Modern Scottish poets, with biographical and critical notices

Tenth Series-

MODERN SCOTTISH POETS

BIOGRAPHICAL AND
CRITICAL NOTICES.

506105

4-4-eo

11HECH 1 N :

D . H . EDWARDS.

1887.

PR

CONTENTS.

PAGB.

ALEXANDER, P. P. . . 232

Sleep
Death
Through the long sleepless

night

Bannockburu
After th* Battle of Alma
Rest
Fireside
Our Poet
A true story for children

ALEXANDER, W. L. . 222

The aged believer at the

gate of heaven
The aged saint entering

heaven

I would not live alway
Bereavement
The last wish
Gruel
Joyful expectation

BAIN, JAS. L. ... 157

To Glen Fernate

To an old well at a deserted

Highland clachan
Eternal love
Selections from Evan
Awake, awake

BARNARD, FRANCIS . . 290
The dying wife
The sun is ever shining
Honeymoon song
An evening in spring
The aul<l man

BELL, Rev. JAMES . . 339
To the ocean
The three suns
The maiden's plaint
Childhood
Winter's snow
Friendship's gift

PAOB.

BIRD, ROBERT . . . 179

Scotch porridge

The table o' fees

Oatmeal

Scotch heather

The sparrow

The Scottish blackbird

My old goose quill

A still lake

When little May's asleep

BLACK, WILLIAM . . 17

Across the sea

O Johnnie, leave the laeg

alane

King Death
To his terrier
By Islay's shores
A flower-auction
Shouther to shouther
Adam o' Fintry

BURR, JAMES .... 204

Onward, upward, heaven-
ward

Courage take

Oh it's aye simmer yonner
"Tis darkest afore the dawn

CADELL, MARY . . . 216

Soul communion

A spring song

Snow

The spirit of beauty

CRAWFORD, JOHN . . 150

Kate Galloway's Tarn
Wee Dod
A New Year lilt
Maggie Hay

CUNNINGHAM, ANDREW 208

The Regent Muiray

Knox

The Sea of Galilee

IV.

CONTENTS.

CUHNINOHAM— Contd.
The Robin Redbreast
Oliver Cromwell
Luther

DEWAB, ALEXANDER, . 244
The wine-cup
The wife o' Gowrie
He has a drunken father
The barlev bree
Hills, hills
If them canst sing

DEWAK, H. A. ... 67

The blind boy's lament
Anither day is past
There's, aye a something

that tak's us awa
Up, and be in time
A' for thy bonnie sel'

FAIBBAIBN, M. W. . . 249

Baby

The singer asleep

The angels

Berea vein ent— Hope

First love

FERGUSON, ROBERT . . 396

High, high, higher yet
The play days
My Marianne

GARDINER, PETER . . 315

Dear Scotland

The maisterless duggie

Do I love her? Yes, I

love her
God guard oor bonnie

boat

GRANT, JOSEPH . . . 344

Song of the Fairy King

Ballad

Hope

The three auld wives o"

Keeriean Lee
My own love
To the blackbird
Cam' ye doon ?
Ballad

GRAY, JOHN Y. ... 257

Come doon to the burnside
To a fossil shell
The old and the new
A springtime garland
Edzell Castle

GRAY, W. H. ... 198

How did it happen ?
Sufferers, do not grieve

PAGE.

GRAY, W. H.— Contd.

The Christian hero

Physician, heal thyself

Far away

My Mary
HEDDLE, J. G. M. . . 193

The news frae Africa

Wha sat 'mang the heather
wi' me

Cold is the mould

Isobel

Will

Song
HOGG, W. T. M. . . 255

Perseverance

School games
HOUSTOUN, WM. ... 93

God

God's Book

Why this unrest?

A reverie

Maggie

INGLIS, MARY ... 54

Let the Iwirnies play
The maiden martyr
Last longings
The auld manse
Auld Ailie Brown
Yon burnside
I wadna be a swallow

INGLIS, R. S 297

We feel not till we suffer
The land where the eagle

soars

The captive lark
Robert Nicol
Album verses
To my ain guidwife
To Mary

IRONSIDE, DANIEL . . 400
Come, Holy Spirit
This is not our home

KELLY, JAMES ... 88
The fishermen's wives
The beauty of Nature
To a beautiful child
Among the hills
In autumn

KERR, Rev. JOHN . . 331

The wee wiukin' candle
Worm work
Harvest
Noo, or never

CONTENTS.

V.

PACK.

KING, ARTHUR ... 33

Song of the anvil
A retrospect
Christmas eve
David Kennedy

LAMBERTON, WM. . . 375

A little garden
Aspirations of a young

poet
The best of my fortune's

the spendin' o't
The home of my childhood
The lover's return

LAUBACH, C. H. . . . 170

The poetess
Hector's obsequies
Love's egotism
The old violinist
In exile — a letter
An autumn thought

LAWRIE, Rev. G. J. . 357

Lang, lang syne
The auld mans.'
There was a little maid
A sang to the bairn
The home of memory

LAWRENCE, W. M. . . 321

It might have been

Zosemite Valley— Cali-
fornia
LYALL, WM. R. . . . 142

Oh, we'll ne'er see oor
Prince at Balmoral
again

No, I'll not

To a sovereign

Silence

MACDUFF, Rev, J. R. . 308
Knocking
The response
The grave of Bethany
In Meraoriam

Lift, lift the cross of Christ
Christ is coming
Bethlehem

MACKAY, F. A. . . . 379

My bonnie herd laddie
When the blasts of the

north

There is joy
Let cankered carles
The grass is green
Amid the hills
Castlelaw

PAOB.

MACKIE, K. F. . . . 212

Waft him o'er the foam
When gloamin' fades
Her dark brown eyes

MACLEAN, H. A. . . 84

My Highland lassie, O

A May morn song

Caledonia

My Highland home

MACLEOD, ANNIE C. . 407

Fair young Mary
O'er the moor

MACPHERSON, DANIEL . 26

Scotland

The sweet maid of Alvie

To my bride

MARSHALL, JAMES . . 163

The wee doggie scrapin'

at the door
The teclaimed prodigal

to the miser
When once you're down
The hungry skylarks

MAUCHLINE, ROBERT . 129

The dying soldier
The witch's stane
The grenadier of Tenginski

MAXWELL, ALEXANDER 402
The dying otter's petition

to Queen Victoria
Spring
Welcome to Kossuth

MELVILLE, Rev. W. B. 366

Ever — Never — Alone
Perdita— The lost one
Take no thought

MOONEY, JOHN . . . 135

The burnic on the hill
Whispers from afar
Fleecy clouds

MUIR, HUGH .... 174

The death o' grannie
Mary, dear Mary
How noble the theme
Hail, little stranger

NIVEN, JOHN .... 370

The auld fiddle

Harvest

Winter

VI.

CONTENTS.

73

PAOB.

PABKEB, BELLA ... 47

The dying soldier
Our darling
Jamie's Bible
Blood on my hands
At evening time
My laddies

RKIT>, J. D. ...
Comrade, goodbye
Matrimony
An invitation
Was ever a lass
Death
At it again
Babv Violet

REID, SAMUEL . . . 110
Message of the snowdrop
In an autumn garden
In the forest
The water-lilies
At twilight

SHARP, WM 386

The field mouse
Summer rain
Madonna Natura
A midsummer hour
The song of flowers
The shadowed souls
Birchington re-visited

STEVENSON, R. L. . . 323
A mile and a bittock
My conscience

STEWART, ALEXANDER . 120

Message to the king

I'm gettin' auld an crunky

The Syro-Pheuician woman

Benjie

An everydav story

The Master and the flowers

STEWART, WM. . . . 139

Eventide

The quei'ii o' them a"

STOTT, MAGGIE . . . 167

Waitin' the Maister

The mild yi-ur

oiilv tni".t Him
SUTHERLAND, ALEX. . 37

The i.ilibit on the wa'

Warstle through

The cot on the bnw»

Thult — A rt-verie

Tin-.- d.i\ s .a\e passed
SWAN, MAI.CIK ... 42

The homes of Scotland

The greatest of tha three

PAOE.

SWAN, M.— Contd.
Change
God's ways
The hope of the spring

SWAN, ROBERT ... 62

The convict's sigh
The debauchee
A sang to the wean
Oor back door
Waggity wa'

THOMSON, JAMES . . 266
The nameless laddie
The days •' lanpyne
The wee croodlin' doo
Little Jock
Hairst

USHER, JOHN . . . 273

Boo to the bus'
Auld Freens
Memory

Tne channel stane
A pipe of tobacco
The Fleur de Lis
The death of a favourite
horse

WADDIE, CHARLES . . 283

Thou wert fair of hue, Annie

The battle of the dead

Scenes from Wallace

Scenes from Dv.nbar
WALKER, JOHN . . . 102

Tl>e last hymn
What might have been
The foolish virgins
The tale of life
Abide with us
WATSON, ROBERT A. . 97

This life and bey»nd
Voices of the town
The New Year
WEBSTEB, GEOBGE . . 327

Pleasant sounds
My grannie
A mother's entreaty
Tell me, tell me
Sandy's awa

WHITLOCKE, M. T. . . 146
The bird's message
Love's presence
May morning

WOOLNOTH, ALFRED . 116
Violet

Under the sin-face
To the woods
Deeside— Braemar to Balmoral

INTRODUCTORY NOTE.

ME have pleasure in announcing that, after not
a little effort and correspondence, we have
been privileged to give in this series of "Modern
Scottish Poets" a number of valuable biographical
sketches of popular authors, who have not, however,
been hitherto known as poets. Here, also, will be
found many less known present-day " makkars " who
have written with much sweetness, pathos, and power.

The great dead counsellor, who lies among his
humble kinsfolk in the churchyard of Ecclefechau,
gives perhaps the best definition of the nature and
purpose of poetry, and the mission and character of
the poet, when he says : " Poetry, were it the rudest,
so it be sincere, is the attempt which man makes to
render his existence harmonious. It may be called
the music of his whole manner of being ; and, histori-
cally considered, is the test how far the feeling of
love, of beauty and dignity, could be elicited from
that peculiar situation of his, and from the views he
there had of life and nature, of the universe, internal
and external."

This " sincerity " spoken of by Carlyle is always
found in the humble bard, and with it is often united
"verbal melodies" and "rhythmic dexterities," and

viii. INTBODUCTORY NOTE.

other artistic forms. Jit is customary for some who
like to speak of poetry, but who seldom read it, to say
that all the poets living in Scotland since 1800, and
writing anything in the Scottish dialect, have simply
been, more or less, distant imitators of Burns. Not to
speak of Hogg, Tannahill, Motherwell, Nicol, and
others, we have certainly been able to show that
this is unjust to our modern poets, many of whom,
but for the good work done by the editors of "Whistle-
binkie," "The Scottish Minstrel," "The Poets and
Poetry of Scotland," and by our own humble efforts,
would not have deemed themselves worthy to be
reckoned as even the least among poets. These writers
prove that our " mither tongue " is not yet a dead
language, and that it speaks from the heart to the
heart, even at a time when poetic method appears by
not a few to be ranked as of greater importance than
substance.

Nearly one hundred years ago — and we are almost
ashamed to own it — one of our own townsmen, a
learned and talented medical gentleman, who was
widely known as an author of translations of the works
of " Callimachus " from Greek into English verse, and
" Psedotrophia " from the Latin, spoke of the " child-
ish method of clipping words" by leaving out the final
letter in ing. He farther asserted that —

" . . . Many poets iu harsh language write,

When they, with ease, might sweeter songs indite.

What bard, aspiring to immortal fame,

That future ages might preserve his name,

X" express poetic thoughts has ever chose

A tongue, in which none try to write in prose ;

A language never to perfection brought,

And out of use, and almost out of thought ?

Tis true the Gentle Shepherd charms the ear,

And all his artless lays delighted hear ;

But whence has this superior pleasure sprung,

Save chief from lines that mark the English tongue ?"

INTRODUCTORY NOTE. IX.

The Scottish dialect is still known, and is still spoken
and written in all its expressive purity and touching
tenderness. Only recently we heard of the following
death-bed utterances of an old woman who lived in a
northern county. Asked if she had no fear at all in
crossing Jordan ? — " No," she made answer, " what
should I be fear'd for, when I see Him wha is the Life
and the Kesurrection on the ither side ? His word
drives awa' a' the mists. I'm just like a bairn that's
been awa' on the fields pu'in' flowers, an' I maun con-
fess whiles chasin' butterflies ; an' noo, when the sun's
fa'en, I'm gaun toddlin' hame. I've a wee bit burnie
to cross ; but, man, there's the stappin' stanes o' His
promises, an' wi' my feet firm on them, I've nae cause
to fear." " Toddlin' Hame ! " Is not this a beautiful
text, enough to inspire the imagination of some of
our poets 1 The Scottish language, so simple, touch-
ing, and pawky, lends itself so naturally to song that
the feelings of the illiterate as well as of the educated
seem to flow more copiously into lyrical expression
than is the case in other countries. We give many
bright examples of the fact that the "Doric
phrase " is still known. As its " hamely worth and
couthie speech " is endeared by many kindly associa-
tions of the past, and by many beauties and poetical
graces of its own, and as our songs are said to be the
richest gems in Scotia's literary diadem, let every true
son of Scotland cherish and defend the brave words of
the late Janet Hamilton —

" Na, na, I winna pairt wi' that,

I dowua gi'e it up ;
O' Scotlan's hamely mither tongue

I canna quat the grup.
It's 'bedded in my very heart,

Ye needna rive an' rug ;
It's in my e'e an' on my tongue,

An' singin' in my lug.

I. INTRODUCTORY NOTE.

For, oh, the meltin' Doric lay,

In cot or clachan sung,
The words that drap like hiniiy dew

Frae mither Scotia's tongue,
Ha'e power to thrill the youthfu' heart

An fire the patriot's rain' ;
To saften grief in ilka form,

It comes to human kin'.
My mither, tho' the snaws o' eld

Are on my pow an' thine,
My heart is leal to thee as in

The days o' auld laugsyne."

The themes of our poets are manifold, and this is
proved by a glance at the contents of each of our
volumes. In the factory, the workshop, the warehouse,
the office, and the study, pictures of childhood's happy
days in country districts, and of rural scenes and village
life, are drawn as vividly as if on canvas. We have the
cluster of theeket biggins and kailyards ; the farm-
toon, with its horses, cows, sheep, and swine ; cackling
hens picking in the cornyard, or napping their wings
in the dusty loan ; noisy ducks spluttering about the
mill dam ; the kitchen lass milking the kye, and the
herd loon driving them to the park, and many other
simple and peaceful scenes. But of this more hereafter.
We have already written five or six "prefaces," and we
hope to make a big one at the end.

One of our critics says : — " Each Series has begotten
its successor, until the present issue is the Ninth, or
one for each of the Nine Muses. There is no reason
why the number should not stretch out to ten, to
correspond with the Ten Tribes, or to a dozen, and
thus make a poetic zodiac." Well, there are many
•with whom we have been in communication whose
productions we have been unable to include in this
volume, as well as a few worthy poets suggested by
friends, particulars of whose careers, with selections of
their poetry, could not fail to be interesting. To bring

INTRODUCTORY NOTK. XI.

these to light, and got materials for biographical
notices, would entail much research and laborious
effort, but the result would be one of lasting value.
We are prepared to make the attempt. Our plan is
to complete the work in twelve volumes, the last
volume to contain an exhaustive article on the subject
of Modern Scottish Poets and Poetry, and some re-
marks on our experiences connected with the work
during these eight years, together with a general index
and a selection of " vagrant " gems that we have been
unable to present to our readers with any particulars
of the authors. These fugitive, unclaimed pieces
ought to be preserved, and would doubtless be prized
by many. We shall feel greatly encouraged to pro-
ceed in bringing to a conclusion our labours in this
department of literature if former subscribers and
friends, while ordering the Eleventh Series, would in-
timate their wish to have the remaining volume,
which we hope to be able to bring out during the
year 1888.

D. H. EDWARDS.
Advertiser Office,
BKECHIN, August, 1887.

MODEKN SCOTTISH POETS,

WILLIAM BLACK.

MILLIAM BLACK ! A name that is a spell,
and " starts a spirit " — a master of Fiction !
Is he amongst poets 1 We can imagine not a few of
our readers exclaiming — "Has he, too, written in
'measured lines."' He is known throughout the
world as a great novelist, and we have brought him
here as a true lyric poet. In doing so we would state
that, while some speak of literature as merely supply-
ing ornament to thought, we think the proper view is to
consider it as presenting the ideals, and not the dresses
of things — as developing throughout its domain the
essence and form of beauty from the inner law of
universal life. It makes truth issue from the soul of
man in communion with Nature, and not from the
surface of Nature alone. Such an origin fills truth
with life, and gives it loveliness. Science has there-
fore been justly styled the anatomy of truth, philo-
sophy its pervading spirit, and literature, uniting the
two, converts the former into a beautiful incarnation
of the latter. We thus assert the supremacy of
literature, and claim as due to its proper cultivators the
highest honours. And in the rich garland of Scotland's
authors, recent and living, who have combined poetry
witli their prose writings, few have had or possess a
B

18 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

better appreciation of what their work should be than
William Black. In saying so, we do not forget such
names as Scott, Wilson, Hogg, Cunningham, Buc-
hanan, Macdonald, Aird, " Delta," and others we might
name, who have wedded the story-writer to the poet —
who, though holding in their hands fragrant garlands
of English Literature, with all its varied blossoms and
fruits, have not thought it beneath them to cherish
the simple flowers with which native poetic genius
has bound Auld Scotia's brow.

With the exception of Scott, perhaps no one of those
mentioned has been more sedulous in his labours,
or popularly successful than Mr Black. Most of his
descriptions, sketches, and reflections are studies —
elaborate pictures of nature and humanity — whereas
the productions of not a few present-day authors are
but momentary entertainments.

William Black is still in the vigour of life, his
later productions giving evidence of unabated powers,
and the promise of maintaining his supremacy, and
the magical glow of his creations. Born in Glas-
gow in 1841, and educated at various private schools,
he early evinced a warm love for botany, and
became a close and intelligent observer of Nature.
Like many of our poets, he, while yet a mere lad,
manifested a taste for art, and studied at the Glasgow
School of Art. He began his literary career on the
staff of the Glasgow Citizen, and at the age of twenty-
three removed to London, where he became connected
with various metropolitan magazines, and, amongst
other literai'y work, wrote a series of critical papers
on Raskin, Carlyle, Kingsley, and others. In 1866,
having some months previously joined the literary
staff of the Morning Star, he was sent as its special
correspondent to the seat of the Franco-German War,
\\ here he made good use of his opportunities, and
proved himself a keen observer, and a brilliant

WILLIAM BLACK. 19

correspondent. On his return from the seat of war he
wrote his first novel, " In Silk Attire," and soon after
became editor of the London Review. Having subse-
quently occupied the position of assistant editor
of the Daily News for about four years, he, in
1875, relinquished journalism, and devoted himself to
fiction. Mr Black generally spends the winter months
at Brighton, where his family reside, but in the
summer and autumn he delights to roam or sail
amongst the Western Highlands and Islands of Scot-
land. Lithe of limb, and strong of arm, our novelist
and poet is fond of out-door exercise and sports, and
is occasionally to be found sketching some romantic-
ally-situated old castle, lonely shieling, or picturesque
" bits " by a Highland lake.

Mr Black has written, considerably over twenty
novels. Perhaps the best-known of these are "A
Daughter of Heth," "Macleod of Dare," "A Princess
of Thule," and "Sunrise." We do not think
any living writer has had a larger or more constant
audience, and none affords a clearer proof that in
order to be popular, it is not necessary to be merely
sensational. The atmosphere is ever one of refinement.
In his descriptions of scenery in " White Heather," —
one of his most recent works — we have all the fresh-
ness of the hills and the lochs of the Highlands, the
witchery that lies in the pictures of heather bloom, the
cloud shadows flying over the hill-sides, and the gleam-
ing loch and silver stream. No writer equals him in the
art of presenting a landscape to the eye of his reader.
Nothing is left for the imagination to supply. The
shadow of a hawk on the hillside, the advancing ripple
of the sea when a faint breeze comes with the close of
a day of calm, are painted with the same elaboration as
the mighty headlands of the Hebrides or the vast
undulations of the moors, and his people seem actuallv
to grow out of their surroundings. One of his critics

20 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

has styled him a prose-poet — " in a sentence or two
he comprises a lyric or a sonnet ; and his descriptions
prove him to possess the eye of a painter. The
verses we quote are from " The Wise Women of Inver-
ness," which we are enabled to give by the kind per-
mission of the author and his publishers, Messrs
Macmillau & Co. They are from " Rhymes by a
Deerstalker,'' chiefly reprinted from "White Heather."
We cannot but regret that Mr Black's literary occupa-
tions' have as yet allowed him but little leisure to
devote to the service of the Muses, but the following,
like the widow's mite, cannot but be prized by all
Scotchmen, and read with peculiar interest.

ACROSS THE SEA.

In Nova Scotia's clime they've met,

To keep the New Year's night ;
The merry lads and lasses crowd

Around the blazing light.

But father and mother sit withdrawn

To let their fancies flee
To the old, old time, and the old, old home

That's far across the sea.

And what strange sights and scenes are these

That sadden their shaded eyes ?
Is it only thus they can see again

The land of the Mackays ?

O there the red deer roam at will ;

And the grouse whirr on the wing ;
And the curlew call and the ptarmigan

Drink at the mountain spring ;

And the hares lie snug on the hillside ;

And the lusty black-cock crows ;
But the rivtr the children used to love

Through an empty valley flows.

Do they see once more a young lad wait

To shelter with his plaid,
When she steals to him in the gathering dusk,

His gentle Highland maid ''.

WILLIAM BLACK. 21

Do they hear the pipes at the weddings ;

Or the low, sad funeral wail
As the boat goes out to the island,

And the pibroch tells its tale ?

O fair is Naver's strath, and fair

The strath that Mudal laves ;
And dear the haunts of our childhood,

And dear the old folks' graves ;

And the parting from one's native land

Is a sorrow hard to dree :
God's forgiveness to them that drove us

So far across the sea !

And is bonnie Strath-Naver shining,

As it shone in the bygone years ?
As it shines for us now — ay, ever —

Though our eyes are blind with tears !

0 JOHNNIE, LEAVE THE LASS ALANE.

0 Johnnie, leave the lass alane ;
Her mother has but that one wean ;
For a' the others have been ta'en,

As weel ye ken, Johnnie.

Tis trne her bonnie een would rive
The heart o' any man alive ;
And in the husry she would thrive,
I grant ye that, Johnnie.

But wad ye tak' awa' the lass,

1 tell ye what would come to pass,
The mother soon wad hae the grass

Boon her auld head, Johnnie.

They've got a cow, and bit o' land
That well would bear another hand ;
Come down frae Tongue, and tak' your stand
On Kinloch's side, Johnnie !

Ye'd herd a bit, and work the farm,
And keep the widow-wife frae harm ;
And wha would keep ye snug and warm
In winter time, Johnnie ?

The lass hersel' — that I'll be sworn !
And bonnier creature ne'er was born :

22 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Come down the strath the morrow's morn,
Your best foot first, Johnnie !

KING DEATH.

King Death came striding along the road,

And he laughed aloud to see
How every rich man's mother's son

Would take to his heels and flee.

Duke, lord, or merchant, off they skipped,

Whenever that he drew near ;
And they dropped their guineas as wild they ran,

And their faces were white with fear.

But the poor folk labouring in the fields,

Watched him as he passed by ;
And they took to their spades and mattocks again,

And turned to their work with a sigh.

Then farther along the road he saw

An old man sitting alone ;
His head lay heavy upon his hands,

And sorrowful was his moan.

Old age had shrivelled and bent his frame ;

Age and hard work together
Had scattered his locks and bleared his eyes —

Age and the winter'weather.

Old man, said Death, do you tren.ble to know

That now you are near the end?
The old man looked : You are Death, said he,

And at last I've found a friend.

TO HIS TERRIER.

Auld, gray, and grizzled ; yellow een :

A nose as brown's a berry ;
A wit as sharp as ony preen —

That's my wee chief tian Harry.

Lord sakes ! — the courage of the man !

The biggest barn-yard ratten,
He'll snip him by the neck, o'er-han',

As he the deil had gatten.

And when his master's work on hand,
There's none maun come anear him ;

WILLIAM BLACK. 23

The biggest Duke in all Scotland,
My Harry's teeth would fear him.

But ordinar' wise-like fowl or freen,

He's harmless as a kitten ;
As soon he'd think o' worryin'

A hennie when she's sittin'.

But Harry, lad, ye're growin' auld ;

Your days are getting fewer ;
And maybe Heaven has made a fauld

For such wee things as you are.

And what strange kintra will that be?

And will they till your coggies?
And whatna strange folk there will see

There's water for the doggies?

BY ISLAY'S SHORES.

By Islay's shores she sate and sang ;

" O winds come blowing o'er the sea,
And bring me back my love again

That went to fight in Germanie ! "

And all the live-long day she sang,
And nursed the bairn upon her knee :

" Balou, balou, my bounie bairn,
Thy father's far in Germanie,

" But ere the summer days are gane,
And winter blackens bush and tree,

Thy father will be welcome hame
Frae the red wars in Germanie."

O dark the night fell, dark and mirk ;

A wraith stood by her icily :
" Dear wife, I'll never more win hame,

For I am slain in Germanie.

" On Minden'rf field I'm lying stark,
And Heaven is now my far countrie ;

Farewell, dear wife, farewell, farewell,
I'll ne'er win hame frae Germanie."

And all the year she came and went,
And wandered wild frae sea to sea :

" O neighbours, is he ne'er come back,
My love that went to Germanie ? "

24 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Port Ellen saw her many a time ;

Round by Port Askaig wandered she :
" Where is the ship that's sailing in

With my dear love f rae Germanie ? "

But when the darkened winter fell :
" It's cold for baith my bairn and me ;

Let me lie down and rest awhile :
My love's away frae Germanie.

" O far away and away he dwells ;

High Heaven is now his fair countrie ;
And there he stands — with arms outstretched —

To welcome hame my bairn and me !

A FLOWER. AUCTION.

Who will buy pansies ?

There are her eyes,
Dew soft and tender,

Love in them lies.

Who will buy roses ?

There are her lips,
And there is the nectar

That Cupidon sips.

Who will buy lilies ?

There are her cheeks,
And there the shy blushing

That maidhood bespeaks.

Meenie, Love Meenie,

What must one pay ?
Good stranger, the market's

Not open to-day !

SHOUTHER TO SHOUTHER.

From Hudson's Bay to the Rio Grand'

The Scot is ever a rover ;
In New South Wales and in Newfoundland,
And all the wide world over.
Chorus — But its shouther to shouther, my bonnie lads,

And let every Scot be a brither ;
And we'll work as we can, and we'll win if we can
For the sake of our auld Scotch mither.

She's a puir auld wife, wi' little to give,
And rather stint o' caressing ;

WILLIAM BLACK. 25

But she's shown us how honest lives we may live,
And sent us out wi' her blessing.

Chorus — And its shouther to shouther, etc.

Her land's no rich ; and her crops are slim ;

And I winna say much for the weather ;
But she's given us legs that can gaily clim'

Up the slopes of the blossoming heather.

Chorus — And it's shouther to shouther, etc.

And she's given us hearts that, whate'er they say

(And I trow we might be better),
There's one sair fault they never will hae —

Our mither, we'll never forget her !

Chorus— And it's shouther to shouther, etc.

ADAM 0' FINTRY.

"0 Mother, mother, Bteik the door,

And hap me in my bed :
O what is the ringing in that kirk-tower ?"

"It's Adam o" Fintry's wed."

" It's Adam o1 Fintry was my love

When the spring was on the lea ;

It's Adam o' Fintry was my love

When the leaf fell frae the tree.

" O mother, mother, steik the door
And make the window fast ;

And wrap the sheet around my een
Till a' the folk be past.

" And smiles he on the bonny bride ?

And she is jimp and fair?
And make they for the castle-towers

Upon the banks of Ayr ?

"O what is this, mother, I hear?

The bell goes slower and slow ;
And are they making ready now

For the dark way I maun go '!

" You'll lay me out upon the bed,
In a fair white linen sheet ;

With candles burning at my heid,
And at my cauld, cauld feet ;

"But, mother, bid them ring low and low
Upon the morrow's morn ;

For I wouldna that Fintry heard the bell
When to the kirk I'm borne.'

26 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

DANIEL MACPHERSON.

|UR readers will long ere now have observed that
the Caledonian Muse has from time to time
shown decided partiality for certain localities and
subjects of her realm. Ayr can boast her best and
immortal love favours, but Clan Vourich of Badenoch
won her earliest and latest blessing. Ossian wooed
the divine maid by proxy of James Macpherson, as
honest John Alden represented the Puritan captain,
Miles Standish, and with similar results —

" He warmed and glowed in his simple and eloquent language,
Quite forgetful of self, and full of the praise of his rival.
Archly the maiden smiled, and with eyes over-running with

laughter,
Said in A tremulous voice — ' Speak for yourself.' "

Daniel Macpherson, our modern bard of Badenoch,
unlike his great fore-clansman, has not originated or
translated any mighty epic to evoke the world's rap-
turous applause or controversy, but he has, neverthe-
less, written much that deserves a cordial reception.
Fingalliau heroes nor heroics characterise his lines,
but the Ossianic influence pervades them recognizably.
Notwithstanding a residence of over half-a-century in
England, he uniquely represented the ideal Perfer-
vidum Ingenium Scotorum, and remained Celtic as an
lonan cross, as Scoto-Doric as Jamieson's Dictionary,
and altogether perfect in national sympathy.

Macpherson was born at the clachan of Alvie,
amidst the picturesque mountain grandeur and
romantic solitudes of Badenoch, at a period when
the Napoleonic idea tyranised and convulsed
Europe, and so disturbed the remote serenity
of Alvie Kirk-Session as to cause that august
body to neglect all record of the natal event.

DANIEL MACPHERSON. 27

Babies were then at a discount, and men were at a pre-
mium when the fiery cross summoned the Highlanders
to arms. Suffice it to say that his birth occurred a
few years before the memorable Battle of Waterloo.
His father, a small tradesman and crofter, died when
the subject of our sketch was three years old, leaving
a widow and seven children in circumstances which, if
not affluent, were at least easy. Whether from de-
ficient educational supply or " up-tak' " we have no
means of knowing, but his curriculum terminated with
the "First Collection," and henceforth began the
serious studies of life in the school of labour. At the
age of eleven he entered the service of the Duke of
Gordon, where he remained till his majority. This
period may well be regarded as his apprenticeship to
love and the Muses, for all the loveable maidens of
the district were subjects of his song. Many of his
Gaelic lyrics became popular in Badenoch, and still
live — souvenirs of hame and auld langsyne — in Celto-
Canadian communities.

In the hope of bettering his position, and with very
little English, and less money, Macpherson left home,
and travelled on foot all the way from Kingussie to
Edinburgh, where he procured employment in the city
police force. He was soon promoted, and became
night-sergeant, or watch-housekeeper at the West
Port Station. Deeming himself settled for life he
married, and lived happily in the Scottish metropolis
for several years, when he removed to Walker-on-Tyne,
where we find him next employed as a colliery engi-
neer. Here also his wife • opened a school, and con-
ducted it very successfully. The Wallsend Pit, at
which he was engineer for fourteen years, becoming
unworkable through flooding, he turned to the iron
shipbuilding industry, where he was much esteemed
by the firm and his fellow-workers, and which gave him
employment for fifteen years During these years he

28 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

distinguished himself as the organiserof several societies
having for their object the promotion of literature and
social reform. He also took an active part in Church
matters ; and among other tokens of appreciation of
his worth and public spirit, he was presented with a
gold watch, chain and appendages on removing to
Newcastle-on-Tyne to fill a situation under his brother-
in-law — Mr Macintosh, agent for Messrs Macewan, the
Edinburgh brewers. His entrance into Newcastle was
at once signalised by the establishment of a Burns
Club in his own house, where the patriotic Scots of
Tyneside flocked every Wednesday evening to listen
to papers and discussions on Scottish themes. "Mac"
was its honoured bard and president till the day wh^n
he left for his native hills never to return again. His
second wife, Mary Stewart, a true Scotswoman, died in
April, 1886, and grief for her death so greatly affected
his health and spirits that he resolved to go home.
He desired to be " gathered to his fathers" at Alvie, and
this wish was duly fulfilled on the last day of the same
year. He died on 29th December, 1886, peacefully
falling asleep in Jesus. As we have already hinted,
Macpherson's poems indicate the hand of a true master
of the lyre, and merit a distinguished place in Scottish
record.

SCOTLAND.

O come, my Muse, bear me on fancy's wing

To Scotia's hills, whose summits cleave the clouds,
To barren wilds that own no vernal spring,

And rocks that sleep beneath their snowy shrouds.
To wild romantic glen, to verdant plain,

To pine-clad forest, and to birken bower,
To stream and lake, and blue majestic main,

To rural hamlet and to feudal tower.

Hail ! land of liberty, of mirth and life,
Land of romance, and song's enchanting charms,

Even thy patriot sons in martial strife
Maintained thy glory 'mid the clash of arms ;

DANIEL MACPHER80N. 29

Whene'er ambition urged a foreign foe
To stamp his footprint on thy native heath,

Thine was the hand that dealt the mortal blow,
That laid him prostrate in the arms of death.

From high Ben Nevis, chief of Scotland's hills,
The monarch mountain of our mountain land —

I see the sparkling of a thousand rills

* Gush from their fountains upon either hand ;

I see the torrents leaping o'er the rocks,
In wild cascades careering to the main,

While in their courses massive granite blocks
Are borne in fury to the trembling plain.

From these rude battlements on which I gaze,

Our noble ancestors, with sword and shield,
Rush'd like yon torrent foaming o'er the braes

To meet the foe upon the gory field.
The purpled Romans and the pirate Danes,

With flashing hopes came on to meet the brave,
But met among our mountains and our glens

Defeat and slaughter, and a foreign grave.

This is the land my fancy loves to trace,

The mountain land which Fingal trod of yore,
The land where oft he joined the sylvan chase,

Or drew in freedom's cause the broad claymore.
Where brave Galgacus shook his glittering spear,

Led on to victory his warrior band,"
And checked imperial Rome in mid career

Among the mountains of his native land.

Many and great thy herpes of renown

Whose lives were sacrificed on freedom's shrine,
Who nobly stood the guardians of the crown,

Whose deeds of valour on thine annals shine. •
The name of Wallace shall for ever blaze,

A scroll of fame above his sacred urn —
And martial bards in their heroic lays

Commemorate the Bruce of Bannockburn.

Land of the brave, in every distant clime

That saw thy banners waving in the breene,
Floats thy renown upon the wings of time,

Wafting thy fame o'er continents and seas.
Egypt and Spain beheld thy bonnets blue

Subdue their foes on ev'ry battle plain,
And Europe saw at bloody Waterloo

That Scotland's sword was not unsheathed in vain.

30 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Renowned at home, as on the battle-field,

While rests in scabbard thy unmatch'd claymore,
While hangs in hall thy once resounding shield,

And peace and freedom reign from shore to shore.
Thine is the heart that feels for human pain,

Thine is the arm that can redress each wrong ;
No friendly stranger ever sought in vain

A kind reception in the land of song.

Thine is the senator, the statesman thine,

And thine the critic in all classic lore,
Thine the philanthropist and sound divine,

Thine the explorer of each distant shore.
A Knox, " who never feared the face of man,"

Was thine, before whose voice and dauntless soul
The trembling priest turned sickly, pale, and wan,

The hooded monk in terror doffed his cowl.

And thine the bards who strung the mountain lyre,

Or tnned the border harps with magic hand,
Whose lips were baptised with seraphic fire,

And charmed with melody their native land.
Illustrious in a Burns, a Hogg, a Scott,

And in a Barbour of immortal lays ;
Nor shall " the voice of Ossian " be forgot,

Who gave the songs sublime of other days.

And never shall their mem'ry fade away,

Whose blood was shed for Scotland's sacred right,
Who spurned to stoop beneath a tyrant's sway,

And braved to death the persecutor's might.
What tho' their home was oft the moss-clad caves,

Their couch of rest the lonely mountain's side,
What tho' the heath-fowls nestle on their graves,

The Covenanters still are Scotland's pride.

Such is the land that give our heroes birth,

Our statesmen wisdom, and our patriots zeal,
That give our bards the highest boon on earth —

The lyric Muse to sing their country's weal.
That give our maids the meek and modest smile,

Our hardy swains the graceful form and mein,
And hearts and hands to labour and to toil,

And wreath new laurels round our thistle green.

THE SWEET MAID OF ALVIE.

At the grey dawn of morning from sleep I arose,
But the visions of midnight still float in my eyes ;

DANIEL MACPHERSON. 31

For I dreamed I was still in the bloom of my pride,
With the sweet maid of Alvie close, close by my side ;
And we wandered along by the lake's lovely shore,
And we whispered the tales that we whispered of yore ;
But, alas ! I awoke, and 'twas all but a dream,
And my pleasures had vanished like snow on a stream.

Ah ! why did I leave the sweet home of my youth,
To wander afar through the realms of the south ?
Ah ! why did I leave my sweet lassie, forlorn,
To wither and droop like a rose from a thorn ;
Ah ! why, cruel fate, thus debar my return,
Till the sweet maid of Alvie is laid in her urn?
But my fancy shall hover around where she lies
Till my spirit ascends to her home in the skies.

Though now I re-visit the home of my birth,
She welcomes me not to the scene of our mirth.
Now gloomy and sad seems the once lovely bower,
That witnessed our greetings at twilight's lone hour ;
And dull are the rays of yon bright evening star
That smiled on us down from her chamber afar ;
And cloudy the face of the once silver moon
That lighted us home in a rapturous swoon.

How noble her lineage — the foremost on fame,
The brave in the conflict, the bold in the game ;
How oft have they marshalled the might of her clan —
The rear in retreat, but in battle the van.
I traced her descent from the Lords of the Isle —
Tho' foremost in battle, were generous the while ;
Her mother, a branch from the high sheltered bower,
\Vhere waves the green banner from Cluny's high tower.

Ye maidens of Alvie, weep, weep for her sake,
Who lies cold in death by yon lone mountain lake ;
Strew flowers on her grave, each bedewed with a tear,
And show to the world that your grief is sincere :
But pause as ye weep o'er the dark, narrow tomb
Where she that was lovely has dropped in her bloom,
And think on the mandate that's forth on the wing
To summons you hence to the bar of your King.

How fresh is the rose on its moss-covered thorn,
Unfolding its leaves to the beams of the morn ;
How sweet is the lily that blooms in the vale,
How fragrant the heath-bell that waves in the gale ;
How fair is the landscape begem m'd with each flower
That summer bespangles o'er mountain and bower —
I'.nt lovelier far was the maid I deplore,
Whose ashes repose by Loch Alvie's lone shore.

MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

TO MY BRIDE:

Awake, my mountain harp, and move
The Muse to sing the charms of love ;
Awake, and prompt my Muse to soar
On themes she never winged before ;
Awake, and as thy concert swells,
Tell me where charming beauty dwells,
And elegance in maiden prime,
And virtue pure, unstained by crime.

These dwell, the blushing Muse replied,
In Anster's maid, your plighted bride —
These dwell in her whose heart and hand
Shall soon be yours by sacred band.
In her each beauty we can trace,
The graceful form, the smiling face,
The lips carnation, eyes like sloes,
And cheeks that mock the summer rose

The ringlets of her raven hair

Hang o'er her shoulder moulded fair ;

In meet proportion every limb,

The tapered arm and ankle trim ;

The snow that crowns the mountain's crest

Not whiter is than Anna's breast ;

The stars that gem the midnight skies

Not brighter are than Anna's eyes.

Her heart, that knows nor fraud nor guile,
Accords with Anna's artless smile ;
Nor sin nor crime can linger there,
Where pare devotion breathes a prayer ;
In virtue, as in beauty's charms,
She every sinful thought disarms,
For thoughts of worth alone can find
Repose and peace in Anna's mind.

The warbling songsters of the grove
May sing their melodies of love ;
The blackbird from the covered brake
May summons echo to awake ;
The mavis from the flowery thorn
May hail with glee the rosy morn,
But ah ! they charm my heart in vain
When Anna tunes her vocal strain.

Content with her through life to dwell,
In city crowd, or lonely dell ;
Content with her whate'er my lot,
A mansion gay or humble cot.

ARTHUR KINO.

Tho' stern misfortune's withered form
Should turn my sunshine to a storm,
Nor shall I at my lot repine,
When I can call my Anna mine.

Thou sun, whose beams with martial scorn,
Burst through the portals of the morn,
Mount, mount with haste, and onward speed
Thy golden car and fiery steed ;
Fly, rty, ye days that intervene,
Till I embrace my charming queen ;
May hoary time like fawn deer bound,
And bring the hapi y nuptials round.

Then hand in hand through life's career
In peace and joy we'll onward steer ;
We'll sail together side by side,
And brave the surge of time's dark tide ;
And when our course on earth is run
We'll hail with joy a brighter sun,
And quit the bark whose pliant oar
Has rowed us to the happy shore.

ARTHUR KING.

BMONGST the great band of Scottish 'singers who
are little known is Mr Arthur King, of Aber-
deen. Although there are thousands in Scotland who
have been amused by his clever verses, the identity of
the author is known to but a very limited circle of
acquaintances. Mr Arthur King is the second son of
the late Mr Arthur King, the well-known printer of
Aberdeen, and was born in the Granite City in 1856.
He received his education at the Grammar School
there, and afterwards completed a course at the Glas-
gow University, being intended for the Law. When
about eighteen or nineteen years of age he began to
dabble in rhymes, the first effort of his youthful Muse
being a humorous piece written for and read at the

34 MODERN SCOTTlsa POETS.

first convivial meeting of the Bon Accord Cricket Club.
Possessed of a keen appreciation of the humorous side
of life, and having a most grotesque fancy, Mr King
has successfully wooed the comic Muse, but like many
other writers of clever vers de societe, whose rhymes
are published anonymously, and whose subjects are
chiefly taken from passing events, he has gained little
fame except among those who are behind the scenes
of the comic journals of the country. That his work
is duly appreciated in these quarters is evidenced by
the fact that in the first series of Son Accord, pub-
lished in Aberdeen, he was a constant contributor ; in
the Northern Figaro, also printed in Aberdeen, after
the demise of Bon, he was a frequent contributor, under
the nom de plume of " Basileus ; " the Aberdeen Evening
Express has published many of his pieces, and he has
on several occasions contributed poems to the pages of
the Glasgow Bailie, and Judy (London.) On the issue
of the new Bon Accord by its spirited new proprietor,
Mr King became a regular contributor, and he has
made many happy hits in its pages. That he is
capable of higher and more enduring work, the fol-
lowing selections afford ample proof.

SONG OF THE ANVIL.

Kling ! Klang ! Kling ! Klang !

While the bellows solemnly roar,
And blend their voice in a deep set strain

With the anvil's musical lore ;
And we cheerily sing from morn till eve,

For contented and happy our lot,
For we know that the only way to succeed
Is to strike while the iron is hot.
Then strike while the iron is hot, my boys,
Strike yet again while. 'tis hot,
The metal will yield
To the hammers we wield,
If we strike while the iron is hot.

Kling ! Klang ! Kling ! Klang !
Our hammers in melody ring,

ARTHUR KING. 35

While the pond'rous sledge uplifted on high

Comes down with a hearty swing.
Kling ! Klang ! Kling ! Klang !

The anvils merrily sound,
And the flickering sparks like Will o' the Wisps

Are joyously dancing round.
Then strike while the iron is hot, my boys, &c.

Our hearts are leal, tho' our hands are rough,

And our faces are 'grimraed with smoke,
For the thought that we toil for loved ones at home

Gives zest to each downward stroke.
Kling ! Klang ! when unable to work,

And second childhood appears,
Then memory will cling to the anvil's ring,

And brighten declining years.
Then strike while the iron is hot, my boys, &c.

A RETROSPECT.

Just rest your head upon my breast — so — as it used to lie,
In happy times, long, long ago, those joyous days when I
Caressed your golden ringlets, love, and kissed your ruby lip,
When your father then surprised us with his rather stinging whip

And darling put your withered — once dainty — hand in mine,
Let's conjure up those happy times, in days of auld lang syne,
When I sang beneath your window, to the sighing of the wind,
When your dad let loose the mastitf, that bit my — never mind.

And do you still remember, that gloaming in the spring

When our youthful vows were plighted, when you wore my

golden ring 1

When (the old one coming on us, with passion-heated cheeks),
I jumped the spiked wall and got suspended by my breeks.

And then upon that Christmas Eve, when indoors you were shut,
And I whispered through your casement, from the frozen water

butt,

Till the ice gave way below me, and I vanished from your sight
To wait the coming Christmas in that water butt all night.

And then that happy evening, a night I'll ne'er reproach,
When we rattled o'er the Border in the good old-fashioned coach,
And you and I as one were bound, as fast as fast could be,
When I left my watch at Gretna Green to pay the blacksmith's
fee.

And then our happy honeymoon, ah ! joyous time long past,
When everything was roseate, and so bade fair to last,

36 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

When we basked in loving solitude beneath the sun's bright rays,
And spent the cash I dearly raised on bills at sixty days.

And now when time sits heavy, while cares and ills increase,
Oh, let the coming years to us be full of love and peace,
We've joyed and wept together, since we were joined as one,
And in all the many rows we've had, 'twas you that first begun.

Now you need not contradict it, nor fly up in a rage,
For it's highly prejudicial to a woman of your age ;
You'll never speak to me again ? well please yourself for that,
But I wish you'd married some one else than me —by Jove, that's
flat.

CHRISTMAS EVE.

Struggling vainly with fearful delirium,
Eyes fever-laden — that restlessly roam,

Wearily tossing his head on the pillow,

Dying — an orphan lies there — in the " Home."

Outside o'er the country the snow fast is falling
Silent and noiseless — as if by command —

Hushed are the voices of those who are watching
The last grains — fast gliding — of life's golden sand.

Tenderly brush back the curls from his forehead —
Ah, that soft touch drives the fiend from his brain,

And reason, triumphant o'er fever, reveals him
Glad visions of home and his mother again.

Visions of days in that home — once so happy —
See in those smiles how his thoughts speak so well,

Mayhap he is joyous o'er gifts from his " stocking "
Brought by St Glaus and the Christinas bell.

See how his little pinched hands close, as praying,
In vain strive his lips to speak words of love,

But Love lights his eyes, as they slowly are closing —
He has gone to his mother in Heaven above.

The snow still is falling on hill and on valley —
Joyous are children in holly-deck't halls,

Hush ! for one soul has gone up to his Maker
Pure as the snow which BO silently falls.

ARTHUR KING. 37

Hark ! the'sweet hells from the'olcLivied steeple,
Hark how their notes o'er the'stillness are borne,

Pealing glad chorus o'er him who's united
With.his mother in Heaven on Christmas.morn.

DAVID KENNEDY.*

Reft is the silver cord, the sweet lyre mute,
Of him who sung with true Orphean lute.
Hushed is that voice on earth ; for ever still,
That tongue which made the hearts of Scotchmen thrill !
Enchanter ! gifted with Apollo's art !
Awakener of the rugged Scottish heart !
Who, with one touch of thine own magic wand,
Brought Scotia's exiles back to native land-
Back, for a while, amid Auld Scotia's hills,
Her rugged glens, and bonny whimplin' rills ;
With tears and laughter, each in changing turns,
Awak'ning memories of the land of Burns ;
The humble cot, the quaint old ingle cheek,
The homely scent of fragrant " peaty reek,"
And made with tears those exiles' fancies roam
To scenes of childhood in some Scottish home ;
Made hardy " nieves " with dainty hand entwine,
Forgetting all save " days o' auld lang syne."

Auld Scotia mourns her dead, but not alone,
For Scotchmen drop a tear in every distant zone,
Where sympathetic hearts give back the throb,
Awakened now by Scotia's mournful sob.

•Scottish Vocalist, who died at Stratford, Ontario, October 1885.

ALEXANDEK SUTHERLAND,

H YOUNG man of rich promise, whose earthly
career ended when he was barely twenty years
of age, was born at Skibhoul, Baltasound, in the Shet-
land Isles, in 1863. There the first three or four
years of his life were spent, when his father removed
north to Haroldswitch, where the family remained till

38 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

the end of the year 1871, when they settled down in
Glasgow. At school Alexander was a general favourite
amongst his fellows, was an apt, intelligent pupil, and
showed a very marked taste for drawing. In this de-
partment he carried off the prizes during several
sessions. Shortly before he attained the age of four-
teen, our poet entered the office of Mr Thos. Graham,
writer, where he remained about two years. At this
time there was a general Parliamentary election, and
his employer was one of the agents. The work and
the excitement inspired young Sutherland, and the
result was that two of his songs became popular, and
were sung at several of the public meetings. We next
find Alexander engaged in the Commissary Clerk's
office, and his last work was under Messrs M'Gregor,
Donald, & Co., where he was employed as a law clerk.
Although never robust, and his health breaking down
gradually, he continued to labour amid much weakness
and suffering, until he succumbed to the fatal malady
— consumption — in November, 1883.

Alexander Sutherland was a frequent contributor, to
various periodicals and newspapers under the nom-de-
plume "Balta,'' and what he accomplished only shows
to us the bright promise of " what might have been."
He wrote tenderly and thoughtfully, and with a fervid
glow of love for his sea-girt home. In this work we
have now sketched the careers of several worthy bards
who first saw the light in Unst, the most northern isle
of Her Majesty's dominions. These include such
honoured names as Mrs Saxby, Bazil R. Anderson, J.
J. Johnston, and J. L. Nicolson, who, though not him-
self from Unst, can boast of all his ancestors having
held ^estate there. The verses that immediately
follow are from a poem, written only three weeks
before Sutherland's death, entitled "It's My Turn
Noo." They obtained a prize of <£!, offered by the
Scottish Nights ; —

ALEXANDER SUTHERLAND. 39

The things my mither taught to me I haud in high esteem,
An' frae their source I gather force in 'oors that darkest seem ;
Ae thing she said experience has rendered unco true,
" It may be lang or ye can cry, ' It's my turn noo.' "

Some drive ahead wi' rauckle speed, but a' fin' oot ere lang,
'The race aye isna to the swift, the fight no to the strang ;'*
I'll work an' wait, wi' steady gait my journey I'll pursue,
An' may some day be heard to say, " It's my turn noo.''

For 'midst the difficulties great wi' whilk I hae to cope,
There's aye a licht shines unco bricht ; what can it be but hope ?
An* surely some bricht day'll come, I kenna whan or boo,
Whan 1 can cry, triumphantly, " It's my turn noo."

THE RABBIT ON THE WA'.

Ho ! Jimsie, what's the maitter noo, ye've tummelt, I declare,
Sic fa's wi' you are no sae few, but dinna greet sae sair ;
Come here a wee on daddy's knee, let tears nae langer fa',
An' watch me throw the shadow o' a rabbit on the wa'.

Ye've dried yer een, an' noo my man ye're safe on daddy's knee,
But watch the wa', ye understan', and dinna look at me,
See there it is, a tiny beast, wi' mooth, an' ears, an' a',
Ye never saw the like afore, a rabbit on the wa'.

Ye want to catch the rabbit noo, ye're aff my knee again,
But dinna try, for sure am I your efforts wad be vain.
Its hard to try an' try again, we nae success ava,
But see how hard it is to catch a rabbit on the wa'.

Ay, Jimsie, you have gi'en it up — exactly what I fear't,
But what's come owre the rabbit noo, ye see it's disappear't ;
Sae rin awa' to mammy there and tell her what ye saw,
A funny shadow, I declare, a rabbit on the wa'.

We a' hae troubles hard to bear — we a' hae trials too,
An' disappointments aye to meet as life we battle thro' ;
An' they wha see within their grasp e'en pleasure, wealth an' a'
May find them just as hard to catch as shadows on the wa'.

WARSTLE THROUGH.

What hardships as we gang thro' life we find on ilka han',
An" what a load o' care an' strife is borne by ilka man,
Harassed at times wi' fortune's froons, oor troubles arena few,
An' life wi' a' its ups an' doons is hard to warstle through.

40 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

When sportin' roun' a mither's knee nae thochts hae we o' care,
What needs we ken' o' sorrow then — the world seems bricht an'

fair ;

Tis when we lea' that mither's knee that hardship comes in view,
An' then we see what ups an' doons we needs maun 'warstle

through.

An' when we face the busy world, an' mix amang the crood,
We needs maun persevere a while, an' work wi' cheery mood,
Tho' troubles hard our course retard, an" sorrows cloud the broo,
Some future day will bring reward, some day we'll warstle
through.

An' if dull care oppress us e'er, it's best to keep in min'
That darkest clouds '11 disappear, an' then the sun '11 shine ;
We'll strive wi' micht to do what's richt, nae idle aims in view,
An' when we reach the gowden gate it's easy winnin' through.

THE COT ON THE BRAE.

The sun's golden rays have illumined the west,
An' the wee feathered sangster has flown to its rest ;
Soon the evening's dark shadows '11 close o'er the day,
Then I'll hie me awa' to the cot on the brae.

The cot on the brae, there's a charm in the name,

An* I never could tire o' that cosy wee hame ;

There dwells sweet contentment, and peace bauds the sway

In that canty wee biggin" — the cot on the brae.

'Tis as cheery a cot, ay, as ever was seen,

An' 'twad match wi' a palace, sae tidy an' clean ;

Ah, but winsome young Jeannie, sae blithe an* sae gay,

Lends a charm — oh hoo sweet — to the cot on the brae.

I lo'e my young Jeannie, her heart aye is licht,

An' her smile, like the sunshine, sae cheery an' bricht ;

Gin I had but ae wis-h, oh hoo fain I wad say

" Let me meet wi' my Jean in the cot on the brae."

But the sun in its glory has sunk in the west,
The wood's hushed in silence, an' Nature's at rest ;
The evening's dark shadows have closed o'er the day,
Sae I'll hasten awa' to the cot on the brae.

THULE— A REVERIE.

I sit alone as evening shadows creep
Around me slowly, and I dream of home,

ALEXANDER SUTHERLAND. 41

For there instinctively my thoughts will roam ;
And o'er the heaving bosom of the deep
Methinks I in my bark serenely glide

To Thule's shore. Anon its coasts appear
As I am borne triumphant o'er the tide

Familiar sounds I fancy now I heai —
The sea bird's cry, the ceaseless roar of waves,
That lash the shore and echo through the caves,

And e'en in dreams 'tis sweet to linger near
This island home, for which my heart most craves —
For there's a tie that like an iron band
Securely binds me to my native land.

THOSE DAYS HAVE PASSED,

There is a little spot, Jean,

We'll aye remember well,
Where stood the little cot, Jean,

Where we in youth did dwell ;
Where sporting on the braes, Jean,
• Sae frolicsome and gay,
We chanted youthful lays, Jean,

But childhood's days have passed away.

The berries ripe we pu'd, Jean,

Likewise the daisies sweet,
And wandered through the wood, Jean,

On little pattering feet ;
The birdie's joyous sang, Jean,

Has cheered us mpny a day,
As thro' the woods it rang, Jean,

But childhood's days have passed away.

An' when we aulder grew, Jean,

There first we told our love,
The vows we made were true, Jean,

As through the vales we'd rove ;
Your een were bricht an' blue, Jean,

Hair jet, which uoo is grey ;
Your een are dimmer noo, Jean,

For youthful days have passed away.

The little cot is gone, Jean,

Of it but stanes remain,
Our dear friends, one by one, Jean,

Have frae the earth been ta'en ;
An' sune we'll follow them, Jean,

Sune sleep beneath the clay,
May we see them again, Jean,

When all our days have passed away.

42 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

MAGGIE SWAN,

HVERY promising and talented writer of both
poetry and prose, was born at Edinburgh in
1867. She is the youngest sister of Miss Annie S.
Swan, authoress of a number of the most enjoyable
tales of Scottish life and character that have come from
the press during recent years, and who is noticed in
our Sixth Series. Maggie had only reached her sixth
year when her father, who had hitherto been a potato
merchant, leased the farm of Mountskip, in the neigh-
bourhood of Gorebridge. After a short attendance at
the village school, and when old enough to be able
to travel to and from Edinburgh, she was sent to the
Queen Street Institution for Young Ladies. Having
passed several sessions there, she left off her school
studies, and went home to take part in the household
duties.

Inspired, doubtless, by her sister's most remarkable
success, and encouraged to follow her example, Miss
Swan, from a very early age, has written short sketches,
tales, and verse. The first of her poems that
appeared in print is one of those we quote, entitled
"Change," which she wrote when only in her fifteenth
year. She informs us that it is only within the last
two years that she has " found an opening in an
already over-crowded field." She has often laid her
pen aside " with a sigh for something to write of —
borne down by the thought that it was folly to write
that which had already been written hundreds of times
over." She fears that there is no originality in her
poems, but " if they have touched with tender thoughts
any reader's heart, they have amply repaid the writing
of them." On various occasions she has composed short
tales of marked ability and interest for several of the

MAGGIE SWAN. 43

weekly newspapers and magazines, and in connection
with the competition of 1886 she was successful in
gaining one of the prizes offered for stories in the
Christmas number of the People's Journal. She is also
an occasional contributor to the columns of the People's
Friend, the Christian Leader, and other periodicals.
Miss Swan's poetical and other productions are not as
yet numerous, but they are sufficient to show that she
possesses not a little of the talent of her sister. They
are all marked by excellence of taste and careful
thought. She is ever in earnest, and whether the
subject of her Muse be a religious theme or a descrip-
tion of a scene of natural beauty, she conveys to the
reader the impression that she has thought it over in
all its bearings, and has concentrated in her lines the
result of her meditations.

THE HOMES OF SCOTLAND.

Oh, saw ye yon cot by the rippling burn,
Where the willows bend an' the saugh trees m'urn,
Where the bonnie rloo'rs o' the summer spring,
An' the lark an* the Untie their sweet saugs sing ?

Oh, saw ye the sun in the mornin" still
Rise lowin' an' red on the Eastern hill,
When the dawnin' creeps into openin' day,
An' the guidmau gangs to his wark away ?

Oh, heard ye that sang like a wild bird's note,
Sae saft and sae clear through the stillness float ''
For light is the heart wi' never a care
That bides in the cot by the burnie there.

Oh, saw ye yon bairnies oot on the brae,
'Mang the sun an' the floo'rs <>' the summer day 1
Deep blue as the sea are their ilancin' een.
An* their locks i' the sun are a gowden sheen.

Oh, sweet is the peace o' the gloamin' hoor,
When the bairns gather abnot the door,
When the sun in the West sinks saft away,
An' the guidman comes barne at the close o' day

44 MODERN 8COTTI8H POETS.

To a cleanly cot an' a cheery hame,
For the guidwife honours her husband's name.
Oh, saw ye his face hoo it brighter grew^
When the cot and the bairnies cam" in view?

Ended ance mair is the toil o' the day ;
Quiet and unchanging their life slips away ;
WT little o' siller, but muckle o' health,
They kenna the cares that are gien wi' wealth.

Oh, blessed be sic hames in oor Scottish land

That are hauden by toil o' an honest hand ;

Where peace and contentment like gowans aye bloom

Through the sweet summer's sun 'an cauld winter's gloom.

THE GREATEST OP THE THREE.

They came, the multitude, in thronging bands,

With weary feet, and garments torn and stained,

O'er wide bleak moor, and mountain rough and steep,

Through moss and fen, down valley wild and deep.

Some came in sickness, worn with weary pain ;

Some came with sorrow, some with earthly care ;

And some, grown tired of pleasure, joined the band ;

And all hearts prayed for healing as they came.

Faith — pure-eyed Faith — drew near with noiseless feet,

And stretched forth hands to meet them, her clear gaze

Bent low upon them with a wondrous light ;

Some clung about her garments, their dim eyes

Uplifted to the heavens her gaze had swept ;

Their hearts in her near presence filled with joy ;

Then Hope drew near — fair Hope with starry eyes,

And lips that carolled forth a gladsome song

Like wild-bird's notes, so strong, so clear and free

That all around that listened could not cease

From joining in the chorus loud and long.

Still 'twere but few that Faith and Hope inspired,

For eyes grown blind with weeping cannot see,

And voices tuned to sighing cannot sing ;

But lo ! another came with gentle step —

Her great grave eyes lit with a quiet peace —

A sweet compassion dwelling in her face —

She scattered sunshine round her as she went,

Till eyes all tear-dimmed bright and brighter grew.

Her tender hand left healing in its touch,

And every weary burden rolled away ;

Her voice spoke but to cheer, to praise, and bless,

And every heart responded to her words ;

The barren earth grew glad beneath her feet ;

MAGGIE SWAN.

The little flowers bloomed fairer when she came,
And every bird sang forth a sweeter song :
Beside her Faith and Hope wait silently,
For Love is owned the greatest of the three.

CHANGE.

Friend after friend we loved has passed away,
It is not meet that they should linger aye ;
For there is rest beyond yon azure sky,

Where grief is lost in joy, and night in day.

Our dear old home is changed, maybe, to us,
The dearest ones have slipped from out our sight ;
Some sheep are missing from the fold to-night,

Let us be brave, for God has willed it thus.

There is no time for grieving, for the years
Are growing old, and we have work to do ;
We must begin with hearts both strong and true,

For we will find no recompense in tears.

What though the sunlight fadeth from our sight,
And we encompassed with dark clouds of woe,
The Father's hand upholds us still we know,

And in his time he'll lead us unto light.

Then let us each with patient heart fulfil
The daily task which God has given to do ;
And we shall learn that blessed truth anew,

Though all be change, our Christ Js changeless still.

GOD'S WAYS.

Father, how soon our faithless love is led

Beyond the thought of thee, to earthly care

And human love. So Thou dost break the cords

Which bind us heart to heart, and take to thee

Our dearest ones to fill the home above.

Then our dim hungering eyes are upward turned

In search of our lost treasures, and we see

Thy hands down stretched with richer blessing still,

From thy great heart of love to fill the void.

How oft our lips grow feeble in Thy praise,

The clang of life drowns out the sweeter notes,

And voices sink that rose in melody.

So we forget to thank Thee. Then it is

Thou layest hands upon our silent hearts

And pressest often sore, until Thoujhear'st

A true response unto Thy master touch.

45

46 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

THE HOPE OP THE SPRING.

Oh, what a glad, sweet thought it is
To know the spring is almost here,

Her breath is blown o'er hill and glen,
And rippling burnie flowing clear.

The earth is waking from her sleep,
The young year's life strong in her breast ;

She has much toil to bear I wean,
Before she sinks again to rest.

The tender grass breaks through the soil,
And here and there with quiet grace

The pink-lipped daisy, spring's first-born,
Uplifts to heaven a brave, bright face.

In the brown woods shy mosses spring
About the pathway where I tread,

And all the restless, lilting birds
Pour forth their gladness overhead.

Soon, soon the sweet May flowers shall deck
The hedgerows with their snowy bloom ;

The fields, all clad in fairest green,
Will chase away chill winter's gloom.

There is a hope of plenteous store
O'er all the budding fruitful land,

The needful harvest cannot fail —
God gives with ever-loving hand.

But labour first, else nought is ours,
Strong arms must lift to till the soil,

'Mid stony ground in noonday's sun,
Strong hearts must beat to bear the toil.

Then when the reaping time is past,
Ours be the joy of well won gain ;

Blessed be his life whose days are spent
In honest toil which leaves no stain.

Lord, in life's spring-time may we come,
When hope is young and work is sweet,

And in Thy service spend our strength,
With ready hearts and willing feet.

And when the years of life have tried
The faithful hearts that lived for thee,

May the long rest in Thine own land
Be their reward eternally.

BELLA PARKER. 47

BELLA PARKER.

the quiet, uneventful, happy home-life of the
authoress of the following deeply graceful and
touchingly tender poems there is little to tell. Miss
Parker was born in Dundee in 1864. Her father is
an engineer there, and her grandfathers, Charles Parker,
engineer, and William Johnston, merchant and mill-
owner, were both provosts of that town, and were very
much esteemed by the citizens and a wide circle of
friends. The last-mentioned occupied that honourable
position during the years 1841-44, and Mr Parker
was elected a provost in 1861. Such was his popula-
rity that he was re-elected, and was in his sixth year
of office at the time of his death. Regarding Miss
Parker, we learn that one of her chief amusements in her
childhood's days was to write verses which she read to
an admiring nursery audience. These attempts, how-
ever, have long since been consigned to the flames.
Her first extant piece, written in 1880, is on "The
Tay Bridge Disaster," a subject that inspired the Muse
of quite a host of poets who have had a place in this
work.

Miss Parker spent the summer of 1883 amidst the
grand and romantic scenery of the Highlands of
Perthshire in the company of a gifted friend, who
possessed the spirit of poetry in a very high degree.
Her rambles in that lovely district, and the conversa-
tions she had with this companion, seem to have
awakened her poetic nature, and from that time she
began to write in earnest. Her modesty was so re-
markable that the fear of having her MS. rejected
kept her from publishing anything for a considerable
time. In December 1884 her first piece, "The Dying
Soldier," appeared in the Dundee Evening Telegraph.

48 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Since then, under the nom-de-plume of " Faith," she has
been a regular and valued contributor to that news-
paper, as well as to the People's Journal^ the editor of
which, Mr Latto (Tammas Bodkin), having by his
warm encouragement stimulated her greatly in her
literary labours.

A vein of tender delicacy, and an ease and fluency
of diction that make her thoughts very pleasing and
attractive to all classes of readers, are marked char-
acteristics of Miss Parker's poetry. Her poems ever
speak the feelings of the heart, and have doubtless
touched a tender chord in multitudes of bosoms.
Her versification is always in keeping with her
subject, which is ever well chosen, and such as
to make one feel that it contains something to
treasure, to read, and re-read. She invariably
evinces a remarkable insight into human nature, a
generous breadth of sympathy, and a courageous
loyalty to the cause of truth and justice. Without
being didactic, she teaches, and without preaching, she
delivers an eloquent sermon. It is evident that
she has an ear delicately tuned to the sweetest
harmonies. Miss Parker has hitherto thought fit to
appear anonymously, but as her poetry can bring
nothing but honour to its author, we think she cannot
too soon remove the veil, and give her scattered effu-
sions to the world in book form.

THE DYING SOLDIER.

Nay, my faithful friend, I'm dying, my life is ebbing fast ;
I fear that every breath I draw is very near my last.
Oh, will you take a message to those friends I love so well,
Far away in bonnie Scotland, in that peaceful Highland dell ?

Tell my mother not to weep for me, her wayward, blue-eyed Jim,
Soon we shall meet in yon bright land where no tears the eyes

can dim ;

And tell her that I prayed each night, and read my Bible too
(Althouth some sneered and mocked at me), for she wished me so

to do.

BELLA PARKER. 49

Tell my brother Jack to guard her and wipe her bitter tears,
For I know she'll mourn and weep for me, when the bagpipes

notes she hears ;

And tell him when he grows a man ne'er from her side to roam,
But to be a keeper of the sheep, and stay with her at home.

And now I've but one message more — to her I love the best ;
Cut off a golden lock for her when this weary head's at rest ;
Say I received my death-wound when the fight was racing wild ;
'Twill soothe her knowing how I died, for she's a soldier's child.

I almost feel it hard to die just when the battle's won,

And you'll be marching home again ere sinks to-morrow's sun ;

But Jesus bids my fighting cease, and a soldier must obey.

So farewell, friend, we'll meet again, in yon bright land far away.

OUR DARL-ING.

There's an empty cot in the nursery lone,

By the window an empty chair ;
Upon it a frock and two little shoes,

Which our darling never will wear.

Her doggie looks up with a mournful whine,

And waits for his mistress in vain ;
But the days pass by, and she never comes,

And never will come back again.

The birdies come to the window each day,

And wait, as of old, to be fed ;
But they look in vain for their little friend :

They know not our darling is dead. .

There's a little mound in the quiet churchyard —

A. mound where the violets grow,
And the daisies white and the cowslips bright,

The flowers our darling loved so.

There's one lamb less on this sorrowful earth,

One less to bear sorrow and pain ;
There's one angel more now in Heaven above ;

Our darling we'll meet there again.

JAMIE'S BIBLE.

In the twilight some were gathered round the glowing, bright

camp fires,
'Mong them old and well-tried warriors, gray-haired, hardy

Highland sires ;
D

50 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

There were also youthful soldiers, eager for their first affray,
Longing for the morrow's sunrise to proclaim the battle day.

There was one, young Jamie Lindsay, a fond widowed mother's

pride ;

How she wept, that lonely woman, as she sent him from her side ;
But she buckled on his broadsword, which his soldier sire's had

been,
Sent him with a mother's blessing to fight bravely for his Queen.

While the soldiers laughed and jested, silent by the camp-fire

bright

Sat young .'amie, and, with pencil in his Bible, did he write :
" If I'm killed to-morrow, fighting, he who finds this, will he take
This small token to my mother, for a Highland comrade's sake?"

Then he wrote upon the flyleaf— " Mother, darling, all is right ;
I have fought for Queen and country as a Highland lad should

fight.

Now I've gone to be with Jesus ; all my fighting here is o'er,
Mother, I am waiting for you on that peaceful, heavenly shore."

Morning broke : began the battle ; fierce it raged throughout the

day,

Soon upon the blood-stained greensward many dead and dying lay.
Far away a lonely woman prayed to God to spare her boy ;
Ere his mother's prayer was ended he had tasted endless joy.

In that humble Highland cottage, where young Jamie had been

horn,

Sat his ag6d mother weeping, on a lovely summer morn ;
In her hands she held a Bible — dirty, torn, and stained with gore ;
How she wept and clasped it to her, as she kissed it o'er and o'er.

Ah ! how precious was that treasure, brought from a far distant

land,

Carried to that lonely mother by H loving comrade's hand ;
Though with tears she read his message, yet her heart was not so

sore,
As she whispered, " Jamie, darling, thou art only gone before."

" When I sit alone at even with your Bible on my knee,
Once again my soldier husband and my boy seem near to me ;
In a few short years at longest we shall meet again, my boy —
Meet where there are no more partings, but a calm and endless
joy."

BELLA PARKER. 51

"BLOOD ON MY HANDS."

A BAILWAY MAN'S STOBY.

" There's blood on my hands " he cries, and he wrings them the

whole clay long,
"There's blood on my hands, oh, God, forgive ine that terrible

wrong ; "

And the madman paces his room, whilst moaning in accents wild,
"There is blood on my hands, oh", God, the hlood of my wife{and

child."

Once he was joyful and gay, as happy as you, sir, or I,
His life like a peaceful lake, 'neath a cloudless, blue summer sky,
With a loving wife and a child so fair, sir, you cannot think
How happy they were till Jim fell a prey to the curse of drink.

He was down at the pointsman's box, you see it just over here,
'Twas his duty the "Parly" to shunt, to leave the main line clear
For the mail which went rattling past with a thunder that

shook the ground,
Whilst the rocks and forests and hills all seemed to echo the

sound.

Jim's wife, once so happy and bright, began to look heartless and

sad,

And their cottage, once clean and neat, a dirty, shabby look had.
No wonder she'd lost heart, poor lass, for night after night from

"The Rink "
Her Jim went staggering home, after spending his earnings on

drink.

We were mates, so I often went and tried to reason with Jim,

I spoke of his sorrowing wife, his example to little Tim ;

I feared there would be a smash, for I'd seen him dazeJ at his

work,
I vowed I'd have to report though 'twas a duly I tried to shirk.

Jim begged for another chance, and promised at once to repent,
I thought of his poor wife and child, I for their sakes, sir, did

relent :

I saw he strove to do right, his wife looked happy again,
And, sir, we were all right glad, for Jim was well liked 'mong

the men.

His wife was asked to the South to visit her friend Mrs Trent,
Things were going so well at home, she took little Tim and went,
And Jim looked so smart and bright as he went to see her away,
Oh, why could some warning voice not have whispered to her to
stay?

52 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

When Jim got back to the house he found there a very old friend,
Who had come from a distant town the evening with them to

spend ;
He said "Jim your house is so dull without wee Tim and your

lass,
Come, let us go down to 'The Rink,' I know you're fond of a

The demon was roused once again, tho' after a glass or two
Jim left and came down to his box, for he had his night work to

do;

I knew that the man was lost, as I watched him, not without fear,
Draw the levers the " Parly" to shunt, then signal the main line

clear.

We did not meet for a week, for after that night I was ill,
When I got back to work again I found Jim was drinking still ;
He looked so haggard and wild, such a sat.! and pitiful sight,
I sai.l "Does your wife soon return," he gruffly muttered
"to-night."

I saw him go down to his work, not drunk tho' he'd had quite

enough,

Oh, sir, had I only known, he'd more of the poisonous stuff
Down in the pointsman's box ; vain regret is no use, but I might
Hare prevented, I sometimes think, the work of that terrible

night.

I'd scarcely been home two hours, when I heard the " Parly " go

past,
I looked at my watch, she was late, the mail would be following

fast:

I felt so uneasy that night, and yet I hardly knew why,
There seemed a wail in the wind, an ominous look in the sky.

I heard the mail thunder past, in a moment there was such a

crash.
To my dying day in my ears will ring the sound of that dreadful

smash ;

The ghastly sight that I saw when T ran with a light to the spot,
Though years have passed, sir, since then, was too awful to be

forgot.

I heard the pitiful cries of the dying, wounded, and crushed,
I knelt by some little child, whose sweet voice was forever hushed,
I gazed at the dying and dead until my eyes, sir, grew dim,
Twas a terrible thought to know that this was the work of Jim.

I heard a strange fiendish laugh, T turned, and lo, there was Jim,
He knelt 'mongst the ghastly mass beside his dead wife and wee
Tim;

BELLA PARKER. 53

I saw that his reason had fled, he turned with his eyes strangely

wild —
"There's blood on my hands, mate," he cried, " the blood of my

wife and child."

"AT EVENING TIME THERE SHA.LL BE LIGHT."

The setting sun in crimson light shone on the glistening snow,
It lighted up the snow-capped peaks, the church spire far below,
And on the windows of the manse a radiance bright was cast ;
Into a patient suff'rer's room a fading sunbeam passed.

She felt the sunlight on her face, and brightly, sweetly smiled ;
She was so gentle, good and fair, the minister's blind child ;
The village folks all loved her, into every heart she'd crept,
No wonder then that Christmas eve that men and women wept.

The minister with tear-dimmed eyes sat gazing on his child,
" Oh, God, how can I let her go? " he sobbed in accents wild ;
"Since Jessie's death she's been to me dearer than very life —
How can I live all lonely here, with neither child nor wife ?

"Daddy," the little suff'rer said — "Daddy, what aileth thee?
Those are not teardrops on my hands ? Daddy, don't cry for me ;
Remember we are always glad and gay on Christmas Eve —
On this my last one here on earth let nothing us two grieve.

"As dear old John, the colporteur, to-day was passing nigh,
Nurse asked him to come in, because I wished to say 'Good-bye ;'
We had a nice talk, Daddy dear, and then I asked old John
If he would come and comfort you when little Gertie's gone.

" Daddy, there is a lovely verse ('twas meant, I think, for me),
I've thought about it since I was ill, 'tis this — ' Thine eye shall

see ; '

And then there is another, 'twill I feel come true to-night —
'At evening time," yea, very soon, for me ' there shall be light.'

" I shall not look on earthly scenes, though lovely they must be ;
A fairer land and Christ its King in beauty I shall see.
Please kiss me, Daddy, once again — there, now I'll say good-
night."
A stricken father knelt alone ; at even it was light.

MY LADDIES.

" I will be soldier," said Willie,

As he played with his wooden gun ;
" I will fight and kill all the Zulus,

I think 'twill be jolly fun."

54 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

" 1 will be a sailor," said Johnnie,
" And sail o'er the beautiful sea ;

I will visit those foreign countries
Which father describes oft to me."

" I will be a preacher," said Jamie,
" And carry the gospel news grand,

And our dear Saviour's loving message
Away to some dark heathen land."

There's, away in the lonely desert,

A wooden cross only to tell
Where my soldier Willie lies sleeping,

My Willie, who fought, oh ! so well.

No cross marks the grave of my Johnnie,
No willow waves over his head ;

In the depths of the ocean he's sleeping
Till the great sea gives up her dead.

And Jamie, my wee, bonnie laddie,
For long has been safe in the fold —

Safe from this world's care and sorrow ;
My darling will never grow old.

Some mothers, with hearts slowly breaking,
Are listening through the long night

For the falt'ring step of a darling son
Who has strayed irom the path of right.

Though my home is lone I am thankful
That my darling laddies are safe *,

Tis hard to part, yet 'tis better far
Than having a prodigal waif.

MARY INGLIS,

HUTHORESS of the following very pleasing verses
from a little volume entitled " Croonings," is a
native of Berwickshire. She was born and spent her
childhood and early youth in the United Presbyterian

MARY INGLIS. 55

Manse of Stockbridge, a sweet secluded spot nestling
under the sheltering cliffs of the first low-lying range
of the Larnmermoor hills. There her father, the Rev.
D. M. Inglis, lived and laboured amongst an attached
and appreciative congregation for nearly half-a-century.
The occurrence of a number of sad family events caused
Miss Inglis, in the autumn of 1858, to exchange her
beloved Berwickshire home for one in the near neigh-
bourhood of Glasgow, where she still resides. Hers
has been a devoted life to those she held dear, and
" The Auld Manse," a deeply tender poem, which we
quote, is, like most of her pieces, a heartfelt embodi-
ment of what had been. Her poetry, which evinces a
gentle, sympathetic nature, is expressed with a quiet
and melodious grace, and with fine poetic sensibilities.
It is full of a gentleness, a love, and a sympathy with
all that is good and true and beautiful in humanity
and in the material universe.

LET THE BAIRNIES PLAY.

Oh ! let the bairnies play themsels,

I like to hear their din,
I like to hear each restless foot

Come trippin' oot and in.
I like to see each face sae bricht,

And each wee heart sae gay ;
They mind me o' my ain young days —

Oh ! let the bairnies play.

Oh ! dinna check their sinless mirth,

Or mak' them dull and wae
Wi' gloomy looks or cankered words,

But let the bairnies play.
Auld douce wise folks should ne'er forget

They ance were young as they,
As fu' o' fun and mischief, too —

Then let the bairnies play.

And never try to set a heid,

Wi' auld age grim and grey,
Upon a wee saft snawy neck —

Na ! let the bairnies play.

56 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

For, oh ! there's mony a weary nicht

And inony a waefu' day
Before them, if God spares their lives —

Sae let the bairnies play.

THE MAIDEN MARTYR.

They have led her to the Solway sands,

They have led her there to die,
They have bound her fast to the cruel stake,

Yet fearless is her eye,
Though she knows she takes her farewell look

Of earth, and sea, and sky.

