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MODERN 
COTTISH  POETS 

ELEVENTH     SERIES 


few  and  Second-hand  Bookseller, 
238,  Buchanan  Street,  GLASGOW. 


3  0/4 


Eleventh  Series. 


MODEM    SC01TISH    POETS 


WITH  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 
CRITICAL    NOTICJM. 


506106 

4-     4-    so 


h.    H.    BD WARDS, 

S8. 


PR 


«>.';, 


CONTENTS. 


vim. 

PAOB. 

!               .     .    275 

BURNS,  THOMAS     .    .     . 

302 

'.in-* 

The  temple  of  faith 

Sabbath  Srh.ml  song 

(Juide  our  souls 

;irl 

Snow 

ii  we  were  bairns 

The  flush  is  on  the  morn 

•formed  drunkard 

The  mountain  tarn 

KSON,  Rev.  R.  S.  G.    197 

CANTON,  WILLIAM.     .     . 

17 

j.  minister 

Poems  of  childhood 

Leven 

•ory 

Wayside  vignettes 
The  latter  law 

Drowned 

The  jaunting  car 

CLARK,  Rev.  GILBERT     . 

145 

I;                      !  \MES  .     .     113 

The  angler's  song 
The  land  I  winna  lea' 
A  retrospect 

The  dying  mother 
Speak  softly 
Morning 

Two  tiny  burnii-s 
Somebody's  funeral 

Boui.;                 i  i'      .     .      33 

The  brook 

Rest  my  ain  l'-iinii»- 

;  ...i,  (ilensorMoB 

I'd  rath«-r 
COWAN,  Ai.».\  A  M.I.  ic  .     . 

Q 

Maiden  of  M 

Love 

:or    Ma.-ltan    of 

n  da.k  tl»-  night 

Tin-  bride 

\V«-  ha.-  patN-d 

1  1  »  .     .     .     203 

I,  if.-  and  d.-ath 
CniM 

mountains 

Fly,  warrior,  fly 

CRO.MBIK,  .J  AMI 

368 

a  butterfly 

it  to  hope 

idow's  mite 
The  reaper  and  the  flowers 

Sympathy 

CURKIL.  WILLIAM  ,J. 

896 

1  1  lllli 

The  auld  folk 

Wae  fa's  the  drinkin.  n't 

Inoor  ain 

tide 

The  widow's  mite 

i; 

Dor  ain  wee  bairn 

iv. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGB. 

DOUGALL,  WILLIAM    .    .    408 

Our  American  critic 
The  royal  game  of  golf 
Tel-el-Kebir 
DUNCAN,  MARY  LUNDIE  .     161 

There  is  a  spot 
A  hymn 
Evening 
Imaginings 
The  lamb's  lullaby 
GOLDIE,  ALEXANDER  .     .     359 
The  wee  thack  cot 
He  can  toddle  his  lane 
The  emigrant's  farewell 

GRAY,  ISABELLA  A.    .     .    293 

Eyes 


Gossip 

Dear  little  Loo 

HORSBURGH,  ANDREW    .     247 

The  moon-flower 

The  Teviotdale  bride 

Motee's  uncle 
HOWATSON,  BELLA      .     .     262 

Another  baby 

The  dying  child's  words 

Dreamland 

Only 

His  last  look 

IMRIE,  JOHN      ....     412 
Tell  me 
Oor  Johnnie 

A  kiss  through  the  telephone 
My  heart  is  Scotland's  yet 

JENKINS,  ALEXANDER      .     353 
Move  on 

Until  the  day  dawn 
Thine  ear  is  ever  open 

KING,  JESSIE  MARGARET     270 
A  midsummer  nicht's  dream 
O  wind  o'  the  west 
Life  and  death 
The  perfidious  sea 

KYD,  JEAN 118 

Do  you  remember 

;     sea 

-  a.  name 
Oue  more  river 
Marjorie's  tryst 

LAWSON,  JAMES     ...       67 
Campsie  Glen 


LAWSON,  JAMBS.—  Contd. 

When  spring,  arrayed  in 


To  a  lintie 
LEIGHTON,  JESSIE  ...       99 

Only  me 

The  Hugenot 

A  sprig  of  heather 

Silence 
LUMSDEN,  JAMES    .     .     .     339 

Wae,  wae  is  me 

The  wee  broon  squirrel 

Never  again 

Jamie  the  joiter 
LUNDIE,  JANE  CATHERINE  154 

Pass  away  earthly  joy 

The  edge  of  the  river 

Nursery  flowers 

Sing  to  me 

Throw  open  the  window 

MACBEATH,  F.S.A.,  Scot., 
J.  M 215 

Lux  in  tenebris 
A  legend  of  Sir  Hugh's  seat 
Noltland's  fairy  queen 
No  more,  dear  child 
MACGREGOR,  Rev.  DUNCAN    83 
The  light  on  the  hills 
Wanted 
Rhyme 
The  spectres 
Bethel 
My  shield 

MACINTOSH,  JOHN  .     .     .     363 
Better  sma'  fish  than  nane 
The  wee  chick-chickie 
Trial 
Home,  happy  home 

MACRAE,  MRS  F.  M.  .     .     403 

The  cottage  by  the  sea 

The  young  lighthouse  keeper 

The  prisoner's  sleep 

MACTAGGART,  JOHN    .     .     322 
An  excellent  new  song 
My  auld  arm-chair 
Twa  words  to  the  Scotch  folk 

in  London 
Gang  and  be  slaves 

MAYO,  ISABELLA  FYVIE   .     126 
The  father's  hand 
A  parable 
The  Church  militant 


rONTKNTS 


V. 


PAOB. 

Blessed  are  il  <•>  that  mourn 

.      .        48 
i.il  '•'  cakes 
.tin  funk 
Meeting  of  mothers  in  heaven 

1  !:rr 
Mill    IB,    'J'lln.M.VS     .        .       .       318 

BOM 

Jeannie  the  pride  o'  Langloan 
Freemason's  song 

...     332 

!!>  <>IBB    .          27 

It.-v,  hum 
Wham  in  vouth  we  roved 

•lib- 
Only  a  crunil. 

Moo  i  v  140 

thee 

man,  what  of  the  night 

.     .     104 

l\  knows 

f  the  rose 
ui  nter 

•  •<  .    .     .    -ii:. 

...•ii 

loon 

.     .     HP2 
He'«  < 

lod  at  last 

I'owre  you  hill 


JAMES     . 


I!: 


JAMIW.—  Coi\t<l. 


I:i])]iy 

(Tnoer  tin-  cypress 
PAUL,  .II.HN 

My  fath«-r  ami  my  inith 
WMBJ  we  are  far  awa' 
Be  a  man 


382 


,  DAVID  WALTER     297 

The  Kin. 
The  auld  fireside 
Our  youthfu*  days 
Need  I  tell  thee 

RAE,  DAVID  .  :««i 

Tliink—  think—  think 
Taken  away 
Per  rail 

Sweet  May  hath  donn'd  her 
virgin  dress 

RAE,  THOMAS    ....     234 
Lead  thou  me  on 
Onward 
A  lullaKy 
Nannie's  dead 
Wilt  thou  it-member  me. 

ROBERTSON,  ISABELLA     .     168 
I»avi.l  Dakers 
Noddin*  to  me 
The  lanely  hame 
We  lc<»me,  honnie  snaw  drops 
Oh,  thae  bairns 

MI  \NKS,  HENEY     .     .     .    372 

Miwic 

Curling  song 

The  wayside  wanderer 

The  sturdy  whin 

The  skylark 

SIMPSON,  ALEXANDER  N.    307 
The  old  home 

Oil  !!: 

Thr  uflor'i  -'lit; 

SIMS,  GEORGE  ROBERT    .      57 
Fallen  by  the  way 
Billy's  rose 

...     281 

LOT  i.  i,.--.t 
The  fisher  lad 
Whither 

:.         .  .  7'J 


vi. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGB. 

SMART,  ALEXANDER.— Contd. 
My  granny's  fireside 
Madie's  schule 
When  the  bee  has  left  the 

blossom 
O  that  Mysie's  tongue  would 

tire 

The  bird's  nest 
My  granny's  pouch 
Petting  at  food 

SMART,  WILLIAM  M.  .     .     211 

The  brightest  side 

Next  morning 

A  song  of  Scotland 

Work 
SMITH,  WILLIAM  BROWN       92 

The  gloamin'  grey 

The  land  that's  far  awa' 

The  a'  things  o1  life 

The  song  birds  o'  Scotland 

The  auld  kirkyard 

As  we  talked  together 

STEWART,  CHARLES    .     .     287 
My  auld  Scotch  plaid 
O,  how  happy 
Auld  Scotland  isna  dead 

TROTTER,  ISABELLA    .     .     191 

Home 
TROTTER,  JAMES    .     .     .     186 

The  wee  bruckit  lassie 
Song  of  freedom 
Christian  aspirations 
The  beggar's  fate 

TROTTER,  ROBERT  .     .          172 
To  a  noble  gentleman 
The  laird's  soliloquy 


PAGE. 
174 


TROTTER,  ROBERT  .     . 
Still  proudly  thrills 
The  times  are  changed 

TROTTER,  ROBT.  DE  BRUCE  177 
The  ivy 

Genteel  hospitality 
Wee  Mary 
Hair 

WEIR,  ARTHUR     .     .     . 
The  sea  shell 
Equality 
My  treasure 
Hope  and  dispair 
Three  sonnets 

WHITEHEAD,  THOMAS     .     314 
The  bard's  ghost 
The  winds 
Autumn 
Aristocratic  descent 

WHITELAW,  JAMES     .     .     256 
A  bittie  nearer  hame 
A  vernal  rhapsody 
Home,  sweet  home 
Abu  Klea 
Lord,  what  is  man 

WHITTET,  JAMES  PETER      396 
O,  why  dost  thou  disturb  my 

dreams 

Down  in  the  mighty  deep 
Happy  hours  of  childhood 
Christmas  Eve 

WOOD,  ANDREW     .     .     .     239 
The  female  doctors 
Peace,  perfect  peace 
The  time  is  drawing  near 
The  fall  of  the  leaf 


PREFATORY     NOTE. 


The  spreading  prairies  of  the  west 

M:i>  >  i»-id  their  richest  store  ; 
Ami  other  tongues  may  call  them  blest, 

And  chant  their  praises  o'er ; 
I'.ut  I  "ill  -in-,  in  humble  song, 

( »f  mountains,  lochs,  and  rills— 
The  scenes  my  childhood  dwelt  among— 

My  natiTe  Scottish  hills.-  W.  C.  Sturoe. 

E  end  this  volume  by  introducing  two  very  promising 
'ttish-Anierican  poets,  and  we  have  in  preparation 
much    interesting   matter   on    the   subject   of    s,-.,ttMi -Aus- 
tralian   poeta,    kindly    supplied    by    Mr    T.    L.    Work,    a 
gifted  poet  and  patriotic  Scotchman  residing  in  Melbouim . 
This  we  intend  \»  put  into  shape,  and  present  to  our  readers 
in  the  form  of  interesting  biographical  sketches,  with  selec- 
tions   of    poetry,    in  an     early    portion    of    our    Twelfth 
8,  whieh  we  hope  to  be  able  to  publish  towards  the  end 
of  1889.       Although  -»nr  "  home-supply"  is  not  yet  by  any 
1    we    have   again   been    compelled 
t  .mother  volume-  (sketches  we  were  anxious  to 
in. 'In, I,   in  ti.i-  MriM     we  ki.ow  that  the  examples  we  have 
given    f»f   tl)--    Mime  of  our  l.tvtlir.-n    who   h:ivr  wandcrrd   f.ir 
froni  th«-  l'i"  in  .ui.l  tlif  hc.itliLT  have  been  much  valm-il  l»y 

whil«-   he   readily   tikes 
•  rs,  ;in«l  \vhilr   jtassionutfly   f«'J«<l  of  his   n 

•.ptioii.      'J'ii-u-   in  n«> 
xe»  the  tcndi  r  iiii-inori«-M   of  th-    \\.-n.l.i. 

y  of  hid  nativr   land,    wit ! 

and  •  at  in  his  mind.       is  it  not  LIP 

that  Home  has  been  the  id  of  the  heart  siuce  the 


Viii.  PREFATORY   NOTE. 

home  of  the  world  was  centred  in  one  ark  ?  Poets  have 
never  ceased  to  sing  the  love  of  home.  The  emigrant  may 
create  another  home  in  another  land,  but  the  first  love  lies 
deep,  and  the  hope  also  lies  there  that  he  may  yet  go  home. 

