The summer comes wi' rosy wreaths,And spreads the mead wi' fragrant flowers,While furthy autumn plenty breathes,And blessings in abundance showers.E'en winter, wi' its frost and snaw,Brings meikle still the heart to cheer,But there's a season worth them a',And that's the spring-time o' the year.In spring the farmer ploughs the fieldThat yet will wave wi' yellow corn,In spring the birdie bigs its bieldIn foggy bank or budding thorn;The burn and brae, the hill and dell,A song of hope are heard to sing,And summer, autumn, winter, tell,Wi' joy or grief, the work o' spring.Now, youth 's the spring-time o' your life,When seed is sown wi' care and toil,And hopes are high, and fears are rife,Lest weeds should rise the braird to spoil.I 've sown the seed, my bairnies dear,By precept and example baith,And may the hand that guides us herePreserve it frae the spoiler's skaith!But soon the time may come when youShall miss a mother's tender care,A sinfu' world to wander through,Wi' a' its stormy strife to share;Then mind my words, whare'er ye gang,Let fortune smile or thrawart be,Ne'er let the tempter lead ye wrang—If sae ye live, ye'll happy dee.
The summer comes wi' rosy wreaths,And spreads the mead wi' fragrant flowers,While furthy autumn plenty breathes,And blessings in abundance showers.E'en winter, wi' its frost and snaw,Brings meikle still the heart to cheer,But there's a season worth them a',And that's the spring-time o' the year.
In spring the farmer ploughs the fieldThat yet will wave wi' yellow corn,In spring the birdie bigs its bieldIn foggy bank or budding thorn;The burn and brae, the hill and dell,A song of hope are heard to sing,And summer, autumn, winter, tell,Wi' joy or grief, the work o' spring.
Now, youth 's the spring-time o' your life,When seed is sown wi' care and toil,And hopes are high, and fears are rife,Lest weeds should rise the braird to spoil.I 've sown the seed, my bairnies dear,By precept and example baith,And may the hand that guides us herePreserve it frae the spoiler's skaith!
But soon the time may come when youShall miss a mother's tender care,A sinfu' world to wander through,Wi' a' its stormy strife to share;Then mind my words, whare'er ye gang,Let fortune smile or thrawart be,Ne'er let the tempter lead ye wrang—If sae ye live, ye'll happy dee.
Air—"There grows a bonnie brier bush."
Come see my scarlet rose-bushMy father gied to me,That's growing in our window-sillSae fresh and bonnilie;I wadna gie my rose-bushFor a' the flowers I see,Nor for a pouchfu' o' red gowd,Sae dear it is to me.I set it in the best o' mouldTa'en frae the moudie's hill,And covered a' the yird wi' mossI gather'd on the hill;I saw the blue-bell blooming,And the gowan wat wi' dew,But my heart was on my rose-bush set,I left them where they grew.I water 't ilka morningWi' meikle pride and care,And no a wither'd leaf I leaveUpon its branches fair;Twa sprouts are rising frae the root,And four are on the stem,Three rosebuds and six roses blawn—'Tis just a perfect gem!Come, see my bonnie, blooming bushMy father gied to me,Wi' roses to the very top,And branches like a tree.It grows upon our window-sill,I watch it tentilie;O! I wadna gie my dear rose-bushFor a' the flowers I see.
Come see my scarlet rose-bushMy father gied to me,That's growing in our window-sillSae fresh and bonnilie;I wadna gie my rose-bushFor a' the flowers I see,Nor for a pouchfu' o' red gowd,Sae dear it is to me.
I set it in the best o' mouldTa'en frae the moudie's hill,And covered a' the yird wi' mossI gather'd on the hill;I saw the blue-bell blooming,And the gowan wat wi' dew,But my heart was on my rose-bush set,I left them where they grew.
I water 't ilka morningWi' meikle pride and care,And no a wither'd leaf I leaveUpon its branches fair;Twa sprouts are rising frae the root,And four are on the stem,Three rosebuds and six roses blawn—'Tis just a perfect gem!
Come, see my bonnie, blooming bushMy father gied to me,Wi' roses to the very top,And branches like a tree.It grows upon our window-sill,I watch it tentilie;O! I wadna gie my dear rose-bushFor a' the flowers I see.
Henry Glassford Bell is the son of James Bell, Esq., advocate. His mother was the daughter of the Rev. John Hamilton, minister of Cathcart. He was born at Glasgow, but his early life was spent chiefly in Edinburgh, whither his parents removed in his sixth year. Having studied at the University of Edinburgh, he passed advocate in 1832. Prior to his commencing the study of law, he much devoted himself to literary pursuits. In 1828 he published, in "Constable's Miscellany," a "Life of Mary, Queen of Scots," in two volumes, of which work several editions have since appeared. About the same time he established theEdinburgh Literary Journal, which he conducted for several years with much acceptance to the public. His other publications are, "My Old Portfolio," a volume of miscellaneous prose and verse, and "Summer and Winter Hours," a volume of lyric poems and songs. Both these works are out of print. Mr Bell has contributed to the principal periodicals, and associated with the leading literary men of his time. Since 1839 he has resided in Glasgow, holding the appointment of a Sheriff-substitute of Lanarkshire.