She stands amidst the soldiers stern—

A maiden young and fair,
And a wail of pity is heard from the crowd

As they gaze on her beauty rare ;
And see ! the wild waves rushing

Where the sands were lately bare.

" Marget ! my bonnie Marget !

Why will ye, why will ye die?
Oh ! speak the word that will save your life,

For the tide is rising high." —
A shadow fell on the maiden's face

As she heard that piteous cry.

" Nay, mother ! thae words I winna speak,
Though your loving heart should break ;

I would rather stand in the waters here
And dee for conscience' sake ;

I hae nae fear o' the foamin' waves
As they deepen round my stake.

" This world is fair, and life is sweet,

Bat sweeter far to me
Are the songs they are singing in Paradise,

Where this day I hope to be ;
Even noo I can plainly hear them

Abune the roar o1 the sea.1'

There was grief that day in many a heart,

And tears on many a cheek,
And sorely they urged her to save her life,

But no word would the maiden apeak :
Her will was firm as the changeless rocks,

Though her woman's heart was weak.

MARY INGLIS. 57

Oh ! noble Margaret Wilson,

I see thee standing there !
Thy drenched hair falling round thee,

Thy small hands clasped in prayer,
Whilst the blinding spray is dashing

O'er thy face so wan and fair.

Oh ! sainted Margaret Wilson,

I see thee standing now !
The martyr's crown, so early won,

Upon thy youthful brow,
And the robe thou wear'st is dazzling white,

And pure as the new-fallen snow.

LAST LONGINGS.

" Oh ! bring me a deep cauld draught," he said,

" 0' the water I used to drink,
Frae the well at the foot o' Ewieside

Wi' the buttercups round its brink ;
And there grew the sweet-spotted orchis

Aniang the rushes green,
And the bonnie blue-e'ed speedwell,

And the scented meadow-queen.''

They held a cup to his pale parched lips,

But he turned his head away,
And yearmed on still for a " deep cauld draught"

Frae the well in the howe o' the brae'.
On Memory's wings his thochts had flown

Away from the close, dark room,
To the sunny hillside where he used to play,

'Mang the feathery fern and the broom.

Upon his ear there fell ance mair

The sang o' the Heriot burn
As it rippled alang 'neath the alder boughs

Wi' mony a curve and turn ;
And he heard again the bees' blithe hum

Amang the heather bells ;
And the waefu' wail o' the new-spained lambs

High up on the grassy fells.

And ane by ane before his e'e

Rose pictures sweet and fair
0' the dear auld hame sae far away,

That he wad ne'er see mair.

58 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

But fairer than a' were the sichts he saw

Langjere the end o' the day,
In the blessed land where they thirst nae mair,

And a' tears are wiped away.

THE AULD MANSE.

The auld manse ! the anld manse !

Was neither grand nor braw ;
The passages were narrow,

The rooms low-roofed and sma* ;
But dear to me was every stane

In each time-worn wa'.

Boo sweet the sunny garden look'd

Wi' «' its flowerets fair,
That wi' their mingled fragrance

Perfumed the summer air,
And fed the hungry honey bees

That disked and feasted there !

The auld manse ! the auld manse !

Was filled wi' memories sweet
O' days when each spot echoed wi'

The din o' dancin' feet,
And nichts when blithe young faces

Smiled round the hearth sae neat.

The dancin' feet hae lang been still,

The faces hid away
Beneath the grass and gowans

For mony a weary day :
Hoo aften the bonniest blossoms

Are the first to droop and decay !

The auld manse ! the auld manse !

Is altered noo and fine,
Rude hands hae torn doon the porch

Where the roses nsed to twine
Sae lovin'ly about the stems

0' the starry jessamine.

I miss the shady summer seat ;

The apple trees are gane
Whose rich ripe clusters keeked langsyne

Through each liricht window pane ;
It does nae please my e'e sae weel,

That cauld bare front o' stane.

MARY INGLIB. 59

The auld manse ! the auld manse !

The hame o' infancy,
When each sma' grief was soothed away

On a loving mother's knee ;
A fairer,lsweeter,[sunnier spot,

I ne'er expect to see

Till life's lang journey ower, I reach

The heavenly hame sae fair,
Where they drap nae tear, and breathe nae sigh,

And ken nae grief or care, —
The hame where earth's broken circles

Re-unite for ever mair.

AULD AILIE BROWN.

Fareweel, auld Ailie ! fare thee weel !

Nae mair ye'll ca' the big woo' wheel ;

Nae mair I'll sit by thy hearthstane,

As aft I've dune in days by-gane,

And munched my sugared piece sae sweet,

Auld pussy purr in' at my feet ;

And by my side a clockin' hen,

Wi' wee pet birdies nine or ten,

That aye I liked sae weel to feed

Wi' ears o' corn or crumbs o" bried, —

Whilst ever wi' a cheery sound

The whirrbi' wheel flew round and round.

And oh ! hoo prood and pleased was I,

When I got leave mysel' to try,

Without a fear o' flyte or frown

Frae thee, dear gentle Ailie Brown.

But Ailie, ye hae gane to rest,
The lang grass waves o'er thy kind breast ;
Nae stately heid-stane marks the spot ;
But, dear auld freen, ye're no forgot,
For closely memory clings to thee
As ivy clasps the withered tree,
And aften, aften brings to mind
Thy lovin' looks and words sae kind.
There was nae beauty in thy face,
And thy auld form had little grace,
For Time had been but rude to thee —
Had bent thy back and dimmed thine e'e ;
Yet aye that wrinkled face o' thine
Comes back wi' dreams o' sweet lang syne ;
Wi' dreams that inak' the tear-draps start
And thrill the deep chords o' the heart ;

60 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Wi' memories' childhoodKday
Nae length o' years can sweep away, —
Lang as the wheel o' life rins roun'
I'll mind ye, dear auld Ailie Brown.

YON BURNSIDE.

Ah, me ! what gleefu' days I've seen

By yon burnside ;
What ploys among the brakens green

By jon burnside !

But noo nae bricht-e'ed bairnies meet
To climb the cliffs wi' tireless feet
And pu' fair flowers and berries sweet

By yon burnside.

There's nae din or daffin' noo
By yon burnside ;
There's nae licht-hearted laughin* noo

By yon burnside.

Still high on the thyme-scented brae
The wild wee Iambics blithely play,
But a' the bairnies are away
Frae yon burnside.

It's lanesome, noo, to dander doon
By yon burnside ;

And waefu', noo, the water's croon,
By yon burnside.

The laverock's lilt that used to be

Sae fu' o' mirthfu' melody.

Noo sounds like some sad dirge to me
By yon burnside.

But aye I like to wander yet
By yon burnside ;
The flowery knowes I'll ne'er forget

By yon burnside ;

For, oh ! sic visions haunt me there,
O' gracefu' form* and faces fair,
A' gane ! a' gane, for evermair
Frae yon burnside.

I WADNA BE A SWALLOW.

I wadna be a swallow —

A fickle flichty thing—
That comes in summer weather,

Then flees on coward wing

MARY INOLIS. 61

Whene'er it sees the yellow leares

Fa' flickerin" frae the trees, —
I wadna be a swallow

By ony bird that flees.

A swallow aye has been the type

O' cauldrife, heartless friends
That share our joys in summer hoars,

Then flee when summer ends ;
Who smile upon us when they see

Oor fu" cup brimmin' o'er ;
Then coolly turn their backs whene'er

The wolf draws near the door.

O' a' the birds that wing the air,

1 lo'e the robin best,
For, oh ! he wears a leal wee heart

'Aneath his scarlet breast.
When cauld blasts blaw and snawflakes fa',

And other birds are gane,
He comes and nods his feathery pow

In at the window pane.

The mavis and the mizzle-thrush

Sing in the early spring ;
And next the blackbird tunes his pipe,

And makes the wild woods ring.
But robin keeps his sweetest sang,

And lilts it oot wi' glee
When icicles hang like a fringe

Frae ilka bush and tree.

Ah, yes ! I lo'e the robin weel,

He's like a friend sae true
That grips oor hand in life's wild storm,

And kindly helps us through.
I hear his cheery voice e'en now,

He's chirpin' shrill and loud ;
There's aye a silver linin' glints

Oot through the gloomiest cloud.

62 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

ROBERT SWAN

MAS born at Kirkburn, near Peebles, in the
parish of Traquair and Innerleithen, on the
river Tweed, in 1853. The son of a working man, he
received a fair education, and having served an appren-
ticeship to the general drapery trade, he followed this
calling in Edinburgh, Glasgow, and Hamilton. He is
now in charge of an important drapery establish-
ment in Lockerbie. At the early age of thirteen he
first began to write verses on local topics, and for a
number of years he has been a frequent contributor to
several newspapers. His scanty leisure — for he devotes
himself closely to business — is spent in the study of
geology and botany. Being passionately fond of ferns,
he has been a diligent and intelligent collector, and
many of his specimens are both choice and rare. As
might be expected, Mr Swan's Muse evinces a cultured
taste, is touched with a gentle tenderness, and in-
spired with fervent adoration for the good and the
beautiful.

THE CONVICT'S SIGH.

Oh, for an hour of sweet repose

In the depths of the shady wood,
With nothing to break the stillness

But the lay of the feathery brood,

Or the silvery tone of the babbling brook,

From the uplands wild and free,
A throbbing, pulsing thing of life,

Flowing on to the restless sea.

Oh, for an hour to call my own,

For a while set free from care,
1 would hie me away to the tangled brake,

For I love to linger there;

Oh, had I an hour to call my own,
1 would hie me far away,

ROBERT SWAN. 63

For I long to climb my native hills,
So grandly grim and grey,

I would pillow my head on the waving fern,

And inhale the fragrant smell
Of the sweet wild rose and milk-white thorn

And the flowers I love so well.

THE DEBAUCHEE.

Man but in stature, child in strength, plunged in sin's deep mire,
Drinking deep and deeper still, piling fuel on the tire ;
Heeding not the still small voice that keeps ringing in his ear,
Drink dethroning reason, no place for conscience here.
Satan guides the frail craft onward, and onward he must go,
Down the drunkard's well-worn path, down to eternal woe ;
No pausing now to reckon up, no halting time to think,
Beyond the power of human aid, he nears the giddy brink.
Angels of light and love look on, with longing wistful eyes,
When man, the noblest work of God, by his own folly dies ;
And still we hear the widow's groans and the helpless orphan's

cry,
That might wring tears of pity from a demon's haggard eye.

A SANG TO THE WEAN.

Beside por cheerie hearth there staun's a wee arm chair,
An' in its kindly grasp there sits a wee wean there.
Wi' bonnie een o' bricht sky-blue, an' locks o* gowden hair,
A queen to me she seems to be in oor arm chair.

Whene'er I speak she loodly craws, an' flings her arms aboot,
An' oft I wrap her in a shawl an' tak* my bairnie oot ;
Like me, she's fond o' exercise oot in the open afr,
Like me, she likes the comforts o' her wee aim chair.

She's driven oor puir auld tabby cat amaist oot o' the hoose,
An' when she gets it on her knee, my faigs ! she feels fu' croose :
She grups it by the downy fur, by lugs, an' tail, depend on't,
An' it in turn gi'es her a scart, of coorse, then, that's the end on't.

'Twas kind in heaven, ay, unco kind, a little wean to send,
To scatter wi' her smiles an' wiles a gloom frae oor fire end ;
Her little voice sae fu' o' glee wi' music fills the air,
Diffusing love an' joy a' round frae her wee arm chair.

May heaven let down her leading strings, an' lead thee safely on,
Until the bourne o' death is past, an' heaven's sweet home is

won ;

Then when oor pilgrimage is past, life's trial's an' struggles o'er,
We'll roam through sunny paradise an ageless evermore.

64 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

OOR BACK DOOR.

TDNB-" Melville Castle."

There stauns a broken wuden pump against oor coal-hoose wa',
The Dorkin' cock has mounted on't to flap his wings an' craw,
A cacklin' crood are gathered roond to hear what is in store —
It's a regular hen convention at oor back door.

An' Mrs Dorkin too is there amid the noisy thrang,

She's left her chickens in the nest to hear what has gane wrang,

For sic a meetin' ne'er was seen in a' the toon before,

Like that when Dorkin gave a speech at oor back door.

When a' is quiet he rises up the meetin' to address,

An' rambles on frae bad to worse, syne landin' in a mess ;

He speaks o' cocks an' hens he kent that sune could mak' a splore

Wi' a' the flowers an' plants that grow at oor back door.

Then Mrs Dorkin in a funk cries " We are freemen born,
So let us mak' a law at yince that we'll be fed on corn,
An' treated weel in many ways that should been dune afore,"
Or they'd scrape the berry bus'es up at oor back door.

Her warlike speech sune raised a row among the ducks an' geese,
The bubbly-jocks and bantam cocks did loudly sue for peace,
But still the fight went fiercely on as fight ne'er went before,
An' bluid an' feathers flew aboot at oor back door.

At last the henwife hears the row an' hurries to the tight,
An' wi' a ponderous heather broom she plies it left an' right ;
The riotous crew disperse at yince disgusted wi' their splore,
Resolved to meet an' fecht nae mair at oor back door.

THE WIDOW'S ONLY SON.

" Come, haste ye, Johnnie, ye maun rise, it's time ye were at

wark,

Get on ye're duddy auld pit claes, an' this patched flannel sark ;
The mornin' air is cauld an' keen, for yin sae puirly clad,"
So spoke the mother to her son, her puir wee collier lad.

While he got ready for the road, his little lamp she lit,
To light him on his weary way to yonder distant pit ;
With hasty step he hurried on, and found he had but time
To be among the very last that would descend the mine.

Now all below is active life, the morning work's begun,
Each toiling hard to win his bread far from the smiling sun :
The thrumming of the engine wheels proclaim to all around
That all is well so far, as yet, with those who're underground.

ROBERT SWAN. 65

The widow, in her cottage home, was putting all things right,
The cat lay purring on the rug, the grate was shining bright ;
All around was bathed in peace, each thing seemed fraught with

joy,
Yet the widow's mind was ill at ease about her collier boy.

"Twas long before she could consent to let her loved one go
To win his hard-earned daily bread away far down below ;
A boy in years, a man at heart, a noble-minded lad,
She thought if aught befel her boy 'twas sure to drive her mad.

'Twas well for her she didn't know what fate hung o'er his head,
Or that the son she loved so much was numbered with the dead ;
The miners' foe, the fatal blast, had laid her loved one low.
Soon many a happy home, alas ! would be a scene of woe.

And hark ! what booming sound is that borne on the morning air?
Dark clouds of smoke rise from the pit, shows something wrong

is there ;
"Oh heavens !" she cried, "what smoke and flame across the

sky is cast,"
The awful truth flashed o'er her mind, " the Blautyre pit's in

blast."

Then out she rushed into the street, her thought was of her child,
" Oh tell me if my Johnnie lives," she cried in accents wild,
And straightway hurried to the pit, she could no longer wait,
" Oh surely some kind one will tell me of my darling's fate." r

An eager crowd of anxious ones impatiently stood there,
Sad groups of weeping wives and weans gave way to dire dispnir ;
But high above the clamorous din was heard the startling cry,
" Oh bring to me my only son, that with him I might die."

The bell is rung, the cage ascends, until they reach the head,
The cry is raised they've found a boy, but hush, they say he's "lead.
They wrap the body in a sheet, 'tis slowly borne away,
But see, a woman leaves the crowd, and bids the cortege stay ;
She has but one request to make, and instantly 'tis done,
That shriek of agony tells the tale, this is the widow's son.

WAGGITY WA .

Where Tarth's crystal stream glides slowly alang,
Creepin' on through the low wud wi' mony a sang,
Stan's some weel-theekit hooses baith hounie an' bmw
Where langsyue leev'd a worthy c&'d Wa^gity VW.

66 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

A douce c.inty couple were Rah an' Nan Reid —

(Wi' reverence I aye like to speak o' the deid)

Noo, Rab had bis fauts, as maist o' folk hae—

A kind o' half-wit the neebours would say ;

But boo far they were richt an' hoo far they were wrang,

I purpose to show ere 1 finish my sang ;

But the key-note o' a', if the truth I maun tell,

Puir Rab WHS an oot-an'-oot coward as well.

They'd a snug little hoose, aye tidy an' clean.
An' the auld bodies too were aye hale an' bien :
No a spec on the floor, be it ever sae sma',
An* the wa's were as white as the pure driven snaw ;
Nannie aye took delight to hae things in their place,
Frae a chair or a stool to her spec's on the brace.

At Nannie's command, an' that wasna a joke,
Puir Rab ilka nicht had to wind up the clock;
Twas nane o1 yer new-fangled " Yankees " ava,
But a giiid, tho' an auld-fashn't waggity wa',
An heirloom, in fact, Nan had got frae her mither,
Wha declared o' the kind there wasna anither ;
Rab used to aloo it had hung in the Ark,
An' Noah had made it when hard up for wark.

Ae nicht he forgot to wind up the clock,

And to rise in the dark was mair than a joke ;

But Nannie's shrill voice ma<l« him jump to his pins,

Mutterin' something o' some folk gien account o' their sins.

When crossin' the Hror he made nae noise ava,

Until he hail wound up the waggity wa' ;

But, alas ! cumin' back to his warm bed again

His sark tail got hookit in waggity's chain,

An' then he set up sic a " hullabaloo,"

Cryin' " Help, Nannie, help ; for the deil has me ubo ; "

An' to mak' maitters waur she oot wi' a roar,

As the waggity fell wi' a clash on the floor.

He floundered aboot wi' the clock at his heels,

Cryin' " Fare 'e weel, Nannie ; I'm awa' wi' the deils ;"'

An' syne wi' anither unearthly-like roar

Baith Rab an' the clock flew out at the door.

Doon through the wud like a phantom he flew,
While Nan an' the neebours joined in the " haloo,1'
('ryin' "Stt>p, Kobbie, stop, man ; it's nae deil ava,
But yer ain wreckit ricketty waggity wa'."

H. A. DEWAR. 67

HENRY ARNOT DEWAR,

yilVESSENGER-AT-ARMS and Sheriff- Officer,
X II «J Edinburgh, was born in 1844 in the parish of
Abbotshall, Kirkcaldy. He comes of a poetic family,
his father, who was teacher of St Andrew's School,
Dundee, having been the author of several excellent
poems. His uncles, the Rev. Archibald Dewar and
Mr Thomas Jeffray, were also conributors to the
newspapers and magazines of their time. Our
poet, who was bred to the trade of a baker in
Dundee, left home to serve his apprenticeship when
only nine years of age, and was a journeyman when
fourteen, his parents being then resident in Edinburgh.
He then attended school for two years, and afterwards
worked for some time, but was compelled to give up
his calling through ill-health. He was consequently
sent to Berwick-on-Tweed, where he was placed under
private tuition, and hi course of time fitted himself for
the duties of messenger-at-arms.

Mr Dewar's first verses were on the subject of
" Kindness," and were written for a comrade who went
to New Zealand in 1860, of whom he never heard again.
While working at Gilmerton and Aberlady he wrote
numerous amusing pieces for " carters' plays, and lads'
and lasses' marriage days." He never kept copies of
these, as they were written, he tells us, " merely for
fun, my supper, and a dance." Being an officer of
Court, he has frequently to take part in proceedings
which are trying to his keen sensibilities, and we have
reason to know that he has often injured himself by
assisting those who afterwards, by their conduct, taught
him a lesson of the ingratitude of mankind. Mr Dewar
has been a voluminous writer, and has touched on many
themes. His poems ' are of a warm, reflective, and

68 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

thoughtful nature, full of a tender, loving spirit. His
verse is also marked by an ease of expression, and by
an insight and aptness that evince a finely-toned
poetic sympathy.

THE BLIND BOY'S LAMENT.

I hear sweet birds, but cannot see,
I hear them singing from the tree,
I hear the murmur of the bees —
The bright flowers rustling in the breeze,
The reapers' songs amongst the corn,
In balmy autumn's early morn :
Their soothing lays of love and joy
Are dear to me, a poor blind boy.

I hear the children play at night
With gladsome glee and rare delight,
The streamlets rushing down the hill,
The trontlets splashing in the rill,
The noise of busy life around,
The showers rattling on the ground,
I cannot mingle in their joy
For I am but a poor blind boy.

Oh, what a blessing is the sight
Of sunny day and starry night,
Of waving fields and heaving sea,
But they, alas, are blanks to me —
The rolling waves around my feet,
The gallant ships that breast the deep,
Methinks 1 see the bright blue sky —
Ah no ! I am a poor blind boy.

My sisters dear I hear at night
Speaking of silvery stars so bright,
Like diamonds glittering in the sky,
Twinkling in the Heavens so high,
The landscapes they describe to me,
With all the glorious sights they see,
Thia makes me breathe a hitter sigh
Because 1 am a poor blind boy.

They tell me when I was a babe,
My mother in her grave was laid,
But oft she pressed me to her heart,
While in her eyes hot tears did start,
And as she gazed into my face,
Would still more lovingly embrace ;

H. A. DEWAR. 69

Before she died she grayed that He
My guide, my all-in-all would he.

Tho' often I feel sad and lone,
Love reigns within our cottage home,
And if down hearted I should be,
My sisters sing sweet hymns to me ;
Standing around my couch of rest,
Their warm cheeks to mine are prest,
For me their prayers ascend on high,
That God would spare their poor blind boy.

Helpless and weak, still I have bread,
With plenty on my table spread,
While I can hear my pastor say
That Christ can wash my sins away,
And will at last my soul receive,
If I do love Him and believe,
Tho' earthly sight He has not given,
He'll open wide my eyes in Heaven.

So while I hear my Saviour's voice,
My doubting heart may well rejoice.
Death's terrors I will fear no more,
By faith, I see the sunlit shore ;
All life's dark paths he'll lead me through,
Till Heavenly light bursts on my view,
When I shall taste unmingled joy,
Tho' I was once a poor blind boy.

ANITHEK DAY IS PAST.

Anither day is past, Joe —

I'm weary o' this life ;
I ken it winna last, Joe —

Nae lang ye'll ca' me "wife."
Weel I do mind the time, Joe,

When I became yer bride ;
Baith bloomin' in oor prime, Joe,

To a' the toun a pride.

It looks but like yestreen, Joe,

Since we oor days began ;
An' faithfu' ye hae been, Joe —

By me a weel-lo'ed man.
For sax and forty years, Joe,

We noo hae marrit been ;
An" ye've ne'er gar't the tears, Joe,

To drap doon^frae my een.

70 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Thae happy days are gane, Joe,

Ne'er to again return ;
But when yer left alane, Joe,

For me ye manna mourn.
Noo di 1111:1 leave me here, Joe,

I'm nae distrest wi' pain ;
Tho' death is comin' near, Joe,

We part to meet again.

In lands ayont the sea, Joe,

Oor bairns are awa' ;
Sae whan my spirit's free, Joe,

Ye'll tell them ane an' a',
Richt glad was their mither, Joe,

To leave this world o' care ;
To Heaven, which is forever, Joe,

Whaur she will meet them there.

Yer face I dinna see, Joe-
Draw close by my bedside ;

A kiss afore I dee, Joe —
I canna langer bide.

On yer fing'r put this ring, Joe,
An' wear it till ye dee ;

'Twill o' the past aye bring, Joe,
Sweet memories o' me.

Pou' up the blind a wee, Joe,

'Tis surely growin' dark ;
Lat the sun shine on me, Joe,

Frae it I too maun part.
Sune a' will noo be past, Joe —

My hauns are icy cauld ;
Sune in oor Saviour's breast, Joe,

His arms will me enfauld.

THERE'S AYE A SOMETHING THAT TAK'S US AWA'.

In this wearifu' warld whate'er oor lot be,

Lat's be rich or be puir, or claithed unco braw,
To tell us we're mortal, an' sune we maun dee,

There aye is a something that tak's us awa'.
Tho' strong we may look we do fade like the leaf

That's green for an hour, an' wi' the blasts fa',
Oor years are a shadow, oor days are sae brief,

There aye is a something that tak's us awa'.

The bonnie wee bairnie wha kens nae a care,
Be he born in palace, in cot, or in ha',

H. A. DEWAR. 71

To mak' us mair humble oor troubles to bear,
The dread something comes to tak' him awa'.

We rise in the morn in' an' aften forget
To praise Him wha safely has kept ane an' a',

The lost we may monrn ere the sun may have set,
There aye is a something that tak's us awa'.

We woo in the e'enin', bricht love in oor ee,

An' pu' frae the thorn the roses that blaw,
Wi' saft kisses we part, oor hearts fu' o' c;lee,

Ne'er thinkin' how something will tak' us awa'.
Frae lands yont the ocean the sailor wi' pride

Comes back for to tell a' the wonners he saw,
Whan he fin's his hame toom, an' gane has his bride,

There aye is a something that tak's us awa'.

The braw sodger lad seeks the place o' his birth,

Tlio' worn oot an' wearied an' white like the snaw,
He sees nane but strangers noo sit roon' his hearth,

There aye is a something that tak's us awa'.
The couthie auld man, wi' hi.s sweet wifie Jean,

Wha cheerfu' hae been nigh years fifty an' twa,
Gang aff to their bed, but, alas, never dream

There aye is a something that tak's them awa'.

We ne'er can be happy unless day an' nicht

We strength seek frae Heaven, an' bend to its law,
We'll hae hope in the end, our burden gey licht,

To meet aye the something that tak's us awa'.
Less sorrow wad vex us, an' happier we'd be,

Were we lovin' Him mair wha died for us a',
We'd smile e'en at death when by faith we do see

Christ aye in the something that tak's us awa'.

UP AND BE IN TIME.
With a cheerful heart rise like the lark,

Victory will be thine ;
'Tis late to cry when the well is dry,

Then up and be in time.
Whate'er befall, there is work for all,

Should unity combine,
Aye forward go and fear no foe,

Then up and be in time.

Come want or care never despair,

A bright sun yet may shine,
Keep working away while it is day,

Then up and be in time.
Shining afar there's a guiding star

In not far distant clime,

72 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Hidden from view, it will light you through,
Then up and be in time.

Far better to wait than be too late,

Though hard the hill to climb,
With a steady pace you will win the race,

Then up and be in time.
If fame you'd find never look behind,

Gold's lying in the mine,
Poor you may be, 'tis waiting for thee,

Then up and be in time.

So you may live, and to others give

The vintage of your vine —
Whate'er is gained is all attained

From getting up in time.
That man's a fool who self cannot rule,

And carefully draw the line
Between right and wrong, the weak get strong

Since they get up in time.

A' FOR THY BONNIE SEL'.

Dear lassie, for you a bunch I'll pu'

0' flo'ers frae wud an" dell,
Roses red an' white, wi' pansies bright,

A' for thy bonnie sel'.

The snaw-white thorn at early morn

Sparklin' in mossy fell,
Wi' pearls o' dew I'll gather for you,

Fresh as thy bonnie sel'.

Frae the apple tree whaur haunts the bee,

Hard by yon limpid well,
Whan the birdies sing its blooms I'll bring,

Sweet as thy bonnie sel'.

Primroses gay frae the sunny brae,

Whaur lovers like to dwell,
An' daisies fair for thy flaxen hair,

Pure as thy bonnie sel'.

There's a tiny flow'r in ilka bow'r,

Its name I needna tell,
While it shall grow by it I'll vow,

True as thy bonnie sel'.

J. D. REID. 73

I'll pu' for you the violets blue,

An" the wee heather bell ;
Plait them neatly roon' wi" yellow broom,

Rich as thy bonnie sel'.

JOHN DOUGALL REID,

" KALEIDOSCOPE,"

HS a novelist, essayist, and poet enjoys a wide
popularity under the nom-de-plume of "Kaleidos-
cope/' and it was only after repeated solicitations
that he would consent to allow us to reveal his identity
by giving his name. Although reluctant to pose as a
candidate for public applause, he says — " If I can do
good work — if a single effort of mine can lead one
human soul out of itself into the light that tracks the
steps of God, induce it to lift weary eyes from the
dusky ways of life and behold the glory and the beauty
with which the world of Nature is full ; if I can do
this, my choice for the rest would be obscurity — my
work in the light, myself in the shadow."

Mr Reid is a native of Glasgow. His father, who
was a marine engineer, died at Liverpool when John
was quite a child. After the death of the father his
mother removed to Glasgow, to stay with his grand-
mother, who resided in a little cottage at Keppochill,
on the Springburn Road. Here, in company with
several of his brothers and sisters he was sent to the
Old Normal School, and made his first entrance into
the shadowy ways of learning. He did not then, nor
indeed for long afterwards, prove an apt scholar. Not
that he was what is called a dull boy, but somehow
the routine of the daily tasks, as he tells us,
stuck in his throat, and in spite of his utmost efforts,

74 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

largely aided though they were by the use of the cane,
he proved an indifferent pupil. He considers that he
learned more, and that of more lasting value, in his
solitary rambles among the woods and fields than he
ever learned at the feet of the wisest Gamaliel of them
all.

It was decided, after the visit of a distant
relative of his father's to his mother, that this rela-
tive was, in a sense, to adopt him, and accordingly
he was sent to Helensburgh. This lady, Mrs
Dougall, was a widow, had no children, and was in
comfortable circumstances, but it appears that they
never thoroughly understood each other. She was a
woman strong both in body and mind, and held very
decided opinions regarding what was good for the
rising generation. Of these opinions he had the
benefit, with results pretty evenly divided between
good and bad. In nothing more was the utter want
of sympathy between them manifested than in her
choice, by some flash of evil inspiration, of a trade for
the lad. She insisted upon his becoming a draper.
This calling he utterly detested, but, like it or not he
had to go, and it is almost needless to say that his
employer's dessertations on haberdashery and learned
disquisitions on the relative values of drugget and
flannels fell on inattentive ears.

When his apprenticeship was ended, the restless
craving for change that has 'dominated his whole life
set him on a tour of discovery. His first flights were
short ones. He successively stayed in Alloa, Falkirk,
and other towns, filling situations as salesman in
each. He seldom remained a year in one place, and
at last, through his dislike to the trade, and habits
of dissipation in which he had begun to indulge, he
found himself at home again. Soon aftei%, he quarrelled
so decidedly with Mrs Dougall that he left the house
" for good." He acknowledges that the fault was his —

J. D. REID. 75

" She was a good soul, whose only error was that she
would drive when she should have led." Our poet
made his way to London, in which city he gained a
fairly accurate idea of the meanings of the words
" poverty " and " misery." In about four months he
learned more of "Outcast London" than philan-
thropists dream of, and witnessed enough social horrors
to people a new " Inferno."

Tired of the struggle for honest existence in the
Metropolis, he at last resolved that, before he died of
outright starvation, he would don the red coat. He
accordingly, in 1876, enlisted into the 2nd Seaforth
Highlanders — then 78th Regiment. Regarding his
life as a soldier, it will be sufficient to say that he saw
a good bit of the world. He visited the Mediterranean
Stations, took part in the occupation of Cyprus, and
returning, after a short stay in Edinburgh, was sent
out to India. When in that country, and while lying
at Benares, he finally resolved in future to devote
his life to literature — a resolve he has never had cause
to regret. His time expired, he returned to Glasgow,
where, with the exception of being some time on the
staff of the Dundee Evening leleyraph he has since re-
sided, pursuing his literary career, and accomplishing
much good work. He speaks in warm terms
of the help and encouragement he received at
the hands of Mr Stewart of the Friend, and Mr Honey-
man of the Journal during his Dundee experiences.
He gave evidence of his gratitude, and at the same
time a proof of his poetic genius, by writing for
the People's Friend Cot Bazaar a poem of exquisite and
touching pathos, entitled " No Room." It was taste-
fully printed, with illustrated wrapper, and sold very
extensively.

In Mr Reid's poetry we find ever the presence of
simplicity and directness of thought, combined with
charming melody and artistic finish. The moral and the

76 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

intellectual are happily blended, while his sympathies
are wide, and he touches the solemn and tragic as he
touches the tender and the true, with a vigour in
which strength and gentleness are fitly joined. The
subject itself speaks from the heart to the heart, and
is always handled with genuine poetic fervour. The
same might well be said of his tales and essays. These
are full of realistic skill and tender pathos, with
striking and clearly cut sketches of character, and subtle
analysis of suffering, weakness, and joy. His stories
are ever perfectly natural in detail, and the scenes of
the narratives are drawn with vigour and accuracy.

COMRADE. GOOD-BYE.

Comrade, good-bye, the trumpets blare,

The lance-heads gleam on the foemen's front ;
They'll have work for their best and bravest there

If they 'bide of this charge the desperate brunt.
Grim it will be as ever we pressed,

And you, or I, or both may fall ;
What matter ? — Hurrah ! be it win the best.

'Tis duty for us, and God for all,

So, comrade, brother — good-bye, good-bye.

Comrade, good-bye — though death be nigh,

We two have looked on his face before ;
And whether or now or by and by,

We meet him, we'll scorn him more and more.
And should it be that he claims us here,

I have your heart and you have mine,
And the love we held so long and dear

Will light the hour of our life's decline.

Comrade, brother — good-bye, good-bye.

Comrade, good-bye — one hand clasp true ;

We've nought to forgive, we've nought to forget.
There never was cloud between UK two —

When wu meet 'twill be as we aye have met.
Then tighten the graup on lance and blade—

The squadrons move, the word is given,
And over the ruins the guns have made

The tempest rush of the charge is driven.

Comrade, strike home — good-bye, good-bye.

J. D. REID. 77

Comrade, good-bye, the fight is won,

Pursuit rolls past on the flying foe :
Look up, ray brother, ere life is done !

Speak to me, comrade, before you go !
Oh, never can earth to me replace

The life fast ebbing even now —
Gone, with my tears upon your face !

Gone with my lips upon your brow —

My brother — oh, God ! — good-bye, good-bye.

MATRIMONY.

Obverse.

Sweet on the soul as airs from Eden blown
Throng fullest thoughts of this best joy so near.

Home, children, wife !— sure never man hath known
Bliss more assured, more unalloyed, more dear.

Reverse.

Confound it — this is really past a joke,
There lie the buttons and here hangs the shirt

Divorced, and ne'er a needle can I poke —
I'll put this on again, and — hang the dirt.

Obverse.

There sings nae bird in shaw or glen

Wi' happier heart than this o' mine.
My ain wee wife — my ain tire en' —

Od, e'en to think o't's joy divine.

Reverse.

A roupy boast and a reeky hoose,

A flytin' wife and a screechin' wean ;
I' the spence the teacups clatter crouse —

I sup cauld parritch here alane.

Obverse.

Och, sure an' it's afther the praste I'll be
Wid the wings of a swallow on ivery fut —

For Molly, the darlint, has taken me,
An' he'll tie us a knot can never be cut.

Reverse.

Och, wirra, wirra — ochone, ochone,
Sure, potheen an' women's the devil's riches ;

78 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

She's off on the spray — I'm starved skin an' bone,
The childer's in rags, an' luck at tliiin breeches.

Obverse.

Ta king she'll wass not ca' heisel',
She'll wass pe merrit ta nicht's morn,

Her heather ponnie Flora Pell —
She'll pe as plithe afore she's porn.

Reverse.

Ach, ach ! and shust to think what ass

Ant fool ant eedywit she's peen,
Ta Flora waas aal honey lass,

Ta wife pe saut in hersel's eeu.

AN INVITATION.

You, from the din and the dust of the street,
You, from the seething of squalor untold,

You, from the care-curse that 'fends Mammon's feet,
You, on whose young cheek the pallor is old —

Follow, through summer-time's opening gate,

Where the pure joys of The Beautiful wait.

You, from the triumph, the toil, and the tears,

You, from the fighting, the fever, and fret,
You, from the sinning that saddens and sears,
You, in whose heart youth is lingering yet —
Follow, down summer-time's opening way-
God on His children is smiling to-day.

Laughter shall lead you to loves long unknown,
Gladness shall guide you where glory is given,

Blessings shall call you to make them your own,
Meeting and mingling the earth and the heaven —

Follow, where summer-time's opening wings

Beat out the melody innocence sings.

Out of the shadow and out of the chain,

Over the moorland and over the sea ;
Nought shall remind you of vanished pain,

Nothing shall whisper of sorrow to be —
Follow, while summer-time's opening eyes
Move the heart-fountains to waken and rise.

Might of the mountain and mirth of the vale,
Flame of the sun on the flood and the shore,

J. D. REID. 79

Magical music in deep glen and dale,

Woo you to win what life loses no more —
Follow, where summer-time's opening hand
Scattereth brightness abroad in the land.

Nature shall show where the heath-springs are found,
Nature shall beckon where thought-rivers flow ;

Spirits of beauty shall compass you round,
Spirits of peace brood above and below —

Follow, then, follow through summer-time's gate,

Where the pure joys of The Beautiful wait.

WAS EVER A LASS.

Was ever a lass sae beset ?

Was ever a body sae teased ?
Was e'er a maid's life sae fashed wi' the strife

0' lovers wha winna be pleased ?
They're girnin' aboot the tire en',

They're fechtin' in baith o' the byres —
What wi' tongue an' wi' nieve the deil they wad deave,

Wi' their " hearts," an' their " loves," an' their " fires."

Oh, what can a puir lassie dae,
An' what should be dune wi' sic men ?

Wi' their coaxin', an' pu'in', an' warrin , an' wooin',
They'll sune bring my life to an en'.

At niilkin' time, oot in the field,

They gather like bees roun' the kye ;
I canna get Kerry kep' oot o' the dairy,

Or Jack aff the tap o' the stye.
Tam'a watchin' doon by at the well,

Will hings owre the kail-garden gate,
Pate's scartin' his lugs doon by 'mang the dougs,

In the barn Kab's cursin' his fate.
Oh, what, &c.

I'm "bonnie,"I'm " lo'esome," I'm "sweet,"

I'm a " gowan," a " lily," a " rose ; "
Ane blethers a week <»' the " bloom o' my cheek,1'

Anither ane swears by my nose ;
This ane "dees for a kiss frae my mou',"

That " expires 'neath the dart o' my e'e ; '"
Gin they'd murder ilk ither, an' dee a'thegither,

'Twad be blithest o' news to puir me.
Oh, what, &c.

My faither he nichers an' lauchs,

My inither she fly tes an' she bans ;

80 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

The lasses are mad, though I wad be glad
Gin they'd tak' the lot aff my han's.

Oh, it's ill to hae nocht o' real love —
It's waur though to hae love decried ;

But the warst o' it a' is a dizzen or twa
0' jo's wha will no be denied.
Then what, &c.

DEATH.

Over its bright sands the river is flowing,
Over the valley the breezes are blowing,
Over the blue sky the white clouds are going ;

Nothing is now as but now it hath been.
Down in the thorn brake bird-voices are singing,
Down in the woodland the echoes are ringing,
Each moment bringeth, and dieth in bringing,

Silence to song and to echo, I ween.

Music of morning the noontide bewaileth,
Strength of the noontide the even assaileth,
Over the even the deep night prevaileth,

Night comes to die on the bosom of morn.
The leaf from the bud doth banish abiding,
Ne'er from the flower the leaf findeth hiding,
Growth of the seed the flower death betiding,

Ceaseth the seed ere the plantlet is born.

Nought that life holds in its holding remaineth,
Nought life contains, its own life containeth ;
Nought life explains life's secret explaineth —

Questionings all things and answering* none.
Grain after gain the future beholdeth,
Loss after loss the by-time enfoldeth,
Ever from death the deep present mouldeth

Newness of life wherein death is begun.

Dieth the strife with the gain of the booty,
Fatal fulfilment to effort of duty,
Fatal is use to the pride-time of beauty ;

'Neath new joy's glamour old joy's regret hides.
Singing were weary if 'twere not the sighing,
Laughing were weary if 'twere not the crying,
Living were weary if 'twere not the dying-
Only in changing earth's changelessness bides.

Ne'er hope arose that told not of setting,
Ne'er peace was born that waned not to fretting,
Ne'er memory lived that found not forgetting,
Love never ripened to hatred unknown.

J. D. REID. 81

Deep pain upbearetfo earth's sunniest gladness,
Laughter inlieth earth's uttermost sadness,
Wisdom's star shines through earth's gloomiest madness —
Shadows of all things on all things are thrown.

Why, then, since death o'er all Nature reigneth,
Cling I to life that only life feigneth —
Life that from death a new glory gainetb ?

Stars brightest shine in the night's deepest gloom.
Earth in the white mists of reason sojourneth,
Thought to its birthplace bewildered returneth,
Only the clear ray of sure knowing burneth

Over the gateway that opes on the tomb.

Since from sure change life nought can withhold, then,
Since but by death life's true tale is told, then,
Since death's embrace all life doth enfold, then,

Fear 1 to tread where my fellows have gone ?
Foe though thou, Death, thy purpose completing,
Dark though the cloud through which comes thy greeting,
Well I know now, as in hour of our meeting,

Stronger than thou art, my spirit lives on.

Conqueror yet ! though thy fetters have bound me,
Conqueror yet ! though thine arrows have found me,
Conqueror yet ! though thy chain is around me —

My soul defieth all efforts of thine !
Conqueror yet ! though now to thee bending,
Conqueror yet ! when the heavens are rending,
Conqueror ever ! beginning and ending,

Servant art thou to this spirit of mine.

AT IT AGAIN.

Ho, ye who are faint in fortune's strife !

Ye who are down in the foremost fray !
Blinded and bruised, despairing life,

Turning your faces to yesterday —
Up, nor moan o'er slip or fall !

Measure not now the how or when ;
Let cowards and weaklings go to the wall,

Set your teeth the closer an' at it again.

At it again, again, and again ;
Surrender's a word never known to men

Women have — crying,

Cowards have — flying,

Men only — dying —
At it again !
F

82 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Ye who are armed in the cause of right,

Warring with error for virtue's sake !
Shun ye the van in the thickening fight?

Dread ye the wounds the bravest take?
Though tierce the front th' oppo.sers show,

Though for your one the foe be ten,
Flinch not under their starkest blow ;

Grip your hilt the firmer an' at it again.

At it again, again, and again,
Surrender's a word never known to men.

What though they jeer you ?

What though they sneer you ?

Compel them to fear you —
At it again !

Ye who, beset by Passion's band,

Losing life's highest heritage,
Are pressing yet, with heart and hand,

The bitterest war a man can wage ;
Sink but to rise, and, rising, strain

To drag each curse from its darkest den :
For every fall, and shame, and pain,

Draw the reins the tighter an' at it again.

At it again, again, and again,
Surrender's a word never known to men.

Spite of the thralling,

Spite of the falling,

Manhood is calling —
At it again !

On all who duty's pathways keep,

Striving to gain, to guard, to save,
Fall high rewards and blessings deep,

With God's " Well done !'' o'er a true man's grave.
Wrong must die as right must live ;

Then, steady and true, in heaven's ken,
Ever your life to duty give,

Ever your watchword— At it again,

At it again, again, and again,
Surrender's a word never known to men.

Women have — crying,

Cowards have— flying,

Men only — dying —
At it again !

J. D. REID.

83

BABY VIOLET.

Baby is here,

Come, let us name her,

Lest angels claim her
Kin to their sphere ;
Then though she dies,

Memory can keep
Our darling who lies

Asleep— asleep.

What shall the name be ?

What shall it mean ?

If false 'tis seen,
Whose shall the blame be
When the years prove

Its spells profound,
Her young life move

Around — around ?

Fond love's first flower —
With her life twined,
Flower-name shall find

Surely love's dower ;

Then come the meetest
Of flowers that live,

Name to our sweetest
To give — to give.

Daisies are modest,

Primroses sad,

Roses are glad,
Hyacinths oddest ;
Lilies are proud,

Bluebells are shy,
To snowdrops a shroud

la nigh — too nigh.

I know of one,

Dearest and best ;

'Along all the rest
Sweeter is none.
Deep in the dell,

To the world unknown,
Content to dwell

Alone — alone.

Pet o' the fairies,
Pride o' the wood ;
" Enough to be good "

Its motto so rare is.

Even winds gliding,

Watch it above ;
Loving ami hiding

From love — from love.

Then " Violet "

Shall babj be ;

Whate'er her life see
Of gladness or fret.
Plant, laughing and weeping,

With hopes deep and broad,
Her heart in the keeping

Of God— of God.

And o'er her bent,

Eyes with tears dim ;

Mother, to Him
Be thy prayers sent,
Who gave to thee

Blossom so fair.
What dost thou see ?

Declare — declare !

"Two little eyes

Wide-lidded roll,

Through whicli her soul
Peeps in surprise ;
One little brow,

White as the snow,
Gleams her curls now

Below — below.

Mouth dewy red,

Giving love's blisses

For tender kisses —
Love's daily bread.
Two dimpled cheeks,

One dimpled chin,
Soft witchery seeks

To win — to win.

Fingera so pliant,

Feeblest of clasp,

Yet in their grasp
Strong as a giant.
Enslaving, I ween,

Holding us all,
Proud baby queen,

In thrall — in thrall.

MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Sunlight of smiles,
Music of laughter,
Tears coming after —

Oh, baby wiles, —

On white feet apart,
With pinkest of toes,

Straight to each heart
She goes — she goes.

Grow, little soul,

Body, grow too,

May God with you
Each day unroll
Record confessing

Christ and His rule,
Till life with blessing

Is full— is full.

Laugh, summer skies,

Baby is here !

Streams blue and clear
Smile with her eyes —
Eyes that with rays

Of wonderment scan
The world and the ways

Of man — of man.

Bugle winds blowing

Over the sea,

Interpret for me
The mother-heart glowing
With love-rays that fall —

Gladness that gives
A blessing to all

That lives — that lives.

Sing, birdie, sing,

On lilac bough fair !

Flash through the air
On love-litten wing !
To you, bird, and I,

Sure heaven is near,
For your love is nigh —

Mine here— mine here.

Cloud fleeces whirl,
Glad for the noon,
Leaves dance in tune,

Cool eddies curl —

Oh ! Nature is mad
With music and ray !

The whole world is glad
To-day — to-day. "

HUGH ARCHIBALD MACLEAN,

B YOUNG poet of considerable promise, and
brother of Duncan Maclean noticed in our Ninth
Series, was born in the charming village of Dunoon,
on the West Coast. After receiving a very fair
education he served his " time " to the engineering
trade in Glasgow. On the expiry of his apprentice-
ship, he had for some time a rather chequered career.
Times were bad, and he had frequently to be on the
"move" in search of employment. He worked fora
period in Paisley, the " cradle " of so many songsters,
but employment becoming scarce, he was again thrown

H. A. MACLEAN. 85

idle. Through the influence of friends he ultimately
procured a situation in the Globe Parcel Express Com-
pany, Glasgow, which position he still retains. Mr
Maclean early evinced the rhyming faculty, some of
his first effusions being characterised by a broad
rollicking humour, but as our poet advanced in years
and experience these early flower-thoughts of his
Muse were destroyed. His hearty, manly songs have
readily found a place in various newspapers and
literary journals. He loves to praise the beauties of
his native Caledonia, and possesses a happy lyrical
style that is admirable both for natural flow and poetic
thought, and that readily lends itself to musical set-
ting. In many of his poems we find patriotism, in-
dependence, and an ardent love of the " auld hoose at
hame " exemplified in a marked degree.

MY HIGHLAND LASSIE, 0.

Awa' 'mang yellow tassell'd broom,

Yestre'en at gloamin' fa',
Blythe Nature bade the fairy 'oors,

Joy-laden, flee awa',
But, oh, within my breast
A joy I felt the best,
As in my arms I held my Highland lassie, O.

The lintie singin" sangs o" love

Amang the gowden whins,
The cadence o' the neighb'ring burn,

Clear loupin' owre the linns,
Threw roun' the scene a spell,
As zephyr in the dell
Played 'mang the locks o' my dear Highland lassie, O.

The gowden beam o' Hope lichts up

The gloom o' weary Care,
The po'er o' walth can fin' ye frien's

That kent ye na when puir ;
But better far than those
Is the spring o' love that flows
Frae the heart o' my bewitchin' Highland lassie, O.

I'm but a simple son o' toil,
An' she a simple maid ;

86 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

But then wi' health 'gainst warldly gear

The odds are even laid.
Sae let things tak' their swing,
Owre human ills I'll sing
When to my hame I bring my Highland lassie, O.

A MA y-MORN SONG.

Hail to the glad May-morn,

Hail to the flow'ry thorn,
Filling with fragrance the soft breathing West ;

Birds on the dewy spray

Sing in the gladsome day,
First rose of summer that Nature loves best.

Streamlets, with joyful song,

Lightly they dance along
Thro' pearly meadows and wild woodland green ;

Flowers blooming fresh and free,

Laughing at Nature's glee,
Kissed by the zephyr that fans the gay scene.

Oh, I remember well

Blythe childhood's fairy spell,
Wand'ring thro' greenwood in bright rosy May ;

There love and virtue met,

No tears of sad regret
E'er dimra'd my eyelids throughout the long dayi

Now, where's my glad May-morn ?

Where now the scented thorn ?
Where are the lambkins that frisked o'er the lea ?

Scenes such as these are still

By dell and heath-clad hill,
But the real pleasures come no more to me.

CALEDONIA.

Land o' the mountain, brave land o' the North,
Whaur the waves, like war-steeds, are lashed into froth
As they break on the barren an' wild rocky shore,
An' the hoary cliffs echo the billows' loud roar.
Staunch Caledonia, dauntless an* free,
Land o' the heather, my heart warms for thee.

At the soond o' the pibroch oor clansmen arose,
In days o' langsyne, to mak' war wi' her foes,
Wha tried to subdue her an' mak' her sons slaves,
But the lads wi' the tartan crushed doon the knaves ;

H. A. MACLEAN. 87

Ay, they crushed doon the tyrant, an' bled for their ain
In the red field o' glory her richts to maintain.

Now, stern Caledonia ! free as the breeze,

Rears high her mountains an' phantom-like trees ;

Independent she stands, an', laurelled in Fame,

Guards the graves o' her heroes o' deathless name.

Her emblem the thistle, that streams on the hill,

Showa the warld that, anconquered, she reigns proudly still.

Wave on in the hill-breeze, both thistle an' heath,
Lang may the sword o' war rest in the sheath,
May peace rule the land, an' true honour ne'er fade ;
But should the usurper oor country invade,
Then, to the front, Highlanders, fearless an' bold,
An' fight for your rights like the heroes of old.

MY HIGHLAND HOME.

0, I'll tune my old harp, and a song I will sing
To the home of my childhood, where wild echoes ring,
Where the streamlet sings freedom as onward it flows,
And the bee sips the sweets from the wild laughing rose.

0 my dear Highland home ! how my heart with joy fills
When 1 think on your mountains and heath-covered hills,
Where I spent jocund hours in that long, long ago,

And this bosom of mine felt love's passionate glow.

When the sun sunk in crimson adown the calm West,
And up rose the moon with her star-spangled crest,
Then I'd pace through the woodlands with fond airy tread,
While Nature lay pillowed on eve's dewy bed.

How my pulses beat high when, in holiday time,

1 musingly stray 'mong green ferns and woodbine,
And list to some bird as it sings to the stream,
Bringing back thro' a mist of years some golden dream.

The heather blooms yet round my dear Highland home,
And the wild sea-bird still rides as free on the foam ;
But they ne'er give such joy, for the spell is now broke,
Aa when youth reigned a star in the bright sky of Hope.

O the joys, hopes, and fancies, the bliss and the truth,
That pictured the scenes round the home of my youth,
They are gone, as old Time in his flight ne'er returns,
But in mem'ry will live while the flame of life burns.

88 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

JAMES KELLY,

MHOSE poetry abounds with vivid description,
and dainty yet forcible sketches of scenery,
was born in Carluke in 1855. His father was a native
of Carnwath, and belonged to a family that appears
to have been long connected with several parishes in
Upper Clydesdale. The patronymic spelt " Kello " is
found in some of the oldest parochial records extant.
Some years ago a tombstone bearing the name was
unearthed at Carnwath, and after examination by
competent authorities, was pronounced to be the
oldest memorial in the churchyard.

James Kelly received the rudiments of his educa-
tion at Braidwood School, Carluke, and began to
write verses when only eleven years of age. He was
known by his companions to be possessed of a poetic
temperament and considerable powers of intuition.
Although he was by no means studious in his habits,
he kept ahead of his class-fellows by looking over his
lessons on the way to school. His parents seem to
have been somewhat indulgent towards the youth,
endowed as he was with an impulsive and imaginative
nature, for in opposition to the advice of his father,
who wished him to take a superior education, with the
view of entering one of the learned professions, he left
school, and for a shorter or longer period between his
thirteenth and eighteenth year he was employed in
several vocations, none of which he found congenial
to his tastes. At Christmas, 1874, he gained a
Queen's scholarship in the Glasgow F.C. Normal
Seminary, and after the usual course of training, in
the final examination for Certificates, he took a posi-
tion in the First Division of the students of his year.
During sessions 1878-79 and 1879-80 he pursued a

JAMES KELLY. 89

classical course at Glasgow University, and he is at
present engaged in the irksome and arduous duties of
a teacher in his native town. Mr Kelly is a poet of
bright promise, his verse ever giving evidence of re-
markable originality of conception and beauty of
diction. He tells us, with a poet's power of perception
and expression, what he finds in his own heart and in
the open book of Nature, and his subjects afford him
opportunity for minute description and pleasing
imagery.

THE FISHERMEN'S WIVES.

Wild, wild the north wind blew,

And fast the darkness flew,
Fierce on the frith black storm came sweeping down,

Breakers foaming white.

Hissed and growled in sight
Of the fishermen's wives looking out from the town.

"Wee bairns,'' who smiled in sleep,

Had " faithers " on the deep ;
Morn saw their bonny boats, worth many a crown,

Gleam along the sands —

Wringing now their hands
Were the fishermen's wives looking out from the town.

With bellowing outright,

The sea was hoarse, all night
It boomed and clutched the cliffs to drag them down ;

Eerie were the cries,

Sleepless were the eyes
Of the fishermen's wives looking out from the town.

The red lights glimmered low,

The storm howled to ami fro,
When down into the dark, their grief to drown,

From the cottage door,

Trailing to the shore
Went the fishermen's wives looking out from the town.

Dishevelled in the blast,

The night went sweeping past,

And rose above the brine with murky frown-
Darker were the fears,
Bitter were the tears

Of the fishermen's wives looking out from the town.

90 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Seen in the morning light,

The spascape shimmered bright,
Some painted spars were drifting up and down ;

Still with streaming eyes,

Late, and at sunrise,
Are the fishermen's wives looking out from the town.

THE BEAUTY OF NATURE.

As darling child in love-wild ecstacy,

Clasp't eagerly unto a mother's heart,

Plays with her ringlets, woo.s the lightning glance

Of mirth from her kind eyes, and greedy culls

Ripe kisses from her lips : deep in the soul

That child engraves the earnest mother's face ;

And so do we the face of mother Earth ;

Her flowered skirts, her forest garniture,

Her outstretched arms, the mighty cloud-smit hills

Her moods of beauty through the seasons four,

Reflected in our own ; we know them all,

From valley wrinkle to her inmost heart.

She holds us gently to her teeming breast ;

We dally with her ti esses - wind anil rain ;

We look into her glistening eyes — the seas,

And in their depths we find rich beauteous things.

She strews her fruits to usward honey-veined ;

Her smiles warm all our shadows into light,

And in responses we smile back to her.

If earth be beautiful, and thus beloved

Shall we deny Creator, Father God.

Tis noontide, come with me, leave that steep road

Of rough descent, and take this easy stile

Unto the .softness grassy on the path,

Beneath yon copse meandering, edging round

The ferny hollows like a garment trail

Of velvet green most gracefully outspread

Behind the goddess of sincere delight.

Walk slowly, how the flowers, .is we pass,

Glance up into our eyes, each fondling each ;

Among the waving herbairt- twinkle they —

Anemones with features delicate,

And cowslips varnished like a golden couch

Fit for a sunbeam ; purple hyacinths,

Wood sorrel, daisied tufts, and jessamine ;

Peep well into thr grass, and ye shall find

The lovers' favourite, forget-me-not ;

Feel how a warm renewal unto youth

Stirs in our veins to hear that cuckoo call,

JAMES KELLY. 91

And Nature's universal mellowness

Out from a thousand throats gush happily.

A galaxy of sleek faced violets

Beside this hedgerow, from the crowd remote,

Will more than all the snaky, tangled maze

Of human greatness, me control, and awe.

Here, in my youth amid such sylvan scenes,

I courted Nature like a soul in lore ;

For, sober-minded, I had no delight

Among the thoughtless in a village crowd,

To dally with cobwebs the gossip spun.

I rather was a worshipper in glens

At eventide, or by the moorland wild,

And solitary tarn on mountain side ;

But most of all, when like a silver rain,

The moonlight lavished lustre on each scene,

Refreshing it, was I a lover fond

Of lone glens, copses wild, and waterfalls

So was it that I felt the outward calm

Of lofty purpled hills — the ambient,

Cool quietude far in the cloistered woods,

Slip stilly in along my burning veins,

How did I joy to feel the inner life

Of Nature palpitate far from the rust

That reddens all things breathed on by the world.

TO A BEAUTIFUL CHILD.

What joy divinely ripens flushed in thee
To lovely incarnation, like a bloom
Of freshest tint, and virginal perfume

Blown from the Eden of the life to be.

Thou art between ns and eternity
A bond of innocence, as if our God
But yesterday smiled thee along the road

Slow circling back from man to Trinity.

God gives, and by unchangeable decree
He takes unto Himself in ripe good time
The priceless harvest in thy soul sublime

Above things earthy — Heavenly may be
Much in this world with all its bitter crime,

Else could such loveliness environ thee?

AMONG THE HILLS.

The cry of plover— plaintive from the lea,
The bleat of sheep — no other sound intrudes

92 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Far up the sullen sun-smit solitudes
Whence runnels of dark waters seek the sea.

A brooding weirdness throngs the sultry air,

While summer lies supine, all debonnair
Among wild flowers— and up among the hills
Sun-smurs of dreaminess, whose silence tills

My being with a spirit not mine own.
For who can walk this grass-enamelled sod,

And feel it springy as a velvet throne,
No veneration, not a thought of God

Meanwhile to sway and thrill one with disdain

For man and all the projects of his brain?

IN AUTUMN.

I hear a curlew's lonely cry

From yonder reedy pool,
I feel the breath upon my brow

Of breezes blowing cool,
Beneath a lightsome sky, that looks

As white as rippled wool.

An autumn sky of fleecy clotid

Above a sunny bay ;
Amid long fields of yellow corn,

A farmhouse old and grey,
And on the lea milch mellow kine

Low at the break of day.

A rosy bosomed, dawning mist,

The faint horizon fills,
Where morning sits demurely throned

Upon a hundred hills,
W.hose grassy slopes are silver-streaked

With laughter-flashing rills.

Hark, jocund words of pointed wit
Ring with a blithe, good cheer ;

Young men and maidens, rosy-faced,
About the grange appear,

And sally forth right glad to see
The harvest sky so clear.

The bright blade glitters in the grass,

The young folk stand ai
b work, the mower riset

And with a sturdy strir
•own where the grain is 1

He cometh in his pride.

The young folk stand aside,
To work, the mower riseth up,
And with a sturdy stride,

Down where the grain is heavy-eared

TT- j.u :„ l_ ; ;j-

WILLIAM HOU8TOUN". 93

The stout arm swings, and swift and keen

The scythe cuts down amain
The glossy stalks, that rustling fall

Top-heavy with good grain —
The farmer smiles to see the sheaves,

And cheer the sweating swain.

For soon the rumbling cart shall come

Along the winding road,
Home, harvest home, shall be the cry,

To hail the teeming load ;
While we in gratitude avow

The lasting love of God.

WILLIAM HOUSTOUN

MAS born in 1857 at Kilbarchan, Renfrewshire,
the birthplace of Robert Allan, a contem-
porary of Robert Burns and Robert Tannahill. He
was educated at Quarrelton Parish School, which lies
at the foot of the Gleniffer Braes, rendered famous in
song by the pen of the sweet singer of Paisley. While
still a boy, and in company with his parents, he went
to the United States of America, visiting many of the
principal cities there. After his mother's death,
which took place in Columbia, South Carolina, he re-
turned to his native land along with his father, who
immediately thereafter sailed for China, where he had
obtained an appointment in the Chinese Imperial
Customs at Shanghai, leaving the young poet under
the care of his grandparents. In 1871 he entered the
Post Office service at Johnstone, and two years later
transferred his services to the Telegraph Department,
G.P.O., Glasgow, where he holds an important appoint-
ment.
Our poet, who devotes his spare hours to literature,

94 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

has for many years been a frequent contributor, both
in prose and verse, to various weekly and monthly
periodicals, among which might be mentioned Sunday
Talk, the Ardrossan Herald, and the Helensburgh and
Oareloch Times, with the latter of which he has been
closely identified for several years. Mr Houston, be-
sides being a member of several literary societies, is
also a Fellow of the Scottish Society of Literature
and Art. His prose productions are marked by a grave
and dignified tone, while neatness of phrase and pleas-
ing thought are characteristics of his Muse. In every-
thing that he writes there is evidence of a heart strung
to give the tender tones of love, faith, and Christian
sympathy.

GOD.

No God ! Who made yon shining sun on high ?

Who made yon silv'ry moon — nocturnal lamp —
And countless stars that stud the midnight sky,

To light this world's drear night-vales, dark and damp ?
Who sends in Spring refreshing, fost'ring showers,

The diamond-sparkling dew, and soft wing'd-breeze ?
Who strews in summer, fields with bright-eyed flowers,

And clothes with verdant foliage the trees ?
Who spreads in rich profusion Autumn's bower,

And scatters stores of mellow fruit around
Who sends the snow, stern Winter's icy power,

To fertilise the dead, exhausted ground ?
Rise, men of thought, flash the great truth abroad,

"Earth with her thousand voices echoes — God ! "

GOD'S BOOK.

O Sacred Book ! Of Heaven's vast gifts the best !

Life's counsellor and guide safe to the end !
When giant Doubt has filled us with unrest,

Thy truths have swept away his thoughs that tend
To mind disquiet, stealing holy peace

Which we've received through thee, from Chriat, the Son,

We prize thee, Book divine, for what thou'st done ;
For all that thou art destined yet to do
In teaching nations who war's arts pursue

To love each other, and their turmoil cease.
O blessed hook ! Thou'rt Heaven's bright lamp, to guide

Our weary footsteps to that home above,

WILLIAM HOUSTOUN.

There, 'neath Christ's sov'reign smile, we'll bask and 'bide
Eternally — in the all-perfect Love.

WHY THIS UNREST.

Why this sad mournful song?

Why dost thou sigh and weep ?
Sad heart ! 'twill not be long

Ere thou shalt sleep.
Be still ! for surely He,

Thy God, doth know thy grief ;
And, weary heart, resigned be,
He'll send relief.

Oh ! never breathe complaint,

For He will make thee bold ;
And, if thou shouldest faint
In Death's stern hold,
He'll courage give to thee ;

And, walking by thy side,
Dispel the terrors grim that be,
And with thee 'bide.

Be still ! sad weary heart,

And give thyself to God ;
From thee He'll never part,

But ease thy load.
And He will give thee rest —

For thou may'st never die —
But dwell for ever on His breast
Beyond the sky.

A REVERIE.

Through woodland haunts at close of day

I like to rove,
There, where wrapt wooers wend their way,

And whisper love ;
When as the Sun's expiring glow
In sapphire dips the plain below ;
Or when queen Cynthia's silver beam
Is mirrored in the placid stream.

I love to spend some idle hours

In fern-edg'd nooks,
Or watch meand'ring by the bowers

The brawling brooks,
Or hearken to the plumaged throng,
That live the rocks and woods among ;

96 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Or seated 'neath some age-bent trees
Inhale the passing scent-wing'd breeze.

I love to linger by the shore

And hear the sea
Or ripple, or tumultuous roar —

Tis sweet to me !
In cloud or shine, in foul or fair,
'Tis highest pleasure to be there ;
The very wind-wafts borne along
Bear on their wings both health and song.

Tis bliss supreme to hear the strain

Peal through the grove,
Of these wild soothers of the brain-
Creatures we love ;
The thrushes and the linnets rare-
Sweet quiet'ners of giant Care !
Mayhap by Providence they're sent
To teach mankind to live content.

MAGGIE.

When with ambient tints, Maggie,

The sun lights up the sky,
When among the trees, Maggie,

The gentle zephyrs sigh ;
When o'er dusky hills, Maggie,

Peeps the full-orbed moon,
And fills with silv'ry light, Maggie,

The leafy vales of June ;

Where the limpid streams, Maggie,

Prattle through the dell ;
Where the wilding flowers, Maggie,

Bind us with a spell ;
Where the birds' sweet song, Maggie,

Stirs the sylvan glade,
We'll meet at twilight's close, Maggie,

'Neath trellised woodbine's shade.

There, by the moss-fring'd well, Maggie,

Near which grows many a fern ;
Where the castle stands, Maggie,

'Mid scenery wild and stern—
I have a tale to tell, Maggie —

To tell alone to thee —
And though 'tis old to some, Maggie,

'Tis ever new to me.

R. A. WATSON 97

ROBERT A. WATSON, M.A.,

an Aberdonian by birth, but uot by descent, his
father having begun life iu a Kincardineshire
village, and being of a Cromavty stpck on one side.
Mr Patrick Watson was a teacher for some time, and
then began business in the city of Aberdeen. His
eldest son, inheriting the father's taste for literature,
went from the Grammar School to the University,
where, amongst other distinctions, he gained a iirst
prize for a poetical translation from Horace, and took
his degree of M. A., with honours in the Natural Science
department. Inheriting also his father's quiet, strong
devotion to Secession principles, he entered the Divinity
Hall of the United Presbyterian Church, and chose
to accept, in preference to another call, that of a con-
gregation at Middlesbrough-on-Tees. There he spent
rather more than seven years, cultivating poetry and
philosophy iu the brief pauses of ministerial cares, but
publishing nothing. A good many poetical efforts of
this period were addressed to the friend who became
his wife, and were for strictly "private circulation."
In 1879 he received the call of a Dundee congregation,
and since then has been chiefly engaged in the many
labours of ministering to a considerable number of
working people in a busy town, and taking a full share
of presbyterial work. The poetic fire finds expression
sometimes in a paraphrase of a psalm for a Sabbath
discourse, sometimes in a hymn for the children ;
occasionally time is snatched for a more ambitious
effort, and one such is contributed specially to this
volume. For the rest, it goes into the sermons, and
those who are at all able to catch the spirit of their
teacher are aware of a high clear strain of Christian
thought, an originality, because a true genuineness of

G

98 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

preaching, a fine enthusiasm for Christ and His king-
dom, such as are not found everywhere. Mr Watson is,
however, known in the religious world chiefly as a
critic of unusual power and keenness, his article in the
Contemporary Review on Professor Henry Drummond's
book (" Natural Law in the Spiritual World ") being
regarded as one of the most weighty criticisms directed
against that popular work. He has since wrestled
with Matthew Arnold in the pages of the British and
Foreign Evangelical Re-view, and he is about to publish a
volume of critical essays dealing with the " counterfeit
evangels " of the day. This sort of work may not be
poetry, yet it demands much the same kind of insight,
and can only be done effectually by one who unites to
the student's knowledge of science a measure of the
poet's knowledge of Nature and of man.

THIS LIFE AND BEYOND.

I.

Afloat on the ocean of life we are caught, ere we know,
In the strong set of currents that silently, steadily flow.
Through zones of fair weather and sunshine, o'er crystalline seas
We are urged by the stream, hurried on by desire like a breeze;
No motion too swift for the ardour that burns in the breast,
No future too fair to behold in the mystical West.
Through sphere after sphere, in the bright dreams of hope, we

are borne
From the night with its calm to the new resurrection of morn.

n.
But we leave the smooth reaches ; and, sudden, the heart is

aware

Of powers elemental astir in the sea and the air ;
Andfthe ocean is furrowed by long-rolling billows that sweep
From the troubled horizon and lift us to heaven as they leap.
Then we hear the fierce call of the tempest, our spirits elate
On the edge of the strife and the imminent issues of fate.
In the crash of the thunder we stand up and face the vast storm;
We quail not, we dare ; — what we dare we have strength to

perform.

Blow win Is, blow your wildest, ye lightnings flame out overhead :
We yield not to you, we compel you to serve us instead.

R. A. WATSON. 09

"We fly with the gale orer miles, over leagues of the main ;

It is life to plunge on, to endure the tumultuous strain.

Yes, we live now at length, for the tempest, the foam-crested

wave,
The elements, mad in their riot, are serfs of the brave.

in.

But the ocean is broad ; and the chill winds that burst from the

pole
Numb the muscles and nerves, and more tense is the strain on

the soul.
We long now for morning ; we peer through the drift and the

haze
For some glimpse of the shore we shall reach at the end of the

days :

And we waken to thought ; cry aloud " la this life? Is our all
A voyage across the grim sea, underneath the dark pall
Of clouds that shake downward upon us their pitiless rain ?
We have hoped : is our hope a delusion, our labour in vain ?
How cruel the surge ! How it heaves, how it leaps evermore !
Is there never a moment of respite, — no harbour, no shore
Shall we drift thus along till some wave, in its vehement sweep,
Overwhelms our frail vessel, engulfs us at last in the deep?
Better death than a life of unrest in the face of despair.
Is there none that can save us, no power that responds to a prayer?

IV.

And we call upon God : O God, if Thou rulest above,

O God, if Thou stoopest to pity, or deiguest to love,

Behold us, Thy creatures, who wrestle with tyrannous force ;

One ray clear and steady vouchsafe that may show the right

course,

Or quell this mad tumult, or lift the close veil of the mist, '
And show us, remote, the great mountains, eternally kissed
By the sunshine that fades not, the far-away goal of our life.
We are weary with labour, we faint in the stress and the .strife.

v.

Falls a voice from on high : "For the creature no exit from change,

No haven of utier repose in the limitless range

Ever opens its portal. Behold ! The Creator alone,

At whose presence the mountains flow down, sits unmoved on a

throne

That i« centred in fathomless calm. All around and below
The tides of existence obey Him, in ebb and in flow.
Ye are men, not as God. Through the cycles of death and of

birth
Immortal ye move where the currents of being go forth.

100 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Fear not the dark waters ; your travail and anguish He tells
Who holds in His grasp the great ocean, the storm when it swells.
Behind and before He besets yon, above and beneath
His might everlasting enfolds you in life and in death."

'Tis the voice of a dream : for, close on the ultimate bound
Of endurance, we see but the tumult, the darkness profound.
Our strength is departed. What hope for the weary and old
But to sink into slumber? Onr years are a tale that is told.
From the calm of the blessed our life is dissevered for aye.
We will rest ; we will die — give the conquering ocean his prey.

Yet behold ! O'er the billows of change, in the face of the storm,
What shape is advancing majestic, what luminous form ?
What hand is outstretched to the tempest in royal command
Th»t it pauses ami droops? At the helm who has taken his stand
To pilot our vessel ? In mute adoration we gaze ;
For we know Him, the Son of the Highest, the Ancient of Days,
And He speaks :— " O my brothers, fear not ; lo ! I live who was

dead.

To the highways of being ye move it) the changes ye dread.
I guide you through death ; and, beyond, immortality lies
Where the sunshine of God kindles dawn in His infinite skies.
Behold, ye advance where the waves of a measureless deep
Shall lift you to rapture, shall bear you along in their sweep,
Where new constellations that flame in the bosom of night,
New snns in expanding horizons shall give to your sight,
In mystic procession, the splendours of God as they move
Through the orbits of law, in the vast revolutions of love."

VOICES OF THE TOWN.

Forth from the gloom of the city I wandered till o'er me
Spread the blue sky untainted at length, and before me,
Down the resounding hollow cumbered and shrouded,
Chimneys, and roofs, and house-rows maaily crowded.

Many a theme of reflection and reason of wonder
Lurked in that scene ; and I bethought me how, under
Those dark banners of smoke for ever uncoiling,
Masterful Want kept all the multitude toiling.

Men and women with eager hearts and affections,
Ceaselessly moving among their life recollections,
Gifted each with a soul of heavenly creation,
Godward reaching with blind or brave aspiration.

R. A. WATSOX. 101

Rank upon rank, amid the whirling and flashing,

Pinions and lever* and shafts, that with thunderous crashing

Move from morn to night with speed unabated,

Erer exacting toil and ever unsated.

There are they spending the hours and years of existence,
And while the engines they tend, with iron persistence
Cease not from going, they, one by one, from their places
Silently pass, and forgotten soon are their faces.

Darkly enough the doom upon them is lying,

Swiftly enough the lives of the toilers are flying ;

Oh, will ye not have pity, ye men of invention ?

Racked are their sinews and brains, and ye add to the tension.

Whereunto tends this ever-increasing commotion,
Tossing of human lives like waves of the ocean ?
When shall we cease to disquiet ourselves and each other —
Man by his craftiest science but vexing his brother ?

So as I mused there deepened the shade of misgiving,
Grief for the dead, forebodings dark for the living ;
And with my soul oppressed by comfortless pity
Homeward slowly I held my way through the city.

But, as I went, the songs of the children light-hearted
Fell on my ear and much of my sadness departed —
Joy will survive, for childhood ever rejoices ;
Loud in the dingiest lane is the mirth of young voices.

Burdensome children, who lighten the burden of labour,
Shout at your play and dance to the pipe and the tabor !
Strange to our carefulness freedom like yours, but we borrow
Hope from your gladness and strength for the toil of to-morrow.

THE NEW YEAR.

Soft in the silence of the night

That was not stirred by his calm flight

There came an angel :
The Old Year fell asleep, the New
Awoke to hear where'er he flew

His sweet evangel.

He whispered to the dreaming child,
Who in his happy slumber smiled :

The sailor steering
Beneath the quiet midnight sky
Looked up to heaven with glistening eye

That angel hearing.

102 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

It was of Grace his message told,
And Hope divine that grows not old,

Nor faints nor falters.
" Behold," he said, " The fire of love
From year to year burns bright above

On heavenly altars.

" One feeds the flame, your Brother dear,
Who knows the bitterness of fear,

The sting of sorrow :
All that is wrong he will set right,
And there shall dawn on every night

A holier morrow.

" Another year begins. Arise !
The sunward slope before you lies,

The radiant portal,
Up, in the ardour of new faith !
Press onward through the clouds of death

To life immortal."

Thus did the Old become the New,
The glory broadened as he flew, —

God's holy angel.

And far and wide beneath his wing
The earth lifts up her voice to sing

The great evangel.

JOHN WALKER

•l^URNISHES a worthy example of what can be
JJ accomplished by indomitable perseverance under
the most discouraging and adverse circumstances. He
was born in Rothesay in 1857. While still a child,
his parents removed to Glasgow, where he received
his education, and where he still resides. During his
boyhood he had a strong desire to be an artist, but,
having no one to guide and encourage him in his
tastes, and being obliged very early to contribute to
the support of his widowed mother, he had to apply

JOHN WALKER. 103

himself to the readiest and most remunerative occupa-
tion within his reach. He is at present employed in
one of our large factories, and although under the
necessity of earning his livelihood by uncongenial toil,
he still continues to foster in his leisure hours his
natural love for artistic and literary pursuits. By
private study, and by attending evening classes he
obtained nearly all the certificates in drawing and
music that could possibly be reached by one who had
only small leisure to devote to such subjects, and whose
means were limited.

Although indulging secretly in verse-making, for
some time Mr Walker did not venture to submit any
of his attempts for publication, until coming in contact
with Mr Wm. Houstoun — the subject sketched on page
93 — who at that time edited a small parish maga-
zine. Mr Houstoun's warm appreciation of his com-
positions, his willing sympathy, and kindly encourage-
ment were to a large extent the means of drawing out
his latent poetical faculties. His poems show that he
possesses a considerable share of the " divine afflatus,"
and a warm sympathy with the finer feelings of
humanity. A keen and intelligent love of Nature is
disclosed in his poetry, while a well-regulated mind,
and a highly religious and moral character, like glints
of sunshine, are shown in all his writings. It might be
added that Mr Houstoun informs us that some of Mr
Walker's sketches in landscape and portrait-painting are
full of promise, and in a paper on our poet, entitled
" A New Singer," he says — " I have often seen him
spellbound at the sight of the setting sun, and many a
panegyric has rippled from his lips as it sank adown
the western horizon, tipping with opal tints the moun-
tain crests. The poems of Mr Walker are the offspring
of a lively fancy, aided by a taste which is at once
refined and true. They are consequently elevating
and instructive to all students who are fond of scenes

104 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

of Nature described in words of artistic finish. When
expounding scientific truth, he presents to the un-
initiated in that field of research pictures which he can
understand and appreciate ; and when his deft pen
sets to work on passages of history which appeal to
his genius as worthy of being embalmed in the
beautiful garb of poetry, he does so, always subordinat-
ing art to truth. Herein lies his power of stirring
the emotional part of our being to sympathy with
the past, and individuals who lived in those times.
He has not yet published his poems collectively, or in
book form, but it may be safely predicted that when
he does take a thought to become famous, he will find
his place amongst the foremost of our minor bards."

THE LAST HYMN.

Sing, mother, sing, I hear your voice although my eyes are dim,
Draw nearer to iuy bedside now, and sing that dear old hymn ;
For now with precious truth it seems so wonderfully stored,
And hope dwells on that sweet refrain, " For ever with the Lord."

Sing, mother, sing, it won't be long that you can sing to me,
For soon to every earthly sound my ears will closed be ;
Yet in this feeble body pent I would not longer roam ;
I'm weary now, and love to think I'm drawing " nearer home."

Sing, mother, sing, " My Father's house," blest home, 'tis very

near,

Soon shall its songs of welcome burst on my enraptured ear ;
Soon shall those dim and weary eyes, 'mid purer light restored,
Rest on anfading glories there, " For ever with the Lord."

Sing, mother, sing, you're weeping now, your voice it falters so,
O mingle not that blessed strain with sounds of earthly woe ;
Think on my weary sojourn here, think on the rest to come,
And tune your voice to sing once more, " A day's march nearer
home."

Sing, mother, sing, how faintly now your voice falls on my ear,
Earth's sights and sounds are fading fast, Jordan is drawing

near ;

Yet here my Father will fulfil the promise of His word,
And oh, my spirit longs to be " For ever with the Lord."

JOHN WALKER. 105

Sing, mother, sing, my moving tent is pitched to move no more,
The sun has set, the day is done, the weary march is o'er ;
Encamped on Jordan's lonely brink until the Master come,
Faith with increasing rapture sings, " A day's march nearer
home."

Oh mother, are you singing still, I cannot hear you now,
Draw near and place your gentle hand upon my fevered brow,
'Twill let me know that you are near, and comfort sweet afford,
Until I pass the flood and be " For ever with the Lord."