The  Rev.  Dr.  Cameron  Lees  was  recently  entertained  to  a 
banquet  by  the  Caledonian  Society  of  Melbourne.  In  the 
course  of  an  eloquent  and  patriotic  speech,  he  said  that  he 
could  almost  fancy  that  he  was  back  in  Old  Scotland.  "  In 
the  list  of  the  membership  of  the  Society  he  found  quite  a 
regiment  of  Campbells  and  Camerons,  and  a  page  and  a  half 
of  '  Macs '  of  various  kinds.  He  had  occasionally  heard  cynical 
remarks  about  the  prosperity  of  Scotchmen.  He  had  been 
told  that  the  Scotchmen  got  all  the  land,  and  the  Irishmen 
all  the  billets,  and  that  the  Englishmen  just  took  what  they 
could  get.  He  had  also  often  heard  repeated  the 
Yankee  joke  that  '  a  Scotchman  keeps  the  Sabbath 
and  every  thing  he  can  lay  his  hands  on.'  So  far  from 
wanting  to  take  more  than  their  own  share  of  what  was 
going,  they  had  been  most  liberal  in  supporting  the  institu- 
tions of  this  country.  If  the  Scotchmen  were  to  withdraw 
from  Victoria  there  would  be  a  blank  left  of  the  direst  and 
most  fatal  character.  Scotland  had  conquered  England,  and 
it  was  a  great  joy  to  him  to  see  that,  in  a  great  measure,  it 
had  also  conquered  Victoria.  It  was  also  a  pleasure  to 
see  that  Scotchmen  on  this  side  of  the  world  kept  up  with 
such  fond  affection  the  traditions  and  associations,  of  their 
native  land.  That  great  Englishman,  Samuel  Johnson,  as  he 
walked  amidst  the  ruins  of  lona,  said,  '  Whatever  takes  us 
back  into  the  past  raises  us  in  the  dignity  of  thinking  beings.' 
When  Scotchmen  went  back  into  the  traditions  and  associ- 
ations of  their  native  land  they  were  not  the  worse  for  that, 
but  all  the  better.  It  was  good  for  Scotchmen  to  remember 
the  race  from  which  they  sprang.  Such  recollections  must 
help  them  to  do  well,  and  acquit  themselves  nobly  from  day 
to  day.  It  influenced  us  all  mightily  as  we  went  back  on  the 
past,  and  felt  we  were  the  heirs  of  great  traditions,  and  that 
we  belonged  to  a  great  and  noble  nationality.  There  were 
three  countries  that  were  the  poorest  that  ever  were  in  the 
world,  and  that  had  influenced  the  world's  history  more  than 
any  others— namely,  Palestine,  Greece,  and  Scotland.  There 
were  no  countries  more  barren  outwardly,  more  sterile,  or 
more  rugged  ;  and  the  people  of  no  other  countries  had  left  a 
deeper  impress  on  the  history  of  the  world.  It  was  well  for 
Scotchmen  where  they  dwelt  to  recall  those  things  to  mind 
and  try  to  sustain  their  nationality." 


PREFATORY    N  ix. 

Tn  America,  some  months  ago,  Mr  Alexander  Maclachlnn, 
one  of  our  poets,  noticed  in  tin-  First  Series,  was  hon< 

i  testinn»ni:il  in  tin-  form  of  funds  wherewith  to  purchase 
>nn  on  which  he  resides.      At  that  meeting  the  intellect 
and  culture,  the  learned  professions,  and  commercial   inter- 
ests, patrons  of  all  that  is  good  and  di  sirable  were 
tented.      There  was  neither  class  nor  race  distinction — 
it«  lligent  mechanic  and  the  university  professor  ;    the 
lishman,  the  Irishman,  and  the  Scotchman,  showed  their 
common  interest  in  the  poet,  whose  thoughts  express  senti- 
s  broad  as  humanity,  and  which  are  clothed  in  a  diction 
Dimple,    graceful,   and   natural.      One  of  the   dis- 
tinguished  speakers  said   that,   as  Canadians,   they   would 
never  forget  all  they  owe  to  Scotland.      "Mr  Maclachlan 
escape  the  influences  of  Scotland,  of  the  Braes  of 
(ilenitrer;  never  escape  the  influences  of  the  bonnie  burns 
beside  which  he  grew  up.      Yet  he  will  always  be  a  Scot,  h 
just  in  the  same  way  as  Goldwin  Smith  will  never 
escape  the  influence  of  Oxford.      Goldwin  Smith  will  always 
be  an  Oxford  man,  but  both  are  true -Canadians,  notwith- 
standing, because  they  are  doing  the  best  work  they  can  for 
Canada.     Perhaps  there  was  no  nationality  that  combined  so 
well  the  infl nonces  of  the  old,  and  affection  for  the  old,  with 
•yalty  to  the  new  land  in  which  they  live."    The  Hon.  (J. 
\\  .  HUBS,  Minister  of  Kducation,  suid— "  We  could  hardly  yet 
expect  the  rude  forest  and  wild  wood  to  yield  the  rich  harvest 
Itureand  retim -im -nt  with  which  older  lands  are  favoured. 
i>e  that  for  years  to  come  'the  summer  birds 
from  far  that  cross, the  sea     slmll  l>e  the  only  songsters  t<>  till 
our  groves  and  forests  with  the  harmony  of  sweet  sounds  ; 
MI.  h  d<>  come,  it  is  meet  that  we  should  welcome 
i  as  'angel  visitants,'  and  make  their  stay  so  pleasant 
that  even  the  frosts  of  winter  will   not  interrupt  the   full 
t  heir  song.     Nor  are  we  not  left  without  hope  even 
as  to  tin   product  of  our  own  soil.     The  wealth  of  'flood  and 
ich    we   possess   is  already    giving    promise   of    a 
-t.     With  the  Rteadiness  and  calmness  \\ 

1    maturity,  with   the    development  of  a 
•  ionul  physique,  then-  must  <•  m«  to  us,  as 

lit  and    inxcstL'iitioi 
have  all  the  natural  elements  h 
fore,  wait  our  t  i 

l^eng,  a  distinp  ;     :li*h  jomi 

has  jubt  paid  a  visit  to  Scotland,  writes  with  cnthusiuMn  on 


PREFATORY  NOTE. 


the  subiect  of  "  the  world  of  practical  go  in  Scotchmen. 
There  are  but  three  millions  and  a  half  of  them,  yet  they, 
like  Csesar  Augustus,  he  says  "draw  tribute  from  _  many 
countries.  Go  where  you  may  you  find  Scotchmen  in  the 
position  of  Captains  of  Industry  and  Organisers  of  Industrial 
Undertakings.  Had  there  been  more  of  them  they  would 
have  been  the  taskmasters  of  the  world.  Scots  don't  appear 
to  work  with  the  gusto  of  Englishmen,  but  they  think,  cal- 
culate, reflect,  and  plan.  They  have  the  initiative,  the  re- 
sourcefulness, and  the  self-discipline  which  the  Irish 
lack.  The  Scot  is  essentially  a  practical  man.  He  turns 
his  face  like  a  flint  to  the  future,  and  his  back  on  that  Dead 
Past  over  which  the  Hiberno-Celt  idly  broods.  His  strength 
is  strength  of  character,  stability  of  purpose,  sound  common 
sense,  and  an  innate  independence  of  feeling  which  makes  him 
contemptuous  of  sycophantic  arts.  When  he  emigrates  he 
does  not  say  whiningly  that  he  is  an  '  exile.'  " 

The  history  of  Australia  dates  back  only  one  hundred  years, 
but  it  was  undoubtedly  during  the  last  thirty  or  forty  years, 
since  the  discovery  of  gold,  that  the  real  development  of  the 
country  could  be  dated.  During  that  time  the  continent  had 
been  reclaimed  from  barbarians  and  transformed  into  the 
home  of  advanced  civilization.  This  transformation  was 
due  to  the  energy  of  the  enterprising  and  resourceful  men 
from  Europe,  who  went  there  for  gold,  but  remained  to  build 
up  the  country  and  lay  the  foundation  of  its  great  institutions. 
They  went  out,  it  has  been  said,  "into  a  wilderness,  they 
subjugated  a  desert,  and  made  it  blossom  like  a  rose  ;  and 
now  Australian  life  is  vastly  more  familiar  to  us  than  was 
Scottish  life  to  Englishmen  at  the  date  of  the  Union.  Now- 
a-days,  steam  and  electricity  have  supplied  the  body  politic 
with  muscles  and  nerves  such  as  to  render  it  oblivious  of  dis- 
tance. Thus,  the  result  of  a  division  in  our  Parliament  is 
known  much  more  quickly  to  the  people  of  Melbourne  to-day 
than  it  was  known  by  Sir  Walter  Scott  in  Edinburgh,  and 
any  Australian  can  travel  to  London  now  with  more  ease, 
and  nearly  as  much  expedition  as  Keats  or  Shelley  could 
travel  to  Kome." 

In  the  "  good  old  days,"  when  a  man  went  home,  even  if 
he  intended  to  come  back,  he  went  round  solemnly  to  all  his 
friends,  and  said  good-bye  to  them  and  asked  if  he  could 
take  anything  home  for  them.  Now-a-days,  we  may  miss  a 
man  for  what  seems  a  week  or  two,  or  possibly  a  month,  and 
find  to  our  surprise  when  we  see  him  again  that  in  the  inter- 
val he  has  made  a  trip  round  the  world. 


Thef 


PREFATORY   NOTE. 


The  Colonies  of  Australia  have  not,  nntil  recently,  been 
considered  as  a  lik«-ly  field  for  the  growth  and  nourishment 
of  t  \\'lu  a  everything  Wiis  in  ;i  ne\\ 

for  treasure  absorbed  the  • 

gies  of  contestants,  the  man  of  poetic  tastes  was  decidedly  out 
of  place  in  the  feverish  struggle,  and  likely  enough  to  receive 
i  poor  reward  for  his  melodious  labours.  Yet,  despite 
this  nnquestio nable  drawback,  the  love  of  literature  is  so 
strongly  implanted  in  our  race  that  even  amongst  the 
nomadie  wayfarers  over  our  Southern  Colonies  are  found  men 
with  whom  the  works  of  Shakespeare  and  Burns  are  quite 
familiar,  and  who  frequently  express  their  feelings  in  verse. 
When  the  tents  of  the  diggers  were  abandoned  for  the  cot- 
tages of  a  township,  the  district  newspaper,  with  its  *'  Poets' 
Corner,"  was  established;  and  there  never  was  a  scarcity  of 
verse. 

Australian  literature  has  been  largely  recruited  from  the 
Scottish  contingent  that  left  the  Old  World  to  settle  in  the 
sunny  Southern  lands.  One  of  the  foremost  men  in  the  history 
of  the  Colonies  of  New  South  Wales  and  Victoria  was  John 
Dun:  ,  D.D.,  a  native  of  Greenock,  whose  sagacity 

and  irresistible  energy  did  much  to  build  np  the  fortuii 
the  settlements  there,  independent  of  his  ministerial  and 
political  labours.  Dr  Lang  published  a  number  of  volumes 
illustrative  of  the  country  that  he  had  adopted,  and  amongst 
his  other  accomplishments  may  fairly  be  conceded  that  of 
poetry.  In  IS'JH  he  published  a  volume  entitled  •  ,\ 

alia  :  or  specimens  of  Sacred  1'oetry  for  the  Colonists  of 

ntained  translations  from  the  (i 

and  (icrinan,  and  from  the  aboriginal  language  Scotsmen 
have  taken  the  front  rank  as  explorers  in  Australia,  and  the 
names  of  John  M' Do  wall  Stuart,  Angus  M'Millan,  John 
MK  inlay,  Duncan  M'Intyre,  and  many  other  names  might 
be  n  ncnt  amongst  that  noble  band  was 

i  ell,  surveyor -general  of  v 
ied  at  Sydney  in  1865.      To  Inn 
trurti.in  of  the  princip.il    mads   l>y    which  the 
tiy    was  opened    up  for  the  purposes  of 
ife  published  a  volume  of  poetical  translations 
ri   he  *•  wrote  in  a  small  clipper  during  a  voyage  round 
Cape  Home." 

Meanwhile  we  must  not  weary  otir  readers.     We  shall  now 

!y  mention  tl,,  following  poets  and  prose  writers,  s- 
tions   from    whose   works,   with    interesting   details  of  their 
career,  we  hope,  through  Mr  T   I..  Work's  valuable aaauta 


Xii.  PREFATORY  NOTE. 

to  be  able  to  give  in  our  next  volume  :— -The  Hon.  John  Rae, 
and  William  Augustus  Duncan,  natives  of  Aberdeen  ;  Alex. 
Gordon  Middleton,  born  in  Glasgow  ;  Rev.  Alex.  M'Nicol ; 
Ewen  Cameron,  from  Inverness-shire  ;  the  Rev.  Alexander 
Rutherford  Russell,  Dean  of  Adelaide,  born  in  Perthshire  ; 
George  Gordon  M  'Crae  ;  Mitchell  Kilgour  Beveridge,  born 
in  Dunfermline  in  1831,  one  of  the  earliest  printers  of  Aus- 
tralian poetry  ;  John  Legge,  from  Aberdeenshire  ;  John  C. 
Paterson,  a  native  of  Ayr  ;  Thomas  M'Kenzie  Fraser  ;  James 
Brunton  Stephens,  perhaps  the  best-known  of  our  Scottish- 
Australian  writers,  born  at  Borrowstounness,  Linlithgowshire, 
in  1835 ;  Miles  Macphail,  the  publisher  of  MacphaiFs  Ecclesi- 
astical Journal,  at  one  time  a  popular  Edinburgh  magazine  ; 
Donald  M'Leod,  a  skilful  translator  of  Gaelic  poetry,  the 
son  of  a  highland  minister  ;  Adam  Lindsay  Gordon,  Adam 
Moffat,  and  others  "too  nuineroiis  to  mention."  This, 
we  fondly  hope,  will  be  considered  a  valuable  galaxy  of  men 
whose  careers  dignify  the  nation  amongst  whom  they  live,  or 
have  lived  and  laboured. 

There  is  no  mistaking  the  national  attachment  so  strong  in 
the  Scottish  character.  In  this  respect  men  return  after  long 
absence  unchanged.  In  all  varieties  of  lands  and  climates 
their  hearts  ever  turn  towards  the  "land  o'  cakes  an'  brither 
Scots."  Dr  Norman  Macleod,  speaking  of  a  conversation  he 
had  with  a  countryman  in  Canada,  said  that  while  the  emi- 
grant referred  favourably  and  gratefully  to  his  position  in 
his  adopted  country,  he  could  not  help  making  this  exception 
when  he  thought  of  the  "  Banks  and  braes  o'  bonny  Doon" — 
"  But,  oh  !  there  are  nae  Unties  i'  the  wuds." 