Say wilt thou, Leila, when alone,Remember days of bliss gone by?Wilt thou, beside thy native Rhone,E'er for our distant streamlets sigh?Beneath thy own glad sun and sky,Ah! Leila, wilt thou think of me?She blush'd, and murmur'd in reply,"My life is one long thought of thee."Sweet girl! I would not have it so;My destiny must not be thine,For wildly as the wild waves flow,Will pass this fleeting life of mine."And let thy fate be weal or woe,My thoughts," she smiling said, "are free;And well the watchful angels knowMy life is one long thought of thee."Then, Leila, may thy thoughts and prayersBe with me in my hour of need,When round me throng the cold world's cares,And all my heart's fresh sorrows bleed!"Why, dearest, nurse so dark a creed?For full of joy thy years shall be;And mine shall share the blissful meed,For life is one long thought of thee."
Say wilt thou, Leila, when alone,Remember days of bliss gone by?Wilt thou, beside thy native Rhone,E'er for our distant streamlets sigh?Beneath thy own glad sun and sky,Ah! Leila, wilt thou think of me?She blush'd, and murmur'd in reply,"My life is one long thought of thee."
Sweet girl! I would not have it so;My destiny must not be thine,For wildly as the wild waves flow,Will pass this fleeting life of mine."And let thy fate be weal or woe,My thoughts," she smiling said, "are free;And well the watchful angels knowMy life is one long thought of thee."
Then, Leila, may thy thoughts and prayersBe with me in my hour of need,When round me throng the cold world's cares,And all my heart's fresh sorrows bleed!"Why, dearest, nurse so dark a creed?For full of joy thy years shall be;And mine shall share the blissful meed,For life is one long thought of thee."
Why is my spirit sad?Because 'tis parting, each succeeding year,With something that it used to hold more dearThan aught that now remains;Because the past, like a receding sail,Flits into dimness, and the lonely galeO'er vacant waters reigns!Why is my spirit sad?Because no more within my soul there dwellThoughts fresh as flowers that fill the mountain dellWith innocent delight;Because I am aweary of the strifeThat with hot fever taints the springs of life,Making the day seem night!Why is my spirit sad?Alas! ye did not know the lost, the dead,Who loved with me of yore green paths to tread—The paths of young romance;Ye never stood with us 'neath summer skies,Nor saw the glad light of their tender eyes—The Eden of their glance.Why is my spirit sad?Have not the beautiful been ta'en away—Are not the noble-hearted turn'd to clay—Wither'd in root and stem?I see that others, in whose looks are litThe radiant joys of youth, are round me yet,But not—but not like them!I would not be less sad;My days of mirth are past; droops o'er my browThe sheaf of care in sickly paleness now;The present is around me;Would that the future were both come and gone,And that I lay where, 'neath a nameless stone,Crush'd feelings could not wound me!
Why is my spirit sad?Because 'tis parting, each succeeding year,With something that it used to hold more dearThan aught that now remains;Because the past, like a receding sail,Flits into dimness, and the lonely galeO'er vacant waters reigns!
Why is my spirit sad?Because no more within my soul there dwellThoughts fresh as flowers that fill the mountain dellWith innocent delight;Because I am aweary of the strifeThat with hot fever taints the springs of life,Making the day seem night!
Why is my spirit sad?Alas! ye did not know the lost, the dead,Who loved with me of yore green paths to tread—The paths of young romance;Ye never stood with us 'neath summer skies,Nor saw the glad light of their tender eyes—The Eden of their glance.
Why is my spirit sad?Have not the beautiful been ta'en away—Are not the noble-hearted turn'd to clay—Wither'd in root and stem?I see that others, in whose looks are litThe radiant joys of youth, are round me yet,But not—but not like them!
I would not be less sad;My days of mirth are past; droops o'er my browThe sheaf of care in sickly paleness now;The present is around me;Would that the future were both come and gone,And that I lay where, 'neath a nameless stone,Crush'd feelings could not wound me!
I 'll no walk by the kirk, mother,I 'll no walk by the manse;I aye meet wi' the minister,Wha looks at me askance.What ails ye at the minister?—A douce and sober lad;I trow it is na every dayThat siclike can be had.I dinna like his smooth-kaim'd hair,Nor yet his pawkie face;I dinna like a preacher, mother,But in a preaching place.Then ye 'll gang down by Holylee—Ye needna look sae scared—For wha kens but at HolyleeYe 'll aiblins meet the Laird?I canna bide the Laird, mother,He says sic things to me;Ae half he says wi' wily words,And ae half wi' his e'e.Awa! awa! ye glaikit thing!It 's a' that Geordie Young;The Laird has no an e'e like him,Nor the minister a tongue!He 's fleech'd ye out o' a' ye hae,For nane but him ye care;But love can ne'er be lasting, bairn,That aye gangs cauld and bare.The faithfu' heart will aye, mother,Put trust in ane above,And how can folks gang bare, mother,Wrapp'd in the faulds o' love?Weel, lassie, walk ye by the burn,And walk ye slow and sly;My certie! weel ye ken the gateThat Geordie Young comes by!His plighted troth is mine, mother,And lang afore the springI 'll loose my silken snood, mother,And wear the gowden ring.