Look, mother, look, it is the Lord, He beckons me away :
I hear His voice, He calls on me, I cannot longer stay ;
He's near me now, and in my ear He whispers softly, Come,
O kiss me, mother, darling now, Good night, I'm going home.

WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN.

What opportunities lie lost

Along the track of byegone years,
How much life's misspent hours have cost —

When calmly viewed their worth appears —
When from the past we turn to glean
The mem'ries of what might have been.

What might have been had we but trod
The path that seemed so thorny then ;

Our weary spirits feel their load
Afresh, when looking bapk again

Along life's retrospective scene,

Recalling all that might have been.

If we had only left unsaid
Those bitter words that wounded sore,

And uttered loving words instead,

They might have shed an influence o er

Some wasted lives now crushed between

What once they were, and might have been.

If we had only left undone

The evil we would fain undo,
Oh, had we but in time begun

The good we cannot now pursue ;
Along the years that intervene
How sad to view what might have been.

Had but our ears refused to hear
Those words that lured us from the way,

Had we but lent a listening ear
To counsel, in life's early day ;

106 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Tn every change our lives have seen
We still behold whatlmight have been.

What might have been, this vain regret
Still casts its dreary shadow o'er

Our brightest moments, but, while yet
An untrod future lies before,

May we not learn from life's past scene, '4

Of all that was and might have been.

In kindly words and earnest deeds,

'Midst joys and sorrows, hopes and fears,

To sow through life those precious seeds
That rise to gladden future years

With golden fruit 'mongst which is seen

No wreck of aught that might have have been.

THE FOOLISH VIRGINS.

Deep is their sleep ;

The world's ambition, the concerns of life,
Its vanities, its tumults, and its strife

Engage their dreams.

Soiled are their robes

With many an inwrought stain of crimson dye ;
Yet all unconscious of impurity,

Those virgins sleep.

Untrimmed their lamps ;
So feeble and so flickering their light,
They but reveal the blackness of the night

That reigns around.

They slumber on,

And one by one the flick'ring flames expire ;
Midnight approaches fast, now gloom entire

Enshrouds the night.

Sudden they start ;

What cry was that resounded through their dreams ?
What light is yon that 'mid the darkness gleams ?

The Bridegroom comes !

With frantic haste

Tli' affrighted maidens seize their lamps each one,
But ah ! the oil is spent, the light is gone,

And all is dark.

JOHN WALKER. 107

With joyful step,

And well-trimmed lamps aglow, the wise advance,
White are their robes, and in their eyes the glance

Of happiness.

Give of your oil,

In pleading tones the foolish maidens cry ;
We have each but enough, the wise reply,

With eager haste

Those anxious virgins hurry to and fro,
Seeking the needful oil, that long ago

They might have bought.

The Bridegroom comes,
In splendour bright, in at the open door,
The joyful guests in countless numbers pour ;

The feast begins.

With beating hearts
The foolish maidens re-appear at last ;
Their lamps burn brightly, but the hour is past,

The door is shut.

Loudly they knock !

Lord ! Lord ! they cry. Thy bidden guests are we,
We have been favoured and beloved by Thee,

Open the door.

Soft from within

The voice of mirth is heard in cheerful strains ;
Outside the night winds moan, the darkness reigns,

But no reply.

Loudly they call,

Lord ! Lord ! the night is dark and chill, without
Peril and gloom encircles us about ;

Open, we pray.

Stern is the voice

That once the invitation kindly prest ;
Addressing now each mute unwelcome guest,

Too late, depart !

Bright is the gleam

Upon their pale and anxious faces shed,
A glimpse of glory, but the words are said,

And all is gloom.

108 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Oh ! loud and long

The bitter cry of anguish and despair,
That echoes wildly through the midnight air

As they depart.

Hopeless and sad,

Amid the weird wild meanings of the night,
Forth from the gates of everlasting light,

For evermore.

THE TALE OF LIFE.

Flowers are springing, birds are singing,

Glad spring reigneth everywhere ;
Earth rejoices, merry voices

Fill with songs the morning air ;

Far away amid the shadows rolls a dark and swelling stream,
But unheard, its distant murmur breaks not in on childhood's

dream ;
For the earth is full of sunshine, childhood's heart is young and

gay.i
And this dark and rolling river seems so very far away.

Flowers are growing, sunlight glowing,

Hark ! 'tis noon's glad joyous chime ;

Youth with pleasure fills life's measure,

In the joyful summer time ;

While afar amid the shadows rolls this dark and swelling stream,
But its faint and distant murmur breaks not in on youth's fond

dream ;
For the world is full of pleasure, long and golden seems life's

day.
And this dark and rolling river still seems very fur away.

Flowers are dying, winds are sighing

Through the autumn-tinted vale,
Nature pining, day declining,

Pictures now life's swift told tale ;
Yonder, 'mid approaching shadows, rolls this dark and swelling

stream,
.Now distinct its solemn murmur — faded now youth's golden

dream ;

Still the world is full of pleasure, but the heart is not so gay,
For this dark and rolling river is not very far away.

Bleak and silent, winter's twilight

Deepens into midnight now ;
Now grown weary, earth seems dreary,

Care hath long bediinmed the brow ;

JOHN WALKER. 109

While alone amid the shadows by this dark and swelling stream,
Feeble age stands fondly musing o'er youth's long departed

dream ;
Distant sounds of mirth and gladness tell of hearts that still are

gay.

While death's dark and rolling river bears its burden far away.

ABIDE WITH US.

With weary and despondent hearts our journey we pursued,
We could but mourn earth's barrenness, and o'er life's sorrows

brood :
For dark, dark seemed the COM. ing night, and cheerless was the

day,

When as a friend in time of need we found Thee by the way.
Thy presence, like the bright sun-light, dispelled the gath'ring

gloom,

And gilded with sweet rays of hope the portals of the tomb ;
Thy message to our weary souls was precious every word,
And woke within our hearts the prayer, " Abide with us, oh

Lord."

For Thou didst ope our blinded eyes till truth with glory shone,
And Thou hast led us since in paths we never would have known ;
Recalling now communion sweet, how fervently we say —
" Did not our hearts within us burn when walking by the way ?"
How many stormy scenes we've passed in safety by Thy side,
How often would our feet have slipped had'st Thou not been our

guide ;

And now while twilight o'er us steals, Thy presence still afford,
Until the night is past, do Thou abide with us, oh Lord.

Oh tarry with us, Risen One, while softly fades the light,

And slowly o'er life's path descend the solemn shades of night ;

While earthly glory waxes dim around us day by day,

And one by one we miss the friends who cheered us by the way.

Still closer would we cling to Thee, our best our truest friend,

We know that Thou needst not depart, e'en when our life shall

end ;
But wading with us death's dark stream, what comfort 'twill

afford,
To grasp Thine arm of strength, and cry " Abide with us, oh

Lord."

110 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

SAMUEL REID.

nave ^on£ keen accustomed to find poetry in
the work of the artist. He, as well as the
poet, sees every bank and meadow, wooded glen and
solitary moor, beautiful with life and cheerful pro-
fusion. He also admires the inexhaustible abund-
ance of Nature in every tree, moss, fern, and flower.
A true artist can scarcely fail to be a poet. Painting
and Poesy are twin sisters ; and in this work we have
given not a few bright examples of distinguished
painters being sweet and tender poets, including Sir
Noel Paton, and others. The subject of the present
sketch is the youngest of a large family, and the third
of its members who has taken to art as a profession
— his brothers, Mr George Reid, R.S.A., and Mr Archi-
bald D. Reid, having long been known in the world of
art.

Samuel Reid was born in Aberdeen in 1854. His
father, who died in 1883, was for many years manager
of the Aberdeen Copper Company. Our poet received
his education at the Trades' School of his native city,
and afterwards at the Grammar School. From the fact
of his earliest years having been passed in an atmos-
phere of pictures and all art influences, and in the
society of art lovers and artists, it is little to be
wondered at that he very early showed a tendency to
follow in the same direction. At the age of twenty-
one, having already received a considerable amount of
instruction from his brothers, he began a course
of training at the school of the Royal Scottish
Academy, which lasted for the winter half of five con-
secutive years. During the autumn aud summer
months he roamed the country between Land's End
and John o' Groat's, sketching and making studies
and pictures. In 1881 he settled in Glasgow, to which

SAMtlEL RBID. Ill

town he has ever since returned for the winter months
of each year.

During his student days in Edinburgh, Mr Reid
contributed occasional verses to the "poet's corner"
of the local and Glasgow newspapers, either anony-
mously, or under initials. His first more ambitious
efforts were contributed to a small monthly magazine,
1 he Grey Friar, printed and published in Elgin, and
edited by one who has since distinguished himself
in the world of letters — Mr David J. Mackenzie, the
present Sheriff of Shetland. This magazine had a
brief but brilliant career of some eleven months' dura-
tion. In addition to several poetic pieces, he wrote
for this magazine a prose story, which, after being
re-produced in the Glasgow Weekly Citizen and
the Leeds Mercury, was translated into French, and
appeared in the pages of Le Courrier de V Europe.

In 1883 Mr Reid began his connection with Good
Words as one of its staff of artists. To this magazine
he has since continued to furnish illustrations, and to
write verses from time to time. Two prose tales
— one the outcome of a summer's sojourn in the dis-
trict of the " Norfolk Broads,'' the other written, and
the scene laid, in the neighbourhood of Torryburn,
Fifeshire — have appeared within the last two years in
the pages of the Glasgow Weekly Citizen. Of his
artistic work we do not require to speak here. It
has been referred to in high terms of praise by com-
petent critics. He has annually contributed charm-
ing landscapes to the principal art exhibitions in the
Kingdom. Many of the pictures of this variously gifted
artist are at once a tale, a poem, and a worik of art
— the three-fold fruit of his genius. Recently, the
Aberdeen Free Press, in noticing " At Twilight," —
the poem quoted below — said : " The pencil of our
gifted young townsman, Mr Samuel Reid, has been
employed to reproduce one of his charming Nor-

112 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

folk ' Broads ' pictures recently as a full frontispiece
illustration to the November number of Good Words.
The picture, which shows a lady standing at the top of
the steps that lead down to the boat on the placid,
lily-strewn water, is titled ' At Twilight,' and accom-
panying it in their fitting place are pensively
musical verses from Mr Reid's own pen." Mr Reid's
life, so far, has been rather that of an artist than of a
literary man — literature having formed merely a re-
laxation, or, as in the cases where his verses have
accompanied his book-illustrations, another channel
of expression for the same sentiment. We learn that,
finding his love for a country life more than counter-
balance the attractions of a town one, he is in future
to retire for the summer mouths to the old mansion-
house of West Grange, near Alloa, where he looks for-
ward to having more leisure, and a more congenial
atmosphere for the prosecution of literary and poetic
effort. From the specimens we submit of his Muse
from the pages of Good Words, it will be seen that our
artist is no "poacher on the preserves of Apollo;"
and from what we have seen of his prose and poetry,
we do not hesitate to predict for him as wide a
reputation in literature as he has already earned
in art. Mr Reid has written numerous fine poems,
abounding with delicacy of thought, calm beauty and
attractive grace. With strong earnestness he unites
philosophic subtlety and beautiful creative imagina-
tion, and all his poetry is characterised by the same
careful detail and pleasing fancy that form so great an
attraction in some of his best-known pictures.

THE MESSAGE OF THE SNOWDROP.
Courage and hope, true heart !

Summer is coming though late the spring
Over the breast of the quiet mould,
With an emerald shimmer — a glint of gold,
Till the leaves of the regal rose unfold

At the rush of the swallow's wing.

\

SAMUEL REID. 113

Courage and hope, true heart !

Summer is coming though spring be late :
Wishing is weary aud waiting long,
But sorrow's day hath an even-song,
And the garlands that never shall fade belong

To the soul that is strong to wait.

IN AN AUTUMN GARDEN.

In an autumn garden olden,

When the yellow leaves did fall —
Sunflowers flamed aud apples golden

Reddened on the gable wall,
One was pacing, grief -iuf olden.

Looked he at the ash tree sober,

As her leaves fell one by one,
" Leaf by leaf the winds unrobe her,

Thus and thus, my hopes have flown,
All my heart is like October."

" Never more when frosts have bitten,

Flows the sap within the leaf,
He whom cruel claws have smitten

Scarce again will come to grief,
Trusting still the velvet mitten."

" Love is dead, and Cupid's missiles

Now shall storm my breast in vain,
Through my heart a cold wind whistles

Where no flower can bloom again,
But a crop of weeds and thistles."

In an autumn garden olden

Thus the hapless lover sighed,
Cared not if the leaves were golden,

Cared not if the skies were wide,
lie so sad and grief-iufolden.

In the Spring, as I've been told,
Happiest youth and fondest maiden

Those same garden walls infold,
Spring with bud and blossom laden,

Brings a new love for the old.

IN THE FOREST.

The wind had gone with the day,
And the moon was iu the sky,

B

114 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

As I walked last night, by a lonely way,
To a lonely path in the forest grey,
That we loved, my love and I.

They said, "She had gone to her home

In a land that I did not know."
And the winds were still, and the woods were dumb,
But I knew that she could not choose but come

To a soul that loved her so.

I had longed for her return,

And she came and met me there,
And I felt once more the swift blood burn
Through my heart, as a foot-fall rustled the fern

And a whisper stirr'd the air.

And through where the moonlight streamed

She passed, and never a trace,
Yet sweet in the shadow the glad eyes gleamed,
And the shade more bright than the moonshine seemed

For the brightness of her face.

And T stretched my empty hands,

And I cried in my weary pain,
" Is there — away in the unknown lands,
A heaven, where Time reverts his sands

And the past returns again ?"

THE WATEfi- LILIES.

I muse alone, as the twilight falls
Over the grey old castle's walls,
Where a sleepy lake through the lazy hours
Crisply mirrors the time-worn towers ;
And scarce a whisper rustles the sedge,
Or a ripple lisps to the water's edge,
As far and wide, on the tideless stream,
The matted water-lilies dream.

I stood, in the quiet even-fall,

Where, in the ancient banquet-hall

Over the hearth, is a panel placed,

By some old Florentine chisel chased,

Showing a slender, graceful child,

In the flowing robes of a wood-nymph wild,

Bending over the wavy flood

As she stoops to gather a lily bud.

In words as quaint as the carving old,
An aged dame the story told,

SAMUEL REID. 115

How an Karl's daughter, }long ago,
A strange, pale child, with a brow of snow,
Had loved, and lost her life for the sake
Of the lilies that grew in her father's lake
Holding them ever her favourite flower ;
Till once, in the hush of a twilight hour,
Floating among them, out in the stream,
Where the passionless blossoms nod and dream,
They found her lying, white and dead,
" Like a sister lily," the old dame said.

And a sadness, born of the old-world tale,
Haunts me still, while the starlight pale
Gleams on the leaves, so green and wet,
Where the changeless lilies are floating yet,
And a message I fain would read aright,
Seems to lurk in each chalice white,
A secret, guarded fold on fold,
As it guards its own deep heart of gold,
And only told to the listening ear
Of him who humbly tries to hear.

Oh ! mystic blossom floating there,
Thing of the water, thing of the air,
We claim thee still, as we hold the dead,
Anchored to earth, by a golden thread.

AT TWILIGHT.

Since from the castle's belfry, old and grey,

I heard the chimes ring out a slow-spaced seven,

The flame-fringed west has burned its fires away.
The lake lies like a downward-curving heaven

All pulsing with the light of coming stars ;

And night and rest float downward, hand in hand,
As, merging at the sunset's saffron bars,

A dreaming heaven melts in a dreaming land

Spirit of peace ! outbreathed on mere and wold
Be with me when the niu'ht has passed away,

And swathe my restless heart, as, fold on fold,
Thy robes have gathered round the parting day

Till on my life's brief hours the twilight falleth
And far away I see the shadowy hands

That beckon me, and hear a voice that calleth
My faltering steps into the unknown lands.

116 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Softly, as yon last lingering flush uncertain
Faints on the bosom of the darkening weat,

So may my spirit pass the cloudy curtain
Into the portals of his perfect rest.

ALFRED WOOLNOTH

another artisi>poet. Although born at Torquay,
in Devonshire, his childhood, with the exception
of his first year, was spent mainly in Glasgow — every
summer season, however, from May to August, finding
him amongst the hills and dales of Scotland. He
is a son of Charles N. Woolnoth, S.W.P.C., a well-
known artist of the West of Scotland. From the age
of fourteen our poet studied drawing and painting
under his father, and it was also about this time that
he first began to rhyme a little. He subsequently, as
assistant to his father, and ultimately on his own
account, taught drawing in some of the principal
Glasgow schools. At the early age of seventeen years
he exhibited at the Glasgow Institute of the Fine Arts.
In 1870 he removed to Edinburgh, studied at the
Board of Manufacturers, and exhibited at the Royal
Scottish Academy. His picture entitled "Glencoe" was
sold for £50 on the opening day of the Royal Academy,
London, in 1872. Mr Woolnoth has since exhibited
in Edinburgh, and in the principal Scottish Exhibitions
in Dundee, Kilmarnock, and Elgin. For seven years
he acted very successfully as Drawing Master at
Stanley House, Bridge of Allan, but he has now given
up teaching, and hopes to remove to London in the
autumn of this (1887) year.

Mr Woolnoth has written numerous prose articles
for the Christian Leader, The Banffshire Reporter, and

ALFRED WOOLNOTH. 117

other magazines and newspapers. Many of his poetical
pieces have appeared in the Hamilton Advertiser, The
Bridge of Allan Gazette, Reporter, <fec. These, like
the productions of his brush, present pleasing pictures
of scenery, and richness of fancy. They are mostly
tender in feeling, and are frequently melodious in
sound, with an occasional blend of quiet humour and
touching pathos.

VIOLET.

Little pet, little flower, 'twine thine arms around me,
Let me gaze into your eyes so tender and so true ;

Little one, pretty one, with the Spring I fonnd thee,
Gathering the pink -edged daisies and the "speedwell " blue.

Violet ! sweetest name ! and when first I heard it,

How the sound brought back to view the treasures of the past ;

All the perfumes of the woods and distant hills endear it ;
As thy hair floats o'er my shoulder, and you hold me fast.

Little pet, little flower, four years old this morning,
Knowing of the clouds that shade this earthly scene ;

Dreaming not of sudden storms that come with scarce a warning,
In the brightest hours of life, when all things look serene.

Little pet, little flower, full of sunny laughter,

Flashing from those round blue eyes undimmed by grief or

care ;
Pleased with every simple joy, — gold roof or rustic rafter

May over-arch thy curly bead, yet each alike be fair.

Little pet, little flower, when my round of duty
Has been faithfully performed and leisure crowns the hours,

(Childhood needs no more than flowers the aids of borrowed

beauty)
To beguile ; thy simple smile revives my wearied powers.

Little pet, little flower, may no earthborn feelings
Ever lead thy heart to quit communion with the flowers ;

And may latest Sabbath evenings ever find thee kneeling
At some holy shrine of prayer as close the twilight hours.

UNDER THE SURFACE.

The stream, with every pebble seen, whose swiftly flowing tide
Invites the children's busy feet to wade the other side,

118 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

IB ever deeper than it looks, its currents stronger flow,
So the springs that govern life's swift wave are deeper than we
know.

The first hill-top so quickly won — discloses many more
Stretches of heath and fern and rock, all hidden heretofore,
Il->un<l each successive knoll and cairn, a wider breeze doth blow,
So the thoughts that rise in human hearts are broader than we
know.

I sought to move a garden tree forth from a bed of flowers,
I dug full deep, laid bare the roots, and toiled for many hours,
But sad the havoc that was made, the roots were tangled so.
Thus the clasp of faith twixt heart and heart is stronger than we
know.

The topmost willow bough had snapt, the gardener hewed it

down,
Fresh leaves have blossomed all around since we returned from

town,

Yet the tree has lost a certain grace it never more will show,
So the parting between kindred hearts is sadder than we know.

Yet love and tears, across the years, still throw their rainbow

bright,
For storms shall never fully chase hope's sunbeams from our

sight,

Though wounded oft by sin and strife— thank heaven this is so,
His love, who ruleth over all, is vaster than we know.

TO THE WOODS.

Come where the larches wave their feathery boughs,
And sunbeams glint athwart the tall fir-boles

In yonder forest ;
Life hath brief holidays, we need them all,

And one hath writ we take our pleasures sadly,
And yet the mutual chat of social friends
Pleasingly wiles away the summer day,

For then we drop life's burdens, and feel gladly.

And nature owns a thousand kindred tongues
To teach and preach the lessons of the hours,

As the shades lengthen ;
Lightsome her music, and its echoes long,

And dreamful with the hopes of each good morrow,
Things might be better than they are perhaps,
But then there would be less to muse upon,

And we might lose our pleasure with our sorrow.

ALFRED WOOLNOTH. 119

Oh, passing sweet to cast our cares aside,
A few short hours to let the fancy soar

Through moods prophetic,
To gather up our present with our past,

In one fair circle of enduring flowers,
To kill the straggling weeds that choke their life,
To waken harmony from out the strife,

Through scaffolding to view the rising towers.

Mark how yon stately venerable trees,
Stretching their lofty branches to the sky,

Bend to the breeze ;
With all our boasted wisdom we are babes ;

If even now the clouds are round us lifting,
Should we not train our thoughts in higher flights ?
To watch in quiet hours from calmer heights

Whither life's bark on time's rough sea is drifting.
Come, then, where larches wave their graceful boughs,
And sun-beams glint athwart the.tall fir-boles
In yonder forest.

DEES IDE— BRAEMAR TO BALMORAL.

Youth's early ardours quicken as I view

The fir-crowned summits of the misty North

Late in the season — autumn's mellow sun

Flushing the drooping birk with amber hues ;

Here in the valley runs the silver Dee,

And by its banks the watchful fisher strays,

Eager and earnest as he plies his line

Across the rippling current of its wave,

I raise my eyes abroad o'er crag and cairn,

And many a heath-crowned peak and grassy knoll,

Where fickle lights and shades perpetual play.

Now light, now dark, each tower and turret, grey,

Of lordly mansion rising through the trees

Courting our notice as we drive along,

Until at length the palace of our Queen

In snow-white beauty nestles in the dale.

Each tower and minaret in bold relief

Shows clear against the purple mountain's gloom,

The foreground trees ablaze with autumn gold.

Here let me rest awhile amidst the hills,

Each rising higher, crossed with wreaths of mist,

Till, towering over all, the lofty crest

Of Lochnagar rears his majestic form

In calm reserve, serenest height of all.

120 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

ALEXANDER STEWART.

E subject of the following sketch is one of the
living poets of Ayrshire. He was born in 1841
in the quiet little village of Galston, where John
Wright, an unfortunate yet most gifted son of
song, penned "The Retrospect;'' and where Hugh
Brown, in a low thatched house in the same
street, wrote " The Covenanters." The little
thatched tenement in which our poet was reared had
its old-fashioned garden reaching down to th,e Burn-
anne, a favourite stream round which his earliest
recollections are gathered, and whose fairy haunts —
not now, though then, unsung — have ever had to him
a peculiar charm. The beauty of the scenery around
the retired village is calculated to awaken the sym-
pathies of the poetic mind. North of the town, ram-
part-like, are "Loudoun's bonnie woods and braes,"
immortalised in song by the pen of Tannahill ; south-
east stretch the heather-dyed martyr moorlands ;
farther " ayont " the vale, the eye rests on Drumclog,
where liberty and truth keep vigil over the heroes of
the Covenant. Of the infantile days of Alex. Stewart
little need be said. Four years at Barr School partly
under the tutorship of Dr Taylor, now of New York,
supplied him with the mere rudiments of education.
Leaving school early, he was apprenticed to the art of
weaving, which trade, however, was never congenial to
his tastes. An inner consciousness perhaps told him
he was naturally fitted for something more elevated
than the drudgery of the loom, for his superior powers
thus early prompted him to nobler pursuits. For
long no opening presented itself, and his prospects
were dark and discouraging, illumined at intervals by
a flash of poetic fire which tended to brighten his
weary way in the drama of life. His first effusion

ALEXANDER STEWART. 121

given to the world was a short piece entitled " The
Soldier's Death." It was with misgivings that he for-
warded it to the Ardrossan Herald, but to his great
joy it was accepted, and appeared in the first issue.
Aglow with the poet's aspirations, he at this period —
between 1860-63 — contributed largely to the Kilmar-
nock Post, Scottish Banner, &c. Those early flights of
song, sleep, we regret to say, in the musty files of for-
gotten prints.

Bidding farewell to the loom, we follow Mr Stewart
to the Emerald Isle as a book-deliverer. There, in
lovely Erin, with his harp re-strung, he is to be
found singing its soul-inspiring melodies, and feeding
on the legendary lore of a superstitious peasantry.
Many of his best pieces were written in Ireland, and for
the Green Isle he has ever had a warm heart. We next
find him traversing the wilds of Cambria as a colpor-
teur, and in her mountain glens he found many pretty
flowers of poesy, and was soon acknowledged as one of
her sweetest songsters. His life, however, did not
then partake much of the nature of the placid stream
that flows cheerily along, experiencing nothing but
gentle ripplings. It sometimes progressed in calmness
and peace, but more often it partook of the perturba-
tion and dash of the mountain torrent. By and bye
calmer waters were entered on. City mission work at
last claimed him, and in Manchester, Glasgow, and, dur-
ing the last six years, in Birkenhead, he has been an
active worker in the cause of his Master. While
faithful to his trust, the poetic fire still burns within
him, and his latest contributions to a very interesting
weekly paper issued by Messrs M 'Donald & Sons, en-
titled the Galston Supplement, in which he has long
written under the nom-de-plume of " Galstonian," are
full of vigour, and in thought fresh as in
Spring's first flush. Mr Stewart has not as yet pub-
lished a selection of his numerous pieces in book form,

122 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

but we feel certain that when he consents to do so,
the volume will be greatly prized. His verses are
characterised by earnest, elevated feeling and true
poetic expression. Many of them are full of descrip-
tive brightness and quick apprehension of every-day
life surroundings, while several of his religious ballads
are not inferior to George Macdonald's exquisite
" Godly Ballants." They possess similar originality
and force, and are evidently the aspirations of a pure
and highly cultivated spiritual mind.

THE LORD'S MESSAGE TO THE KING.

The guidjking lay on his bed o' state,

An' a gey dune man was he,
Though he houpit still wi' the Lord's guidwill

That he michtna jist yet dee.

The coort physicians sheuk their helds,

But ne'er a word spak they,
Tho' they hovered aboot the sick man's room,

An' watched him while he lay.

In cam' the prophet o' the Lord,

Till he stood beside the hed,
Solemn an' slow, like a funeral <Hrge,

Were the waefu' words he said —

"Thus saith the Lord," the king leuk'd up,

An' wistfully held his breath,
" Get yer hoose in order, lose nae time,

For yer sickness 'ill end in death."

The messenger boo'd, then steppit oot,

As quait as a flake o' snaw,
The guid king lay for a moment stunned,

Then turned his face to the wa'.

" Has it come to this, oh Lord my God,

What hae I— what hae I dune ?
Keep min' hoo I've walked wi* a perfect heart,

Aye shunnin' the ways o' sin."

Thus he prayed, wi' his wan face to the wa',

While his sabbin' sheuk the bed,
Alas, for the prophet's unwelcome ca',

An the lorn words he had said.

ALEXANDER STEWART. 123

But wha's.this hurryin' back to the hoose,

Wi* a quicker, blyther gait ?
It's the man o' God, an' mak's his way

Ance mair to that bed o' state.

But his big black een hae a brichter leuk,

His voice has a cheerier ring,
As he hastily bends doun ower the bed,

An' speaks to the waukrife king.

" Guid news," an' the coortiers gather roun',

"Guid news, thus saith the Lord,
I hae heard thy prayer, I hae seen thy tears,

An' noo this is the word —

I'll set ye up on yer feet again,

An* mak' ye perfectly hale,
An' ye'll come an' pray in my haly hoose

On the third day withoot fail.

I'll bless yer friens, I'll conquer yer faes,

Sae e'en dry up yer tears,
An" I'll gie ye a further lease o' yer life

For ither fifteen years."

Hurrah ! hurrah ! there was joy that day,

'Cause the folk believed the word,
An' the guid king payed wi' a reemin' heart

Thank offerings to the Lord.

Oh friens an' neebors, tak' tent to this —

We're a' but tenants at will,
The message 'ill come to you some nicht,

An' yer hearts grow cauld an' still.

Redd up yer hooses, hae a' things straucht,
Be the guid Lord's bairns, I pray,

Then oh, the joy when he tak's ye hame
To his haly howff for aye.

I'M GETTIN' AULD AN'iCRANKEY.

The ither morn my heart played stoun,

As in the glass I keekit,
To see my heid, a' roun' an' roun',

Wi' silvery grey hairs streakit ;

124 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Wi' lines fast deep'nin' roun' my mooth,
An' jaw* a wee thocht lankey,

Thinks I— I m.inn confess the truth,
I'm gettin' auld an' crankey.

To ither signs I'm no jist blin', —

Through warnings 1 hae gotten, —
I'm mair inclined for roomy shuon,

I'm no sae fond o' trottin',
Nor jumpin dykes, nor speelin' heichts,

As souple as a Yankee, —
That's a' left noo for crouser wichts,

I'm gettin' auld an' crankey.

Gane are the thochtless pranks o' youth,

I'tfe turned extror'nar' sober,
For nonsense I maun e'en hae truth,

My June has grown October ;
For music I had ance a lug,

An' sung as sweet as Sankey,
Noo, croichlin' like a roopit speug,

I'm gettin' anld an' crankey.

The warm bluid disna gallop noo

Sae fast alang life's channels.
My vera claes hae changed their hue,

I've ta'en to wearin' flannels.
Me gang a twenty-five mile walk !

Ah no, my frien', I thank ye,
I'm jist as different's cheese frae chalk,

Sin' gettin' auld an' crankey.

Nae doot the worl's jist as bricht

As when I was a callan',
While starnies, warm \vi' kindly licht,

The heavens owerheid are fillin' ;
But then, the sun's aye wearin' wast,

An' oh, but Time grows swankey,
The lang twal'oor o' life is past,

I'm gettin' auld an' crankey.

Whist, (a sweet voice cam" in atween)

Man, what's the guid o1 whinin'?
The darkest gloamin'-cloud e'er seen

Had aye a siller linin' ;
Ye're hale an' weel, ye're naether wae,

Nor lang, nor lean, nor lankey,
Tho' twa-three hairs are growin' grey,

Don't think ye're auld an' crankey.

ALEXANDER STEWART.

THE SYRO-PHENICIAN WOMAN.

Ae day when oor Lord was far awa'

On the Syro-Phenician coast,
Huutin' for sheep that had wan'ered wide,

Seekin' to save the lost,

A woman, sair forfoughen wi* grief,

Wi' a dochter ill at hame,
Cam' rinnin' to seek the Maister's help,

Tho', a Gentile, she had nae claim.

An' she widna tak' Nay ! but cried an' cried :

" Oh Lord, hae mercy on me ! "
Till the selfish disciples said : " Sen' her awa',

She'll bother us, that ye'll see.''

Oh, cauld were the words the Maister spak',
As He passed on stern and douce :

" I am only come to look efter the sheep
Belangin' to Israel's boose ! "

Puir woman ! was this the kindly man

Wha never said No ! to ane,
Wha never refaised to help the puir,

Be they deaf, or dumb, or blin' ?

Was this the man wi' the lovin' heart,

Wi' the ready open ban',
For the waefu' an' the desolate,

For the sufferin* an' the fa'en ?

But she nearer cam', wi' a trnstfu' heart

Still lippenin' to be heard,
And her prayer was : " Lord hae mercy on me,

Tho* He answered her no' a word !

Then doon she fell at His haly feet —
Will the guid Lord spurn her there ! —

Wi' winnerfu' perseverance, still
" Lord help me " was her prayer.

" What ! " quo' the Lord, as He leukit doon,

" Nice thing it wad be indeed,
To tak' the laif that belangs to the bairns

An' gie't to the dougs instead I "

" Be it sae ! " quo' she, " ye hae spoken truth,

An' I thank ye for the word,
For e'en the dougn partake o' the crumbs

Whilk fa' frae their Maister'a board ! "

126 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Dumfoonered the Heevenly Maister stood,

Wi' the love-licht in His e'e —
" Oh woman, woman ! great is thy faith,

E'en sae be it unto thee,

" Gae hame in peace ! I hae heard yer prayer "—
An' His words fell saft an' sweet,

She gat the blessin' whare a' maun come
To be bless'd — at the Maister's feet.

She wrung a " Yea " frae the Saviour's " Nay " !

'Cause her confidence never failed,
An* noo she's enrolled 'mang the guid and true

Wha had power wi' God an' prevailed.

Oh, wear if u' hearts, wi' a burden sair !

Tak' courage frae this my sang,
To the Lord, wha lo'es ye in spite o' a',

In faith an' humility gang.

He'll maybe delay, but He'll no' deny,

He may hide His face for a wee,
He may keep ye chappin' a while at His door,

Jist to try yer sincerity ;

But oh ! the blessin's no' far awa',
An' ye'll thank Him yet, I can tell —

Ilk trial '11 prove but a link in the chain
To bind ye the mair to Hansel'.

BENJIE.

Losh, stan' back ! wha's yon that's coming
Up the Orchard Street pell ruell,

Bent on some extr'or'nar' business,
Talkin1 loodly to himsel' ?

Callans, dinna meddle Benjie,
Dinna tease the honest man ;

See boo grey hae grown his haffets,
Treat him kindly while ye can.

Smooth for him life's shady pathway ;

Gae him whiles a wab to beam,
Or a pock o' claith to carry, —

Bricht an' active he will seem.

Leukin' forrit to the coppers,
Or a canty cup o' tea, —

ALEXANDER STEWART. 127

Syne he'll blythely canter haraewards
Wi' a twinkle in his e'e.

J'uir auld Benjie, though thy cannel

Disna shine as bricht's the sun,
Tho' thy name an' fame may perish

When life's busy race is run,

Aiblins thou hast done thy duty,

In the kindly licht o' Heaven,
Guidness disna look for greatness

Whaur the talent wasna given.

Thus I hail thee honest Benjie,

As a brither an' a man !
Let us a' as Heaven has blessed us

Dae oor duty while we can.

AN EVERY DAY STORY.

" Forty lang years, man an' wife,
We hae leev'd in peace thegither ;

Whiles, nae dout, a word o' strife,
Still, content wi' ane anither.

" Forty years, man, hoo they've past,

Every ane the faster ileein ,
Bringin' life's fareweel at last —

For the doctor says he's cleein'.

" Yes, I fin't gae sair to pairt,
Mony a time my e'en get blearie

Wi' the big saut tears that start,
Thinkin' thochts that mak' me weary.

"Till I try to leuk abune,
Syne a glint o' licht comes shinin'

For I ken His will be done,
Shame it were to be repinin'.

" I hae born twal bairnies braw,

Ilka ane wi' joy receivin',
Weel an' welcome were they a' —

Ony deid ? I've jist twa leevin'.

" Only twa out o' the twal,
Dochters baith, a comfort to me

Ane's at service up the hill,
While the youngest's stoppin' wi' me, '

128 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

" And the ten ? " " Weel, they're awa',
Needless noo to greet aboot them,

Ood keus hoo I lo'ed them a',
Still, I've learned to leeve withoot them.

" Oh, my weans, jist far ower sweet
For this sinfu' worl' seemin',

Five jist trottin" on their feet,
Th' ither five maist men an' women.

" Grief writes wrinkles on the broo,
But it niaks the heart grow safter ;

What we dinna ken the noo,
'111 be a' made plain hereafter.

"Life's a sohule, an' we're but weans,
Sweer to learn, an' gae comstairie,

Unco keen to gang oorlanes,
E'en tho' starless grows the carie.

" Then the Maister brings the rod,

Sair an' bitterly it bites us,
But it brings us back to God,

Till we kiss the han' that smites us.

" Comin', John — He's geyan dune,
Got o' sicht he canna bide me ;

Weel, guid-day, for I maun rin,
God Himsel' reward an' guide ye.

THE MASTER AND THE FLOWERS,

One summer morn delightfully I strolled
Along the walks, and smooth enamelled sward,
Within a garden, gemmed with richest flowers,
The careful gardener, filled with honest pride,
Descanted on the variegated charms
Distinguishing his treasures. I remarked,
He spoke of them as if they were his own,
Meanwhile they were not, — his alone the charge
To plant, to water, to preserve from harm,
To nurse the opening bud, to trim the | lants,
With tenderest care, and ready thoughtful skill.
One peerless gem in the full flush of beauty
Especially he praised. How I admired
Its faultless symmetry ! No human pencil
Could limn its softened shades. It seemed a thing
Too beautiful for earth's dull atmosphere,
Born rather for the Arcadian groves of Heaven. ~

ROBERT MAUCHLINE. 12d

Long time I lingered, and the following day
I brought a kindred soul, to view the flower —
Alas, it was not there. Its place was vacant,
Gone, — I felt disappointed, — Gone, ami where? —
Calling the kind old gardener, I enquired —
Where is my queen of flowers ? —
" Yonder," he said,

Pointing to where the stately mansion rose
Half hidden 'mid the trees. Then he continued —
" Last night the master came into the garden
To see his flowers. Gazing with admiration,
He chose a few, the fairest, saying only —
'Take these into my lady's drawing room,
And this one too,' — then quietly walked away.

A picture this, I said, of human life,

So does the Heavenly Master come betimes

And walk among His flowers ; till, seeing some

Too fair and delicate to blossom here,

Too fragile for the wintry storms of Time,

They are transplanted from earth's thorny soil

To flourish in a more congenial clime.

Oh, ye who weep in silence for the forms
Of loved ones passed away. Voices now mute
Once full of sweetest music. Memories
That linger round the heart and shed sweet fragrance,
Like scented blossoms in the dewy eve, —
Look up ! They are not dead ! Call it not Death
When the frail, cherished flowers of earth are taken
To grace the palace of the King above,
To blooiD for evermore in Paradise.

ROBERT MAUCHLINE.

*|OOBERT MAUCHLINE was born at Edinburgh in

ll\ 1846. Possessing a most retentive memory, he

made, when still very young, rapid progress at school,

under Mr Hutton, Nicolson Square Academy, and

afterwards in the practising school connected with the

Free Church Training College, where he was con-

I

130 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

sidered a very promising pupil. Here he attracted
the notice, and secured the valued friendship of the
late Rev. W. Tasker, minister of Dr Chalmers' Terri-
torial Church, Edinburgh, at whose suggestion he
became a pupil teacher in the school connected with
the church. On the completion of his apprenticeship
he entered the Free Church Normal College, where,
for two years, he pursued his studies, giving particular
attention to history, his favourite subject, of
which extensive reading and a powerful memory
enabled him to store up a great amount of information.
During his college career Mr Mauchline contributed to
a magazine conducted by the students an exhaustive
article on "Clive and the Conquest of Bengal," and a
metrical romance entitled " Shireen," dealing with the
Mohammedan conquest of Persia in the seventh cen-
tury, which was most favourably commented on by
the authorities of the College as displaying, apart from
its poetical merit, an extensive knowledge of Oriental
history, customs, and legendary lore. Mr Mauchline
also wrote and set to music a number of songs for the
infant department of the practising school.

Leaving College, Mr Mauchline was engaged for
upwards of two years in the North of England. He
returned to his native city in 1870, and in 1874 was
appointed assistant in the Parish School, Carluke,
where he had considerable experience in literary work
as reporter and correspondent to the Clydesdale News.
To this newspaper he also contributed numerous poeti-
cal pieces, and a series of military sketches entitled
" Reminiscences of ' Ours,' " bearing chiefly on the ex-
ploits of the 78th Highlanders in Persia, and during
the Indian Revolt. These sketches were brought
under the notice of General Lock hart of Cambusnethan,
who served with the 78th during the period referred
to, and who testified to the correctness of the narra-
tive. In 1877 Mr Mauchline was appointed to the

ROBERT MAUCHLINE. 131

head mastership of one of George Heriot's Hospital
Schools, Edinburgh, an appointment which he still
holds.

From his earliest years Mr Mauchline has been an
enthusiastic musician, and an indefatigable student of
military history, particularly of all matters regarding
the history, traditions, and organisation of the British
army. In his native city he is known as an authority
on both subjects. This passion appears in his poems,
many of which refer to military life in language full
of patriotic fervour, true martial ring, and deep pathos.
Tenderness, dignity, and grace are also characteristics
of his Muse, although his more homely pieces are
natural and unrestrained, and full of simple and pleas-
ing fancy.

THE DYING SOLDIER.

Bright rose the silver orb of night o'er Forbach'a corpse-strewn

field:

The gleaming sabre was at rest — no more the cannon pealed t
A bronzed Zouave lay bleeding 'mid the festival of death,
Murmuring low and wearily with fast-expiring breath.
Stained with the oozing life-blood were the medals once so bright,
Gained at the deadly bayonet's point in many a hard-won fight ;
His glazing eyes beheld not now the carnage of that day,
His gaping wounds he heeded not — his thoughts were far away.
"I see, as in a fleeting dream,'' the dying soldier said,
"The humble cottage by the Loire, where a« a child I played ;
There, in the little vine-clad porch, my aged mother sits,
Singing the lays of by-gone days, as busily she knits ;
And loved Hel^ne, whose deep dark eyes upon me cast a spell,
In those my happy boyish days, Helene I loved so well,
I see her now, as once we stood, beside her mother's grave,
When to the ardent conscript lad her plighted troth she gave ;
But now they're sleeping side by side in the little lone church-
yard

At home in lovely sunny France, with angels for their guard;
I see the heights of Inkermann, where, on that glorious day,
Thick on the sward the bearskins of the British Guardsmen lay ;
I see the plains of Italy, where, in the bright blue sky,
The Imperial Eagle spread his wings, and soared to victory !
I think of Solferino, when, resistless our advance,
The white-clad Austrian^ tied in rout before the sons of France !

132 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

It seem'd as though the shade of Lodi's Conqueror hovered there,
As the thrilling shout ' Vive 1' Empereur ! ' rang in the summer

air !

Fled are these glories now ! no more I hear that battle-cry,
The star of France hath fallen ; oh. 'tis hard like this to die :
The nnce proud eagle's pinion' droops — the tricolour is rent —
I would not see it thus — I die for France — I am content !
Farewell, my native land ! Helene ! ma mere, I come ! " he

cried,
And, with a smile upon his lips, the gallant soldier died.

THE WITCH'S STANE.'

A LEGEND OF DORNOCH.

Mark yonder wild spot where the grey mossy cairn
Its gloomy shade casts on the black sullen tarn,
Where the flow'rets are withered, and blasted the heath,
And Nature is wrapped in the silence of death.
"Tid a spot to be shunned ; e'en the bold mountaineer
Shrinks back from its shadow with awe and with fear,
And nought but the hemlock and deadly wolfsbane
Grows rank by the cairn of the grey Witch's Stane.

See yon pale, wan creature, by misery bowed,
Dragged forth to her doom by the murderous crowd,
With wild maniac gaze on the throng she looks round,
As her poor shrinking form to the dread stake is bound ;
The faggots are gathered, the stake towers high,
And fierce roar the flames as they leap to the sky,
While her cries rise on high in a sad plaintive strain,
Where now towers the silent and grey Witch's Stane.

"Farewell, glorious sun ! thou bright lord of the morn,

Farewell to the land where my fathers were born ;

To mountain and valley a long, long farewell,

To bright wimpling streamlet and sweet mossy dell,

Farewell to the glen where, a maiden, I roved

With Ronald the gallant, the winsome and loved ;

He fell with the noble Dundee 'mid the slain,

But his spirit looks down on the grey Witch:a Stane."

" Ay, pile up the faggot, and fan the bright blaze,

Ay, demons of fury, rejoice as ye gaze,

Let my poor smouldering ashes to fierce winds be given,

But the deed shall be seen and recorded in heaven.

The heath shall be withered, the grass still ungrown,

Where this poor heart of mine shall be quivering thrown,

* Said to mark the spot where the last witch wns burned in Scotland,
iu 1722.

ROBERT MAUCHLINE. 133

And the ban of your victim for ever remain

On th' unhaUowed spot marked by the grey Witch's Stane."

But high rose the tumult, and loud the fierce hum,
With shrill sound of pipe and of hoarse rolling drum
That drowned her low wails, while the red embers plowed,
And her ashes by wild blasts were scattered and strewed.
And oft 'mid the storm and the lightning's blue sheen
The spirit of poor hapless Elsie is seen ;
And there desolation for ever doth reign,
Nor breezes of spring kiss the grey Witch's Stane.

THE GRENADIER OF TENGINSKI.
(A Tradition of the Russian Army of the Caucasus.}

The eagle standard of the Czar waved vauntingly on high
O'er Michailoff's grey bastions 'gainst the red Circassian sky ;
Behind the hills of Dasrhestan the sunset shed its glow,
And on the walls the sentries paced with measured tread and

slow.

And as the murky pall of night descended drear and dark,
The wearied soldiers sink to rest in tranquil sleep. But hark !
See now the watchful sentinel pause on his tedious round,
He peers into the darkness— for he hears the well-known sound
Of an armed host advancing ! his warning musket calls
The sleeping garrison to arms ; they crowd upon the walls ;
And hoarsely in the midnight air resounds the rolling drum,
Answering with defiant note the tierce and angry hum
Of that invading horde, whose eyes gleam with fanatic light,
Schamyl, their prophet, priest aud king, now leads them to the

fight!
Forth peals the deadly volley, shrieks and groans resound on

high,
But on like ravening wolves they rush, and " Tcherkesse !" is

the cry,

They clamber o'er the gory walls ; the Muscovite is brave,
But cannot stem the human tide that, like a mighty wave,
O'erwhelms him now on every side. What means that wail of

woe?
The flag of Holy Russia in the dust is trampled low !

A soldier good was Carlovitch, and 'mid the carnage dire

He seemed to bear a charmed life. His dark eyes shone with

tire,

And fire, too, burned within his heart, for well he knew the post
The Czar had trusted hiii. to hold was to the Empire lost ;
The loss of honour and of fame survive he never woald,
But on those walls his trust fulfil by th' offering of his blood.

134 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

To him now came a Grenadier, one of the valiant few,
Who still maintained a solid front against that yelling crew,
His face was pale and haggard, and determined was his mien,
"Haste, haste,'' he cried, "we'll foil them yet— come to the

magazine ; "
Away he rushed with headlong speed to the dark bomb-proof

cell,

His leader following, " List," said he, " to what I hare to tell —
This night, and just before they came, I paced my weary round
On yonder eastern tower when lo ! the soft melodious sound
Of sweet celestial harmony my drooping spirits cheered,
And our holy patron Sergius to my wondering eyes appeared,
He said that I this very night a glorious death should die,
In Russia's holy cause, and to her arms give victory.
He showed me in a vision, too, a vision bright and fair,
My darling wife — my Olga — Olga with the flaxen hair,
And Ivan, with his laughing eyes, my little cherub boy,
He too was there, and clapped his chubby hands with childish

joy.

Grieve not for them, St Sergius said, for they shall be my care,
But for thy glorious martyrdom with trusting heart prepare."
I heard the words with awe and joy, standing with low-bow'd

head,

And when I dared to raise my eyes the sainted form had fled.
Oh, do not scorn the warning now ! but, ere it be too late,
Retreat — lead forth our comrades by the secret postern-gate ;
And when the last has cleared the fort, shrill let the bugles

sound,
And the Tcherkesse horde shall find a tomb upon this blood

stained ground,

The stern commander spoke not, but in haste he turned away,
And clearly rang the bugle's note amid the deadly fray ;
As if by charm of magic art the soldiers disappear,
And the wild mountaineers rush in with an exulting cheer.
Again is heard the trumpet's note, then a terrific shock,
Hurling the massive pile in air, rending the solid rock.
A flash — a peal like thunder— then the silence of the tomb,
For there the Tcherkesse lay engulfed in ruin, death and gloom !

Forty years and more have passed since that dark night of blood,
And Russia's countless hosts on many a battlefield have stood ;
But the Cossack and the soldier of Tenginski still revere
The name of gallant Ozepotf, and his memory hold dear,
And on the muster roll his honoured name they still retain,
Although, alas ! he ne'er will answer to the call again ;
But a comrade answers for him, in a tone of honest pride,
" For the glory of his country at Fort Michailoff he died."

The episode described in the above lines occurred in 1840, when Fort
Micbailoff, in the Caucasus, was captured from the Russians by the

JOHN MOONEY. 135

Circassians, under the heroic Schamyl. The story of Ozepoff's devotion
la most graphically treated by Mr James Grant in one of hia popular
novels. The Tenginski Regiment, which consists of Grenadier infantry,
Hussars, and a force of artillery, is numbered as the 37th.

JOHN MOONEY,

HUTHOR of a small volume entitled " Songs of
the Norse, and other Poems " (Kirkwall : J.
Calder, 1883) was born at Kirkwall in 1862. His
father and grandfather were travelling dealers,
and natives of Banffshire, while his mother,
whose maiden name is Betsy Burgess, is a native of
Kirkwall. We learn that though in stature John is
diminutive — being not more than four feet five inches
in height — he has a well-formed head, indicating to
the physiognomist high mental compass and keen
penetration. Brought up by his paternal grand-
parents, to whom he has been much indebted, he was
sent to the Glaitness School in his native town,
where he received a fairly good English education,
which he has greatly improved by his own private
study. Indeed, there are few with his limited advantages
whose minds are so well stored with information drawn
from all departments of literature. The Rev. David
Webster, of the U.P. Church, Kirkwall, who knows
him intimately, and to whom we are indebted for
these facts, also informs us that for many years our
poet has been a leading member of one of the local
literary societies, and that the occasional papers
prepared by him are, in point of excellence, consider-
ably above the average of essays read at such meet-
ings.

After leaving school, Mr Mooney obtained a situation

136 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

as clerk to a mercantile firm in Kirkwall, which he
held with much credit for several years. The work
was not, however, to his mind, and being offered the
post of reporter for a local newspaper he accepted it,
and did the \\ork admirably, contributing frequent
poetical pieces and prose sketches which were much
appreciated by a wide circle of readers. On the
paper being discontinued, Mr Mooney was thrown
out of a situation. He is now managing clerk in an
extensive warehouse, and is still a diligent student in
his spare time. A number of his poems and songs
have appeared in the People's Friend, the Orkney
herald, and the Orcadian. The volume already re-
ferred to, published in 1883, enjoyed a wide circula-
tion. Its contents show on the part of the poet a
passionate love of Nature, warm sympathy with, and
quiet appreciation of the many faint whisperings that
pervade all creation. Although his poetry is distin-
guished rather by warmth and colour than by metrical
accuracy, the sights and sounds around him are vividly
brought before us, tenderly dwelt on, and lovingly de-
picted, all showing that the coy Muse is not con-
fined to any class or rank, but finds its congenial home
with the man whose soul is great enough to rise above
sordid environments.

THE BURNIE ON THE HILL.

Rippling, lisping, trickling,
t. Gently at its will,
Flows the little burnie

Doon the heath'ry hill ;
And its crystal water

At sweet noontide gleams,
As from heaven's regions

Fall the golden beams ;
An' the little pebbles,

In the streamlet's bed,
Gaze, like brilliant diamonds,

At the sun o'erhead.

JOHN MOONEY. 137

How our thoughts do wander,

Wander at their will,
As we watch the burnie

Gliding doon the hill ;
Wander o'er the meadows

To some honnie vale,
Where, in days o' sunshine,

Swept mirth's balmy gale ;
An' to distant countries

Where our friends hare gone ;
An' far fr«m the present,

Into scenes unknown.

Sweetly sings the linnet

Near its little nest,
While amang the heather

I lie doon to rest,
Gazing at the streamlet,

Beautiful and bright.
Till my beating bosom

Swells with mild delight ;
An' my he'rt sae joyous

Feeleth many a thrill,
As I hear the burnie

Trickling doon the hill.

In the dusk o' evening,

When the sun's at rest,
Up alang the burnie,

Wi' a beating breast,
Wander I fn' lightly,

An' the heather sways
As the gentle breezes

Sweep alang the braes ;
An' I hear the music

Soft an' pleasant still,
As the burnie gurgles

Doon the silent hill.

Oh, I love the burnie,

Smile to see it flow,
Gentle thro' the heather,

To the vale below ;
How I wish, when list'ning

As the liepings blend,
That low, peaceful whisper

But to comprehend ;
But my beating bosom

Feels a joyful thrill
When I hear the burnie

Trickling doon the hill.

138 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

WHISPERS FROM AFAR.
Breezes sweeping, breezes sighing,

Ever o'er this changing earth,
Over lands of dark misfortune,

Over shores of love and mirth,
Can ye whisper as ye pass me,

Whisper softly in my ear,
Of my friends in distant countries,

Who are to my bosom dear?

Balmy breezes blowing softly

O'er the ocean calm and bright,
When ye come with summer's sunshine,

Fill my bosom with delight ;
For ye surely bring some message

Which was meant for me to hear —
Loving whispers sweet and thrilling,

From the friends who still are dear.

If ye saw them roving, dreaming,

'Mong the fields with flow'rets strewn,
Knew ye whether, since they wandered,

They have sad or weary grown ?
When ye passed them were they sighing

Low, but so that ye might hear,
That ye might convey the meaning

To the friends who still are dear ?

Yes, I know it is a token

That their lives are free from care,
When ye come in gentle whispers,

Slowly through the summer air ;
For if all their mirth had vanished,

And they lay oppressed by woe,
Ye would never sigh so softly,

Nor so gaily dare to blow.

Oh then, gentle, balmy breezes,

From the land where loved ones dwell,
Ye that carry loving whispers,

Ever floating doubts dispel ;
Ever whisper as ye pass me,

Whisper softly in my ear,
Of my friends in distant countries,

Who are to my bosom dear.

FLEECY CLOUDS.
Bonnie fields o' fleecy clouds,
O'er me gently sailing,

WILLIAM STEWART. 139

On you, in the summer sky,

All my thoughts are dwelling ;
An' whene'er 1 lie alone,

'MonRst the blooming flowers,
Oft I think I with you sail

In these golden hours.

Bonnie floating fleecy clouds,

Wi' the heavens bending,
Softly, mildly, to my heart,

Thrills o' love you're sending ;
An' the azure vault is bright,

Filled wi' radiant visions,
Which so tenderly you fan,

On your peaceful missions.

When I watch you, bonnie clouds,

Through the sunshine trailing,
Far away, to distant frien's

A' my thoughts go Bailing ;
And I only lie and gaze,

Moody, longing, dreaming,
As the rays o' light an' love

On the earth are beaming.

Still ye bonnie, fleecy clouds,

While ye glide at leisure,
O'er the lav'rock's joyfu' notes,

'Gainst the lovely azure,
Fill my breast wi' happy thoughts,

Cheer the hours so weary,
Banish a' the gloom that mak'

Earth an' mortals dreary.

WILLIAM STEWART

AS born in 1867 at Waterside, near Lochlee, the
mountain-girded waters of which ripple close
to the grave of Alexander Ross, the author of the de-
lightful pastoral poem of " Helenore, or the Fortunate
Shepherdess," and the songs " The Rock and the Wee

140 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Pickle Tow " and " Woo'd an' Married an' a','' — songs
admired wherever the Scottish tongue is spoken, and re-
markable for their natural humour, force of language,
and the striking pictures they convey of the manners
and customs of a past age. At the south-west corner of
this Forfarshire loch, too, is the old farmhouse of
Inchgrundle, which, for more than twenty years,
formed the autumn home and Highland resting-place
of the late Dr Guthrie. Amid the solemn grandeur of
the grey hills the author of the following verses has
spent his childhood and youth. He has seldom been a
day absent from the sight of the heather braes, the
sparkling streamlets, and hoary crags of Glenesk. He
has not learned any trade, but has "just remained at
home, helping with the farm work, or anything that
comes in the way." During the summer and autumn
months " The Glen " is visited by crowds of tourists,
and many families then make it their abode for two or
three months. This gives employment for a number
of the young men, and our poet has been in the service
of Mr C. J. Guthrie, advocate, Edinburgh, who, like
his distinguished father, already referred to, loves to
spend some time in Glenesk every year. He received
what is termed a fair education at Tarfside School, but
being of a studious turn, he has since employed much
of his time in reading instructive works and otherwise
storing his mind with useful knowledge. Mr Stewart
occasionally contributes prose and verse to the news-
papers, and, as might be expected from his beautiful
and picturesque surroundings, his Muse is of a reflec-
tive nature.

EVENTIDE.

Like sunlight softly fading

At close of summer day,
Like river ceaseless ringing

Across its pebbly way ;
Like the ship that's homeward sailing'

On silver crested foam,

WILLIAM STEWART. 141

My soul is drawing nearer,
Nearer to its home.

Like summer beauty dying,

Its fragrant sweetness fled ;
Like evening shadows falling

O'er fairest field and glade,
Like Christian pressing onward

Along the heavenly road,
My soul is drawing nearer,

Nearer to its God.

Like wreckage swiftly drifting

Towards some peaceful shore,
Like ship the haven nearing,

Its perilous journey o'er ;
Like sun in beauty sinking

Behind the mountain's crest,
My soul is drawing nearer,

Nearer to its rest.

THE QUEEN 0' THEM A'.

I'll sing to the praise o' my lassie,
Tho' a' the wide warld say na,

Tho' a' the young lasses look saucy
I'll crown her the queen o' them a'.

Sae winsome, sae gentle, an' lovin',

She scarce has a failin' ava,
An' a' the lads for her are sighin*.

Because she's the queen' o' them a'.

Her sweet voice, sae gladsome an' cheery,
Will chase a' life's shadows awa' ;

The future could never look dreary
If shared by the queen o' them a'.

O' swift the brief moments are fleetin',
An' waft the nicht's shadows doonfa",

That bring roond the hour o' my meetin'
Alaue wi' the queen o' them a'.

Her sweet smile, sae winnin', sae lovin',
There's nane can resist it avj*',

It sets a' their fancies a-rovin' —
A smile frae the queen o' them a'.

Some carena for naething but money,
Their motto is gold abune a',

142 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

To me she is dearer than ony,

She's winsome, the queeu o' them a".

WILLIAM R. LYALL.

E subject of our present sketch having, in a
sense, been a student during the greater part
of his days, his life has been an uneventful one. Mr
Lyall was bom at Calcutta in 1831. His father,
James Napier Lyall, was a Scotchman, and had in his
youth been a midshipman. His ship having unfor-
tunately been captured by the French, he was kept a
prisoner on parole at Verdun for eight long and weary
years. In his journal he mentions that Napoleon was
much liked by his British prison ers-of- war. He was
afterwards a stock-broker in the Exchange at Calcutta,
where he amassed a considerable fortune. While on
his way home, with his two children — our poet,
then four years of age, and a brother — he died on
board ship, strange to say, off Verdun, where he had
so long been a prisoner. The voyage was made in a
sailing vessel, and the weather being stormy, it was
six months before the children arrived in this country.
Mr Lyall received his education, first at the Mon-
trose Academy, and afterwards at the Universities of
Edinburgh and St Andrews. While in Edinburgh he
gained two first prizes — one for Greek at Professor
Dunbar's classes, and one for elocution at Professor
Aytoun's. He lived in Montrose till 1865, when he
purchased Bellevue House, Auchtermuchty, where he
and his family have ever since resided. Mr Lyall has
long been, and is still an occasional contributor of both
prose and verse to several newspapers and magazines.

W. R. LYALL. 143

A cultured taste .is shown in the descriptive portions
of his verse, and while he sings cheerfully and melodi-
ously of home and the domestic affections, there is
ever prominently manifested an honest and fearless
appreciation of the truly noble in man.

OH, WE'LL NE'ER SEE OUR PRINCE AT BALMORAL
AGAIN.

The cauld winds o' winter sough dowie and wae,
There is dool i" the ha', i' the glen, on the brae,
The clansmen are silent frae ghillie to chief,
An' the women and bairnies are loud i' their grief ;
Dee's waters croon sadly o' sorrow and care,
Like the murmur o' ane in a dream o' despair,
The grey rocks and white hills resound the refrain —
" Oh, we'll ne'er see our Prince at Balmoral again."

Will his kilt, pouch, and plaid, his glengarry and feather

Never mair shine and dance i' the muir 'mang the heather?

Will he ne'er come again to the Gatherin' o' Mar ?

Will he ne'er spiel again the steep Lochin-y-gar ?

Frae his ain Hieland hame what'll keep him awa' —

The laddie wha looks in his tartans sae braw?

Ah ! Death's grip bauds him doon on a cauld marble stane —

" Oh, we'll ne'er see our Prince at Balmoral again."

The sweet varied notes o' his voice and his lyre,
Which could melt us to tears or awaken our ire,
Will we never hear mair? Never mair will we see
Warm sympathy's dewd dim his glancin' blue e'e?
Our mountains are grand and our valleys are fair,
But their charms are a' fled since he canna come there,
We maun just sit and greet, while we sing the sad strain —
"Oh, we'll ne'er see our Prince at Balmoral again."

"NO, I'LL NOT."

Not, child ! you are too soon begun

An independent will to show ;
You know your parents love their son.

Why will yo'i, wayward, answer so ?

"No, I'll not."
No frown your smooth young brow should wear,

No wrath flame thro' your soft blue eye,
Against your mother's watchful care,

Who grieves to hear your harsh reply —
"No, I'll not."

144 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Wait till yon are a man, midst men

Who tempt your doubting steps to stray
From honour's path, then, darling, then,

To wicked counsellors boldly say —

"No, I'll not."
Your heart should Mammon strive to lure,

And Beauty, Flattery to beguile,
Then, like a rock, stand firm and sure,

And turning, cry with scornful smile,
"No, I'll not."

When you have lost your parents dear,

When faithless friends elude your grasp,
When coaxing fiends enchant your ear,

Till you have barely strength to gasp

" No, I'll not ; "
When conscience ebbs, and passions swell,

And syrens, beckoning, round you rise,
Oh, may that charm the surges quell —

That heavenly charm which sin defies —
"No, I'll not."

TO A SOVEREIGN.
(Presented as a Prize at School.}

How bright thy golden countenance shone
That day I called thee first mine own !
No medal e'er more proudly prest
The scarlet on a marshal's breast
Than thou ! Thy radiance sheds the light
Of life's sweet morn around its night.
Faces and forms of other days
Smile on me — young eyes on me gaze ;
Loved eyes ! dear faces ! are all gone ?
I see them now in dreams alone.

Tho' tempted oft, like silly boys,
To part with thee for sweets or toys —
Emblem of strifes 'tween God and Mammon,
That stir the hearts of men and women —
Yet have I kept thee many a year,
Like sacred idol, treasured here,
And nought shall sever thee from me
But thieves, or death, or poverty ;
Faithful in sunshine and in storm,
Like true love, beams thy constant form,
A friend throughout life unestranged,
'Midst earthly change thou art unchanged.

W. R. LYALL. 1-J5

Type' of the immortal SON! thou art,
For, shouldwt thou e'er from me depart,
As long as merchant's eye may trac«,
On thy small disc, thy monarch's face,
Even tho" thy worth be kept by me,
Thy value^ will remain with thee :
So good men, dying, leave behind
The treasures of their heart and mind,
Yet on their souls Heaven's image wear
As clear as when.'twas'graven there,
He-moulded in the mint of death,
Earth's dust blown oft by God's own breath.
For after death, unlike the stamp,
That's bruised and flattened by time's tramp,
Unlike itself in life's wild race,
Sin-spattered with'gold's miry chase,
The stained soul, bathed in love divine,
Will purer grow, and brighter shine.

SILENCE.

The dawn creeps slowly to the wakening night,

And plants grey feathers on his raven wing ;

The weary stars now doff their golden crowns,

And with the radiance of the morn suffused

Amid the azure of the skies dissolve,

The queen of night veils her refulgent charms

When she beholds the glance of clay's bright god,

As he rolls upward in his flaming chariot

And paints the horizon with gay purple streaks.

As from my window on the street I gaze

There is no sound, no murmur, not a breath ;

Or if imagination heareth aught

'Tis but the sound, the murmur, and the breath

Of the intensest silence, more intense

After the din of midnight revelry,

And howl of drunken orgies. Who could dream

That in a few short hours those noiseless stone*,

That idle pavement, and the breathless air

Shall ring and rattle with the stir of life,

The traffic and the bustle of the world ?

The busy world i* full of poetry ;

There's poetry in labour — life's a poem.

The heart-strings vibrate with strange minstrelsy,

And when the heart is full, too full for words,

Tears bubble forth its woe ; but when our anguish

Mocks at the sobbing tell-tales — when despair

Comes like a blight on the distracted soul,

'Tis nursed and cherished in the lap of silence.

O sacred silence, m>w to thee I listen !

MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

I hearken to thy stillness, and the waves
Of thought subside, like ocean in a calm ;
The currents of the mind refuse to flow.
It seems that motion, too, as well as sound,
That even the pulsing of the heart and breath-
Yea, the inaudible action of the soul
Must cease, to perfect and complete thy rest.
Then, when the faculties are in a swoon,
Behind is left an unimpassioned feeling,
Waveless and placid as a lonely lake,
Whose dreamy face is never kissed by winds,
Whose solitary peace is never marred
By any sound of any living thing ;
A feeling palpable, hut still as death,
Filled with unutterable awe and grief —
Such grief as owns no language and no tears,
And causeless, but inspired alone by silence ;
A dread sublimity of solemn feeling,
As if the spirit of silence bound my thoughts
Within the enchantment of his charmed ring.
And .is in the retentive shell for ever
Lingers the music of its natal wave,
So to my bosom will that feeling cling —
That inspiration of the silent morn.

MINNIE THERESE WHITLOCKE,

HLTHOUGH a native of Hampshire, England, may
be classed with the tuneful sisters of Scottish
song. Her father died when she was very young, and
her mother, coming to Glasgow, gave her two daughters,
Minnie Therese and Isa Gertrude, excellent educations
to qualify them as governesses or teachers, and both
sisters have acquitted themselves with marked ability.
Miss Whitlocke is a young lady of exquisite taste and
accomplishments. Her musical abilities have also
amply evidenced themselves in the various public
concerts she has organised amongst her pupils, which
have always earned the enconiums of the press. Her

M. T. WHITLOCKE. 147

poetic tendencies were manifested at an early
age, and although, through sensitiveness of disposition,
reticence, and a strong aversion to being known, she
contributed little to the press, she has proved herself
to be an industrious and graceful author. Her verses
have earned the acknowledgments of the ex-Empress
Eugene and the late Napoleon III. Some years ago,
complying with the repeated and pressing solicitations
of her friends and admirers, she published a very
handsome volume of poems, "A Garland of Wild
Poesy" (Dumfries: J. Martin, High Street, 1878).
These evince not only deep poetic feeling, warmth of
sympathy, and richness of imagery, but fully indicate
the pure lofty breathings — the noble spirit and the
impulsive warmth of nature blended with the keen
sensibility of feeling which imbue her everyday life.

THE BIRD'S MESSAGE.
Fly away, birdie, fly from me,
Over the hills to the West Countrie,
And there thou wilt find a lover, I know,
Dreaming of love in the firelight's glow.
Sing to him, birdie, and sweetly tell
The secret thou knowest so long and well ;
My heart, my heart is no longer free,
But belongs to a lad in the West Countrie.
Warble, sweet bird,
Every word,
To the lad that I lore in the West Countrie !

Fly away, birdie, fly from me ;
My soul's sweet messenger thou shalt be
To scatter the clouds from " Faith's darkling sky,"
And light up with hope his bright blue eye.
Fly to him, birdie, on Love's Heet wing,
And charm him to listen while thou dost sing
Of the love I've bade thee to tell for me
To the lad that I love in the West Countrie.
Hide not a word,
Sweet bird ! sweet bird !
Of the love that I send to the West Countrie I

Fly away, birdie, fly from me,

Let me buhoul thee on swift wiuy flee !

148 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

I may not whisper the tiniest word ;
Do thou tell him all for me, sweet bird !
That near or afar — where'er I be—
My heart will be still in the West Countrie ;
Oh, beautiful bird !
Hide never a word
From the lad that I love in the West Countrie !

Fly away, birdie, fly from me,

Fleet as the wind when it sweeps the sea ;

Nor linger thou long on the road, T pray —

Fly to him, birdie ! — away ! away !
Tell him the love I so coldly met
In mine own soul burned, tho' in pride t'was set ;
That I loved him then, birdie, fond and well,
Till my heart throbbed wildly beneath the spell ;
That I love him now as thy mate loves thee,
The lad far away in the West Countrie :
Oh, beautiful bird !
Warble every word,

Full of love, to my love in the West Countrie !

LOVE'S PRESENCE.

My darling ! can'st tell me what joy-stream is filling
This heart that so lately was weary and lone ;

What blias like the sweets which the flow'n* are distilling
When summer sits robed on June's rose-circled throne '!

What heavenly sunlight hath beamed o'er my spirit,
Dispelling the storm-clouds of grief that uprose,

Swift threatening to doom me alone to inherit
Life's bitterest legacy — sorrow and woes ?

What beautiful halo is this now surrounding,
That turneth all darkness to glory and light?

What magical charm hath wrought change so astounding
As this, giving foretaste of Eden's delight?

Ah, love ! 'tis thy love from whose pure source upspringing
Doth come all this sunlight, and beauty and rest —

'Tis thou, love-crowned King of my soul, who art bringing
The joy which hath conquered where weariness pressed.

A sunburst of glory thou art to my being —
The day-star of Hope when my soul sinks in Fear,

Ah, love of my heart ; never more shall I, fleeing,
Court gloom when the suu of my life shineth near !

M. T. WHITLOCKE. 149

MAY MOENING.
BORN 25th APRIL, 1884.

Sweet Baby newly born, I welcome thee,

Though miles of weary distance lie between,
And fancy only can reveal to me

The joy with which they hail thee baby-queen !
Mine eyes through space, alas, cannot behold

The rosy life that flushes on thy cheek,
Nor see the dainty airs with which untold

Thou drinkest all the flatteries love doth speak ;
A vision only in my dreams thou'rt now,

A picture as of angel spirit fair,
God's holy grace sweet shining on thy brow,

And all its purity reflected there.
A sinless little creature he hath made

To love Him And be loved by Him again ;
A tiny sunbeam that from Suffering's shade

Hath come to teach forgetfulness of pain,
Ay, come as herald of the sweetest days

When earth holds carnival that May appears,
Instinct with life and beauty, prayer, and praise,

And Summer smiles to banish April's tears !
Oh, be this promise of thy birth fulfilled,

Thy sky all sunshine and thy life all May,
The honey-dew of peace which grace instilled

For ever keeping Sorrow far away !
A crown to those who love thee, mayest thou be,

A sunbeam ever near to cheer their hearth,
And thrill their bosoms with such ecstacy

As first leapt into being at thy birth.
Thus, baby-sweet, may blessings round thee twine,

As ivy twines, the oak-tree's stem adorning,
And love of heaven with earthly love combine

To make life Paradise for thee May Morning !

DIED 25TH MARCH, 1886.

My darling ! Oh, my darling May !

My baby bright and fair !
This heart is wildly throbbing now

Beneath its load of care.
In anguish, all unspoken, sweet,

I gaze upon thy brow —
Thy sightless orbs and clasped hands,

And all that's of thee now.
And tears the bitterest I have shed

Rush from mine aching eyes,
For thou, my treasured one art gone

And hope within me dies !

MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Too fair for this rude earth, beloved,

Too pure to blossom here —
Thou'st gone to wear thy spotless crown

Far, far from mortal sphere.
No wealth of earthly love, sweet babe,

Could keep thee near our hearth,
Else thou had'st not so early known

God's fairer glory-birth !
Thy gleesome child-heart throbs no more —

Thy ruby lips are sealed,
And where the sun of love once shone

Death's gloom is now revealed.
And I could wish this pilgrimage

On Earth for ever past
So that it brought me, Maimie dear,

To God and thee at last.
For ah, 'tis hard to teach the heart

While grief the soul doth fill
To breath resigned the heav'n-tanght prayer-

" Praised be God's holy will ! "

JOHN CRAWFORD,

B WELL-KNOWN Lanarkshire poet, whose pro
ductions, in a remarkable degree, display a
pawky humour and felicitous use of the Doric, was
born at Carluke in 1851. He has been a life-long
resident in his native town, and is a general favourite
among his associates, possessed as he is of a versatility
and force of character ever welling out in spontaneous
and natural ebullitions of native wit, mimicry, story-
telling, song-singing, and patriotic ardour for auld
Scotland, its deeds of valour and sons of song. Mr
Crawford is quite an enthusiast in his patronage of
Scottish vocalists, and has been known to travel long
distances to hear the late Mr Kennedy in his enter-
tainment, " A Nicht wi' Burns " — indeed, to use his
own words, he " was very much bent at one time on

JOHN CRAWFORD. 151

touring the country as an exponent and ginger of
Scotch songs, but the counsels of a wise mother to the
contrary prevailed." It may be stated that his vocal
sympathies and predilections for rhyme have been in-
herited from his maternal parent, who was endowed
with a mind strong in its retention of traditional lore,
and of a decidedly poetic temperament.

Mr Crawford's education was such as is commonly
received in elementary schools. As a lad he was fond
of outdoor sports and escapades, consequently, in his
fourteenth year he sought employment on the bank of
an opencast in the neighbourhood of Carluke, where
the ironstone cropping out, is, as it were, quarried
from the surface. Leaving this rough labour in his
sixteenth year, he was apprenticed to the trade of
cabinetmaking, one of the staple industries in the
place. Having served his period of apprenticeship, he
worked for several years as a journeyman, then got
married, and started business on his own account. In
the capacity of master he has found less leisure than
formerly to cultivate the Muse ; however, his produc-
tions, occasionally appearing in the Hamilton Adver-
tiser and other journals, are eagerly perused and very
highly appreciated by a large circle of friends.

KATE GALLOWAY'S TAM.

Frae the auld Sparrow Inn, wi' its theek'd roof o' strae1
To the Kirk, wi' the bell, on the tap o' the brae,
Frae the Cadger's-dub, kent a' to callants sae weel,
Whaur kittlens are drooned, an' they ne'er gie a squeel,
Ye may seek the hale parish for miles roon' an' roon'
Ere you'd fin' sic anither camsteerin' young loon ;
Frae the heichts o' the Bashie till Forrest's Mill-dam
£ig an' wee, far an' near, kent Kate Galloway's Tarn.

He was lithe as a whuttret, as gleg as a hawk,
Wi' a pair o' stieve shanks, ticht as ony corn stauk ;
'Tween dirt, ferniaticles, he was black's a yird taed,
An' his hauns ye'd hae thochthad been used as a spade,
Langer toosie black hair never theekit a pow,
Tho' ance in a wheezie 'twas brunt i' the lowe,

152 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

For a twalmonth a kame through his locks never cam',
Saip and water were strangers to Galloway's Tarn.

Nae wild deer thro' forest-glade bounded mair free,
Nor short fuddy maukin' slang the green lea,
Than Tarn in his glory, thro' thick an' thro' thin,
Rampagin' in scouth as unbridled's the win' ;
Nae faither or mither to keep him in boun's
Had Tain like some ither camsteerin' young loons,
He was left bird-alane when a wee tottin' lamb,
Sae it fell to his grannie the rearin o' Tarn.

Hit* grannie, guid bodie, as kin' grannie's dae,
Did her best to instruct him by nicht an" by day,
'Tween clootin' an' plannin' to keep his duds richt
Sairly tried her guid patience and wasted her sicht ;
Like ither douce folk she took beuk ilka nicht
When the pains wad aloo her, an' no grippin ticht,
But the bodie was timmer, sac Tarn led the Psalm,
An' auld Bangor got forte without fork frae Tain.

Kind-hearted auld Peggy, a neebor hoose freen,
Wae to see him sae duddy, a fricht to be seen,
Got her aald guidman's coat that shespnn when a bride,
Twad suit him fu' braw tho' a wee kennin' wide ;
Tarn said nocht aboot that, 'deed there's far bigger fools,
He cut the tails aff't to the ragman for bools ;
In its big waly pooches ocht for use he wad cram,
Twas a win'fa' for ance to Kate Galloway's Tarn.

On the Saturdays, free frae the maister's lang tawse,
A richt picket lot wad set oot to the haws,
Tarn was aye the ringleader and chief o1 the gang,
The first aye to venture, the last to gang wrang.
Nane wad gie him the coochers, or weet his coat sleeve,
They dreeded the wecht o' his big waly nieve,
An" when cross'd was as dour as the cudd o' Balauni,
Oh, the plague o' the place was Kate Galloway's^am.

He wad get a lang string, mak' a loop like a noose,

Put milieus inside on the road to catch doos,

He wad spiel ony tree tho' as bare as a wa'

To get haud o' the egKS o* the cushie or craw.

Had a lozen been broken, a kundie chok't up,

Or a divot been flung doon a neebor's lum tap,

Had a' the cats sickened, gane aff in a dwam,

Fient a ane could hae dune't but Kate Galloway's Tarn.

He ance fell frae a tree on the back o' his heid,
The weans ran huuie cryiii', Turn Galloway's deid ;

JOHN CRAWFORD. 153

When the folk were cam' doon he was no to be seen —
They glower't a' like warlocks, an' rubbit their een ;
Cats, 'tis said, hae nine lives, some said Tarn had ten,
But they a* said he'd come to an awfu' weird en',
Tthers thocht that the fa' was a lee or a sham —
He'll be waur afore death nabs Kate Galloway's Tarn.

Butcher Bob's killin' days weel he kent them ilk ane,
The mail micht be taigl't, Tarn ne'er was ahin',
Hoo his e'e kennel't up, the savage young deil,
To len' haun' at the raip, an' hear the last squeel.
Weel awat for mischief, neither lazy or blate,
If a notion o' ocht took his noddle he'd hae't,
In his auld grannie's aumrie, her posie o' jam
Got mony a ca' frae Kate Galloway's Tarn.

But things couldna last wi' young Tarn in this state,
He was banned by ilk neebor at nae canny rate ;
In a dirdum ae day he got barrow an' creel —
Deil noo tak' the lazy, Tain was gaun to dae weel.
His first stock was plenished by auld Peggy Craw,
Wi' leeks, cabbage, carrots, an' turnips an' a'.
The auld cuddie creel was as fou as could cram,
An' ilk door got a ca' frae Kate Galloway's Tarn.

Yes, the daftest young cowts whiles the best geldin's mak',
Whiles the tooziest pup grows the best in the pack,
Time slipped by workin' changes, an' will to the en' —
Deed some ventured to say that they thocht he wad men*.
Guid cause had the neebors to tak noo his pairt —
Tain's barrow had changed to a bonnie spring cairt,
A snod keepit pony nichered skeech 'tween ilk tram,
At its heid strutted proodly Kate Galloway's Tarn.