We  shall  be  able  to  show  that  these  "  Scots  abroad"  have 
still  tender  memories  of  the  traditions  and  scenes  of  "  Auld 
Mither  Scotland."  Many  of  them  sing  in  the  couthy 
Doric  of  her  heathery  knowes  and  roarin'  linns,  lanely 
lochs  and  purple  hills,  go^vden  broom  and  feathery  bracken, 
and  re-echo  the  touching  sentiments  of  the  brave  and  gifted 
Janet  Hamilton  : — 


Auld  Scotland  !  hoo  I  lo'e  the  name, 

My  guid  auld-fashion'd  mither ! 
It  maunna  be  thy  kin'ly  bairns 

Should  tine  thee  a'  thegither. 
Oh  !  weel  I  like  ilk  thing  o'  thine— 

The  cozy  theekit  dwallin's, 
Thy  bare-tit  lassies,  tosh  an'  trig— 

Thy  canny,  clever  callans. 


PREFATORY   NOTE.  xill. 

Thy  misty  hills  are  dear  to  me— 

Ilk  glen  an'  bosky  dingle ; 
The  lanely  loch,  on  whUk  the  licht* 

An  .1  v.ndn'  shadows  mingle ; 
The  muirlan  tmniie,  purple-fringed 

\Vi'  hinny-scented  heather, 
Whaur  gowden  king-cups  blink  aneath 

The  bracken's  waving  feather. 

Nae,  raither  !  nae  ;  we  maunna  pairt  1 

E'en  tho'  they  say  thou's  deein  ; 
Thy  speech  is  gaun,  they  say  thy  face 

-une  nae  mair  be  seein'. 
It  cannn  be  the  Doric's  gaun, 

That  mang  baith  auld  and  young, 
There's  mony  uoo  that  canna  read 
priutit  mither  tongue. 

u  thy  callanto  hae  ceased  to  be  valiant  and  free, 
And  thy  maids  to  be  modest,  oh  juist  let  it  dee. 

Natives  of  Scotland  residing  in  other  lands,  like  most  of 

our   "  M'«l' -in    >'-<>ttiah   Poete,"  and  many  of  our  readers, 

show  no  desire  to  "quat  their  grup"  of  the  language  of  Burns 

.in. i   <t    I  .uinrvliill.      All  praise  to  Professor  Blackie  for  his 

..•lit  ami    well -merited  rebukes  to  Scotchmen  for  their 

imhii. mi, .    .mil  m-glect  of  their  language.      Scotland  pos- 

•easea    a  literature   and  a  language   which   it    has    reason 

to    he    proud   of,    and,    us    a    patriotic    writer  says,    ••  if 

Hoi,  land  will  prevent  the  decadence  of  both, 

the  sooner  we  have  it  the  better."     We  were  pleased  to  see 

-tiiiul  tii ken  recently  by  the  Glasgow  Herald  on    this 

subject.     Referring  to  H.   L.    Stevenson's  volume,   entitle  1 

oods,"  which  book  is  partly  composed  of  JS< 

Hevenson's  words  : — "  The  day 

n  this  illustrious  and  malleable  tongue  shall 

i i.l    liun.s  Ayrshire  and  Dr  Macdouald's 

,iw;i'  and  Scott's  brav.    M.  tr .(.olitan  utterance  will 

be  all  equally  the  ghoste  of  speech.     Till  tlu-n  1  would  love  to 

s  u  native  Mukt.-r,  and  to  be  read  by  my  own 

;ryfolk  in  our  own   dying  language — an  ambition  surely 

is  it  is  in 

1    in    l.i.iui.lv   of  sji  i 

rks  the   i*  nson  says 

ly  what  a  great  nun  ..pie  have  been 

.     that    owing    to    a  variety   of   causes,   the 

lish; 

of  the  I,.  nave  to  be 

•.,.•.  ii  tln-m^l\i-.->,   u  .1    ..f  a   .li.-li.,n 

-ary.       \\  •  'ii  t..  .illii.; 

Miio  .i)".m    1 ,  .  i-,    ,in    in.l.-.-i, 


x}v  JPREFATORY  NOTE. 

language.  It  is  necessary,  therefore,  to  now  allude  only  to 
two  points  suggested  by  Mr  Stevenson's  particular  line  of 
remark,  or  rather  of  plaint,  and  both  of  consolatory  character 
It  should  not  be  forgotten  that  while  the  different  dialects  of 
Burns  and  Scott  and  Dr  Macdonald  may  disappear  before  an 
all-embracing  language,  they  themselves  need  not  be  for- 
gotten, because  some  of  the  best  things  all  three  have  written 
have  been  in  English.  Then  when  Mr  Stevenson  speaks  of 
this  'illustrious  and  malleable  tongue'  being  'quite  for- 
gotten,' does  he  not  go  too  far  ?  It  may,  no  doubt,  be  for- 
gotten to  some  extent,  but  at  the  very  worst  it  will  live  as 
the  dialect  in  a  language  in  which  Chaucer  wrote  still  lives. 
Over  and  above  this,  the  universal  popularity  of  some  of  the 
best  things  written  in  Scotch,  such  as  Burns'  songs,  is  bound 
to  compel  the  incorporation  in  the  English  language  of  certain 
of  the  best  Scotch  words  and  phrases  for  the  value  of  the 
shades  of  meaning  involved  in  them.  This  is  a  process 
which  is  going  on  insensibly.  It  is  a  process,  too,  that  every- 
one who  loves  Scotch  and  yet  is  in  the  habit  of  speaking 
English  can  materially  help  by  the  simple  practice  of  always 
using  those  words  and  phrases  which  best  express  his 
meaning." 

We  trust  that  we  have  in  our  labours  been  able  to  encourage 
and  strengthen  these  sentiments.  In  the  utterances  of  our 
present-day  bards,  as  well  as  in  those  of  the  past,  we  meet 
with  words,  which,  while  they  thrill  the  simplest  untutored 
bosoms,  find  no  less  response  in  the  hearts  of  the  most  edu- 
cated and  refined.  "This  then,"  as  J.  C.  Shairp  says,  "is 
the  reason  of  the  catholicity  of  the  songs  of  Scotland — their 
power  of  commanding  a  universal  sympathy  is  their  strong 
claim  on  our  regard.  No  wonder  the  people  love  them ;  for 
never  was  the  heart  of  people  more  fully  rendered  in  poetry 
than  Scotland's  heart  in  these  songs."  They  convey  to  the 
mind  sentiments  of  tenderness  and  endearment,  for  what  is 
there  so  expressive  in  Anglican  as  "My  ain  kind  dearie," 
"  My  winsome  marrow,"  "  My  wee  thing,"  "  My  wee 
bit  lamb,"  or  "  My  bonnie  bird."  They  keep  close  to 
life,  nature,  and  our  future  hope,  bringing  ever  before  us 
what  are  said  to  be  the  three  sweetest  words  in  our  language 
— Happiness,  Home,  and  Heaven — around  which  cling  the 
most  touching  associations,  and  with  which  are  connected  our 
highest  aspirations. 

We  hoped  to  have  been  able  to  give  before  closing 
a  second  sad  list  of  our  poets  who,  since  the  mournful  article 


PREFATORY   SOTK.  XV. 

we  wrote  on  this  subject  in  the  Ninth  Series,  are  now  singing 
"  nobler  songs  above."  This  we  will  endeavour  to  accomplish 
in  the  next  volume,  together  with  a  gathering  of  fugitive, 
unclaimed  gems,  and  a  general  index,  should  the  kind  and 
encouraging  patience  of  our  patrons  and  readers  not  be 
already  overtaxed.  All  through  our  labours,  cheered  and 
1  by  many  friends,  we  have  been  conscientious,  and  they 
are  the  result  of  an  amount  of  diligent  research  and  anxious 
thought  that  we  could  not  have  faced  had  we  known  what 
was  before  us, 

D.  H.  EDWARDS. 

Adrxrtittr  Office, 
BBBCHIX,  November,  1888. 


MOM- UN  SCOTTISH  POETS, 


WILLIAM     CANTON 

TlVfl  IllLDS  a  ready,  versatile,  and  graceful  pen, 

Vl\l4>     mid    although    his    constant    and    exact  in- 

labour-  in  e»nneetion  with  one  of  our  largest  and  m«>t 

}M>l>nlar   ilaily    newspapers  must  necessarily  take    up 

much    of    hU    attention    and    thought,    he    has    found 

to  produce  a  considerable   bulk  of  imaginative 

v  in  verse  and  prose.      Although   we  cannot  claim 

him  li  either  by  birth   or  parentage,  he  ha- 

i.s   in   Scotland,   and    his  literary  lite 

.  e  been  devoted  to  our  country.      Mr 

>rn  in  tlie  Island  of  <  'husan,  of}'  tlie  • 

,ina,  in   L84  illy  exciting  and  inti  rest  in- 

J    in  the   Ka-t.       To    the   j.M'cho 

ve  leave  it  to  conjecture  how  mueh  of  Iiis 

redevelopment    was   due   to   the  eircumstances  of 

.md  to  ti.  •  magtr  jM-opU' 

associated  uith  this  Oriental   hirthplu-e.      1: 

e  find  him,  Mill  a  child,  spirited 

away  from  the  far  East  to  the  Tip-  early 

iM.yh«..,d  "lit     in    the     Nand    of 

i     vivid    of   his    buyi>h 

•    the    I'.lue    Mouiitain.-.  -far 


18  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

away  beyond  which,  he  was  told,  there  was  a  dear  old 
England,  where  the  ground  in  winter  was  covered 
with  snow — and  rambles  up  country  in  a  tropical 
forest,  beneath  the  high  green  arches  and  among  the 
gnarled  roots  of  which  flowed  a  broad  shallow  expanse 
of  clear  water,  wherein  he  took  his  first  rememberable 
bathe.  He  has  since  recognised  with  delight  the 
brilliant  pictures  of  these  and  kindred  scenes  in  Michael 
Scott's  admirable  novel,  "Tom  Cringle's  Log."  Re- 
crossing  the  Atlantic,  he  was  educated  in  France,  and 
there  he  first  fell  under  the  spell  of  that  remote  anti- 
quity which  has  inspired  some  of  the  longest  and  most 
original  of  his  poems.  The  occasion  was  a  visit  to  a 
so-called  Druidical  cromlech  in  a  cornfield  on  a  hill-top 
overlooking  a  chain  of  swampy  lakelets.  The  gloomy 
oak  forests  had  vanished  in  smoke  ages  ago,  and  the 
blond  Gaul  with  his  golden  torque  had  been  replaced 
by  the  French  peasant  in  his  blouse,  but  sufficient 
remained  to  set  the  youthful  imagination  in  a  blaze. 
As  a  rule  a  poet's  biography  is  divided  into  two  por- 
tions— the  story  of  his  boyhood  and  the  story  of  his 
poems,  and  in  this  instance  it  is  only  necessary  to 
add  that  after  some  years  of  literary  and  educational 
work  in  England  and  Scotland,  he  was,  in  succession 
to  another  of  our  poets,  Mr  Freeland,  appointed  editor 
of  the  Glasgow  Weekly  Herald,  and  this  was  followed 
by  promotion  to  a  sub-editorship  on  the  Glasgow  Daily 
Herald. 

That  Mr  Canton  is  a  prolific  writer,  is  shown  by  the 
fact  that,  in  addition  to  furnishing  a  very  large  and 
extended  circle  of  the  reading  public  with  columns  of 
matter,  evincing  the  application  to  every  subject  of 
fulness  of  knowledge,  aptness  of  illustration,  and 
felicity  of  quotation,  he  has  contributed  to  St  Paul's, 
Once-a-Week,  Good  Words,  Scottish  Church,  All  the  Year 
Round,  Cassell's  Magazine,  New  Quarterly,  Contemporary 
Review,  &c.  He  is  also  the  author  of  a  three- volume 


WILLIAM    CANTON.  19 

•  •ml  novelettes  thai  have  appeared  in  the 

columns    of    the    Glasgow    Weekly    l/,nilil   and    other 

>papers.       Hi>    volume    of    prose,    entitled    "The 

Shining    \V.iif,  and  other  St<>r.  published  in 

•    by    Messrs    Dunn    &    Wright,    Glasgow,    while 

M<     r     I  thick  wood  &  Sons  have  during  the  present 

1  in   handsome   form   the   work  from 

which  we  take  our  extracts — "A  Lost  Epic,  and  other 

Pot  i 

Mr  Andrew  Lan.  .  I   that  "journalism,  as  far 

as  it  is  literary,  cannot  be  learned — it  is  not  a  trade 
to  which  a  man  can  be  apprenticed."     The  truth  of 
tiiis  is  seen  in  the  writings  of  our  profound  and  many- 
sided  poet.      He  is  always  natural,  clear,  and  effective. 
In  his  tales,  as  well  as  in   his  descriptive  articles  and 
,    the   presence   of    a  capacious  imagination, 
wealth   of  ideas,  and  freshness  of  feeling  is  al\\ 
evident.      His  tales  are  simple,  but  give  scope  for  the 
delineation  of  the  working  of  many  passion.-,  ami  each 
r  contributes  to  the  progress  of  the 
story,  and  leaves  behind  a  distinct  and  vivid  impres- 
sion.    Mr   Canton,    as   a  poet,  is    full  of  grace   and 
•y.     Indeed,  rich  and  delicately-expressed  fancy, 
daiiii  phrase,  lightness  of  touch,   and   lyriral 

the  characteristics  of  his  Muse.     He  is  in- 
rvent  adoration  for  the  good  and  beauti- 
ful, and  h  home  to  the  heart  like  a 
:i  of  loving  and  trustful  music.      Many  of  his  short 
:n  prettily  pai  I   very  tenderly  drawn 
They  are  full  of  melody,  and  fall  upon  the 
he  sweet  \  n  harp. 