I 'll no walk by the kirk, mother,I 'll no walk by the manse;I aye meet wi' the minister,Wha looks at me askance.
What ails ye at the minister?—A douce and sober lad;I trow it is na every dayThat siclike can be had.
I dinna like his smooth-kaim'd hair,Nor yet his pawkie face;I dinna like a preacher, mother,But in a preaching place.
Then ye 'll gang down by Holylee—Ye needna look sae scared—For wha kens but at HolyleeYe 'll aiblins meet the Laird?
I canna bide the Laird, mother,He says sic things to me;Ae half he says wi' wily words,And ae half wi' his e'e.
Awa! awa! ye glaikit thing!It 's a' that Geordie Young;The Laird has no an e'e like him,Nor the minister a tongue!
He 's fleech'd ye out o' a' ye hae,For nane but him ye care;But love can ne'er be lasting, bairn,That aye gangs cauld and bare.
The faithfu' heart will aye, mother,Put trust in ane above,And how can folks gang bare, mother,Wrapp'd in the faulds o' love?
Weel, lassie, walk ye by the burn,And walk ye slow and sly;My certie! weel ye ken the gateThat Geordie Young comes by!
His plighted troth is mine, mother,And lang afore the springI 'll loose my silken snood, mother,And wear the gowden ring.
Beautiful moon! wilt thou tell me whereThou lovest most to be softly gleaming?Is it on some rich bank of flowersWhere 'neath each blossom a fay lies dreaming?Or is it on yonder silver lakeWhere the fish in green and gold are sparkling?Or is it among those ancient treesWhere the tremulous shadows move soft and darkling?Oh, no! said the moon, with a playful smile,The best of my beams are for ever dwellingIn the exquisite eyes, so deeply blue,And the eloquent glance of the fairy Ellen.Gentlest of zephyrs! pray tell me howThou lovest to spend a serene May morning,When dew-drops are twinkling on every bough,And violets wild each glade adorning?Is it in kissing the glittering stream,O'er its pebbly channel so gaily rippling?Is it in sipping the nectar that liesIn the bells of the flowers—an innocent tippling?Oh no! said the zephyr, and softly sigh'd,His voice with a musical melody swelling,All the mornings of May 'mong the ringlets I playThat dance on the brow of the fairy Ellen.White little lily! pray tell me whenThy happiest moments the fates allow thee?Thou seemest a favourite with bees and men,And all the boys and butterflies know thee;Is it at dawn or at sunset hourThat pleasantest fancies are o'er thee stealing?One would think thee a poet, to judge by thy looks,Or at least a pale-faced man of feeling?Oh no! said the lily, and slightly blush'd,My highest ambition 's to be sweet smelling,To live in the sight, and to die on the breastOf the fairest of beings, the fairy Ellen.Oh! would that I were the moon myself,Or a balmy zephyr, fresh fragrance breathing;Or a white-crown'd lily, my slight green stemSlily around that dear neck wreathing!Worlds would I give to bask in those eyes,Stars, if I had them, for one of those tresses,My heart and my soul, and my body to boot,For merely the smallest of all her kisses!And if she would love me, oh heaven and earth!I would not be Jove, the cloud-compelling,Though he offer'd me Juno and Venus bothIn exchange for one smile of my fairy Ellen!
Beautiful moon! wilt thou tell me whereThou lovest most to be softly gleaming?Is it on some rich bank of flowersWhere 'neath each blossom a fay lies dreaming?Or is it on yonder silver lakeWhere the fish in green and gold are sparkling?Or is it among those ancient treesWhere the tremulous shadows move soft and darkling?Oh, no! said the moon, with a playful smile,The best of my beams are for ever dwellingIn the exquisite eyes, so deeply blue,And the eloquent glance of the fairy Ellen.
Gentlest of zephyrs! pray tell me howThou lovest to spend a serene May morning,When dew-drops are twinkling on every bough,And violets wild each glade adorning?Is it in kissing the glittering stream,O'er its pebbly channel so gaily rippling?Is it in sipping the nectar that liesIn the bells of the flowers—an innocent tippling?Oh no! said the zephyr, and softly sigh'd,His voice with a musical melody swelling,All the mornings of May 'mong the ringlets I playThat dance on the brow of the fairy Ellen.
White little lily! pray tell me whenThy happiest moments the fates allow thee?Thou seemest a favourite with bees and men,And all the boys and butterflies know thee;Is it at dawn or at sunset hourThat pleasantest fancies are o'er thee stealing?One would think thee a poet, to judge by thy looks,Or at least a pale-faced man of feeling?Oh no! said the lily, and slightly blush'd,My highest ambition 's to be sweet smelling,To live in the sight, and to die on the breastOf the fairest of beings, the fairy Ellen.