Tarn's changed noo his stock to a far bigger way,
An' saves like a hatter, mak's gowd every day,
An' hawks his provisions for miles roon' an' roon',
Success noo seems smilin' his efforts to croon.
He was sittin' fu' snug at the ingle ae nicht
At the papers, when something attrackit his sicht —
That property owned by the late Simon Fram',
Will by auction be sold, read Kate Galloway's Tarn.

The hoose Tarn kent weel at the heid o' the toon,

An' markit the day o' the sale promptly doon.

When the day had arrived Tarn was there 'mang the rest,

As braw as the lave, decldt oot in his best ;

First the biddin' gaed brisk, then it stuid for a wee,

Till a nod frae young Tarn caught the auctioneer's e'e,

154 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Then the hammer cam' doon wi' a snell sudden slam,
At twa hundred pounds to Kate Galloway's Tarn.

Sae Tarn noo sits laird in a honse «' his ain,

A braw wife to hansel't, an mair than ae wean ;

But young Tarn, the wee birkie's his father's ae e'e,

An' diverts the hale hoose wi' his prattle an' glee.

Noo Tam wants for naething that money can buy,

He male's gowd jist in gowpens, an'rowth o't laid bye,

An' his rise in the warl's nae lee or a sham,

Syne he's never kent noo as Kate Galloway's Tam.

WEE DOD.

Wee Dod is the bauldest young stumper
That e'er had the use o' twa feet,

His laugh is the essence of music,
His gabbin's a by-or'nar treat.

Jist a wee kennin' boo'd in the bittles,
In shape like the roon letter 0,

When mischief's the bee in his noddle
They're neither lame, lazy, or slow.

An' the Bonn' o' his twa bittle dumpers
Gaun stumpin' at nicht thro' the flair,

As prim an' as ticht's a drum major,
He's a very horn sodger I'm shure.

His nieve is as plump as a dunrplin',
His cheeks match them clean to a tee,

Fun lurks roon his mooth sae provokin',
An' plays at keekbo' in his e'e.

Nae coaxin' wi' cookies an" sugar
To claw oot his parritch, the rogue,

Ye'll no droon a flee in the dribbles
He leaves in the doup o' his cog.

When first daylicht keeks thro' the window
Ye'd think that he gets the first ca',

He's up on his en' like a laverock
As plump as a wee butter ba'.

Losh, the laddie's uncommonly giftet—
Ye should see him mount up in his chair

An' leather awa' at the readin',
Near a hale stricken hour I am shure.

JOHN CRAWFORD. 155

What's his lot in the dim misty future,

We guesa, but we dinna weel ken,
Let us hope he'll reflect nocht but credit

On his faither an' mither's fire en*.

A NEW YEAR LILT.

Come join wi' me, douce honest folk,

Wi' richt gudewill an' glee,
Let care an' fyke gang whaur they like —

Let gladness bear the gree ;
Here are we met, a canty lot,

A jolly picket few,
To see the auld year toddle oot,
An' welcome in the new.

We'll hansel't in like decent folk,

An' be richt happy tae,
An' aye be blythe, as lang's we leeve,
To welcome inony mae.

Let ither bodies keep Auld Yule —

A day they lo'e sae dear —
But we will lo'e the first, the best

An' king o' a' the year ;
Wi' doonricht joy I maist could flee,

But, losh, I want the wing —
Bang to yer feet, my guid auld lass,

We'se hae a cantie spring.

We'll hansel't in like decent folk, &c.

Fu' mony glad New Years we've seen,

An' aye been hale an' weel,
An' mony mae we hope to see,

To warsle through life's reel ;
Fa' lang we've toddled cheek for chow,

Thro' weal an' woe, life's maze,
An' baskit in each other's love

Thro' mony gladsome days.

We'll hansel't in like decent folk, &o.

Be 8teerin' when the clock strikes twal,

An' gie ilk ane his share —
We'll hansel't in wi' ae guid glass,

But fient a drappie mair ;
Let's aye be blythe, nor dowie be,

Nor girn aboot oor fate,
But let's be honest, brave, and leal,

Although we ne'er be great.

We'll hansel't in like decent folk, &c.

156 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

MAGGIE HAY.

What ails ye, bonnie Maggie Hay ?

What's wrang, my bonnie doo?
Ye're no sae blythe's ye used to be —

What is't that cluds yer broo ?

Gane is the roselicht frae her cheeks,

The glegness frae her e'e,
An' mony ills baith nicht an' day

The lassie has to dree.

The lassie tells to nane her tale—

They guess, but dinna ken ;
But, could the nameless burnie speak

That dances doon the glen,

Twould tell o' byegane days —

0' lichtsome days an' lang,
When, blythe's the lintie on the thorn,

Her hale life was a sang.

Noo, dowie, doon the loanin' drear,

She daun'ers to the glen,
To weep in solitude for him

She ne'er will see again.

Their weel-kent trystin' shade she coorts,

Low 'maug the hazel trees,
An' then she tells the burn her waes —

The burnie tells the breeze.

The burnie lo'es to taigle there

An' listen to her tale,
Then, sabbin' saftly to itsel',

It toddles doon the vale.

Lang, lang.they kent ilk ither weel —

'Twas never telt to nane ;
An' he was comin' ower the sea

To mak' her a' his ain.

Her thochts were on the ocean wide —
Her thochts baith nicht an' day —

The very birdies, when they sang,
She thocht they seemed to say —

" Yer laddie's comin', comin' hame,
He's comin' ower the sea —

J. L. BAIN. 157

Yer Johnnie's comin' hame at last,
An' comin' bame to thee."

But weeks gaeel by, an' years an' a',

An' aye the ship ne'er came ;
He never landed yet to change

Young Maggie's hintnaist name.

The ship was wrecked amang the waves,

Lang miles frae Ian' an' hame,
He sleeps the lang soun' sleep o' death

Aneath the white sea faein.

JAMES L. BAIN,

HVERY thoughtful and promising writer, was
born at Pitlochry, in the Highlands of Perth-
shire, in 1860. His father, who also possesses true
[poetic genius, and whose compositions are rich in
humour, occupies his time in looking after his bees
i and garden, in both of which he takes quite a scientific
f interest. His home is romantically situated amidst
[sweet valley scenery surrounded by majestic hills, and
the boyhood years of our poet were spent for the most
part about rivers, woods, and mountains. His father
being a keen angler, he always accompanied him, and
many of the exciting scenes of joyful adventure that
took place on these occasions have afforded an inex-
haustible supply of rich tales of fishing enterprise by
which he has often delighted the ears of his boyish
friends in town. Indeed, he informs us that his boy-
hood was " altogether real, unwritten poetry — one con-
tinuance of adventure at home, at fishing, and in the
woods, the incidents of which are too numerous to
detail." Here is one as he wrote it —

158 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

When I waa a little fellow
I would draw a pail of water
From a tank of awful deepness,
Where my father cherished minnows,
Cherishing them but to use them
As the bait that " taketh " best.
Woe to me ! the water drew me
Down into its bosom headlong,
Where I floundered 'midst the minnows,
Vainly trying back to scramble
Up the wooden walls RO slipp'ry,
Till my mother (bless her spirit)
Came about and saw me kicking
(For my feet were out of water),
And without much ceremony
Drew me back from horrid Hades.

Such are the influences that were brought to bear on
him as a boy. He had many narrow escapes while
fishing, being frequently carried off when attempting
to ford too strong a current, and he considers that he
owes his life to being able to swim. The following
lines are from an " Address " to the trout of the Tum-
mel, in Sapphics, which seem to indicate a knowledge
of Homer —

Shine ever, shine ever, silver-bowed Apollo,
On the mossy Sparthan where the dark-brown waters
Give the best food to the Tummel's finny maidens
Yellow with beauty.

Tell them, tell them to wait but for a moment
Only, till tryst-time bring me to their secrets,
Soon I'll be with them, a lover true and ardent,
Wooing their favours.

Only don't tell them that this my love is cruel —
Selfish as a Uobbite's — seeking but enjoyment,
Lest, with a shyness silent as a maiden's,
They may avoid me.

Shine ever, shine ever, far-darting Phrebus,
Kindly o'er them twang thine arrows light and joyful.
While for a fortnight they sport and frolic gayly,
VVoeless in wooing.

In 1880 Mr Bain undertook a University course on

J. L. BAIN. 15

his own responsibility, and he is now a very promising
student of Divinity in the Edinburgh University. He
has not as yet offered any of his verse for publication,
although he has for some years been engaged on what
will be the most ambitious work of his poetic efforts.
This poem will be entirely lyrical, and its theme is
the true life of man in its processes of development.
The poem, "Ewan,"from which we give a selection,
extends to about 1600 lines, principally in blank
measure. The descriptive portions of Mr Bain's poetry
show cultured taste, a thoughtful and reflective mind,
and remarkable lyrical power. Indeed, his lyrics alone
are sufficient to convince one that the author has a
rare gift of poetic fancy and musical expression. They
are pure, sweet, and pathetic, subduing all earthly
splendour by its divine radiance — the religious, truly
so called, being the mainspring of all his song, the true
and deepest of his motive power, working by music
and imagination. All his verse evidently moves to the
throbbings of an inner organism — not to the pulsations
of a machine ; and while, as we have said, his store of
imagery is rich, his versification is equally felicitous.

TO GLEN FERNATE.

Sweet glen of grassy hill and heathery crag,

Of moss-brown waters, changed by sunny ray

Into a living stream of mellow gold ;

Grandly your silent Bens arise afar,

Like voiceless guardians of your grassy slopes,

And silent wardens of your northern gate.

Your heath of heavy bloom and shaggy growth

Thatches your giant rocks, whose bases lie

Deep in the gorge, washed by the mighty rushing

Of the onbounding Fernate's bouldered stream ;

Or sunk in sullen blackness in a pool,

Where lie the yellow trout, all eager for

The floating insect, and unknowing of

Man's cruel cunning, ready at the word

Of native instinct, forth into the light

Of golden brown to dart with arrowy speed

And seize the phantom gaily dressed with guile

160 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Sweet glen, may I again behold
Your spring time joy, your slopes of tender grass,
When west wind blows, and sunny cloudlets fly.
Your breezy air may I again rejoice in,
And leap for mountain gladness in its life.
Your troops of sporting lambs may I once more
Be gladdened to behold their boy-like glee,
To hear their voice of fresh outgoing youth,
To spy their dainty beauty-spots and think
Their modest faces sweet as modest folks.
And I would hear again the warning voice,
Or anxious call of wise old mother sheep,
Each careful only for her little one,
And the clear cry of innocent alarm,
The quick response, while straight away she trots
At fullest speed, each to her mother's teat,
Where speedy comfort from all ills is found.

TO AN OLD WELL AT A DESERTED HIGHLAND
CLACHAN.

Forgotten friend of long forgotten men,
Neglected spring of long forsaken homes,
How often has the blithesome mother drawn
Drink for her children from thy ferny wave ;
How often has the labouring father quenched
At thy cool fount a toil-begotten thirst ;
But other days are thine, thine ancient flock
Of righteous, hardy, and industrious men
Have gone to dwell with thee in mother earth ;
Their children too have gone far, far from thee,
To labour in a land of stranger men,
To die far from their own dear fatherland.

ETERNAL LOVE.
(FBOM "EWAN.")

For what is love that springs from source divine

But ever fair communion of two souls,

When welded into one they live and breathe

The same ethereal air of pure delight,

And though ten thousand worlds their lives divide,

Yet spirit dwells with spirit, and the arms

Of sacred union hold them in embrace

More near, and blended more in truer life

Than though their bodies should together dtvell,

An earthly one beneath the hallowed roof

Of wedlock — holy as a thing of God. —

j. L. BAIN. 161

Thus orer Ewan's life of many days

Malina's spirit shed forth tender strength,

And joyfully he cared for everyone ;

For loved Malina's sake he loved all,

And many a troubled one, who, sorrowful

And weightened much with a distressful load,

Had caught his skillful eye, was left at length

With lighter spirit and with gladsome heart,

To thank the goodness that had wrought him thus

Into a sympathetic friend of man.

And never did the needy or the weak,

Who crossed hu way, unfriended travel on,

And never did the youth who sought his hearth

Homeward return ere he revered the voice

That spake of man's Divine nobility,

And of the path becoming him to tread ;

And never did the aged or the chi.'d

Melt into tears so warm with joyfulness

As when the tender soul of Ewan loved

Spake words of beauty to the softened heart.

SELECTIONS FROM "EWAN."

Ewan. — " My saintly Gentle, you my spotless one
Art purer far than snow upon the hills
And tenderer than the new-born lamb or grass
Which pass before the bitter winds of spring,
And lovelier than the heather in its bloom,
And sweeter in your love to me than is
The honey of the heather to the bee ;
And though, like sacred ptarmigan, you dwell
Nearest the sky on snow-white wings of love,
For love to me a lowlier covert seek
Where I may bide with you and so rejoice ;
For you to me are as a holy light,
And wanting you my soul is dark and drear. "

Molina. — " Nay, Ewan, I am nothing of the high
Or lovely one you fancy me to be,
But as a simple honey-suckle plant
I rise by you, ray Ewan, strong and tall
And shelter in your bosom all the day,
As slender mountain ash beneath the cliff,
Or foxtail weak beneath the storms-wept heath ;
And when the lily in the wood will bloom
Unlooked on by the sun — its life and joy,
Then may I live without your sunny tace.^
For as the eagle in its cloud-lost flight
Surpasses in its awful majesty
K

162 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

The bird of shady bower or lowly shrub,
So you above me soar in high-souled dignity.
And as the humble moss of feeble growth
Doth live by clinging to the giant rock,
And in his mighty bosom findeth joy,
And comfort draws from out his noble breast,
Thus I by you my Ewan kind and strong."

Ewan. — "Nay, thou of lowly mind, so pure and fair,
That all to thee, however humbly formed,
Appears o'er thee to dwell in majesty ;
For rather as the rock from mountain-side
Rough-hewn, and only smoothed a little way
On its hard face by stormy water's rush,
Receives its only beauty from the moss
That robes it in her garb of modesty
More beauteous than the castle garden's bloom,
And sweeter than the beds of roses there ;
So from you all my comeliness doth spring,
And you to me art Beauty's sacred fount,
And your fair holiness embraceth me,
As in a cloud of pure unshadowed joy."

And now the autumn night had gathered down
The mountain side, and overhung the moor,
And heavy was the blackness of its wings
Ensabling all as with the shade of death ;
And wildly through the gloom the curlew swept,
And drearily he shrieked his lonely cry.

And then the rain

And wind descended in a whirling sheet,
And wildly swept along the open moor,
And roared around the corries high and deep,
Whose depths resounded with the torrent's rush.

I've stood upon the hillside when a sky
Of darkest shade hung heavy o'er the earth,
When more than midnight stillness lay around,
And more than midnight gloom enclosed the air,
And brooded o'er it in oppressing weight ;
Even then I've seen the darkness flee away,
When God hath called the covering from the sun,
And bade him shine forth gladness o'er the earth ;
And often have I seen the gladsome west

JAMBS MARSHALL. 163

Blow forth the breath of God when He had told
The east wind, bearing haze of heavy shade,
No more to blow its breath with trouble fraught.
Then, then its baleful presence fled away,
Nor could you find it, for He called it off,
And gave instead the cloud of joyful flight
That brightened all in its enlivening course,
And called forth gladness to the bleating herds.

AWAKE, AWAKE.

Awake, awake, my golden harp,
Awake, thy soul hath slumbered long,

The zephyr breathes upon thy strings,
And moves thee unto fragrant song.

Awake, awake, hark, how the voice

Of love divine is whispering,
Inspiring thee now to rejoice,

With men and creatures, everything.

Awake, my harp, thou too wilt join

In the eternal song of love,
Thou too art breathed on by the One

Who moves around, beneath, above.

Thou] art 'awake, I hear the sound

Of mellow music from afar,
As though arising from the ground

It/;ompasseth the utmost star.

I feel'its wave returning here,

It plays on every thrilling nerve,
It travels the unbounded sphere,

And hastens mighty love to serve.

JAMES MARSHALL,

HUTHOR of the following verses, was born in the
village of Burrelton, Parish of Cargill, Perth-
shire, in 1829. Having attended school until he was
about twelve years of age, he, along with an elder

164 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

brother, removed to the neighbourhood of Edinburgh,
and afterwards went into the city, where he learned
the business of a nurseryman and seedsman. Gaining
experience in Glasgow and other cities, he, nearly
thirty years ago, started business on his own account
in Montrose. In addition to being a thoroughly prac-
tical and intelligent gardener, he has devoted much of
his leisure hours to the study of botany, the result
being that he has a very extensive acquaintance with
native plants. The horticulturist, whether profes-
sional or amateur, ought to give his attention to a
science so closely connected with his calling, and Mr
Marshall has found his knowledge of botany of much
practical utility, not only in connection with his busi-
ness, but as an essential in several other congenial
pursuits. In the course of his rambles he has
made several important discoveries, and added
greatly to his store of scientific knowledge. For many
years Mr Marshall has contributed to the press both
prose and verse, but from a natural shyness and
dislike of notoriety he never attaches his name to any
of his productions. Although of quite a literary turn,
the demands made by a large and varied business
leave him little time for composition, and most of his
efforts have been the result of quiet meditation when
the duties of the day were over. While possessing a
vein of sarcastic, yet pleasing humour, he is perhaps
seen to best advantage in his descriptive verses, which
evince the eye of the poet, the true lover of Nature,
and the enthusiastic botanist.

THE WEE DOGGIE SCRAPIN' AT THE DOOR.

There's a wee doggie scrapin* at the door a' its lane,

An' the wee thing's howlin' unco sair,
An" its tremblin' wi' sittin' on the cauld door-stane—

But there's naebody noo that will care,
For its maister's been ta'en to his lang, last hame,

An' wi' the cauld earth covered o'er,

JAMBS MARSHALL. 1G5

He has left ne'er ane to lament that he's gane
But the wee doggie sera pin' at the door.

It has followed the bier o' its maister dear,

Wi' mony a waesome whine,
An' come back to the door, but, alas, never more

Will he open an' welcome it in.
0, it looks in the face o' ilk wean for a piece,

For it ne'er was sae hungry afore,
But it canna tell its tale, so there's nae ane will feel

For the wee doggie scrapin' at the door.

The wee dog that scrapit at the door noo has gane

To keep watch on its maister's grave,
And lang did it sit on the cauld turf its lane,

An' mony A sad whine it gave.
It scraped for its bed a deep hole near the dead,

Then crept therein and died —
As it followed him in life it sought near him in death,

And buried itself by his side.

THE RECLAIMED PRODIGAL TO THE MISER.

Oh, gibe me not on former days,

For then my heart was light and young,
I lost my way in Folly's maize,

And mad and blindly rushed along ;
And Pleasure's eddy drew me strong,

And whirled me in its giddy round,
And woman's siren voice and song

The appeals of friends and conscience drowned.

Oh, gibe me not on former days,

If all had stood aloof like thee,
And blazed abroad about my ways,

Nor ever tried to rescue me
I'd floated to Perdition's sea,

Without one outstretched hand to sate,
And all ungenerous souls like thee

Had told my failings o'er my grave,

Why gibe me upon former days ?

My folly never injured you ;
Nor from thy purse my riotous ways

One single farthing ever drew.
Thine is a heart that never knew

The thrill of Love, or Pity's tear.
Once in your life you wept, 'tis true,

The loss of that you hold most dear.

166 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Yes, for the yellow dross you wept,

Who ne'er was known to weep before,
Because a thief at night had crept

Anil robbed you of your darling ore.
Gibe me on former days no more,

But go ! penurious ways extol,
And grovel 'mong thy mouldy store,

Till rust consume thy sordid soul.

WHEN ONCE YOU'RE DOWN.

When once you're down, 'tis hard to rise,

The world regards you with a frown,
While former friends avert their eyes,

Tis hard to rise when once you're down.
That roan who, with dejected look,

In threadbare suit slips through the town,
Fortune smiled ou him, then forsook —

He once was great but has come down.
While all the fawning, flattering crew

That used to crowd his table round,
Now never own that e'er they knew

The man, because he has come down.
Some men come down, that they may rise —

There are such rogues in every town,
Who are but robbers in disguise —

'Tis to defraud that they come down.
The honest man gives up his all

When floored by stern misfortune's frown ;
He hides no sum to break his fall,

Or raise him after he's come down.
Respect, tho' poor, the honest man

Who pays in full his debts per pound ;
Despise, tho' rich, the cheating clan

Who credit get, and then come down.

THE HUNGRY SKYLARKS.

Bird of the wild and waste,

Thou must be sore distrest
E'er thou wilt come to seek food on our street

Picture of helplessness,

Left in thy friendlessness,
Homeless, and frozen, and starving for meat.

In summer thy song of love,

High in the lift above,

* Written on seeing some skylarks on the street among the snow
famishing for food, and almost frozen.

MAGGIE 8TOTT. 167

Is heard with pleasure by us far below ;

Now mute and Had thnu art,

Frozen thy little heart
All thy green sheltering nooks covered with snow.

Would some philanthropist

Came with an open fist,
Spreading his bounty abroad o'er the lea,

Feeding the famish'd things,

Who on their frosted wings
Vainly seek shelter in bush or in tree.

Snow and frost everywhere,

Think how the birdies fare,
And crumbs and shelter spare unto them now,

While these fierce storms last,

Until the winter's past,
And the green fields cast their mantle of snow.

MAGGIE STOTT,

DAUGHTER of Mr J. E. Watt, (see First Series of
"Modern Scottish Poets") the gifted author
of a volume entitled u Poetical Sketches of Scot-
tish Life and Character," and numerous other poems,
was born at Montrose in 1862. After receiving a fair
education, she was employed for some time in one
of the public works in her native town, and subse-
quently had a short experience of domestic service.
Strange to say, it was not till after her marriage that
she began to court the Muse, and since then her
poetical productions have occasionally appeared in
several monthly magazines and newspapers. These
are mostly of a sacred nature, and her religious ballads
are finished productions, reminding the reader of the
spirit and fancy of some of our ancient poets. Her
utterances are all chaste, loving, and reverend, both
in conception and thought.

168 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

WAITIN' THE MAISTER.

I'm waitin' for the Maister,

An' ilka e'enin' fa'
Brings me a day's march nearer

My gowden hame sae braw.

I ken that I'll be welcome,

An1 you, whae'er ye be,
If you obey His blest command,

" Leave a1 an' follow Me."

A robe o' white awaits us —
A crown o* gowd sae bricht ;

Darkness will never enter there,
The Lamb, He is the licht.

An' God Himsel' will dicht awa

The tear frae ilka e'e ;
Oh, tak' the Saviour as your ain,

His bluid was shed for thee.

The road o' sin looks unco wide,
Owre mony wander there ;

The pleasures that they seek are fause,
An* lead to dark despair.

Ye needna try to please the warld,
An' gang in its broad way,

Thinkin' that Christ, ye've saired sae ill,
Hereafter will repay.

But turn at ance, while ye're in time,
An' tak the narrow road ;

Though whiles it's rough to travel here,
We'll sune get hame to God.

Then cast aside yer filthy rags,
An' trust to what Christ's dune,

That you an' I may sing His praise
When earthly days are dune.

THE AULD YEAR.

The auld year's deem' oot, freends,

But yet, afore it's dune,
Some wha wad least expect will hear

Their summons frae abune ;
But if we hae the perfect love

That caateth oot a' fear,

MAGGIE 8TOTT. 169

Then, when the hour o' pairtin' comes,
The Saviour will be near

0 lat your lamps be burnin' bricht,

An" waste your time nae mair ;
But try to bring the outcast in,

A father's lore to share.
Bless'd be oor God, there's nane owre vile ;

If for their sins they grieve,
Like to the prodigal of old,

A blessing they'll receive,

If bravely oot an' oot for Christ

The cross we suffer here,
Nor hide oor licht for what folk say,

But keep it bricht an' clear,
Then, when the Lord shall seek us hame

To glorious realms abune,
We'll get the faithfu' steward's reward,

An' hear oor God's " weel dune."

ONLY TRUST HIM.

Look to Jesus, hear Him say —
" Come to Me, I am the way,"
He will guide you dayby day

If you trust Him.

Though your sins be black as night,
Jesus' blood can wash them white ;
If for Christ you mean to fight

Only trust Him.

Then thoHgh persecution rise,
And our friends may us despise,
Our reward's beyond the skies

If we trust Him.
He will ne'er forsake us here,
Christ at all times will be near,
While His loving words will cheer

If we trust Him.

We'll be faithful in the fight,

With our lamps all trimmed and bright,

Ready waiting day and night

For the Master.
And to realms of endless day
He will bear us safe away ;
Then, poor sinner, don't delay,

Only trust Him.

170 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

CONEAD HUGO LAUBACH,

E readers of this work must have noticed how
largely the poetic faculty predominates amongst
those who are artists or musicians by profession.
This need not be wondered at, seeing that poetry
is necessarily so closely connected with melody
and sound, as well as fancy and imagination. The
subject now under notice is a young musician, son of
the well-known bandmaster of the Queen's Edinburgh
Rifle Volunteer Brigade. He was born in the Scottish
Metropolis in 1867. For five years he was a chorister
in St Mary's Cathedral (Scottish Episcopal), and was
partly educated at the Choir School, from which he
retired as dux. After his "voice broke," it was decided
that he should adopt the law as a profession, and he
spent three years under a Writer to the Signet.
Ultimately, however, he felt the conviction becoming
stronger that his natural inclination led him to follow
the vocation in which several* members of the family
had distinguished themselves, and he finally entered
the musical profession in 1884.

Mr Laubach, although young, has already written
much that is of considerable merit, and full of
the promise of future excellence. He has studied
poetry as well as music, and has made himself inti-
mately acquainted with several of the masters of the
sonnet. The result is that his latest compositions con-
sist mainly of that form of verse, although more
naturally his calling has frequently moulded his
thought in the form of song, the proclivity for which
has been strengthened by a love for our Scottish and
Elizabethan poets. It will readily be thought that
the work of one not yet out of his " teens " cannot but
be strongly influenced by his models, and contain

C H. LAUBACH. 171

evidences of ah unformed style and execution. The
pieces, however, submitted for our selection disclose
real imaginative power, almost perfect melody, and
much beauty and strength. Some of his songs have
the flow and music of Nature, and glow with true
lyrical feeling.

THE POETESS.

The bloom is fading from the rose,

The leaves begin to fall ;
The streamlet runs with mournful plaint,

And sadness broods o'er all.
Alone, I weep how many a tear,

And dream of summer past ;
I list afar, I list anear,
But never a cheerful voice I hear,

For the birds have sung their last.

The birds have sung their last.

The bloom is fading from my face,

The locks begin to fade,
And all is sad, since he, my love,

Beneath the earth was laid.
I mind me of the glad July,

(Ah me ! for summers past,)
When he sang of his deathless love for me, —
" My own, my own, I love but thee ; " —

That song became his last,

His soul hath sung the last.

I know the rose will bloom again

Beneath the sapphire throne ;
I know that I shall see him there

Where sorrow is unknown.
In Faith, then, let me wait that hour,

Nor weep for summers past ;
The long-loved lute no more is played,
The pen's at rest, the prayer is made,

My soul hath sung her last,

My soul hath sung her last.

HECTOR'S OBSEQUIES.

Cleanse, cleanse from his most hallowed corse the mire
Of that deep shame might move a breast of steel,
Suffered at fierce Achille's chariot wheel ;

Lift him with reverent han>ls upon the pyre,

172 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Now set the torch thereto, and as the fire

Grows lurid and the eddying smoke-wreaths reel,
Raise we the dirge, let lamentation peal,

Till Troy resounds with voice and trembling lyre.

Behold his spouse, upon whose anguished breast
His child lies locked in soft unconscious sleep ;

Behold his aged sire and those loved best,
And think what his great heart to them has been,
Think what to them, to Troy, his death must mean,

And marvel not the gods themselves do weep.

LOVE'S EGOTISM.

As on the wave the sunbeams shine,

Or shadows darkly rest,
So floats the thought upon thy face

Or e'er by lips express'd.
O, sweet that face to see, and watch

The clouds and sunbeams play,
And think that I am oft the sun

That drives those clouds away.

Thine eyes, the altar-lights of Love,

Reveal thine inmost soul,
And round thy heart's clear music cast

A burning aureole.
O sweet those azure eyes to see,

And on that music feast,
And think, as thou Love's Temple art,

That I am still high priest.

THE OLD VIOLINIST.

In the dusk of an ancient chamber,

At eventide serene,
An old musician lingered

Alone with his loved violin ;
And still as some passion moved him

With majesty supreme,
He drew from its throbbing bosom

That passion's mighty theme.

Now soft as her voice, whose music
He heard in the spring-tide years,

The instrument sobbeth, moving
The age-worn man to tears ;

And now in a storm of feeling
Upsoars a deeper strain,

0. H. LAUBACH. 173

And the flame in his eyes enkindled,
Consumes those tears again.

Tt seemed as when high in heaven

The laverock pours her song,
And the list'ner with grief is riven

That his limits to earth belong ;
Still swelling and louder swelling,

With tone-pulse full abeat,
Ah ! surely the nightingale's plaining

Was not so passionate sweet.

But again the strain grew softer,

And again he paused to sigh
As some passage seemed recalling

A sweet, sad memory ;
Then his tremulous arm grew fainter,

The theme he scarce could play,
Till in cadence slowly dying

It passed, like breath, away.

The gloom of the twilight shadows

Deepen around the wall,
And softly o'er hill and forest

The mists of evening fall.
In the dark of an ancient chamber,

At the midnight hour serene,
Lo ! the master in death still clasping

His loved old violin.

IN EXILE— A LETTER.

In the old days there was a spot
We used to love — a leafy dell,
Where grew the sweet forget-me-not

The hyacinth and lily-bell ;
Rememb'rest thou that leafy dell ?
'Twas there you laid your hand in mine,
And with that gentle voice of thine
Said how you loved so true, so well.

0 Love, my Love,
Though oceans make us twain,
There we shall meet again.

In dreams I see the lowly cot

Where first I brought you as my bride,
Where care and sorrow entered not

Until our boy, our darling died ;
There sorrow was beatified,

174 MODEftN SCOTTISH POETS.

There first I learnt the holiness
That dwelleth ever in distress, —
The riches that in pain abide.

O Love, my Love,
Though Time doth make us twain,
There we shall meet again.

And yet, if Heaven should please it so,

On earth we never meet again ;
And I, 0 Love, be lying low

In these far lands or 'neath the main ;
Though you awhile be left in pain,
Yet still there is a happy spot,
Where care and sorrow enter not,
And we may clasp our child again.

O Love, my Love,

Though Death should make us twain,
There we shall meet again.

AX AUTUMN THOUGHT.

The eve is sad and sombre ; there's a dream
Of Winter in the heaven. Lo ! yonder stray
Brown leaves implore the fleeting year to stay,
Poor suppliants clinging to her garment's hem ;
And as the child still striveth to redeem
Something of her dear eyes beneath the clay
In his cold step-dame's loveless glances grey,
Rather than pine alone, so doth it seem
These fading summer-flowers yearn fervently
Towards Autumn ere the frosts their beauty slay.
And yet for us these winter-signs portend
Not tears ; but new delights and revels gay
That Christmas gives ; new life, new liberty,
And converse sweet 'twixt friend and loyal friend.

HUGH MUIR

MAS born at Edinburgh in 1846, and his fore-
fathers, for at least five generations, belonged
to Rutherglen. His father, a man of good education,
was an accomplished musician and talented artist,

HUGH MUIB. 175

and before he was twenty-one had travelled much both
at home and abroad. His restless, roaming disposi
tion was the cause of much grief and anxiety to his
wife, and resulted in her having to leave Edinburgh
for her native Rutherglen when Hugh was only six
weeks old. There, penniless and broken-hearted, she
had to fight the battle of life for herself and her worse
than fatherless bairn. When five years of age, our
poet had the misfortune to fall and break his nose.
This mishap was followed shortly after by his right
leg being broken, and before he was seven years of age
the same leg was fractured at a different place by a
tumble from a wall eighteen feet high. At the very
tender age of eight he was sent to work in a coal-pit,
with no more education than he had received from an
old weaver. As he puts it himself —

My schullin' was but seven months,

My schule an' auld loom shop,
My maister was a crazed auld man

Wha kent na' whan to stop
When letherin' laddies for their fau'ts

Wi' his big leather tawse,
Or cuffin' them wi' his big neives

On tender heids an' jaws.

On the third day of his experiences in the pit his un-
fortunate leg was again broken, and this was followed
by quite a series of accidents, which resulted in his
having to leave this calling, and he ultimately learned
the trade of a bobbin turner.

Possessing a rich tenor voice and a fine ear, our poet
devoted much of his spare time to the study of music,
and he ultimately became leader of the Rutherglen
Band of Hope. His gentle winsome manner soon
gained the hearts of the three hundred children who
weekly attended his instructions, and these, with
a senior class which was afterwards started soon made
such progress that they were able to give very suc-
cessful concerts for charitable objects. Many of his

176 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

"bairns" are now occupying high positions in the
musical world, as well as in commercial circles, and Mr
Muir has received numerous valuable tokens of their
appreciation of his labours. In 1878 he, out of a large
number of candidates, was selected as precentor in
London Road Free Church, Glasgow, and here he also
organised a Band of Hope and several musical classes,
which still flourish. After a stay of about two years
in Glasgow, he made application for the vacant situa-
tion of Burgh Officer and Public Hallkeeper, Ruther-
glen, and was accepted by the Magistracy and Town
Council. He has now held these offices for over seven
years. It might be added that from his boyhood Mr
Muir has been fond of modelling. When a mere lad
he occupied every spare moment for two years making
a model of the residence of his employer, which
afterwards was sold at a big figure. He has also com-
pleted a model in Teke wood of Rutherglen Town Hall
and Municipal Buildings, which has on several oc-
casions been exhibited in public and greatly admired.
Mr Muir has done some good literary work, and
in 1884 he received from Messrs Blackie & Son, pub-
lishers, a magnificent copy of their " Popular Ency-
clopaedia" for an article on "Rutherglen" contributed
by him for that work. He began to write verse at an
early age, and his productions have for many years
appeared in the columns of the local and other news-
papers. A great admirer of Burns, he has frequently
written the " Anniversary Ode " for the " Rutherglen
Club." His Muse is generally reflective, and affords
evidence that he can appreciate whatever is beautiful,
good, and tender. He has given us several very
homely, yet pleasing descriptions of humble life and
character.

THE DEATH 0' GRANNIE.

She said she thocht the hoose was dark,u
And that she couldaa see

HUGH MOTH. 17?

Whaur ilk ane stood beside her bed,
And then she ask'd for me.

My mither took me in her arms,

Then set me on the chair,
And said "Oh kiss your Grannie noo,

For ye '11 ne'er see her uiair."

Then Grannie, hearin' what was said,

Held oot her hand to me,
An' added, wi' sic canny voice,

" Yes, kiss me 'fore I dee ;

For 0 I hinna lang to bide

Beside ye, my sweet wean,
Sae put your arms 'bout Grannie's neck,

An' kiss me owre again.

Afore its very lang, my bairn,

Frae troubles I'll be free,
Whaur sorrow ne'er comes owre the heart,

Or saut tears dim the e'e."

Then on my head she laid her hand,

While I stood on the chair,
Then closed her een, an' said for me

A bonnie, sweet wee prayer.

An' this is what my Grannie said—

"The Lord bless you, uiy wean,
0 may he send the Spirit doou,

To mak' ye a' his ain.

May ye be taught to love the Lord,

And walk in Wisdom's ways,
To live a pious holy life,

Untoiyour Saviour's praise."

MARY, DEAR MARY.

O Mary, dear Mary, would God I were with you,
For our parting is crushing my poor breaking heart,

Yet may this grief teach me, like thee, tny dear Mary,
And " Mary of old," to seek " the good part."

That, like thee when nearing death's dark dismal shadow,
I may say to some dear one, " I'm no fear't to dee,"

And pillow my soul on God's gracious promise,
And say " O Lord Jesus, I'm comin' to thee."

178 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

0, mother, you never would speak of your sorrow
If you knew bnt the joys of the place I'm in now,

No harsh words e'er spoken, our rest never broken,
But robes of pure whiteness, and crowns on each brow.

No heart ever sighing, no stricken ones crying,
No deathbeds, no funerals, no long weary waits,

No sick ones, no faint ones, none tired, none bereaved,
But endless delights are within its bright gates.

None hoping 'gainst hope, none e'er disappointed,
None weeping in silence because of their sin,

None timid, none tempted, none sneer'd at or slighted
Because they have dared the " good fight " to begin.

Jesus, dear mother, is the poor sinner's Saviour,

The saint's only glory, the centre of bliss,
The hope of the faithful, our blessed Redeemer,

The " ancient of days," yea the great " Prince of peace."

The sweet " Rose of Sharon," the valley's pure lily,
The "Root out of Jesse,1' "The Branch,1' and "the Vine,"

"The Father's annointed," the tender "Good Shepherd,"
Oh make Him, dear mother, from this moment thine.

HOW NOBLE THE THEME.»

How noble the theme, and how sweet, sweet the strain,
My poor yearning soul cries sing it again,
Stand forth, noble poet, again tune thy lyre,
Such grand lofty thoughts raise me higher.

0, sing of the mountains, the hills and the glens,
The valleys and fountains, the rocks and the fens,
The sweet hidden spots, where we love to retire,
Such grand lofty thoughts raise me higher.

Or sing me a song fraught with cadences sweet
Of the innocent lambkin's low moaning bleat,
And fan my fond heart with thy poetic fire,
Such grand lofty thoughts raise me higher.

Or sing soft and low of some poor sin-sick soul,
Whose inward desire is to be " made whole,"
For soul-songs like these I love and admire,
Such grand lofty thoughts raise me higher.

> Ou receiving a set of verses by Mr l-'reeland, editor of the Qlatgow
Evening Times,

ROBERT BIRD. 179

Sing songs of Redemption's mysterious plan,
Lead men to the Saviour of men while you can,
Be this thy chief aim to bring lost ones nigher
To him who'll receive them up higher.

HAIL, LITTLE STRANGER.

Hail, gentle little stranger,

Come to my loving breast,
Where, should God please to spare thee,

Thou wilt be oft caress'd.

Hail, tiny little stranger,

My heart goes out to thee,
Though many claims have with thee come

From none would 1 be free.

Hail, lovely little stranger,

My love to thee expands,
Yea, it shall be the motive power

To ply my willing hands.

Thrice hail, dear little stranger,

Thy mother hails thee too ;
No language could express more plain,

No voice proclaim more true,

Than every smile upon her face,

Which is in love exprest ;
O hail, our angel darling, hail,

Thou wilt be oft caress'd.

ROBERT BIRD

INGS with as true and as sweet a lyrical gush as
his own "Scottish Blackbird," whose song so
enraptured him that at each pause his

" Beating- heart

Told o'er his notes in echoed rhythmic throng,
Thrilled with the singer's inasterhood of art —
As eloquent in pauses ;is in song."

180 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

We feel proud to be able here to reveal the identity of
the author of " Law Lyrics," a small volume that con-
tains more pure, expressive Doric, and more well-
rhythmed and well-rhymed lines than any we have
seen since the days of Outram and Lord N eaves. We
are borne out in this assertion by what is said by one
of our best authorities in the Christian Leader, who,
while mentioning that a new edition of the work is in
the press of Mr Gardner, Paisley, says that "the
author is one of the two purest and strongest writers
in the Scottish vernacular that have been added to the
choir of northern ministrels during the present cen-
tury." This proves that in connection with the bar
there is more than the orthodox surroundings of parch-
ment and red tape, — there is also not a little true
poetry as well as the generally acknowledged essence
of wit and humour. One of his reviewers (in Quiz)
says that it has been proved to the satisfaction of
many " that Shakespeare was at one time a lawyer's
clerk ; and everyone knows that one of the finest
modern poems — ' The Ring and the Book ' — is based
on an old law case. From Shakespeare to Browning
there have been a respectable number of poets who
have been affianced to the blind goddess of the scales.
Comparatively few, however, have drawn their inspira-
tion from the statute book or the imposing shelves of
digests, treatises, cases, and judgments, and of these
few the most successful in obtaining a hearing have
been Scotchmen."

Robert Bird, youngest son of David Bird, writer,
Glasgow, was born at Govan, on the Clyde, in May,
1854, in what was then a country villa, and now lives
near Glasgow. His parents — one of whom only now
survives — were natives of Queen Mary's palatial town
of Linlithgow, and thoroughly Scotch. Mr Bird con-
siders that his knowledge of and love for the sweet
Doric is inherited from his mother, who spoke it with

ROBERT BIRD. 181

epigrammatic force and humour, and with a pathetic
softness seldom heard now, and who taught him to
speak it as his native tongue. She was of most tender,
loveable, and forcible nature. From her he imbibed a
deep affection for Scotland and its rich scenery and
language, as well as his homely sentiments and poetic
fancy.

Our poet was educated in Glasgow — principally In
Glasgow College, where he took honours in Scotch
Law, and a prize in the English Literature Class for
a poem on " The Glasgow Statue to Burns," which
was afterwards printed in the Glasgow Weekly Herald.
In 1878 he passed as a procurator before the Sheriff
Courts of Scotland, and immediately thereafter began
practice in Glasgow. Although devoting himself
closely and with success to his profession, this has not
prevented him from cultivating his literary gifts,
taking occasional side glances at literature, and en-
couraging a natural and continual underflow of poetry
to wet the dust of the law.

From boyhood he has delighted in Nature,
and been a lover of pastoral poetry. He loves rural
scenery, wild beauty, bird and beast, with the eye of
an artist and the gentle humanity of a true poet, and
some of his finest lines are the outcome of communings
with them. While yet in his teens he contributed
frequent verses and several prose tales to the Glasgow
Weekly News, now extinct. As he is generally a slow
producer and careful elaborator, he is never satisfied
with his work till it has been in type, and even after
that he gives it several finishing touches. Hence,
doubtless, the polish, lightness of touch, and lyric
grace of all his verse.

Mr Bird is a member of the " Glasgow Ballad Club,"
which was formed in 1876 for the study of ballads and
ballad literature, and for friendly criticism of original
verse contributed by the members. He is also a

182 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

member of the " Ruskin Society," while his religious
principles are those of the Society of Friends. In
poetry, he follows Burns, Scott, and Whittier ; in
sociology, John Ruskin ; and in politics, John Bright.
His verse-writing is only practised in the hours of
evening leisure, after a day of close bread-winning,
and also as an additional charm to his summer holidays.
He writes for love, not money, as all poets should,
and his Muse has never yet felt the goad of
hungry necessity. His writings are now pretty nume-
rous, including ballads, sonnets, fairy pieces, songs,
and natural descriptions — some very serious, and many
humourous. His principal poem is " The Falls of
Clyde," being descriptions of the three falls, Stone-
byars, Cora Linn, and Bonnington. Of this poem
Whittier has written in the highest terms. Mr Bird
has had several selections printed for private circula-
tion, including "Sonnets of the Year," which were
much commended for their fine descriptive power.

" Law Lyrics " was first published by Wilson &
M'Cormick, Glasgow, in 1885, and was received every-
where with great favour by the reviewers and the
public. In the volume, mixed up with the purely
legal poems, are many lay pieces, where he goes wider
a-field for subjects. It is frequently observable that
the " Law Lyrics " have an aim, which is evidently to
call the attention to anomalies in legal forms, and to
suggest remedies. When he touches on some of the
quibbling technicalities and evasions made use of by
pettifoggers his humour and satire are clever and tell-
ing. It is, however, when he casts off his wig and
gown, and leaves his court lyrics for happy rambles
among the streams and moors of Caledonia that we
like him best. It is then that we have the most ex-
quisitely neat and dainty lines, flowing with graceful
fancy and picturesque beauty. His delicate interpre-
tations of Nature's loveliness are full of rich fragrance.

ROBERT BIRD. 183

They form expressive pictures, or rather vignettes,
traced by one whose whole soul is evidently in har-
mony with the sights and sounds of hill and dale. He
sings with a noble patriotism of "Scotch heather" and
"Scotch porridge," and depicts the "hairst-rig" and
rural pursuits with heartfelt fervour and irresistible
fascination. His language is never forced or artificial,
while throughout he ever shows himself an adept in
the use of the purest Doric. This is a most remark-
able feature in Mr Bird's productions when we consider
the great amount of " mongrel " Scotch we meet with
in these days, which is nothing short of " provincial
slang." On this account, and his true poetical ear, as
well as his warm appreciation of what is droll, touch-
ing, homely, and beautiful in the Scottish character,
he is entitled to a foremost place on the list of our
present-day poets.

SCOTCH PORRIDGE.

Ower Scotland's corn the laverocks whustle,
Amang the rigs the corncraiks rustle,
Frae gowden taps the millstanes jostle

And heap wi' health,
Auld Scotland's cog of grit, and gristle —

A nation's wealth.

Ye wha wad ken life's pleasures sweet,
Wad baud the doctor in the street,
Wad mak' the tichtest twa ends meet

When scant o' siller,
Taste parritch fine ! and thy glad feet

Will chase the miller.

In boilin* water, salted weel,

Tween fingers, rin the ruchsome meal,

While the brisk spurtle gars them wheel

In jaups an' rings —
Ae guid half-hour, syne bowls may reel

Wi' food for kings.

Nae butter, syrups, sugar brown,

For him wha sups shall creesh thy crown,

But milk alaue, maun isle thee roun',

184 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Till thou dost soom,
Then a' he needs is ae lang spoon,
And elbow room.

Gie France her puddocks and ragous,
Gia England puddings, beef, and stews,
Gie Ireland taties, shamrocks, BOOS,

And land sae bogie,
True Scotchmen, still will scaud their mou's

Ower Scotland's cogie.

Puir parritch ! here thon'rt scant respeckit,
For frizzled fare, thou'rt aft negleckit ;
But Grecian Sparta sune was wreckit

'Mang drinkin' horns,
And Scotia's thristle may be sneckit

When thee she scorns.

-But, mark the Scot ayont the sea
Welcome his meal, wi' dewy e'e,
He gars the first made parritch flee

Frae out the dish,

While, that his pock ne'er toom may be,
Is a' his wish.

Proud Scotland's sons, o' hill and glen,
Ha'e roused the world frae en' to en'
Wi' doughty deeds o' tongue and pen,

And dauntless steel —
Oh, what has made these mighty men

But Scotland's meal ?

On Bannockburn, and freedom's day,
When Britons met in war's array,
E'en though the Northmen knelt to say

Their creed or carritch,
What made some differ in that fray

Was Scotland's parritch.

For makin' flesh and huildin" banes,
There ne'er was siccan food for weans,
It knits their muscles steeve as stanes,

And teuch as brasses ;
Fills booses fn' o' boys wi' brains,

And rosy lasses.

My blessing on the dusty miller !
Wha gi'es me gowden health for siller !
My blessing on each honest tiller,

Wha breaks the clod,
And gars green corn. Death's foe and killer,

Spring frae the sod.

ROBERT BIRD. 185

THE TABLE 0' FEES.
AIR — "The Laird o' Cockpen."

O, how oft hae I heard

That our whole stock-in-trade
Is a desk for a yaird

And a pen for a spade —
While it maun be agreed,

There's a world's guid in these,
Yet oor best pock o' seed

Is the table o' fees.

For the desk and the stule,

Wi a sigh let me say,
May be props for a fule

At the end of the day,
But like manna and snaw,

Or a peck o' white peas,
For the doves o' the law

Is the table o' fees.

Let the merchantman boast

O' his fine speculations,
And the clergyman hoast

O'er his teinds' allocations,
For a steady on-cost,

Banking up the bawbees,
Like a warm dreepin' roast

Is the table o' fees.

Man ! it gangs wi' a clack !

Like a mill makin' flour ;
Three-and-fpurpence a crack !

Six-and-eightpence an hour ;
Half-a-crown for a wink,

And a shillin' a sneeze,
Come like stour o' sma' ink

Frae the table o' fees.

I could hand ye my stule,

Ruler, ink-horn, and dask ;
I could hand ye my quill,

Or whate'er ye micht ask ;
And could yet wi' my tongue —

Whilk nae man can appease —
Fill a cask to the bung

Frae the table o' fees.

186 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

OATME A L.

When round and red the harvest moon
Keeks wi' bleered e'e the trees aboon,
And tasselled corn, wi' nodding croon,

Stands stiff and strang,
The farmer thinks next day gin noon

Will find him thrang.

Nae jinkin' teeth, or birlin* wheel,
Shall reap his crap wi' fearsome squeal,
But brawny arms and circling steel,

Will do the wark ;
Where'er he goes wi' hearty zeal

He'll lea' his mark.

He dichts his scythe, and wi' his stane

Gars ilka side o't ring again,

Till sharpened as 'twad nick a bane

He wades waist deep,
And half a sheaf o' rustlin' grain

Fa's wi' ilk sweep.

The ruddy lassies, pleased and thrang,
Bind up the sheaves wi' straw-rape strang,
Whiles liltiiv out a rantin' sang

Ne'er fand in books,
Till a' the field, clean raked alang,

Stan's reared in stocks.

A week o' dryin' wind and sun,
And out the vera weans maun run,
A' dancin' daft to get begun

And dae their parts,
To hae a day o' glorious fun

Among the carts.

And ere the sun blinks in the wast
The fecht o' forks is ower and past ;
The waving field is hame at last,

In farmyaird stackit,
The golden treasures, safe and fast,

Weel raiped and thackit.

When hoary winter nips the air,

Upon the dusty threshing-flair,

The loundering flails mak' music rare

Wi' thuds and rings ;
While straw flees here, and seeds flee there,

In heaps and binge.

ROBERT BIRD. 187

Then, loaded fu" wi' tentie skill.
The carts trang clinkin" ower the hill
To where the sandstanes bumm their fill

Like rings <>' licht,
And dips the wat wheel o' the mill

Frae morn to nicht.

And there, aneath the birlin' stane,

The broken corn sheds out like rain, ,_

To be shooled plowterin' hack again

And grunded weel,
Till bulgin" pocks hang doon amain

Wi' painch o' meal.

Oatmeal ! that wanders ower the warl'
To smile in ilka housewife's barrel,
\Vi' choicest grit for cake, or farl,

And parritch fine,
That bauds in health the auldeat carl

0' ninety-nine !

Some hae their wealth in land and rock,
And some in ships and some in stock,
And some in bank wi' bolt and lock

To scare the deil,
But my best wealth's in ae wee pock

That nane wad steal.

SCOTCH HEATHER.

Bright purple bloom of Scotland's hills,
Garb of her mountains, glens, and rills,
At sight of thee my bosom fills

With memories proud
Of tartans, thistles, "snuff, meal-mills,

And mist-wet cloud.,..

Thy stem is like some fir-tree green
With twinkling bells hung thick between ;
Pressed to the earth, thou low dost lean,

But scorns to break,
Up-springing quick as ne'er had been

Foot on thy neck.

Thou'rt like the man when Fortune's tread
Falls fell and crushing on his head
Who bows, but when the blow has sped

With dauntless will
He struggles up from sorrow's bed,

A soldier still.

188 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

On storm-beat crags of dusky white
Where brackens wave their fans of light,
And rowans drop their berries bright

The clefts between ;
Thy breast of purple on the height

Is richly seen.

Home of the moor-cock, snipe, and deer,

The gaudy pheasant, crowing clear,

The partridge brown, that schemes her fear

With draggled wings ;
And dappled grouse, when man draws near,

That whirring springs.

Oft bare I climbed the steep hill's side
'Mong hairsts of heather, deep and wide,
When sweet dust flew at every stride

Like spendthrift's money,
And yellow bees could scarce abide

The smell of honey.

On tbee has patriot Wallace trod,
Who bled to break the tyrant's rod ;
And oft the Covenant's banner broad

Has swept thy bloom,
Proclaiming at the pike's sharp shod

Oppression's doom.

But why should thy small purple flower

Be dyed with blood in peaceful hour,

On moors, where men who creep and cower

With guns resort,
To pour on birds a leaden show'r

And call it s| ort ?

When dogs and guns are laid to sleep,
'Neath the cleft moon thy sweet bells weep
To hear the plaintive dying peep

From birds half-killed,
As, from soft breasts, sore woanded deep,

Their life's distilled.

No more the dusky legs will spring,
No more will spread the speckled wing ;
A bloody head does earthward hing

No more to live. —
Tis sport to some to take the thing

They cannot give.

ROBERT BIRD.

Badge of true manhood and the brave,

Long may thy purple glory wave

O'er moor and hill, when red guns rave,

And death's abroad ;
To shield the weak thou can'st not save,

Bright flower of God.

THE SPARROW.

Brpwn-backit, dusty-breasted chappie !
Wi' streakit throat, and pow sae nappy,
Wi' sturdy legs and neb sae rappy

For fechtin' splore,
Thy cheery chirp mak's a'things happy

A boot my door.

In some tree fork, nane thick wi' leaves,
Or darksome hole aneath the eaves,
A harum-scarum nest thou weaves

0' strings and straws,
That trailin' fast, thou rugs and rieves

Frae kings or craws.

In simmer's prime, the world's thy ain,
To range the fields and scour the plain ; —
0' farmers' guns, fear thou hast nane !

Or thowless rattles ;
But helter-skelter at the grain

Thou yirps and battles.

When winter comes, thou begs nae pity,
But townward hies, wi' chirping ditty,
Hailing wi' yellochs in the city

Ilk f rien' thou meets,
To win thy bread, and coup the kitty

In vera streets.

Gi'e touches tine their music mellow,
Gi'e blackbirds trig their nebs o' yellow,
The redbreast to — the sodger fellow —

His sang sae sma' ;
In clatterin' noisome chorus bellow

Thou dings them a'.

But baud ! I dinna like thy fechtin',

Whan, breast to breast, hot war thou'rt wechtin';

Strivin' wi' hangin' wings to strechtin'

On yird thy foe ;
Crumbs fa' for a', and nebs fast dichtin',

Work endless woe !

190 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Kings mak' the wars, and fules tak' swurds,
And cloor ilk ither into curds ;
But men o' sense, and bonnie birds,

Wi" brains to harrow,
Should fecht their battles oot wi' words,

My wee cock sparrow !

Ance in a riddle-trap I caught thee,
And to a strugglin" captive brought thee ;
But 'twas na dabs or kicks that got thee

Thy wings sae fleet ;
Twas thy wee burstin' heart that bought thee

Thy freedom sweet.

Black shame to the unworthy son

Wad lift on thee a murderous gun,

And through thy ranks, as thoa dost run,

Pour spreading lead,
To see thee fall, with wings undone,

And bleeding head.

Nae gun hae I, or dog, or warden ;
Thou'rt welcome to my house and garden ;
I dinna heed thy thefts ae farden

Frae simmer tae simmer :
Thou hast my lore, ray peace, my pardon —

Thou blythesome comer.

THE SCOTTISH BLACKBIRD.

Withdrawn a furlong from the sea's white marge
Stands Roseneath's avenue of centuried yews ;

An old-world street, roofed green with branches large,
Home of the squirrel, glossed with tearful dews.

Betwixt red sundown and the blue of night,
At gloaming's tender hour, with footstep slow

I sought this path, to mark the fading light,
And feel in thought the day's sweet afterglow.

'Twas in this grove I heard the blackbird sing, —
Prophetic were his raptures, loud his lay ;

Whistling of sumu.er in the steps of spring,
Singing of sunshine at the close of day.

In full, flute tones from upraised rippling-throat,
The coal-black singer of the crocus bill,

Across Clyde's listening Gareloch flung his note,
That woke the slumbering echoes of each hill.

ROBERT BIRD. 191

From budding elms outflanked in double line
Small birda rang chorus through the green domain,

Till in rich voice, with modulation fine,
The wizard's solo drowned the choir again.

And at each pause, my waiting, beating heart
Told o'er his notes in echoed rhythmic throng,

Thrilled with the singer's masterhood of art —
As eloquent in pauses as in song.

At sleep's still hour, when shook the evening star,
I heard him, hastened by the moon's soft ray,

Calling farewell, to brothers known afar,
As to the woods he winged his rapid way.

For song's repose, how fitting is this place !

When vesper singers to their nests nave flown,
Where mournful yews their plumage interlace,

And meditation treads the path alone.

MY OLD GOOSE QUILL.

Ye artists, and ye etchers all,

Of Telveteen and plush,
With easels, stools, and stretchers all,

Chalk, needle, stump, and brush,
I dare your whole utensils fine,

Your oils and pigment mill,
To match with paints or pencils fine

My old goose quill.

With birse of independence up,

Defences he can draw,
And shut a condescendence up

With stirring pleas of law ;
In prayers that thrill in reading of,

In statement, fact, and will,
Like music is the screeding of

My old goose quill.

Ye painters have on palette got

The lark in sunny cloud,
But nowhere in your wallet got

His song that rings so loud ;
And so you pass completely from

The ripple and the trill
That chirps and flows so sweetly from

My old goose quill.

192 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

With one ink drop upon it, sirs,

This plume of barn-fowl's wing,
In summons, or in sonnet, sirs,

Can make the paper sing ;
And then when love or Latin does

His liquid bosom thrill,
He runs like any rattan, does

My old goose quill.

A STILL LAKE.

Dusk, as an oval shield of beaten steel,
The still lake lies : its level waters feel
The autumn of the bright long laboured year —
The bliss of rest. Suspended dream-like, clear,
In its calm tide, the circling kingdom swims.
The silver shore that girds its waveless rims,
Steals unperceived into the glassy deep :
And castellated rocks where birches weep,
Where hazels droop, crowned by the rowan bold,
O'er-frost the flood with scarlet and leaf -gold :
While, flowing down the verging trees between,
Dyed is the wave with streaks of grassy green.
Caught from a sloping square of stubble field,
The rising hills their patch of yellow yield,
And heather holms, and reach of bracken lands
Blush in the flood, and bathe their russet hands,
While at the further end, with shoulder high
A purple mountain pushes out the sky —
That gentle sky ! of blue and pearly flake
That fills with heav'n the whole remaining lake.

And so the mirror's held to nature. Thus

On thought's clear glass, like scenes may shine on us,

But let a squall smite on the steely blue,

Then not one trembling image will be true,

And should the breeze outspread his blurring wings

The whole suspended world will fade in rings,

And yet, should calm once more regain its sway

The glass will smile again with scenery gay.

WHEN LITTLE MAY'S ASLEEP.
From "Fairy Dreams for the Children."

When little May's asleep in bed

'Neath coverlet and lace
She says the fairies green and red

Come peeping at her face,

ROBERT BIRD. 193

And taking each a chubby hand

Through doors and locks they fly
On rainbow wings to fairyland

Behind the sunset sky.

That there a secret spot they find

Which fairies only know
Where ripest fruits of every kind

On bending branches grow ;
That climbing through the boughs like bees

They feast and laugh and sing,
And hear among the silver trees

A golden robin sing.

Then with the brightest of the flowers

They fill her baby hands
And dance away through velvet bowers

In chains and rings and hands,
And seated on the mosses brown

Of roses white and red
They twine a little fragrant crown

And place it on her head.

They call her then a small rose star

And all their love to show
They say that little children are

The dearest things they know,
And that if she is good and kind

Flowers sweetest of the sweet
Through all her little life she'll find

Will cluster round her feet.

Then, taking both her hands again,

They say she must not stay,
And through the clouds like merry men

They fly with her away.
And when she wakes at morning light

And lifts her little head
She finds that she is safe and bright

Tucked up again in bed.

JOHN GEORGE HOODIE HEDDLE.

HLTHOUGH Orkney abounds in romance and
legend, it can hardly be said to be very prolific
in poets. Perhaps the most illustrious of these is
M

194 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

David Vedder, of nearly half-a-century ago. The
subject of this sketch is a worthy representative of
the present-day Orcadian poets. John George Moodie
Heddle of Melsetter was born in Kirk wall in 1844.
He is the eldest son of the late Robert Heddle of
Cletts and Melsetter, who can claim descent from the
last Norse Earl of Orkney. Our poet received his
elementary education at Loretto School, Mussel-
burgh, which has the credit of sending out many
distinguished scholars, all more or less imbued
with a deeply-rooted poetical taste. He finished
his educational career at the University of Edinburgh.
From a very early age Mr Heddle was known to write
ballads, some of which are sung in the homes of
Orkney folks both at home and abroad, while many of
his songs and poems on passing events have found
their way into newspapers and magazines, generally
under an anonymous signature. Besides being known
as a poet of considerable merit, he has long been con-
sidered one of the most spirited and generous land-
lords in Orkney, and personally superintends the
management of a very large estate. The specimens
of his Muse that we are able to give show that his
verse runs melodiously — that it is fraught with strong
poetic feeling, and full of rich and native fragrance.
The first poem we give was published in the Orkney
Herald when the news of the Battle of Isandula came
to this country, and was quoted in many Scotch and
English newspapers.

THE NEWS PROM AFRICA.
12TH FKBRUARRT, 1879.

What sound is this gathering from southward,

With rumour and clamour of war —
More fleet than the wind Hying northward,

And startling still valleys afar ;

J. G. M. HBDDLE. 19.*)

The crash and thunder of battle

Now pierced by the wild bugle's blare,
And now by the musketry's rattle

Streams forth oil the air ?

And still through the night it spreads seaward

With terror and war in its wings,
And wafts through the darkness to meward

A sound of unbearble things,
How Englishmen given to slaughter,

And faint "neath an African sun,
Fought thinking of wife and of daughter,

And fell one by one.

The dull mingled sound of men fighting,

The cries of men wounded in pain,
The fierce hard drawn breath of those smiting

Who feel they shall ne'er smite again.
"Let's sell our lives dear, though outnumbered,

Since all hope of succour is vain,
With baggage and stores though encumbered,

Let's face them again."

O people ! 0 daughters ! 0 mothers !

These— these were the sounds that I heard,
Your husbands, your sons, and your brethren

Have fallen by the edge of the sword.
They fought in the fearless old fashion,

Outnumbered by twenty to one,
And true to their Queen and their nation

They fell every one.

They fell, but behold, how around them

The ground is all 'cumbered with slain
In sheaves, as the pale reaper found them,

The harvest is thick on the plain.
Five thousand they slew, these stout yeomen,

Ere wearied and wounded, and sore
They fell upon heaps of their foemen

To rise up no more.

0 heroes ! stretched bloodless in beauty,

Say — Know you the rights of the strife ?
Or did you pour out there from duty

The red precious stream of your life 1
O Time, overburdened with sorrows,

When wilt thou bid slaughter to cease,
And give us calm nights and fair morrows,

And nations at peace ?

MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

WHA SAT 'MANG THE HEATHER WF ME.

In the spring time saft and sunny,
'Mang the bloomin' broom sae bonnie,
Floweries smelling sweet as honey,
Birdie's cheepin' cheerilie.

Ance o' kisses got I mony,
Sweeter lips ne'er preed ony,
Troth, she was haith blythe and bonnie
Wha sat 'mang the broom wi' me.

Blythe the birdies built abune her,
Lythe the lammies leaped aroun' her,
Till the gloamin' came and foun" her
Still amang the broom wi' me.

O, the road was dark and drearie,
Hame I maun gang wi' my dearie,
Till she saw the house lights cheerie —
Haith, she couldna pairt wi' me.

I'll no tell you what her name is,
I'll no tell you whaur her hame is,
Na — ye'll no ken wha the dame is,
Peasant maid or proud ladye.

COLD IS THE MOULD.*

Cold is the mould,

Ah, bitter cold
The mould by the flowing river,

And the leaves play round

The new heaped mound,
And the pine trees shake and shiver.

The pine trees shake,

The willows quake,
But the birch tree quivereth never,

For its roots have found

The warmth around
Her grave by the restless river.

Far, far away
From light of day,
Where the death shade resteth ever,

f It was the first death since this part of the country wa,s settled. We
laid her beneath the solitary birch tree that stands in the glen by the
river, a spot she always loved. — Canadian Letter.

J. G. M. HEDDLE. 197

In a darksome dell
She's hid full well,
'Neath the birch that bloometh never.

Yet in the gloom

That birch will bloom
With an angel 'neath it sleeping,

And an odour sweet

The mourner greet
For his loved one 'neath it weeping.

ISOBEL.

Oh ! know ye not sweet Isobel,

Oh ! know ye not her face ;
Oh ! saw ye not dear Isobel,
Her beauty and her grace.
Oh, but she's quizical,

Sweet Isobel,
And metaphysical

Is Isobel,

My Isobel — my own !
Most amusing,
Self accusing,
And confusing

Isobel.

Yet still I IOTC my Isobel,
My wee, wee Isobel,
My sweet wee Isobel,
I dearly love my Isobel,
My Isobel — my own.

WILL.

This is the power by which we smile

When fortune frowns, and friends betray

When woman's lore has gone its way
And darkness wraps us round awhile.
This is the night of inner life

That still upholds us on our way

Until the chambers of the day
Ope — past the darkness and the strife.

SONG.

Yestreen I dreamed a dreary dream

And mingled sair wi' sorrow,
Said—" Happiness is but a gleam

That fadeth with the morrow ! "

198 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Methought I was a boy once more
And sate with her by Yarrow,

And she was still, as plight before,
To be my winsome marrow.

Long years were blotted from my sight

Wi' a' their care and sorrow,
And still I pressed her to be kind,

And wed me on the morrow.

" There's no a face like my love's face,
In lands baith near and far, oh !

There's heaven in my true love's kiss,
Here, on the banks of Yarrow !

But why sae cauld my true lore's hand,
And why's her hair sae yallow —

A' tangled through wi' weeds and sand,
And eke her waist sae narrow ? "

There came a voice wi' morning's gleam

That wakened me to sorrow,
Said — " Happiness is but a dream,

She's drowned — she's drowned in Yarrow ! '

REV. W. H. GRAY, D.D.

MILLIAM HENRY GRAY, the much-respected
minister of the parish of Liberton, near
Edinburgh, was born at St Madoes, in the Carse of
Gowrie, in 1825. His father could claim connection
with the Grays of Kinfauns — a family that had been
for a very long period in that district— and the grand-
father of our poet had a free house and some land from
a member of the family. He, however, married three
times, and as Dr Gray's father was the youngest of all,
he early felt the pressure of the res angusta domi. Against
the wishes of his parents, he went to Perth with a
young man belonging to the district, and lived with

W. H. GRAY. 199

him, learning shoemaking there. After his marriage,
he took a farm in the parish of St Martins, Dr Gray
being very young when the family removed from the
Carse to this farm. His father was anxious to give
his children a good education, and it was decided that
he and a younger brother (now minister of Dalkeith)
should be educated for the Church. After attending
country schools in Guild tow n and St Martins, he went
to Perth seminaries for Latin, Greek, &c., and in
1837, when between twelve and thirteen years of age,
he entered St Andrews University. Young as he was,
he proved himself a diligent student, was successful
in taking several prizes in various classes, and took his
degree of A.M. when he was little more than sixteen.
He completed his divinity course in St Mary's College,
where he was also a distinguished student and prize-
man.

In 1846 Dr Gray was licensed by the Perth Presby-
tery, and in the same year he was ordained minister
of St Paul's Parish, Perth, where he gathered a large
and much-attached congregation. His talents and
wide popularity as a preacher led to his translation, in
1850, to Lady Tester's Parish, Edinburgh, as succes-
sor to Mr, now Principal Caird. It was while in this
important charge, in the year 1869, that he received
his degree of D.D. from the University of St Andrews ;
and when he removed to Liberton, in June 1880, he
had 1800 communicants and 600 Sabbath scholars.

Dr Gray has led a busy, and successful Christian
life, and he continues to give to the service of the
Church the ripe fruit of a learned and cultured mind.
He is the author of a volume entitled "Morning
Seed," being a selection of sermons for the young, in
whom he takes a very warm interest, and by whom he
is held in high esteem. A number of his discourses
have also been ptiblished separately, and have met
with wide popularity. While from an early age he

200 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

has, as he tells us, " amused " himself writing verses,
he has never made it a "serious business." He con-
siders that he has profited by the remark made by
Professor Gillespie, of St Andrews, when giving him a
prize for poetical translations of some of Horace's odes.
The learned Professor said he preferred some of them
to those of Francis, but added, " Remember, poetry
and poverty are very much alike." At College he
wrote occasional pieces of a humorous nature on sub-
jects of passing interest, and ever since he has con-
tinued to write occasional poems bearing his initials
only. In many of these he expresses his thoughts
with true poetic ease and fluency, and with pleasing
rhythmic melody, reflecting the writer's delicate per-
ception, and loving reverent nature.

HOW DID IT HAPPEN?

How did it happen ? Not by chance,
For high ahove our fields of strife

A watchful God directeth all,
And shapeth every human life,

One Just and Good is on the throne,

And doeth all things, He alone.

flow did it happen ? Who can tell

The secret springs of every act ?
We know not all that went before,

We see but the accomplished fact ;
These secret things to God are known,
He seeth all things, He alone.

How did it happen-? Trifles oft
Bring great results for good or ill,

But nothing small or great can come
Without His knowledge and His will,

And all the fruit of seeds thus sown

Is known to God, to Him alone.

How did it happen ? God is judge,
Leave all to Him ; in love believe

Thy brother struggled ere he fell,
And fallen, oft doth deeply grieve —

Think of his faults as of thine own,
Judgment belongs to God alone.

W. H. GRAY. 201

SUFFERERS! DO NOT GRIEVE.*

Sufferers ! do not grieve so sadly

God is king and God is love ;
Trusted men have acted badly,
Some will rage and curse them madly —

Wail not, rail not, look above.

Onwards ! heavenly love discloses
Pathways in the darkest hour ;

Neither Fate nor Hate disposes,

God ie king, and life reposes
On His wisdom, love, and power.

God is king, and sins of others

Work the good they think not of,
Nursing graces Plenty smothers,
Forming spirits like our Brother's,
Showing hearts and deeds of love.

Think not ye are all forsaken,

Love is no such rarity,
Need will Christian effort waken ;
Onward, then, with souls unshaken,
Closer to your breasts be taken

Faith and Hope and Charity.

THE CHRISTIAN HERO.t

Toil on, brave heart, as Thou hast toiled,
In noblest work for God and man,

With love uncooled, with soul unsoiled,
With body worn, with visage wan,
Toil on, brave heart, toil on.

Sow on, brave heart, thou sowest seed
Of knowledge, freedom, faith, and love ;

Of sowers such the world hath need
For peace below, for bliss above,

Sow on, brave heart, sow on.

Love on, brave heart, thy Master loved
The weakest most, the most opprest;

Love on, by Him and His approved,
And show His spirit, share His rest,
Love on, brave heart, love on.

Written after the failure of the City of Glasgow Bank,
t Dr Livingstone.

202 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Lie down, brave heart, the call is Riven,
Build now a hut in which to lie ;

With thoughts of home and prayers to heaven,
Lie down in faith and hope to die,

Lie down, brave heart, lie down.

Live on, brave heart, thou art not dead,
Thou liv'st on earth, thou liv'st above,

Thy spirit here is round us shed,
And thou art in the home of love,
Live on, brave heart, live on.

"PHYSICIAN, HEAL THYSELF."*

" Physician, heal thyself,"

Dost thou so soon succumb ?
Why is thy busy brain at rest,

Thy voice already dumb?
That well-knit frame and stubborn will

Marked thine a later doom.
But work and worry, more than years,

Have laid thee in the tomb.
Who can rejoice to-day ?

Who has not tears to shed ?
The world has lost a friend —

The world will miss the dead.
A great professor lost,

A wise physician gone,
He gave to tortured thousands rest,
By him were countless mothers blest,
Who, in their arms, their infants prest,

Maternal pains unknown.
Nor only wise, but good,

Beloved as well as great ;
To-day how many tears are shed ?
One darkened home has lost its head,

A thousand mourn his fate.
What is the dead one's fate ?

A night that knows no morn?
No ! wisdom for the wise is there,
And goodness for the good to share—

The dead are there new-born.
Our body-tent decays,

Our spirit-li^ht still shines,
We know not where, we know not how,
But if its glory awes us now
In desert bush, how bright its glow

Among the heavenly vines.

» On the deutU of Sir Jatues Y. Simpson— May 13, 1870.

W. H. GRAY. 203

FAR AWAY.

I loved, and was a promised hride,
But cruel Fate imposed delay ;

My lover had to leave my side,
To serve his country far away.

I cared not then, though scenes were fair,
And lighted up with sunny ray ;

One light was ever wanting there,
For my true love was far away.

I danced and san?, I read and wrote,
I tried to work, I tried to play ;

I could not find the joy I sought
My lover still was far away.

And some there were that spoke of love,
And bade me name the marriage-day ;

For heart and hand, in vain, they strove,
I loved another far away.

But now I flutter with delight,
I cannot rest or think to-day ;

My lover will be here to-night,
He comes to take me far away.

I needs must feel, I needs must grieve,
To go, while many loved ones stay ;

But even home, content, I'll leave,
For I .ove goes with me, far away.

MY MARY.

I loved my Mary long ago,
Ag I had never loved before ;

Ami as the years of youth rolled on,
I loved her still, I loved her more.

They would not give me Mary's hand,
They said I had not worldly store ;

They sent me to a foreign land,
I loved her there, I loved her more.

There fortune smiled upon my path,
And golden showers did on me pour ;

Then I returned and claimed my bride,
And vowed to love her evermore.

204 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Some wedded years of life flew by,
A girl and boy to me she bore ;

They filled our happy home with glee,
And then I loved their mother more.

But sorrow's arrows pierced our hearts,
And death came knocking at our door ;

Our little ones were torn away,
And I loved Mary more and more.

Their mourning mother drooped and pined,
She told me all would soon be o'er ;

I clasped her to my breaking heart,
And loved my dying Mary more.

And now I wander forth alone,
In search of yon eternal shore ;

I'll meet my children there in joy,
And love my Mary evermore.

JAMES BURR,

B WRITER hitherto favourably known under the
nom-de-plume "Quilquox," was born in 1863 in
the village of Tarves. His father was then a working
shoemaker, but when James was about two years of
age, the family removed to Quilquox, a rural district
at the extreme end of the same parish, where they
still reside. At school our poet was a -lad of
such promise that he was urged to become a
pupil-teacher by the School Board of Savoch, a neigh-
bouring parish. This was when he was about thirteen
years of age, but he preferred to follow his father's
calling, and served his apprenticeship accordingly.
He afterwards worked ior some time at Brucklay, and
at present he has a business of his own at Cuinines-
town, a " toonie " situated about six miles from TurrifF,

205

where he occasionally enlivens the sterner duties of
life, as he tells us, " wi' a hamely bit lilt o' a sang."

It was while serving his apprenticeship with his
father that he first attempted verse-making — his
securing a copy of Burns' poems at a " raffle " having
been the means of enkindling the fire of poetry within
his soul. He then began to contribute to the People's
Friend in the form of acrostics, riddles, and enigmas,
and of late years he has had numerous songs and
poems in that popular Scottish miscellany, as well as
in the Aberdeen Free Press, Dundee Weekly News, <fec.
His versification is occasionally easy and flowing, his im-
agery is natural and graceful, while his thoughts on
mental and moral manhood are elevating and cheerful.

ONWARD! UPWARD! HEAVENWARD!

Ho ! faint not youthfu' pilgrim as ye sprauchle up Life's brae,

Put a stoot he'rt till't an' thinkna o' dangers i' the way,

Tho' ye aften meet wi' trials ne'er at a' doon-he'rted be,

Aye look them boldly in the face an' aff like cowards they'll flee.

Ne'er gie Despair — the sulky chiel — within yer he'rt a hame,

But gently woo his sister fair — blythe Hope — wi' Love's true

flame,

An' as ye warstle westward aye life's pits an' snares atnang,
Lat " onward, upward, heavenward," be the burden o' yer sang.

Onward, onward press wi' zeal, for soon Life's sun will set,
Soon the shades o' nicht will fa', haste ye, dinna wait,
Swerve not to the richt nor left, keep straight in Duty's way,
Wi' he'rt firm centred on the goal strive onward, come fat may.
Onward ! onward ! like the river, always on the flow,
Never restin' for a moment, onward, onward go,
Waxin" mightier as it rolls, ever gainin' strength,
Till in that haven o' peacefu' rest ye find yersel' at length.

Upward ! upward hie yer course, risin' step by step,

Surmountin' ilka obstacle that wid yer progress kep,

Firmly plant yer feet aye, lest yer footin' ye sud miss

An: doonward sink wi' headlang course in Error's grim abyss.

Upward ! upward like the eagle, higher, higher soar,

Leave the grovelling earth-bound wretch to his sordid store ;

Rise abune the warl's heicht — show yersel' a man,

Lat the weaklings flag ahin', lat the haltin' switherin' stan'.

206 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Heavenward ! heavenward be yer flicht, soarin' fae earth's din
To that bricht an' happy Ian', faur a' is peace within,
Faur a' the trials an' sorrows en' o' oor tried life below,
An* hushed for ever is the wail o' misery an' woe.
Heavenward ! heavenward like the lark, singin' as ye rise,
Rejoicin' that ye hae a hame — a rest ayont the skies,
Faur aifter Life's rouch journey's dune, a welcome for ye waits
Amang the pilgrims that are noo within the gowden gates.

COURAGE TAKE.

Fellow-worker, tired and bleeding,
Let not fears thy manhood shake ;

Reward and rest to thee come speeding,
Pluck up heart, fresh courage take.

Vexing thoughts are born of care,
Why longer with Despair abide !

On wings of Hope leave his dark lair,
And soar at freedom in noontide.

Bitter sorrow— sweat of heart,
Oozing from wound deep an' keen ;

There's present good in every smart,
Which in the future's clearer seen.

Lonely waif on life's rough tide,

Struggle on yet manfully ;
An unseen Friend is by thy side,

With outstretched arm to succour thee.

Weary runner, up, away !

Why halt so near the starting place ?
Set face of flint to toilsome brae —

The goal draws nearer pace by pace.

OH IT'S AYE SIMMER YONNER.

Oh, it's aye simmer yonner, an' a' thing's fair an' green,
Oh, it's aye simmer yonner, nae cauld nor blicht e'er seen,
For a'thing's in its fairest, an' dazzlin' to the e'e,
An' I'm langin', oh, I'm langin' that bonnie place to see.

Oh, it's aye simmer yonner, an' the floories brichtly blaw,
Oh, it's aye simmer yonner, an' they look sae sweet an' braw-
The floories o' Contentment, o' Love, an' Peace, an' Glee,
An' I'm langin', oh, I'm laugin' that bonnie place to see.

JAMES BURR. 207

Oh, it's aye simmer yonner, an" the sangs o' gladness ring,
Oh, it's aye simmer yonner, an' the angel-voices sing,
They sing the sangs o' glory, the ransomed an' the free,
An' I'm langin', oh, I'm langin' that bonnie place to see.