.ic,"  \\hk-l.  be   title   t«»  his   latest 

ne  story   of   a    poem    \\hich    was    never 

at    epic    on    the    e\oluti<>n    <.|    the  world, 

:n_T  out   the  plan  of 

it  to  be 

found  in  'h'-  'I'Mih  <•!   tin'  'ild  ma1!,  while  lii-  uhi'lesoul 


20  MODEKN   SCOTTISH   POEfS. 

is  so  intently  fixed  on  the  task  he  has  set  for  himself 
that  he  overlooks  his  own  mortality — 

And,  dying,  he  believed  in  years  of  love 
To  lavish  on  his  poem  and  his  child. 
The  mighty  epic  that  had  filled  his  brain, 
Absorbed  his  very  being  forty  years, 
He  took  away  with  him.     A  larger  life 
May  yield  it  larger  utterance — who  can  tell  ? 

One  fragment  of  the  great  epic  was  composed,  the 
song  of  "  Blossom  and  Babe,"  which  is  very  quaint, 
very  wise,  and  very  suggestive,  and  which,  as  it  is  an 
almost  perfect  specimen  of  the  style  and  mood  our 
poet  loves,  we  quote  : — 

BLOSSOM    AND    BABE. 

O  happy  little  English  cot  !    O  rustic-sweet  vignette 
Of  red  brick  walls  and  thatched  roof,  in  apple-blossom  set  ! 
O  happy  Devon  meadows,  how  you  come  to  me  again  ! 
And  I  am  riding  as  I  rode  along  the  cool  green  lane, 
A-dreaming  and  a-dreaming  ;  and  behold  !  I  see  once  more 
The  fair  young  mother  with  her  babe  beside  the  shaded  door. 
How  bright  it  was  !     No  blossom  trembled  in  the  hot  blue  noon, 
And  grasshoppers  were  thrilling  all  the  drowsy  heart  of  June  ! 
0  babe  upon  the  bosom,  O  blossom  on  the  tree  ! 

And  as  I  passed,  the  stridulous  incessant  jangle  ran 

Along  the  hedgerow  following  me,  until  my  brain  began 

To  mingle  in  a  waking  dream  the  baby  at  the  breast, 

The  woman  and  the  apple-bloom,  the  shrilly  sounding  pest, — 

To  blend  them  with  that  great  green  age  of  trees  which  never 

shed 

A  bell  of  gold  or  purple  or  a  petal  of  white  or  red,          .J-  -i 
When  all  the  music  of  the  world — a  world  too  young  to  sing- 
Was  iuch  a  piercing  riot  made  by  such  an  insect  wing. 
O  babe  upon  the  bosom,  0  blossom  on  the  tree  ! 

And  then  1  thought  of  all  the  ages,  all  the  waste  of  power, 
That  went  to  tinge  one  pulpy  fruit,  to  Hush  one  little  flower  ; 
And  just  in  this  same  wise,  1  mused,  the  Human  too  must  grow 
Through  waste  of  life,  through  blood  and  tears,  through  centuries 

of  woe, 

To  reach  the  perfect— flower  and  fruit ;  for  Nature  does  not  scan 
More  than  the  individual  tree,  the  individual  man  ; 


WILLIAM    <ANTON.  21 

A  myriad  blojwoms  shall  be  lavished,  if  but  one  shall  give 
The  onward  impulse  to  the  thought  that  Nature  means  to  live. 
O  babe  upon  the  bosom,  O  blossom  on  the  tree  ! 

O  fair  young  mother,  far  removed  from  visions  of  unrest, 

Be  happy  in  the  baby  blossom  flushing  at  thy  breast  ! 

The  blesaeder  condition  thine,  that  thou  canst  never  see 

The  strife,  the  cruel  waste,  the  cyclic  growth  in  man  and  tree  ; 

That  thou  canst  trust  a  heart,  more  kind   than    ever   Nature 

shows, 
Will  u-ather  each  baby  bloom  that  falls,   will  cherish   each  that 

blows ; 

Canst  need  no  solace  from  the  faith,  that  since  the  world  be^an 
The  Brute  hath  reached  the  Human  through   the  martyrdom  of 

man. 

0  babe  upon  the  bosom,  0  blossom  on  the  tree  ! 

Many  readers,  however,   have  contended  that  the 

place  of  honour  should  have  Ixjen  given  to  the  second 

Through  the  Ages  :  A  Legend  of  a  Stone  Axe." 

A  professional  lecture  on   primeval  man,  mingled  with 
th«-    brightness  and   iraiety  of   a  class  of    "sweet  girl 

I,"  tills  the  mind  of  one  of  them  with  a  tr. 

M  "f  the  pa>t.     The  hall  converts  itself  into  the 

Allied  v,,i(-cs  of  the  maidens  become  the 

murmurini:  of  wind  through  the  branches  ;  the  stone 

axe-head  which  the  Professor  demonstrates  as  beinir 

recovered  from  a  half  hewn    fossilised  tree  over  Which 

id.-  n-main-  of  ocetttfl  and  forest  growths  had  been  laid 

in  the  course  of  ages,  reveals  to  her  eyes  the  story  of 

how  it   wa>  lost  l.y  tin-   original  owner.     She  sees  the 

hairy  man  -trikc  a  mighty  Mow  ;  the  axe  is  held  fast 

in  the  wood  ;  a  carnivorous  foe  of  humanity  springs  on 

M  victim  :    and    loud    through  the    forest 

riipj-s  the  shriek  of   tin-  hairy  girl  who  saw  her  father's 

!..      Tin    main  charm  of  the  poem  lies  in  its  skilful 

liiiLf  of  past   and  ;md   the    marvellous 

life  which  the  poet  has  infused   into  his  subject.     In 

cone  n,;,y  mention  that  Mr  Matthew  Arnold, 

kin-j  "f    Mr  ( 'anton's   volume  to  a  friend,   charac- 

rically    ot,.>erved  that     what   he    most    Valued    ill  it 


22  MODERN    SCOTTISH   POETS. 

was  "  not  so  much  the  imaginative  fertility  exhibited 
in  the  more  ambitious  poems  as  the  thoughtful  and 
exquisite  observation  of  Nature." 

POEMS    OF     CHILDHOOD. 

LAUS    INFANTIUM. 

In  praise  of  little  children  I  will  say 

God  first  made  man,  then  found  a  hotter  way 

For  woman,  but  His  third  way  was  the  best. 

Of  all  created  things  the  lovliest 

And  most  divine  are  children.     Nothing  here 

Can  he  to  us  more  gracious  or  more  dear. 

And  though  when  God  saw  all  His  works  were  good 

There  was  no  rosy  flower  of  babyhood, 

'Twas  said  of  children  in  a  later  day 

That  none  could  enter  heaven  save  such  as  they. 

The  earth,  which  feels  the  flowering  of  a  thorn, 
Was  glad,  0  little  child,  when  you  were  born  ; 
The  earth,  which  thrills  when  skylarks  scale  the  blue, 
Soared  up  itself  to  God's  own  heaven  in  you  ; 
And  heaven,  which  loves  to  lean  down  and  to  glass 
Its  beauty  in  each  dewdrop  on  the  grass- 
Heaven  laughed  to  find  your  face  so  pure  and  fair, 
And  left,  O  little  child,  its  reflex  there  ! 

ANY    FATHER. 

We  talked  of  you  ;  in  happy  dreams 
Our  hearts  foretold  you, 

O  little  Blossom  ! 
And  yet  how  marvellous  it  seems 

To  see  and  hold  you  ! 
We  guessed  you  boy,  we  guessed  you  maid, 

Right  glad  of  either  ; 
How  like,  how  unlike  all  we  said, 
Upon  her  knee  there, 
You  lie  and  twit  us, 
0  little  Blossom  ! 

ANY    MOTHEB. 

So  sweet,  so  strange — so  strange,  so  sweet 

Beyond  expression, 

O  little  Blossom  ! 
To  sit  and  feel  my  bosom  beat 

With  glad  possession ; 


WILLIAM   CANTON.  23 

For  you  are  ours,  our  very  own, 

None  other's,  ours  ; 
God  made  you  of  our  two  hearts  alone, 
As  God  makes  flowers 
Of  earth  and  sunshine, 
O  little  Blossom  ! 

THE    UPWARD   LOOK. 

I  cried  because  I  was  afraid. 

Strange  people  came  about  the  place  ; 
They'd  laiu  my  mother  in  a  chest, 

And  spread  a  cloth  upon  her  face. 
And  then  they  whispered  up  and  down  ; 

And  all  of  them  were  dressed  in  black  ; 
And  women  that  I  did  not  know 

Kissed  me  and  said,  "  Poor  little  Jack  !  '* 
And  then  the  great  black  horses  came— 

Their  tails  trailed  almost  on  the  ground— 
And  there  were  feathers  on  the  coach. 

And  all  the  neighbours  stood  around. 

And  when  the  horses  went  away, 

The  house  no  longer  seemed  the  same, 
And  I  grew  frightened,  and  I  called 

For  mother  ;  but  she  never  came, 
And  so  I  cried  !     But  then  my  aunt 

Came  weeping  when  she  heard  ray  cries  ; 
And  I  was  such  a  little  thing 

I  looked  up  to  her  streaming  eyes. 

I  looked  up  to  her  streaming  eyes  ! 

And  it  has  often  seemed  since  then, 
At  times  of  threatening,  doubt,  distress, 

That,  full-grown  to  the  life  of  men, 
Ju.st  so  have  I  looked  up — just  so 

Some  Being  of  a  higher  sphere. 
Aware  of  laws  from  me  concealed, 

Has  downward  looked  and  dropped  a  tear— 
A  tear  of  pity  for  the  pain 

That  I  must  feel  when  I've  outgrown 
Tin's  larger  chiMhood,  and  have  learned 

T,   know  myself  as  I  am  known. 

BUSPIRIDM. 

These  little  shoes  !— How  proud  she  was  of  these  ! 
Can  you  f< ••  itting  on  your  knees, 

prattle  volubly,  and  raise 
Her  linv  feet  to  win  your  wondering  praise' 
Was  life  too  rough  for  feet  so  softly  shod, 


24  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

That  now  she  walks  in  Paradise  with  God, 
Leaving  but  these  —  whereon  to  dote  and  muse  — 
These  little  shoes  ? 


WAYSIDE   VIGNETTES. 

LOVE  AND  LABOUR. 

At  noon  he  seeks  a  grassy  place 

Beneath  the  hedgerow  from  the  heat  ; 

His  wife  sits  by,  with  happy  face, 
And  makes  his  homely  dinner  sweet. 

Upon  her  lap  their  baby  lies, 

Rosy  and  plump  and  stout  of  limb  — 

With  two  great  blue  unwinking  eyes 
Of  stolid  wonder  watching  him. 

The  trees  are  swooning  in  the  heat  ; 

No  bird  has  heart  for  song  or  flight  ; 
The  fiery  poppy  in  the  wheat 

Droops,  and  the  blue  sky  aches  with  light. 

He  empties  dish,  he  empties  can  ; 

He  coaxes  baby  till  she  crows  ; 
Then  rising  up  a  strengthened  man, 

He  blythely  back  to  labour  goes. 

His  hammer  clinks  through  glare  and  heat— 
With  little  thought  and  well  content 

He  toils  and  splits  for  rustic  feet 
Fragments  of  some  old  continent. 

Homeward  he  plods,  his  travail  o'er, 
^Through  sunset  lanes,  past  fragrant  farms, 

Till  —  glimpse  of  heaven  !  —  his  cottage-door 
Frames  baby  in  her  mother's  arms. 


BY  MOONLIGHT. 

Afoot  at  midnight.     All  the  way 

Is  warm  and  sweet  with  scents  of  May. 

The  cocks  are  crowing  hours  too  soon, 
The  dogs  are  barking  far  and  near, 
The  frogs  are  croaking  round  the  mere  • 
And  in  a  tree  the  naked  Moon 
Is  crouching  down,  as  though  she  would 
Her  silvery- bosomed  maidenhood 


WILLIAM    CANTON. 

Conceal  among  the  leaves,  too  thin 
nail  to  bide  her  beauty  in. 

Dear  Moon,  'tis  I,  thy  friend— who  pray 
Thy  company  upon  my  way. 


IN  THK  FALL. 

Among  the  bleak,  wet  woods  I  tread 
On  leaves  of  yellow  ami  of  red  ; 
The  leaven  are  whirled  in  wind  and  rain, 
The  woods  are  filled  with  sounds  of  pain  : 
No  bird  is  left  to  sing. 

Man  s  (It-tiny  is  blowing  wind, 
A  little  leaf  is  all  mankind  ; 
The  wind  blows  high,  the  wind  blows  low 
The  leaflet  flutters  to  and  fr<>. 
And  dreams  it  in  a  wing. 

An  id  the  blowing  of  the  wind, 
Amid  the  drifting  of  mankind, 
Among  the  melancholy  rain, 
And  woodlands  filled  with  sounds  of  pain. 
No  heart  in  left  to  sing. 


A    DESK  WEI)  GARDEN. 

\  highroad  white  with  the  dust  of  May  ; 

An  old  red  wall,  and  an  iron  gate  ; 
A  scent  of  Spring-time  :  n  Moasomy  spray, 

Thrown  ov^r  and  bowed  by  the  blo»s»oni'H  weight. 

An  empty  house,  and  a  garden-ground 
That  no  one  tended  !    The  flowering  trees 

Had  grown  half  wild.     With  a  revel  of  sound 
The  bird*  in  flocks  made  merry  at  ease. 

The  gravelled  pathways  were  blurred  with  green  : 
The  flower-hedx  each  into  other  had  run  ; 

Twas  all  one  ferment  of  colour  and  nheen, 
And  scent  and  song,  in  th>-  'Jittering  -tm 

And  vet  Mi--  I'Uce  had  ft  rueful  look 

lack  of  laughter  and  pattering  feet : 
.it-tree  slui'lowe-l  ii"  n  :ii<l- 
No  greybeard  dozed  on  the  garden  seat. 