Oh! would that I were the moon myself,Or a balmy zephyr, fresh fragrance breathing;Or a white-crown'd lily, my slight green stemSlily around that dear neck wreathing!Worlds would I give to bask in those eyes,Stars, if I had them, for one of those tresses,My heart and my soul, and my body to boot,For merely the smallest of all her kisses!And if she would love me, oh heaven and earth!I would not be Jove, the cloud-compelling,Though he offer'd me Juno and Venus bothIn exchange for one smile of my fairy Ellen!
They 're stepping off, the friends I knew,They 're going one by one;They 're taking wives to tame their lives,Their jovial days are done;I can't get one old crony nowTo join me in a spree;They've all grown grave, domestic men,They look askance on me.I hate to see them sober'd down,The merry boys and true,I hate to hear them sneering nowAt pictures fancy drew;I care not for their married cheer,Their puddings and their soups,And middle-aged relations round,In formidable groups.And though their wife perchance may haveA comely sort of face,And at the table's upper endConduct herself with grace,I hate the prim reserve that reigns,The caution and the state,I hate to see my friend grow vainOf furniture and plate.Oh, give me back the days again,When we have wander'd free,And stole the dew from every flower,The fruit from every tree;The friends I loved they will not come,They've all deserted me;They sit at home and toast their toes,Look stupid and sip tea.Alas! alas! for years gone by,And for the friends I've lost;When no warm feeling of the heartWas chill'd by early frost.If these be Hymen's vaunted joys,I'd have him shun my door,Unless he quench his torch, and liveHenceforth a bachelor.
They 're stepping off, the friends I knew,They 're going one by one;They 're taking wives to tame their lives,Their jovial days are done;I can't get one old crony nowTo join me in a spree;They've all grown grave, domestic men,They look askance on me.
I hate to see them sober'd down,The merry boys and true,I hate to hear them sneering nowAt pictures fancy drew;I care not for their married cheer,Their puddings and their soups,And middle-aged relations round,In formidable groups.
And though their wife perchance may haveA comely sort of face,And at the table's upper endConduct herself with grace,I hate the prim reserve that reigns,The caution and the state,I hate to see my friend grow vainOf furniture and plate.
Oh, give me back the days again,When we have wander'd free,And stole the dew from every flower,The fruit from every tree;The friends I loved they will not come,They've all deserted me;They sit at home and toast their toes,Look stupid and sip tea.
Alas! alas! for years gone by,And for the friends I've lost;When no warm feeling of the heartWas chill'd by early frost.If these be Hymen's vaunted joys,I'd have him shun my door,Unless he quench his torch, and liveHenceforth a bachelor.
William Bennet was born on the 29th September, 1802, in the parish of Glencairn, and county of Dumfries. He first wrote verses while apprenticed to a mechanic in a neighbouring parish. In his nineteenth year he published a volume of poems, which excited some attention, and led to his connexion with the newspaper press. He became a regular contributor to theDumfries Courier, edited by the ingenious John M'Diarmid; and in 1825 and the following year conducted theDumfries Magazine, in which appeared many interesting articles from his pen. In December 1826, he became editor of theGlasgow Free Press, which supported the liberal cause during the whole of the Reform Bill struggle. Along with Sir Daniel Sandford, he afterwards withdrew from the Whig party, and established theGlasgow Constitutional, the editorship of which he resigned in 1836. In 1832-3, he published a periodical, entitled, "Bennet's Glasgow Magazine." Continuing to write verses, he afterwards published a poetical volume, with the title, "Songs of Solitude." His other separate works are, "Pictures of Scottish Scenes and Character," in three volumes; "Sketches of the Isle of Man;" and "The Chief of Glen-Orchay," a poem in five cantos, illustrative of Highland manners and mythology in the middle ages.
Mr Bennet, subsequent to leaving Glasgow, resided successively in Ireland, and London. He afterwards lived several years in Galloway, and has latterly fixed his abode at Greenmount, near Burntisland. He is understood to be engaged in a new translation of the Scriptures.
Blest be the hour of night,When, his toils over,The swain, with a heart so light,Meets with his lover!Sweet the moon gilds their path,Arm in arm straying;Clouds never rise in wrath,Chiding their staying.Gently they whisper low:Unseen beside them,Good angels watch, that noIll may betide them.Silence is everywhere,Save when the sighingIs heard, of the breeze's fall,Fitfully dying.How the maid's bosom glows,While her swain 's tellingThe love, that 's been long, she knows,In his heart swelling!How, when his arms are thrownTenderly round her,Fears she, in words to ownWhat he hath found her!When the first peep of dawnWarns them of parting,And from each dewy lawnBlythe birds are starting,Fondly she hears her swainVow, though they sever,Soon they shall meet again,Mated for ever.
Blest be the hour of night,When, his toils over,The swain, with a heart so light,Meets with his lover!Sweet the moon gilds their path,Arm in arm straying;Clouds never rise in wrath,Chiding their staying.
Gently they whisper low:Unseen beside them,Good angels watch, that noIll may betide them.Silence is everywhere,Save when the sighingIs heard, of the breeze's fall,Fitfully dying.