Oh, it's aye simmer yonner, an' a'thing is sae sweet,

Oh, it's aye simmer yonner, an' the loved ane« we shall greet ;

There joy, an' bliss, an' rapture shall licht up ilka e'e,

An' I'm langin', oh, I'm langin' that bonnie place to see.

"TIS DARKEST AFOEE THE DAWN."

Look up, despondin' brither ; look up, look up on high,
See noo yon rift o' bonnie blue sae gladdenin' to the e'e

That's teetin' oot sae genty frae the dark an' cloudy sky,
An' lichtin' up the gloom aroon' liky some bricht starnie wee ;

The shadows o' the lan>_;some nicht will snne a' flee awa',

Mind that 'tis darkest aye, my freen, afore the mornin' daw'.

Look up, despondin' brither ; look up, look up on high,
See faintly in the hazy east the flickerin' licht appears,

Nicht's cloudy screen moves slowly athwart the brichtenin' sky,
An' lo • upon the dreamin' earth the emerald sun uprears

Her winsome form in beauty, an' throws a charm ower a'.

Mind that 'tis darkest aye, my freen, afore the mornin' daw'.

Look up, despondin' brither ; look up, look up on high,
The mists hae left the mountain side, the valley, an' the glen ;

The laverock wakes the silence as he trills sweet i: the sky,
An' joins in symphony sae sweet wi' Nature's glad refrain,

An' joy wi' radiant, smilin' face beams brichtly noo ower a*.

Mind that 'tis darkest aye, my freen, afore the mornin' daw'.

Look up, despondin' brither ; look up, look up on high ;

Why grum'le at the lang, dark days o' winter-time, sae drear?
The snaw will leave the meadows sune, the Spring is drawin'
nigh,

An' Simmer wi' her temptin' sweets, ere lang will noo be here,
We'll wander oot again at eve, by flooer-draped vale an' shaw,
Mind that 'tis darkest aye, my freen, afore the inornin' daw'.

Look up, despondin' brither ; look up, look up on high ;

Tho' dark an' drear thy prospects seem an" freenless ye may be,
For there is Ane a' else abune, an* ever, ever nigh

To those wha are in iair distress, He help an' strength will gie.
A never-failin' Freen to those wha humbly on him ca',
Mind that 'tis darkest aye, my freen, afore the mornin' dttw'.

208 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Look up despondin" hrither ; look up, look up on high ;

What tho' adversity's dark clouds obscure the sun's bricht rays,
Keep up yer he'rt, hope for the best, the clouds will sune gang
by,

Prosperity's bricht star will sheen throu'oot the comin' days,
An' life will e'en be sweeter wi' ilk care an' backward thraw,
But mind 'tis darkest aye, rny freen, afore the mornin' daw'.

REV. ANDREW CUNNINGHAM,

HT one time among the ablest and most dis-
tinguished ministers of the Free Church, was
born at Duns about the year 1817, and died in 1879.
The end came suddenly. He sat down to supper after
his work for the day, and, apparently without any
premonitory symptoms, fell back in his chair, and
life ebbed silently away.

Andrew Cunningham was the youngest son of the
late William Cunningham, banker, Duns, cousin of the
late Principal Cunningham, of the New College, Edin-
burgh, and could claim relationship with Alexander
Peden. He received the elements of his early educa-
tion at the Academy of his native town. Afterwards,
at the Edinburgh High School, he was a distinguished
scholar, and when at the University of Edinburgh he
was known both as a diligent and an able student.
On the completion of his studies at the University,
Mr Cunningham entered the Theological Hall of the
Established Church, and passed through his studies
there with the view of taking license as one of
its ministers. This was towards the close of
the "Ten Years' Conflict," and he was known as a
distinguished advocate of non-intrusion. He was
licensed by the Presbytery of Duns in 1842, and in
the Disruption year was ordained to a charge at Dun-

ANDREW CUNNINGHAM. 209

donald, in the Presbytery of Ayr. After a short but
successful ministry he returned to his native county,
and got a hearty call to the newly-formed Free Church
congregation at Eccles, which he accepted. He was
ordained in the latter part of 1843, and was pastor
of that congregation for the long period of thirty-seven
years.

Mr Cunningham soon took that place as a leader in
the Presbytery of Kelso, and the Synod of Merse and
Teviotdale, for which his accurate knowledge of Church
laws and forms so amply qualified him. For about
twenty years he was Clerk to the Synod, and besides
being a faithful pastor, he was always an earnest
student, familiar with the fathers of our old theology,
and equally at home in discussing modern specialation.
The writer of a loving article that appeared in the
newspapers at the time of his death informs us that
his intimate knowledge of the sciences was exhibited
in the able lectures which he delivered in various
towns. His knowledge on any theme that might
form the subject of private conversation was at once
various and exact, and hence to young ministers his
company was both valuable and much prized. Al-
though endowed with eminent gifts and fitted to fill
any place in the Church, he preferred the quiet of a
country manse, where he could, uninterruptedly, add
to his store of knowledge, to another sphere where his
studies would be more disturbed by other labour. It
was said of him that he hid so determinedly his many
gifts that few knewT fully how able and accomplished
he was — how full of real manhood. Yet, in spite
of his shrinking from display, he was courageous, and
true to his charge as a minister of the Gospel. In
the case of Mr Cunningham there was also an
amount of practical wisdom and knowledge of man
and things, and a capacity to bring his sources of in-
formation and his varied gifts to bear on the business

N

210 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

of life, very seldom to be met with. To this might
be added his wide acquaintance with ancient and
modern literature, ^and what most concerns us at
present, his deeply poetical nature. By the assistance
of his friends, we are here enabled to give a selection
from his hitherto unpublished effusions. These
are mostly in the sonnet form, and possess a
deep meditative pathos, with the compactness, unity,
and finish, the idea, the thought, and the emotion, the
apt simile and imaginative metaphor so necessary in
the structure of the sonnet.

THE REGENT MURRAY.

Murray, thy place in hi*t»i-y is not
That of a king's son ; kings we would forget

In so august a presence ; if a blot

Rest on thy 'scutcheon thou art noble yet
In all thy soul and deeds ; we will thee set

High o'er the royal race from which to spring
Was thy misfortune not thy fault : the pet

Of sentimental minds, — she who could sing

A man's life done, —that daughter of a king, —
Who could shed blood and smile, — thy sister was

But in name only. Bring fresh laurels, bring.
And crown the hero who to freedom's cause
Gave up his life and fell, — his country's laws
Upholding as his latest breath he draws.

KNOX.

A king of men behold ; a man in truth, —

Aye, every inch a man ; a spirit bold,

But noble ; brave and warm of heart — not cold,
Not rough, unfeeling, rude — who, in his youth,

To generous learning gave his soul away
With all a lover's deep devotion ; who
Stood for his country and his kind ; and through

Evil and good report upheld the sway

Of what was true and just ; and founded all
On Christ's Evangel pure ; leaving no fear

What man could do ; and not prepared to fall
And worship despots even if death were near ;

Not moved by blandishment in royal call
Nor by fair face wet with deceitful tear.

ANDREW CUNNINGHAM. 211

THE SEA OF GALILEE.

No scene on earth like this, most sacred sea !

Without a history save linked with One

In hallowed memory ; what deeds were done
Of mercy on thy shores ! It was but He
That gave thee fame abiding ; though no tree

Be shadowed in thy depths, and fancy run

To other scenes more fair ; beneath the sun
Men hail thee first of all ; nor can there be
Stamped, as on " Forest Sea," by patriot lore,

A past like thine ; no lay of combat gory
Fought once for freedom, when stout peasant bore

Back knight encased in steel, can match the glory
Which plays upon thy surface ever more

When from the page of Truth we read thy truest story.

THE ROBIN REDBREAST.

Bird of the ruddy breast which bears, the stain

Of the clear blood shed for ns on the tree ;
Bright trusting bird, when winter comes again

Thee on doorstep and window-sill we see ;

To man's companionship then dost thou Hee.
When storms are coining, and earth, white with snow,

Is bound in bands of frost, and the brief day
Is dark and cheerless and the sun is low, —

Still dost thou keep thy seeming merry play,
With glances quick cast upward t» the face

Of pleased observer, as the children lay
The daily crumbs in some accustomed place ;

With bold arch look invading even the store

Of careful housewife — near the open door.

OLIVER CROM WE L L.

Milton has placed a wreath upon thy brow,
Never to fade, but though he had not sung
Thy greatness among men, uor tuneful tongue

Had might to praise thee, Cromwell, even now,
When mists of prejudice have passed away,

Men set thee high, although they do not bow
Before thee as a king, nor homage pay
On bended knee, jet surely king thou art

If ever king there was ; far nobler thou

Than any James or Charles among them all,
Edward or Henry ; royal was the part

Which fell unto thee at thy country's call,
When the full burden lay upon a heart

Not trembling at a monarch'.-? crimson pall.

212 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

LUTHER.

Strong monk of Wittenberg, thy homely face

And firm-set figure are the very type
Of what thou wroughtest for all time ; the trace

Is still of thee and of thy sturdy gripe
Even on the Book thy labour first revealed
To Europe and mankind ; God's truth, concealed

By priestly guile, thou, forth in language ripe, '.

Did'st send to German homes ; and darkness fled
From half a world ; and Rome's blood stood congealed,

Her very heart ceasing to beat, stone dead

In blank dismay ; while on the message sped
Prom town to castle ; they who in the field
Trained vines, or tilled the ground the toil-bent head
Raised heavenward as they read in straw-roofed shed.

KEITH FORBES MACKIE

MAS born in Edinburgh in 1861. On leaving
school he spent a year in the Edinburgh
Mechanics' Library as an assistant to the Librarian,
Mr James Smith, the well known Scottish poet and
humorist, who has lately retired from that office.
Thereafter Mr Mackie was apprenticed to an S.S.C. in
his native town, and was subsequently several years
with a writer to the signet. In 1882, however, he
left the law, and entered the service of the North
British Railway Company, where he remained until
May of the present (1887) year, when he left for
America. While in " the library " his natural poetical
temperament was fostered and encouraged by his
genial and kindly superior, and since then a number
of his poems and songs have appeared in the columns
of the North British Advertiser and Ladies' Journal
and other newspapers. Most of his pieces have been
written under the influence of passing emotions that

K. F. MACKIB. 213

have swayed his mind at the time, and generally
jotted down during a leisure half-hour, with little
attempt at elaboration. Being of an ardently musical
disposition, his songs have a very pleasing ring and
are smoothly and easily written, while his poems show
minute observation of Nature and give evidence of a
reflective mind.

WAFT HIM O'ER THE FOAM.

The sailor's heart is sad, my lads,

As land fades from his sight,
And shadows, creeping o'er the deep,

Soon melt into the night.
He feels he ne'er may look again

On his dear native shore,
For in the gale his bark is frail
When mighty storms roar.

Then softly blow, oh, gentle winds,

And waft him o'er the foam
To fair sweetheart or anxious wife,
That wait for him at home.

And oft his thoughts flit back to her

He left upon the quay,
With sighs and tears and anxious fears

Of dangers met at sea.
But to his Nance he aye is true —

She is his guiding star ;
By her he steers his wayward thoughts
In other lands afar.

Then softly blow, oh, balmy winds,

And waft him o'er the foam
To fair sweetheart or anxious wife,
That wait for him at home.

When homeward bound, with fav'ring winds,

Soon Albion's coast draws nigh ;
Then as he looks with longing gaze,

He breathes a tender sigh :
For joyous raptures fill his breast—

His dangers now are o'er ;
With hearty grasp his Nance he'll clasp
Unto his heart once more.

Then softly blow, oh, fav'ring winds,

And watt him o'er the foam
To fair sweetheart or anxious wife,
That wait for him at home.

214 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

WHEN GLOAMIN' FADES.

As daylight wanes aad all is hush'd,

And twilight's lurking shadows fall,
While sweetly sounds from forest near

The nightingale's delightful call ;
And like to vesper hymn from heav'n,

The softly sighing zephyr breeze,
With gentle low harmonious tones,

Sings sweetly 'midst the old oak trees.

When redly glows the western sky,

And ling'ring sunset quickly fades,
And dusky shadows deep'ning creep

Amidst the shady sylvan glades,
And on the gentle breeze are borne

Sweet chimes that stir dim mem'ry's chords,
Then waken, as in youth long past,

Glad thoughts and nigh-forgotten words.

For mingling with the sighing winds,

Recalling scenes of long ago,
And echoing through the distant years,

Familiar voices whisper low,
As in the rosy dawn of Hope,

When all the world was fair and bright,
And life was full of joy and mirth

With youthful dreams of fancy's flight.

And one sweet voice still rings out clear,

And whispers gentle words of peace —
Glad words that, like a healing balm,

Make all heart-pains and yearnings cease ;
Thus as I muse night's mantle falls,

Enshrouding all in gloomy shade,
E'er as experience rudely dims

Fair dreams that all too swiftly fade.

But o'er yon hill with silv'ry gleams,

The moonlight calm steals on the scene,
In mellow radiance flooding all,

While silent Nature sleeps serene,
And stillness o'er the earth descends,

As hills and dales are bathed in light,
While through the twinkling starlit hear'ns

Serenely sails the Queen of Night.

Tis at this hour — this witching hour —
When mellow moonbeams softly play,

K. F. MACKIE. 215

And linjr'ring daylight, loth to leave,

Now slowly fades and dies away.
t love to roam 'mid sylvan scenes,

Where some clear streamlet murmurs by,
Far from the city's troublous din,

Where noise and turmoil ne'er come nigh.

For then, just as the gloamin' fades,

And night's dark shadows gather fast,
On fancy's wing the thoughts aye roam

Into the dim and distant past,
Tis then the mem'ry's magic touch

Recalls the happy days of yore —
Those days that ne'er return again,

But pass away for evermore.

HER DARK BROWN EYES.

Thou gentle balmy summer winds,

Go whisper soft and low,
As o'er the sleeping earth there steals

The dawn's first radiant glow,
While sunbeams gleam 'midst heaven's blue,

And fast approaches day,
Go whisper softly in her ear

The burden of my lay —
Her dark brown eyes I'll ne'er forget,
For ah ! I love, I love her yet.

And when 'tis eve, and shadows fall

At gloamin's pensive hour,
When night is nigh, and o'er the heart

Steals mem'ry's soft'ning power ;
When thoughts flit back to other days,

And fading scenes of yore,
Then, breezes, murmur in her ear

The words — yea o'er and o'er —
Her dark brown eyes I'll ne'er forget,
For ah ! I love, I love her yet.

Thou songsters 'midst thy leafy bow'rs,
Thy carols sweet prolong,

And ere the twinkling stars appear
Trill forth thy twilight song ;

Oh ! let the forest glades resound,
With love thy notes aglow,

And ever let thy theme be mine-
Sing on thus sweet and low —

Her dark brown eyes I'll ne'er forget,

For still I love, I love her yet.

216 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Thou streams that ripple through the glen,

If she should chance to stray
Where thou art murm'ring peacefully

'Mid wild flowers bright and gay,
Ah ! let her know I love her so,

Repeat it in her ear,
While wimpling o'er thy pebbly course

In gentle cadence clear,
For her brown eyes I'll ne'er forget,
And, come what may, I'll love her yet.

MARY CADELL,

E subject of our present sketch, was born in
Edinburgh in 1866. She is a daughter of an
Indian officer, and is connected with several of our
oldest families. Educated chiefly in the south
of England, Miss Cadell, since she was fifteen years of
age, has resided in the neighbourhood of Glasgow. In
addition to possessing a considerable acquaintance
with English literature, and the French, Italian, and
German languages — the latter of which she reads
almost as easily as she does English — Miss Cadell is also
a self-taught musician, and although she never got a
lesson in painting she has such artistic gifts as to
secure her a place in the present Glasgow Exhibition.
Miss Cadell has also done a considerable amount of very
promising literary work in poetry and prose. Her poetry
manifests a nature open to the spiritual strength and
beauty lying in all material things. A striking feature
in her pretty and well-turned verse is her vivacious
imagery and the great amount of thought compressed
into narrow limits. Her rhythm is generally true
and harmonious, while all her subjects are such as
readily appeal to the heart, and are invariably handled
with true poetic fervour.

MARY CADELL. 217

SOUL COMMUNION.

We met lait night, others were standing by,

No word of confidence between us passed,
But from her lips escaped a half-drawn sigh

As, parting, in her own my hand she clasped.

As sobs the wind o'er the J£olian harp,

That sigh made mournful music in my heart,

Deep in my soul it pierced quick and sharp —
From pain's broad quiver a keen-tempered dart.

I could not stay to offer one small word

Of comfort, nor my sympathy to show —
I could not stop to touch that throbbing chord

Of anguish, nor to soothe the bitter throe ;

But as I homeward passed the thought uprolls,
My own heart's glad, can I not cheer her then 1

Influence unconscious flows from out our souls
For woe or weal unto our fellow men.

"Tie a soul-power which distance cannot bar.
The spirit's scope limits nor space nor time.

May I not cheer her soul even from afar?
Through space mayhap to her heart-chamber climb?

Her sky is overcast while mine is bright,

My heart is full of joy while she is sad ;
May not this brightness edge those clouds with light ?

And joy from my soul flow to make her glad?

On love's strong wings I bound my load of joy —
Out with her burden through the air she fled ;

Say ! could 1 better love and joy employ T
Tell me, dear friend, oh wert thou comforted?

A SPRING SONG.

Do you not feel God loves you ?

When the Hun shines warm and bright,
Bathing earth, and sea, and sky in glory

Of mysterious sweetness and mystic light.
Say, do you not feel His encircling love?
Say, do you not feel He's ruling above ?

Do you not feel God loves you ?

When you hear the melodious song
Of the diverse-toned sweet warblers

218 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

That gladsome, music-speaking throng.
Say, do you not feel the birds love the T,ord?
He them, and both you a three-fold cord ?

Do you not feel God loves you ?

When you hear the river's song.
As it steadily flows and calmly,
As it laughs and ripples along.
Say, does it not tell yon too to pursue
Your course to God and yourself to be true ?

Sometimes with a motion peaceful and slow,
Sometimes'with a ruthjand deafening roar,
Sometimes playfully kissing the rocks and stones,
Sometimes deep and still, as 'twould flow no more.
Yet never ceasing, ever in motion,
Goes to join its voice with the song of the ocean.

Do you not feel God loves you ?

As you see the trees and flowers
Fresh growing, new life pulsing,

Nursed by the sun and showers.
Do you not feel that beyond the deep blue
Of the Heaven's vaults there's new life for you ?

Do you not feel God loves you ?

As the flower turns its face to you,
The daisy white yet blushing

As it screens its heart from view.
The violet's fragrance, the golden star
Of the celandine beckoning from Afar.

Do you not feel God loves you ?

As you mark the rosy flush
Of th« morn's awakening, the soft gray

Of the twilight, its soothing hush.
Say, do not these, all of them, tell the tale
Of that wonderous love that shall never fail ?

The sun gives light, and warmth, and life,

Birds music make — the rivers too ;
Upward grow trees, and grass, and flowers,

Point ever upward, why not you?
Will you, of creation the last and best,
Waver and fail, while these withstand life's test.

SNOW.

Whence comest thou, beautiful snow?

Art thou the bridal dress
For the earth's espousals to the skies '!

Or bringest thou redress

MARY CADELL. 219

For the winter's cruel cold,

For the frost king's icy frown 1
Softening his harshness pityingly,

Gently thou comest down.

Did the angela form thee, beautiful snow ?

Little flakes, one by one,
Fairy-like crystalline gems of heaven,

Fading away in our sun.

Melting quickly away, too fair,

Too pure, too spotless pure to last ;
But thy beauty memory will recall

After thy form has passed.

THE SPIRIT OF BEAUTY.

" Spirit of beauty, where dost thou dwell,
Art thou on the earth or in the sky,
Beyond those marble cloud-towers high,

Or beneath the waves ? Tell me, oh tell,
Spirit of beauty, where thou abidest,
I seek thee, oh Spirit '• I follow, thou guideat."

" My home is not on any haunts of earth,

The mountains know me not, nor at my birth

Shone on my wondering eyes the sun, the peaceful vale

Was not my childhood's playground, where no gale

Humbles the forests' pride, where all is peace

And gladness, where the birds and flowers and trees

Strike each unconsciously a thrilling note

Of Nature's harmony, sweet echoes float

Of distant rivers, hurrying to the sea :

The myriad insects' hum, the melody

Of tinkling streams, sweet zephyrs' gentle breath

All tell of peaceful life, far off seems death.

Not there am I, nor in the gauzy mist,

Which shrouds the mountain tops, nor they resist

Its coy caresses, not within those waves of white

Which float across heaven's dome of blue so bright,

Those pearly shadows hide me not from view,

Nor from my hiding-place me gently woo."

" Th,e leaves may whisper to the leaves, yet not disclose
My secret will they, nor the petals of the rose
Unfolding, lay my beauty bare, thou wilt not find
Me in the lily's drooping bell, tho' with the wind
Heavenward it turns its face, the waving sedges

220 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

That skirt the sleepy, drowsy water's edges

Shade not my slambers, nor the waters cool

My limbs, 1 bathe not in that twinkling limpid pool

In that bright streamlet hurrying to the river

Hasting in turn, to the ocean to deliver

Its message. In that calm creeping wave.

Eager the hot sand's burning brow to .'ave,

I float not, nor when howling winds

Lash the wild waves to frenzy, while foam blinds

The rision and the grand majestic beauty of the storm

Strikes awe into the soul

Seek me not there, not there thy search incline."

41 Spirit of beauty, where dost thou dwell ?

In that subtle art which strives to tell

The yearnings and strainings of the soul

For perfection and harmony of the whole

Of man and the universe, bid me come

And embrace thee, fair spirit, if here in thy home. '

" Next to the force and power of Nature's laws

Come those of art, whose subtle magic draws

Aside the veil with which so jealously

Nature her secrets guards, and zealously

Art strives to expound to th' unobservant eye

Those laws of harmony which underlie

The outward form* of beauty and of grace.

Nor for the eye alone doth art embrace

These beauties, for the tuneful e,-u- iloth she prepare

Sweet strains of melody and music rich and rare,

Faint echoes caught from mystic symphonies,

Like unto angels' words net unto Nature's harmonies.

And from the soul's strings, too, doth she evoke

Words musical and rare, transparent cloak

Of greater thoughts, fancies supreme and deep,

From mind and soul and spirit joined Art forth doth sweep

Rare themes of wisdom and of beauty — powers

Which, sought on earth, Eternity makes ours.

Most beauteous realms are these, and yet my feet

Tarry not here, these sweet sounds do not greet

My ears, those scenes my eyes for ever, here

My home is not, tho" to my heart they're dear."

"Where, then, shall I seek thee? oh spirit so fair,

In the form of man which soul expresses

In the eye's liquid depths which impresses

Some spirit pure and true, or graces rare

Of simple childhood whose incompleteness

Is complete perfection — soul-filling sweetness?1'

MARY CADELL. 221

" Last of Creation's works and best is man

Formed to fulfil the preconcerted plan

O' the universe, without him incomplete,

And without aim or purpose, 'neath whose feet

With all their glories th' earth ami heavens are placed,

His course ' a little lower than the angels ' traced,

The secret of whose being is withheld from all

But the great Three in One, whose bitter fall

Brought sin and death into the world, the strife

Twixt mind and matter, 'twixt the higher life

And lower, for the soul two-sided is —

One aide up-turned receives heavenly impress

And ever soareth upward, but down-borne

Upon the other with a sense forlorn

Of sinfuluess and weakness, yet destined

At last to mingle with the Master Mind,

When all that ere hath been of beauty and of povrer

Shall be conjoined and merged, as matchless dower

Of some yet uncreated being, fit to mate

With One, Omnipotent, Omniscient, Great. ''

" 0 Spirit of Beauty, why vex me so long ?

Not proudly not idly have I sought for thee,

All humbly I panted thy glory to see,

Bend down, then, in pity, and list to my song,

That the future thy form will disclose give me hope,

With the present I then shall have courage to cope.'*

" 0 child of man, thou know'st not thy demand —

Thou could'st not, dar'nt not 'fore my presence stand,

Thy mortal eyes could not my glory see.

In terror dire thou would'st before it flee.

"Tis but the v«il of flesh that hi«ien me from thy sight,

Till that falls from thee, till thy spirit'* flight

From out the thrall of sense, rest thou content

With all the beauty o'er the earth besprent.

I cannot e'en describe, in words translate

My home or form, too high is it and great

For words to clothe, for mortal ears to hear.

Work on in patience, work and do not fear

To lose me, I am ever near at hand,

Close by my faithful followers I stand,

Then, when thy spirit wends its way abore,

Through Beauty's realms thou'lt ever with me rove "

222 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

WILLIAM LINDSAY ALEXANDER, D.D., LL.D.

addition to his being a man of real mark —
a scholar, and a man of strong personal char-
acter, Dr Alexander possessed a true relish for
Scotch characteristics, and mourned their passing
away. As the author of several well-known hymns,
especially the one which opens with the line " I'm
kneeling at the threshold, weary, faint, and sore," he
is entitled to a high place among our Scottish poets
and hymn-writers.

William Lindsay Alexander was born at Leith in
1808. His father, a merchant there, was a native of
Moffat, and belonged to a branch of the family that
had settled in the county of Peebles before the Re-
formation. Dr Alexander received his early scholastic
training at Leith and at East Linton, Haddingtonshire,
under Dr Hugh Jamieson, a minister of the Associate
Synod. As a boy he is described by his biographer,
Rev. James Ross, Glasgow, in his " Life and Work "
(London : James Nisbet & Co.) — a most engaging
and carefully prepared volume, to which we are in-
debted for many of the particulars we give here — as
" possessed of an ardent and impulsive disposition,
somewhat shy and reserved towards strangers, but
open, frank, and affectionate towards his relatives and
friends." His father being a man of considerable
means, his son enjoyed many educational advantages.
In 1822, when little over fourteen years of age, he
entered on his University studies. The first three
years of his curriculum he spent at Edinburgh Uni-
versity. Even thus early his classical scholarship was
so conspicuous that he was chosen by Professor Pillans
to show, by competition, to some doubting Englishmen
that a Scotch student could be more than a match for

W. L. ALEXANDER. 223

any English one at making Latin verses. In the con-
test young Alexander proved himself worthy of his
name and fame. He finished his University course at
St Andrews, whither the fame of Dr Chalmers was
attracting students from all parts of Scotland. Dr
Chalmers, recognising his ability, treated him more as
a friend and companion than as a scholar. He was
known at St Andrews for his skill in golf as well as
for his scholarship and general attainments. Here he
first essayed to preach ; and during his student time
at St Andrews he became a member of the Congrega-
tional Church in Leith. He preached his first sermon
in Edinburgh. It was delivered in the church his
father attended, and in presence of many old friends.
He says : "I discharged the duty to the best of my
ability. But on coming down to the vestry one of
the worthy Deacons came to me and said some very
disparaging things about my sermon, saying plainly
that that sort of thing would never do. Among other
things he said it was too flowery. Saunders, the
church officer, who was in the vestry, and was stand-
ing with his hand on the door, turned round and
said ' Flooers ! an' what for no ^ What ails ye at
flooers ? ' After the Deacon went out I went up to
Saunders and thanked him for taking my part. To
that he replied, ' Weel, Maister Weelum, I jist didna
like to see him ower ill to ye ; but, atween oorsels,
he wasna far wrang. Ye ken, yon'll no dae ! ' "

On the termination of his University career, Dr
Alexander went a session to the Glasgow Theological
Academy, then under the charge of Dr Wardlaw.
After this we find him spending four years as classical
tutor at Blackburn Academy, now Lancashire College,
for the training of students for the Congregational
ministry. On leaving Blackburn he returned to
Edinburgh, and was for some time in doubt and per-
plexity as to his true vocation in life — having sue-

224 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

cessively thought of the legal profession, literature,
and medicine. Then he went South again, preached
for a time in a vacant church in Liverpool, received a
call to be its pastor, but declined. He now, however,
finally decided to follow the ministry, and he left
Liverpool with the resolution to study theology more
thoroughly and systematically than he had hitherto
done. With this view he proceeded to Germany, but
his visit to that country was of short duration. On
his return, in 1835, he received and accepted, some-
what against his own inclination, a call to be pastor of
the Congregational Church, Edinburgh. This was
North College Street Congregation, which, in 1861,
removed to the new church in George IV. Bridge,
well-known as Augustine Church. He presided over
this congregation with growing power and acceptance
for nearly forty-three years. Several offers of profes-
sorial positions came to him from Congregational
Colleges in England, but these were set aside on
account of the great attachment existing between him
and his people.

In 1869 Dr Alexander visited Palestine — his work
as editor of " Kitto's Bible Cyclopaedia " quickening
the desire to see the Holy Land. A very large part of
the Cyclopaedia was written by his own hand, includ-
ing most of the books of the New Testament as well
as the biographical notices of eminent Biblical and
theological scholars. During the seven or eight years
he was engaged in this laborious undertaking he was
compelled to confine his attention almost exclusively
to his duties as editor, pastor, and professor. After
forty-two years' service as minister he was presented by
his people with a cheque for £1500 and a timepiece,
in recognition of his noble and long-continued work
among them. In 1877 he resigned the pastorate, and
became the first holder of the Endowed Principalship
of the Hall — a post that failing health compelled him

W. L. ALEXANDER. 225

to relinquish in 1882. The last years of his life were
occupied in private study, and in his periodical visits
to London in connection with the revision of the Old
Testament. He died in December 1884, at the age
of seventy-six, after a short but painful illness, due to
cold caught in Edinburgh when sitting for the portrait
to be presented to him on the occasion of the jubilee
of his ministry.

We do not require to trace here at any length Dr
Alexander as a preacher, teacher, controversialist, and
scholar. Mr Ross gives a clear and interesting
account of the story of the work and life of Dr Alex-
ander as minister, trainer of theological students, the
man of learning, the student of science and philosophy,
with glimpses of his inner spiritual life, as well as his
family and social life, which was genial. Indeed,
although often in controversy, when he relaxed himself
from his multifarious duties, he was inimitable as a
teller of bright and sparkling stories, and he was ever
ready with racy anecdote. Out of much material, Mr
Ross has made a judicious selection, and the por-
traiture given of the Doctor, as he was generally called
by his people and students, is said to be strikingly
exact. He was eminently a man, the charm of whose
character lay to a large extent in the impressive,
dignified, though kindly manner which he carried with
him into the discharge of his professional duties, and
which made itself apparent in his private and social
relations, but never so as to become in any way objec-
tionable. It was clear to all that his manner was not
the result of any studied coldness, but the outcome of
natural reserve and even modesty, which, however,
could not long subdue the latent kindliness of heart
that overspread his face in sunny smiles and rippling
laughter. A scholar, he continued to keep up his
scholarship ; a student of the Bible, he became re-
nowned for his expository powers, St Andrews honour-

226 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

ing him with the degree of D.D., and Edinburgh with
that of LL.D. ; fond of philosophy and ethics, he grew
more addicted to their study as the years rolled on ;
a teacher of Divine truth, these years were full of work
done in training young men in the Theological Hall
to preach Christ, and his congregation to live the life of
faith. Evidence is afforded of his tenderness, devotion
of spirit, and playfulness in his Latin translations of
Scotch songs and other pieces in English, Greek, and
Latin verse. A number of the hymns given by Mr
Ross are taken from " Hymns for Christian Worship,"
compiled by Dr Alexander for the use of his congre-
gation, others have a place in various congregational
hymn-books, while some have been printed in the
Sunday Magazine, and several are from his own
manuscript. The hymn "The Aged Believer" has
been published separately by Mr James Taylor, Edin-
burgh, and has been set to music by Messrs Paterson
& Son.

Principal Donaldson, LL.D., St Andrews, whose
eminence as a scholar, and his friendly association with
Dr Alexander, enable him to speak of his deceased
friend with special knowledge, furnishes interesting
details of the character and attainments of our poet.
These occupy a portion of the " Biography," and
therein he refers as follows to Dr Alexander's delight
in writing verses, both English and Latin. "In
English, indeed, it was not songs but hymns that he
wrote, in some of which he had been very successful.
Accordingly, when I required a poetical translation of
the hymns of Clemens Alexandrhms for the Ante-
Nicene Library, I applied to him, and he produced
most excellent versions. He also devoted a few of his
spare hours to Latin verses, and collecting them
together he printed them privately, and dedicated
them to the Hellenic Society. Occasionally he takes
a liberty with the quantity, but this is rare, and on

W. L. ALEXANDER. 227

the whole they show great command of the language
and poetical power, and he was very happy in his
translations from Burns into mediteval Latin rhymes.
He kept up this literary amusement to the end, and
one of his last communications to me was a translation
of Burns' song, 'Willie brewed a peck o' maut.'"

THE AGED BELIEVER AT THE GATE OP HEAVEN.

I'm kneeling at the threshold, weary, faint, and sore,
Waiting for the dawning, for the opening of the door ;
Waiting till the Master shall bid me rise and come
To the glory of His presence, to the gladness of His home.

A weary path I've travelled, 'mid darkness, storm, and strife,
Bearing many a burden — struggling for my life ;
But now the morn is breaking, my toil will soon be o'er ;
I'm kneeling at the threshold, my hand is on the door.

Methinks I hear the voices of the blessed as they stand
Singing in the sunshine of the sinless land ;
Oh ! would that I were with them, amid their shining throng,
Mingling in their worship, joining in their song !

The friends that started with me have enter'd long ago ;
One by one they left me, struggling with the foe ;
Their pilgrimage was shorter, their triumph sooner won —
How lovingly they'll hail me when my toil is done !

With them the blessed angels, that know nor grief nor sin ;
I see them by the portals, prepared to let me in !
O Lord, I wait Thy pleasure, Thy time and way are best ;
But I'm wasted, worn, and weary — O Father, bid me rest.

THE AGED SAINT ENTERING HEAVEN.

At length the door is opened, and free from pain and sin,
With joy and gladness on his head, the pilgrim enters in ;
The Master bids him welcome, and on the Father's breast,
By loving arms enfolded, the weary is at rest.

The pilgrim's staff is left behind, behind the sword, the shield,
The armour dimmed and dinted on many a hard-fought field ;
His now the shining palace, the garden of delight,
The palm, the robe, the diadem, the glory ever bright !

The blessed angels round him, amid heaven's hallowed calm,
With harp and voice are lifting up the triumph of their psalm;

228 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

" All glory to the Holy One, the Infinite I Am,

Whose grace redeems the fallen ! Salvation to the Lamb !

" Another Son of Adam's race, through Jesu's loving might,
Hath crossed the waste, hath reached the goal, hath vanquished

in the fight.

Hail, brother, hail ! we welcome thee, join in our sweet accord,
Lift up the burden of our song ! Salvation to the Lord ! "

And now from out the glory, the living cloud of light,
The old familiar faces come beaming on his sight ;
The early lost, the ever loved, the friends of long ago,
Companions of his conflicts and pilgrimage below.

They parted here in weakness, and suffering, and gloom ;
They meet amid the freshness of heaven's immortal bloom ;
Henceforth in ever-during bliss to wander, hand in hand,
Beside the living waters of the still and sinless land.

Oh ! who can tell the rapture of those to whom 'tis given
Thus to renew the bom Is of earth amid the bliss of heaven ?
Thrice blessed be His holy name, who, for our fallen race,
Hath purchased, by His bitter pains, such plenitude of grace.

"I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY."

Alway on Earth 1 — oh, no !

Like dark Cocytus river ;
'Mid scenes of pain and woe,

To wander on for ever ?
Oh no!

Alway on Earth ? — to mark
Its hurrying scenes of sorrow,

And feel my soul grow dark,
Yet hope for no to-morrow ?
Oh no!

Alway on Earth ? — to see
The loved and lovely perish ;

Till, like a wasted tree,
I had no bud to cherish ?
Oh no !

Alway on Earth ? — to wear

The warrior's harness ever,
The racer's toil to share,

Yet reach his triumph never ?
Oh no !

W. L. ALEXANDER. 229

No ! there's a better land,

A nobler prospect given —
A seat at God's right hand, •

A calm repose in heaven.
And there,

There would my spirit rest,
'Mid bowers of light and gladness,

And, with Emmanuel blest,
Lose every sense of sadness !
Yes, there !

BEREAVEMENT.

I once possessed a flower —
A little flower, which grew beneath my eye,
And cheered me with its beauty, and the balm
Of its sweet fragrance poured upon my heart,
Awhile it seemed to thrive, and, to the sun
Spreading its velvet petals, each new morn
It gave fresh pledge of vigour, while to me,
With its bright smiling eye npturn'd to mine,
It ever seem'd to thank me for my lore.
Thus day by day it grew, and day by day
My love grew with it ; till one gloomy eve
The tempest rose and beat upon my flower.
Before the furious blast it stoop'd its head,
Cowering and shivering as it fain would 'scape
The ruthless pelting of the heavy drops
That sought to dash its beauty in the dust.
All through that anxious night I watched my flower,
And sought with loving hand to hold it up
And give it shelter ; but in vain ; ere morn,
All torn and dabbled on the pitiless soil
It lay ; yet, smiling, bade me hope.
And I did hope — hoped on in spite of fear,
Till hope became the parent of belief -
When suddenly a dark form pass'd
Between my flower and me, and pluck'd it up —
Up by the very roots. In grief and wrath
I started up, when lo ! with sudden change
The ruthless plunderer put on a form
Of more than earthly beauty, and the smile
Of a caltn love play'd o'er his sunny face.
I might not choose but gaze ; and as I gazed,
Spreading his glist'ning wings I saw him rise
And soar with rapid flight, in his kind hand
Bearing with gentle grasp my little flower.
Upward he flew and on, until at length
I saw him plant my flower in that fair clime

230 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Where suns for ever shine and no storm comes —
There now it grows, fed hy immortal dew,
Close by Hod's throne ; and now no longer mine,
'Tis His ; while I look up and see it smile,
And dry my tears and say, " Tis better thas. '

THE LAST WISH.

No more, no more of the cares of time !
Speak to me now of that happy clime,
Where the ear never lists to the sufferer's moan
And sorrow and care are all unknown :
Now when my pulse beats faint and slow,
And my moments are numbered here below,
With thy soft, sweet voice, my sister, tell
Of that land where my spirit longs to dwell.

Oh yes ! let me hear of its blissful bowers,
And its trees of life, and its fadeless flowers ;
Of its crystal streets, and its radiant throng,
With their harps of gold, and their endless song ;
Of its glorious valms, and its raiment white,
And its streamlets all lucid with living light ;
And its emerald plains, where the ransom'd stray,
"Mid the bloom and the bliss of a changeless day.

And tell me of those who are resting there,
Far from sorrow and free from care —
The loved of my soul, who passed away
In the roseate bloom of their early day ;
Oh ! are they not bending around me now,
Light in each eye, and joy on each brow,
Waiting until my spirit fly,
To herald me home to my rest on high ?

Thus, thus, sweet sister, let me hear

Thy loved voice fall on my listening ear,

Like the murmur of streams in that happy grove,

That circles the home of our early love ;

And so let my spirit calmly rise,

From the loved upon earth to the blest in the skies,

And lose the sweet tones I have loved so long

In^the glorious burst of the heavenly song.

GRUEL.

A wind from the north
Came over the Forth,
Biting and blasting and cruel ;

W. L. ALEXANDER. 231

So I went to my bed
With a cold in ray head
After taking a basin of gruel.

All through the night

In sorrowful plight
In vain I attempted to slumber

I found no repose,

For from my poor nose
Came sneeze after sneeze without number.

I tumbled and toss'd

Till my temper I lost,
And the heat brought a nice perspiration ;

As this over me broke

I slept, and then woke
In a state of immense jubilation.

So I cast off the sheet,

And rose to my feet,
And washed, and was bright as a jewel.

And now I declare

There is no sort of fare
Half so good for a cold as hot gruel.

JOYFUL EXPECTATION.

Hallelujah ! note of gladness
Which the choirs above prolong !

There no sense of sin or sadness
Mars the music of their song ;

Strains of triumph
Burst from all that blessed throng.

Hallelujah ! here in sorrow
Oft our notes of triumph die,

And from earth our spirits borrow
Clouds which darken all our sky ;

But the dawning
Of a griefless day is nigh.

Hallelujah ! though our dwelling
Here 'mid Kedar's tents is found,

Let our voices, gladly swelling,
Echo back to heaven the sound,

Till the anthem
Boll the universe around.

232 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Hallelujah ! realms of glory !

Ye shall hear our worthier strains,
When we sing redemption's story

Where redemption's Author reigns ;
There for ever

Free from sins, and fears, and pains.

PATRICK PROCTOR ALEXANDER, M.A.,

BN accomplished literary critic and an able philo-
sophic writer, as well as a poet of tender grace,
was born in 1823 at St Andrews, where his father was
long Professor of Greek. He was educated at the
Madras College and at St Andrews University, and
his love for the ancient town of his birth grew with
every year of his life. We are informed by the writer of
a loving memorial paper in the People's Friend, that he
there formed a life-long friendship with the late Prin-
cipal Tulloch, and there his genial humour and his
kindly wit made him a valued member of the Clubs,
while his love of golf and his physical strength made
him a constant and a welcome sight on the course.
To the end he loved the good old game, and when, a
few weeks before his death, no longer able to follow
the ball, he, like Dr Robert Chalmers, " hirpled " with
the players, though unable to wield his club. " Than
St Andrews,'' says the writer already referred to,
" perhaps there is no town on Scottish soil more likely
to rouse in the bosom of a Scotchman a deep patriotism
and a passionate love for the nationality, the heroism,
and the chivalry of Scotland. . . . Does not the
very spirit of its independence cry aloud from its
ruined walls ? It is teeming with history. Cardinal
Beaton, Archbishop Sharp, Patrick Hamilton, Andrew

P. P. ALEXANDER. 233

Melville, sturdy Knox, beautiful Mary Queen of Scots —
each and all people our dreams there." Among such
associations as these in the " little city worn and grey,"
passed Patrick Alexander's boyhood and youth. Its
traditions sank deep into his mind, and went to form
his impressions and mould his poetic soul.

Mr Alexander's start with the practical concerns of
life was evidently a mistake. His own wish was for
the profession of arms, but, as we are informed by Mr
Hodgson, of West Park, Cupar-Fife — who knows much
of his career, and wrote an able critical article on his
talents and attainments — the decree went forth that
he should try his fortune among the commerces of
Glasgow. This arrangement was utterly distasteful to
him, and he had no natural aptitude and less liking
for such a career. With his fine physique he would
have been a splendid soldier. He looked the part of
Mars, as well as felt it, and the literature of battle and
adventure was his favourite perusal through life.
Five and twenty years ago he dropped out of the com-
mercial world, and, in a sense, never took his place in
the battle of life again, although for a time he was
examiner in philosophy to the University of St
Andrews. His resolutions for a while were indetermi-
nate. The bent of his mind was distinctly literary,
therefore, although he was humility itself as re-
garded his own capacities, he frequently indulged in
fugitive contributions to the columns of the Weekly
Citizen, whose conductor, Dr Hedderwick, still living,
was Alexander's sole contemporary in the West out of
the remote past. While in Glasgow, we are informed
by the writer of a warm tribute to his memory in the
Scotsman of the day following his death, he spent much
of his time with Alexander Smith and others in a
society that is described in his charming sketch of
Smith prefixed to the " Last Leaves." He must then
have written a great deal, but much of it is buried in

234 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

the now irrecoverable files of an extinct newspaper.
He destroyed many manuscripts shortly before his
death, which took place in Edinburgh, at the residence
of his sister, in November, 1886. In sadness of spirit
he survived most of his Edinburgh literary circle —
James Hannay, Alexander Smith, Dr Findlater, and
others ; and as friend after friend departed, his figure
grew pathetic and springless. The death of Principal
Tulloch, only a few months previous to his own demise,
at last overthrew him altogether. As Mr Hodgson
touchinglj writes : — " That memorable scene in St
Andrews Burying-ground, when all that was mortal
of the beloved Principal was laid to rest, had no more
pitiable spectacle in it than poor Alexander in pic-
turesque thrall of grief. Alone he stood in dejection,
regarding the mournful activities over the bier of his
class-fellow long ago, as if in envy of the rest that was
not yet his, and tired utterly with the ever-increasing
despoiling of his already displenished affections. He
said little, as his manner was when inwardly in flame ;
but the observer noticed a great age in Alexander's
looks as he wended his way at snail's pace from the
tombs by the sea, as if he had added to himself a sum
of years which he was perfectly willing to take for
granted — if only Tulloch's eternal quietude could be
shared." The sonnet on " Rest " grew out, we
are told, of a close companionship he had with an
ivory mask copy of the dead face of Dante which lay
among his pipes and tobacco ashes on the mantelpiece
in his "diggings" in Pitt Street — a souvenir that he
much cherished of the author of the "Life Drama."
It is worthy of note that in Smith's last illness, Alex-
ander was most devoted to him, and nursed him like a
brother. Unique in many ways, he was unique in the
possession of a tender grace that was always conceal-
ing itself, or when at work was moving about in
chosen obscurity. His universal pity fastened its

P. P ALEXANDER. 235

preference on the weak, the unfortunate, and the
young. His "True Story for Little Children" in
"Christmas Gleams," 1884 (Glasgow : David Bryce &
Son), shows how he could lisp in their own prattle to
infant years. It is modelled upon Wordsworth's
"Pet Lamb," and Bishop Wordsworth says "it is as
good " as his uncle's ballad.

At one time he was an occasional contributor to the
Scotsman. His bes1>known writings are "Mill and
Carlyle" and "Moral Causation," the efforts of
" amused leisure." These are full of humour and
subtle thinking — the parody of Carlyle is admirable,
and under the guise of parody much serious criticism
is concealed. Mr Hodgson tells us, in regard to his
work "Sauertig," by " Smelfungus," republished a
few years ago by Messrs Maclehose, Glasgow, that
Swinburne has said that it is " one of the few masterly
satires in the English language." Without doubt it
contains the evidence of the many-sidedness of his
mental resource, and its agile repartee, rollicking
humour, and icy cynicism, together with its sub-current
of scarcely-veiled humanity and piety, will long pre-
serve it fresh in the spontaneous and manly literature
of the time. He was phenomenal, however, for other
than metaphysical originality. He shared with Lord
Rosslyn the gift of writing the Petrarchan stanza as
successfully as any contemporary poet. A clever
little work on " Spiritualism," an article in the " En-
cyclopaedia Britannica " on " Golf," and some inimi-
tible biographies in " Chambers's Encyclopaedia,"
with a number of poems which were printed in
his latter days, and which show a mastery of com-
position, indicating that there have been many
more only known to friends, comprise the bulk of his
literary labours. A writer in the Scotsman says : —
" He attached little value to these pieces, and we do
not suppose he had any collection of them ; but as

236 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

they appeared he was in the habit of sending them,
frequently accompanied by satirical, cynical, critical,
and depreciatory remarks upon their ' wretchedness,'
to some of his friends, who, setting greater store upon
them than he himself did, have preserved them.
Several of his sonnets appeared in Fraser's Magazine,
when it was under the editorship of his old school and
college companion and livelong friend, the late Prin-
cipal Tulloch. Others appeared in the Spectator.
Many of his verses, specially translations from Horace,
and fugitive pieces which, perhaps, had been written
in his youth, were every now and again dug up from
some old Glasgow or other newspaper, or written down
from memory and printed in the Fifeshire Journal,
often (showing the innate drollery of the man) under
the initials of his fast friend the editor, Mr William
Hodgson. Others were sent to another friend,
' Orion,' and appeared in his ' Tangled Talk,' in the
Glasgow Evening, and subsequently Weekly, Citizen.
Many of them, the property of his friend, Mr William
Tod of St Mary's Mount, Peebles, are before us at
present, and bear ample evidence of the eminence he
might have attained had he cared to cultivate the art."
That he had it in him to do much more was evident
to every one that came across him. His conversation
showed that his critical power and his humour were
great ; but he could not be persuaded to make any
serious use of them. This partly arose from a some-
what indolent disposition, and partly from the feeling,
which was evidently very strong in him, that it really
mattered very little to other people what he said or
did, or whether, indeed, he ever said or did anything
at all. He wrote entirely to relieve his own mind
about something he had chosen to take an interest in,
generally of a rather out-of-the-way kind. " Enough
of fools," he used to remark, " were at work writing
already without his joining the number as not unlikely

P. P. ALEXANDER. 237

to prove that he was the biggest of the lot." Perhaps,
also, the feeling that he had not altogether succeeded
in making the best of life, had more to do with this
than was seen on the surface ; but if this were so it
was never allowed to appear. In all that concerned
himself he wore the aspect of philosophic humorous
indifference. In all that concerned his friends, in-
difference was replaced by warm-hearted interest. His
disregard of the conventional aims and customs of life,
his careless dress, and his enjoyment of any manner
of company that pleased his sense of humour, must
have made him appear to many as a typical Bohemian.
If so, he was only a denizen of Bohemia in its kindlier
aspects ; for he was ever singularly scrupulous in all
his relations to others ; his manners were always
marked by a courtesy which sometimes became digni-
fied. In his prime he was a handsome, striking figure,
and to the last the sharp well-cut features and the
half keen, half weary expression of the close-set eyes
gave his face an air of distinction. It is to be regretted
that so little remains of his noble poems of humour
and thought, and the hope may well be expressed that
diligence will be used by some one in recovering his
anonymous gems that are in the pages of magazines
or the files of newspapers.

SLEEP.

Come to me now ! 0 come ! benignant sleep !

And fold me up as evening doth a flower,

From my vain self, and vain things which have power
Upon my soul to make me smile or weep.
And when Thou comest, oh, like Death be deep —

No dreamy boon have I of thee to crave,

More than may come to him that in his grave
Is heedless of the night-winds how they sweep.

I have not in me half that cause of sorrow
Which is in thousands who must not complain ;

And yet this moment if it could be mine

To lapse and pass in sleep, and so resign
All that must yet be borne of joy and pain,

I scarcely know if I would wake to-morrow.

238 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

DEATH.

Death ! I have heard thee in the summer noon
Mix thy weird whisper with the breath of flowers :
And I have heard thee oft in jocund hours,

Speak in the festal tones of music boon —

Not seldom thou art with me late and soon,
Whether the waves of life are dancing bright,
Or, dead to joy of thought, and sound, and sight,

My world lies all distraught and out of tune.

But most — in lone drear hours of undelight,
When sleep consents not to be child of choice,

And shuddering at its own dread stillness, Night,
Hung like a pall of choky dampness round,
Makes Silence' self to counterfeit a sound —
Methinks it is thine own authentic voice.

THROUGH THE LONG SLEEPLESS NIGHT.

Through the long sleepless night I lie

In musings dark and lone,
And listen to the solemn sea ;

Its immemorial moan,
The solemn voice that rises from

The long lash of the wave —
It moaned about my cradle,

It shall moan about my grave —
For ever and for ever

It shall moan about my grave.
It moans round all the shores of earth ;

It has moaned through all my life ;
A life which more and more becomes

A worn and idle strife.
Alone, alone, it seems to groan ;

Alone, alone, alone !
Alone we live, alone we die ;

We live and die alone !
So sobs to me the solemn sea,

With its immemorial moan.
This solemn voice which rises from

The blind and battling wave —
It moaned about my cradle,

Let it moan about my grave —
For ever and for ever

Let it moan about my grave.
This weary wail which rises from

Mad tumults of the wave,
I heard it in my cradle,

I shall hear it in my grave.

P. P. ALEXANDER. 239

BANNOCKBURN.

Five hundred years ! since the same peaceful sky
Which bends above these peaceful fields and sees
The corn about the scattered villages

Mellowing, as fruited Autumn ripens nigh,

Saw here the blaze of arms, and heard the cry
Of mighty nations like a sound of seas,
Go thundering hourly up, by proud defiles,

To the full roar of Scotland's victory.

Yet still that shout the gifted sense may hear ;

Yea, while one Scottish foot shall tread the ground,
Each wandering aim that stirs and whispers near,

Each swelling hill and conscious mountain round,
Shall keep for the imaginative ear

Triumphant echoes of the immortal sound.

AFTER THE BATTLE OF ALMA.

Oh ! wae's me now ! I canna greet,
Though a' my heart is sair —

My held is stounin' wi' a grief
I canna, canna bear.

Oh, a' the toun's gane wud wi' joy ;

But ilka step I gae
I see my laddie lying deid

Half up the bluidy brae.

And oh ! to hear the cruel folk

A' cheerin', cheerin' sae,
And bonnie Donald lying deid

Half up the bluidy brae.

Oh ! slower, slower, weary bells !

It's slower ye sud gae
For bonnie Donald lying deid

Half up the bluidy brae.

Oh, gin I could but greet, but greet,
Though still my heart were sair,

The deid bells stounin' at my heid
I maybe maist could bear.

REST.

Rest ! rest ! so long unhappy — happy now ;
I will have faith in death, that his great signs,
The sleep upon the face, the tender lines,

240 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

The long lost peace come back upon the brow,

Lie not like life — false as a strumpet's vow.

In this still dream, which heightens and refines,
Somewhat with solemn cheer, the soul divine,

Of blessing sent we know not whence or how.

But now the world, with harsh and shallow noise,
Frets thine ear — deaf : thou sleep'st and never more,
As in the waste of desolate years before,
With sad eyes up to heaven, shalt crave relief

From earth's vain round of most unmeaning joys
And griefs which want all dignity of grief.

FIRESIDE.

The pur-ptar-purring of my lonely fire

As of a creature pleased, for rne this night,
Beloved of gentle thoughts, hath strange delight,

And as its voice and warmth do win me higher,

Forth from my breast is gone all vain desire —
Which souls may cherish in their own despite —
Of fame, or meaner wealth, or worldly might,

And I have breath in humbler air, yet higher.

A world of household peace is in this sound,
A sound in many a home now haply heard,
Like intermitted warblings of a bird

Between the shouts of happy children round ;

Let not in me so stern a heart be found,

But thinking thus it should be gently stirred.

OUR POET.

I wander where the river strays,
Through woods asleep in pearly haze,'
With quiet nooks, where earliest peer
The firstlings of the dawning year.
I feel, but scarcely seem to share,
This sense which haunts the happy air
Of young life stirring everywhere ;
For ever at my heart of hearts
A pulse of nameless trouble starts.
I watch this tender April sky,
I see its aimless clouds go by,

I gaze, and gaze, and only think —
It would have pleased our Poet's eye.
From his low nest the glad lark springs,
And soars, and soaring ever, Hings
Blythe music from his restless wings.

P. P. ALEXANDER. 241

Though all the air he trembling pleased,
The unquiet aoul is nothing eased ;
I hear with scarce the heart to hear
That carol, ringing quick and clear ;

I hear, and hearing only think
It would have pleased our Poet's ear.

His ears are shut from happy sound ;

His eyes are softly sealed ;
The nft-trod old familiar ground,

The hill, the wood, the Qeld ;
This path which most he loved that runs

Far up th« shining river,
Through all the course of summer-time

He treads no more for ever.

A TRUE STORY P^OR CHILDREN.

I stood upon the mountain top, with Hugh* and James and John,
Of these four blythe young hearts, on earth, there now remains

but one ;

And as we stumbled down the rocks, amidst our very feet,
As seemed from out the rock itself, there came a faint, sad bleat.

And, looking all about, we found — fallen in a rocky cleft —
Its Mother wandered far away — a little Lamb was left.
Ah ! surely that poor Mother, with many a piteous cry,
Wailed to the winds before she left her little Lamb to die.

Said Hugh, that man of tender heart, "God bless the dear wee

Lambie ! —

Fau'n into sic a gruesome pit, an' lett by its ain Mammie.
The puir bit thing's maist stairved, ye see — we cautia leave it

here —
Let's try't amang the ither sheep ; they'll nurse it up, nae fear."

He took it in his tander arias, and bore it down the hill ;
The ! .anib within his tender arms lay nestling close and still ;
And it seemed to Hugh, the kindly man, — so did he think and

feel-
Its sad, soft, yearning eyes to his put up a mute appeal

We set it down among the sheep ; of its Mother's aid bereft
The Lamb among these Sheep was lone — as in that rocky cleft —
Alone among its own race round — each Lamb had its own

Mother ;
Each Mother had her own dear Lamb — no heart for any other.

* Hugh Moo Urn, ild, author of " Rambles Hound Glasgow," &c.
P

242 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

For kindly help of Sheep, as seemed, on the bleak mountain side,
That night, the prey of wolvish winds, the little Lamb had died.
Sad fate for this on-mothered Lamb — to almost ask a tear —
To perish lonely in the night, with all these Mothers near.

Not so — for now — what wisest man this mystery comprehends ?
Cast ont by its own kind, this Lamb clung to its human friends ;
And as, to leave it loth, we turned and down the mountain

went,
It came, and, bleating at our heels, it trotted well content.

Just like a little dog it came, and trotted close behind ;

It would not leave these Christian folk, that had to it been

kind ;

With wisdom in its little heart, beyond all human ken,
It left the heartless ways of Sheep, and followed ways of Men.

The shepherd at the Mountain-base we met, and what befell
We told : the wondering shepherd considered all was well ;
It seemed to that good shepherd, on that fair Rummer day,
That, if the Lamb would follow us, the Lamb should have its
way.

And thus the Lamb became onr own ; no eril man could say
We stole the Lamb that followed us through half that summer

day.
For still — ah ! sure, a touching thing for him who thinks and

feels —
This Lamb, just like a little dog, kept trotting at our heels.

Through all that summer afternoon, and as we homeward went,
The little Lamb still followed us, and seemed right well content.
Where'er we went the little Lamb came trotting close behind ;
It would not leave these Christian folk, that had to it been kind.

And when it stopped to nibble grass, and — its little nibblingso'er —
Looked up and found us gone from it some thirty yards before ;
Ah ! then, with little pleading bleats, and many an eager bound,
It galloped up to overtake the friends that it had found.

And thus, that summer eventide, full fifteen miles or more,
This little Lambkin followed us, till we reached our Cottage door.
And in that kindly Cottage, thence never more to roam,
This little wandered Lambkin found a welcome and a Home.

And in that kindly Cottage Home, this Lamb, without a Mother,
In two dear little children found a Sister and a Brother.
And thrice a day, with milk and bread, they fed it from a can,
Till the little Lamb grew strong and brisk, and frisked, and
jumped, and ran.

P. P. ALEXANDER. 243

It ran, and gaily friiked, and jumped, and butted with its head,
And all their kindly care of it with its parabola well repaid ;—
For, as to these two children who thus the Lamb did tend, —
How could they else have found so dear a playmate and a Friend?

These children, with their little Lamb, in the sunny noon at

play—

A happier sight you could not see on a happy summer day !
These little children with their Lamb at sport upon the green —
More innocent and pretty sight could scarcely well be seen.

The Cobbler is the mountain called on which this Lamb was

found ;

And when a sky-blue collar about its neck was bound ;
Upon the sky-blue collar, which did its throat enfold,
This quaint device — " The Cobbler " — was worked in strands of

gold.

So the little Cobbler flourished here, — and very sure 1 am
There scarce could be on all the earth a happier little Lamb ; —
Till one sad day it went astray, and down by the road-si<le
A fierce, bad dog so worried it that the little Cobbler died.

The little Cobbler died, alas ! and over its little bier,
From two pairs of childish eyeswas shed the grace of a Christian
tear.

MORAL.

And now, my pretty Madge, for whom this quite true tale I tell,
The lesson which it well may teach, dear Madgie ! think of it

well.—

Where'er in this bewildered world your little feet may stray,
For love of the good Lord Christ, be kind to all poor Lambs

astray ;

And should ever you find a little Lamb thus fallen into a cleft,
Though left by its own, own Mother, may it not by you be left.

244 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

ALEXANDER DEWAR,

HUTHOR of a volume entitled "Goodwon and
other Poems" published in 1857 (London:
Partridge <fe Co.), was born at Crathie, Aberdeenshire,
about 1822. By steady plodding, determined resolution,
and unwearied perseverance amidst unfavourable cir-
cumstances, he struggled hard to become a minis-
ter, and prepared himself to enter Glasgow College, at
which, and at the Evangelical Union Hall, he nearly com-
pleted his curriculum. Then followed a successful time
of missionary work at Dunfermline. Difficulties being
in the way of further progress, we find him at Liver-
pool engaged in active business. Here, in hasty
moments, snatched from the teeth of time, he managed
to contribute to the newspapers and magazines, and
issued his little volume of poetry, which went
through two editions. Soon after publishing, he
settled in Ormskirk as a Cougregationalist minister.
Resigning this charge, Mr Dewar had another appoint-
ment, and his labours were being much blessed
when he was struck down by fever in the midst of a
season of special services. The doctors recommended
a change to his native hills, which advice was acted
on, but soon after he caught cold, and died in July
1883. The chief aim of his poetry was to cherish a
love for the true and the beautiful in Nature, iu
principle, and in character. His temperance songs are
peculiarly fervent and melodious, and we have no
doubt that, in his own words, he has been fortunate
enough to " prompt a benevolent wish, stir a generous
impulse, strengthen a good resolution, cherish a love
for truth, foster a confiding trust in Providence, or
fan in any breast a flame of hot burning hate to
alcoholic drinks and all their attendant vices and
devastating evils."

A. DEWAR. 245

THE WINE-CUP.

We'll drink no more the wine-cup,
We'll taste no more the wine-cup,
We'll touch no more the wine-cup
While light and life remain.

Ah, once its spell was o'er us.
From all that's good it tore us,
And hellward fast it bore us,
But it wont do so again.

We'll drink no more, etc.

Its galling chains were round us,
Its burning fetters bound us,
And deep in misery drowned us,
But it wont do so again.

We'll drink no more, etc.

We'll teach the young to shun it.
We'll show them we have done it,
And ever look upon it

With horror and disdain.
We'll drink no more, etc.

We'll use our best endeavour
Poor drunkards to deliver,
And banish drink for ever

Far from earth's wide domain.
We'll drink no more, etc.

THE WIFE 0' GOWRIE.

0 Willie was as brave a swain
As ever stepped on hill or plain,
You would not find his like again
In a' the Carse o' Gowrie.

His manners won fair Mary's heart —
He sought her hand with guileless art,
And they were joined, no more to part,
As man and wife in Gowrie.

He made her mistress o' his hame
And all that heart could wish or name —
His kindness gave till she became
The happiest wife in Gowrie.

0 blythe and sunny was the spot

Where stood their sweet wood-sheltered cot,

246 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

A scene more flowery fair was not
In a' the Carse o' Gowrie.

If fair without 'twas bliss within —
True love presided o'er the scene —
A happier home had never been
Within the Carse o' Gowrie.

Time passed — and Willie's heart was changed-
From home he daily grew estranged,
For social scenes and drink he ranged
E'en half the Carse o' Gowrie.

A thousand wrongs his Mary bore,
But this her heart, in pieces tore —
She dwined, she sank, and spoke no more,
The bonnie wife o' Gowrie.

"HE HAS A DRUNKEN FATHER,

Why stands that youth with downcast eye

In garments mean and torn ?
Why do the neighbours pass him by

With silent looks of scorn ?

Why is he shunned by other boys

When play calls them together ?
He must forego their merry joys —

" He has a drunken father."

Why is he sent to work for bread
Ere his eighth year's completed ?

His fondest schemes of heart and head
By penury defeated.

Why must he toil from day to day
When school should claim him rather

He must not learn to read or pray —
" He has a drunken father."

God speed the time when vice and crime,

Caused by the drinking system,
Shall flee our land and every clime

That's cursed by such a custom !

Then children all each right shall share
That round the virtuous gathers,

And earth no more such monsters bear
As lazy drunken fathers.

A. DEWAR. 247

THE BARLEY BREE.

0 custom strong has sanctioned long

The drinking of the barley bree,
Now better light has cleaved the night
That shrouded then such revelry.

We'll drink no more, we'll taste no more,

While life and reason light our e'e,
The trees may grow and rivers flow,
But we'll ne'er taste the barley bree.

The march of right has cleared our sight,

And opened wide our eyes to see
That serpent vile which did beguile

Our fathers in their barley bree.
We'll drink no more, &c.

They dreamed not then what now is plain,

And clearly seen by every e'e —
The greatest ill that man can feel

Arises from the barley bree.
We'll drink no more, &c.

The moon may rise and 611 the skies

With light serene and silvery,
And like her beams in mildness seems

The mind that's free from barley bree.
We'll drink no more, &c.

HILLS, HILLS.

Hills, hills, hills,

And mountains towering high ;
Hills, hills, hills,

Leap up and brave the sky.
Far to the northward, see !
Rising so loftily,
The peaks of Benachie,

Frowning majestic.
O'er many a mount and strath,
O'er many a streamlet's path,
Towers high the Tap 0 Noth,
Conic and crest-like.

'Mid hills, hills, hills,

And many a fruitful plain ;
Hills, hills, hills,

Where health and plenty reign.
Nearer in sunshine glare,
Broad, rugged, bleak, and bare,

248 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Rises the Hill of Fair,

Furrowed with fountains.
Pressing the left again,
See, the Grampian chain,
Stretching from main to main,
Bulwark of mountains.

On hills, hills, hills,

On rivers, lakes, and streams ;
Hills, hills, hills,

The brilliant sunshine gleams.
High in this range are seen,
O'er many offlofty mien,
Clochnaben and Mont Keen,
Shading the lowlands.
Westward tow'ring higher far,
O'er the mountains of Braemar,
See the dusky'Lochnagar !

Monarch of snow-lands !

'Mong hills, hills, hills,

And many a deep ravine ;
Hills, hills, hills,

Lo ! Morven and Culbleen !
With Ben A'n and Cairngorm,
And Benmacdhui's mighty form,
Tow'ring high like giants o'er 'em,

Heavenward soaring ;
Looking up with hallowed air,
As in attitude of prayer,
To the God who placed them there,
His wisdom adoring.

"IF THOU CANST SING."

" If thou canst sing, though left alone,
From hawk and fowler undefended :

Why may not I, with grateful tone,
Though homeless now and unbefriended

" Thou hast no other home but this
Wild woodland, for thy lonely dwelling

Yet thou art not devoid of bliss,
I hear thy numbers sweetly telling.

" Here thou canst live in love and peace,
Far from the tumult of the city,

Where vice and discord never cease,
In hearts devoid of love and pity.

M. W. PAIKBAIRN. 249

"Thou canst not penetrate beyond

The confines of thy present being ;
Eternity a mysterious round,

Is hid for ever from thy seeing.

"This life is but a winter's day,
Whose night is hastened on by sorrow ;

The darker now the tempests play,
The brighter then will seem the morrow.

" The night of death will soon be come,
(How welcome to this heart of sadness !)

When I shall reach my heavenly home,
Where reigns the light of love and gladness.

" Sing on, kind bird ! Thy magic lay,

Has soothed a heart by anguish riven ;
Rejoiced, I trace my pilgrim way,

Right grateful for the song you've given."

M. W. FAIRBAIRN,

E subject of this sketch, was born at Selkirk in
1825. In her tenth year her father was ap-
pointed to a situation under His Grace the Duke of
Buccleuch at Bowhill, and the family removed to the
lovely banks of the Yarrow. About six years after-
wards he was made custodier of the keys of Newark
Tower, and here in a rose-bedecked cottage, almost in the
shade of the ruin — with a break of a few years, and
until about seven years ago — her life has been spent.
Here the Yarrow winds calmly and peacefully round
the north side of the almost precipitous bank on which
stands Newark, in the hoary beaxity and peaceful
grandeur of its old age. The Yarrow, owing, perhaps,
rather to undefinable tradition than to positive history,
has a sweet, sad interest connected with it, and the
deep silence that reigns in summer, the wild and stern

250 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

grandeur of winter, the soft beauty of the " lasting
hills," and the glory of "sunset at Newark," all had a
powerful influence on the young girl's mind. Delicate
health, which prevented active exertion, afforded
ample opportunity for reading and for cultivating the
poetic faculty with which she was endowed. With
imagination, an ear for rhythm, and an ardent tem-
perament, with a child-like faith, and the power of
literary expression which a good education had given
her, Margaret Waters Fairbairn was, when in her teens,
regarded by all her friends as a poetess. She
worked chiefly in the pathetic vein, although the
humorous and the realistic sometimes found expression
in her verse. It is but right to add, however, that
by herself her talents were much underrated, and the
consequence is that she destroyed much of the work
of her early years.

Our poetess had just completed her nineteenth year
when she became the wife of one of " the song-bird
race of men " — a man of ardent, impulsive, and kindly
nature, a writer of excellent songs (as noticed in our
Fourth Series), a glorious singer of our national ditties,
and with literary talents that might have raised him
to eminence. We find him successively a factory
worker in Selkirk, a baker in Edinburgh, in the rail-
way service in Perthshire — now desiring to get up in
the social scale and tempted to fret at the bars of the
cage that circumscribed his motions, and again writing
of the glory of the stars, the beauty of the flowers,
and of the joys and sweets of domestic life — his part-
ner sustaining him when about to sink, soothing him
when fretting under difficulties and disappointments,
and, withal, every now and then bringing to him
another mouth to be fed. At last he resolved to
strike out for himself and family another path. He
had the power to charm men with song — he would
become a vocalist. The wife and her children returned

M. W. FAIRBAIRN. 251

to Newark, and many years afterwards, when her sons
had grown into stalwart young men, cheering her by
their upright manliness, we find her with calm and
Christian resignation still in the paternal home — a
comfort to the aged father and mother, whose sons
had gone to other lands.

About twelve years ago the old matron died,
and shortly after, the father, then in his eighty-
third year, was appointed keeper of Melrose Abbey.
His daughter acted as his assistant, until 1882, when
he also went to his rest. Mrs Fairbairn then had the
entire charge for about four years, when she removed
to London, where she now resides.

As keeper of the Abbey she was, on account of her
intelligence and courtesy, held in high esteem by
tourists, and her work, " Melrose Abbey : with Notes
Historical and Descriptive," is a charming little
volume. It has given pleasing and accurate ideas of
the famous ruin, and of the times in which it was
built, to thousands of visitors from all parts of the
world. In 1885 Mrs Fairbairn published a selection
of her poetical productions in a neat volume, entitled
" Songs of the Night " (London : Thomas Bosworth —
Edinburgh : J. Menzies <fc Co.), which was very kindly
received by the public and the press. Many of these
"songs" possess quiet reflective grace, and pleasing
touches of fancy, imagination, and natural tenderness.

BABY.

Baby with the laughing eyes,
Waking thus in sweet surprise,
Need they ask if thou canst love,
Ray of light from heaven above ?
Nought but love could give the light
In those eyes so blue and bright.

What strange lesson would'st thou teach,
Had thy spirit power of speech ?
Would'st thou tell us thou art given,
As a boon from highest Heaven,

252 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

To be cared for like the flower,
Watered by the summer shower ?

Would'st thou tell us love doth grow,
Like all other things below,
Watered by the gentle tear,
Should perversity appear ;
Warmea by the genial smile
Of a soul devoid of guile ?

Would'st thou tell us there shall be
In the blest eternity
Highest love and holiest joy,
Free from care, without alloy,
Where the blessed still shall shine,
With a radiance all divine ?

Would'st thou tell us children thera
Ever shall be young and fair ;
Ever giving joy to those
Who secure the blest repose ;
That like children we must be
Or lose the blast eternity ?

Sweetest baby calmly rest
On thy gentle mother's breast ;
Thou the floweret, she the flower,
Decking thus my earthly bower ;
Sweetest blessings from above,
Proving well that "God is Love."

When the earthly tiiue is passed,
When hath blown the trumpet's blast,
May you both, in peerless light,
Have no fear of coming night !
Life eternal dwells in thee,
Sweet bud of immortality !

THE SINGER ASLEEP.

She is taking rest in bleep,

Making ready for the song,
Like the mighty ocean deep,
Like the earth's broad surface long :
She is sleeping, calmly sleeping '
She is sleeping — peace be still !
Making ready for the singing
That Eternity shall fill !

M. W. PAIRBAIRN. 253

She is wanted for the choir

Of the golden courts above,
With the tongue of living fire

To sing out that God is Love :
She is sleeping, etc.

We have seen, how fair the sight ! —

And we think we see her now,
With these eyes of holy light,

And that calm and peaceful brow :
She is sleeping, etc.

And our wondering ears have heard

All the beauty of her song,
And our soul's deep joy been stirred,

And we cry " 0 Lord ! how long? "
She is sleeping, etc.

Make us ready, Lord, to go

To the. mansions of the blest,
With the dear one sleeping so,

Whom Thyself hath hushed to rest :
She is sleeping, etc.

THE ANGELS.
Angels are watching over the town,
Eagerly watching, love sent them down ;
Waiting upon us — beauteous are they —
Knowing that we are the children of day.

Angels are watching, vigils we keep ;
Loved ones are drooping therefore we weep ;
Love sends a message — "Watch ye and pray,
Death cannot hold them, the children of day."

Angels are watching evils, are rife,
Seeking to poison beautiful life —
Life that is given, given for aye ;
Boon of high heaven, ye children of day.

Angela are watching, aye, and they weep ;
Some are in fetters, drugged into sleep :
" Keep, keep, thy brother, work while ye may,
Brighter your crowning, ye children of day,'

Angels are watching, angels are nigh,
Eagerly catching the penitent's sigh ;
Quicker than lightning 'tia wafted away,
Heaven's joy bright'ning, ye children of day,

254 • MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

BEREAVEMENT — HOPE.

The dark mountain passes, the torrent's wild roar ;
The loneliness vast of the desolate shore ;
The forest's deep shade, and the lightning's red gleam ;
The dark sullen flow of the treacherous stream ;
The night's silent hours, with no star in the sky ;
The wild barren heath, where no dwelling is nigh —
These, these all accord with the spirit's deep gloom ;
When the heart's best affections are laid in the tomb.

In vain we look back through the vista of years,
Our eyes are so blinded by torrents of tears ;
When father, and mother, and brothers are gone ;
The heart surges up with piteous moan :
And so lonely we feel when the crowd passes by,
The heart's only solace is then in a sigh ;
No ear there to catch it, 'tis wafted above,
It stirreth the bosom of Infinite Love.

And Hope is sent down with a smile like the morn,
To comfort the heart of the weeper forlorn :
'Tis charged with a beam from the glory afar ;
'Tu Love's gentle herald, Love's sweet morning star ;
It tells us our loved ones shall rise like the flowers,
To life all unending, in Beauty's own bowers ;
It tells us that we shall with them pass away,
To swell out the glory of infinite day.

FIRST LOVE.

There was a lad, I lo'ed him weel ;

And now tho' years hae rolled between,
My heart's wae duntin', I can feel,

When thinkin' on his slae-black een.

His voice was melody itsel',
A manly soul spake in his mien,

Love joyed around his lips to dwell,
An' sparkle in his slae-black een.

I watna how he won my heart,
But aften, when by a' unseen,

Love's meltin' tenderness wad start
Into his glancin' slae-black een.

The sun had then a brighter blaze ;

A glory hung o'er a' the scene ;
Ah me ! the beautifyin' rays

Cam' frae his sparklin' slae-black een !

W. T. M. HOGG. 255

Alas ! 'twas like a vision fair !

I wept t«» think what might hae been,
When my fair sky was bright nae mair :

My sun had set, his sparkling een.

I've had some blinks o' joy gin' syne ;

I've battled wi' the tempest keen ;
But there are thoughts I winna tine —

The memory o' his slae-black een.

W. T. M. HOGG

S written much, both in prose and poetry, the
fruits of his leisure hours. His father was
teacher of the Parish School of Whitekirk, Hadding-
ton (where the subject of our sketch was born in 1842),
but as he " came out " at the Disruption, he had to
leave his charge, and the family lived for some years
at Gullane. Here our poet attended school for two
years, when the family removed to Edinburgh. At
the age of fourteen he was apprenticed to a grocer,
but at the end of four years he became possessed with
a desire to enter the ministry. His parents, however,
were unable to gratify that wish, and after " knocking
about " for some time, and finishing his education at
the Free Church Normal School, he became a teacher.
Through the kind assistance of friends, and by engaging
in mission work, he was able to enter College when in his
twenty-seventh year. About this time he acquired
a knowledge of shorthand, and he ultimately became
a successful teacher of the art, occasionally writing
under the noms-de-plume "Gullane," "Lysander," <fec.
Mr Hogg's love of rural scenes and pastimes, and his
intelligent study of books and of Nature is seen in
some of his ambitious and well thought-out poems.

256 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

PERSEVERANCE.

O friend, the day of small things ne'er despise ;

Difficulties are steps by which to rise.

The puny acorn, too, crushed with a stroke,

By slow degrees, becomes the sturdy oak.

They in their hands now hold the valued prize —

What so unlikely once in neighbours' eyes !

By steady, even progress they have reached the goal,

And gained the utmost wish of human soul.

Thou plodding one, in some good noble cause,

When done inay'st yet receive the world's applause ;

Plod stoutly on, therefore, and ne'er faint-hearted be,

Perhaps the world is waiting patiently for thee.

SCHOOL GAMES.

. . . Saw you e'er wild romping boys, when

By chance a holiday's been granted them ?

Perhaps some comrade in a great exam'

Successful^ been ; they bid good-bye to cram,

Soon fling aside their books, for fan are bent,

In honour simply of this great event.

They hie them soon unto their spacious park,

At football strive to reach the goal or mark.

The day is fine, the air is bracing cold,

Whilst teams prepare, into their midst is rolled

A monster ball ; preliminary kicks

It straight receives, while some proceed to fix

The bounds in which the game is to be played.

Some several canters too in sport i»re made ;

Thus exercise for doing wondrous deeds,

With supple joints, as lively vigour leads.

Now here, now there, now high up into space

The ball is tossed, till it receives embrace

From one, like baby in a nurse's arms,

Who shields it safe secure from dire alarms ?

Nay, but to give it a severer kick

And send it home : some lad thought rather quick

This hap prevents ; so doing, turns the scale ;

Hotly perspiring, determined to prevail,

The next goal reached is, haply without fail.

Yet not without its dangers is this noble game ;

From wounds got her* some all their lives are lame.

A warning here ; be sprightly, but not rash ;

If otherwise, unthinking, you may dash

Hopes beaming brightly in the face of youth —

Actions avoid which rude are and uncouth.

J. Y. GRAY. 257

A bell doth ring, see all things ready made,

The games begin, a merry tune is played.

A soldiers' band for the occasion's hired,

A happy feeling o'er the whole's inspired,

The music rendered in a charming style,

Each passer-by is seen to wear a smile.

So much enjoyed the captivating strains,

While interspersed are truly grand refrains.

But miss we not amid the different parts

Those airs which native energy imparts,

And love of country wakes within our hearts ?

To them Italian trills are surely tame,

Of German airs our notions much the same.

Is it because of our untrained ear,

Or love of country maketh these less dear ?

Our language, too, recedeth far behind ;

Language thought only for the unrefined !

Must needs give place to English undefiled,

The Scotch, ahem ! barbaric thought and wild.