26  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

Methought  I  saw,  as  T  gazed  within, 

An  idyl  of  youth  with  its  bliss  and  pain— 

The  empty  house  of  "what  might  have  been" — 
The  garden  of  dreams  that  were  dreamed  in  vain. 


THE    LATTER    LAW. 
I. 

When,  schooled  to  resignation,  I  had  ceased 
To  yearn  for  my  lost  Eden  ;  when  I  knew 
No  loving  Spirit  brooded  in  the  blue, 

And  none  should  see  His  coming  in  the  East, 

I  looked  for  comfort  in  my  creed  ;  I  sought 
To  draw  all  nature  nearer,  to  replace 
The  sweet  old  myths,  the  tenderness,  the  grace 

Of  God's  dead  world  of  faith  and  reverent  thought. 

Oh,  joy  !  I  found  the  stern  new  Law  reveal 
Romance  more  rare  than  poesy  creates  : 
Your  blood,  it  said,  is  kindred  with  the  sap 
Which  throbs  within  the  cedar,  and  mayhap 
In  some  dim  wise  the  tree  reciprocates, 
Even  as  a  Dryad,  all  the  love  you  feel. 


II. 

You  and  the  great  glad  Earth  are  kith  and  kin, 
There  is  one  base,  one  scheme  of  life,  one  hope 
On  that  and  this  side  of  the  microscope. 

All  things,  now  wholes,  have  parts  of  many  been, 

And  all  shall  be.  A  disk  of  Homer's  blood 
May  redden  a  daisy  on  an  English  lawn, 
And  what  was  Chaucer  glimmer  in  the  dawn 

To-morrow  o'er  the  plains  where  llion  stood. 

No  jot  is  lost,  or  scorned,  or  disallowed  ; 
One  Law  reigns  over  all.     Take  you  no  care, 
For  while  all  beings  change  one  life  endures, 
And  a  new  cycle  waits  for  you  and  yours 
To  melt  away,  like  streaks  of  morning  cJoud, 
Into  the  infinite  azure  of  things  that  were. 


ill. 

And  soon  the  selfish  clinging  unto  sense, 
The  longing  that  this  ME  should  never  fail, 
Loosed  quivering  hands,  for  oh  !   of  what  avail 

Were  such  survived,  of  intelligence, 


D.    O.    MITCHELL.  27 

If  all  the  creat  and  good  of  days  gone  by — 
Plato.  Hypatia,  Shakespeare — had  surceased, 
H       ;    ;i    '      with  the  cloud,  the  plant,  the  beast, 

And  God  were  bat  a  mytboe  of  the  sky  V 

And  when  I  thought,  o'ershadowed  with  itrange  awe, 
How  Christ  was  dead — had  ceased  in  utter  woe, 
With  that  great  cry  "  Forsaken  !  "  on  the  cross, 
I  felt  at  first  a  sense  of  bitter  loss, 
And  then  grew  passire,  saying,  "  Be  it  so  ! 
11s  one  with  Christ  and  Judas.     Tia  the  law  !  " 

IV. 

But  when  my  child,  my  one  girl-babe  lay  dead — 
The  blossom  of  me,  my  dream  and  my  desire  — 
And  uushed  tears  burned  in  my  eyes  like  fire, 

A  ii' I  when  my  wife  subdued  her  sobs,  and  said — 

"  Oli  !  husband,  do  not  grieve,  be  comforted, 

is  with  Christ  !"— I  laughed  in  my  despair. 
With  Christ,  0  God  !  and  where  is  Christ,  and  where 

My  poor  dead  babe  ?    And  where  the  countless  dead  * 

The  great  glad  Earth — my  kin  ! — is  glad  as  though 
N"  child  had  ever  died  :  the  heaven  of  May 
Leans  like  a  laughing  face  above  my  grief. 
Is  she  clean  lost  for  ever?     How  shall  I  know ': 
0  Christ  !  art  thou  still  Christ  ?    And  shall  I  pray 
For  fulness  of  belief  or  unbelief  ? 


DAVID     GIBB     MITCHELL 

3  mother   bright   example  amongst  several 

that  we  have  given  of  how   a  youug  man  : 

ndomitable  JM,TMIV«"  ';tin  f'-.r  hin.  rlt'  .-ill  tin- 

i  a  University  train inir   ui;  most 

David  <;il>l>  Mitclu  i!  \va>  Urn 

in    1  SO:1,  in    (Ilrii<l;  -hall,     K  ii,i-ar«lilU' 

rt   peril. (1  <>f  i-arly  l*>\  i  •  t  in 

;i-  in  tin-  lumi  with  lu-nt  pins,  gat  ln-rin^  nuts  ami 


28  MODERN   SCOTTISH    POETS. 

blaeberries,  cutting  bracken  for  "bedding,"  and  bear- 
ing home  many  a  "birden"  of  sticks  from  the  woods, 
he  was  sent  to  Banchory  school  for  two  years.  Every 
morning  his  pocket  was  filled  with  oat  cakes  for 
his  dinner,  while  sowens  were  waiting  him  for  supper  on 
his  return  home.  When  getting  his  daily  supply 
of  bannocks,  his  mother  would  say — "  Sey,  lathie,  pit 
that  i'  yer  pouch,  an'  rin.  See  an'  say  yer  lessons 
richt  the  day,  an'  we'll  maybe  mak'  something  o'  ye 
yet,  fa  kens?"  His  grandmother  used  to  make  him 
learn  Psalms  and  Paraphrases.  On  one  occasion 
she  said — "Noo,  Davie,  ye'll  stap  up  to  the  garret  an' 
learn  a  Paraphrase,  an'  I'll  try  an'  ha'e  yer  stockin' 
taed  afore  ye  come  back."  Once  he  was  greatly  en- 
couraged by  the  minister  reading  to  the  congregation 
at  an  evening  service  a  little  essay  of  his  composition 
on  the  subject  of  the  children  of  Israel  crossing  the 
Red  Sea.  Leaving  school  at  fifteen,  he  was  sent  direct 
to  the  harvest-field  to  undertake  a  man's  labour.  At 
times  the  blood  ran  from  the  tips  of  his  fingers,  but 
the  greive  kept  up  his  heart  by  calling  him  "a 
sturdy  loon."  Next,  as  a  railway  clerk,  he  learned 
to  work  the  telegraph.  This  was  followed  by  his  act- 
ing as  message  boy  in  a  factory  in  Perthshire,  where, 
six  months  after,  he  became  invoice  clerk,  and  ulti- 
mately pay  clerk,  at  the  same  time  attending  night 
schools  in  connection  with  a  Young  Men's  Christian 
Association.  At  the  age  of  seventeen  Mr  Mitchell 
went  to  St  Andrews  University.  Seldom  was  a  lad  so 
badly  equipped.  He  carried  all  his  clothes  on  his 
back  ;  but  he  worked  with  desperate  effort.  A  minis- 
ter he  was  determined  to  be.  This  wish  was 
early  created  within  him,  and  although  its  accom- 
plishment seemed  impossible,  the  desire  grew. 
We  are  informed  that  he  often  stood  and  preached  to 
the  trees  long  before  he  attempted  to  utter  a  word 
to  an  intelligent  audience  of  human  beings.  He 


,.    MITCH:  29 

not  only  worked   mentally,   but   during    the  summer 
holidays    lie    acquired    a    knowledge    of    his    father's 
trade,   ami   when   he  returned  to  college   his   hands 
illy  "spoke  for  themselves."     He  soon  made  way 
in  his  studies,   but  excelled   in    English   Literature, 
,  and  Moral  1'hilnsonhy,  and  in  the  latter  class  he 
competed  for  the  poem  on   **  Heraclitus,"  prescribed 
by  !  Knight,  and  came  in  second.     His  musi- 

Irew  him  out  among  the  students  a  good 
Mr  Mitchell  was  an  office-bearer  in  most  of 
the  >..<-ieties,  having  been  secretary  of  the  Musical 
ty  for  two  years,  treasurer  of  the  Classical  De- 
bating Society,  vice-president  of  the  Liberal  Associa- 
tion, secretary  and  treasurer,  and  ultimately  president, 
of  the  Free  Church  Missionary  Society,  and  one  of  the 
first  members  of  the  Students'  Representative  Council, 
which  now  forms  a  very  important  body  in  all 
I'niversities.  He  was  also  a  member  of  the  Shakes- 
pearean Dramatic  Association,  and  on  various  occu>. 
acted  important  parts.  But  he  was  perhaps 
known  i«.r  his  musical  abilities,  and  for  his  able  advo- 
cacy of  total  abstinence. 

D   our   poet  left  St  Andrews,  Lew  -is  Campbell, 
LL. I1  ssor  of  Greek,  gave  him  a  very  warm 

monial,  in  which  he  said: — "MrD.  <J.  Mitchrll- 
course  at  St  Andrews  has  left  on  my  mind  a  favour- 
on   of  his   character  and  of  his   general 
abili'  nig  somewhat  behind  hand  when  he  » 

to  college,  he  has  shown   much   honourable  and  manly 
and  he  ha>  latterly  shown  signs  of  tulriit 
with    which    he    hud    not    before    U-en 
ll«-  i-  gifted,  amongst  other  tl  .1  h  a 

good  r,  \\hich  .should  be  of 

iu  as  a  preacher." 

hard   drudgery  is  now  over,  and  the  hark  that 

had  to  face  severe  storms,  and  drift  over  many  a  wild 

•  red  upon  calmer    waters.      Although    he 


30  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

is  not  yet  quite  a  "  full-fledged  "  minister,  during  the 
present  year  (1887)  Mr  Mitchell  has  had  a  temporary 
charge  in  Orkney,  where  he  is  held  in  much  esteem. 
For  some  time  he  has  been  an  occasional  contributor 
to  the  columns  of  several  magazines  and  newspapers, 
including  the  Fifeshire  Journal,  Dundee  Evening  Tele- 
graph, &c.  In  his  poetry  we  find  frequent  evidence 
of  grace  and  beauty  of  thought,  pleasing  fancy,  and 
tender  feeling.  An  inherent  appreciation  of  the 
beautiful  in  Nature,  a  melodious  ear,  and  high  moral 
purpose,  with  an  occasional  vein  of  quiet,  but  genuine 
humour  are  characteristics  of  his  Muse. 


"OCR,     HEY,     HUM." 

When  hearts  are  bleedin'  sair  wi'  grief,  and  care  has  knit  the 

broo, 
And  time  has  made  the  auld  head  bare  whaur  bonnie  ringlets 

grew, 

A  weary  sigh  steals  frae  the  soul  that's  a'tnost  owrecorne, 
Yet  buried  grief  aft  finds  relief  in  "  Och,  hey,  hum." 

The  faithfu'  shepherd  leads  his  flock  oot  owre  the  green  hillside, 
And  tak's  them  to  the  choicest  knowes  whaur   a'  may  there 

abide, 

But  when  the  sun  sinks  frae  his  view,  and  cares  his  heart  benumb 
Kind  heaven  only  hears  his  cry  of  "  Och,  hey,  hum." 

The  labourin'  man  wi'  busy  hand  that  toils  frae  morn  till  nicht, 
And  prays  betimes  that  a'  his  bairns  may  grow  up  to  do  richt, 
Feels  borne  doon  aneath  a  load  owre  heavy  far  for  some — 
Gets  cheerfu'  comfort  when  he  utters  "  Och,  hey,  hum." 

The  mither  by  the  cradle  side  sits  watching  there  alane, 
To  keep  the  messenger  o'  death  awa'  frae  her  door  stane, 
Aft  hides  the  tears  that  Nature  sends  when  death  at  last  has 

come, 
Yet  noo  and  than  you'll  hear  her  sobbin'  "  Och,  hey,  hum." 

Set  let  us  a'  be  thankfu'  that  we're  no  sent  here  to  bide, 
The  day  will  come  when  a'  will  meet  owre  on  the  ither  side  • 
Nae  trachle  there,  nor  sorrow  there,  nae  lip  will  there  be  dumb 
Nae  tears  will  flow,  nae  tongue  will  utter  "Och,  hey,  hum  " 


D.    O.    MITCHELL.  31 

WHAT  I;     IN    YOUTH  jgyj    ROVED. 

The  auld  man 

A  Ule  o' 
But  thro  the  mists 

Id-  thochts  far  backward  stray. 

Kiiul  mem'ries  clin_-  aroun'  the  hame 

That  first  the  young  heart  loved, 
And  nothing  breathes  a  sweeter  name 

Than  whaur  in  youth  we  roved. 

The  birdies  a*  sing  blyther  there, 

The  licht  shines  brichter  duon, 
And  clearer,  purer,  seems  the  air, 

And  a'  the  sky  aboon. 

The  shaggy  rock  that  tow're  sae  high, 

To  hit-Id  the  cauld  north  hreexe, 
Looks  caln.ly  doon  and  seems  to  sigh 

Frae  oot  the  dark  fir  trees. 

I  stood  upon  its  hoary  head, 

And  watched  the  sleepy  Tay 
Wind  slowly  owre  its  sandy  bed— 

Hoo  sluuiberin'  like  it  lay. 

I  saw  the  burnie  rollin'  doon 

It*  waters  to  the  sea, 
And  noiay  l-airnies  jinkin'  roun' 

The  »tanes  wi'  playfu*  glee. 

The  Milton  Den,  wi'  a'  its  load 

O'  fragrance,  bloomin'  fair, 
Gar«  tnem'ry  tread  a  pleasant  road — 

Twa  bonnie  kirks  stan'  there. 

Love,  joy,  and  innocence  divine 

nark  the  early  day  ; 
Oh  what  a  happy  life  was  thine 
To  be  a  child  for  aye. 


CONSIDER    TH  K     I.I  I,Y. 