How the maid's bosom glows,While her swain 's tellingThe love, that 's been long, she knows,In his heart swelling!How, when his arms are thrownTenderly round her,Fears she, in words to ownWhat he hath found her!
When the first peep of dawnWarns them of parting,And from each dewy lawnBlythe birds are starting,Fondly she hears her swainVow, though they sever,Soon they shall meet again,Mated for ever.
Amang the breezy heights and howesWhere winds the Milk[6]sae clearly,A Rose o' beauty sweetly grows,A Rose I lo'e most dearly.Wi' spring's saft rain and simmer's sunHow blooms my Rose divinely!And lang ere blaws the winter wun',This breast shall nurse it kin'ly.May heaven's dew aye freshly weetMy Rose at ilka gloamin',And oh, may nae unhallow'd feetBe near it ever roamin'!I soon shall buy a snug wee cot,And hae my Rose brought thither;And then, in that lowne sunny spot,We'll bloom and fade thegither.
Amang the breezy heights and howesWhere winds the Milk[6]sae clearly,A Rose o' beauty sweetly grows,A Rose I lo'e most dearly.
Wi' spring's saft rain and simmer's sunHow blooms my Rose divinely!And lang ere blaws the winter wun',This breast shall nurse it kin'ly.
May heaven's dew aye freshly weetMy Rose at ilka gloamin',And oh, may nae unhallow'd feetBe near it ever roamin'!
I soon shall buy a snug wee cot,And hae my Rose brought thither;And then, in that lowne sunny spot,We'll bloom and fade thegither.
I 'll think on thee, Love, when thy barkHath borne thee far across the deep;And, as the sky is bright or dark,'Twill be my fate to smile or weep;For oh, when winds and waters keepIn trust so dear a charge as thee,My anxious fears can never sleepTill thou again art safe with me!I 'll think on thee, Love, when each hourOf twilight comes, with pensive mood,And silence, like a spell of power,Rests, in its depth, on field and wood;And as the mingling shadows broodStill closer o'er the lonely sea,Here, on the beach where first we woo'd,I 'll pour to heaven my prayers for thee.Then haply on the breeze's wing,That to me steals across the wave,Some angel's voice may answer bringThat list'ning heaven consents to save.And oh, the further boon I cravePerchance may also granted be,That thou, return'd, no more shalt braveThe wanderer's perils on the sea!
I 'll think on thee, Love, when thy barkHath borne thee far across the deep;And, as the sky is bright or dark,'Twill be my fate to smile or weep;For oh, when winds and waters keepIn trust so dear a charge as thee,My anxious fears can never sleepTill thou again art safe with me!
I 'll think on thee, Love, when each hourOf twilight comes, with pensive mood,And silence, like a spell of power,Rests, in its depth, on field and wood;And as the mingling shadows broodStill closer o'er the lonely sea,Here, on the beach where first we woo'd,I 'll pour to heaven my prayers for thee.
Then haply on the breeze's wing,That to me steals across the wave,Some angel's voice may answer bringThat list'ning heaven consents to save.And oh, the further boon I cravePerchance may also granted be,That thou, return'd, no more shalt braveThe wanderer's perils on the sea!
There 's music in a mother's voice,More sweet than breezes sighing;There 's kindness in a mother's glance,Too pure for ever dying.There 's love within a mother's breast,So deep, 'tis still o'erflowing,And for her own a tender care,That 's ever, ever growing.And when a mother kneels to heaven,And for her child is praying,Oh, who shall half the fervour tellThat burns in all she 's saying!A mother, when she, like a star,Sets into heaven before us,From that bright home of love, all pure,Still minds and watches o'er us.
There 's music in a mother's voice,More sweet than breezes sighing;There 's kindness in a mother's glance,Too pure for ever dying.
There 's love within a mother's breast,So deep, 'tis still o'erflowing,And for her own a tender care,That 's ever, ever growing.
And when a mother kneels to heaven,And for her child is praying,Oh, who shall half the fervour tellThat burns in all she 's saying!
A mother, when she, like a star,Sets into heaven before us,From that bright home of love, all pure,Still minds and watches o'er us.
Come, memory, paint, though far away,The wimpling stream, the broomy brae,The upland wood, the hill-top gray,Whereon the sky seems fallin';Paint me each cheery, glist'ning rowOf shelter'd cots, the woods below,Where Airthrie's healing waters flowBy bonny Brig of Allan.Paint yonder Grampian heights sublime,The Roman eagles could not climb,And Stirling, crown'd in after timeWith Royalty's proud dwallin';These, with the Ochils, sentry keep,Where Forth, that fain in view would sleep,Tries, from his Links, oft back to peepAt bonny Brig of Allan.Oh, lovely, when the rising sunGreets Stirling towers, so steep and dun,And silver Forth's calm breast uponThe golden beams are fallin'!Then, trotting down to join his flood,Through rocky steeps, besprent with wood,How bright, in morning's joyous mood,Appears the stream of Allan!Upon its banks how sweet to stray,With rod and line, the livelong day,Or trace each rural charm, awayFrom cark of every callin'!There dove-like, o'er my path would broodThe spirit pure of solitude;For native each rapt, genial moodIs to the beauteous Allan.Oh, witching as its scenes, and brightAs is its cloudless summer light,Be still its maids, the soul's delightOf every truthful callan'!Be health around it ever spread,To light the eye, to lift the head,And joy on every heart be shedThat beats by Brig of Allan!
