sweep and a swell,It covers its combs in the auld kirk bell.By the crumbling base of the auld kirk towerIs the broad-leaved dock and the bright brae flower;And the adders hiss o'er the lime-bound stones,And playfully writhe round mouldering bones:The bat clingeth close to the binewood's root,Where its gnarlèd boughs up the belfry shoot,As, hiding the handworks of ruthless time,It garlands in grandeur and green sublimeThe hoary height, where the rust sae fellBends, as with a burden, the auld kirk bell.Oh, red is the rust, and a ruin is comeTo the auld kirk bell—ance and ever it 's dumb;On the brink of the past 'tis awaiting a doom,For a wauf o' the wind may awaken its tomb,As, bearing its fragments, all dust-like, away,To blend with water, the wood and the clay,Till lost 'mid the changes of manners and men;Then ne'er ane will think, nor ere ane will ken,That a joyfu' jowl and a waefu' knell,As it swung, had been rung by the auld kirk bell.
In a howm, by a burn, where the brown birks grow,And the green ferns nod when the wild winds blow,Stands the roofless kirk in the auld kirkyard,Where the gowans earliest gem the swaird;And the gray, gray moss on ilk cauld through staneShrouds in oblivion the lang, lang gane—Where the ance warm heart is a cauld, cauld clod,And the beauteous and brave give a green to the sod—On a time-worn tower, where the dim owls dwell,Tuneless and torn, hangs the auld kirk bell.
On the auld kirk floor is the damp night dew,Where warm words flow'd in a worship true;Is the sugh o' the breeze, and the hum o' the beeAs it wings and sings in its taintless gleeThrough the nettles tall to the thistles red,Where they roughly wave o'er each deep, dark bed;And it plies its task on the wa'-flowers tall,Which bloom in the choir and wave on the wall;Then, soaring away with a sweep and a swell,It covers its combs in the auld kirk bell.
By the crumbling base of the auld kirk towerIs the broad-leaved dock and the bright brae flower;And the adders hiss o'er the lime-bound stones,And playfully writhe round mouldering bones:The bat clingeth close to the binewood's root,Where its gnarlèd boughs up the belfry shoot,As, hiding the handworks of ruthless time,It garlands in grandeur and green sublimeThe hoary height, where the rust sae fellBends, as with a burden, the auld kirk bell.
Oh, red is the rust, and a ruin is comeTo the auld kirk bell—ance and ever it 's dumb;On the brink of the past 'tis awaiting a doom,For a wauf o' the wind may awaken its tomb,As, bearing its fragments, all dust-like, away,To blend with water, the wood and the clay,Till lost 'mid the changes of manners and men;Then ne'er ane will think, nor ere ane will ken,That a joyfu' jowl and a waefu' knell,As it swung, had been rung by the auld kirk bell.