.id  upon  the  universe  I  looked  with  curious  eye  ; 

i  watt  slowly  stealing  o'er  a  cold  and  wintry  sky  ; 
tragrant  (lowers  had  ceased  to  bloom,  and  son  us  had  c 
tn  ' 

.-  that  only  love  Lo  chant  when  -umiiier  /t-phyrs  blow. 


3$  MODERN   SCOTTISH    POETS. 

But,  gently  as  the  green  grass  grows,   the  winter  changed  to 

spring, 

And  kindly  did  the  glowing  sun  a  choir  of  songsters  bring  ; 
They  filled  the  verdant  woods  around,   and  mingled  with   the 

breeze 
Their  notes  of  gratitude  and  joy  :    "  'Tis   spring-time,   if  you 

please." 

So,  as  I  lingered  near  a  rock  with  pathway  twining  round, 
I  saw  a  lily  rear  its  head  above  the  hoary  ground  ; 
A  happy  home,  methought,  it  had,  quite  in  a  world  of  love, 
The  angels  must  have  placed  it  there  to  guard  it  from  above. 

Alone  it  blushed  ;  no  other  gem  was  smiling  where  it  grew, 

Nurtured  by  the  genial  rays  and  by  the  gentle  dew. 

No  northern  blasts  e'er  shook  its  stem,  and  east  winds  seldom 

swept 
Across  its  brow  of  snowlike  hue  :  surely  by  Heaven  'twas  kept ! 

Just  at  this  happy  moment  beamed  the  sun's  effulgent  blaze 
Down  on  the  lily's  lowly  bed,  but  downcast  seemed  its  gaze  ; 
A  thought  had  struck  the  lily  as  it  looked  across  the  lea  : — 
"  Why  do  I  live  to  bloom  alone,  for  all  have  mates  but  me  ?  " 

Such  was  its  cry  ;  but  presently  the  soft  wind  moaning  blew 
Over  its  lonely  path,  and  heard  a  voice  it  somehow  knew 
Nor  lingered  long,  but  off  it  sped  ;  no  time  it  had  to  wait 
Doubting  if  this  pure  lily  would  be  better  with  a  mate. 

After  a  few  bright  sunny  days  when  all  the  woods  were  green, 
Varied  were  the  brilliant  tints,  magnificent  the  scene  ! 
I  visited  the  well-known  spot,  thinking  my  flower  would  be 
Deserted,  as  'twas  wont  to  be,  lamenting  grievously. 

Good  fortune  had  it  otherwise.     Another  lily  grew, 

Mingling  its  beauty  with  the  one  it  only  lately  knew ; 

In  meekness  both  were  perfect,  and  quite  humble  was  their  pride. 

To  one  the  other  said  :  "  My  friend,  I'd  like  to  be  your  bride." 

Calmly  pondered  this  fair  lily ;  much  gladness  filled  its  soul, 
Hearing  how  the  winds  had  borne  a  companion  to  console  ; 
Each  whispered  as  a  new  day  dawned  ;    "  We  will  woo,   we  will 

woo  ;  " 
Larks  that  sang  above  responded  ;  "  Dinna  rue,  dinna  rue." 

ONLY    A     CRUMB. 

'Twas  only  a  crumb  that  the  poor  beggar  sought, 
Just  a  crumb  from  the  rich  man's  hand  ; 


HAROLD    BOULTON.  33 

mehow  he  thought  that  the  better  one's  lot 
Made  better  the  hearts  in  our  lan<l. 

So  the  rich  man  gazed  on  the  feet  that  were  bare, 

And  furrows  that  wrinkled  the  brow  ; 
But  little  he  knew  of  the  care  that  was  there  ; 

For  there's  care  with  the  jmor  I  trow. 

And  the  old  man  wit  with  a  look  of  despair, 

••n vied  the  bird*  in  the  sky, 

And  longed  lie  could  Him;  with  the  lark  in  the  air, 
But  all  he  could  do  was  to  nigh. 

Meanwhile  the  bright  Rim  sank  to  rest  in  the  west, 

\  nd  bees  swarmed  by  with  a  hum  ; 
But  Death  laid  his  hand  -m  the  poor  beg^ar'x  breast  ; 

He  died  for  the  lack  of  a  crumb. 


HAROLD  BOULTON, 

TIYfTj  HO,  with  Miss  Macleorl,  us  noticed  in  our 
VLVll  'IVnth  Scries,  edited  "  Son-s  of  the  North," 
cannot  claim  Scotland  as  liis  birthplace,  hut  he  has 
much  l>oth  in  the  flesh  and  in  the  spirit 
that  In-  i>  "  plus  royaliste  quo  le  roi ''  in  Ins  love  of  all 

1  with   it.      Its  literature   has  1 n  his   study 

from    a    \  v    age,    and  r..nn«-,-t  i"ii-  and    t'ririxU 

used   him   :"   ipen  d«-ul  of  time   in 

Mr    r.oiilton  is  the  i-ldrst    son  of  S.  K 

I'.oi;'  I  Hall,  II.  rp'  r  lohire,      I'.  TU  in 

:  irrou  (uhi'i-rhr  was  monitor 

left)  and   at   Italiinl  <  '<•!  0    :'"nl,  v.  h«-rc  he 

II..HMIM--  in  i1  "S0,  and  was /;/-o./-/;//r  <i>'cc*sit 

£ate  pri/.«-  j m.      I  !••  '  fre-juent 

tinl    other    m. 

y  Review 
;'t.  t-. 
C 


34  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

He  joined  the  Inverness  Militia — the  2nd  Cameron 
Highlanders — in  1883.  Doubtless  his  friendship  with 
the  late  Principal  Shairp  gave  an  extra  spur  to  his 
literary  bent,  and  being  much  infused  with  Jacobite 
and  kindred  sentiments,  he  wandered  much  about  the 
Highlands  of  Argyll  and  Inverness  at  the  time 
he  was  engaged  on  "  The  Songs  of  the  North " 
(London  :  Field  &  Tuer,  the  Leadenhall  Press). 
In  our  brief  sketch  of  Miss  Macleod  we  re- 
ferred at  some  length  to  this  valuable  and  beautiful 
volume,  of  which  Mr  Ford  has  said  in  his  "  Poet's 
Album "  "  it  is  a  collection  that  every  singer  will 
desire  to  have,  and  every  Scotchman  will  be  wise  to 
get."  Songs  greatly  dissimilar  in  character  and  in 
point  of  antiquity,  and  hailing  from  widely  different 
localities,  are  here  found  side  by  side,  because  out  of 
an  almost  inexhaustible  wealth  of  material,  they  were 
considered  most  worthy  to  be  known  to  the  many, 
as  they  have  hitherto  been  to  the  few.  A  certain  pro- 
portion of  the  songs,  notably  some  of  the  Highland 
ones,  are  here  printed  for  the  first  time,  and  their  pre- 
sence is  due  to  the  good  fortune  of  one  or  other  of  the 
editors  in  meeting  with  them  among  friends  in  dif- 
ferent parts  of  the  country.  In  some  cases  words  in 
the  Lowland  Scottish  language  that  either  had  no 
tunes,  or  were  wedded  to  tunes  altogether  unworthy 
of  them,  have  been  set  to  old  Highland  melodies.  In 
a  few  instances  new  words  have  been  written  for 
melodies  whose  original  words  have  been  lost,  and  in 
several  cases  only  the  melodies  themselves  are  new. 
Mr  Boulton  acknowledges  having  received  valuable 
aid  in  his  researches  from  Dr  Clark  of  Kilmallie,  Dr 
Alex.  Stewart  ("  Nether  Lochaber"),  Professor  Blackie, 
and  others.  The  following  have  a  place  in  "  Songs 
of  the  North,"  and  we  consider  ourselves  greatly 
favoured  by  being  permitted  to  present  them  to  our 
readers.  They  possess  the  true  spirit  of  poetry,  and 


HAROLD  BOULTON.  35 

:uv  thoroughly  imbued  with  the  beautiful  simplicity 
HI  «1  tender  pathos  of  the  old  ballad.  The  simple 
j«.\s  and  homely  habits  of  rural  life  are  graphically 
depicted ;  and  while  some  of  his  strains  are  deli- 
cately touching,  all  his  productions  display  ease  and 
sprightliness  of  versification.  The  realism,  and  the 
healthy  tone  of  the  sentiments  must  commend  them 
to  all  who  believe  in  and  appreciate  what  is  noble 
and  pure. 

"REST,     MY     A  IN     BAIRNIE." 

(A  HIGHLAND  CRADLE  SONG.) 

my  ain  bairnie,  lie  peaceful  and  still, 
Sleeping  or  waking  I'll  guard  thee  from  ill. 
Fair  be  thyibody,  whiter  than  snow, 
No  evil  mark  thee  from  the. heel  to  the  brow  ; 
No  ghoMt  shall  fright  thee,  nought  shalt  thou  fear, 
111  sing  them  a  charm  that  none  may  come  near. 
Then  rest,  my  ain  bairnie,  Ac. 

Kerily  gathers  the  mist  on'Ben  Shee, 
Coldly  the  wind  sweeps  in  from  the  nea, 
But  terror  and  -t»rm  in  iv  come  east  or  come  west, 
Warm  will  my  l.irdk-  hide  in  the  ne*t. 
Then  rest,  my  ain  .bairnie,  &r. 

Fresh  as  the  heather  thy  boyhood  will  bloom, 
114  as  the  pine  thy  manhood  will  c«»mr, 

Flower  of  thy  kinsmen,  chief  of  thy  clan, 

Kiii«  of,  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  wee 'man. 
Fhen  rest,  my  ain  bairnie,  &c. 

i  <;AEDDOUN  GLENMORIST<».Y> 

As  I  gaed  doun  GlenmorUton, 

Where  waters  meet  about  Alteerie, 
I  saw  my  laiutie  milkin'  kye 

.  ilfu   hand  and  Hang  t«a<  cheerie  ; 
The  wind  that  atiiru<l  her  <owdeu  hair 

Blew  saftly  frae  the  hill  at  even, 
And  like  a  moorlnnd  H<>wer 

That  lichtly  lifU  its  head  to  heaven. 

that  hweet  •  a  »«••  I  «1  lirt-athe 

\N  i  iiocht  but  clouds  and  hill-  to  hear  m. -, 


36  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

And  when  the  warlel  to  rest  was  laid 
I'd  watch  for  dawn  and  wish  her  near  me, 

Till  ane  by  ane  the  stars  were  gane, 
The  inoor-cock  to  his  mate  called  clearly, 

And  daylicht  glinted  on  the  burn 

Where  red-deer  cross  at  mornin'  early. 

The  years  are  lang,  the  wark  is  sair, 

And  life  is  afttimes  wae  and  wearie, 
Yet  Foyer's  flood  shall  cease  to  fall 

Ere  my  love  fail  unto  my  dearie. 
I  lo'ed  her  then,  I  lo'e  her  now, 

And  cauld  the  warld  wad  be  without  her, 
The  croodlin'  bairnies  at  her  knee 

And  licht  o'  mither's  love  about  her. 


BONNIE    STRATHYRE. 

There's  meadows  in  Lanark  and  mountains  in  Skye, 
And  pastures  in  Hielands  and  Lawlands  forbye  ; 
But  there's  nae  greater  luck  that  the  heart  could  desire 
Than  to  herd  the  fine  cattle  in  bonnie  Strathyre. 

0  its  up  in  the  morn  and  awa'  to  the  hill, 
When  the  lang  simmer  days  are  sae  warm  and  sae  still, 
Till  the  peak  p;  Ben  Voirlich  is  girdled  wi'  fire, 
And  the  evenin'  fa's  gently  on  bonnie  Strathyre. 

Then  there's  mirth  in  the  shieling  and  love  in  my  breast 
When  the  sun  is  gane  doun  and  the  kye  are  at  rest ; 
For  there's  rnony  a  prince  wad  be  proud  to  aspire 
To  my  winsome  wee  Maggie,  the  pride  o'  Strathyre. 

Her  lips  are  like  rowans  in  ripe  simmer  seen, 
And  mild  as  the  starlicht  the  glint  o'  her  e'en  ; 
Far  sweeter  her  breath  than  the  scent  o'  the  briar 
And  her  voice  is  sweet  music  in  bonnie  Strathyre.' 

Set  Flora  by  Colin,  and  Maggie  by  me, 
And  we'll  dance  to  the  pipes  swellin'  loudly  and  free 
Till  the  moon  in  the  heavens  climbing  higher  and  higher 
Bids  us  sleep  on  fresh  brackens  in  bonnie  Strathyre. 

Though  some  to  gay  touns  in  the  Lawlands  will  roam 
And  some  will  gang  sodgerin'  far  from  their  home  ;    ' 
Yet  1 11  aye  herd  my  cattle,  and  big  my  ain  byre 
And  love  my  ain  Maggie  in  bonnie  Strathyre. 


HAROLD   BOULTON. 

MAIDEN    OF    MORVEN. 

Moan  y«  winds  that  never  sleep, 
Howl  ye  spirits  of  the  deep, 
Roar  ye  torrents  down  the  steep, 

Roll  ye  mists  on  Morven. 
May  the  tempests  never  rest, 
Nor  the  seas  with  peace  be  blest 
Since  they  tore  thee  from  ray  breast, 

Maiden. of  Morven. 

Fairer  than  the  flowers  that  grow, 
Purer  than  the  rills  that  flow, 
Gentler  than  the  fallow  doe 

'Mid  the  woods^of  Morven  ; 
As  the  leaf  is  to;the  tree, 
As  the  summer  to  the  bee, 
So  wert  thou,  my  love,  to  me, 

Maiden  of  Morven. 

Ossian's  harp  sings  Fingal's  praise  ; 
Wild  the  lilt  of  Carril's  lays, 
Men  and  maids  of  other  days 

Fire  his  tales  of  Morven. 
Though  their  chords  like  thunder  roll, 
When  at  Beltane  brims  the  bowl, 
Thou'rt  the  music  of  my  soul, 

Maiden  .of. Morven. 