High culture, frequent interchange of thought —

United these, the mighty change hath wrought.

For this indulge we a poetic wail t

Nay, verily ; rather would we hail

That glorious day when all the sons of earth--

Even as they joy in one common birth,

(Acknowledged one great Father of us all,

Before whose footstool we should humbly fall).

JOHN Y. GRAY.

E career of Mr John Y. Gray furnishes a noble
example of the reward that follows honest effort
after self-improvement. He was born at Letham of
Dunnichen in 1846, and was next the youngest of a
family of twelve. His father was a handloom weaver,
whose income as such never exceeded eight or nine
shillings a- week. Being, however, a great florist, ex-
ceptionally intelligent, and a "handyman," he was
frequently employed as a jobbing gardener in spring,
Q

258 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

at which time, and in harvest, the circumstances of
the family were much improved. When he recollects
the poverty and misery of his early years, and
the hard struggle his parents had, our poet even
yet looks back on those days with a feeling of
pain. Notwithstanding, all the family got some school-
ing. John attended the Feuars' School in Letham for
a few months during each of three sessions — the result
being that he was able to read well, write fairly, and
do simple sums in multiplication. His father's library
being a large one for a poor man, he kept up his read-
ing, while his desire for knowledge of every kind, but
especially antiquarian and legendary, was whetted by
the stories his father would tell him of the old families
of Forfarshire, together with the legends connected
with their ancient castles. With advancing years he
has lost none of the interest then excited, and
would travel a day's journey at any time to see some
old ruin, and learn the story of its rise and fall. He
has always been an enthusiastic lover of Nature —
flowers and birds, and bees and butterflies being his
playmates in youth. Parental chastisement had no
effect in keeping him at home, and he was often lost
for whole days.

After being employed variously at farm work, in a
bleaching mill, at a saw mill, &c., Mr Gray began, when
about eleven years of age, to learn the handloom. He
remained at this occupation till he was sixteen,
although he never liked it, for he informs us that he
was a " lazy weaver, and my truant propensities mani-
fested themselves stronger than ever — trout-guddling,
and fern and flower collecting occupying a larger share
of my time and attention than did the gettin' in o' my
keel." Having attained the age of sixteen, he went
to serve an apprenticeship as millwright and joiner at
Id vies Mill, and it was while there that the poetic
spirit first began to stir his soul, and soon after he

J. Y. GRAY. 259

was thrilled with joy to see his "Musings on the
Vinney " in the columns of the Dundee Weekly News,
under the nom-<h-plume "G.," a signature he has
frequently used. His apprenticeship having expired,
he worked for a short time at Stonehaven and at Gichty
Burn, after which he was for seven years in the
employment of Messrs Cox Brothers, Lochee, during
which period he also learned pattern-making. Ward
Foundry, Dundee, was next the scene of his labours,
and here he was for a number of years foreman
pattern-maker.

It was during his apprenticeship that he first felt
his want of education. He began to read with care,
attended evening classes and a mutual improvement
society, and devoted much of his so-called leisure to
drawing. When at Lochee he joined the Dundee
School of Art — all this while busy at his usual work
during the day. Indeed he attended classes five
nights in the week — travelling over nine miles every
day. And now, having risen steadily year by year,
he holds the Art Master's Certificate, with numerous
prizes and honours from the Department, South Ken-
sington.

Mr Gray next began the study of natural philosophy
and applied science, and succeeded equally well — hav-
ing gained the highest honours from the Science De-
partment. In the evenings he taught drawing and
applied science with great success. Men of all sorts
and conditions, from fourteen to forty years of age,
were among his numerous pupils. His own early ex-
periences and difficulties made him sympathise with
those who struggled after knowledge. For two sessions
he was a student of University College, Dundee, where
he carried off high honours, gaining the Armitstead
Scholarship for science for second year students. His
pupils in Lochee on two occasions showed their esteem
and gratitude by presenting him with an easy chair

260 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

and a magnificent astronomical telescope. In 1885 he
was appointed teacher of drawing and workshop
superintendent in Sharp's Educational Institute, Perth,
but, before he was long there, he was called back to
Dundee. The Directors of the High School having
been engaged in changing their curriculum so as to give
the boys of the modern side of the school a course of
more scientific and technical study, the gift by ex-
Provost Robertson of a fully-equipped workshop
afforded them the means of doing what they desired.
Mr Gray was placed at the head of this department,
and he is now engaged in teaching theoretical and
applied mechanics, steam and the steam engine, prac-
tical geometry, machine construction, &c., in addition
to superintending the technical training of the boys in
the workshop of the Dundee High School.

Mr Gray has not lived in " Sleepy Hollow." He
has risen steadily, but only after hard work, and by
resolute application, and is a noble example of what
can be achieved by properly-directed effort. As Car-
lyle puts it, he has " an immense capacity for taking
pains." Although his labour has been great, he has
found time to give frequent addresses at public meet-
ings of a social nature, and as a " reader " he always
receives a hearty welcome. Many of the working men
of Dundee look on him as their friend, and as one who
in no small degree has been the means of leading them
in the upward road. His pen is also a ready one, and
he takes occasional nights in the regions of Poesy. His
cultured taste is shown in his descriptive verse, and
being a passionate lover of Nature, his poetic and
artistic eye and ear are ever in warm sympathy with
the sights and sounds that pervade all creation.

COME DOON TO THE BURNSIDE.

When the grey shades o' gloamin' steal sweetly ower a',
An' the dewdraps sae saftiy and silent doonfa ,

J. Y. GRAY. 261

When the mavis and blackbird sing sweet frae ilk tree,
Come doon to the burnside, dear Kirstie, to me.

There nnkenned to ony sae sweetly we'll stray,
Whaur the lammies gae sportin' the lang summer day,
The wee modest gowan, a' wat wi' the dew
I'll twine in a garland, dear Kirstie, for you.

I'll pu' the wild rose and the woodbine sae fair,
An' braid them mysel' 'mang your bonny black hair,
I'll busk you wi' sprigs atf the hawthorn tree
If you'll only come doon to the burnside to me.

.\neath the dark shade o' the birk an' the brier

That hangs ower the braes whaur the Vinney rins clear,

We'll whisper the auld tales o' love, ever new,

Till the sweet story thrills a" oor veins through and through.

Nae matter what gossips may say 'bout us twa,
We'll hear oot their haivers, and lunch at them a',
An' when we're ance murrieil we'll lat them a' see
What brocht you sae aft to the burnaide to me.

TO A FOSSIL SHELL.

Strange relic of a bygone age, e'er man had trod this earth,
Far clown beneath the deep sea wave thou had'st thy pristine

birth,
No wealth-fraught Argosies had ploughed o'er thee, the flashing

foam,

Nor heroes such as Nelson won their laurels o'er thy home ;
E'en Fancy scarce can dash aside the dim and mystic haze
That shrouds thy natal morn in gloom back in these olden days,
And yet methiuks I see thee down beneath the amber wave,
Near by a wild and waste sea-shore where dashing waters lave,
All round the wide horizon not a sail relieves the eye,
Nought but waters, weary waters, stretching till they meet the

sky.

The tempest howls in madness, the wild waves lash the shore,
But no shriek of drowning seau.an mingles with the storm king's

roar,

The waves are glancing brightly "neath the sun's effulgent beams
But their ripple lulls no sea boy to .his childhood's home in

dreams,
Nor tempt they forth the pleasure yacht with^white and snowy

sail,
To skim like sea-bird o'er the wave before the pleasant gale.

262 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

No ! Nature's God entombed thee long before such things had

been,
Thy work till future years was done, and thou did'st quit the

scene ;
But a hand embalmed thee with a skill no hand of man could

do.
And Time had not the power to change thy form, which still is

true,
But whilst thou thus art lying by, strange scenes came o'er the

earth,

For Nature had not given yet to all her children birth,
And change on change continual came in these her far back

years.

Till on the stage proud boasting man, her master-work appears.
But Death's cold icy hand hath sent them one by one away,
All's mingled with their parent dust and turned to kindred clay ;
The poet and philosopher, the warrior and the sage,
Have but been born to die again in each succeeding age.
Earth's mighty empires that have shone in glory's annals fair
Have sunk amid the wreck of Time and turned to what they

were,
And kings and princes that have awed awhile this wondering

world

Have been by Death's relentless hand back to oblivion hurled ;
Fair palaces and temples too have crumbled all away,
And round the warrior's moss-grown cairn the mists have

gathered gray,
Where kingly glory reigned supreme, and mirth and beauty

shone,
The ivy clings to mouldering walls and towers with moss o'er-

grown,
And passions fierce have swayed mankind and urged them madly

on

To deeds of vice and crime that nought on earth could e'er atone,
And gentler through their veins have throbbed emotions pure

and sweet,

As love and holy brotherhood in kind communions meet ;
Still slowly back, yet steadily, each boiling angry wave
Retired like baffled foe and left thee hid within thy grave,
Above thee, each in order, were the various strata piled —
In order, though confusion seemed to mark them rude and wild,
Now from the bowels of the earth brought back once more to

light,
Though thou had'st life thou wonld'st not know the world that

meets thy sight.

The ocean now is studded o'er with white and flapping sails,
And war, and wealth, and pleasure scud before its driving gales,
Thou hast no tongue to speak surprise unto our wondering ears,
Nor tell the deeds that have been done within thy long, long
years,

J. Y. GRAY. 263

And yet methinks I hear a voice within thee gently call
That He who laid this earth's foundations ruleth over all ;
That back upon Creation's morn when Time as yet was young,
When angel bands and seraph choirs their heavenly anthems

sung,

Within the eternal council halls the Almighty's wisdom planned
And over all the impress stamped of His Almighty hand,
That man through long succeeding years the truth might learn

and know,

One great Creator rules o'er all, around, above, below,
That Heaven's pavilions and the sure foundations of this earth,
Alike to one great Author owe their being and their birth.

THE OLD AND THE NEW.

From the old church tower how solemnly swells
Peal upon peal from the deep-toned bells,
Solemn yet sweet are their echoes sublime,
Telling afar of the swift march of Time ;
O'er the night air how they wake far and near
The slumbering voices of mountain and mere,
Moorland and forest, though dreary and lone,
Hear their deep chimings " the old year is gone."

Knell upon knell, how they swell, how they fall,
Breathing a sad tale of sorrow to all,
Telling of joys that are past and away,
Lost in Eternity ! lost ! and for aye ;
Whispering of Hopes that have vanished in gloom,
Breathing of Loves that can never more bloom,
Weird-like and wild how the bells sob and moan,
Ever ! for ever ! the old year is gone.

Knell upon knell, hark ! how weirdly they chime,
While sad voices whisper in cadence sublime ;
Gone are the old days, the old friends are gone,
More dark grows the journey, the pathway more lone ;
Dear forms lie unheeding, the snow on their breast,
All dreamless their slumbers, unbroken their rest,
No bright flashing mirth, no sorrow's dark gloom
Can lighten or darken the tints of their tomb.

Farewell, then, old year, we bid thee adieu,
Time bids us leave thee, and turn to the new,
Farewell ! the joys we have known in thy reign,
Oft in our memories we'll live them again.
Brooding o'er thee will the weary heart yearn,
Till from the lone tomb the lost ones return ;
Faces of loved ones, our dearest, our own,
Will horer oft near when the old year is gone.

264 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Chiming, still chiming, how softly they prow,
From sadness to gladness the sweet echoes flow,
The New Year is dawning, the welcome rings clear,
Thus light springs from darkness when morning is near.
And thus the tossed heart, battling on in despair,
With loud cries and weeping and hands stretched in prayer
When Life's shadows lengthen and dark comes the night,
Has all its prayers answered—" at eventime 'tis light."

A SPRINGTIME GARLAND.

Gone the winter's icy breath,

And days of darkling sorrow,
Nature bursts the bonds of death,

And brighter dawns each morrow. '

Far from out the azure blue

Falls Love's song of gladness,
Where the skylark, lost to view,

Breathes reproof to sadness.

Hark ! from yonder shady grove,

As bird-life quickens in it,
Mellow come the notes of love

From blackbird, thrush, and linnet.

Forth we flee the city's care,

Out where Nature calleth,
Blessing gently everywhere,

As the dew that falleth.

Let u» then a garland make,

We will cull the fairest,
Stream and fountain, wood and brake,

Shall yield up their rarest.

We will search with zealous care

For the violet's blossom,
Where it hides with modest air,

Nestled on earth's bosom.

The primrose bathed with pearly dew,

Culled at early morn,
Twined with hyacinth so blue,

Shall our wreath adorn.

We will roam each dewy dell

That the sorrel gladdens,
Climb each dizzy crag and fell

Where the tempest maddens,

J. Y. GRAY. 265

Gathering beauty where'it springs,

Far o'er moor and mountain,
Where the loud-voiced ocean sings,

Or by gentler fountain ;

Feeling still our Father's hand

Evermore is leading,
Pointing where His secrets grand

Wait His children's reading.

Father, help us, do Thy will,

Teach us still our duty —
Bless and lead us upward still,

Through Life's springtime beauty —

On through summer's toil and heat,

On through autumn's sadness,
Onward still, till mercy sweet

Crown our lives with gladness.

EDZELL CASTLE.

Wandering 'midst these mighty ruins,

Where the Lindsays ruled of old,
Backward, backward, rolls Time's curtain,

And I see the clansmen bold.

Warlike visions flit before me,

Ancient heroes meet my gaze,
And these battlements frown o'er me

In the pride of earlier days.

Lo ! methinks I see them gather,

Weird and gaunt each shadowy form ;

Clearer, brighter, still they're growing,
Heroes of the battle storm.

Mustering round their chieftain's banner,

Pressing forward comes the brave,
All impatient for the mandate —

On to victory or the grave.

But another scene comes o'er me,

And around the festive board,
Knit by firm and truest friendship,

Meet the vassal and his lord.

Noble warriors, youthful maidens,
Join the dance with sprightly grace,

266 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

While around the ancient ball-room
Hang the spoils of war and chase.

But again thin clouds envelop,
And enshroud the vision bright,

And another gloomier picture
Opens on my 'wildered sight.

Sad and dismal wailings soundeth

Mournfully upon the ear,
While adowii each clansman's visage

Silent steals the briny tear.

From beneath these gloomy portals
Slowly tiles the funeral train,

While the Lindsay's coronach wakens
Notes of \roe, from glen to glen.

Borne upon the murmuring breezes,
Slow and sad the echoes swell,

As in deep and mournful cadence
Peals the Lindsay's passing bell.

Gone the glory of the Lindsays,
Hid within the silent tomb,

And thy glory fast is giving
Place to desolation's gloom.

Now mouldering walls and battlements,
And ramparts hoary trray,

The ruined shrine of a noble house
And race, long passed away.

JAMES THOMSON.

ME have had a James Thomson in almost every
series of this work, and the present James is
not the least interesting as a man and as a poet. He
is an ingenious and pleasant writer, for particiilars of
whose career we are indebted to Mr Ford and his
" Poet's Album." Born at Bowden, near St Boswells,

JAMES THOMSON. 267

he followed the handicraft of a wood-turner for
many years in Hawick, and for a long period the
productions of his Muse have enriched the columns of
the Border newspapers, and have borne their author's
name in favour to hearts and homes over the length
and breadth of the land. Though his verses have
been well known, very little has hitherto been learned
of the personality of Mr Thomson. Of a retiring dis-
position, he has shrunk from publicity. We do not
see why this should be the case, for his poetry is
worthy of his name, and the association of his life
with his work can only widen the circle of his friends
and admirers. From a letter to Mr Ford, we learn
that he has long suffered from ill-health and its ghastly
train of attendants. The rupture of a blood-vessel
many years ago exposed him to imminent peril, and
being unable to work, he retired to his native village,
where he has since lived all alone in a little straw-roofed
cottage. He is a bachelor, and in very poor circum-
stances. Still, he does not complain, but lives in the
fond hope of seeing better days. In the course of
another letter, he says: — "If blood relationship and
association can confer the gift of poesy, I ought to
have it. Thomas Aird, of the Dumfries Herald, to
which journal my first pieces were contributed, was a
cousin, though not in the first degree. Andrew Scott,
author of several volumes of poetry, and that spirited
song, ' Symon and Janet,' has, like Yorick, carried me
on his back an hundred times. Henrietta Wilkie
(Mrs Drummond, of Tranent) — the author of several
beautiful hymns, and 'The Banks of the Bowden Burn,'
a simple but beautiful song which has been plagiarised
no less than three times, with only the name of a
different burn substituted — and my mother were sisters
to Dr Wilkie, of Inuerleithen, an archaeologist of some
note. He was a friend and correspondent of Sir
Walter Scott, and a cronie and boon companion of the

268 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

'Ettrick Shepherd' and of old Dr Jamieson, the compiler
of the Scottish Dictionary. I was born here on the
4th of Jxily, 1827. A few winters at the village
school comprised my education, and in the summer
months I was sent to herd kye on the sunny slopes of
the Eildon Hills. In the neuk of my plaid I carried
a tattered copy of the Kilmarnock edition of Burns'
poems, and a volume of ' Whistle Binkie.' With such
companions, coupled with the scenery and associations
of the district, my heart must have been hard indeed,
and my brain barren, if they had not caught a love of
Nature, and a slight touch of poetic inspiration.
Some time about the age of sixteen I went to the
town of Selkirk, and served an apprenticeship to the
cabinetmaking and wood-turning trade. From thence
I removed to Hawick, where I worked for nearly forty
years, and then returned to Bowden, where I hope to
end my days."

His " Doric Lays and Lyrics " was first published in
1870, and so well has the book been received by the
press and the public that it is now in the third edition.
It is published by Dunn & Wright, Glasgow, but may
be had from the author himself at Bowden village, St
Boswells. It is a volume of genuine Scottish lyric
verse, and contains much rich poetic fancy as well as
wise reflection. Mr Thomson is peculiarly felicitous
when he, with simple sweetness and natural tender-
nesss, lilts "a bairn's sang," some of these being equal
to any of the fine productions of Alexander Smart,
author of " Rhymes for Little Readers," &c.

THE HAMELESS LADDIE.

Be kind to the hairnie that stands at the door —
The laddie is nameless, and friendless, and poor —
There's few hearts to pity the wee cowerin' form
That seeks at your hallan a hield frae the storm.
Your hame may be humble, your haddin but bare —
For the lowly and poor hae but little to spare —

JAMES THOMSON. 269

But you'll ne'er miss a morsel, though sma' be your store,
To the wee friendless laddie that stands at the door.

When the cauld blast is soughin' sae eerie an' chill,
An" the snawdrifts o' winter lie white on the hill,
When ye meet in the gloamin' aroun' the hearthstane,
Be thankfu' for haddins an' haine.s o' your ain ;
An' think what the feckless an' friendless maun dree,
Wi' nae heart to pity an' nae hand to gie,
That wee guileless bosom micht freeze to the core
Gin ye turned the bit laddie awa' frae the door.

The bird seeks a hame o'er the wide ocean wave,

In the depths o' the covert the fox has a cave,

An' the hare has a den 'neath the wild winter's snaw,

But the wee dowie laddie has nae hame ava ;

Then pity the bairnie, sae feckless an' lane —

Ilka gift to the pair is recorded abune —

For the warm heart o' kindness there's blessing in store,

Sae be kind to the laddie that stands at the door.

THE DAYS 0' LANGSYNE.

I'm an auld body nop, but I mind o' the days,

There were nae foreign fashions nor new-fangled ways ;

When a pair o' new shoon wad ha'e sair'd a hale year,

An' wincey an' guid corduroy was the wear.

When oor faithers were pleased wi" a coat o' the blue,

For it happit the hearts that were honest an' true.

In the days o' langsyne, when we raise in the morn,
The breakfast was pirritch, the apune it was horn ;
The clean tiinmer luggies they stood in a raw,
And a blessin' was ask'd frae the Giver o' a'.
Then sheep's heid an' haggis at denner was ween,
An' sowans an' sweet milk was fare for a queen.

Wi' oor Martinmas mart an' oor mclder o' meal,
Oor fleeces o' 'o V an' our auld spinnin' wheel,
We cared na for winter, come rain or come snaw,
At our warm ingleside there was room for us a' ;
The lasses were canty, the callants were slea,
An' the courtin' was dune wi' a glent o' the e'e.

Then tight, atrappin' maidens, wi' smooth braided hair,
Gaed skelpin' barefitet to kirk an' to fair,
An' the warm tartan plaid an' the dimity goon
Made them decent and douce baith in kintra an' toon.
Lush, hoo fashions are altered, I'm puzzled to ken
If the tapcoat an' hat covers women or men.

270 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Ye may say that I'm doitet, an' ca' it but spleen,

Yet I canna but sigh for the days that ha'e been.

Ye may say they're but mem'ries and dreams at the best,

But the closer the auld heart will cling to the past.

We were happier, I trow, baith in cottage an' ha',

In the days o' langsyne, the dear days that's awa'.

THE WEE CROODLIN' DOO.

Will ye no' fa' asleep the nicht,

Ye restless little loon ?
The sun has lang been oot o' sicht,

And gloamin's darkenin' doon.
There's claise to mend, the hoose to clean-

This nicht I'll no' get through ;
For oh ye winna close your ecu —

Ye wee croodlin' doo.

Spurrin' wi' yer restless feet,

My very legs are sair ;
Clautin' wi' yer buffie hands,

Touslin' mammy's hair.
I've gien ye meat wi' sugar sweet,

Your little crapie's fou ;
Cuddle doon ye stoorie loon —

Ye wee croodlin' doo.

Twisting round and round again,

Warslin' aff my lap,
And pussy on the hearthstane,

As sound as ony tap.
Dickie birdie gane to rest,

A' asleep but you ;
Nestle into mammy's breast,

Ye wee croodlin' doo.

Now hushaba, my little pet —

Ye've a' the warld can gie ;
Ye're just yer mammy's lammie yet,

And dear to dadtlie's e'e —
And ye shall ha'e a hoody braw

To busk your bonnie broo,
"Cockle shells and siller bells,"

My wee croodlin' doo.

Guid be praised, the battle's by,

And sleep has won at last ;
How still the pi id cilia' feetie lie,

The buffie hands at rest !

JAMBS THOMSON. 271

And saftly fa's the silken fringe
Aboon thy een o' blue,

Blessin's on my bonnie bairn,
My wee croodlin' doo.

LITTLE JOCK.

Cam' ye straught alang the toon,

Or doun the Randy Raw ?
Ha'e ye Keen a truant loon

Playin' at the ba' ?
Riven breeks an' barkit face,

As black as a coal pock ;
Ye'll ken the creature ony place —

It's our little Jock.

He's never out o' some mischief —

He'll no gang to the schule —
He tore his carritch leaf frae leaf

To mak' a dragon's tail.
I've trailed him to the maistei's fit,

But frae my grip he broke ;
I'll ha'e to face the Shirra yet

For our little Jock.

He's been afore the Bailie Court

An' fined for throwin' stanes ;
My pouch has suffer'd for his sport

In breakin' window panes.
The first and foremost in the van

Where truant laddies flock ;
The leader o' the ranger clan

Is our little Jock.

There's no a day gangs by but what

Complaints come pourin' in ;
At times he fells a neighbour's cat,

And whiles lie fells a hen.
I wish he uiayna fell a wean

Wi' some unlucky stroke,
For catapults an' dings there's nane

Like our little Jock.

I've fleech'd an' fotichin' a' in vain —

Jock disna seem to care ;
I've thrash'd him o'er an' o'er again,

Until my airm was sair.
He lauchs at switches, belts, an' tawse,

An' ne'er a bantam cock

272 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Sae proudly struts, sae crousely craws,
As our little Jock.

Oh, wad the loon but tak' a thought

An' mend his evil ways ;
I'm sore the wit that he has bought

Might serve him a* his days.
He yet might keep the causey croon

Alang wi' decent folk —
A ragtrit cowt a race has won,

And sae might little Jock.

HAIRST.

The yellow corn waves in the field,

The merry hairst's begun,
And steel plate sickles sharp and keen

Are glinteru in the sun ;
While strappin' lads and lasses braw,

A' kilted to the knee,
Bring to my mind a hairst langsyne

When Robin shaire wi' me.

Licht lie the mools upon his breast,

He was a strappin' chield,
A better shearer ne'er drew huik

Upon a harvest field.
And didna joy loup in my heart,

And sparkle frae my e'e,
Sae prood was I when Robin hecht

To shear alang wi' me.

That was a lichtsome hairst to me,

For love makes licht o' toil,
The kindly blink o' Robin's e'e

Could a' my care beguile.
At restin' time, amang the stocks,

I sat upon his knee,
And wondered if the world could baud

A blyther lass than me.

Lang Sandy and his sister Jean

Thocht nane wi' them could shear,
And a' that hairst, at Rab and me,

Threw many a taunt and jeer.
Rab gae them aye as gnid's they brocht,

And took it a' in fun,
But inly vowed to heat their skin

Afore the hairst was done.

JOHN USHER. 273

The kirn day cam' a kernp began,

And hard and fast it grew,
Across the rigs wi' lightnin' speed

The glintin' sickles flew.
Lang Sandy wanielt like an eel,

But soon fell in the rear,
For no a pair in a' the toon

Wi' Eab and me could shear.

We cleared our rig baith ticht and clean,

And thocht the day oor ain,
When waes my heart ! I brak my huik

Upon a muckle stane.
" Mak' bands," quo' Hobin, while the sweat

Like raindraps trickled doon,
But Robin reached the land-end first

And foremost o' the toon.

I thocht that I wad swoon wi' joy

When dichtin' Robin's broo,
He says, " Meg, gin ye'll buckle to,

I'll shear through life wi' you."
What could I do but buckle to,

He was sae frank and free,
And many a time I blessed the day

That Robin shaired wi' me.

JOHN USHER.

is perhaps no better-known name in all
the South and Mid-Borderland than that which
stands at the head of this notice. But it has been as
the man of the "fields" and "affairs" and genial
social life — with a skilled and critical knowledge of
crops, whether roots, cereals, or bestial of every kind
and breed — and whose judicial services either as
" arbiter " or " oversman " have been in request at
most of the neighbouring valuations, as well as from
time to time as judge at nearly all the leading agricul-
tural showyards in the three kingdoms, that he has

B

274 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

hitherto gathered his well-earned fame, rather than in
that field in which we here seek a place for him among
" Our Scottish Poets."

Venerable as Mr Usher now is for years, and
esteemed for many attractive qualities, it has long
been known to an inner circle of friends that there
is also about him the true "faculty for verse,"
which might well come abroad and be heard in a
wider circle than it has yet reached. Most of his
effusions that have been seen have indeed about them
much of an occasional character, and the colouring of
time and place, but there is also the fine and true
lyric ring. The songs especially are eminently sing-
able, and when heard from his own lips to music of
his own setting (for he has this faculty also), ring out
in a very pleasing manner — whether in the bold and
stirring, or in the tenderly pathetic, as the mood may
be upon him. As he has never published anything in
a collected form, we account it a privilege to be per-
mitted to present here a few specimens, and, before
doing so, to narrate several facts and incidents in what
he himself calls an uneventful life. From some of its
circumstances and surroundings, however, it will be
seen how " meet " also has been the nursing of this
poetic child.

His father, the John Usher who has such a pleasing
and picturesque place in "Lockhart's Life of Sir
Walter Scott," was laird of Toftfield, a patrimonial
inheritance of the Ushers for some previous genera-
tion, which ultimately became, and is still, under the
name of Huntly Burn, a considerable portion of the
more celebrated Abbotsford estate. It was at Toft-
field that our John Usher was born in October 1809,
and it was not till some six or seven years later that
the " yird-hunger " of the distinguised neighbour and
friend, which sought its gratification in laying together
the " crofts, tofts, parts, and peudicles " that went to

JOHN USHER. 275

the making up of Abbotsford, induced the father to
part with Toftfield at a goodly price.

Mr Usher likes to tell still of the many marks of
friendly regard which his father continued to receive
from Sir Walter, and among others of an occasion
when the great man had been dining at his father's
house, he himself as a mere boy had what he considers
the distinguishing honour of his life — of standing be-
tween the " Magician's " knees, his arm thrown around
him, and singing to him a song, which pleased so well
that he was then and there presented by the great
man with a pony — the first bit of horse-flesh he ever
possessed. Thus did the two ruling passions of his life
— love of the horse and love of song — each receive a
strong and abiding impulse.

The Usher family, on parting from Toftfield, re-
moved to the small mansion-house of Weirbank, close
to Melrose, and there had their home for the next six
years. Here John spent his boyhood, receiving his
education at Melrose Academy, with the addition after-
wards at Edinburgh University of two sessions, of a not
very definite or profitable kind, for want, perhaps, of a
specific aim. But there was an education of another
kind — that by "flood and field " and "scraps of song"
and all sorts of outdoor life, which went on without
ceasing. As a boy he had got to know Willie Laid-
law, Sir Walter's friend and amanuensis, and author
of the exquisite song " Lucy's Flittin'," with whom his
father lived on terms of very close friendship. He
also knew Jamie Hogg, the " Ettrick Shepherd," both
in his boyish days and in more mature life. He often
met him at athletic sports, fairs, and elsewhere, and
had heard him sing all his favourite songs.

In 1824 the Usher family removed to East Lothian,
in the upper regions of which, on the estate of the
Marquis of Tweeddale, the elder Mr Usher rented the
farm of Quarryford at the northern foot of the Lam-

276 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

oiermoor range, and along with it the farm of Tullishill,
which lies towards Lauderdale. Here also there were
poetic surroundings, for on the closely-adjacent farm
of Brookside the tenants were the parents of that un-
fortuiiate son of song, Henry Scott Riddell, author of
" Scotland Yet " and many other fine lyrics.

In 1835, being then in his twenty-sixth year, Mr
John Usher entered on the tenancy of Stodrig, a
beautifully-situated farm on the estate of the Duke of
Roxburgh, just to the north of the ducal policy of
Fleurs Castle. There he has continued ever since,
through good times and bad times, with the usual and
common vicissitudes of happy married life and children
about him, and widowed life and children gone forth
to interests and cares of their own. With the farm as
his basis of operations, he has been a man of cease-
less activity, with a genuine love for all outdoor occu-
pations and amusements ; a fearless and " straight "
rider to hounds, with considerable success on the turf
as a gentleman jockey, a lover of horses, dogs, and
"varmint" even, and, what must not be omitted, the
" keenest of curlers " — all of which, at one time or
other, he has made subject of song. And when the even-
ing falls, with a crony or two, it is discovered what a fine
knowledge of English and Scotch literature, with wide
and various reading, he has managed to put together
and digest. When in best trim a song or two of his
own composition and setting brings out at once the
strength, the tenderness, and — for his years, now ap-
proaching the fourscore — the fine force and vivacity
of his character. Mention may be made of the curious
fact that though quite ignorant of the technical
mysteries of musical notation, he has the faculty of
wedding his songs to appropriate music — the words
and melody coming into his mind by a kind of inspira-
tion, almost simultaneously, and generally when on
horseback. Mr George Croal, Edinburgh, an excellent

JOHN USHER. 277

teacher and composer of music, has arranged ten of
his published songs, with suitable symphonies and
accompaniments.

Mr Usher has for many years been Secretary of
" The Border Union Agricultural Society," in the
management of which he takes much pride, and has
had no small success. At various times he has been a
contributor to agricultural and sporting journals. A
series of papers which he wrote for The Field on "Border
Breeds of Sheep" has been collected and published
in book form, with photographs of some of the noted
breeders, their shepherds, famous sheep, and sheep
dogs, which was so popular that we believe it is now
out of print. He has often been importuned to make
a collection of his poetical effusions, but has hitherto
resisted the pressure. This is to be regretted, for he
is really a Scottish poet, and his Muse is such as is
eminently calculated to touch the feelings of Scottish
readers. Yet while the rich robust Doric falls from
his lips, his heart is in tune with the great heart of
humanity. His thoughts are full of healthy sentiment
and of musical rhythm. We ever find present a sunny
and refreshing melody, and, as might be expected, he
describes natural objects with ease and accuracy, and
evinces an affectionate love of rural sights and sounds.

BOO TO THE BUS' THAT BIELDS YE.

Boo to the bus' that bields ye —
When bitter blasts o' fortune blaw,

Cling to the arm that shields ye,
E'en tho' yer back be at the wa'.

When things are no as they hae been,

An' censure's shafts are sharp an' keen,

O that's the time to test a freen,

An' boo to the bus' that bields ye.

Tak' to the blessin" kindly,

Nor deem the motive coarse or low ;

Pride often judges blindly,
And checks the current at the flow.

278 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Be tender ties no rudely riven—
What's freendly ta'en an' freely given,
May male* twa hearts mair meet for heav'n,
Sae boo to the bus' that bields ye.

Need hae we a' p' pity

To ease life's journey o' its load
In cot or ha' or city —

And lift the spirit nearer God.
Be thine the warld's toil to bear,
Wi" thankfu' heart in foul or fair,
An" livin' in the breath o' prayer,
To boo to the bus' that bields ye.

THERE'S NAE FREENS LIKE AULD FREENS.

There's nae freen's like auld freens !

Hoo sweet the tearfu' joy o' meetin' ;
Ane's heart aye warms to auld freens,

An' music o' their kindly greetin*.
When hand is clasped in truthfu' hand,

An' social bonds o' trust are glowin',
The bliss to hae sic auld freens,

The fu' heart swells to overSowin'.

I hae nae broo o' new freens,

The hasty growth o" art an' fashion ;
Gie me the freendship starnp'd in youth,

And welded in the glow o' passion ;
That bears the dunts an' cloors o' life,

An" clings as close as love o' brither,
0 when we meet sic auld freens,

We're young again when we're thegither.

Then let us cherish auld freens,

The aulder be they aye the dearer ;
They wear awa' like autumn leaves,

An' mak" life's pilgrimage the searer.
Sae cling to them wha yet are spared,

As blessin' frae the bounteous Giver ;
The tie that knits twa auld freens,

May be a bond to last for ever.

MEMORY.

0 memory, thou art a spell

More potent far than tongue can tell—

A gleam of joy or funeral knell,

Even as thy fitful mood may be ;

JOHN USHER. 279

O memory, O memory,
Thy voice can scourge like scathing cords,
Or soothe like sound of honied words,
Such is thy might, 0 memory.

Thou art the mind's kaleidoscope,
The birth of love, the dawn of hope,
The blessedness so soon to stop,

Are vividly recalled by thee ;

0 memory, O memory,
The tears and throes of mortal strife,
The vision of a wasted life,

Rise in thy light, 0 memory.

And thus we feel, that in man's will
Thou art a power for good or ill,
That whispers to the heart " be still,"

And from all worldly taint be free ;

0 memory, 0 memory,
If by thy light we learn to prize
The blessedness beyond the skies

We'll bless thy torch, O memory.

"THE CHANNEL STANE."
(Inscribed wi' britherly love to a' keen curlers.)

Up ! curlers, up ! oor freen John Frost

Has closed his grip on loch an' lea ;
Up ! time's ower precious to be lost,

An' rally roun' the rink an' tee.
Wi' steady ban', an' nerve, an' e'e,

Noo canny, noo wi' micht an' main,
To test by " wick," an' "guard," an' "draw,"
Oor prowess wi' the channel stane. ,;^J
O the roarin' channel stane, *

The canny, creepin' channel stane,
What music to the curler's ear
Like music o' the channel stane.

It's bliss to curlers' eye an' ear

When " crack an' egg ''or " chap an' lie "
Is greeted wi' responsive cheer

An' wavin' besoms raised on high,
Or when nocht else is left to try

Wi' rapid glance an' easy swing
The " ootring " o' a stane is chipp'd

An' twirled within the inner ring.
0 the roarin' channel stane,
The toddliu', trinklin' channel stane,

280 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

What music to the curler's ear
Like music o' the channel stane.

The time is called— the match a tie —
The game, contestit close an' keen,
Seems sealed, for guards like bulwark lie,

Nae vestige o* the winner seen ;
Anon the skip, wi' dauntless mein,

Puts doon his broom — "creep tilt," cries he ;
The stane's sent hirplin' through the port,
An' soopit deftly to the tee.
O the roarin' channel stane,

The hirplin', wimplin' channel stane,
What music to the curler's ear
Like music o' the channel stane.

It boots not whence the curler hails —

If curler keen an' staunch he be —
Frae Scotland, England, Ireland, Wales,

Or colonies ayont the sea ;
A social britherhood are we,

An' after we are deid an' gane
We'll live in literature an' lair
In annals o' the channel stane.
0 the roarin' channel stane,

The witcbin', winsome channel stane,
What music to the curler's ear
Like music o' the channel stane.

A PIPE OF TOBACCO.
(Dedicated to the Monks of St Giles.)

Let the toper regale in his tankard of ale,

Or with alcohol moisten his thrapple,
Only give me, I pray, a good pipe of soft clay

Nicely tapered and thin in the stapple,
And I shall puff, puff, let who will say enoagh,

No luxury else I'm in lack o' ;
No malice I hoard 'gainst Queen, Prince, Duke or Lord,

While I pull at my pipe of tobacco.

When I feel the hot strife of the battle of life,

And the prospect is aught but euticin'.
Mayhap some real ill, like a protested bill,

Dims the sunshine that tinged the horizon.
Only let me puff, puff, be they ever so rough,

All the sorrows of life I lose track o' ;
The mists disappear, and the vista is clear,

With a soothing uiild pipe of tobacco.

JOHN USHER. 281

And when joy after pain,jlike thejsun after rain,

Stills the waters long tnrbid and troubled,
That life's current may flow with a ruddier glow,

And the sense of enjoyment be doubled,
Oh ! let me puff, puff, till I feel quantum suff—

Such luxury still- I'm in lack o" ;
Be joy ever so sweet, it would be incomplete

Without a good pipe of tobacco.

Should my recreant muse, sometimes apt to refuse

The guidance of bit and of bridle,
Still blankly demur, spite of whip and of spur,

Unimpassioned, inconstant, or idle ;
Only let me puff, puff, till the brain cries enough,

Such excitement is all I'm in lack o' ;
And the poetic vein, soon to fancy gives rein,

Inspired by a pipe of tobacco.

THE FLEUR DE LIS.

The " Fleur de lis" bloomed fresh and fair,
Fanned by the breath of summer air,
And far and wide her tendrils spread
Deep rooted in luxurious bed ;
No adverse blasts her strength assailed,
No riral charms her glory paled,
And wondering nations nocked to see
The beauty of the " Fleur de Lis."

Flowers wither without fostering care,

Tho' blest with soil, and sun and air,

As noble natures run to seed

That lack the stamp of noble deed ;

And noxious weeds gain strength and power

To mar the man and stunt the flower,

Soon wasted,* wan, and sad to see,

So fared it with the " Fleur de Lis."

The blushing rose in silent grief
Bent low and shed a withered leaf,
The verdant shamrock at the view
In sympathy dropt tears of dew,
The stalwart thistle doffed his pride
On lofty mountain's rugged side,
An' for the dool she had to dree,
Had pity for the " Fleur de Lis."

While showers of blessing fell, as rain
Falls oo some waste and arid plain,

282 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

The tender flower, tho' all but dead,
With culture might have raised her head ;
But impious hands in evil hour
Plucked from the earth both root and flower,
And crushed the hope once more to see
Fresh beauty in the " Fleur de Lis."

ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE HORSE.

Alas ! poor Hab,* thy race is run,
<iThy heaving breath comes thick and fast,

Before the sinking of the sun
Life will have passed.

The fire that kindled in thine eye

Is quenched and dim with racking pain,

Thy mouth and tongue are parched and dry,
All hope is vain.

Would rather that thy breath had passed

With a good sportsman on thy back,
In charging hurdle bold and fast,

Close on the pack.

But thus, oh thus, to see thee die,
Distracts my heart and makes it bleed,

I feel thou murdered art, and I
Have done the deed.

In thee affection ever found

Requited love, strong and sincere,
With confidence and kindness crowned,

Love without fear.

My heart is full and sore with grief —

Hadst thou been human my remorse
In groans and tears had found relief,

My faithful horse.

And wherefore should my heart be cold,

Why ought I not to weep for you ?
I'll ne'er again find horse so bold,

Nor friend so true.

Now cease thy strong convulsive start,

For thee the surgeon's skill is vain,
The whizzing ball must seek thy heart,

And (shorten pain.

*A favourite horse that had his back broken by a fall in jumping him
over a hurdle in cool blood.

CHARLES WADDIE. 283

Yet oft in fancy's saddest mood
My memory will thee recall,

Whene'er I see thy sheet or hood,
Or empty stall.

I would I might give vent to grief,
I'd rather deem it pensive joy

To weep, and mourn thy fate as if
I were a boy.

CHARLES WADDIE,

H DRAMATIC poet of much power and imagination,
a vigorous prose writer, and a patriotic Scots-
man, was born at Edinburgh in 1836. His father and
mother were natives of Forfarshire. Mr Waddie was
educated at a private school, but being very delicate,
and having to go to business when fourteen years of
age, much of his education was acquired in the even-
ings after the duties of the day were over. His early
experiences were those of toil, and hard application.
Nevertheless he was able to employ "odd bits of time"
in literary culture, and when only nineteen published
his first production — an historical play in five acts,
entitled "Wallace, or the Field of Stirling Bridge.'
His next play was " The Heir of Linn," a romantic
comedy founded on the old Scotch ballad of the same
name. He was then twenty-two years of a<re, and
the piece was played with success at Edinburgh.
This was followed by "Raymond and Laurie,"
a tragedy founded on an Italian novel. After this he
laid his literary pen aside for a period of nearly twenty
years, during which time he devoted his entire atten-
tion to the building up of a large and successful
business.

284 MODERN SCOTTISH POBT8.

With well-earned leisure, Mr Waddie found his old
love for the Muses return again, and he wrote, under
the nom-de-plume " Thistledown," " Dunbar, the King's
Advocate, a Tragic Episode in the Reformation,"
which many consider his best work. Since this was
published, he has engaged largely in politics, and has
discussed with great fullness the subject of Home Rule.
He has also written three comedies and one musical
drama — all in five acts, but these have not as yet been
published. Appended to " Dunbar," Mr Waddie gives
an able article on " Dramatic Poetry," in the course of
which he says : — "The student of English literature, if
he be a Scotsman, must be struck with, and not a little
humiliated at, the poor part his countrymen have played
in the greatest of all arts — the dramatic. Were the
Scots a poor-witted people, with no artistic talent, their
lack of dramatic instinct would not be remarkable ;
but it is only bare justice to a country that has done
so much with so small a population, to say that there
is not another in Europe their superior in artistic
genius. A little acquaintance with the history of
Scotland will explain the reason of this poverty in
dramatic poetry, although it can give little comfort to
the patriotic Scot, who, with a sigh, sees other
countries pointing with pride to their great poets,
whose noblest works are in the dramatic form. At
the time of Elizabeth and James, London had a popu-
lation nearly as large as Edinburgh at the present
day, while there was no town in Scotland that had
more than twenty thousand. It is clear, then, that in
so poor a country there was no room for the theatre
to flourish. Thus, while England was producing the
plays of Shakespeare and other great writers, the
dramatic muse was silent in Scotland ; and events
which transpired during the struggle of the Covenan-
ters identified the players and dramatic poets with the
enemies of the national cause An effort was made in

CHARLES WADDIB. 285

1736 to build a theatre in Edinburgh by Allan Ramsay,
whose beautiful pastoral, 'The Gentle Shepherd,' is
almost the only work of genius in the dramatic form pro-
duced by a Scotsman, and in happier times a dramatic
period might have been begun. But this the furious
bigotry of the clergy forbade ; they closed his theatre,
and nearly ruined the careful poet. Twenty years
after, Home produced his tragedy of ' Douglas ;' and
again the implacable animosity of the clergy broke
forth, his only reward being to be driven from his
profession ; while Thomson, who knew them better,
spared them the trouble by retreating in time.

The namby-pamby plays of our day have driven
natural character from the stage, while the idiotic
burlesque and ridiculous melodrama have degraded the
literature of the theatre to a point never known before.
Would it not be of real service to art if the well-
instructed critic would give some encouragement to
those authors who try to write a better class of plays
than is common on our stage now ? Works of genius
rrmst of necessity be few and far between, but some-
thing better than the nonsense imported from France
should surely be possible."

We think Mr Waddie's productions are such as are
calculated to raise the tone of the stage. His know-
ledge of history is extensive and accurate, and his
historical plays are thus valuable and instructive, and
possess the necessary ingenuity of thought and
brilliancy of fancy to make them popular. In tragedy
he presents us with much high-wrought passion and
rapid dramatic action; his comedies are easy, and possess
much lively wit and humour, while sprinkled through-
out both we have a variety of fine lyrical pieces, many
excellent thoughts, and pathetic touches.

286 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

THOU WERT FAIR OF HUE, ANNIE.

Thou wert fair of hue Annie, thou wert fair of hue,
The lily lent her whiteness, and the rose her rich tints too,
The violet gave her blue, Annie, to paint thy laughing e'e,
Which saftly danced 'twixt sunny locks, and glinted sweet at me.

Thou wert tall and straight, Annie, thou wert tall and straight,
As mountain ash or poplar slim that grows beside the gate ;
But thou art dead and gane, Annie, thou art dead and gane,
The green grass grows upon your grave, and o'er your head's a
stone.

I wander a' forlorn, Annie, 1 wander a' forlorn,
A fleeting shadow i' the woods, that shuns the rising morn ;
The stammer is in bloom, Annie, the summer is in bloom,
But sour, cauld winter bides wi' me, and never-ending gloom.

I speer at ilka wind, Annie, that blaws from o'er the sea,
I speer at ilka breeze, Annie, gif they ken aught o' thee,
I speer at ilka burnie clear that I think ca's thy name,
I cry until the silent wood aft gars me greet for shame.

I'll gang unto your grave, Annie, I'll gang unto your grave,
And there I'll sit, and never nit, for death's the boon I crave ;
I'll no let death a-be, Annie, I'll no let death a-be,
Until he take ine to him.se!', that I may bide wi' thee.

THE BATTLE OF THE DEAD.

The warder paced on his airy rounds, and looked o'er moor and

fen ;
The warder traced from his lofty tower the inmost nook of the

glen.

The moon stood balanced on a hill, and shed her silvery light ;
The moon stood balanced on a hill, and made the welkin bright.
On that wild moorland, underneath, as in old tales is told,
Two hosts fought ail a summer's day, till two-thirds bit the wold.
The warder starts and crosses himself, as he hears a hollow sound,
"Tis the spectre horn ! the spectre horn blown hoarsely under-
ground.
The earth shook from the east to the west to let the dead men

free,
And 'gan upheave and sink again, like the waves of a troubled

sea,
And clink and clank as they uprose went the harness of each

knight,
Their shields still bore on the face of them the scars of the

ancient fight.

CHARLES WADDIE. 287

The moon was 'bove the distant hills, and shone along their
line,

And danced upon their plated mail as she would upon the brine.

0 black, black are their sable plumes, and black their horses'
manes,

Their fiery steeds do paw the ground and chafe against the reins.

Ah well ! I wot when they were 'live they were a gallant band,

As ere drew sword or levelled spear to free their native land ;

But hollow are their sunken eyes, and sharp their features thin,

And through the helmet bars appears the cracked and wrinkled
skin ;

Long, long and gaunt their skinny arms, though clad in plated
mail,

The steel gloves rattled on their wrists and fingers long and pale.

"Hurrah ! '' now cry the spectre bands ; " Hurrah ! '' they shout
aloud.

Ah ! save me, Christ ! but they are wan and pale as any shroud ;

Their shouting seems beneath the ground, as rumbling earth-
quakes are—

The thunder of the nether heavens in wild domestic war.

But suddenly their foes appear to burst the western gloom —
A second band on prancing .steeds, and many a waving plume ;
A thousand is at least their strength, and each a sturdy knight,
Their spears are like a troop of stars and make the welkin bright.
" Hurrah ! " respond this second band ; " Hurrah ! " they shout

aloud.
Ah ! save me, Christ ' but they are wan and pale as any shroud.

On smoking steed, with panting speed, and words that speak

their rage,

They couch the spear and draw the sword and furiously engage.
Close by the fierce contending crowd, upon a little hill,
Sits mighty Death, with bloody breath — the hosts are at his will.
He rubs his long and bony hands, and seems convulsed with glee,
As 'ni'ath him strive those spectre bands as furious as the sea,
When winds and waves and lightnings strive which shall the

conqueror be ;

The thunder of their hurtled spears, the clashing of their blades,
Their party cries — such hideous din — the midnight air invades ;
And ever and anon arose to heaven a piteous wail,
Like the wild parting of a ship that founders in a gale,
As one by one the leaders dropped exhausted on the moor,
And felt the pangs of violent death as bitter as before —
As bitter as upon that day, that fatal day of yore.

The moon stood balanced on a hill, and shone upon the field,
Upon their gashes wide and deep, as death their eyeballs sealed,
But thrice again beneath the moor the spectre horn is wound,
Earth opens and the strife is done — the dead sink under ground,

288 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

The fresh air breathes when they are gone, the dew is on the

thorn,
While up at heaven the merry lark proclaims the rising morn.

O read the warning, pause a while, ye angry men of strife,

For God in heaven cloth hold most dear the sacred fount of life ;

That vital spark which He hath given no mortal man should

quench,
For woe to the victors, and woe to the slain, and woe to the

bloody trench !

Each of these spectre warriors was gallant, bold, and brave,
But for this sin they find no peace within the mouldering grave ;
And ever as the season comes, the peasant tells the tale
Of the ancient l>attle on the moor, and hears the parting wail,
As from the shelf he takes the book — the precious Book of Life —
To read the warnings given therein to those that live in strife.

SCENES FROM "WALLACE."

[Sir Clharles Lindsay having been executed by command of the English,
Lady Lindsay and her son are discovered bending over the body immedia-
tely after the execution.]

Lady Lindsay. — Hide now thy face thou brightest orb of

heaven

In some thick cloud, as cheerless as my grief,
Come murky night and chase the garish sun
That smiles, and smiles, and smiles, upon my woe.
The trembling caitive burdened with his crimes
Seeks the dark hollow of the leafy wood,
Or in the night, cased in some mean disguise,
Prowls fearfully where men do congregate,
But Edward Longshanks, king of villains,
His beastly crime Haunts in the face of day.

Lindsay.— I prithee, gentle mother, to be still,
My father's spirit hovers o'er me now,
Vex him not, mother, with too much of grief.

Wallace. — Aid me, just heaven, to venge these cruel wrongs.

Lady Lindsay. — Grief must in future be to me a husband,
Sorrows my children, tears my cup of joy —
O coward death that early takes the best,
Here on the ground a monument of woe,
I'll sit all day and call upon thy dart,
And thou wilt pass in scorn of the poor wretch
That gladly would be wedded to a shroud.

CHARLES WADDIE. 289

(Wallace addresses the Scottish army near Irvine :)

ee.— Hear me, ye patriots, 'tis the hap of war
That Edward spoils our country, wastes our blood,
And robs the independence of our Church,
For never can we aught behold in him
Than the oppressive, ruthless conqueror,
Whose power keeps equal footing with our loss,
Nor he in us than danger to his power,
So rank are our opposing interests,
Our glorious freedom hath endured so long,
From Fergus unto Alexander's death,
That like the channel of a mighty stream,
The disposition of the land is tixed,
And moulded with the current of the wave ;
Nor till as many generations pass
Of crouching slaves can nature be subdued, —
This knows proud Edward, and he plans the slope
Down which our honoured country shall decline,
While sharp and bitter are our present wrongs.

Douglas. — We'll spend our lives to gain our liberty.

Fraser. — We shall avenge the insults which we've felt

Moray. — And revel us in England's merry counties
As she so long has in our bonny Scotland.

Wallace: — 0 ! let the spirits of our ancestors
Give to us manly stomachs in the war ;
Upon the topmost peaks of our high hills
The souls of our departed heroes stand
To overlook our actions, and to join
In glorious sympathy with our hold deeds,
Fame shall exalt us to their company,
And from her lofty citadel blow wide
Our names to every country of the free,
Till they become the watchwords of renown.

FROM "DUNBAR."

(Dunbar discovered asleep in prison, a bright light shinin;/ on hirr..
A Choir of voices sing above.)

Heavenly angels on thee wait,
Mortal man, though doomed to die ;

We regard thy low estate,
Though thy prostrate body lie

Grov'liug on thy parent earth,

Where so late thou had'st thy birth.

Such the power of heavenly truth
Which doth now possess thy soul,

Though scarcely past meridian youth
Already thou hast reached the goal

8

290 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Where God will welcome thee with choirs
And grant thee all thy soul's desires.

Fear not, mortal, though they spill
Thy best blood upon the ground,

He who God's behests fulfil

In his sustaining arms is wound ;

With guilty hands when thee they slay

They help but faster on thy way.

Jailor. — He sleeps the sleep of the just, great Dunbar.
I have seen many die, and sleeping, too,
Soundly the night before their execution,
But this man hath no semblance unto these.
Gentle and true, the worst words of his mouth
Sound like a blessing dropped from heaven itself.

Dunbar. — It is the coward that doth fear to die.
A thousand shapes of horror's in the word,
And direful sounds in every passing breeze
Appals the votary of superstition ;
Bat my soul's calm, my pulse beats temperate,
And heavenly peace is seated in my heart.
A thousand happy memories of the past
Come trooping o'er the tissues of my brain,
And smiling faces meekly bend their eyes
With parted lips and words that blesses me.
Has, then, a life like mine been idly spent ?
Ah ! no, the soldier of the cross,
When death o'ertakes him, dies to be immortal.

FRANCIS BARNARD,

collier poet of Woodend, Armadale, author of
a volume entitled "Sparks from a Miner's
Lamp" (Baird & Hamilton, Airdrie, 1875), was born
in 1834 at Red Row, one of a cluster of hamlets be-
longing to the Devon Iron Company, and situated in
the county and parish of Clackmannanshire. When

FRANCIS BARNARD. 29 1

he was yet a child his parents removed to the neigh-
bourhood of Airdrie, where they remained for four
years, after which they returned to Clackmaunanshire,
and settled for a time at Forrest Mill. Here, in his
sixth year, Francis was sent to school — the same
damp, dingy building in which the young poet,
Michael Bruce, was teacher for a period. The Barnard
family, as is typical of the mining class, experienced
many " shifts," and we find them now at Bo'ness and
again at Grangeinouth, where the subject of our sketch
worked in the pit with his father, followed the occupa-
tion of a cowherd, and attended school, where he was
an apt and intelligent pupil. His mother laboured
early and late at hand-sewing to keep him at school
and in books. It was her ambition that he should
" wag his pow in a pulpit," and she made every en-
deavour in her power to bring about this consumma-
tion. However, the fates were against the family,
and he had to go down the mine. " Toiling from
three or four in the morning until five or six o'clock
in the evening," he says, "left little or no time for
mental culture. Still I generally read whatever came
in my way, and continued a regular attender at the
Sunday school. Looking back, and calling to remem-
brance the persons with whom I was associated at one
of these, I am forcibly reminded of a sentiment in
Thenstone's Schoolmistress —

' A little bench of heedless bishops here,
And there a chancellor in embryo,'

for, besides others of note who were in that Sabbath
school, there was a Lord- Advocate ' in embryo.' This
was the late Lord-Advocate, Johnnie Balfour, as we
used to call him. He and I were in the same class,

and his tutor was our teacher I learned

that ' labour, all labour is noble and holy,' that a man's
calling would never disgrace him, but that on the con-

292 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

trary, he might ennoble it, so that I thought to be an
honest miner may not be the worst occupation after
all. It is now nearly a quarter of a century since I
was employed in the Coltness Iron Company's service
at Woodend Colliery, near Bathgate, and with the
exception of fully two years I have remained with
them ever since. I now and again string together a
few verses on any subject that occurs to me, and send
them to the Airdrie Advertiser, West Lothian Courier,
and other newspapers, where I always get a cordial
reception. During the winter months I gather a few
boys into my room and give them lessons in the three
' R's,' and thus try in many ways to be useful to my
fellow-men. But a time came when my eldest
child, son, and first help met with an accident, which
seemed trivial at first, but cost him years of suffering
and acute pain. Not only was it suffering to him,
poor fellow, but it reduced the whole family to penury
and want. It was then that one of our numerous
friends suggested that I should venture on the publi-
cation of my poems."

The volume met with the success its merits deserved.
Many of his descriptive and pastoral poems are graphic
and pleasing, and possess true pathos. In his labour
poems we find tender and touching delineations of pit
life, and it is refreshing to hear his joyous echoes ring
amid the darkness of the mine. In a letter accom-
panying several of his recent productions he says —
" I am now past the July of my days, when birds forget
to sing. At best I am but a sparrow among the birds,
and it is only an occasional chirp that is now heard
from me." We will be glad to be cheered by such
"chirps" for many a day. Altogether, the worthy
collier bard deserves the admiration of our readers
not only on account of the excellency of his verse, but
also for the nobility of his personal character.

FRANCIS BARNARD. 293

THE DYING WIFE.

Noo, John, ye'll raise me up a wee, for ere I gang awa,
Tho' weak an' low my voice, I'd like to say a word or twa —
I winna trouble you lang noo, but ye've been guid an' kin',
An' for your pains ye'll get reward ; O had the task been mine ;
No that I hae a grudge to gang, but in your latest hours,
I'd seen hoo ye were cared for, but it is His will, be't ours.
An' sin' it's sae, ae thing I'll say, an' ye'll be proud to learn,
My heart is fu', big wi' the joy o' ineetin' wi' our bairn.

It wasna lang we had her, no, but barely twa short years,

She dwelt on earth, an', John, oh weel I mind your doubts an*

fears ;

An' hoo ye said that when, wi' care, your heart was vex'd an' sad,
Her bits o' droll wee funny ways, again sune made it glad ;
An' aye ye said she kent whene'er it was o'ercast wi' gloom,
But aye yon thocht she wad be ta'en a bud in Heaven to bloom ;
Owre true, but ae short week she dwined, nae need for her

preparin',
An' then she quietly gaed awa — in Heaven a lanesome bairn.

No but I ken the bairnie's free frae sin an' a' its harms,

An' aft the Saviour taks her up an' faulds her in his arms :

Yet thro" the sweet trreen fields I've thocht she aften lanely trips,

But aye the everlasting sang upon her sweet wee lips.

The dear wee lamb, she'll surely ken her mother sune will come,

Be surely foremost at the gate to bid me welcome home ;

For tho' on earth will ne'er be kent the bliss the righteous earn,

The joys o' Heaven maun sweeter be when I gang to our bairn.

An' tho' the way be lang an' dark, the journey's short in time,
For I'll be safely hame before the morrow's midnight chime ;
An' tho' I ken ye'll weary, weary sair when I am gane,
There's ae consolin' thocht, I ken ye'll no be left alane ;
An' ye'll be comforted, an' whiles I'll wing a journey doun,
E'en to the pillow whaur ye lie, but ye'll be sleepin' soun' ;
An' dream that I'm beside ye, John, an' in your dreams you'll

learn
A' that is lawfu' to be kent about me and our bairn.

Ye hae a trust, a heavy charge, Heaven help you to fulfil
Your duties a', an' bide your time, an' when you come I will
Be waitin' to redeive you, an' till then upon His breast,
I'll rest secure, for 0 I'm weary, langin' for that rest.

Noo, John, ye'll lay me back again, my head is geyan sair,
An' weet my lips, they're unco dry, an' I maun speak nae mair ;
But till ye come, may He wha gied us aye our daily bread,
Keep you an' guide you to the end, wi' blessings on your head.

294 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

THE SUN IS EVER SHINING.

Ho ! brothers travelling o'er life's way,
All sick, all weary, and repining,

Thro" cloud and gloom day after day,
Cheer up ! the sun is ever shining.

Oppressed with toil, oppressed with care,
Thro' others' selfish base designing,

You deem your ills too hard to bear.
Take comfort, still the sun is shining.

The blackest cloud that e'er did loom
In air had aye a silver lining ;

Amid the night of deepest gloom
Somewhere on earth the sun was shining ;

Tho' fortune's winter on you frown,

With cloud on cloud your hopes repelling,

Summer will after winter come,

With sunshine all your gloom dispelling.

Worn out and weary, tho' you fall,
Yet know, in your last days declining,

Earth's sun may fade, moon, stars, and all,
Still there's a Sun will aye be shining.

Then, brothers* struggling o'er life's way,
O go not heartless and repining ;

Tho' seeming cloudy is your day,
The Sun of Righteousness is shining.

HON EYMOON SONG.

0 care will gar a man look wae,
An* care will mak' him glad,

E'en care will heave his heart owre hie,

• An' care will drive him mad ;

But trow rne, man is blessed by cares,

The fewer that they be,
For a" my care is for my Nell,

An' Nell's a' for me.

Nae warld's gear e'er gae me fear,

Or care to cross my rest, —
But what has love to do wi' gear,

For wi't he's seldom blest ;

1 daily toil for Nellie's smile,
An' the sweet blink o' her ee,

FRANCIS BARNARD. 295

An' I've nae care but for my Nell,
An' Nell nane but me.

Ye wha has liv'd in Hymen's band

Twa-thirds o' a' your life,
An' watch'd your little offspring sweet,

Grow up to man an' wife,
The sweetest time o' a' your lives

Was (sure ye'll a' agree),
When ye'd nane to care for but your Nell,

And Nell nane but ye.

Gae mix ye wi' the babblin* crowd,

Whase peace is wreck'd at hame,
An' seek your joys in princely ha's

Wanrestfu' lord an' dame ;
In the wide desert I could dwell,

An' joyfu' there wad be,
Wi' nought to care for but my Nell,

An' Nell nought but me.

AN EVENING IN SPRING.

How sweet, how beautiful, how mild and still,

Now that young Spring has shown her infant face.

The sun has set behind the western hill,

And gold-tinged clouds swim thro' the vaulted space,

Like golden fishes in a crystal vase.

Pleasant the murmur of the purling rill,

Mix'd with the little songsters of the grove,

All sweetly carolling their lays of love.

"Pis twilight, and the thrush now sings alone —

The smaller birds erewhile have one by one

Dropt off — his song confused, but sweeter grown,

The last tones sweetest, till, now hush ! 'tis done.

0 ! I could dwell among the woods with thee,

To listen to thy strains of richest melody.

THE AULD MAN.»

A gay and sprightly lad was I,

When in my yonthfu' years ;
This warld I thought a paradise,

Nae cares had I nor fears.

* I have here attempted to imitate that change or apparent Inconsis-
tency of sentiment very noticeable in aged people. ScRNE-The king's
highway, beside a wood, near a village, and boys playing at ball.

MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Where'er I went, whate'er I saw,

A' seemed to divine,
A life o' lasting bliss for me,

Ah ! cheating days langsyne.

I wander dowie thro' .the woods,

Tho1 cheerie is the spring ;
The trees 'mid joy shoot forth their buds,

The birdies sweetly sing.
The mavis, loud aboon them a',

Pours forth his notes sae fine,
But sings na the same canty sang,

He used to sing langsyne.

The palm-buds oh ! they draw a tear,

They sae resemble man,
Born wi' the grey hairs on his head —

Life spent ere weel began.
They fade an' mingle wi' the clay,

Amaist before they shine,
Sae short is life, yet seems to me,

A weary lang langsyne.

Lang, lang ere this my weary saul,

Had Heaven-ward wing'd its way,
Had not its flight been kept down by

This weary load o' clay.
I lang to see that place o' bliss.

Where saints with angels join,
In sangs o' lasting praise to Him,

Wha lov'd us sae langsyne.

Play on, ye merry youngsters, play,

Drive out the cheerie ba",
The time will come when a' your mirth

An' glee maun pass awa*.
But dinna dae as I hae dune,

An' cause hae to repine,
Nor dream aught o' the silly joys,

I doted on langsyne.

Tho' Time has placed upon my head

A crown o' hoary hairs,
Whilk tells me noo that I, ere lang,

Maun leave this warld o' cares ;
Yet when I see thae sportive boys,

My eild ainaist I tine,
For, yet, my heart beats to the joys

An' pastimes o' langsyne.

R. S. INGLIS. 297

ROBERT STIRLING INGLIS.

TlTfl ^ nave occasionally found it to be a character-
VL\H istic of those who possess in some degree the
power of rhyme or the gift of poetic expression, that
they are eager to see their productions in print, and
early ambitious of appearing, if possible, in all the
dignity of a volume of poems. The subject of the
present sketch is a marked exception to this tendency.
Though belonging undoubtedly to the genus irritabile
vatum he was singularly free from the weakness of
seeking to expose his poetic musings to the glare of
the public press. In early life, indeed, he seems to
have sent at least one piece to a newspaper, yet he has
but seldom allowed anything to appear in this way,
and only at the close of life — finished too soon — was
he persuaded to allow a small volume of his poems to
be prepared for publication. And after all he did not
live to see the book, in preparing for which the last
weeks of his life were spent. This volume, entitled
"Whisperings from the Hillside," was published in
1886, by Mr A. Elliot, Edinburgh, with a prefatory
note giving some account of the author, by the Rev.
James Bell, Auchtermuchty, to whom, and the pub-
lisher, we are indebted for bringing Robert Inglis
under our notice.

The poet was born in 1835, in the parish of Heriot
and county of Edinburgh, near the head of Gala Water.
His father was a shepherd there, but in the poet's
second year removed to the farm of Outterstone, in
the parish of Temple. The family was a large one,
consisting of eight sons and one daughter, Robert
being the third. The home was at the foot of the
Moorfoot hills, and Robert and his brothers got their
scanty education at the Parish School, some distance

298 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

off. He was early acquainted with the care of sheep,
and the shepherd's dog was his playmate. In the
poem " The Summer Brook," he looks back from the
end of life to its beginning,

"Ere I had donned the male attire,
Or doffed the female's drugget frock,

And when, like pious monk or friar,
I wore the shepherd's tartan cloak.

Ere, like a little hardy man,

Wi' worthy Boh, then auld an' dune,

Alang the march burnside we ran,
To turn the flocks at summer noon.

In after years, too, as may be seen in " The Whinny
Dell," pleasant memories of schooldays at Temple are
preserved. Yet these schooldays must have been few,
and his attendance at school, especially in the later
years, was much broken. The large family at home,
and their scanty means, required that the elder children
should be early called upon to help their parents. He
left home for the. first time before he reached the age
of twelve. During the next ten or eleven years he
was engaged at various farms in his native county,
always coming home now and again. At one time he
was home ill, and had to undergo an operation, when
his life was despaired of, and he was long unfit for
employment.

In the year 1857 our poet got a situation as shep-
herd at Campsie, which he changed in the following
year for one at Fintry. By this time the poetic
faculty had awakened, and he was known among his
friends as a writer of verses. The following verse is
from a poem written at this time, the oldest, so far as
known, which he has preserved, and which he says
" was printed in the English newspapers, and recom-
mended by the editor to an attentive perusal. It is
entitled " Hope."

R. 8. INGLIS. 299

" Gift of heaven, what can buy thee ?

Not the pinching miser's hoard ;
Nothing earthly can supply me

With the pleasures you afford :
When the gay and great, pass by me,
Patiently thou lingerest nigh me—

Gift of the eternal Lord."

In a letter which has been preserved from J. N., the
parish schoolmaster at Fintry of date 10th February,
1859, which accompanies a poetical effusion addressed
to R. Inglis " the poet of the Jaw," (evidently the
name of the place where the shepherd lived), reference
is made to a manuscript book of poems, of which the
writer says that " it is most astonishingly correct,
both in orthography and syntax, to be done by one who
is unacquainted with the rules of grammar." u It
would be a pity," he adds " if you did not go on as
have done, as you have some very fine feeling in poet-
ical language."

Encouraged by such words of praise, he did go on,
and in subsequent years, while shepherd in varied
scenes, he continued to cultivate the Muses. His
employment afterwards led him to Strathblaue and
Gargunnock, in Stirlingshire, and to Brackland, to
Aldie, near Methven, and to Invermay, in Perthshire.
Many of his pieces date from the last two places,
though in Invermay he only remained one year. He
removed to Fife in the year 1871, and in 1873 he
married and settled down in the little cottage of
Darnoe as the shepherd on the farm of Falklandwood,
near Falkland. Here he remained eleven years, till
in 1884 failing health caused the removal of the
family to the neighbouring village of Newton. For
nearly two years he lingered on under severe liver
complaint, much confined to bed, yet ever cheerful,
till the end came on 19th June, 1886.

The poems of our author well illustrate the value of
the old godly upbringing of the Scottish peasant

MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

homes, and the truth, too, that, with this advantage,
ofttimes from lowly cot came forth in after years some
of the best influences on society. He is a humble
instance also of what Burns and Hogg illustrate
splendidly — that true poetic power may have its
origin in the poorest rustic dwelling, and that the
Muse may be nursed in the shepherd's plaid on the
hillside.

The love of home, as in all true Scottish hearts,
was deeply cherished by our poet, and frequently finds
expression in his verse ; and so, too, the friends of
home— indeed the poems of the affections form the
bulk of the book. Not till within a mouth or two of
his death, and when urged thereto by some friends,
did he attempt writing in his native dialect. This is
much to be regretted, as his success in the few poems
he has thus produced gave promise of excellent work.

The poet was very busy during the last year of his
life. His growing affliction cast a pensive gloom over
his spirit, but it did not crush his poetic faculty. He
sat or lay and mused over many things of the past.
Fancy was quickened, while he remembered all the
scenes of jpyous nature from which he was now shut
out. The last poem which left his hand, only three or
four days before his death, that addressed " To Robert
Nicoll," is here reproduced. He seemed to trace some
resemblance between his own case and that of the
weary though youthful poet returning to his native
place, but not permitted to reach it. The selections
we give show the variety of his themes and the versa-
tility of his Muse.

WE FEET, NOT TILL WE SUFFER.

Dark sorrows cloud full many a hearth,
When life's most valued joy.s have fled ;

And angel smiles, and childhood's mirth,
But live around the early dead.

R. 8. INQLIS. 301

As oft spring's fairest'flowers are reft

Of all their fragrance ami their bloom,
So are those homes where nought is left

But aching hearts and silent gloom.

When wrathful tempests lash the deep,

And strew the shore with many a wreck,
And lone hearts for their lost ones weep,

How little heed of those we take !
But when dire troubles nearer come,

And from the circle dear ones steal,
And leave sad blanks in our sweet home,

For others then we learn to feel.

Ob ! let us not refuse to learn

To sympathise vith human woe,
Till by some lesson, kind tho' stern,

Life's nobler work we're taught to know.
And when our trusted gourd lies low,

Let's bear in mind the lesson given,
And try some kindly light to throw

O'er lives by sorrows bowed and riven.

How blest is he who stoops and bears

His brother's burden through the brake
Of thorny griefs and bramble cares,

Where robes are torn and sore limbs ache.
On him may choicest blessings fall,

And good men honour long the name
Of him who came at duty's call,

Responsive to the tend'rest claim.

THE LAND WHERE THE EAGLE SOARS.

And this is the land where the eagle soars,
O'er his rock-built home by the northern sea,

Where the fisher's song, as he plies his oar,
Chimes in with the wave right joyously.

Bold bird of the rock ! when the billows sweep

Round thy watchtower base, in their wrathful might,

Unawed thou canst ga»e on the seething deep,
And peacefully brood on the giddy height.

The land of the heath and moorland mist,
Where the Hocks roam^far o'er the furzy fell,

And the stag bounds light, with his dappled breast,
Through the rugged pass of his native dell ;

302 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Where the grey curlew on the upland screams,
And the moorhen wades thro' the reedy fen ;

Oh ! these are the scenes of the Muse's dreams,
And the touching themes of the poet's pen.

For this is the land of immortal song,

Where the bard has touched, with a power sublime,
The hidden springs of the young and strong,

And solaced the old with his tenderest rhyme ;

And wept o'er the wrongs of the lonesome glen,
By the ruined hall and the roofless cot,

Where the loyal clans of unflinching men
Came true to a man at the pibroch's note.

For the rust is red on the broad claymore,
And the song wakes not in the festive hall,

Where the banner droops on the cold dank floor,
From its fameless place in the mouldering wall.

The turf is green on the manly breast,

And the hearth he loved by the heath o'ergrown ;

While his offspring, far in the fertile west,
Is claimed by that land as her stalwart own.

Then know, as ye gaze on this land of ours,
By the craggy steep or the rolling flood,

That those desert haunts, and those sweet wild flowers,
Are immortalized by the martyrs' blood.

For the bracken bush, and the rock's cold ledge,
And the streams o'ergrown by the mossy sod,

Have a hiding been from the trooper's rage,
When athirst for blood the demon rode.

For the hoary cliff, and the fertile strath,
And the solemn glen, and the cavern deep,

Have blushed to behold his murderous wrath,
Like a fiend that could neither rest nor sleep.

But the scene is changed ! for the martyr's dust,
'Neath the mouldering cairn and the gras.sy sward,

Like a relic of love, a sacred trust,

Is left with the angels of God as guard.

ThoURh his grave is hid in those wilds untrod,
And his life unwrit in his country's lore,

His name is enshrined in the heart of God,
Where he lives in His love for evermore.

R. 8. INGLIS. 303

THE CAPTIVE LARK.

I passed along the crowded street,

And wondered much to hear thee sing
Thy own wild notes so clear and sweet,

Not like a cramped imprisoned thing ;
And yet I thought that song might be
Thy last appeal for liberty !

So full of tenderness, and still

With all thy native beauty fraught,
Graceful as when, above the hill,

By Nature only wert thou taught
To sing and soar, and soaring sing,
The sweetest minstrel of the spring.

As gushing from thy little throat

The wild notes came, a bitter pang
Crept o'er my spirit, for I thought

These more with plaint than pleasure rang,
And blending, yet distinct and strong,
An answering call rung in thy song.

With ready ear, O had you caught,

Tlio' singing in that thoroughfare,
Some well-known sounds the breeze had brought

From old companions passing near ?
Or noting them with upward glance,
You gave their song that quick response?

And as a random word let fall

In lonely hearts will often find
An echo deep, did these recall

A time when thou wert unconfined?
When thou could'st soar as free as they,
And sing to heaven thy morning lay ?

A time when crimson heath-bells rung
Their " merry moorland chimes '' to thee ?

When crystal streamlets far among
Their own wild mountain scenery,

Or flowing on thro' fertile plains,

Murmured to thee their sweetest strains?

And lo ! iny thoughts were borne away

To green hillside and brake of fern,
Where peacefully the grej mist lay

In silvery folds around the cairn,
An<l there in that lone spot I heard
Another sing -no captive bird,

304 - MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

But free,— and as he raised his crest,
Drew up his limbs and spread his wing,

And shook from off his speckled breast,
The dewdrops black upon the ling,*

Oh ! happy bird ! my spirit sighed,

If I coula thus fling cares aside.

Yes, free, and as he rose from earth,

" 'Bove morning cloud and mortal ken,"

He looked a bird of heav'nly birth,
And sung at heaven's portal then,

Still, like the heav'n-sent shower of rain,

To earth came back the sweet refrain.

As up thro' ether fields he rose,
If his sweet song appeared to wane,

'Twas but as in the distance grows
More mellow music's powerful strain ;

For still he sung, tho' lost to sight

Amid the morning's sweetest light.

And was not his a princely lot,
In that " bright region of the sun ? "

Thro* summer's calmest sky to float,
And when his song of peace was done,

Drop from the "blue expanse," to press

The fair flowers of the wilderness.

Bright soaring bird ! what cares could touch
His sinless heart those clouds among !

God spread for him his heath-bell couch,
And taught to him his beauteous song,

And bade the hill and streamlet nigh

His few and simple wants supply.

ROBERT NICOLL.

If talent equalled the regard
I bear this unaffected bard,

Then wad I bring
A kind remembrancer o' him,
Who, when he herded by the stream,

First learned to sing.

Pure was his liltin' as the air,
Which played amang his laddie hair,
An' sweet forby,

* Common heath.

K. S. INGLIS.

Sweet as the flowers which irrew firnnn',
Bricht wi' the sunny licht o1 June,
Or calm July.

An' happy as the birdies' lay,
Sung when the rnorniu' still is gray

Upon the hill,

Or when the peaceful gloamin' hour
Creeps safely round the lover's bower,

Where a' is still.

I love his hamely, tender strain,
Fu' o' a beauty stnwu frae nane,

But nature wild ;
For a' conspired in her domain
To win the muse's amorous swain,

When summer smiled.

An' as the burnie rowed alang,
Doubtless he gathered frae its sang

New melodies ;

For if oue ear could hear therein
Ouclit but a nunglin1 o' strange din,

'That ear was his.

From these he caught that living fire,
Which shone around his Scottish lyre ;

An' thro' a" time,

Where Scotchmen sing, an' Scotch hearts ache,
His touching piety will make

His verse sublime.

ALBUM VERSES.

Blessed be the art which thus can give
The friends we treasure moat,

Although in foreign lands they live
Their image is not lost.

Though deeply stamp'* 1 on mem'ry's page,

Long, long their doings last,
And from our youtli to hoary age

We hold their sayings faot.

Yet dimmer to fond memory's eye

Their likenesses become,
As farther off the bright days fly

When we were all at home,
T

306 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

But here their forms and features dwell,

A banquet to our sight,
And all can feel, though few can tell,

The depth of that delight.

TO MY AIN GUIDWIFE.

I never dreamed when I had made ye
My ain guidwife, I only wed ye

To slave wi' needle, thread, an' preen,
An' sit wi' sheers, an' shapes o' paper,
An' tapeline, 'side the midnicht taper,

To work nicht oot, an' mornin' in.

I canna see, tho' much I hope it,
How we wad fen, were ye to drop it,

Nor mair the midnicht toil begin ;
For sair's the fecht, an' hard the scrapin'
To get our sowp, an' bite, an' happin',

AU' keep want oot, an' bein folks in.

But we wad cheerfu' bear the burden,
Nor let oor hearts wi' trials harden,

Nor fash oorsel's 'bout fortune's frown ;
For sometimes wealth is not in riches,
An' delvin' yairds, an' scourin' ditches,

Will bring mair pleasure than a crown.

Fu' weel we ken, an' never question,
The nicht was gien for man to rest in,

An' nae to shape, or caird, or spin ;
But this we hae to min', an' note aye,
What my auld grannie used to gote* aye,

"The naked man wi' need maun rin."

Oh ! mony a sad an' weakly mither,
Wi' scanty means, an' painfu' swither,

When nane but God cud see her greet.
Through lang drear nichts has sairly striven,
For luve still maks this life worth livin',

An' try to gar a' ends to meet.

Wi' mony things your brains are wracket,
Twice waur to richt than mak' a jacket

For the fair scion o' the boose ;
To get a scone or bannock baket,
When box an' barrel are clean raket,

Nor ae kurn left to feed a moose.

* To impress upon one.