Come, memory, paint, though far away,The wimpling stream, the broomy brae,The upland wood, the hill-top gray,Whereon the sky seems fallin';Paint me each cheery, glist'ning rowOf shelter'd cots, the woods below,Where Airthrie's healing waters flowBy bonny Brig of Allan.
Paint yonder Grampian heights sublime,The Roman eagles could not climb,And Stirling, crown'd in after timeWith Royalty's proud dwallin';These, with the Ochils, sentry keep,Where Forth, that fain in view would sleep,Tries, from his Links, oft back to peepAt bonny Brig of Allan.
Oh, lovely, when the rising sunGreets Stirling towers, so steep and dun,And silver Forth's calm breast uponThe golden beams are fallin'!Then, trotting down to join his flood,Through rocky steeps, besprent with wood,How bright, in morning's joyous mood,Appears the stream of Allan!
Upon its banks how sweet to stray,With rod and line, the livelong day,Or trace each rural charm, awayFrom cark of every callin'!There dove-like, o'er my path would broodThe spirit pure of solitude;For native each rapt, genial moodIs to the beauteous Allan.
Oh, witching as its scenes, and brightAs is its cloudless summer light,Be still its maids, the soul's delightOf every truthful callan'!Be health around it ever spread,To light the eye, to lift the head,And joy on every heart be shedThat beats by Brig of Allan!
The author of "Legal Lyrics," a small volume of humorous songs, printed for private circulation, George Outram, was born in the vicinity of Glasgow in 1805. His father, a native of England, was partner and manager in the Clyde Iron Works. In 1827 he was called to the Scottish bar, and practised for some years as an advocate. To the character of an orator he made no pretensions, but he evinced great ability as a chamber counsel. He accepted, in 1837, the editorship of theGlasgow Herald, and continued the principal conductor of this journal till the period of his death. He died at Rosemore, on the shores of the Holy Loch, on the 16th September 1856, in his fifty-first year. His remains were interred in Warriston Cemetery, Edinburgh.
Of most retiring disposition, Mr Outram confined his intercourse to a limited circle of friends, by whom he was esteemed for his genial worth and interesting conversation. By the late Lord Cockburn he was especially beloved. He has left in MS. several interesting songs, which are likely to be published by his executors. His cousin-german, General Sir James Outram, is well known for his military services in India.
Air—"Duncan Davidson."
I gaed to spend a week in Fife,An unco week it proved to be,For there I met a waesome wife,Lamenting her viduity.Her grief brak' out sae fierce and fell,I thought her heart wad burst the shell;And, I was sae left to mysel,I sell't her an annuity.The bargain lookit fair eneugh,She just was turned o' saxty-three;I couldna guess'd she 'd prove sae teughBy human ingenuity.But years have come, and years have gane,And there she 's yet as stieve 's a stane;The auld wife 's growing young againSince she got her annuity.She 's crined awa to bane an' skin,But that it seems is nought to me;She 's like to live, although she 's inThe last stage o' tenuity.She munches wi' her wizen'd gums,An' stumps about on legs o' thrums,But comes—as sure as Christmas comes—To ca' for her annuity.She jokes her joke, an' cracks her crack,As spunkie as a growin' flea;An' there she sits upon my backA livin' perpetuity.She hurkles by her ingle side,An' toasts an' tans her wrinkled hide;Lord kens how lang she yet may bideTo ca' for her annuity.I read the tables drawn wi' careFor an Insurance Company;Her chance o' life was stated thereWi' perfect perspicuity.But tables here, or tables there,She 's lived ten years beyond her share;An 's like to live a dozen mairTo ca' for her annuity.I gat the loon that drew the deed,We spell'd it ower richt carefully;In vain he yerk'd his souple headTo find an ambiguity.It 's dated, tested, a' complete;The proper stamp, nae word delete;And diligence, as on decreet,May pass for her annuity.* * * * *I thought that grief might gar her quit,Her only son was lost at sea;But aff her wits behuved to flitAn' leave her in fatuity.She threeps, an' threeps he 's livin' yetFor a' the tellin' she can get;But catch the doited wife forgetTo ca' for her annuity.If there 's a sough o' choleraOr typhus, wha sae gleg as she!She buys up baths, an' drugs, an' a',In siccan superfluity!She doesna need—she's fever proof—The pest walked o'er her very roof;She tauld me sae, and then her loofHeld out for her annuity.Ae day she fell, her arm she brak,A compound fracture as could be;Nae leech the cure wad undertak,Whate'er was the gratuity.It 's cured! she handles 't like a flail,It does as weel in bits as hale;But I 'm a broken man mysel'Wi' her and her annuity.Her broozled flesh and broken banesAre weel as flesh and banes can be,She beats the taeds that live in stanesAn' fatten in vacuity!They die when they 're exposed to air,They canna thole the atmosphere;But her! expose her onywhere,She lives for her annuity.* * * * *The water-drap wears out the rockAs this eternal jade wears me;I could withstand the single shock,But not the continuity.It 's pay me here, an' pay me there,An' pay me, pay me evermair;I 'll gang demented wi' despair;I 'mchargedfor her annuity.