Oft  I  chased  the  deer  of  yore  ; 
Many  a  battle-brunt  I  bore, 
When  the  chiefs  of  Innistore 

Hurled  their  might  on  Morven. 
HI -I  nt  my  spear,  and  slack  my  bow, 
Like  an  empty  ghost  I  go, 
Death  the  only  hope  I  know, 

Maiden  of  Morven. 


LAMENT  FOR  MACLEAN  OF  ARDOOUR, 

Wail  loudly,  ye  women,  your  coronach  doleful,    ' 
lament  him,  ye  pipers,  tread  solemn  and  slow, 
Mown  down  like  u  flower  M  the  chief  ofjAnl. 
And  the  heurt*  of  the  clnii.iiiien  are  weary  with  woe. 

I  like  a  f*t ; 

Unconrjufr.  1  in  fi-ht  was  the  blade  that  he  bore, 
Uut  the  MMi  wan  the  k'l"ry  ami  i  mauhood, 

1  the  hunter,  Macgilliaii  More. 


38  MODERN^SCOTTISH    POETS. 

Low  down  liy  yon  burn  that's  half  hidden  with  heather 

He  lurked  like  a  lion  in  the  lair  he  knew  well  ; 
'Twas  there  sobbed  the  red-deer  to  feel  his  keen  dagger, 

There  pierced  by  his  arrow  the  cailzie-cock  fell. 
How  oft  when  at  e'en  he_would  watch  for  the  wild  fowl, 

Like  lightning  his  coracle  sped  from  the  shore  ; 
But  still,  and  for  aye,  as  we  cross  the  lone  lochan, 

Is  Donald  the  hunter,  Macgillian  More. 

Once  more  let  his  war-cry  resound  in  the  mountains, 

Macdonalds  shall  hear  it  in  eerie  Glencoe, 
Its  echoes  shall  float  o'er  the  braes  of  Lochaber, 

Till  Stewarts  at  Appin  that  slogan  shall  know  ; 
And  borne  to^the  waters  beyond  the  Loch  Linnhe, 

'Twixt  Morven  and  Mull  where  the  tide-eddies  roar, 
MacgilHans  shall  hear  it  and  mourn  for  their  kinsman, 

For  Donald  the  hunter,  Macgillian  More. 

Then  here  let  him  rest  in  the  lap  of  Scaur  Donald, 

The  wind  for  his  watcher,  the  mist  for  his  shroud, 
Where  the  green  and  the  grey  moss  will  weave  their  wild  tartans, 

A  covering  meet  for  a  chieftain  so  proud. 
For,  free  as  the  eagle,  these  rocks  were  his  eyrie, 

And  free  as  the  eagle  his  spirit  shall  soar 
O'er  the  crags  and  the  corries  that  erst  knew  the  footfall 

Of  Donald  the  hunter,  Macgillian  More. 


SKYE    BOAT    SONG. 

Speed,  bonnie  boat,  like  a  bird  on  the  wing, 

Onward,  the  sailors  cry, 
Carry  the  lad  that's  born  to  be  king 

Over  the  sea  to  Skye. 
Loud  the  winds  howl,  loud  the  waves  roar, 

Thunder-clouds  rend  the  air  ; 
Baffled,  our  foes  stand  by  the  shore  ; 
Follow,  they  will  not  dare. 
Speed,  bonnie  boat,  etc. 

Though  the  waves  leap,  soft  shall  ye  sleep  ; 

Ocean's  a  royal  bed  ; 
Hocked  in  the  deep,  Flora  will  keep 

Watch  by  your  weary  head. 
Speed,  bonnie  boat,  etc. 

Many's  the  lad  fought  on  that  day 

Well  the  claymore  could  wield, 
When  the  night  came  silently  lay 

Dead  on  Culloden's  field. 
Speed,  bonnie  boat,  etc. 


ALEXANDER  COWAN.  39 

Burned  are  our  homes,  exilefand  death 

Scatter  the  loyal  men, 
Yet  ere  the  aword  cool  in  the>  heath 

Charlie  will  cntne  again. 
Speed,  bonnie  boat,  etc. 


ALEXANDER    COWAN. 

-iCKOM  the  preface  to  a  volume  entitled  "  Remains 
J|  of  Alexander  Cowan "  (Edinburgh :  Thomas 
Constable,  1839),  consisting  of  his  verses  and  extracts 
from  his  correspondence  and  journals,  and  printed  for 
the  use  of  his  relatives,  we  learn  that  the  pieces  we 
are  privileged  to  give  were  not  intended  for  publica- 
tion, but  only  in  order  to  furnish  an  interesting  re- 
membrance of  one  who  was  highly  valued  in  his 
domestic  ami  ?»ociiil  circle.  Our  poet  was  the  son 

Mr  Alex.  Cowan,  and  was  born  at  Valleyfield, 
IVnicuik,  in  1804.  The  rudiments  of  his  education 
obtained  at  the  parish  school  of  Penicuik  and  at 
th<  Edinburgh  High  School.  At  an  early  age  he  dis- 
covered those  powers  of  memory  and  observation 
which,  at  a  more  advanced  period  of  life,  developed 
themaelvec  in  the  acquirement  and  retention  of  exten- 
sive and  varied  statistical  information,  for  which  he 
was  remarkable.  About  the  age  of  thirteen,  his  father's 
family  having  gone  to  reside  at  Melville  Mill,  he  be- 

e  the  pupil  of  \Yilliiiru  Tennant,  author  of  "  Anster 

1  ..HUT  porm.s,  who  was  then  a  teacher  at 

Las8N\  ide.      He  had  gn-at    .1.  IL'ht    in    Mr   Tennant's 

instructions,  and  we  are  told  that   their  studies  were 

not    limited  to  the  branches  of  knowledge  ordinarily 

lit    in    tin-    parish  but  extended  to   the 

languages  of  the  Blast,  particularly  the  Persian.     To 


40  MODBEN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

this  connection,  doubtless,  may  be  attributed  the 
development  of  that  love  of  poetry,  and  that  poetical 
temperament  which,  in  an  unobtrusive  manner,  after- 
wards marked  both  the  literary  pursuits  and  the 
general  character  of  the  pupil.  The  natural  bent  of 
his  mind  had,  however,  already  taken  this  direction, 
for,  so  early  as  his  twelfth  year,  he  had  ventured  to 
pay  court  to  the  Muses,  and  in  confidence  revealed  his 
passion  and  the  fruits  of  it  (which  were  carefully 
hoarded  in  an  old  desk)  to  one  of  his  sisters. 

In  1819,  along  with  an  elder  brother,  Mr  Cowan 
went  to  Germany,  where  he  prosecuted  his  studies. 
The  letters  he  sent  home  showed  keen  observation, 
and  much  power  of  delineating  human  character. 

The  brothers  returned  from  Germany  in  1821, 
and  Alexander  was  then  bound  apprentice  to  a 
firm  of  writers  to  the  signet.  His  profes- 
sional avocations  did  not  estrange  him  from  his 
favourite  pursuits,  for,  during  the  period  of  his 
apprenticeship,  he  wrote  several  thoughtful  poems. 
In  the  spring  of  1825,  however,  symptoms  of  weak- 
ness in  the  chest  began  to  appear,  and  his  father  took 
him.  upon  a  tour  through  the  Low  Countries.  He 
returned  considerably  restored,  but,  soon  after,  occa- 
sional illnesses  and  repeated  intimations  of  a  tendency 
to  pulmonary  complaints  compelled  him  to  withdraw 
for  a  time  from  business,  and  thus,  no  doubt,  to 
cherish  that  literary  predilection  which  he  had  formed 
and  maintained. 

In  1829  Mr  Cowan  married  Miss  Jane  Annesley 
Thompson,  and  a  few  weeks  afterwards,  with  a 
select  company  of  friends,  they  set  out  on  a 
tour.  They  travelled  a  year  in  France  and  Italy, 
and  subsequently  spent  some  time  in  Germany,  when 
his  wife's  health  gave  indications  of  the  illness 
which  proved  fatal  while  the  family  were  living  at 
Bonn.  About  this  time  he  wrote  as  follows  :— "  How 


ALEXANDER   COWAN.  41 

fast  the  years  fleet  by.  ...  I  don't  think  my 
pa-t  life  now  looks  nearly  so  long  as  it  did  when  I  was 
ten  years  old,  and  the  future  part  of  it  will  soon  be 
over.  .  .  .  The  spirits  of  the  just  have  perfect 
happiness,  but,  doubtless,  a  part  of  their  happiness 
may  l»r  joy  in  the  ^ood  works  of  those  they  love. 
H«.w  rich  am  1  to  l>e  in  friends  in  heaven,  my  mother, 
my  brother,  and,  soon,  my  wife ;  with  these  in  my 
view,  embalmed  in  my  heart,  can  I  turn  to  evil? 
When  \\e  are  young,  we  have  generally  but  few  whom 
we  loved  who  are  gone  before,  but,  happily,  the  earth 
becomes  poorer  and  more  desolate,  and  our  dying 
friends  steal,  as  it  were,  our  thoughts  with  them  to 
heaven."  A-j-ain  he  wrote: — "I  have  had  a  return  of 
nijjit  per>pirations  .  .  .  these  are  no  good  symp- 
toms. ...  I  am  now  able  for  very  little  exer- 
cise. .  .  .  Kvery  sunset  now  is  like  the  beams  of 
God's  love  over  the  world,  and  I  love  to  think  of  a 
time  when  I  shall  mix  with  that  calm  deep  heaven, 
and  the  spirit  of  love.  ...  I  am  fast  joining  my 
dear  wife."  In  December,  1831,  he  was  released  from 
suffering,  and  his  body  laid  close  to  that  of  his  wife 
in  the  churchyard  of  lionn.  The  place  is  marked  by 
a  plain  monument,  bearing  the  following  inscription 
written  by  himself,  he  having  had  a  presentiment  that 
he  would  die  th«  ur  a  blank  In  inir  U-ft  for 

the  month  and  day  of  his  own  death  : — 

<•  He  the  mortal  remains  of  Ale\an<i  f  Kdinhurxli, 

t<.  His  Majesty's  SiRuet,  who  was  horn  at  Valloyi.H.l.  November 

I,    »nd    of  Jane    \  ..   M*    wife,    \v}<  •   wan   )>orn   ut 

ere  married  at    Ktswick,    In   I'MHI).«T|:IIIC|, 

:      2  Samuel 

Mi  Cowan's  earlier  litei  hiefly 

dist  i  in  their  t  hat 

,'ieir  author 

.•T  than    that    of    which   their      wn  nature 


42  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

rendered  them  capable.  They  did  not  receive  the 
author's  whole  time  and  energy,  but  may  merely  be 
looked  on  as  tributes  to  literature  paid  during  hours 
saved  from  professional  labours.  So  early  as  his 
twentieth  year  he  contributed  to  Blackwood,  and  a 
number  of  translations  from  M.  de  Lamartine, 
Kleist,  and  other  French  and  German  poets,  as  given 
in  his  "  Remains,"  are  exceedingly  beautiful.  A 
remarkable  characteristic  of  our  poet  was  a  quiet  but 
strong  vein  of  humour,  which  was,  however,  seldom 
exhibited  in  external  mirth,  but  manifested  itself  not 
less  happily  sometimes  in  adopting  and  sustaining 
fanciful  or  historical  characters,  in  which  he  had  con- 
siderable power  of  assuming  the  appropriate  air  and 
language.  Several  of  his  prose  writings  "in  the 
Oriental  style "  are  very  happy  efforts.  Although  a 
sweet  singer  of  love  and  sentiment,  quiet  observation 
and  reflection,  and  a  marked  religious  vein  run 
through  most  of  his  poetry.  Charming  descriptions 
of  scenery  are  also  frequent,  and  there  is  in  many  of 
his  pieces  a  philosophic  breadth  of  thought  that  is 
evidently  the  outcome  of  a  knowledge  of  mankind, 
and  the  sympathetic  study  of  all  that  pertains  to 
humanity. 

LOVE. 

Love,  love  thy  friend,  the  brother  of  thine  heart, 
For  friendship  can  a  healing  balm  impart'; 
And  chiefly  love  those  friends  of  early  youth, 
Who  whisper  words  of  kindness  and  of  truth, 
Who  long  have  loved  thee,  and  who  know  thee  well, 
And  tell  thee,  what  the  world  will  never  tell, 
Thy  least  departure  from  fair  virtue's  road  ; 
And  win  thee  back  to  friendship,  and  to  God. 

Love,  love  thy  spouse,  for  who  like  her  will  share 
Thy  every  blessing,  and  thy  every  care, 
When  thou  by  fortune  and  by  friends  art  blessed, 
Thy  spouse  will  clasp  thee  to  her  loving  breast  ; 
And  she,  when  friends  forsake  thy  wretchedness, 


ALEXANDER   COWAN.  43 

Will,  smiling,  greet  thee  with  the  same  fond  low ; 
With  r<>-e>  -lie  will  strew  thy  earthly  path, 
And  whisper  comfort  in  the  hour  of  death. 

L<>ve,  love  thy  God,  for  who  hath  giv'n  thee  birth, 
Ami  friend  and  spouse,  upon  this  glorious  earth? 
And  who,  when  awful  death  with  dark  design 
Hath  palled  each  heart  that  fondly  beat  to  thine. 
Will  be  thy  friend  ?    Oh  Father  groat  and  good. 
Frit-mi  of  the  friendless  !     Spouse  of  widowhood, 
Give  me  that  love  which  kiioweth  no  decay,— 
That  love  of  Thee,  which  language  cannot  say  : 
So  shall  I  still  increase  in  faith  and  love, 
And  see  my  Maker  face  to  face  above. 