R. 8. INGLIS. 307

I wadna like to see ye lazy.
But eleau an' trig aye as a daisy,

An' rudily AS the heather (doom ;
Aye hopefu', mid oor care an' sorrow,
An' seein' aye a cheerfu' morrow,

Bricht painted on ilk nicht o' gloom.

TO MARY.

Come, tell me now, uiy fairy love,

Oh ! say do ye remember still,
When bright the sun shone right above

Yon distant wood-eucirled hill?
And how a parting glance he threw,

Like one who says a kind good night,
Or friend who waves a last adieu,

£re he descends the last seen height.

How grand and green the old hills sh'me,

Touched by the evening's fading glow,
And solemn came the curfew's tone

Up o'er the woods and marshes low.
Sad is that past, and dark and drear,

Which has euslirined no happy smile,
Nor kindly deed our hearts to cheer,

In times of sorrow or of toil.

Dear were to me those walks of ours,

Along our own thoru-guarded road,
Or through the fields among the flowers,

Upon the cool, refreshing sod ;
Fair grew thy little fav'rite flower

Away beside the corn-field fence,
The emblem of thy young life's dower,

The daisy— type of innocence.

When by the wood the evening mist

Crept slowly up the streamlet's brink,
And weary flowers looked athirst,

The cooling soft night dews to drink ;
How bright the lark rung out betimes

Those strains no purer poet knows,
Which heavenward, like vesper chimes,

And sweet as evening incense, rose.

Oh ! were I filled with living fire,
And deep with poet's ardour stirred,

I'd praise on the immortal lyre
That happy, peerless, poor man's bird.

308 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Like him I'd soar in song sublime,
With thoughts in fittest language dressed,

I'd thrill the soul with glowing rhyme,
And sing to it and thee of rest.

Rest ! 'tis not dug from learning's mine,

Nor found in deeds of noble aim,
Nor do we see its lustre shine

Upon the laurelled brow of fame ;
The sable robe and costly gem,

The round of pleasures ever new,
The post of power, the diadem,

Is but the mirage, — all untrue.

Oh ! there is music in that word,

A melody akin to home,
A fragrance as when flowers are stirred,

Rich with the flush of summer bloom.
It fills the soul with hope and peace,

When heavy sorrows strike it dumb,
And sings of joys which never cease,

When God's own promised rest has come.

REV. J. R. MACDUFF, D.D.

E Rev. Dr Macduff, one of the most popular
and voluminous religious writers of the day, is
the second son of Alexander Macduff of Bonhard,
Perthshire, where he was born in 1818. He was
educated for the Church at the High School and at the
University of Edinburgh. In 1843 he was ordained
minister of the parish of Kettins, in Forfarshire, and
in 1849 was presented to the parish of St Madoes,
Perthshire, where he remained until 1855, when he
was appointed to the Sandyford Parish Church, Glas-
gow. After fifteen years of able and successful labour
in Glasgow he retired to Chislehurst, Kent, where he
now devotes all his time to literary work. He re-

J. R. MACDUFF. 309

ceived the degree of D.D. from the University of New
York in 1857, and from the Glasgow University in
1859.

Dr Macduff has written a large number of religious
works that have attained an immense circulation —
indeed, in this country and in America about three
millions of his books have been sold. These have
been principally published by Messrs Nisbet & Co.,
and include " Memories of Bethany," " Memories of
Gennesaret," "The Shepherd and His Flock," "The
Grapes of Eshnol," "The Mind and Words of Jesus,"
"Hosaunas of the Children," "Eventide at Bethel,"
" The Morning and Night Watches." His best-known
tales are " The Parish of Taxwood," "The Story of a
Shell," and " The Story of a Dewdrop." He has also
written and edited a series of " Bible Forget-me-nots,"
and " The Speedwell " series of miniature text-books,
published by Marcus Ward & Co. These are very
artistically got-up, and have enjoyed wide popularity.
In 1884 Nisbet & Co. published his volume of poetry,
entitled " Gates of Praise and other Original Hymns,
Poems, and Fragments of Verse/' These manifest the
high-souled earnestness of purpose, the keen insight
into human nature, the desire to lead humanity in
noble paths, and the ripe fruit of much communing
with spiritual truth so marked in his pulpit ministra-
tions and in his prose writings. They possess lyrical
ease, sweetness and simplicity, and are eminently
adapted to cheer and strengthen the heart of the
desponding. Some of them have long been special
favourites with those who have come to know the
blessedness of religion as the only stay and comfort of
their lives.

310 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

KNOCKING.

Knocking, knocking ! — it is Jesus,

Jewels deck His kingly brow ;
Lo ! He standeth great and glorious,
Over death and hell victorious,
Knocking long and knocking now.

Knocking to unbar the door,
Matted thick with weed and thorn ;

Sprinkled are His tresses o'er

With the dews of night and morn.

" Knocking, knocking !— Vainly knocking,

Do I plead to enter in ?
Days and years I have been standing
Importuning and demanding.

Still are fast the bolts of sin.

Knocking ! — hear My earnest pleading,
Give the welcome I implore :

Why thus mock My interceding—
Open wide the long-closed door ! "

Knocking, knocking ! Enter, enter,
Enter ere the morning dawn !

Enter, Saviour-God, most glorious !

Enter, enter all victorious,
Every bolt is now withdrawn.

Enter ! let this heart of mine,
To its rightful King restored,

Be henceforth for ever Thine : —
Welcome — " Blessed of the Lord ! "

THE RESPONSE.

Darkness is past, and all is light ;

The iron bars exclude no more ;
God's Sun has shone ; — its arrows bright

Lie thick and golden on the floor.

Transfigured Nature henceforth seems
On dimpled cheek new smiles to wear.

New music ripples in her streams,
New subtle beauties everywhere !

1 see, as this new life revives,
With other eyes the wooded ridge

J. R. MACDUFP. 311

Where bees go laden to their hives,
Or, hHinming, skirt the moss-grown bridge :

The sea's expanse of azure blue,

The lichens starring rock and hill,
The flowerets diademed with dew,

The choir birds waking up their trill.

The frost long dimmed my window pane,

The ashes on my hearth lay cold ;
Life seemed composed of rust and stain ;

But all is now transformed to gold.

Thrice welcome art Thou, Blessed One !

As soon Thy name and love divine
Now would I doubt, as that the sun

In yonder sky had ceased to shine.

Thou mad'st the din of passion cease,

The angry tempests which before
Made havoc of my soul and peace,

Have stilled their rage for evermore.

Where once at eve and morning prime,

Despair had tolled its deadly knell ;
Now rings bright Hope its matin chime,

And Peace its silvery vesper bell.

This heart henceforth shall be Thine own ;

Each rival occupant subdue !
Reign thus, O Christ, supreme, alone ;

And by Thy grace make all things new.

In grief and joy — in youth and age,
Throughout each varying chequered scene

Of life's uncertain pilgrimage,
fie near : — let nothing come between

My soul and Thee. Whate'er Thou deem

Unworthy of Thy love, expel ;
The grovelling aim — the selfish scheme ;

Let nought within my bosom dwell

Save what is pure and true and kind.

With the blest sense of sin forgiven,
Give more and more the holy mind,

A foretaste of the bliss of heaven.

Thus, by Thy gracious hand upborne,
Be my life-journey short or long ;

312 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

On Thee I'll lean from early morn
Till day chimes out its even-song.

And if, at times, in sorrow's night,
Thou dost appear to hide Thy face ;

I shall believe that all is right,
And trust Thee, where I fail to trace.

O let niy love no longer wane,
Tempted no more from Thee to roam ;

Calm waiting, till Thou come again,
And with Thy promise call me home.

Then shall be heard Thy gracious word,
(When not Thy knock but mine is given ;)

" ' Come in ! thou blessed of the Lord ! '
Welcome within the gates of heaven ! "

" Within the Gates ! " with nought to dim ;

No sin to blight — no death to sever ;
A brotherhood with seraphim

My heritage, the Great For-Ever !

THE GRAVE OF BETHANY.

Who is this, in silence bending
O'er a dark sepulchral cave ?
Sympathetic sorrow blending

With the tears around that grave ?
Christ the Lord is standing by,
At the tomb of Bethany !

" Jesus wept ! " — these tears are over,

But His heart is still the same,
Kinsman, Friend, and Elder Brother,
Ts His everlasting name.

Saviour ! who can love like Thee,
Gracious One of Bethany ?

When the pangs of trial seize us,
When the waves of sorrow roll,
I will lay my head on Jesus,
Refuge of the troubled soul ;

Surely none can feel like Thee,
Weeping One of Bethany !

"Jesus wept ! " — and still in glory
He can mark each mourner's tear,

J. B. MACDUFF. 313

Loving to retrace the story
Of the hearts He solaced here.

Lord ! when I am called to die,
Let me think of Bethany !

" Jesua wept !" — that tear of sorrow

Is a legacy of love,
Yesterday —to-day— to-morrow —
He the same doth ever prove.
Thon arf. all in all to me,
Living One <>f Bethany !

IN MEMORIAM:
Thomas Guthrle, D.D. Funeral Day, March 1873.

On comes the funeral car ! All heads uncover
Down the long .surging crowd which line the way ;

With bated breath each whispers to the other —
" A prince and great man fallen has to-day ! "

By whom shall best the funeral hymn be chanted ?

Who on his nod shall lay the immortelle ?
Shall some cathedral's chancel-choir he wanted,

And courtly fingers strew the mute farewell?

No ! Call the " Arabs " of his much-loved city,
Those once of ragged dress and weary limb—

The outcasts who engrossed his manly pity ;
No surpliced choristers so dear to him.

Still are his words of burning pathos ringing ;

Who can forget the magic of their power?
New strength imparting — fresh resolves upbringing

That long survived the fleeting Sabbath hour.

Lay him to slumber, full of years and hoary.

Where rests his chief with chieftians all around ;
No mighty minster with its sculptured story.

Garners such dust as does that hallowed ground.

LIFT, LIFT THE CROSS OF CHRIST.

Lift, lift the Cross of Christ : — Tell of grace abounding ;

In every tribe and kingdom let His banner be unfurled.
Blow, blow the trumpet, loud and lofty sounding,

Till its toues of jubilee echo round the world.

314 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Sow, sow the Gospel seed : — Forget the night of weeping ;

The furrows are athirst, and invite the precious grain ;
They that sow in tears, shall yet have a glorious reaping,

And bearing harvest treasure "shall rejoicing come again."

Gird, gird the loina about, let the lights be burning ;

Be like servants waiting for the coming of their Lord :
Lest the Royal Bridegroom find on His returning

Lamps of faith untrimmed, and the oil of grace unstored.

Work, work while yet the spring flowers deck the meadows ;

While times of blessing linger, and working seasons last :
Before the landscape darken with evening's lengthened shadows,

The summer sunshine ended, and the joy of harvest past.

Lift, lift the Cross of Christ ; — Tell of grace abounding ;

In every tribe and kingdom let His banner be unfurled.
Blow, blow the trumpet, loud and lofty sounding,

Till its tones of jubilee echo round the world !

CHRIST IS COMING.

Christ is coming ! Let creation
Bid her groans and travail cease ;

Let the glorious proclamation

Hope restore, and faith increase —

Christ is coming,
Come, Thou blessed Prince of Peace !

Earth can now but tell the story

Of Thy hitter Cross and pain ;
She shall yet behold Thy glory,

When Thou comest back to reign —
Christ is corning,

Let each heart repeat the strain !

Long Thine exiles have been pining,
Far from rest, and home, and Thee ;

But, in heavenly vestures shining,
Soon they shall Thy glory see !—

Christ is coming,
Haste the joyous jubilee.

With that "blessed hi pe " before us,

Let no harp remain unstrung :
Let the mighty advent-chorus

Onward roll from tongue to tongue ; —
Christ is coming.

Come ! Lord Jesus, — quickly come !

PETER GARDINER. 315

BETHLEHEM.

What are these ethereal strains

Floating o'er J mica's plaint) ?

Burning spirits throng the sky

With their lofty minstrelsy.

Hark ! they break the midnight trance

With the joyous utterance —

" Glory to God, and peace to men,

Christ is born in Bethlehem."

Quench, ye types, your feeble ray :
Shadows, ye may melt away ;
Prophecy, your work is done ;
Gospel ages have begun.
Temple, quench your altar-fires ;
For these radiant angel-choirs
To a ruined world proclaim —
"Christ is born in Bethlehem."

Pillowed is His infant head

On a borrowed manger-bed ;

He, around whose throne above

Angels hymned their songs of love,

Now is wrapt by virgin hands

In earth's meanest swaddling bands ;

Once adored by seraphim,

Now a Babe of Bethlehem.

Eastern sages from afar,
Guided by a mystic star,
Followed, till its lustre mild
Brought them to the Heavenly child.
May each providence to me
Like a guiding meteor be,
Bringing nearer unto Him
Once the Babe of Bethlehem.

H VERSATILE writer of many richly-humorous
Scottish character-sketches and tales, as well
as a man of true poetic instirct, died in his thirty-

316 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

seventh year. He was born in 1847, in one of those
quaint old closes that still form a marked character-
istic of the old town of Edinburgh. After receiving a
fair education he was, when about eleven years of age,
apprenticed to a blacksmith. All his life, however,
with the exception of a short time he served in the
American Navy as a marine, he followed the occupa-
tion of a mechanic. Details of his career have been
kindly furnished by Mr Robert Ford and Mr David
Macrae, from which we learn that, on the expiry of
his apprenticeship he went to America, and remained
for a year in Philadelphia, thereafter joining the
United States Marine Corps. During his term of
service in that corps the regiment to which our poet
was attached was serving in the Barracks at Washing-
ton when President Lincoln was assassinated in 1865.
Gardiner formed one of the guard of forty odd
men detailed to watch over the misguided men arrested
in connection with the assassination, and the equally
dastardly attempt on the lives of the leading members of
the Cabinet. He stood guard also for two hours over the
lifeless body of John Wilkes Booth, who murdered the
good PAsident with a pistol shot in Ford's Theatre.
And this grim scene, together with all he saw and ex-
perienced as a marine soldier on board the United
States sloop-of-war Hartford, is minutely and graphi-
cally described in a series of papers, entitled "My
Start in Life." Indeed, while yet a boy he evinced a
naturally studious and reflective turn, and an aptitude
for literary composition, and while at school secured a
prize for an essay on " Our Trip to Musselburgh."

At the close of the Civil War in America Gardiner
took a three years' cruise, visiting many parts of the
world. This helped, doubtless, to quicken his intel-
lectual powers. On account of failing health, he
returned to Scotland in 1869, and lived for some time
thereafter in Glasgow, where he married. He then

PETER GARDINER. 317

went to Edinburgh, where he resided till his death in
1 885. Feeble health and consequent want of employ-
ment made his efforts to secure the necessaries of life
for a young family a hard struggle. To endeavour to
make " ends meet " he tried to keep tradesmen's books.
But poring over grocers' ledgers or making up " pass
books " was poorly-paid work, and now he bethought
of making a crutch of what had formerly been a hobby
— writing for the periodical press. He accordingly
began writing poetry and humorous sketches and tales
for several newspapers and magazines, principally the
People's Friend— & literary miscellany we have fre-
quently had occasion to refer to as being the means of
drawing out real talent — introducing to the public not
a few who are now occupying a prominent and popular
place as Scottish writers. Essays, poems, tales, and
sketches of rare strength, beauty, and humour flowed
from his versatile and ready pen. His deep and tender
pathos was expressed in "Agnes Morton's Atonement,"
a story that took a first prize in the People's Journal
Christmas Number some years ago. He is best known
as the author of "Gutta Perky," "Five Feet Nine,"
" Up the Lum," and other really clever " readings,"
ranging from the powerfully sensational to the
ludicrously comic. He had also a song-gift of no
mean power. In the patriotic vein he frequently
struck a vigorous chord, and many of his tender and
melodious verses showed that he possessed a heart
that could feel for the sorrowful and the poverty-
stricken. The efforts of his intellectual powers afford
indications of what, under happier circumstances, might
have been achieved. There are, however, some of his
humorous productions that have secured a permanent
place in collections of " Scottish Readings." He died,
as we have stated, in 1885, in his thirty-seventh
year. His wife had predeceased him only by a few
months, and his own premature demise was rendered

318 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

all the more sad by the fact that he left behind him
five helpless children, almost totally unprovided for.

DEAR SCOTLAND.

Dear Scotland ! my country, mine own rugged land,

Where in childhood thy mountains I wander'd,
No blue bell was torn from its couch by this hand,

On the breezes abroad to be squandered.
Thy heather, thy thistle were sacred to me :

And the mist-plaided mountains above me
Seemed the haunt of the souls of the fearless and free,

Dear Scotland ! my country, I love thee.

A stripling I strayed on a far foreign strand,

And dreamt of the days of my childhood ;
And in fancy re-gazed on the cliff-guarded land,

Where the fierce eagle nurtures her wild brood.
My heart gave a bound, and my pulses beat high,

I frown'd on the clear blue above me ;
I sigh'd for the mist, while a tear dimm'd mine eye,

Dear Scotland ! my country, I love thee.

In manhood I tread thee, mine own cloudy land,

Love's fire in my soul brightly burning ;
She touches my heart with her weird wizard wand,

Thy name in its chambers inurning.
I bow to my mistress — I kneel to my God —

And I smile on the grey sky above me,
While the wild blood leaps hi^h as I spring o'er thy sod,

Dear Scotland ! my country, I love thee.

Dear Scotland ! my country, though Time's shrivelled hand

Be heavily laid on my forehead ;
Though sapp'd be youth's fire, still love for thy strand

Will rekindle the eyes in my hoar head.
Though Death strikes me down, still live shall my strain,

While my soul from its haven above thee,
Defying his power, shall murmur again,

" Dear Scotland ! my country, I love thee."

THE MAISTERLESS DUGGIE.

A flee in December is vexin' to see,

It reminds us so strongly o' what we may be

When the kind an' the kent anes are miss'd frae life's wa',

An' oorsel's dreadin' death in ilk blast age may blaw.

But, ah ! there's a sicht that is mair waesome yet —

PETER GARDINER. 319

It's ane that T winna an' canna forget —

For as sadd'nin' a sicht as a body may meet

Is that maisterless duggie that leeves on the street —

The uncar'd for duggie,

The unthocht o' duggie,
The maisterless duggie that leeves on the street.

It flits like a ghaist through the streets in lamp licht,

An' finds where it can a quiet howf for the niclit,

'Neath lorry or harrow, in cellar or midden,

Where its banes may be stretched, an' its heid may be hidden ;

It shrinks frae yer glance as the serf frae the rod,

It has lost a' its faith in the image of God,

An' it crawls frae the kick that the savage hath given,

An' sends up its spiritless bowlings to heaven —

The sapperless duggie,

The kennelless duggie,
The maisterless duggie that leeves on the street.

Its lean an' its mangy, its dirty as sin,

An* its sharp banes are just cuttin' holes in its skin ;

Ilk expressionless luggie dejectedly hings,

An' its tail to its hurdies aye abjectly clings ;

Its slavish, its knavish, its thievish and sly,

An' at times there's a wild wolfish glare in its eye :

Its a creature no ane in ten thousand wad like,

It seenis to be siccan an ill favoured tyke —

The unfriended duggie,

The unsheltered duggie,
The maisterless duggie that leeves on the street.

Lord help ye, puir beastie, for I am unable,
Ye may hae. if ye like, a' the crumbs frae my table,
But the high price o' things, an' the way landlords rax,
Mak' it oot o' my power, noo, to pay a dog tax,
And though I could spare it, puir beast, do ye ken,
I wad wair't wi' mair pleasure on laddies an' men.
On women an' lassies, unnamed an' unfed,
The unfriended duggie in great cities bred —

The unlettered duggies,

The rag-covered duggies,
The human-kind duggies that leeve on the street.

Oh, whaur is there ane disna feel for his kind?
An' is there a man wi' a heart an* a mind
Wha hasna a word o' warm kindness to spare
A bite or a shelter to gie to the puir,
Whase lips nerer breath'd gentle sympathy's sigh,
Whase een never moisten'd at misery's cry ?

320 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

T'm no a street preacher, wi' cant I'm no cramm'd,
But if such a ane lives he may live to be damn'd —

He's a hard-hearted duggie,

A pitiless duggie,
A cruel human duggie as mortal may meet.

Oh, God o' auld Scotland ! o' Wishart an' Knox !

Hae mercy, for Christ's sake, on Scotland's puir folks !

Oh, help them to struggle through life's weary span,

An" be lenient in' judgin' the puir, honest man.

Great God o' our fathers ! I cry unto Thee,

Wi' a sair-saddened heart an' a tear-blinded e'e ;

Oh, hasten the day o' Equality's birth,

When the sunlicht o' Love will illumine the yirth —

An' remember your duggies,

Your lost human duggies,
Your faitherless duggies that leeve on the street.

DO I LOVE HER? YES, I LOVE HER!

Do I love her ? Do I love her ?

Ask the wind that wanders by,
Ask the grass blades, softly whisp'ring

In the meadow where I lie.
Ask the stars which shine above me,

Ask the lonely, moaning sea,
They will tell you that I love her,

She is all the world to me.

Do I love her ? Yes, I love her,
And I know that she loves me.

Do I love her ? Do I love her ?

Does the sunshine love the wild?
Does the ocean love the moonsheen?

Does a mother love her child ?
Does a tigress love her ciiblings?

Would a slave love to be free ?
Do I love her ? Yes, I love her,

She is all the world to me.

Do I love her? Yes, I love her,
And I know that she loves me.

GOD GUARD OOR BONNIE BOAT.

When wild winds strike the frichted firth,j
An' spray blaws by like drift ;

When darkness covers sea an' yirth,
An' waves loup to the lift.

W. M. LAWRENCE.

When a' UIP lave are safe at hame —

Dooti whanr the breakers roar
I watch wi' fear the seethin' faem
Come hiss-in' to the shore.

God guard oor luiat, she's a' my thocht,

For bairn* upbrocht maun be,
An' spare the lad wha aye lias focht —
An' wrocht for them an' me.

Far oot the nicht oor boatie reels

The tuinblin', wind-lashed sea ;
But fear or toil oor Dave ne'er feels

If a' is richt wi' me.
He'll see the bairnies' faces shine

Like stars o" hope an' licht ;
An', O, I ken he'll think o' mine

A' through the eerie nicht.

On drookit wing the sea-maw swirls

Aboon the whirlin' yeist ;
She calls her mate wi' waefu' skirls,

That dirl a' my breist.
O, cease yer strife ye winds and waves —

Ye Powers aboon gie heed,
An' still the wrath my Da vie braves

"To win the bairnies' bread."

O, morn, come bringing ower the faem

The sail I lo'e to see,
An' nicht will find my lad at hame,

A bairn on ilka knee ;
An' I on Davie's neck will hing —

The truest lad afloat,
An' learn my bairnies a' to sing —

God guard oor bonuie boat.

WILLIAM MACRAE LAWRENCE,

LTHOUGH a native of Capetown, Cape of Good
Hope, is the son of Scotch parents, and received
part of his education in Scotland. He was born in
1860. His father was originally a photographer, and
U

322 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

on the family removing, about eight years ago, to
Lilyfield, Manitoba, he became a farmer and minister,
preaching at Stonewall, about twelve miles distant.
William presently assists on his father's farm, and
frequently appears in the poet's corner of the news-
papers. His verses are simple and pleasing, and his
themes are mostly of an elevating nature.

IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN.

It might have been. Oh ! stop and think

A peaceful, happy home,
But for the dreadful demon drink,
Who made his wife and children shrink,
And severed to the last fond link

What bound his heart to home.

It might have been a happy scene,

Beside that dying bed,
If he that lay there should have been
Train'd by a parent to hate sin,
And tried for Christ his soul to win,

But ah ! what scene instead;

It might have been, but God alone,

With all his loving care,
For us did leave his heav'nly throne,
And led us safe by paths unknown,
When fierce temptations thick were strewn,

And dangers everywhere.

ZOSEMITE VALLEY, CALIFORNIA.

See yonder snow-clad rocks, upon whose shaggy brow

Those clouds in snowy drapery are seen descending now;

They droop their fleecy folds upon its gleaming crest,

And there, in peaceful slumber, repose upon "Cloud's Rest."

Absorbed with nature's wonders, we slowly wander on,

Nought to break the silence save the wild dove's mournful tone

I eaving the level path, we climb the rocky trail,

Then bursts upon our vision the " Fall of Bridal Veil."

Such a sight now greets us ! In silence we do gaze,

The sun in sinking splendour, casts forth it-s brilliant rays.

Gorgeously apparelled in such unrivalled hues,

Bright Nature now exhibits one of her finest views.

Lofty scenes of grandeur this wondrous valley holds,

Every way we wander fresh beauty it unfolds.—

B. L. STEVENSON. 323

Mountains ra litre around us, clad with eternal snow,

Rivers dashing headlong, as o'er the falls they j?o ;

tfinormotlB rocks, detached from out the mountain face,

Lie scattered in confusion at its gigantic base.

Compared with those wild scenes, how calm is Mirror Lake ;

No mad leaping torrent tiiere, whose fierceness makes you quake.

Great, 0 Lord, are Thy works, Almighty is. thy power ;

In all Thy strength and wisdom, we see Thee every hour.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON,

HPOET of strong originality and genuine humour,
was born in Edinburgh in 1 850, and is " as
Scotch as the Bass Rock " in lineage and taste. He
conies of a distinguished family, his grandfather being
the builder of the Bell Rock Lighthouse, which was
erected on a dangerous sunken reef about twelve miles
from Arbroath. This rock is thus referred to in
" Stoddart's Remarks on Scotland " : — " By the east of
the Isle of May, twelve miles from all land, in the
German Seas, lyes a great hidden rock, called Inch-
cape, very dangerous for navigators, because it is
overflowed every tide. It is reported in old times,
upon the said rocke there was a bell, fixed upon a tree
or timber, which rang continually, being moved by the
sea, giving notice to the saylers of the danger. This
bell or clock was put there and maintained by the
Abbot of Aberbrothock, and being taken down by a sea
pirate, a yeare thereafter lie perished upon the same
rocke, with ship and goodes, in the righteous judgment
of God." Southey's well-known poem, " The luchcape
Bell," is said to have been founded on this tradition.
The work began in 1807, and, the object being the
snving of life, and therefore "a work of necessity and
merry," the engineer considered it expedient to carry

324 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

on operations on Sundays. Notwithstanding this, the
Sabbath was not forgotten, for Robert Stevenson con-
ducted appropriate services, and read " A Prayer for
the use of those employed at the erection of the Bell
Rock Lighthouse, composed by an Edinburgh minis-
ter/' The work was completed in 1810, and in July,
1814, Sir Walter Scott, along with Robert Stevenson,
and three of the Commissioners, visited the Rock.
They breakfasted in the library, when Sir Walter, at
the request of the party, on subscribing his name in
the album, added the following lines —

Far in the bosom of the deep

O'er these wild shelves my watch I keep,

A ruddy gem of changeful light

Bound on the dusky brow of night ;

The seaman bids my lustre hail,

And scorns to strike his tim'rous sail.

Members of the Stevenson family are presently
engineers to the Commissioners of the Northern
Lighthouses. Our poet was called to the Scotch
Bar in 1875. Although by no means robust in
health, Mr Stevenson has done a great amount
of excellent literary work. A volume of his
poems, entitled " Underwoods," is presently in the
press. From this work we have the author's kind per-
mission to give the pieces we now quote. A new edition
of his volume of stories, entitled " The Merry Men,"
has lately been published, and contains the semi-
mystical "Will o' the Mill," one of the tales in which
the writer first made his mark in Cornhitt. A selec-
tion of " Essays " in two volumes is also announced —
the first volume to contain the collection originally
published under the title "Virginibus Puerisque,"
which has been for some time out of print ; the second,
a number of personal and literary papers that are
likely to prove of deep interest, and attract consider-
able notice. He is also the author of several Scotch

R. L. STEVENSON. 325

dramas that have been produced with much success
both in this country and in America.

It is as a poet, however, that we have to consider Mr
Stevenson. Entire devotion to law, as in the case
of Scott, would have made him a prisoner. Pope
lamented that so many good poets had been spoiled
by the superior attractions of the law, but we have on
previous occasions given various bright examples, in-
cluding Lord Neaves and other vigorous thinkers, to
prove that distinguished members of the profession
did not require to forsake entirely their original call-
ing before they could enter the ranks of authorship.
Mr Stevenson's poetry generally possesses a fine ad-
mixture of genuine pawky fun and sound philosophy.
While thus full of admirable good sense, it combines
quickness to perceive the ludicrous. His humour is
always fresh and rich, and his cast of mind being
essentially Scottish, he is well versed in, and has a
high appreciation of the strength and beauty of his
native Doric, which he can use with telling effect.

A MILE AND A BITTOCK.

A mile and a bittock, a mile or twa,
Abune the burn, ayont the law,
Davie an' Donal' and Charlie an' a',

And the mune was shiuin' clearly !

Ane gaed haine wi' the ither, and then
The ither gaed hame wi' the ither twa men,
An' baith wad return him the service again,
And the mune was shiuin' clearly !

The clocks were chappin' in house and ha',
Eleeven, twal, and ane an' twa ;
And the gudeman's face was turnt to the wa',
And the mune was shinin' clearly !

A wind got up frae affa, the sea,
Tt blew the stars as dear's could be,
It blew in the een of a' of the three,

And the mune was shinin' clearly !

326 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Now Davie was first to get sleep in his head-
"The best o' freen's maun twine," he said,
"I'm weariet, an' here I'm awa to my bed,''
And the mune was shinin' clearly !

Twa o' them walkin' an crackin' their lane,
The mornin' licht cam' crray an' plain,
And the birdies yamrnert on stick an' stane,
And the mune was shinin' blearly !

O years ayont, 0 years awa,
My lads, ye'll mind whate'er befa' —
My lads, ye'll mind on the bield on the law,
When the mune was shinin' clearly !

MY CONSCIENCE.

Of a' the ills that flesh can fear,
The loss o' frien's, the lack o' gear,
A yowlin' tyke, a glandered mear,

A lassie's nonsense—
There's just ae thing I canna bear,

An' that's my conscience.

When day (an' a' excuse) has gane,
An' wark is dune, and duty's plain,
An' to my chalraer a' my lane

I creep apairt,
My conscience ! hoo the yammerin' pain

Stends to my hairt !

A' day wi' various ends in view
The hairsts o* time I had to pu'.
An' made a hash wad staw a soo,

Let be a man ! —
My conscience ! when my ban's were fu',

Whaur were ye than ?

An' there were a' the lures o' life,
There pleisure skirlin' on the fife,
There anger, wi' the hotchin' knife,

Ground shairp in Hell —
My conscience ! — you that's like a wife ! -

Whaur was yoursel' ?

I ken it fine : jnst waitin' here,
To gar the evil waur appear,
To clart the gtiid, confuse the clear,
Mis-ca' the great,

GEORGE WEBSTER. 327

My conscience ! an' to raise a steer
Whan a's ower late.

Sic-like, sbme tyke grawn auld and blind,
Whan thieves brok' through the gear to p'ind,
Has lain his dozened length an' grinned

At the disaster ;
An' the morn's mornin' wud's the wind,

Yokes on his master.

GEORGE WEBSTER,

MHO has furnished us with several poetical
pictures of Scottish life and character full of
graphic detail and lively fancy, is a native of the
village of Stuartfield, Aberdeenshire. The son of
"douce, hard-working Scotch folk," and born in 1846,
he was sent to ,a dame school in the village until he
was able to travel to the parish school of Old Deer.
He was transferred from this to the care of a daughter
of the Very Rev. Dean Ranken, who taught a school
in the parsonage of Old Deer. It was while there that
he first felt a desire for the companionship of books,
and through the kindness of his teacher his appetite
for reading was fostered and his taste refined. On
leaving school he became a cowherd — an occupation
that afforded him considerable spare time for cultivat-
ing his mind, and he never went to the field without
a volume in the pocket of his " muckle coat." Like
most herd lads, he graduated into a ploughman, at
which calling he continued for several years. Whilst
thus engaged at Nether Kinmundy, Longside, he made
the acquaintance of Mr James Annand, then working
there as a blacksmith, but who afterwards became
editor of the Buchan Observer. Mr Annand, discovering

328 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

the natural bent of our poet's mind, talked with him
on literary matters, and tendered him much valuable
advice. The result of this intercourse was that Mr
Webster frequently not only expressed his thoughts in
verse, but also became a regular contributor of prose
to the district newspapers. He is now a bookseller
and newsagent in his native village. The exigencies
of business prevent the execution of more than an
occasional poem or song, displaying a well-cultured
mind, refined sentiment, and an elevated tone, that
appeal to our warmer sympathies, and commend them
irresistibly to the heart and the affections.

PLEASANT SOUNDS.

The song of birds in the summer-time,

The sigh of the perfumed breeze,
Whilst kissing the birds and the blossoms,

And hugging the giant trees.

The rippling of crystal waters

O'er stones of fairy form,
The bleating of snow-white lambkins,

The scythe sweeping through the corn.

The raindrops pattering wildly

On a dry and parched earth,
Bringing new life to the flowerets,

Giving colour a second birth.

The ploughboy whistling sweetly,

The neigh of the willing team,
The swish of the plough, as she turneth

O'er the lea, in a brownish seam.

The tolling of distant bells

On A summer Sabbath morn,
Reminding the soul of the message of peace

That from heaven to earth was borne.

MY GRANNIE.

'Ws' doun in yon glen 'inang the myrtles and roses,
Where Philomel chants ower his sweet evening sang

A cottage a' covered with ivy and woodbine
Stands snugly half hidden the bushes amang.

GEORGE WEBSTER. 329

Nae turrets adorn its low thacket riggin',

There's nae shinin' domes on't to dazzle the e'e,

Ae wee reekin' luminie in a' it can boast o',
It seems to me aye to bid pomp stand abeigh.

Its windows are sma' but there's nane o' them broken,
The screens that hing on them are haith neat and clean ;

The rustic bit palin' surroundin' the yardie,

Though frail, is a beauty and's painted pea-green.

Through sunshine and shadow, through dry day and weet.
Through ilk up and donn in this world o* cars ;

Ae sicht o' that cottage, sae humble and hainely,
Aye brichtens my heart, e'en though dark with despair.

Tis the hame o' my grannie, the couthie kin' bodie,
Sair, sair'a been her trachle a livin' to earn ;

Yet trrumblin' and frettin's been far frae her bosom,
Content she has speil'd ilka hillock and cairn.

Her hair that langsyne was sae glossy and curly
la noo nearly gane, and's white as the snaw ;

Au!d age with his plough has been drawing deep furrows,
And searing her cheeks, castin* roses awa'.

For fine silks and satins, gay ribbons and brooches,
For velrets and trimmin's she cares nae a preen ;

A wee tartan shawlie and plain goon o' wincey
Is a' that she likes on her back to be seen.

The mutch that she wears is as white as the snaw-flake,

Her sheen are as black and as bright as the slae ;
Pride's uae in her gait, she bears her head lowly,
• For weel kens my grannie we are a' made o' clay.

Though needfu', she'd share her last raoothfu' wi' ony,
And shelter ilk beggar that comes to her door ;

The greedy and graspin' are nae frien's o' grannie's —
Iscariot's spirit she aye did abhor.

Her words they are wise, and are aye kindly spoken,
There's something ab«.ot them that's sweet to my ear ;

Oh, blessin's upon her, I'll gang by her counsels,
And tread in her footsteps without ony fear.

Lang life to my grannie, may she ne'er want a penny,
A wee pickle tea, and a bannock o' bread ;

111, ill would I like if she'd want while she's livin',
I'm sure she'll hae a'thing when ance she ia dead.

330 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

A MOTHER'S ENTREATY.

Angels bright and beautiful

Attend my darling babe,
Hover round its cradle,

Pour blessings on its head.

Kiss it when it wakens,

Watch it while it sleeps,
Never leave it comfortless,

Soothe it when it weeps.

Guide its littlej waxen feet,

Lead it by the hand,
Till, with the)babesl\vhom Jesus blessed,

It sees the better land.

Grant my earnest wishes,

Then I ask no more,
But to stand with darling Lizz

Safe at heaven's door.

TELL ME, TELL ME.

Tell me, tell me, evening breeze,
Hast thou seen my darling fair.

Lingering near yon murmuring brooklet.
Longing for my presence there.

Tell me if his heart's o'erflowing
With a passion pure and strong,

Running in his manly bosom

Like the flame that's in mine own.

Tell me, tell me, evening breeze,

I beseech the* tell me now,
Hast thou in thy journey onward

Fanned that high and noble brow.

Tell me, tell me, evening breeze,
May I cherish one bright ray

Of the hope that brightens sadness.
And dispelleth doubts away ?

Can I trust him, is he fickle,

Or a flirting, flattering elf,
Ever roaming, never resting.

Always shifting like thyself?

JOHN KERR, 331

Tell me, tell me, evening breeze,

Tell me o'er that tale once more,
Then I'll let you end your mission,

Free and frisky as before.

Sweetest bliss I now have tasted,

All that's bleak is scattered far,
Clouds and shadows, weird-like fancies,

Beameth now like Bethle'ui's star.

SANDY'S AWA.

Bright summer may come in luxuriant splendour,
Its wild notes may ring oot o' ilka green shaw,

Its sweet flowers may bloom in their heavenly beauty,
But they'll ne'er cheer my heart noo, for Sandy's awa.

Clear burnies may wimple and murmur in music,
Air zephyrs kiss leaflets as onward they hlaw,

The lambkins may dance roun' their dams in the green fields,
But, ah ! there's nae pleasure noo Sandy's awa.

The hedgerows that grow near the spots whaur we've rested,
They hung rich with blossoms as white as the snaw,

And wild bees may drink frae ilk wee bud the nectar,
Alas ! what are these noo when Sandy's awa.

Kind friends may lo'e me an' lang for my presence,
But I'll get a hame far oot ower frae them a' ;

Their kind words and fond looks hae lost ilka charm,
They're naething to me noo, for Sandy's awa.

Still, why should I murmur, there's balm yet in Gilead,

There's solace ahune aye for me an' for a',
That Being's still willing where Sandy is waiting,

To welcome me there when I gang awa.

.REV. JOHN KERR.

'7THE Rev. John Kerr, the talented, energetic, and
^•t popular minister of the parish of Dirleton,
Drem, was born at Dumfries in 1852. His grand-
fathers were farmers in the parish of Torthorwald,

332 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Dumfriesshire, and his father followed the same occu-
pation in the parish of Middlebie, also situated in that
county. Our poet was educated at the Crossford and
Moniaive Schools, Glencairn, and graduated M.A. at
the Edinburgh University, where he took the Arts
and Divinity courses. On being licensed by the Pres-
bytery of Edinburgh, in 1875, he became assistant
minister at Newbattle, and in the following year he
was elected to the parish of Skelmorlie on the Clyde.
After a short but brilliant and successful incumbency
he, to the great regret of his attached people, accepted,
in 1878, a very hearty and unanimous call to the
church and parish of Dirleton, in East Lothian. Here
his scholarly qualifications and personal gifts are much
appreciated, and his work is bearing excellent fruit.
Although the parish is away from the busy wheel of
mercantile and city life, and nestles in rural beauty in
a peaceful spot, he is still an earnest and busy student.
It has been said of him that the vigour and acuteness
of his mind, the decision and energy of his character,
his Christian ambition to consecrate his powers to his
sacred calling, and his winning and attractive manners
all combine to point him out as a trusted and influen-
tial minister. From several of his published discourses,
it is evident that Mr Kerr is emphatically a man of
wide culture, kindly feeling, practical sagacity, and one
whose wise teachings must be helpful to his people.
He devotes much attention to the improvement of
church music and church services, and engages heartily
in all matters that have in view the advancement and
elevation of the working classes — being liberal in
theology as well as in politics. What Mr Kerr
preaches is " a gospel broad in its sympathies, and yet
truly evangelical, as being for all the good news of
God." He is also a popular lecturer, and in addition
to being a keen golfer, he has done much to foster
and extend among working people a knowledge of the

JOHN KBRR. 333

modern system of beekeeping. He has a warm sym-
pathy with all those manly pastimes that help to wean
the youth of our country from more effeminate and
degrading pursuits.

Mr Kerr began early to court the Muses, his juvenile
pieces appearing in the Annan Observer, and his later
productions in the Haddington Courier and Haddington
Advertiser. Some of these manifest delicate interpre-
tations of Nature's loveliness, liveliness of fancy, keen
philosophic reasoning, a pawky and pleasing use
of our proverbial philosophy, a fine perception of
rhythm, and a subdued possession of the humorous
faculty.

THE WEE WINKIN' CANDLE.

Tho' many are the means to clear the darkened human mind,
Cimmerian glamour covers some, and some are awsome blind ;
Some fowk again, like owls and hats, see only in the dark.
So hig I trow wad be the list, and heavy be the wark,
Were I to speak o' a' the plans that are, and yet may be,
Whereby the darkened intellect mysterious things may see '•
But t speak alioot externals, and the burden o' my hymn
Is, "The wee winkin' candle maun aye be kept in trim."

First comes the burnished king o' day his circuit to begin,
An' a" the world steers ahoot amang the merry din :
See how he smiles at a' he sees (nae won'er, gin he scan
How man forgets his Maker, and afflicts his fellow man)
But when we think o' a' his freens, and how he favours us,
If for a while he leaves us dark we neeilna mak' a fuss,
But, waitin' till he rise a^ain the heaven's arch to climb,
Take the wee winkin' candle an' keep it aye in trim.

The bonny mune, that looked sae pale when gloamin's dew-draps

fell,
Steps forth a chaste and comely queen, and glances down the

dell ;

The sea is sappin' on the shore, the wind sough* thro' the trees,
Whose silvery sheen is the spirit's seat that whispers in the

bree/.e.

Bright thro' my cottage windows the yellow moonlight falls,
And my humble little furniture is shadowed on the walls,
Oh rare in Luna's magic li^'ht, but sma' will turn her rim,
And the wee winkin' candle maun then be kept in trim.

334 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

There is a power in ae lane star that sparkles in the sky,
As when in adverse fortune smiles a maiden's loving eye ;
And grand it is to see the lift blue-set with gems of gold.
Let mortals pry and peer aboot, their kennin' ne'er has told
The secrets hid ayont the stars ; an' better 'tis for me
To live and trust wi' confidence in what I canna see,
Contented wi' my humble cot, where things are no sac dim,
For the wee winkin' candle there is aye kept in trim.

The lichtnin' glents zigzag, and flares its glory in the gloom ;
And high above the rushing wind the rattling thunders boom ;
The waves roll o'er the brave ship's deck, down shivering comes

the mast,

And the stoutest forest-hero reels below the crushing blast.
Ah ! what wad a' oor power avail without a higher han'
To guide th' uncertain levin-flash, and care for beast and man ;
Let's he thankf u' when the storm gaes by, and God has spared

the slim.
That the wee winkin' candle is oors to keep in trim.

Sir David's light is on the sea ; Sir Humphrey's in the mine ;
And mony deid an' gane, like them, as burnin' lichts still

shine ;

And what o' a' the rummaging beneath the earth and seas,
The search for light by day and night in beasts, and rocks, and

trees.

What dangers will not men endure, how sternly will they toil :
(Nae wunner that the times are fast wi' sic a trade in oil.)
I'm ane o' them that think it wad advantage life and limb
If the wee winkin' candle wad jist be kept in trim.

By the ancient Jewish temple it twinkled night and day ;
And the world's greatest Teacher points a moral in its way ;
Great Shakespeare from its light told what good deeds could

do,

And I trow it burned in Plato's cave and Diogenes' too ;
It reckoned good King Alfred's hours ; and now there may be

seen

In modern Britain's capital a chandler to the Queen ;
And the decent cottage house-wife, as she dmdles little Jim,
Snuffs the wee winkin' candle and keeps it aye in trim.

The hooded monk at vespers, and the warrior on the plain,
The traveller on the desert, and the sailor on the main ;
In the castle, in the palace, in the cottage, in the ha' ;
Thro' the garish day and darkness it has bided by them a' :
Its modest licht has sacred been, and sacred it shall be :
And when the aged universe shall close its auld dim e'e
It'll keek across the mists, and show it hasna been a whim
That the wee winkin' candle maun aye be kept in trim.

JOHN KBRR. 335

WORM WORK.»

In Eden worms their work began,

And worms their work will not have done

Till Eden is won hack to man,
And man to Eden hack is won.

Thus, veteran Darwin, have we found
That earth and heaven together meet ;

That God works often under ground,
And glory lies beneath our feet.

No fitful gleams of transient grace
Athwart the world at random shine —

The light of love, o'er every place,
Makes every form of life divine.

The mightiest powers are often hid,
The strongest voices small and still ;

The gizzard of an annelid
Grinds more than many a noisy mill.

A worm, a Christian, or a Jew —
In this great world there's work for each,

And only those whose work is true
The higher life may hope to reach.

Lose not thy birth-right, brother man,
In foolish feuds o'er fruitless forms,

For God and right do all you can,
Or yield the crown to common worms.

HARVEST.

'Tis sweet to wander forth at morn, where apples show their

bloom ;

To scent the garden's fragrance, the wild wood's rich perfume ;
To shake the laden pear-tree ; to pull the cushioned plum ;
To walk across the heather hills where bees in myriads ham ;
To stain the mouth with blaeberries, or in the haz«l shade
To watch the squirrel's antics and rob it of its bread ;
To pull the prickly chestnut, the rowan, and the sloe ;
To pace the favoured meads where the slender mushrooms grow,
To search the rasp and strawberry, the bramble and the crane ;
Or wandering by the hedge to pluck the ears of ripened grain.

From off the wavy golden fields, along the tinkling rills,
Thro' bushy brake and woodland far up the blooming hills,

* From a review, in rhyme, <>f liarwin's recrnt work on "The Forma-
tiou of Vegetable Mould uud the Habits of Earth-WoriiiB."

336

Tis sweet to hear the hum of men that greets the rising snn,

Sent out from autumn's fattened fields, when harvest is begun :

When Heaven's hand hath opened wide, that holdeth every good,

And man goes gladly forward to take his offered food,

And all the vale is music, and rarely goes the morn

When workmen ply their busy hands among the bending corn.

The sun has scarcely topp'd the hill, the dews are not away,
The mists still press in drowsiness the eyelids of the day ;
But the merry lads are stirring, I hear their harvest mirth ;
They're heaving off the burden from the heavy laden earth :
Strong arms and sturdy sinews, with hearts as stout and strong,
Bind up their brimming riches, and scent them with their song.
Who does not joy that He who clad the fields so rich and fair
Hath given hearts to thank Him for all His tender care?

The brawny arms are bared, and the work goes on apace,
The big clear burning sweat drops roll down each sunburnt face ;
And for the corn field's autumn robe ye now in vain may look,
For they've changed its waving mantle-folds to band and sheal

and stook.

Who asks for man's true birthright, for Adam's truest heirs ?
Is not the sweat of labour, and earth's rich produce theirs ?
And, say, is't not with all its ills true glory to be born
And nursed between auld Scotland's hills where grows the yellow

corn.

In stack and barn they'll store their grain, they'll store it snug

and warm ;

'Twill stem the winter's bitterness and stay the winter's storm ;
They will have their jolly bicker, their bannock and their bread,
When the furs are bound in iron, and the fields are hard and

dead ;
And when clouds are chasing gloomily, and cold winds keenly

blow,
And we trace the hare's red footsteps o'er the wreaths of drifted

snow,

You'll hear these stout and hearty lads ring out their music still
Across the bleak and frosty air, when merrily birrs the mill.

NOO, OR NEVER.

I mind when I was wee, and could barely lift a fit,

By the bleezin' ingle-neuk my grannie used to sit,

Teasin' oo' or knittin' stockin's oot o" hanks o' hmnespun yairn,

And tentin' for my rnither the wee bit wauflin' bairn,

Wi' her queer auld-fashioned mutch frillin' roon her lyart heid,

And her auld black cutty-pipe — for she likit her bit weed ;

She wad puff awa and tell us aye to dae what we were bid,

Tethetin' aft some text or proverb to what oor rnither said,

JOHN KERR. 337

Sic as this auld-farrant sayin', which 1 minded best o' a',
"Gin ye dinna daa't enoo ye may never dae't ava.1'

Then, when I was a callant, I whiles wad skip the schule,
Guddlin' troots or stickin' beardies and wadin' every pool,
Wi' my tirst new-fangled breeks buckled up aboon my knees,
And elbows keekin' thro' my coat wi' climbin* dykes and trees.
And a' my pouches fu' o' peeries, bools, an' string,
As lichtsome as a laverock I wad whustle, whoop, and sing ;
I kenned I had to work at the steerin' dawn o' day,
And tho' I sud get skelpit for't I took the truant's play,
And I mummel'd as I guddled on the auld foreseein' saw,
" Gin ye diuna dae't enoo ye may never dae't ava."

But nae dunderhead was I, for a twalmonth didna speed
Till a' the " Riramadaisy " was stickin' in my heid,
And I sune could read my Bible, for in thae days ye maun rain'
Nae pouterin' Schule Boards keepit bairns frae learnin' things

divine ;

The carritch too I learnt aff loof, but whiles I got the tawse ;
And I was sair forfoucheu wi' Lindley Murray's laws,
Yet I wauchled thro' them a' at last, and ran them aff the reel
Sae glibly that the maister glowered to hea,r them dune sac weel,
And my secret o' success was the mindin' o' the law —
" Gin ye dinna dae't enoo ye may never dae't ava.''

I was daein' halflin's wark when the speakin'-time cam' roun',
And the maister's kindly hand was clappit on my croon,
Wi' cheery voice said he, " My lad, ye'll no gang to the fair,
But bide wi' me, an' try if ye can haud a canny pair ;
Ye'll get wages like the lave when your hindin -work begins."
So aye sin" syne, wi' Bob and Bess, I've ta'en my oots and ins ;
Nae gowk was I like some I ken to pride in gettin' fou,
And squanderin' at the public what I gaithered at the plough :
But sune I filled a stockin' fit, although my gains were sma',
"Gin I hadna dune sae th«n I had never dune't ava.''

Noo the feck o' folk may think that a pawky chiel like me,

Afore I took a wife, wad hae coontit twa and three :

But, when barely through my teens, I cantia tell ye hoo,

I fell in love wi' Xannie, and could dae nocht but woo ;

I ettled aft to speir her, but couldna for my life,

For there's naething man can tak' in hand like askin' for a wife,

Had her granny been like mine she wad ji>t hae lield her tongue,

But she gar'd her mither tell me the lassie was owre young

To marry me enoo, but said I — "Just come awa,

Gin ye dinna dae't enoo ye may never dae't ava."

So Nan and I were merrit, as a'body wad ken,

And happy were we baith in our canty but and ben ;

338 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Nae gowd nor gear she brocht me, and nane hail I to gie,
But I gied niy heart to her and she gied her heart to me ;
Oor lot was puir and puirer whyles than ever we let on,
But we never wad hae swappit wi' the Queen upo' the throne :
If a' folk when they're merrit wad jist gang and dae the same,
They wad a' find oot the secret o' a couthy cosy haine ;
And thro' a" their merrit life he as happy as us twa —
Gin they dinna be sae noo they will never be ava.

Oor haine was happy aye, though there wasna muckle in't,
For we paid as we gaed on, and let naething fa' ahint ;
Then wi' my stockin' fit we coft a b<>nnie wee bit coo,
For thae days ye maun mind were better days than noo —
When fainners witlioot gruinblin' loot cottars keep their kye,
Ye ken when ye've a crummie ye hae'na much to buy,*
An' routh o' milk and porridge makes healthy flesh and banes,
While pats o' spoutroch tea-broe mak' puir bit shilpit weans ;
Oh, fairmers, bring oor crummies back and blessin's on ye fa',
" Gin ye dinna dae't enoo ye may never dae't ava."

Fu' crusely did I craw when, forbye mysel' and Nanny,

There were half-a-dizzen sonsie bairns that ca'd my mifeher

granny,

Dreich and dull micht be niy darg, hut at nicht I had nae cares,
For my heart got aye sae licht as it inkled into theirs ;
And in the witchin' mirk, when they wunner't at the mune,
I kiss'd their cheeks and tauld them o' the better land abune,
I sung to them its sangs, and helped them to prepare
By daein' gude on earth for bein' happy there ;
Aye comin' owre the words o' her they never saw,
"Gin ye dinna dae't enoo ye may never dae't ava."

And noo I'm gettin' auld, it'll no be rery lang

Till the gate your granny gaed your faither too maun fitany.

Nae man can jouk his hinner end, for a'body maun dee,

And in the cauld kirkyard ye'll sune be layin' me,

But when I'm happit i' the mools ye'll mind your faither's creed,

41 If yer leevin' weel enoo ye'll be leevin' when ye're deid,

For ilka man and mither's son that acts up to his licht,

And foonds life's biggin' on the true, and fends it wi' the richt,

Nae deevil's blast will e'er ding doon, however loud it blaw,

Gin it canna dae't enoo, theu it canna dae't ava."

* "We have lived for months of old (and when he was not any longer
poor) because by ourselves, on porridge and potatoes, with no other
condiment than what our own cow yielded."— Thomas Carlyle— Reminit-
cencet of his father.

JAMES BELL. $39

REV. JAMES BELL, B.D.,

yilVlNISTER of the South United Presbyterian
«.H«J Church congregation, Auchtermuchty, was
born at Auchenairn, a village three miles to the north
of Glasgow, in 1846. Having attended the village
school, where he received his primary education, he
became a pupil teacher in St Andrew's Parish School,
Glasgow — trudging from Auchenairu to the city in the
morning and home again at night for a period of five
years. He entered Glasgow University in 1866,
studied there two sessions, and engaged in teaching
during the first of these. In 1868 he went to Edin-
burgh University, and remained three sessions, again
engaging in teaching on an average of three hours
daily. Having resolved meantime to study for the
Church, he entered the U.P. Divinity Hall in 1869,
and attended the then usual course of five autumn
sessions. Although he was not what might be called
distinguished in his college classes, he took a fair place,
and was a prizeman in Junior and Middle Greek in
Glasgow and Mathematics in Edinburgh, and graduated
at the latter University as M.A. in 1871, and B.D. in
1874. While attending the Hall he held a tutorship
for fourteen months at Durie House, Leven, Fifeshire,
and at the close of his course passed four months at
the -University of Leipzig, Germany.

Mr Bell became a probationer in 1874, and was
called and settled as minister of South U.P. Church,
Auchtermuchty, in 1877. He enjoys the respect, con-
fidence, and affection of his attached flock, and ib in
every respect one who, by his wise and fervent teach-
ings from the pulpit adorns the Christian ministry.
His wide culture, unobstrusive piety, and sterling
worth is also manifested in his occasional poetic fancies

340 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

and utterances, as well as in his scholarly translations,
most of which have until now been confined chiefly to
newspapers, under the nom-de-plume of " Beta." These
show him to be possessed of a mind accustomed to
reflection, and prove that the author is capable of
portraying, with elasticity of fancy, both the beauties
of natural scenery and the feelings and passions of
the heart. His graceful, ornate, and musical versifica-
tion also affords evidence of a heart keenly sensitive
to all that is elevating, pure, and gentle in everyday
life.

TO THE OCEAN.

Deep 'neath thy fretting, restless wave,
How many hearts, both true and brave,
Lie ever hid in nameless grave,
From those who watched, but watched in vain
For loved ones from beyond the main.

How many a wistful look was cast,
While o'er thy bosom swept the blast,
Upheaving foam and billows vast,
To catch a glimpse of " homeward bound,':
Bringing the lost ones safe and sound.

How many a prayer was sent on high
To Him who hears the widow's cry
That He would wipe the weeping eye,
Would homeward bring the truant son,
That loved, that wayward wandering one.

How many sighs, relieved by tears,
And mixed with griefs, and hopes, and fears,
The burdened bosom heaved for years,
Which heaved for one, and one alone,
Him whom thou claimest for thine own.

Oh hoary deep ! through ages old,

By man thy power is uncontrolled,

Time over thee no sway doth hold,

Thou dost remain all fresh and pure,

And wilt, while time lasts, so endure.

JAMES BELL. 341

Mysterious as thon KPt-rn'st to lie,

Oh deep unfathomable sea !

The end shall come thou can'st not flee,
When all thy spoils shall be revealed,

Affection's jewels lost, restored,

All broken up thine ancient hoard,
And thy dread secrets all unsealed.

THE THREE SUNS.

(From the German of Chamisso. The word sun, in German tonne,
is feminine. )

Thae curly locks o' mine, lassie,

Were nae aye siller gray,
For aince, 'tis mony a year sinsyne,

I was baith young an' gay.

An' when I look on you, lassie,

Sae rosy, fresh, an' young,
The thochts o' time that's lang gane by

Will oot upon my tongue.

The mither o' your minnie, lassie,

Bonnier ne'er met my sicht,
I lookit on her as on the sun,

Maist blindit wi' the licht.

An' ance wi' joy it thrilled me thro',

The pressure o' her han' ;
But syne to anither she gied hersel',

An' I sailed to a foreign Ian*.

At length I turned me hame again,

Weary an' tempest driven,
An' noo I saw a second sun

Shine in my native heaven.

Ay, it was jist your minnie, lassie,

Bonnier ne'er met my sicht,
I lookit on her as on the sun,

Maist blindit wi' the licht.

She offered me ance her bonny broo,

An' I kissed it tenderlie,
But syne to anither she gied hersel',

An' I gaed ower the sea.

I've dream'd an' m'urned my life awa',
A grey-haired carle aiu I,

342 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

An* noo I'm hame, anither sun
Illumes my native sky.

Tia you ! 'tis yon ! my bonnie bairn,

Bonnier ne'er met my sicht,
I look on yon as on the sun,

Maist blindit wi' the licht.

Ye offer me your lips to kiss,

It's weel an' kindly dune,
Ye gie yoursel' to anither, an" I

In the mools will rest me sune.

THE MAIDEN'S PLAINT.*
( Schiller. )

The oakwood is sounding,

The clouds drive on ;
The maiden is sitting

By the brookside alone.

The wavelets are breaking with mi /lit, with might,
And she sighs forth her plaint to the darksome night,
Her eyes with tears overflowing.

" My heart is deadened,

The world is bare,
And further it yields me

Nought but despair.

Thou Holy One ! call back Thy child again,
I have tasted the joys allotted to men,
The joys of living and loving."

" Thy tears are flowing ;

In vain they flow,
Thy plaint may not waken

The sleepers below.

Yet say what will comfort and heal the breast,
That with love's sweet delights no more is blessed,
I, the Heavenly One, will not refuse thee."

" My tears ! let them flow on !

Though vainly they flow,
Though my plaint may not waken

The sleeper below.

The sweetest delights for the sorrowing heart,
When the joys of beautiful love depart,
Are the lover's tears and sighing."

* Thekla, the daughter of Wallenstein, bearing of the death of her
lover, Max Piccolomini, in Imttle on ihe frontier of Bohemia, left her
father's camp along with her inaiJ, to seek out the place where he fell,
and to weep over his grave.

JAMES BELL. 343

CHILDHOOD.

Oh ! the happy hours of childhood,

Distant days of golden hue,
Longingly my memory lingers

O'er the scenes that rise to view.

Time can throw no shade across them,

Beautifully clear they lie ;
Autumn woods, and streamlets sparkling,

Red ripe fruits and calm blue sky.

Come, ye sunny hours of gladness,
Let me taste your joys again ;

Never did a thought of sadness
In your pleasures mingle pain.

Happiness was all my study
In the passage of those hours,

When my soul was fret- and lightsome,
Gathering life's gladdest flowers.

Threatened trials ne'er deterred me

Wishing to become a man,
Hope was stronir within my bosom

To fulfil the life's great plan.

Time with gentle wave swept o'er it,

"i'waa a picture in the sand :
At the breath of reason vanished,

'Twas a dream from fairyland.

Oh, for childhood's dewy freshness,
Freedom, modesty, and truth,

Tru«t and love and hope that gladdens,
Give me back my "dews of youth."

WINTER'S SNOW.

Keen o'er the moor blow wintry winds,
They whistle through the leafless wood,

They eddy round the bare hill top,
And sweep the pass in gushes rude.

Upon the bosom of the blast

Are borne the fleecy flakes of snow,

They whirl and dance, and hurry past,
Unceasingly, in mazy flow.

844 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

As sailing downward thro' the air,
From side to side their course is sped,

They seem reluctant to impair
Their whiteness by a lowly bed.

God's messengers they are, from heaYtn,
Sent to protect the tender flowers,

Till, wakened by the breath of spring,
They bloom again in vernal bowers.

FRIENDSHIP'S GIFT.
(Album Verses.)

The fairest gift that friendship owes
Is not the flattering word of praise,

Is not the smile that fortune throws
On them who bask in her false rays.

Tis not the gift of gleaming gold,
'Tis not the fairest work of art,

It is not power, nor wealth untold,
Tis this alone — the loving heart.

JOSEPH GRANT

T1TT1 ^ a man °f beautiful and winning character,
\L\rl who left behind him memorials that in all
probability will last and be admired as long as the
human mind retains a thirst for the history, the say-
ings and doings of the past. He gave much promise
of achieving great things, both in prose and verse, but,
like so many of our lowly-born and struggling children
of talent, he was cut off by the hand of death in his
thirtieth year. It was said of him by Robert Nicoll,
the poet, that if he had been so fortunate as to secure
a biographer like Southey, he would have bulked more
largely in the poetic firmament than Kirke White ;

JOSEPH GRANT. 345

while his friend and brother-poet, Alexander Laing of
Brechin, author of "The Standard on the Braes o' Mar,"
and other deathless songs and poems — a genuine poet,
and a man of great moral worth — wrote on hearing of
his early death —

He came & stranger from the north,

Enquiring for my weal —
He sat beside my humble hearth,

And shared my homely meal.

Though humbly born and lowly bred,

By lonely Highland hill,
The book of human life he read

With knowledge and with skill.

And kinder, warmer heart than his

Was ne'er to minstrel given,
And purer, holier sympathies

Ne'er sought their native heaven.
Ah ! what avails the fever'd hour

Of mental pain and toil,
If earthly fame is not a flower

That grows on earthly soil.

Joseph Grant, who was uncle to the gifted David
Grant, noticed in our Ninth Series, was born in 1805
at Affrusk, parish of Banchory-Ternan, Kincardine-
shire. Lying on the cold, desolate northern slope of
the Grampians, far from neighbours and social inter-
course, it was remarkable that one reared amongst
such surroundings could nurse and cherish the flame
of poetic inspiration. There seems to have been some-
thing of an intellectual cast in the family from which
he sprang, for Joseph was wont to show a friend of
ours, now deceased, who knew him intimately, a well-
written manuscript volume by his grandfather, on
" Medicine, or the Art of Healing." Old Grant had
been a firm believer in witchcraft and the power of
demonology, as his prescriptions were more like charms
than rational cures for " the many ills that flesh is

346 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

heir to." The time, place, and manner of applying
the drugs were carefully and minutely set down : the
gray of the morning, between the sun and sky ; the
twilight ; silence in the case of meeting anyone when
the drugs were administered — in short, the volume
was an antidote against supernatural agency of the
malignant kind.

The father of our poet, descended from a race of
crofters, was a hardy, plucky man, who, according to
Mr Walker, in his " Bards of Bon Accord," struggled
late and early with the stubborn soil of his little
"tack," and occasionally tried to eke out the scanty
means of living which it brought him by the more
profitable, if risky, adjunct of illicit distilling. Joseph,
in common with the other members of the family as
they grew up, lent a hand at the work of the farm by
day, or helped to watch when the still was " going " at
night, and got his turn, as winter came round, of a
short spell at the parish school of Banchory. With
the slight educational equipment thus obtained, this
child of the glens soon began to show signs of ability
and a thirst for knowledge far beyond the majority of
those of his age and circumstances in life. How early
his spirit had been touched by the legendary lore, the
ballads and tales — which stood in the place of litera-
ture to the rustic mind of his generation — it is im-
possible to tell, but as early as his fourteenth year he
had begun to embody some of them in verse. His
father, plain, prosaic man, did not care much for these
things, but the mother, who had strong leanings in
that direction herself, saw it with a glad heart, and
encouraged him as only a mother can.

At the age of fourteen Grant continually carried
writing materials about his person — the inkhorn
attached to a button of his coat, paper and pens in
the crown of his bonnet. He was thus able to jot
down on the spot any idea or verse that carae to his

JOSEPH GRANT. 347

mind. Alive to all the leading questions of the day
— political, religious, or literary — he, when only a boy
of fifteen or sixteen years of age, wrote smart articles
and most surprising verses on local and other subjects
in the Aberdeen newspapers. Buying and borrowing
books as means or opportunity offered, he went on
reading, writing, and educating himself when his duties
as assistant to his father permitted. Farm labour
was too severe, however, for his by no means
robust frame. The " night work " we have already
referred to, and watching " when the still was going "
in damp and out-of-the-way places, had even then told
on his fragile body. By the time he was fourteen, he
told Mr George Duthie — a sketch of whom appeared in
our Seventh Series — that his constitution was broken
down, and we have no doubt these unhealthy vigils were
in a great measure the cause of his early death. In
a poetic epistle to Mr Duthie, he detailed his diffi-
culties and hardships, his discouragements and rebuffs,
and described his involuntary night-watchings at the
distillations of

The dews of Glenchorly
That stream in the starlight, when kings dinna ken.

His ambition from boyhood was to be an author.
He did not conceal this craving, and taxed his mental
powers to the very utmost to obtain that end. Al-
though his native glens, in their varied aspects of
natural beauty, were dear to him, he found it necessary
to go to seek employment. He had not the means to
be a farmer, the higgling or precarious bargain-making
connected with cattle-dealing was altogether foreign
to his quiet, retiring disposition, and he consequently
sought other outlets to his literary genius in some
degree suitable to his taste. After acting as assistant
for a short time to an ironmonger in Stonehaven, he
went to Dundee about 1833, and was employed, first

348 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

as a clerk in the office of the Dundee Guardian, and
subsequently in the same capacity to a writer. Still,
amidst the irksouieness of "law's dry musty arts," our
poet continued to woo the Muses.

Previous to this date he had published his " Kin-
cardineshire Traditions," and " Juvenile Lays," and
contributed to Chambers'* Journal several excellent
prose tales, (afterwards published under the title of
" Tales and Sketches,") which were highly appreciated,
and brought around him a circle of literary friends.
There were then living in Dundee a number of highly
gifted men of letters, including David Vedder, author
of "Tales and Sketches of Orkney," " Poems," &c.,
who was employed in the Custom House ; Robert
Nicoll, author of " Poems and Lyrics " ; Myles, the
author of " Rambles in Forf arshire," and others. Mr Wal-
ker informs us that Grant's intercourse with Nicoll had
a highly inspiring effect upon our poet, and the prospect
of a literary career was opening before him with con-
siderable promise. He began to regret that he had
published the two little volumes we have noticed above,
and wished to forget them. He set about gathering
his prose tales and sketches and a few of his ballads
and songs, with a view to publication. His health
broke down, however — the close confinement at office
work, conjoined with the general insalubrity of city
life, could not fail to tell on one predisposed as he was
to pulmonary disease ; and it soon became visible to
his fi'ieuds that the tall, thin form of the young poet
was stooping over an early grave. He was persuaded
to return home in hopes that his native air might
recruit him. But by that time disease had too firm a
hold of its victim, he never rallied, and his last words
to his mother, whom he loved so tenderly, were — " I'm
going home." He died, under the roof-tree where he
was born, 'on 14th April, 1835, and was buried in the
churchyard of Strachan, Kincardineshire, where a plain

JOSEPH GRANT. 349

headstone, bearing the inscription by his poetic friend
Alexander Laing, marks his last resting-place —

"Though young in years, and not unknown to fame,
Though worth and genius both had told his name,
Though hope was high and certain honour near,
Grant left the world without a sigh or tear.
Yes ! trusting in the Saviour's power to save,
No sting had death, no terror had the grave--
His parting words in prospect of the tomb,
Were, "Dearest Mother, Iain going home."

With Laing this was a labour of love. He at once set
about getting the memorial erected over his grave,
and after no little trouble and expense, he went with
it over the " Cairn o' Mont " to see that the melan-
choly duty was carefully performed.

The volume of stories and poems — " Tales of the
Glens "- — on which he was working at the time of his
death, was seen through the press by Mr M'Cosh, of
the Dundee Journal, and a memoir of his life was pre-
fixed to it, from the pen of his friend, Robert Nicoll.
During the present year (1887) a new edition of
Grant's " Tales " was published — " London : John
Leng & Co., Fleet Street ; Aberdeen : W. & W. Lind-
say. Of a fine genius and amiable nature, he afforded
eminent promise, with a prolonged career, of becoming
an ornament to literature. His sun went down at
noon, but he has left behind him much that will
last. As Mr Walker has well said — " When we look
back to each of the three volumes he gave to the
world, we begin to see clearly how they mark stages in
his mental growth, and how they indicate more dis-
tinctly than may be seen in most young poets' work
the transition from being a poet of Nature and human
life pure and simple — a picture-painter, who weaves
whatever poetic wealth he possesses round something
outside himself — to the thoughtful, reflective, self-
conscious kind of poet with an ever-growing interest in

350 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

his own mental states more than in anything else.
This tendency to subjectivity — he did not live to
develop it — grew upon him when, shut out from the
influences which amid Nature's surroundings tend to
draw man away from self, he was cooped up in Dundee
at work and studies which were telling on his general
health."

In quaint bits of folk lore, romantic simplicity,
tender pathos, and play of fancy, wethinkhis short tales,
as well as some of his ballads, have scarcely any rival.
No one can read his sketches of kelpies, mermaids,
spunkies, and other supernatural beings, without feel-
ing his soul and imagination in the grasp of a powerful
genius. The same can be said of his descriptions of
scenery — the solitary glen in its varied aspects of
summer and winter, the heather-scented balmy breeze,
or the angry, howling blast. The superstitions that
linger in remote districts, and weird legends hitherto
neglected, are humourously interwoven and repro-
duced in poetry and prose as naturally as if they were
narratives of actual facts. His miscellaneous poems
are clearly "the outpourings of a pure and exalted
spirit," in which the lights and shadows of the human
breast are vividly pourtrayed — a spirit that had little
of the gross, the earthly, the mortal, binding it to the
world of flesh. Yet, as Robert Nicoll, in his too brief
" Memoir " tells us, " he did not think the power of ex-
pressing lofty and noble thoughts — the appreciation of
mental and material beauty, though possessed by a
man, excused him from fulfilling the duties of life ;
and in this Joseph Grant was an example to many
who rthink that poetry should be not only enjoyment
and happiness to the mind, but food and clothes for
the body. He often lamented the cold-heartedness of
the world in not encouraging the struggling, but he
had more manly feeling than to think that the world
should support him like a beggar."

JOSEPH GRANT. 351

One does not wonder, after reading and studying
his works — the beautiful emanations of a refined and
comparatively spotless soul — that his last words to his
mother, who never left his side during the three
months of his last illness, were — " I am going to leave
this world and you, but I shall never die — I am going
home." Withdrawing his arms, which encircled her
neck, he slept on earth, and his weary spirit was away
to the better land it was worthy of, to sing its visions
of purity and goodness before the throne of love-lighted
Omnipotence.

SONG OF THE FAIRY KING.

I am the chief of the Elfin band —

And none more bold than me
Has ever led their ranks so yraml

Through the shades uf the moonlit lee.

My cloak is the leaf of the hirk tree high.

My venture the greenfly's wing,
My whirl! is the hide of the grasshopper's thigh,

And my lance the brown ant's sting.

We hunt the gnat through the leafy dell

And over the broomy hill,
And ateer our barks of the acorn shell

Through the waves of the silvery rill.

And 0, when the storu.-beat steeple quakes,

When the deer in covert quail,
And tUe sprite of the Mast from his dark wing shakes

Around the rattling hail,

Gleefully then w« dart abroad
» On the whirlwind's viewless wing,
And in the halls of the dark, dark cloud
Our soti^s of battle sing.

And when morning's ruddy banner glows

Wide over the eastern sky,
In the fragrant folds of the snow-white rose

We hide from human eye.

352 MODERN. SCOTTISH POETS.

BALLAD.

The woe bird sat on the rowan tree,

An' he warbled sweet an' clear,
An' aye the owre- words o* his sang

Was, " Yer lover 'ill never win here ! "
She listened to the birdie's sang

Till her heart could bear nae mair,
An' she's thrown on her mantle wi' a sob,

An' forth through the gloamin' air.

There were cauld draps on the flowerless green,

An" black clouds o' the sky ;
An' the leafless shrubs, like angry birds,

Hiss'd as the blast swept by.
But the maiden's on through the auld ash wood,

Sae lonely an' sae drear,
An' her heart beat loud as she sped alang,

Wi' a strange owre-swellin' fear.

The fitfu' win' seern'd bearin' past

The tones o' a spirit's sang,
An' the clouds o' night had a bodin' flight

As they raced the skies alang.
The soun' o' a death-drop seem'd to mix

Wi' the patterin' o' the rain ;
An* the bent stump> o' the moulderin' trees

Seem'd ghaists o' ancient men.

But the maiden has passed the dreary wood,

An' the fisher's lanely shiel' ;
An' still her Sandy met her not

On the path he loved sae weel.
An" she climb'd the steps o' the steep shore-cliff,

An' stood on its summit bare ;
An' gazed through the gloom o' the distant fell,

But nae movin' form was there.

The sea was groanin' far below

In mony a darksome cavp,
An' a startlin' soun' gaed rushin' aroun'

\Vi' the dash o' ilka wave.
Her brain buru'd wi' distractin' thoughts

O' her lover kind an' dear —
When she thought she heard the- waters say,

" Your Sandy is sleepin' here ! "

She turn'd, an' roun' the dizzyin' clench,
Wi' tremblin' limbs, she wore ;

JOSEPH GRANT. 353

An' she found her lover cauld in death

'Mang the black rocks o' the shore !
An' the maiden couldna weep nor scream,

For her heart's-blood scarcely ran ;
But she laid his head on her woe-smote breast,

An' kiss'd his lips uae wan.

There's nane can tell the agony
• O' her watch beside the dead,
For lang ere human eye look'd on

Her woundit soul had fled.
An' the lyke-wake sang o' the hapless twain

Was the wail o' the white sea maw ;
An' the waves crept up an' kiss'd their feet,

An' mournin' turn'd awa.

HOPE.

O, Hope's like a little minstrel bird
That sings by the path o' a child,
Ay lonpin' frae bloomy bough to bough

Wi" an air sae merry an' mild ;
An' maist within grasp o' his gowden wings
He lats the bairnie creep,

Syne aff bangs lie
To a high, high tree,
An' the wee thing's left to weep.

O, Hope's like a maiden o' fair fifteen,

Wi' an e'e as dazzlingly bright
As the dew that blinks i the violet's cup
When the sun has reached his height ;
An' she bows her bright head to your sweet waled word
Till love turns burnin' pain,

Syne wi' sudden scorn
She leaves ye forlorn,
To smile on anither swain.

O, Hope's like a sun-burst on distant hills,

When stern and cloudy's the day,
And the wanderer thinks it's a heaven-blest spot

And his spirit grows licht by the way ;
The blooming moors seem lakes o' gowd,
An' the rocks glance like castles Draw,
But he wins uae near
The spot sae dear —
It glides aye awa and awa.

An' whiles Hope comes like a propiiet uuld,
Wi' a beard licht lang an' grey,

W

354 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

An' he brags o' visions glitterin' an' gran',

An' speaks o' a blyther day.
Ne'er heed him ; he's but a hair-brained bard
A-biggin' towers i' the air
A lyin' seer,
Wha will scoff an' jeer
When yer heart turns cauld an' sair.

THE THREE AULD WIVES 0! KEERTCAN LEE.

Hurra for the auld wives o' Keerican Lee !
The three auld wires o' Keerican Lee !
The hale parish waur than Gomorrah would be,
Gin't waurna the auld wives o' Keerican Lee.

O laud them an' bless them ye young and ye fair,
For a' yer bit failin's they hit to a hair ;
Yer parents an' guardians ha'e little to dee —
O laug live the auld wives o' Keerican Lee !

Ye wee rosy gipsys, sae pawkie an' blythe,

0 little ye ken, while sae gaily ye kithe,

The travail an' toil that for your sakes they dree-

0 he kind to the auld wives o' Keerican Lee !

An' you madcap rebels wha woo i' the mirk,
An' mid daffin' an' din, tine yer fear o' the kirk ;
It's hard to say how meikle wanr ye would he,
Gin't werna the auld wives o' Keerican Lee !

In sooth he's a sly ane wha gangs in or out,
Gin you ladies canna tell what he's about —
Auld Fame, wi' her trumpet, is nae worth a flee
Compared to the auld wives o' Keerican Lee !

Puir carlins ! ye're scurvily paid for your wark,
Though yer eident attention the dullest may mark ;
A vile thankless warld has nae praise to gie
To the three auld wives o' Keerican Lee !

MY OWN LOVE.

My own love, my true love !

I may not hear thee speak,
But yet the light that's in thy eye,

The glow that's on thy cheek,
A tale unto my spirit tell,

No other lips may speak ;
The minstrel's noblest melody,

To tell that tale were weak.

JOSEPH GRANT. 355

My own love ! my dear love 1

Upon thy picture brow
I read the credit of thy faith,

The candour of each vow.
If distance couldla doubt create,

That fear would vanish now ;
If truth can cheer the ills of life,

That lamp of truth art thou.

My own love ! my fair love !

As bends before the shrine
Of saint, the fervent worshipper

Secure in light divine,
So doth my spirit — loveliest

Before that form of thine,
I feel that thou are beautiful,

I know that thou art mine.

TO THE BLACKBIRD.

Sweet lyrist of the wild !
O cease not soon thy soothing strain,
Thy gentle warbling often has beguiled

My wither'd memory from dreams of pain.

Thou lullest care to sleep —
The murmur of his dream is heard alone ;
Thy song of pure delight has gladness thrown

O'er eyes that throb and burn, but may not weep.

Harbinger of the stars ;
A fulness of rich music is thy dower,
Beneficently lavished at the hour

When night the portals of her home unbars.

Dweller where wild blooms wave,
How sweet must the blest voices be
That arise around the throne of Him who gave

So sweet a voice to thee.

Minion of gloaming joy,

The world's first twilight listened to thy song,
Its thrillings have been felt through ages long,

Yet ne'er can cloy.

The lonely woodland ne'er may be my home ;
But I will ever seek at fall of day
The spots that echo only to thy lay

And there delighted roam.

356 MODERN SCOTTISH

For then devotion's glow
Upon my care-chilled bosom mildly steals,
And hopes, that mock the world, reveals

And smoothes, with angel hand, my restless spirit's flow.

CAM' YE DOON?