I gaed to spend a week in Fife,An unco week it proved to be,For there I met a waesome wife,Lamenting her viduity.Her grief brak' out sae fierce and fell,I thought her heart wad burst the shell;And, I was sae left to mysel,I sell't her an annuity.
The bargain lookit fair eneugh,She just was turned o' saxty-three;I couldna guess'd she 'd prove sae teughBy human ingenuity.But years have come, and years have gane,And there she 's yet as stieve 's a stane;The auld wife 's growing young againSince she got her annuity.
She 's crined awa to bane an' skin,But that it seems is nought to me;She 's like to live, although she 's inThe last stage o' tenuity.She munches wi' her wizen'd gums,An' stumps about on legs o' thrums,But comes—as sure as Christmas comes—To ca' for her annuity.
She jokes her joke, an' cracks her crack,As spunkie as a growin' flea;An' there she sits upon my backA livin' perpetuity.She hurkles by her ingle side,An' toasts an' tans her wrinkled hide;Lord kens how lang she yet may bideTo ca' for her annuity.
I read the tables drawn wi' careFor an Insurance Company;Her chance o' life was stated thereWi' perfect perspicuity.But tables here, or tables there,She 's lived ten years beyond her share;An 's like to live a dozen mairTo ca' for her annuity.
I gat the loon that drew the deed,We spell'd it ower richt carefully;In vain he yerk'd his souple headTo find an ambiguity.It 's dated, tested, a' complete;The proper stamp, nae word delete;And diligence, as on decreet,May pass for her annuity.
* * * * *
I thought that grief might gar her quit,Her only son was lost at sea;But aff her wits behuved to flitAn' leave her in fatuity.She threeps, an' threeps he 's livin' yetFor a' the tellin' she can get;But catch the doited wife forgetTo ca' for her annuity.
If there 's a sough o' choleraOr typhus, wha sae gleg as she!She buys up baths, an' drugs, an' a',In siccan superfluity!She doesna need—she's fever proof—The pest walked o'er her very roof;She tauld me sae, and then her loofHeld out for her annuity.
Ae day she fell, her arm she brak,A compound fracture as could be;Nae leech the cure wad undertak,Whate'er was the gratuity.It 's cured! she handles 't like a flail,It does as weel in bits as hale;But I 'm a broken man mysel'Wi' her and her annuity.
Her broozled flesh and broken banesAre weel as flesh and banes can be,She beats the taeds that live in stanesAn' fatten in vacuity!They die when they 're exposed to air,They canna thole the atmosphere;But her! expose her onywhere,She lives for her annuity.
* * * * *
The water-drap wears out the rockAs this eternal jade wears me;I could withstand the single shock,But not the continuity.It 's pay me here, an' pay me there,An' pay me, pay me evermair;I 'll gang demented wi' despair;I 'mchargedfor her annuity.
Henry Inglis is the son of William Inglis, Esq. of Glaspin, W.S., and was born in Edinburgh on the 6th November 1806. His early years were spent at Middleton, his father's residence in Linlithgowshire. Completing with distinction the usual course of classical study at the High School of Edinburgh, he entered the University of that city. At the close of a philosophical curriculum, he devoted himself to legal pursuits, and became a writer to the Signet. In 1851 he published "Marican, and other Poems," in one volume octavo. Another poetical work, entitled "The Briar of Threave," appeared from his pen in 1855. Mr Inglis is at present engaged with pieces illustrative of the history of the Covenant, which may afterwards be offered to the public.
The representative of the old Border family of Inglis of Branxholme, Mr Inglis is great-grandson of the celebrated Colonel Gardiner, who fell on the field of Preston in 1745.
Weep away, heart, weep away!Let no muleteerBe afraidTo weep; for a brave heart mayLament for a dear,Fickle maid.The lofty sky weeps in cloud,The earth weeps in dewsFrom its core;The diamond brooks weep aloud,The flowers change the huesWhich they wore.The grass mourns in the sunbeam,In gums weep the treesAnd in dye;And if mourn meadow and stream—Inanimate these—May not I?The wood-pigeon mourns his mate,The caged birds bewailFreedom gone;Shall not man mourn over fate?Dumb sorrow assailHim alone?Then weep on, heart, weep away!Let no muleteerBe afraidTo weep; for a brave heart mayLament for a dear,Fickle maid.
Weep away, heart, weep away!Let no muleteerBe afraidTo weep; for a brave heart mayLament for a dear,Fickle maid.
The lofty sky weeps in cloud,The earth weeps in dewsFrom its core;The diamond brooks weep aloud,The flowers change the huesWhich they wore.
The grass mourns in the sunbeam,In gums weep the treesAnd in dye;And if mourn meadow and stream—Inanimate these—May not I?
The wood-pigeon mourns his mate,The caged birds bewailFreedom gone;Shall not man mourn over fate?Dumb sorrow assailHim alone?
Then weep on, heart, weep away!Let no muleteerBe afraidTo weep; for a brave heart mayLament for a dear,Fickle maid.
James Manson, one of the conductors of theGlasgow Herald, has composed a number of lyrics, some of which have been set to music. Mr Manson was born in the parish of Kilwinning, Ayrshire, about the year 1812. He was bred to a laborious handicraft occupation, at which he wrought industriously during a course of years.
Set to Music by H. Lambeth.
Summer Ocean,Placid Ocean,Soft and sweet thy lullaby;Shadows lightly,Sunbeams brightly,Flicker o'er thee noiselessly.Resting gently on thy bosom,Snowy sea-gulls preen thy wings,While perfumed sighs, from many a blossom,Float around the strain the skylark sings.Love's emotion,Summer Ocean,Like thy self, 'neath cloudless skies,Glances brightly,Dances lightlyTill the fond illusion flies.
Summer Ocean,Placid Ocean,Soft and sweet thy lullaby;Shadows lightly,Sunbeams brightly,Flicker o'er thee noiselessly.
Resting gently on thy bosom,Snowy sea-gulls preen thy wings,While perfumed sighs, from many a blossom,Float around the strain the skylark sings.
Love's emotion,Summer Ocean,Like thy self, 'neath cloudless skies,Glances brightly,Dances lightlyTill the fond illusion flies.
Winter Ocean,Furious Ocean,Fierce and loud thy choral lay:Storm-clouds soaring,Whirlwinds roaringO'er thy breast in madness play.Homeless petrels shriek their omenHarshly 'mid thy billows' roar;Fleshless bones of shipwreck'd seamenDash against thy rock-ribb'd shore.War's commotion,Winter Ocean,Like thyself, when tempest driven,By passion hurl'd,Would wreck the world,And mock the wrath-scowling heaven.
Winter Ocean,Furious Ocean,Fierce and loud thy choral lay:Storm-clouds soaring,Whirlwinds roaringO'er thy breast in madness play.
Homeless petrels shriek their omenHarshly 'mid thy billows' roar;Fleshless bones of shipwreck'd seamenDash against thy rock-ribb'd shore.
War's commotion,Winter Ocean,Like thyself, when tempest driven,By passion hurl'd,Would wreck the world,And mock the wrath-scowling heaven.
Set to Music by Herr Kücken.
When loud the horn is soundingAlong the distant hills,Then would I rove, ne'er weary,The Hunter's Daughter near me,By flowery margin'd rills.'Mid stately pines embosom'dThere stands the Hunter's cot,From which this maiden dailyAt morning peeps so gaily,Contented with her lot.This Hunter and his DaughterMake everything their prey;He slays the wild roe bounding,Her eyes young hearts are wounding—No shafts so sure as they!
When loud the horn is soundingAlong the distant hills,Then would I rove, ne'er weary,The Hunter's Daughter near me,By flowery margin'd rills.
'Mid stately pines embosom'dThere stands the Hunter's cot,From which this maiden dailyAt morning peeps so gaily,Contented with her lot.
This Hunter and his DaughterMake everything their prey;He slays the wild roe bounding,Her eyes young hearts are wounding—No shafts so sure as they!
Music arranged by Julius Siligmann.
The skylark sings his matin lay,The waking flowers at dawning day,With perfumed breath, sigh, Come! come! come!Oh, haste, Love, come with me,To the wild wood come with me.Hark, the wing'd warblers singing,Come with me;Beauteous flowers, their perfume flinging,Wait for thee!The sunlight sleeps upon the lea,And sparkles o'er the murmuring sea,The wanton wind sighs, Come! come! come!Oh, haste, Love, come with me,To the wild wood come with me—Come and gather luscious berries,Come with me;Clustering grapes and melting cherriesWait for thee!My bird of love, my beauteous flower,Come, reign the queen of yonder bower,'Tis True-love whispers, Come! come! come!Oh, haste, then, come with me,To the wild wood come with me.Life's first fairest hours are fleeting—Come with me;Hope, and Joy, and Love's fond greetingWait for thee!
The skylark sings his matin lay,The waking flowers at dawning day,With perfumed breath, sigh, Come! come! come!Oh, haste, Love, come with me,To the wild wood come with me.Hark, the wing'd warblers singing,Come with me;Beauteous flowers, their perfume flinging,Wait for thee!
The sunlight sleeps upon the lea,And sparkles o'er the murmuring sea,The wanton wind sighs, Come! come! come!Oh, haste, Love, come with me,To the wild wood come with me—Come and gather luscious berries,Come with me;Clustering grapes and melting cherriesWait for thee!
My bird of love, my beauteous flower,Come, reign the queen of yonder bower,'Tis True-love whispers, Come! come! come!Oh, haste, then, come with me,To the wild wood come with me.Life's first fairest hours are fleeting—Come with me;Hope, and Joy, and Love's fond greetingWait for thee!
Set to Music by H. Lambeth.