Cam' yefdoon by yon burnside,

Whaur roses wild are thickly blooinin' —
Whaur the cowslips blink frae their mossy beds,

A' the summer air perfumin" ?
Look'd ye in at a lanely door,

Round whilk the woodbine slim is twinin'?
Saw ye a lassie wi* diamon' een,

An' gowden hair, like morn-rays shinin' ?

Sweetly warbles, by yonder burn,

The speckled mavis at night's returnin' ;
But there I ha'e heard a sweeter sang,

And it dwells on my memory even' and mornin'.
Saftly fa', ye gloamin' shades,

On yonder shaw, where the young leaves glisten,
For a bonny bird awaits me there,

An' stays her sang till I come to listen.

0 ye may linger in yonder shaw,

And breathe the wweet gale as ye wander ;
An' list the burnie murmurin' on

In mony a loup and wild meander ;
An' ye may pu' the pink o' the bank,

An' the thorn flower, wi' its hues sae fleetin' ;
But touchna the rose <>' yon cottage lone,

Or you an' I'll ha'e a canker'd meetin'.

BALLAD.

The ruby tints frae the western clouds

Have faded all away,
An' the moon looks down, wi' a cauld wan smile,

Like the smile o' love's decay ;
An' the woolly mists o' the saft twilight

Are curlin' aboon the stream,
That seems to ha'e tint the sweet voice it had

In the day o' my youth's blest dream.

0 where art thou, my well beloved,

Whose arm was wont to be
Ay link'd in mine, whan the .summer dews

Begemm'd the star-lit lea ?

G. J. LAWRIE. 3")7

When the balm o' the blessed tfloamin'-fa'

Was on ilka leaf an' flower,
An' the vesper hymn o' the mavis cam'

Frae the depths o' her greenwood bower?

O ha'e ye forgot the sigh o' love ?

An' the kiss sae warm an' dear ?
An' the looks that spak a language sweet

To the soul's deep listenin' ear?
An' the meatin' moment's wild embrace ?

An' the clasp p' the love lock'd ban' ?
An' the linger-in1 step, an' the sinkin' heart,

While the partin' minutes ran ?

It canna be that the feelin's wreathed

Iloun* hearts unstained an' young,
By the strong cauld ban's o" care an' wae,

Should frae these hearts be wrung.
But oh ! my love ! the lang grass grows

Where our footprints were wont to be,
An' the hornet vile has hung her nest

'Mid the boughs o' our trystin' tree.

^'tb^

GEORGE JAMES LAWRIE, D.D.,

HUTHOR of at least two songs that will live—
"Ha'e ye mind o' lang, lang syne," and "The
Auld Manse, '— was a son of the manse and a man of
true lyrical genius. The first-mentioned is universally
popular. Indeed, by a strange coincidence, while we
write we hear it warbled outside of our sanctum
window by "a puir hameless waif;" but until some par-
ticulars were recently given by Mr Ford in his " Poet's
Album," the name of the author had not previously
been even so much as mentioned in any collection of
our national poetry. In this connection it would be
curious to discover how many of the hundred
thousands familiar with such triumphant single pieces

358 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

as the " Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard,"
the " Burial of Sir John Moore," " There is a Happy
Land," " The Cameron Men," " The Standard on the
Braes o' Mar," and many others that might be men-
tioned, know anything whatever of Gray, the Rev. C.
Wolfe, Andrew Young, Miss Campbell, or Alexander
Laing. A writer said recently in The Scottish Church
— "It is something for a poem to live by its own
merits, however tantalising it may be in some cases to
trace the author. It is a far commoner thing for a
piece to survive because of its writer's established
fame. Probably the highest tribute that can be paid
to a poet is to embody his work in the literature to
which it belongs, quite irrespectively of who or what
he was himself." On our part w'e feel it to have been
a great privilege to have been able, now and again, to
reveal the identity of these one-song poets.

The Rev. George James Lawrie, D.D., minister of
the Parish of Monkton, Ayrshire, who died in 1878,
was born on the 10th October, 1797. His father and
grandfather, both of whom were successively ministers
of Loudoun parish, enjoyed the intimate friendship of
the national bard. Indeed, during the later years of
his life, Burns was a frequent visitor at Loudoun
Manse, over the door of which, we have been told,
there is inscribed a quotation from his writings which
has reference to the Lawrie family. Mr Hamilton
Nimmo, musicseller, Ayr, who composed and published
the music for Dr Lawrie's " Ha'e ye mind o' laug, lang
syne " — which, by the by, has been sung into national
popularity by Mrs Nimmo, the well-known Scottish
vocalist — tells us that he knew the " dear old doctor "
very well. " He was a fine, big man, with a healthy
red face, long curly white hair hanging down his back,
a clear nervous blue eye, and a genial sympathy for
auld Scotch. The first time I met him was some
twenty-four years ago at a Sabbath school soiree, when

G. J. LAWRIE. 359

I sang Ballantyne's ' Ilka Blade o' Grass.' He shook
me by the hand on the platform, and asked rue to
write out a copy of the song for him."

We are informed by Mr Beaton, teacher, Prestwick,
that Dr Lawrie was extremely fond of children, and
knew personally every boy and girl in the parish.
They in turn were pleased at the Doctor's visit both
to their houses and school. Many grown-up people
have a very pleasing memory of his friendly pat on
the head and kindly greeting as they sat either in the
day school or Sunday school, and nothing delighted
him so much as to hear of the prosperity of those to
whom he had given a helping hand in pushing them-
selves forward in the world. He was not in the
modern sense a popular preacher, but his discourses
were characterised by a spirit of intense earnestness,
which arrested the attention of his audience. As a
token of respect and esteem, and in recognition of his
faithful ministrations at Monkton during the long
period of thirty-four years, Dr Lawrie was, on retiring
from his charge in 1877, presented with a handsome
testimonial by his friends and parishioners. He took
up his residence at Hythe, but did not long survive
his removal to England, as the following from the Ayr
Advertiser shows : — " A few months ago Dr Lawrie
applied to the Presb}rtery for the appointment of an
assistant and successor, and retired to Kent to spend
the evening of his days along with his relatives there.
That evening has not been long — an announcement
of his death yesterday having reached us. Deceased
was for a number of years Presbyterian chaplain at
Madras. He was inducted to Monkton parish im-
mediately after the Disruption, and continued from
that time until within a comparatively recent period
to perform the ministerial functions connected with
this charge. Of late years he has had several assis-
tants, but so long as he was able he continued his

360 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

household ministrations, chiefly among the poor of the
parish. His warm, kind, genial manner, and unaffected
interest in their welfare, rendered him a great
favourite among them, and he will long be remem-
bered in the district. Dr Lawrie was a man of good
literary parts, and a very successful song-writer. He
was the aiithor of a number of Scottish pieces, chief
among these being " Do ye mind lang syne ? " a simple
but touching song, in which the author's mind showed
evidence of the warm recollections which he retained
of his earlier years. He died at the advanced age of
eighty-two."

His venerable widow is still living, her home being at
Hythe, Kent. In the course of the year succeeding
his death there was a small brochure of our poet's
" Songs and Miscellaneous Pieces " published in Ayr,
under the care of his friend, Mr Beaton, from which
we are privileged to make the subjoined extracts.
These display the possession by their author of a fine
lyrical faculty, a large and simple heart, and an ad-
mirably generous nature. It might be mentioned that
the song, "Lang, Lang Syne," at one time formed
the subject of some discussion in the columns of. the
Detroit Free Press, in the course of which " R. B. L.,"
a nephew of the author, who resides in Edinburgh,
wrote : — " I had on one occasion the pleasure of hear-
ing Dr Lawrie sing the verses at his own fireside in
Monkton Manse, the recollection of which is still fresh
in my memory. The old gentleman, whose locks were
by this time snow-white (for it was within a year or
two of his death), was seated in his high-backed arm-
chair. Shortly before this, one of the members of his
family had been removed by death, and as he sang the
stanza beginning ' Where are those bright hearts noo f
the recollection of his loss seemed to press upon him
with renewed force. His voice began to tremble with
emotion, and a silent tear stole down his cheek." On

G. J. LAWRIE. 361

the same occasion the writer referred in these terms
to " The Auld Manse " — " It was sung by Dr Lawrie at
one of the meetings of the Glasgow Society of the Sons
of the Clergy, for which occasion it was specially
written. When it is remembered that the author of
it was a son of the manse, that his grandsires for
generations had been in the ministry, and that he
himself spent the greater part of his life in an Ayrshire
manse, it is impossible to consider it aught else than
the genuine outpouring of a kindly, loving heart, and
the expression of his inmost thoughts and feelings."

LANG, LANG SYNE.

Ha'e ye mind o' lang, lang syne,
When the summer days were fine,

An' the sun shone brighter far
Than he's ever dune since syne ;

Do ye mind the Hag Brig turn,

Whaur we guddled in the burn,
And were late for the schule in the mornin' 1

Do you mind the sunny braes,
Whar we gathered hips and slaes,

And fell amang the bramble busses,
Tearin' a' oor claes ;

And for fear they wad be seen

We gaed slippin' hame at e'en,
But were lickit for oor pains in the mornin'?

Do ye mind the miller's dam,
When the frosty winter cam',

How we slade upon the curler's rink,
And made their game a sham ;

When they chased us through the unaw,

We took leg-bail ane an' a',
But we did it o'er again in the mornin' ?

What famous fun was there,

Wi' our game at houn' and hare,

When we played the truant frae the schule,

Because it was the fair ;

And we ran frae Patie's Mill,
Through the woods on Winny Hill,

And were feart for the taw»e in the mornin'.

362 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Where are those bright hearts noo,
That were then so leal and true ? —

Oh ! some hae left life's troubled scene,
Some still are struggling^thro',

And some hae risen high

In life's changeful.destiuy,
For they rose wi* the lark in the mornin'.

Now life's sweet Spring is past,

And our Autumn's come at )ast ;
Our Summer day has passed away,

Life's], Winter's comin' fast ;

But though lang it's night may seem,
We shall sleep without a dream,

Till we wauken on yon bright Sabbath mornin'

THE AU LD MANSE.

The auld manse ! the anld manse !

A dear hame aince to me ;
Fond inem'ry clings to anld lang syne,

When youth was fu' o' glee.
A father's words are written there,

A mother's counsels true,
And the music of a sister's voice

Rests on sad mem'ry noo.

The auld kirk ! the anld kirk !

Nae Sabbath bell rings there ;
The ivy hangs where hallowed thoughts

Aince raise in praise and prayer.
And round its roofless wa's noo rest

The tenant and the laird,
And we read auld names on auld gravestanes

Grown grey in the auld kirkyaird.

The auld ha' hoose amang the wud,

Whaur the laird and the leddy leeve,
Wi'^open haun' and kin'ly word,

Aye ready to relieve ;
And there's kind young hearts in the auld ha' hoose.

Though they're come o: gentle blude,
The puir man's love and the widow's prayer

Cheer their hearts when doing good.

The auld gaberlunzie man,

Wha gaed frae toon to toon,
Sat doon, and grat his till to see

The dear auld manse dang doon ;

G. J. LAWRIE. 363

For mony an awmous he gat there,

Frae me amang the lave,
But he's sleepin' noo, whaur rank's forgot,

Aside the aukl laird's grave.

A blessing rests upon the manse,

Tho' clouds on some may fa',
But manse hairns never maun forget

Thae clouds to clear awa',
And teach the lonely widow's heart,

Wi' sorrow sair cast doon,
'Midst cloudy troubles here to trust

The promise frae abonn.

THERE WAS A LITTLE MAID.

There was a little maid,

Who dreamt she could fly,
But her mother was afraid

She would mount too high ;
So she ssid, " Let me go

Just as far as the moon ;
And you needn't fret so,

For I'll come back soon.'1
Come back soon, etc.

So away she flew

Through the dark blue sky,
Quite out of our view,

She was mounting RO high ;
But she look'd down here

In a weary plight,
For she didn't know where

She would sleep that night.
Sleep that night, etc.

Still up, up she flew

Through the liquid air,
And she got a grand view

Of the bright things there ;
Till at length she came

To the moon's great gate,
Where she knocked very loud,

It was getting HO late.
Getting so late, etc.

An old man sat

On the horns of the moon, •
Who said he would come

And let her in soon ;

364 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

But before he came

She was frozen with cold,

He walked so slow,
For he was very old.

He was very old, etc.

At last he came

Through the weary track,
With a hundle of sticks

Tied on to his back.
He was sent to the moon,

Long agi>, they say.
For gathering sticks

On the Sabbath day.
Sabbath day, etc.

He looked so queer

With his frozen nose,
His long thin arms.

And his tattered clothes,
The little maid gave

A dreadful scream,
And woke in a fright,

For 'twas all a dream.
All a dream, etc.

A SANG TO, THE BAIRN.
Hey ! hisky doggie !

Hey ! cheety puss !
Come awa* to Harry's room,

And catch a wee mouse.
Look below the bed first,

And syne upon the shelf —
See there's the wee beasty,

Glow'rin like an elf.

Hey ! ducky daidles !

Hey ! chucky hen !
Fye, dicht yer dirty feet,

And come awa' ben.
Hae, pick the laddie's parritch,

For he winna sup a drap ;
He's rivin' at the nurse's mutch,

And rowin' aff her lap.

Look at Trim, the tary dog

Sittin' on the knowe,
He'll rise and wag his towsy tail

Afore he says — " Bow-wow."
He's waitin' for the collie there,

And when the sun gangs doun,

Q. J. LAWRIE. 365

He'll row for fun amang the snaw,
And syne yaff at the moon.

Come gather up the moolins

And soup awa' the snaw,
Then lay them on the window-sill,

The doo'a '11 pick them a',
Puir co'erin' things wi' hingin' wings,

They're drookit to the skin ;
Come, cuddle in my bosy noo,

For fear John Froat comes in.

THE HOME OF MEMORY.

I have found a home in many a land,

O'er many a distant sea,
But Love had touched with his magic wand

The home of infancy.
There first I heard the voice of prayer,

Bent at my mother's knee,
And the hallowing power of my father's care

Were life and strength to me.

0 there the morn of youth first dawned
O'er childhood's setting star,

And the gushing joys of youthful hearts

No earthly cares could mar.
^That hallowed spot was ne'er forgot,

Nor the love that blessed me there,
Nor the trembling notes of my father's voice

As he sang at evening prayer.

1 am left alone of that happy band,

Hushed is the mirth and glee
Of the loving hearts who, hand in hand,

Sang home's sweet minstrelsy.
Some sleep beside their father's grave,

Some lie beneath the sea,
And one fair boy rests with the brave

On the field uf victory.

Come back ! ye spirits of the blest,

And whisper hope to me ;
Oh ! take me where the weary rest,

From life's dark sorrows free.
Come teach my lonely heart to bear

The weary weird I dree,
Till I join the gathered wanderers there

From the home of memory.

366 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

REV. WILLIAM BREMNER MELVILLE,

/HVlNISTEElof Busby United Presbyterian Church,
<!. II.J is a native of Castleton, a beautiful village
situated six miles from Thurso, in Caithness-shire.
Although a Scotsman by birth, he is of a Scandinavian
stock, and when a mere child was taken to Stronsay,
one of the Islands of Orkney, where he was educated
and remained till he went to college. Mr Melville
studied at the Edinburgh University, and was licensed
by the United Presbyterian Presbytery of that city.
Falsifying the proverb that a prophet is without
honour in his own country, he was called to two
churches in Orkney, and settled eight years in one of
them. Not only in his own congregation, but through-
out the entire county he won for himself an influence
and a name. Three years ago he accepted a hearty
call to Busby, where he is having a successful
ministry.

Mr Melville has published several sermons on special
subjects, and these have been well received by the
public and the press. A friend who is sympathetic,
and also shows tine critical skill in all that is best in
prose and poetry, informs us that his sermons mani-
fest an embarrassing wealth of thought, and a con-
densed and significant form of speech peculiarly his
own. This holds also as regards his contributions to
newspapers and periodicals. Though he has published
little in his own name, he has written anonymously
what would fill several volumes. He is a discerning
and incisive critic of books, and few men have a
larger acquaintance with all branches of literature.
His English style has much strength and beauty ;
everything he says at his highest level is charged with
poetry, and some of his discourses are prose poems.

W. B. MELVILLE. 367

He is, however, a potential rather than an actual poet,
and has never given himself to the writing of
poetry, and would scarcely class himself as a poet,
though several of his productions clearly establish his
right to a place in this work. If to know what poetry
is, and to be full of it, and in intense sympathy with
it be a poet, then he is one of no mean order.

EVE R— N EVE R-A LONE.

" Ever alone '' comes up to me

From sounding shore and moaning sea,

Soul-filling with strange melody —

As sweetness pressed from moorland flowers,

As incense wafted from Orient bowers,

So is the Past in pensive hours.

"Ever alone." — Though an aching sigh,
Intoning the soul with its plaintive cry,
Yet stills the heart as a lullaby.
Of chastened grief is born a gladness —
No fitful gleam o'er moody madness —
A constant star on the brow of night,
Shooting our sorrow with bars of light.

" Ever alone." — On mountains steep,
From shelving rocks life's cataracts sweep,
O'er beetling cliffs with deafening roar,
Into black chasms evermore.
Chaotic clouds, and mist, and spray —
Upcoiling thence in gloomy play —
The sun doth pierce with golden lance :
A rainbow bridges the black expanse.

" Ever alone" — amid the world's din,

The sceptic's sneer, the cynic's grin,

Or steeped in poverty to the chin

Open thy soul and so let in

The Lonely Son of Man to bring

Sweet fellowship with him — Then sing

"Ever alone, never alone,

Freed from life's burden, yet on the throne

Of the heart sits the Holy One,

The Ever — yet Never— alone."

PERDITA— THE LOST ONE.
Alone to-night in sorrow's gloom
Within the shadow of the room

368 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Hopeless I sit 'mong withered leaves,
With secret grief my bosom heaves.

*Tis years ago : the stroke of fate ,

Fell darkling on my sunny path
Shattering the fabric of my state,

For God had struck me iu His wrath.
In that dark hour when friends forsook,

And storms were raging in mine ears,
I mercy found and wisdom took

From out its gloom for future years.
New-girt with strength and sternly sad

I braced my soul with many a prayer
To climb again to where I had

Attained with so great toil and care.
The road was rough, the way was long,

Regret sat heavy on my soul,
Footsore and weary, parched my tongue,

I agonised to reach the goal.

Then there was sent me as I fought

One to be with me on the way !
A ministering Angel brought

Herself to me at close of day.
She knew the Past. It touched her heart,

Her interest ripened into love ;
With skilful hand she pulled the dart

Out of the wound — her skill to prove.

Then on my path a sunbeam fell —

The light of love no darkness knows —
Her winning ways the shades dispel !

The Evil dpirit from me goes.
My soul and sorrow I did pour

Into her heart, tine strung and true,*
Until her Being more and more

With mystic tie unto me grew.

She never failed — in snow or storm,

In blinding rain, or dim star-light
Along the road her Hebe form

Came tripping every winter night —
Night after night — week after week

Had lengthened into months and years ;
I'd pressed her hand, I'd kissed her cheek,

And she had charmed away my fears.

Ah ! On our sky a cloud arose
Handlike in size, portending woes,

W. B. MELVILLE. 369

Sudden our sky with blackness lowers
Dark thunder clouds— impending showers
Hung o'er us both a tedious year
Till autumn leaves were brown and sere,
Then budding hopes so fresh before
Were nipped to blossom never more.

0 ye stern Heavens ! Come tell me why-
Do tell me this before I die-
Why ye have cleft my heart in twain
And all my fond affection slain ?

1 cannot walk the former ways,
I cannot sing the former lays,
Upon my tongue no word of praise,
Nor resignation to the ways

Ye have me led. I vaguely gaze
Into the past and wildly mourn
Since from my breast this hope is torn.

With folded hands in sorrow's gloom,
Alone to-night in this darkened room,
Helpless I sit 'mong withered leaves,
With bursting grief my bosom heaves.

TAKE NO THOUGHT.

0 To-morrow ! How shall I bear thy load ?
The gloomy thoughts of Thee my spirit goad
With the sharp points of Care. I have no home.
With weary footeteps, faint, condemned to roam
The earth ; an outcast from the haunts of men ;
The sweets of Hope I may not know again.
Nor star appears above in all the sky,
Nor voice from out the heavens doth hear rny cry

0 Mortal man ! Thou art the Child of God
His only one on earth, the Immortal Crown
Of all his works below. The faithless frown^
From off thy brow uplift : the anxious load
Of care is self-imposed. The God of Heaven
Father of thy spirit, the fowls doth feed ;
Much more shall then to thee be given
From tb' Divine Store supplies for all thy need.

Their little life is for a day. Thine own
Is everlasting. Lilies in the sun ,

A divine wealth of transient glory show
Surpassing far the skill of man. Fruits grow

X

370 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

In earth and Heaven appropriate. Confess
Thou sought'st, neglecting heavenly food and dress,
Too much the things of Time. Thy soul is wrung
With anguish when by disappointment stung.

God's Kingdom and His Righteousness seek first,
To stay unholy hunger and quench thirst
Of appetite disordered and diseased.
In God alone the soul can he released
Froiu dogs and vultures of Desire which gnaw
The Life with cruel tooth and tearing claw.
Nor in treasures of Earth, nor Sky, nor Sea
Thy soul's kinship find, u<>r affinity.

God's Kingdom and His Righteousness first seek,
If thou would'st be in peace, resigned, mild, meek.
If thoti would'st rule within, and there control
The fiery fevered clamours of the soul,
Dwell thou in God. In Him thou shalt be robed,
And all thy nature stilled and stayed and globed
Into the rounded sphere of the Divine —
A star in its orbit to move and shine.

Then what's in the bosom of To-morrow —
Silvern clouds of brightness, or of sorrow,
Dark and thunderous — shall to thee unfold
Mysteries <>f life thy soul to touch and mould
To finest issues. Strongly gird up the soul
To present work and duty. On God roll
The Future's burden ; trust Him as a child,
'Mid the shifting sands of the desert wild.

JOHN NIVEN,

HPOET whose career has been one of varied
experience, was born at Desswood, Kincardine
o' Neil, Aberdeenshire, in 1859 — his father being "a
jolly miller who lived on the banks o' Dee." His
delut in the scholastic wurld was at the seminary of a
maiden lady — a teacher of the old style, now
almost out of existence. The schoolhouse was an old

JOHN NIVEN. 371

theekit building, with open rafters begrimed with
peat reek and festooned with cobwebs. On leaving
" the lassies' school " he was sent to the parish school,
but soon after the family removed to the Mill of Craig-
myle, on the opposite side of the Parish. Here he
attended the Tarphiu's Public School, where he was a
very apt learner, so much so that the master wished
him to become a pupil teacher. He preferred, how-
ever, to " see the world," and was apprenticed to a
bookseller in Aberdeen, where he remained for a year
after " serving his time," and was a valued servant ;
but his roving disposition sent him south to Dundee,
and thence to Newcastle-on-Tyne, where he threw
up his original calling, enlisted as "a soldier
bold," and was sworn to " serve Her Majesty Queen
Victoria and all her heirs and successors." He was
forwarded "per rail, carriage paid," to Richmond
Barracks as a recruit belonging to the 1 9th Regiment,
now designated the 1st Battalion Princess of Wales'
Own Yorkshire Regiment. We some time after find
him serving Her Majesty at Halifax, Nova Scotia, and
subsequently, in 1884, at Malta. In the interval
he had risen to the rank of Lance-Sergeant, with
employment as clerk in the Quartermaster's office.
Here he was laid up in hospital with fever, which
stuck to him for about six months, and left him
so weak that he was sent home an invalid, and ultima-
tely discharged. At this time his parents resided at
Crynoch Mills, Maryculter, where he gradually re-
gained his strength. It was during his enforced retire-
ment that he first felt the poetic fire in his soul, and
his thoughts took flights of fancy amongst people and
things of another clime, and around his " dear auld
hame." His first production was a song to "Nelly,"
the subject as a matter of course being one of his boy-
hood's loves. A perfect rhyming fever must then have
seized him, for a small volume entitled " Buds and

372 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Blossoms culled by the Crynoch Burn," a selection of
poems that were begun and finished, and in the
printer's hands in a fortnight. This was perhaps a
rash step, for as a natural result some of the " buds "
and " blossoms " were not so rich and fragrant as they,
with more careful culture, would have been. Traces
of inequality of metre and occasional confusion of
metaphor occur, which bear striking contrast to the
earnest elevated feeling, and the neat and at times
graceful poetic expression characteristic of his more
recent productions. In addition to contributing poetry
from time to time, he has also written numerous papers
and sketches for the Aberdeen papers on social and
political subjects. He has also done a little in the
way of story writing, having several tales in .MS.,
which have not as yet been offered for publication.
The subject of our sketch is presently employed as a
labourer at the Invercannie Saw Mills, but with in-
creased strength and a firm resolution, he has hopes
yet of " rising o'er stepping stones of my dead self to
higher things."

THE AUI.D FIDDLE.

I bocht a fiddle nae lan« syne,
But where I coft noo never uiin',
For they are scarce o' this ane's kin',

She is a Strad —
Ane o' the finest •>' the tine

Noo to be had.

She is nae beauty — it's just as well,
For looks are aften made to sell,
An' winna cast the witching spell

0' music sweet :
Apart frae that, her boards are hale

An' made fu' neat.

Auld Stradavarins was the chiel'
Wha made her, an' he did it weel ;
A maisterpiece o' airt and skeel—

JOHN NIVEN. 373

Her lines I lo'e ;
Her melody ray senses steal —
My heart fills fu*.

On Alpine hills her timmers grew ;
High waving to the lift <>' blue,
The branches bricht in emerald hue

Majestic hung ;
The gentle breezes 'mang them blew,

An' sweetly sung,

To auld Strad's home in boards she came,
He fashioned her a thing <>' fame ;
To her aj ithers are but tame ;

She i-° a fiddle
Can keep alive the circling game

Wi' blytheaome diddle.

As o'er her strings the bow it jinks,
As true as bell each note it clinks,
An* vibrates 'mang the very chinks

O' household gear ;
Wi' awfu* greed the ear it drinks

U er strains sae clear.

Scott Skinner played on her ae nicht,
An' bowed her up wi' a' his raicht,
An' frae her strings he brocht to licht

Artistic soun's ;
I listened till the sun sae bricht

Shoae clear aroun's.

HARVEST.

The hairst, my lads, is in full swing,
An' plenty croons oor Ian' ;

Wi' joy the farmer's heart doth sing,
An' eident is his han'.

The corn rig?s wi' gowden grain
Are noddin" in the breeze.

And sonsy queans and sturdy men
Gang singin' o'er the leas.

VVithi.i the yaird may ilka stack
Be got while sunshine lasts,

An' safely stowed aneath the thack
'Gainst winter's stormy blasts.

374 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

An' soon the mill, wi' joyous soun',
Will clink frae morn till nicht,

An' merrily aye the wheel gang roun',
Wi' music in its flicht,

The meal to grin" to mak' the brose
The bairnies a' to feed ;

An' parritch caps in countless rows
Will tap the clean deal heid.

WINTER.

The roarin' linn that seethed and leapt
Within his buckie noo has crept,
For Nature's breath across it swept,

Nor sought permission,
An' in a trice its waters whipt

Into submission.

The snaw comes scuddin' doon the glen,
The snell win' yowls wi' micht and main,
Wi' dule and sorrow in their train,

To vex us sairly ;
Oor aumrie stores gars us a' hain,

An* scrimp them fairly.

Auld hoary Winter's ance mair here,

His white shroud spread o'er Autumn's bier,

And, oh, he brings but little cheer,

Wi' his cauld breath,
As on he sweeps in mad career

Wi' fu'est skaith.

The wirnplin' burn that lately sang,
And dreetled flowery fields amang,
Is silent noo the hale day lang

In frost's embrace,
And skaters scour alang ding-dang

Richt o'er its face.

The forest trees, a' draped in white,
Like spectres in the pale moonlight,
Their whispered stories tell to-night

0" vanished days,
When they were rich in emerald bright,

In Summer's cla.es,

WILLIAM LAMBERTON. 375

WILLIAM LAMBERTON,

H NOBLE-MINDED shoemaker, and a genuine
"Ayrshire callau," is descended from the
Lambertous of Lamberton, a small estate in the Parish
of Stewartou, of whom was William Lamberton, Bishop
of St Andrews in the days of Wallace and Bruce. His
father was originally a weaver by trade, but after-
wards became a provision merchant in Kilmaurs. Our
poet was born in 1828 at Larch Bank, near that ancient
town. He received a fair education at the Parish
School, and when a young lad his thirst for know-
ledge was so great that he attended evening schools
for several winters. He ultimately was engaged
in teaching evening classes after a long day's
labour as a shoemaker, to which trade he was ap-
prenticed in 1842, and at which he has continued ever
since, excepting a short period he was employed in a
warehouse in Kilmarnock. He had a good memory,
read much, and was an intelligent collector of antiquities.
In 1850 he was for a session under the care of the Rev.
Alexander Duncanson, Congregational minister, Falkirk,
and for two years studied classics as a divinity student.
The result was that he became a lay preacher, and
as such he was long and favourably known, occasionally
taking the minister's place in the pulpit on Sunday.

Mr Lamberton first began to write verse about 1843,
and some years afterwards he became a constant con-
tributor to the Penny Post, the Kilmarnock Standard,
and other newspapers. He has long been one of the
correspondents of the Ardrosxan and Saltcoats Herald,
and has written several tales on local subjects. He
has intelligently studied most of the old castles and
places of interest in the west of Scotland, and he in-
forms us that he loves to explore " howlet-haunted
biggins and riggin'-deserted kirks." Indeed, he pur-

376 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

poses publishing a history of his native place, for
which he has long been collecting materials, so that
he might be called the historian as well as the poet of
Kilmaurs. In 1863 he joined the Kilmarnock Artillery
Volunteers, in which he is a corporal of long-standing,
and acted for many years as its poet laureate. In
1878, Messrs M'Kie & Drennan, Kilmarnock, published
a volume of his poetry, entitled " Poems and Songs
by an Ayrshire Volunteer," which was well received,
and contains a number of spirited patriotic pieces,
tender and musical songs, showing a truly poetic
mind, and a heart full of tenderness and melody. The
book also embraces several thoughtful historical poems,
and his keen fancy and imagination is evinced in
his pieces describing Scottish scenery, and rural
life and manners. Mr Lamberton is still hale and
hearty, and almost as vigorous in mind and body as
he was forty years ago.

A LITTLE GARDEN.

A little garden Mai-y had,

Where lovely flowers did grow,
And some were red, and some were blue,

And some were white as snow ;
Her cheeks were like the roses red,

Her eyes like drops of dew,
Her skin was like the lilies fair,

Her hair of auburn hue.

To plant, and weed, and see them grow,

It was her great delight,
To see them open to the sun,

And watch them close at night ;
Their fragrance, colour, and their form

"Were wondrous in her eyes,
And there were pretty singing;hirds,

And gaudy butterflies

In winter to the hungry birds,

She freely scattered'crumbs,
And watched the first approach jof spring,

When forth the snowdrop comes ;

WILLIAM LAMBERTON. 377

Still there the fragrant hawthorn blooms,

Primroses deck the ground,
And late the rowan's red berries hang,

And tempting fruits abound.

Eight times she saw them hud and bloom,

Eight times she saw them fade,
They were the same, but she each year

New beauties still displayed ;
But, ah ! she faded like the flowers,

When winter storms were o'er,
The little flowers spring np again,

But she is seen no more.

Her presence still pervades the spot,

Hers are the flowers and trees,
Her smile is in the sunshine seen,

She whispers in the breeze ;
So fancy speaks in sober truth, —

Her body's 'neath the sod.
But walking in the climes of bliss,

Her spirit's with her God.

ASPIKATIONS OF A YOUNG POET.

Oh, could I like a minstrel sing,
Or could I wake the trembling string,
Then would I show the martyr's zeal,
And tell what patriot hearts can feel :

Express what anxious lovers sigh,
Relate the maiden's chaste reply,
Describe the poor man's humble joys,
Scorn giddy fashion's senseless toys ;

Praise valour, skill, and honest worth.
And native genius bursting forth ;
God's glory, which the heaven* declare.
Earth, and His providential care.

Rejoicing in my neighbour's joy,

My sweetest songs I will employ,

And ever, with a grateful heart,

To thank High Heaven will be my part.

THE BEST 0' MY FORTUNE'S THE SPENDING OT.

Wi' labour and care a fortune I've made,
And gather'd it safe to a wee canny spot,

378 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Where now I enjoy the wonderful bliss,

And heavenly pleasure o' spending o't.
There's a time to gather and a time to spend,

A time borrow and a time to lend,
And thus unto all be a true helping friend,

While security's guid there's nae ending o't.

I help on the Kirk and I keep up the State,

And I never will grudge the defending o't,
If they would help on a' that's good and that's great,

I would pay them weel for attending o't.
I've lent to the Lord, I've given to the poor,

Enriching their homes that were bare as a rnoor,
Which caused such pleasure and joy I was sure,

That the best o' my fortune's the s| ending o't.

Extinguished for ever be grumbling fools,

Whose hearts, like their riches, do canker and rot,
To temperance societies, missions, and schools,

I still have the pleasure o' sending o't.
Away each close-fisted and hard-hearted loon,

A disgrace to their country, their race, and their toun
Come oot wi' your siller and circle it roun',

And enjoy the pleasure o' spending o't.

THE HOME OP MY CHILDHOOD.

Oh carry me back to the home of my childhood,
To the dear little cot by the side of a stream,

Near to a green hill all covered with wildwood
Where long I enjoyed young life's morning dream.

The city, the ramparts, the field, and the valley,
The hill, the ravine, and the wide rolling .sea,

Where fondly I dwelt with wife, friends, and ally
Were not half so dear as that cottage to me.

For there was my father and kind-hearted mother,
My brothers and sisters in beauty and love,

Their aim was to help and encourage each other,
They were active as eagles, and meek as the dove.

The mavis and blackbird sang sweet on the tree,
When the sun to the far western world did depart,

A well stocked orchard delightful to view,

Was always the pride and the joy of our heart.

No fruit tasted sweeter nor could flowers fairer bloom,
No water excelled its clear crystal well,

Peaceful there was our labour at garden and loom,
We iu cheerful contentment and comfort did dwell.

F. A. MACKAY. 379

THE LOVER'S KETURN.

The winter is over,

The spring time is come,
And my gallant lover

Is soon coming home.

As sunshine to flowers,

As flowers to the bee,
Refreshing as showers

Is his presence to me.

Oh happy to-morrow,

When he will he here,
Farewell to my sorrow,

My trouble and fear. *

My heart it does flutter,

My voice it sinks dumb,
I only can whisper

My lover is come.

FRANCIS ALEX. MACKAY, F.S.A., SCOT., <fec.,

BUTHOR of several volumes of genuine poetry
bearing the nom- de-plume " Francis Fitzhugh,"
was born in Edinburgh in 1822, and for the most part
was educated in the public and private schools of that
city. He entered upon the business of banking at an
early age, but found time, during his leisure hours, to
cultivate a taste for English literature. Mr Mackay
was fortunate in having for his associates many friends
of similar tastes, and who had a sincere love for the
poets and the masters of English prose. The spur of
emulation was not wanting, nor was the spirit of
rivalry quite quiescent in that little community of
literary amateurs. At no time did he aspire to a
literary career, being content to make the ennobling

380 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

and elevating pursuit of letters, during the hours
which he could call his own, a means of improvement
and a source of pleasure. He had also the privilege
and advantage in his youth of associating with much
of the talent and genius of his time in Edinburgh —
poets, painters, and musicians — in whose society he
rejoiced, and from whose conversation he learned
much.

It was not until 1853 that Mr Mackay ventured
to publish, under the nom-de-plume " Francis Fitz-
hugh," " The Crook and the Sword, the Heir of Lorn,
and other Poems " (Edinburgh : Johnstone & Hunter).
The fable or legend on which the action of " The Heir
of Lorn " was founded was given to him as a good
subject for a poem, if treated in the heroic verse of
Dryden, by Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe, the friend
and contemporary of Sir Walter Scott, and who after-
wards, on seeing the poem in manuscript, gave it his
praise and approbation, tempered by sound and useful
criticism. His nom-de-plume was derived from the
" History of the House and Clan of Mackay," wherein
is traced his lineal descent from the second son of
Hugh Mackay of Fair in Sutherlandshire, the chief of
the clan in the seventeenth century, whose eldest son
became the first Lord Reay. Hence Fitzhugh.

The reception given to Mr Mackay's first venture
by the critics in the periodical literature of the time
was gratifying. " The Heir of Lorn " was spoken of as
possessing " more pathos than Hogg's ' Queen Hynde,'
without its tediousness and complication ; " while the
Athenccum said : — "What a relief, after the perusal of
such inflated and overstrained efforts (as are made by
some contemporary authors), to meet with passages of
natural description such as the following from the
domestic tale — 'The Crook and the Sword.'" En-
couraged by his success, he published another small
volume in 1857, containing "The Curse of Schamyl,"

F. A. MACKAY. 381

a poem on the war then being carried on by Russia in
the Caucasus, aud other poems on subjects nearer
home (London : Simpkin & Marshall). These home
subjects reflected the impressions he had formed dur-
ing his boyish holidays, spent at Whitemuirhall in
Roxburghshire, and 011 the banks of the Tweed and
Teviot among his own kith and kin, where he imbibed a
love for the beauties and freedom of rural life and the
charms of Border song. " The Curse of Schamyl " was
characterised by the Atlien&um as a poem of "glowing
and vigorous language, given in melodious lines with-
out rhyme — a bold experiment, well executed."

After many years of continuous application to busi-
ness, Mr Mackay found a little relaxation necessary,
and having obtained time for a lengthened holiday,
devoted it in 1860 to a tour in Italy. It was during
the French occupation of Rome, and he was fortunate
enough to be there during Holy Week, while Pio
Nono was in all his glory, and when the ceremonies of
the Church, the illumination of St Peter's, and the
girandole on the Monte Pincio, were in full swing — all
of which have since disappeared or dwindled to a mere
shadow. He had also during his tour the good fortune
to witness Victor Emmanuel enter Florence and Pisa in
state, as the coming king of United Italy. These
scenes, along with subjects of historic interest were
portrayed in his next volume " Lays and Poems on
Italy," published in 1862 (London: Bell & Daldy).
Mr Mackay has also contributed an occasional article
to the Gentlemen's Magazine and other periodicals.

Nothing for the last five and twenty years has, as
far us we know, fallen from the graceful pen of our
poet, the sterner duties of official life having doubtless
constrained him to relinquish his favourite pursuits
among the flowery paths of poesy. In his published
works he has shown wide culture. Hi' lias jin.vrd
that he has intimately studied the traditions and

382 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

habits of people in various parts of the world, and
given utterance to his thoughts with a charming
melody, and with a varied flow of measures that have
all the fascination of Biblical and Oriental poetry.
His miscellaneous poems abound in tender, minute
touches and graphic word-pictures, and evince in a
high degree his human brotherhood ; while his songs
have not only a true lyrical flow, but they embody
genuine Scotch sentiment and true pictures of Scotch
character.

MY BONNIE HERD LADDIE.

When the kind mated ruavis cowers down in its nest,
And the merle's sun.,' melts .\ i' the nun in the west,
Oh ! I wander alane where the sad waters fa:,
And I sigh, for my bonnie herd-laddie's awa'.

Oh ! nae mair when the shepherds .sae blythe on the hill,
Wake the echoes o' morn wi their lilting s:te shrill, j
Shall his pipe, or his dear voice, the .-sweetest of a',
Bring the tears to our een, for my laddie's awa'.

When the gloamin' brings daffin' and mirth on the lea ;
When the new hay smells sweet liy the loved trysting-tree,
Oh ! nae mair shall I lie in my dear laddie's arms,
And hear him sing saftly the power o' my charms.

The lads o' the forest are strapping and leal,
But there's nane to compare wi' the lad I lo'e weel ;
Like the glint o' a star was the smile o' his e:e, —
lie was kindly to a', but the kindest to me.

When leaving the ewe-biights on the Gladknowe sae green,
We plighted our love in the dark wood unseen ;
But he's gaen to the wars — he has lt-ft Whiunuirha'—
Oh wae's me ! for my ain shepherd-laddie's awa'.

WHEN THE BLASTS OF THE NORTH.

When the blasts of the North, like the keen shafts of heaven,
Are hurling their sleet-showers o'er mountain and plain,

When the flocks of the valley to shelter are driven ;
And the blanched earth is dreary aud.weepiug with pain ;

P. A. MACKAY. 383

When the forest is leafless, and moaning, and sad •

When the mute birds are cowering the dead leaves anion_> •

When rivers and torrents are red, roaring, mad,
Through the glens where their sum mer-son^ sweetly were sum,'

When the rays of the sun have been washed from the »ky ;

When the beam* of the moon have been drunk by the clouds •
When the morning awakes with a cold leaden eye,

And the fair form of evening the dark tempest shrouds :

Must man be o'ercome in this hour of despair ;

Must he join the wild dirge o'er the corse of the year ;
Must the cypress be twined with the bays in his hair,

And his songs melt in tears o'er the earth's sullen bier :

Oh no ! On the wild wings of Fancy he flies
To the fair fields of Memory— gardens of Hope : —

In his mind lives a summer, whose sun never dies,
Whose songs never weary, whose flowers never droop.

THERE IS JOY.
(From " The Heir of Lorn")

There is joy when the morn shows her face through the gloom ;
When the deer brush the dew from the heathbell in bloom ;
When the sun's r*ys smile brightly o'er hill, dale, and den,
And glance o'er the waters of fair Coniglen.
There is joy when the young Spring's first footsteps are seen ;
When she rube* the high mountain in purple and green ;
When the voice of her infant song's heard in the glade,
And the tears of her joy trembling hang from each blade.

There is joy when the summer breeze sighs o'er the sea,
And fills the white sail of our clansmen so free ;
Brings them back to the shore, where their hearts ever fill
With the pride of the thistle that waves on the hill.
There is joy when the bee, on its sweet-laden wing,
Seeks the mead where the wildflowers luxuriantly spring ;
Where the music ascends from the clear running stream,
And the skylarks sing out from the sun's dazzling beam.

There is joy, there is rapture, when Nora's bright eye
Sheds its lustre around, like the clear morning sky ;
When her s.niles melt the mists from our mountains of care,
Bidding new hopes, like spring Mowers, to bloom gaily there.
Oh, there's joy, boundless joy, when her footsteps so light
Dash the dew-drops of sorrow from flowers of delight ;
For the charms which gay Nature displays to our ken,
All concentre in Nora of fair Coniglen.

384

MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

LET CANKERED CARLES.

Let cankered carles and lazy loons
Seek wealth an' pleasure i' the touns,
Where nought hut care repays their .strife,
And gentle peace forsakes a life
Frae morn to e'ening eerie.

I'm free and fearless as the wind,
Nae stern oppressor cramps my mind ;
I greet the morn, I bless the day,
I sing thro' e'ening's shady way,
0' life I'm never weary.

The Summer's heat, the Winter's caultl,
To meet them I am strang and bauld ;
The barren muir I cross by night,
Beneath the Sterne's unsteady light,
To meet and woo my dearie.

Nae toun-born lass wi' airs and pride
Is she that wanders by my side,
She's modest, simple, kind, and true,
Her love smiles in twa heavens o' blue,
Sae constant is my dearie.

THE GRASS IS GREEN.

The grass is green on Minto hills,
The heather blooms on Ruberslaw,

The Teviot, swollen by mountain rills,
Rins red o'er thorny brae and shaw ;

And Winter northward plies his wing,

Before the smile o' infant Spring.

The lambs are bleating on the knowes,
The whin puts on its yellow bloom,

'Neath ilka bield the primrose grows,
The lintie warbles 'maug the broom ;

And wandering forth wi' joy is seen,

The bonnie lass o' Hassendean.

The gorcock trims his plumage fair,
The mavis sings his song o' love,

The lar'rock trilling, fills the air.
And wooing winds the foliage move ;

The howling blasts are heard no more,

Love stirs a' Nature to the core.

P. A. MACKAY. 385

Oh Mary ! wheresoe'er I range,
Thine image ever fills my heart ;

No time, no fate, can ever change,
The love thy spring-like smiles impart ;
>' Nature's beauties thou'rt the queen,

My bonnie lass o' Hassendean.

AMID THE HILLS.
(From "Highland Gleam*.")

There is a living grandeur 'mid the hills,
Changing for ever with the day and hour,
Glowing in sunrise, flaunting in the mists,
Bright in the garbless lustre of the day,
Warm, gay, and golden in the westering noon,
Soft, blue, and hazy in the peaceful eve.
It walks supreme amid the raging storm,
And seems to culminate when round the head
Of the bold mountains living lightnings flash ;
Nor dies it with the clay, but then assumes
The dark, mysterious wonders of the night.
O deathless beauty I poetry of light !
Wooing for ever man a admiring soul,
Moving o'er Nature's unimpassion'd face,
And with thy various shades and endless tints
Lending each feature some peculiar charm —
Oh, may I never cease to feel the glow
Which thy pure beauties raise within my breast !
In health, but more in sickness, I have felt
Thy origin to be divine, and loved
Thy spiritual presence more and more, until
I've mourn'd to see thy golden glory pass
Along the western hills — thy noiseless feet
Prankt in the jewell'd sandals of the Eve.

CASTLELAW.

When fl'ening glints ower Penielheugh,

Sheds gowden smiles ower brae and shaw,
When fa's her robe on Cheviot's tap,

I seek the woods o' Castlelaw :
For there the mavis tunes his pipe,

To join the merle churniin' sweet : —
Frae ilka bush the Unties pour

Their love-songs down the banks o' Leet.
Frae morning's daw to e'ening's fa'
I'll sing the woods o' Castlelaw.

Y

386 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

There Spring first shows her virgin bloom,

And decks wi' stars the gowan'd shaw ;
There Summer holds her leafy reign,

And weeps on leaving Castlelaw.
The oak waves green in Autumn's blast

Beside the beech o' gowden gleam,
The pine uprears its feathery tap,

The willow murmurs ower the stream.
Frae morning's daw to e'ening's fa"
I'll ling the woods o' Castlelaw.

The nymph* wha roam'd the woods o' eld

Let classic poets finely draw,
I'll tune my Doric reed to her

Wha haunts the woods o' Castlelaw ; —
Her bonnie face and gracefu' form,

Her gowden hair and hazel e'e,
The glowin' heart which lights them a'

Eae mair than attic charaas for me.
Frae morning's daw to e'ening's fa'
I'll sing the maid o' Castlelaw.

WILLIAM SHARP.

•JIVfllLLIAM SHARP is a poet much and widely
VL\rl admired for his remarkable originality of
thought, and for the intensely modern spirit of his
poetry. He is also well-known as a critic of much
power, while his numerous prose productions are disin-
guished by literary finish and individuality of style.

Born near Paisley, on 12th September, 1855,
William Sharp is only thirty-two years of age. His
father, David Galbraith Sharp, was a manufacturer,
and the youngest son of William Sharp, one of the
chief manufacturers in Paisley, as were also his " for-
bears" for several generations. The father of our

WILLIAM SHARP. 337

poet married Katharine Brooks, the daughter of a
well-known Glasgow merchant. He was a deli-
cate child, but suffered from no complaint. Music
and rhythmic sounds of all kinds had always a great
fascination for him, and he was wont to be found
crawling down the stairs to listen to music, or under
some bush or tree listening to the wind or a bird or
the whispering of the leaves.

When between eight and nine years of age, he was
sent to Blair Lodge Boarding School, near Polmont
Linlithgowshire. At twelve he went to Glasgow

Academy, and in due time to Glasgow University

his father having gone to live in that city when
William was seven or eight years old. At College his
favourite classes were those of literature. From his
earliest boyhood, onward, he had lived much in Nature
and especially in the long college vacations he travelled
over or sailed about almost every place in the West
of Scotland. His father lived for nearly half the year
somewhere or other in the Highlands, but our studious
poet went off much by himself — went out with the
fishermen, and was an irrepressible wanderer, poacher,
and gipsy!

While at college his health became much impaired
by study, for he read insatiably, and in French and
German as well as in English. It was his custom to
work till four A.M., and rise about eight o'clock. In
the daytime, especially in summer, he would, however,
apparently idle hours away doing nothing, though
really gathering in large stores of mental food.
At this time he wrote a good deal — chiefly dramas
and long poems, but also on science and natural history,
most of which writings he afterwards destroyed. He
began to compose verse before he was nine, and at one
time was iu the habit of writing in German — indeed
he became steeped in German philosophy.

After his father's death, which took place suddenly,

388 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

it was found necessary for him to set about gaining a
living. He had previously been for a short time in a
lawyer's office, but his health was so delicate that the
confinement was too much for him. A voyage to
Australia was recommended by the doctor, who then
thought that he could not live two years at most. He
soon, however, "pulled together," visited the gold-
fields and few remaining alluvial diggings ; saw a great
deal of Gippsland and Southern parts of New South
Wales ; went to the Pacific ; came round the Horn,
and was nearly wrecked off the coast of Brazil.
On his return home he lived for some time in Aber-
deenshire, and " wintered " near Moffat. His health
was now so much restored that he wanted to go to the
Turkish War, but was dissuaded by his friends, who
soon after found for him a situation in an Australian
Bank in London.

Shortly after settling down permanently in London
he came to know the late Dante Gabriel Rossetti, and,
in course of time, a great many of the leading artists
and men of letters. With the exception of a long
absence through rheumatic fever, caught in North Wales
— in the same locality where, in a previous year, he had
been nearly drowned in a tidal river — he was about
two and a-half years in the Bank, and was afterwards
for some six months engaged in superintending old
engravings at the Fine Art Society's. It was during
this spring (1882) that he published his first volume
of poems, " The Human Inheritance," which met with
a very gratifying success, and was characterised by
the Scotsman as a brilliant debut in literature — a book
which, half a century back, would have created " a
profound sensation in literary circles, because there
was proof on every page the author was a true poet."

In the autumn Mr Sharp went to the West High-
lands (he spends part of almost every year somewhere
in Scotland, and also in France) and there and else-

WILLIAM SHARP. 389

where in Scotland and England wrote for Macmillan «fe
Co. his " Record and Study of Rossetti," which, al-
though an expensive work, met with immediate
popularity. As a life and study of the great poet, it
was spoken of as a valuable work — a production
abounding in passages of rare beauty and power —
accurate and copious as a record, and bearing witness
to a feeling of strong personal affection both on the
part of the man writing and the man written about.

In 1883 Mr Sharp went to Switzerland and Italy
for some months — staying in Genoa, Pisa, Florence,
and Rome, and among the hill-towns of Umbria and
Tuscany, and in Venice. In 1884 Elliot Stock pub-
lished his second volume of verse, entitled " Earth's
Voices : Transcripts from Nature, Sospitra, and other
Poems." This work has been considered a distinct
advance on his previous effort — more sure in tone and
more varied in contents. It is of an objective and
joyous nature, and this joyousness, says the Morning
Post, finds, perhaps, its most perfect utterance in the
" Transcripts from Nature," " a form of composition
which Mr Sharp has made quite his own. He has not
only loved Nature vs ith deep, genuine love, but he has
done what few poets do, studied her, and that gives to
this division of his book a satisfying sincerity which
cannot be supplied by any amount of poetic rhapsodis-
ing. This loving study, joined to the power of accurate
reproduction, would alone make Mr Sharp's work of
enduring value."

His " Sonnets of This Century " (London : Walter
Scott) a work showing fine critical skill, was finished
among the Stirling and Callander hills in 1886. On
his return South he paid a short visit to Mr Ruskin at
Coniston, and caught a chill while returning home,
which developed into scarlet fever, and was succeeded
by inflammation of the veins and ultimately rheumatic
fever, which prostrated him for over six months. He

390 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

has written a great deal on art — chiefly journalistically
— and has contributed to The Fortnightly, The Art
Journal, The Portfolio, The National Review, Scottish
Review, Good Words, Chambers' s Journal, &c., and also
writes critically in The Athen&um, The Academy, &c.
For several years he has been the London art critic
for the Glasgow Herald. At present he is literary
editor of a journal having an immense circulation,
and is also general editor of the well-known and very
popular series, "The Canterbury Poets," about
thirty volumes of which have been published by
Walter Scott of London and Newcastle, and to which
he has contributed " The Songs and Sonnets of Shakes-
peare," "Sir Walter Scott's Poems," and other
volumes, in each case with introductory biographical
sketch and essay. Late in 1884 he married his
cousin, a lady known as the editor of Women's Voices.
In addition to two serial tales now running, Mr
Sharp has on hand a number of volumes that will
soon see the light, including "Hours with Foreign
Authors," "Life of Shelley," "The Life, Correspon-
dence, and Friendships of Joseph Severn," " Border
Ballads," and other works that will doubtless show
his many-sided powers, and add further to his
reputation. As a prose-writer, as well as a poet,
Mr Sharp affords evidence of being endowed with
real " sincerity and depth of vision," and also with the
keen and profound insight of the philosopher. In his
essays and sketches his sentences generally display
much beauty and rhythm of style, and his thought,
too, is as evenly balanced as his style. How often do
we find it otherwise, even with men of mark, who,
though possessing wide experience of literary work, do
not seem to have formed even a faint conception of
the essential nature of poetry ? His more lengthy and
ambitious poems display fine power of narration and
quick dramatic insight — full of idealism and powerful

WILLIAM SHARP. 391

in truthfulness. His descriptive poems have been de-
scribed as " veritable cameos of natural phenomena —
clearly, yet softly denned representations of ever-re-
curring realities." In almost all parts of the world
of land and sea he has collected experiences of beauty.
painting scenes, with a vivid delight of reminiscence, in
the sunny plains of Italy, in the Australian bush, and on
the moors of Scotland. His songs show that he is
endowed with " the Genius of Song." They are always
pure, bright, fresh, and sparkling — genuine pictures of
every-day events. His thoughts are always redolent
of the enjoyment of one who can find in nature at all
seasons abundant food for observation and reflection,
and who is quick to respond to the exhilarating influ-
ence of the free wind, the open sky, and the ever-
changing world of conscious and unconscious life. He
has done much good service by helping to awaken the
intelligence and educate the eye of the general reader
with respect to the common objects which lie about
us, and which offer pleasure and delight of the simplest
and purest kind, alike to the rich and to the poor.

THE FIELD MOUSE.

When the moon shines o'er the corn,

And the beetle drones his horn,
And the Hitter-mice awift fly,
And the nightjars swooping cry,
And the young hares run and leap,
We waken from our sleep.

And we climb with tiny feet

And we munch the green corn sweet,

With startled eyes for fear

The white owl should fly near,

Or long slim weasel spring

Upon us where we swing.

We do not hart at all :
Is there not room for all

Within the happy world ?

All day we lie close curled

392 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

In drowsy sleep, nor rise
Till through the dusky skies
The moon shines o'er the corn,
And the beetle drones his horn.

SUMMER KAIN.

When we're slowly falling, falling,
Through the hush of summer eves,

And the nightingales are calling
Their sweet notes mid the green leaves,

And the lilac boughs are sending
Their keen fragrance thro" the air,

And the slim laburnums bending
With their weight of golden hair,

Then we feel the thirsty flowers

Uplift their blooms again ;
For the kiss of the sweet cool showers,
, And the ebb of sun-heat pain.

And we breathe a breath of healing
Over all things that we pass ;

Till with tired wings we go stealing
To our sleep in the green grass.

MADONNA NATURA.

I love and worship thee in that thy ways
Are fair, and that the glory of past days

Haloes thy brightness with a sacred hue :
Within thine eyes are dreams of mystic things,
Within thy voice a subtler music rings

Than ever mortal from the keen reeds drew ;
Thou weav'st a web which men have called Death
But Life is in the magic of thy breath.

The secret things of Earth thou knowest well ;
Thou leest the wild-bee build his narrow cell,

The lonely ea?le wing through lonely skies;
The lion on the desert roam afar,
The glow-worm glitter like a fallen star,

The hour-lived insect as it hums and flies ;
Thou seest men like shadows come and go,
And all their endless dreams drift to and fro.

In thee is strength, endurance, wisdom, truth :
Thou art above all mortal joy and ruth,

WILLIAM SHARP. 393

Thou hast the calm and silence of the night :
Mayhap thou seest what we cannot see,
Surely far off thou hear'st harmoniously

Echoes of flawless music infinite,
Mayhap thou feelest thrilling through each sod
Beneath thy feet the very breath of God.

Monna Natura, fair and grand and great,
I worship thee, who art inviolate ;

Through thee I reach to things beyond the span
Of mine own puny life, through thee I learn
Courage and hope, and dimly can discern

The ever nobler grades awaiting man :
Madonna, unto thee I bend and pray —
Saviour, Redeemer thou, whom none can slay !

No human fanes are dedicate to thee,
But thine the temples of each tameless sea,

Each mountain-height and forest-glade and plain :
No priests with daily hymns thy praises sing,
But far and wide the wild winds chanting swing,

And dirge the sea-waves on the changless main,
While songs of birds fill all the fields and woods,
And cries of beasts the savage solitudes.

Hearken, Madonna, hearken to my cry :
Teach me through metaphors of liberty,

Till strong and fearing nought in life or death
I feel thy sacred freedom through me thrill,
Wise, and defiant, with unquenched will

Unyielding, though succumb the mortal breath —
Then if I conquer take me by the hand
And guide me onward to thy Promised Land !

A MIDSUMMER HOUR.

There comes not through the o'erarching cloud of green
A harsh, an envious sound to jar the ear ;
But vaguely swells a hum, now far, now near,

Where the wild honey-bee beyond the screen

Of beech-leaves haunts the field of flowering bean.
Far, far away the low voice of the weir
Dies into silence. Hush'd now is the clear

Sweet song down-circling from the lark unseen.

Beyond me, where I lie, the shrewmice run
A-patter, where of late the streamlet's tones

Made music : on a branch a drowsy bird
Sways by the webs that 'midst dry pools are spun—

394 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Yet lives the streamlet still, for o'er flat stones
The slow lapse of the gradual wave is heard,

THE SONG OF FLOWERS.

What is a hird but a living flower?

A flower but the soul of some dead bird ?
And what is a weed but the dying breath
Of a perjured word?

A flower is the soul of a singing-bird,

Its scent is the breath of an old-time song ;
But a weed and a thorn spring forth each day
For a new-done wrong.

Dead souls of song-birds, thro' the green grass

Or deep in the midst of the golden grain,
In woodland valley, where hill-streams pass,
YVt flourish again.

We flowers are the joy of the whole wide earth,

Sweet Nature's laughter and secret tears —
Whoso hearkens a bird in its spring-time mirth
The song of a flow'r-soul hears.

THE SHADOWED SOULS.

If the, soul witkdraweth from the body, what profit thereafter hath
a man of all the days of his life /

She died indeed, but to him her hreath
Was more than a light blown out by death :
He knew that they breathed the self-same air,
That not midst the dead was her pale face fair
But that she waited for hi:u somewhere.

To some dead city, or ancient town,

Where the moiil'Tring towers were crumbling down,

Or in some old mansion habited

By dust and silence and things long dead,

He knew the Shadows of Souls were led.

For years he wandered a weary way,
His eyes ."hone sadder, his hair grew grey :
But still he knew that she lived for whom
No grave lay waiting, no white, carv'd tomb.
No earthy silence, no voiceless gloom.

WILLIAM SHARP. 395

But once in a bitter year he came
To an old dying town with a long dead name :
That eve, as he walked thro' the dusty ways
And the echoes woke in the empty place,
He came on a Shadow face to face.

It looked, hut uttered no word at all,
Then beckoned him into an old dim hall :
And lo, as soon as he passed between
The pillars with age and damp mould green
His eyes were dazed by a strange wild scene.

A thousand lamps fill'd the place with light,
And fountains glimmered faerily bright ;
But never a single sound was heard,
The dreadful silence was never stirred,
Not even the breath of a single word

Came from the shadowy multitude,

More dense than the leaves in a summer wood,

Than the sands where the swift tides ebb and flow ;

But ever the shades moved to and fro

As windless waves on the sea will go.

Then he who had come to Shadow-land
Swift strode past many a group and band ;
But never a glimpse he caught of her,
In fleeting shadow or loiterer,
For whom the earth held no sepulchre.

He knew that she was not dead whom he

So loved with bitterest memory,

To whom through anguished years he had prayed ;

Yet came she never, no sign was made,

No touch on his haggard frame was laid.

At last to an empty room he came,
And there he saw in letters of flame —
" This is that palace no king controln,
A place unwritten in human scrolls —
This is the Haunt of Shadowed Souls :

If thy Shadow-soul be here no more
Seek thine old life's deserted shore :
And there, mayhap, thou wilt find again,
Recovered now through sorrow and pain.
The Soul thou didst thy most to have slain."

396 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

BIRCHINGTON REVISITED.

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.

He sleeps a quiet sleep at last

Who wearied for such blissful hours :
The stress of high-strung life is past,
The veil of death is o'er him cast,

And for him hence no dark sky lowers.

Sweet is the air here, cl«»r and sweet ;

The larks with jubilant voices sing,
And still their songs re-sing, repeat ;
The grass, starr'd white with marguerite,

Is yet memorious of Spring.

Yonder the blue sea, windless, still,

Meets the blue sky-line far away —
Soundless, save when the wavelets spill
Their little crowns of foam, and fill
The rock-pools full with swirling sj ray.

How sweet to rest here, and to know

The silence and the utter peace !
To lie and rest and sleep below
While far away tired millions go
With eyes all yearning for such ease.

Tis better thus ; alone, yet safe
From night and day, from day and night ;

Not here can jarring discords chafe

Thy soul too sensitive, or waif
Of stinging envy blown from spite.

'Tis quiet here, and more than all
Things else is rest a boon to thee —

Rest, peace, and sleep ; above, the pall
Of heaven ; and past the white cliff-wall
The ceaseless mystery of the sea.

ROBERT FERGUSSON

MAS born at Stronvar, in the parish of Balqu-
hidder, in 1819. He received his early
education at the Parish School — a little building close

ROBERT FERGUSSON. 397

to the churchyard where lie the remains of the famous
Rob Roy and his wife, Helen MacGregor. Gaelic
was the common tongue of the district, and, of course,
our poet learned it at his mother's knee. In the year
1834 there was a competition in Gaelic, open to the
three schools in the parish. The first prize was gained
by Robert Fergusson. Removing from Balquhidder to
Stirling, his education was completed in the "City of
the Rock," though in 1856-7-8 he passed through the
F.C. Training College in Edinburgh. Having chosen
teaching as a profession he began the "delightful task"
at Dalveich, Lochearnside, in 1836, where he had the
honour of having two future poets as his pupils. One
was the late Rev. Samuel Fergusson of Fortingall,
author of "The Queen's Visit, and other Poems," and
the other, Mr D. M'Laren, Ardveich, whose songs and
poems are all in the Gaelic language. Mr Fergusson
also taught for some time in the school at Strathyre,
the native district of Dugald Buchanan, the Cowper of
the Highlands, to whom a memorial fountain was
lately erected through the exertions of our poet. He
was teacher at Stirling between 1842 and 1846, and
in the neighbourhood of Dunfermline from 1846 to
1856, where his love for song and poetry was greatly
fostered through intercourse with Mr D. K. Coutts, of
Dr Bell's School, Leith, who has a place in our Seventh
Series. From 1858 to 1868 he taught a school near
Fordoun Station, and thereafter at Raploch, Stirling,
until the end of June 1 886. He has now withdrawn from
his profession, and is enjoying well-earned retirement in
Stirling. His poetical productions possess a remarkable
roundness and completeness of thought, and while
graceful in their simplicity, and set in smooth and
musical words, they ever manifest buoyancy and
spontaneity of flow and occasional quiet pathos.

398 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

HIGH, HIGH, HIGHER YET.

By degrees in life we rise —
High, high, higher yet ;
Labour first and then the prize —

High, high, higher yet ;

Drop by drop will wear the stone,

Space by space the race is won,

Step by step our work is done —

High, high, higher yet.

Nobly let our minds be bent —

fiigh, high, higher yet ;
Wisely let our days be spent —

High, high, higher yet ;

Higher yet we climb the height,

Strive we all with heart and might,

Faint nor yield we in the fight —

High, high, higher yet.

Higher yet be still our cry —
High, high, higher yet ;
Often foiled, but yet we try—

High, high, higher yet ;
Onward, then, and persevere,
Upward press through life's career,
Never falter, never fear —
High, high, higher yet.

Lofty heights we may not see —

High, high, higher yet ;
Still let this our motto be —
High, high, higher yet ;
If we may not lead the van,
Let us do the best we can,
This our watchword, this our plan —
High, high, higher yet.

THE PLAY DAYS.

The play days, lads, hae come at length,
Oor hearts noo beat baith licht and hie,

Let's drive awa' a' thocht and care —
Let fancy's fiicht and a' gang free.

Hoo prood, hoo glad will be oor'folk
Oor face to see, oor tales to hear ;

Oor native land will welcome us
Wi mony a kind and hearty cheer.

ROBERT FERGU88ON. 399

And when we reach the'weel-kent place

Where loving voices greet oor ear ;
Oor faither gravely sneers oor news —

Oor mither draps the silent tear.

Oor sisters, prood to hear oor crack,

Are Mooned wi' hopes o' happy days,
When they can dwell wi' fond delight

Upon a brither's name and praise.

Bot there is ane we daurna name,

Wha vainly hides her love and glee ;
Her looks speak volumes to oor heart —

Nae sweeter looks this earth can gie.

Hoo speeds the time when thus we meet

Wi' freends and a' we love sae dear ;
What pity that oor social joys

Are mixed wi' sorrow's bitter tear.

Nae shuner met than we maun pairt,

To face the toils o' life anew—
Like summer mist is earthly bliss,

Or like the morning's pearly dew.

O for the freendship, love, and joy

That boastfu' earth can never gie —
A happy hame wherein to rest,

Where come nae sighs nor tearfu' e'e.

And when we gain that blissfo* shore,

And gaze aroond the happy land,
May freends there meet, nae loved ane missed —

A never-pairting joyfu' band.

MY MARIANNE.

My Marianne is sprightly,

She's young and fu' o' glee,
Her he'rt is light and joyfu',

Her mind is gay and free ;
The bee upon the blossom,

The lambkin on the lea,
The morning lark upspringing,

Nae blither is than she.

My Marianne is lovely,

Love sparkles in her smile.
She looks sae kind aud winning,

She's frank and free o' guile.

400 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

I lore the blushing roses,
I love the budding tree,

They mind me o' my lassie,
Sae sweet and dear to me.

Lang, lang may she be happy,

Nae cares her heart to sear,
Nae griefs her brow beclouding,

But ilka bliss to cheer ;
O may her bark glide gently

O'er life's oft troubled sea,
And laud 'midst lasting pleasures,

Which time can never gie.

DANIEL IRONSIDE,

HFINE specimen of the old type of Scotland's
devout sons, was born in 1825. His father was
then farmer of Stillswells, Bonnykelly, parish of New
Deer. The youngest son of a family of eight sons and
four daughters, his early education was very meagre
indeed. He began to herd cows when seven or eight
years of age, and during winter was sent a few months
to school, where he was taught very little arithmetic,
and as for geography or grammar, these were beyond
the boundary of his curriculum. At the age of sixteen
he was apprenticed as a joiner at New Pitsligo, and
seven years later he began business on his own account
at Bonnykelly, where he is held in much esteem by a
wide circle for his upright character and sterling, un-
assuming piety. He has alway taken a deep and
practical interest in the religious and educational
movements of the neighbourhood, and has successfully
carried on a Sunday School for the long period of over
forty years. He is locally known as a poet, and, as
might be expected, his effusions are simple and tender
in expression, and imbued with evangelical truth and
fervour.

DANIEL IRONSIDE.

COME, HOLY SPIRIT.

. Come, Holy Spirit, breathe on me

The saving breath of prayer,

That I may walk on holy ground,

And breathe a heavenly air ;

For in my soul there is no life,

Nor can there ever be,
Of native growth, a heavenly life,

Unless it come from Thee.

But Thou hast promised to descend,
And break the fallow ground,

And sow the seeds of heavenly life,
Until the lost is found.

O come, with Thy reviving showers
My parched soul to ble*8,

And beautify my tarnished soul
With Jesus' righteousness.

For Jesus to this world did come —

A sacrifice for sin—
To open the door of heavenly grace

That it might flow through Him.

And He did promise while on earth
That when He went above

He would unto His people send
The bright and heavenly Dove.

THIS IS NOT OUR HOME.

Oh what is life? A breath from heaven,
Inspired by God in mortal form ;

Lo ! .suddenly the call is given
To leave the dust to sister worm ;

And then away the spirit flies,
No earthly power can it detain

Then cold and stiff the body lies,
And is consigned to earth's domain.

A little babe was ushered in
To this oin-smitten vale of tears,

And scarce the fourth ilay had begun
\Vhen lo ! from heaven an awi<el bears
Z

402 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

A message quick the mother calls —
The breath is stopped — time is no more ;

Alas, alas, fond hope now falls —
The husband's heart is wounded sore.

With sad dismay he views her form,
Now still in death — the pulse is gone ;

With gloomy thoughts his heart is torn —
The burden's now on him alone ;

For now the helpless babe is left,
No mother's breast to nestle on ;

The father feels now sore bereft —
Earth's brightest side from him is gone.

But suddenly Christ says " You'll come,
And place your aching heart on Me,

For in tin.-* world there is no home
Of durable felicity ;

Bat if you bend before My throne,
And yield your heart and life to Me ;

A better portion you will own —
From sin and pain forever free."

A brighter side will soon appear,

Christ's loving smile will sorrow chase ;

A little while, and all is clear
Before the brightness of His fa^.e.

ALEXANDER MAXWELL.

HLEXANDER MAXWELL (father of Messrs
Charles C. and George Maxwell, already noticed
in this work) was born in Dundee in 1791. His
parents being in humble circumstances, his education
was of the most primitive and elementary description,
a few months at a dame's school being all the formal
teaching that he obtained. At a very early age lie
was sent into the country to herd cows. His thirst

ALEXANDER MAXWELL. In:'.

for knowledge, however, WHS great, but the only litera-
ture to which he had access, besides the Scripture-.
was Scotch ballads, and detached poems by Bums
and Allan Ramsay. In his fifteenth year he was ap-
prenticed to the joiner trade, and he afterwards worked
for a few years in Dundee as a journeyman, but de-
pression of trade obliged him to migrate, first to Edin-
burgh, and afterwards to Glasgow. Returning to
Dundee in 1818, he settled there. In 1821 he ob-
tained employment at the building of a spinning mill,
on the starting of which the proprietor, who had taken
notice of his intelligence and painstaking industry, en-
gaged him permanently. Soon afterwards he became
foreman of the mechanics, and latterly manager of the
work. This situation he retained until failing health
obliged him to resign in 1850. Shortly afterwards he
became utterly helpless through creeping paralysis,
speech and motion being almost annihilated, but his
mental power remained undimmed until his death, in
July 1859.

Mr Maxwell's favourite study was history, both
ancient and modern — Josephus, Roll in, Gibbon, Gold-
smith, Hume, and Buchanan being authors with whom
he was very familiar. So retentive was his memory
that any anachronism or mis-statement, either written
or spoken, was speedily detected by him. As a
writer he was very happy, many diverse subjects
having been treated by him in a manner alike racy,
pathetic, and instructive. Several of his p&ems and
sketches were from time to time published in the local
papers, and even when almost helpless through
disease he succeeded in dictating rhymes of no mean
merit. Some of his poetical productions were greatly
admired by the late Rev. George Gilfillan, and other
good authorities. In the course of a lengthy article
in the columns of a Dundee newspaper at the time of
his death it was stated that his "intellect was vigorous,

404 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

his information copious and minute, and his general
attainments remarkable, considering that he was a
self-taught man. His literary ability is not unknown
to our readers, several of his writings having appeared
in our columns. We may specially instance the ad-
mirable series of papers entitled 'Town and Country
in the Olden Time,' which were the product of his
graphic and instructive pen." The poems submitted
for our selection manifest easy melody, the intelligent
observer of Nature, and the power of giving ready
expression to his thoughts and feelings. They are
also tender in spirit, and afford evidence of a correct
taste and a pure imagination.

THE DYING OTTER'S PETITION TO QUEEN VICTORIA.

Suggested by an incident connected with her first visit
to Scotland— September,

Great Queen ! may blessings crown your head,
May discord ne'er your peace destroy :

Your paths with flowers be daily spread,
Your life replete with health and joy.

A helpless, trembling stranger, I,

From home, and friends, and freedom borne,
Here at your feet am doom'd to die —

By ruthless dogs all rent and torn.

0 daughter of an hundred kings !

Who came your fatherland to see,
Whose praise in every valley rings,

With eyes of pity look on me !

O have you heard of Yarrow's braes,
Of Ettrick's shaws and fair Tweedside,

Where beauty blooms in rustic guise,
And Nature smiles in sylvan pride ?

There shepherds stray those dells among,
Where mailed warriors erst have trod,

And many a bard in border song
Has spread tbeir names and fame abroad.

There Scott has waved his magic wand,
There Hogg has strung his mountain lyre —

ALEXANDER MAXWELL. 405

Those names adorn their native land,
Those many an English heart admire.

From thence I come to yield my breath—

Ah ! do not say to yield you nport,
For sure my pane's, and unans, and death

Your woman's heart could ne'er support.

Your narnejthroughout the earth is known,
Your arms the nations fill with dread.

And whereso'er your power is shown
Oppression hides his felon head.

Leave torture to the savage wild,

In rude Coluiuba's woods who rows ;

Great Britain's Queen her triumphs mild
Will tarnish if she it approves.

You drop the sympathising tear,

And turn away your I'oyal head —
The sight you.can no. longer liear,

My cause I shall no longer plead.

SPRING.

Delightful season ! could my Muse
But paint thee in thy native hues ;
0 could I with a Thomson's art
Describe the feelings of my heart,
When pondering o'er the fairy;scene —
The gurgling rill, the verdant green,
The hloomingigorse, the budding thorn,
The fields just clad with infant corn,
The milk-white gowan, emblem meet
Of modest beauty, blushing sweet,
The cheerful lark at early dawn
Uprising from the dewy lawn,
The lusty ploughman on the lea
Joining the song with mirth and glee ;
While from the hills the gladsome strain*
Are echoed o'er the smiling plains.

WELCOME TO KOSSUTH.'

Welcome, noble Kossuth, welcome,
With your small hut hardy band —

* Louis Napoleon, then President of the French Itrpul'lic, refused to
allow Kossuth.to pass through Fiance ia order to shorten his journey to
England— November, 1851.

406 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

Victims of oppressive thraldom —
Exiles from your native land.

Gallant strangers, we respect you,
As you love the British name,

Howe'er tyrants may reject you,
Let us here your praise proclaim.

We are Scotsmen free and hearty,
Unadorn'd with courtly grace ;

We despise the despot's party.
Like the brave Hungarian race.

And our hills, and woods, and valleys,
Still with heroes' praises ring,

For once we had a gallant Wallace,
And Bruce — a noble patriot king.

Now we have a Queen Victoria,
Foremost of the Royal train ;

And well the page of future story
Shall note the triumphs of her reign.

See her in her council sitting,

Passing wise and wholesome laws,

Whilst her honour'd flag is floating
O'er the seas in freedom's cause.

View her Queen of Arts ami Science,
Seated 'neath the crystal dome,

Or in confident reliance

In her cheerful Highland home.

Scotsmen, from your heath-clad mountains,
From the loom, the forge, the plough.

From your glens, and lakes, and fountains,
Haste to bail the patriot now.

Fr the Thames the cry is sounding.

From when! Forth is winding clear,

And from Tay's fair stream rebounding —
'• Noble Kossuth, welcome here. '

ANNIE C. MACLEOD. 407

ANNIE C. MACLEOD.

ANNIE C. MACLEOD is the second
daughter of the late Dr Norman Macleod,
Glasgow. She seems to have inherited not a little
of the hearty, earnest, and patriotic powers for which
her father was so distinguished. Like him, too, she
is a tender and loving poet, and writes with that
simple and touching eloquence of which our Scottish
dialect is so susceptible. Miss Macloed is the author
of a well-written little work on "The Life and Times
of Girolamo Savonarola," (Edinburgh: James Gem-
niell, 1882.) In conjunction with Mr Harold Boulton,
she is also editor of a large and beautifully got- up
volume entitled " Songs of the North, gathered to-
gether from the Highlands and Lowlands of Scot-
land" (London: Meld & Tuer, Leadenhall Press.)
This fine work is dedicated to her Majesty the
Queen, and of the contents it has been said that
"the new is very good indeed, and the old is fresh,
because so seldom met with." It contains a number
of very quaint and rare ballads, and many of the
songs are printed for the first time, having been
secured by the diligent research of the talented and
patriotic editors in all parts of Scotland. Each of the
forty-six songs in the volume has a musical setting
and pianoforte accompaniment arranged by Mr
Malcolm Lawson. By the kind permission of the
editors, we are privileged to give two songs that
Miss Macleod has written for this valuable and
interesting work. As showing the deep and warm
i terest Her .Majesty takes in all that relates to
Scotland and Scottish literature, it might be added
that on the occasion of her visit to the Edinburgh
Exhibition in 1886, she requested Mrs Macleod and
two of her daughters to visit her at Holyrood, when

408 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS.

she congratulated the eldest daughter on her work
in connection with the Girl's Friendly Society, of
which she is secretary, and at the same time expressed
to Miss Aunie her high admiration of " Songs of the
North." The suhject of our sketch presently resides
in Edinburgh, and takes a warm and substantial
interest in all schemes for the welfare of the poor of
that city.

FAIR YOUNG MARY.
(MHAIRI BHAN OG.)

Mhairi bhan Og, my ain only dearie,

My winsome, my bonnie wee bride,
Let the warld gang, an" a' the lave wi' it

Gin ye are but left by my side.
The lark to its nest, the stream to the ocean,

The star to its home in the west,
And I to my Mary, and I to my darling,

And I to the ane I lo'e best.

Time sail na touch thee, nor trouble come near thee,

Thou maunna grow auld like the lave,
And gin ye gang, Mary, the way o' the weary,

I'll follow thee soon to the grave.
A glance o' thy e'en wad banish a' sorrow,

A smile, ami fareweel to a' strife,
For peace is beside thee, and joy is around thee,

And love is the light o' thy life.

O'ER THE MOOR.

O'er the moor I wander lonely,

Ochon, ochrie, my heart is sore,
Where are all the joys I cherished ?
With my darling they have perished,

And they will return no more.

I loved thee first, I loved thee only,

Ochon, ochrie, my heart is sore,
I loved thee from the day I met thee,
What care I though all forget thee,

I shall love thee evermore.

PR Edwards, David Herschell

8657 Modern Scottish poets

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