WHEN    DARK    THE    NIGHT. 

When  dark  the  night,  and  loud  the  storm, 
The  warder  treads  the  leaguered  wall, 

And  fancies  death  in  every  form 
Beneath  the  shadow's  fall  ; 

And  hear.H  the  wailing  shriek  of  death, 

Borne  on  the  tempest's  Morateg  breath. 
While  whittles  by  the  winded  ball, 

And  hoarsely  rolls  th'  artillery's  Hound. 

How  fearfully  he  looks  around, 

And  watches  with  an  anxious  eye, 

For  the  first  blush  of  nrient>ky. 

While  di«rk  the  nfght,  and  loud  the  blast. 

The  wanderer  pursues  his  way, 
And  onward  struggles  through  the  waste, 

Without  one  guiding  ray, 

While  laughs  the  fell  hyena  o'er  his  prey, 
While,  boding  death,  the  tigers  howl, 
An. I  shrieks  the  solitary  owl  ; 
Doth  not  the  wanderer  distracted  say, 
\V»uld  it  were  day. 

And  thus  I  watch  the  city  of  my  soul. 

And  wander  onward  through  the  waste  of  life, 
And  hear  the  thunder  of  de«ti  notion  roll, 

And  feel  sin's  dreadful  strife. 
Dark  is  my  doubtful  mind, 

I  nought  can  Ifcht  the  awful  gloom. 
And  reason  she  is  blind — 

•here  the  tomb  ; 
Faith  whispers  to  my  ear- 
Believe,  and  light  eternal  shall  appear  ! 


44  MODERN    SCOTTISH   POETS. 

Yes,  blessed  Spirit,  1  will  gaze  above, 
To  watch  the  coming  of  a  God  of  love. 

THE     BRIDE. 

I  love  !     No  more  the  joys  of  earth, 

My  weak  and  wayward  mind  can  move, 
My  heart  hath  had  another  birth, 
And  learn'd  to  love. 
Now  all  is  rest 
Within  iny  breast, 
I  love. 

We  love  !  but  not  ourselves  alone  ; 

We  love  on  earth  our  dwelling  place, 
And  Mess'd  at  eve,  we  gaze  upon 
Each  well  known  face, 
And  Him  that  gave 
The  bliss  we  have 
We  love. 

I  love  !  and  wilt  thou  be  my  bride  ? 

And  shall  we  fear  life's  stormy  path  ? 
Thou  wilt  be  ever  at  my  side, 
E'en  after  death  ; 
To  grieve  with  thee 
Were  joy  to  me, 
I  love. 

Let  Time  his  ceaseless  current  roll, 

He  ne'er  can  change  our  love  begun, 
For  we  have  mingled  soul  to  soul, 
Our  hearts  are  one — 
I  love. 

Our  love  is  not  an  earthly  love, 

When,  gazing  on  th'  Eternal  skies, 
Our  hearts  to  meet  their  God  above 
Together  rise, 
Free,  unconfined  ; 
'Tis  in  the  mind 
We  love. 

With  thee  I'll  smile,  with  thee  I'll  weep, 
With  thee  I'll  kneel  in  humble  pray'r 
With  thee  I'll  take  the  last  long  sleep, 
And  waken,  where? 
Where  sorrows  cease, 
Where  all  is  peace 
And  love. 


ALEXANDER   COWAN.  45 

WE    HAE    PARTED. 

(To  Mitt  Jane  Annetley  Thompson. ) 
We  hae  parted,  we  hae  parted, 

We  shall  never  part  again  ; 
For  the  neist  time  that  I  see  thee 

Is  to  uiak1  thee  a*  mine  ain, 
'Tis  a  thought  that  sweetens  sorrow, 

Tis  a  thought  that  cures  a'  pain  ; 
We  hae  parted,  we  hae  parted, 

We  shall  never  part  again. 

We  hae  parted,  we  hae  parted, 

Shall  we  never  part  a^ain  ? 
What  shall  cheer  the  broken  hearted, 

When  the  ither  shall  be  gane  T 
Some  sweet  voice  frae  Heaven  shall  whisper, 

Wi'  a  saft  and  holy  strain, 
Ye  hae  parted,  ye  hae  parted, 

Ye  shall  never  part  again. 

We  hae  parted,  we  hae  parted, 

We  shall  part  but  ance  again, 
And  the  dead  shall  fondly  hover 

O'er  the  mourner  left  alane. 
When  we  meet  to  love  for  ever, 

Soul  to  soul  shall  sing  this  strain, 
We  hae  parted,  we  hae  parted, 

We  shall  never  part  again. 

LIFE    AND    DEATH. 

LITE. 

Philosophy  !  say,  what  is  life  * 

A  voyage  in  a  gilded  bark, 
Upon  a  sea  of  Htortn  and  strife. 

Whither?     I  know  not,  all  i*  dark  ; 
The  ocean  may  be  calm  a  while, 

And  gallantly  the  bark  may  ride. 
And  sometimes  skies  appear  to  smile 

Upon  the  falae  and  fickle  tide  ; 
But  time  steals  on,  the  cordage  fail*, 

The  vessel  strain*  before  the  breeze, 
No  port  in  near,  rent  all  her  Hails, 

The  bark  hath  vanished  from  the 

..n  :  tell  me  what  is  life? 

yime  in  a  broken  *kitf, 
Upon  a  aea  with  dangers  rife, 

Kilily,  and  tempest,  wtirf,  ari.l  clitl. 


46  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

Yet  fear  not,  Christian,  all  is  safe, 

Though  darkness  shroud  the  stormy  sky  ; 
Though  fierce  and  hoarsely  ocean  chafe, 

Thy  beacon  fire  shines  bright  on  high  ; 
Though  frail  thy  bark,  thou  art  not  lost, 

Hope,  faith,  and  love,  thy  course  shall  guide. 
Watch,  Christian,  thou  hast  gained  the  coast, 

And  vanquished  is  the  raging  tide. 

Futurity  !  say  what  is  life  ? 

A  voyage  on  a  sea  of  bliss  ; 
Broken  is  the  destroyer's  knife, 

And  all  is  love  and  happiness. 
A  voyage  'tis  of  endless  joy, 

A  voyage  which  shall  last  for  aye, 
Of  happiness  without  alloy, 

Of  love  which  knoweth  no  decay  ; 
And  angels  hover  on  the  wing, 

Before  the  throne  of  God  above  ; 
And  myriads  of  seraphs  sing, 

Eternal  praise,  eternal  love. 


DEATH. 

Philosophy  !  say  what  is  death  ? 
An  endless,  and  a  dreamless  sleep. 

The  desolation  on  the  path, 

Where  pitiless  the  tempests  sweep  ; 

The  setting  of  a  clouded  sun, 
The  waning  of  an  April  day, 

A  darkness  which  shall  ne'er  be  done, 
A  night  which  ne'er  shall  pass  away  ; 

A  flaaie  which  burneth  up  the  scroll, 
Whereon  was  writ  an  idle  tale 

Of  life,  and  love,  and  heart  and  soul- 
All  gone,  like  music  on  the  gale. 

Religion  !  tell  me  what  is  death  ? 

'Tis  life,  where  God  is  not  adored, 
A  tuneless  lyre,  where  mercy's  breath 

Awakens  no  responsive  chord. 
Thou  floatest  on  an  angry  sea, 

And  thou  art  nought,  and  hope  is  fled  ; 
No  star  of  faith  doth  shine  for  thee, 

No  sun  of  love  can  cheer  the  dead. 
Still  there  is  mercy,  child  of  earth, 
^  Oh,  turn  thee  from  destruction's  path  ; 
Though  lost,  and  dead,  a  second  birth 

Will  save  thee  from  a  second  death. 


ALEXANDER  COWAN.  47 

Futurity  !  say  what  is  death  ? 

Alas,  it  in  no  place  of  rest ; 
A  desert  where  God's  lightning's  scathe. 

And  harrow  up  the  guilty  breast, 
And  conscience  proves  her  rankling  dart, 

And  nought  of  calmness  hath  despair  ; 
Eternal  torments  gear  the  heart — 

For  God  and  mercy  are  not  there. 
And  terror,  and  remorse  rage  on, 

Dire  engines  of  Almighty  wrath  ; 
And  sleep,  and  re.st,  are  all  unknown, 

Mortal,  such  is  the  second  death. 


CRUSADER'S    SONG. 

'I'o  the  field  !  knights,  and  warriors,  the  bold,  and  the  brave, 
For  the  chaplet  i<l  honour,  or  glorious  grave  ; 
The  blood-thirsty  Payniins  their  scymitars  wield 
In  despite  of  the  cross— to  the  field,  to  the  field. 

To  the  field,  noble  France  ;  lo  !  proud  Solyma  stands, 
And  freedom  ami  victory  asks  at  your  hands. 
Is  the  Saracen  safe  in  her  strength  and  her  shield  ? 
No  !  scale  the  high  walls,  -to  the  field,  to  the  field. j 

To  the  field  !  on  the  morrow  proud  Solyma  Khali  sing 
In  triumph  and  praise  to  her  (Jod  and  her  king  ; 
And  His  grace  Khali  be  given  where  His  arm  was  revealed, 
To  the  children  of  Christ,— to  the  field,  to  the  field. 

To  the  field  !  the  bright  sun  in  these  orient  skies 
No  more  on  the  Saracen's  standard  shall  rise ; 
By  the  tomb  of  your  Saviour  our  sins  shall  be  healed. 
Now  warriors  and  knights,  to  the  field,  to  the  field. 

To  the  tiel.i  !  Christian  soldiers,  His  chosen  abode, 
TM  Hi-,  people  is  given  by  Jerusalem's  God  ; 
In  life  or  in  death,  'mong  the  blest  ye  are  sealed— 
St  George  and  the  Cross  !— to  the  field,  to  the  field 


FLY,     WARRIOR,     FLY. 

Fly,  warrior,  fly,  tlie  gate  stands  wide, 
I)..   I'aynim  guard  hath  left  thy  side, 
\  galley  sails  on  yonder  sea, 

•ined  captive,  thou  art  free, 

and  this  sun  •hall  see  thee  .lie, 

Fly,  warrior,  fly. 


48  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

Fly,  Christian,  fly  !  hark,  hark  !  the  Moor 
Strikes  thy  last  knell  on  deep  tambour  ; 
To  thee,  what  are  thine  oath,  thy  faith  ? 
Think,  Christian,  on  a  dreadful  death, 
Think  of  thy  maiden's  weeping  eye,— 
Fly,  Christian  fly. 

The  warrior's  heart  can  never  faint, 
True  knighthood's  honour  nought  can  taint  ; 
The  witness  of  the  Christian  faith 
Knows  how  to  die  a  brave  man's  death, 
Knows,  when  his  heart  in  twain  is  riven, 
He  lives  in  Heaven. 

And  bright  biae  eyes  shall  weep  me  dead, 
Eyes  that  had  scorned  me,  had  I  fled, 
Tongues  which  had  cursed  the  flying  slave 
Shall  sing  the  death-song  of  the  brave, 
Here,  bind  mine  arms,  brave  Moor,  and  take 
Me  to  the  stake. 


GEORGE     MENZIES, 

/tXARDENEIi,  teacher,  editor,  &c.,  was  born  at  Town- 
\*r  head,  parish  of  Arbuthnott,  Kincardineshire,  in 
1797.  His  parents  were  of  the  humble  rank  of  agri- 
cultural labourers — the  father  being  a  man  of  much 
intelligence,  and  the  mother  taking  great  pleasure  in 
teaching  her  family  to  read,  while  she  herself  was  em- 
ployed at  the  spinning-wheel.  George  was  -the  eldest 
of  a  family  of  eight,  was  sent  to  school  in  his  fifth 
year,  and  may  be  said  to  have  continued  at  school  till 
he  was  fifteen  years  of  age.  He  was  an  intelligent, 
smart  boy,  with  great  aptitude  for  acquiring  knowledge, 
and  noted  for  boyish  glee.  The  teacher  was  proud  of 
his  pupil,  and  bestowed  great  pains  on  his  education, 
that  before  leaving  school  Menzies 
led  in  the  Latin  classics.  The  poverty 


GEORGE    MENZIEH.  49 

of  his  parents,  however,  prevented  his  being  sent  to 
colic-ire,  and  as  a  profession  he  selected  gardening, 
serving  his  apprenticeship  at  Drumtochty  Castle.  It 
is  scarcely  possible  to  imagine  a  place  better  calculated 

>ster  the  poetic  flame,  and  the  elements  of  natural 
grandeur  made  a  lasting  impression  on  the  young 
and  susceptible  mind  of  the  future  poet.  His  spare 
hours  were  chiefly  devoted  to  study,  and  his  memory 

so  retentive  that  it  is  ?»aid  lie  could,  on  hearing  any 
portion  of  Scripture  quoted,  tell  the  chapter  and  verse 
n  >iii  which  it  was  taken.  After  leaving  Drumtochty, 
in  1816,  he  went  to  work  as  a  nurseryman  in  Brechin, 
but  he  soon  removed  to  Tilliechewan  Castle,  Dumbar- 
ton-hire :  an-i  there,  on  the  banks  of  Loch  Lomond, 
tin-  mu^es  tirst  threw  their  inspiring  mantle  over  him. 

ing  the  classic  scenery  of  "  The  Lofty  Ben 
Lomond,"  he  was  for  some  time  in  Stirlingshire,  and 

a    in    Forfarshire,    thence  to    Edinburgh.      The 

Forth  and  ( 'l^de  <  'anal  \\  as  then  in  course  of  formation, 

and  not  finding  employment  as  a  gardener,  lie  got  work 

as  a  labourer  at  the  Canal.      In  a  short  time  he  was 

appointed   clerk,  in   which  situation   he   remained  tuo 

In    iSl'li    we    tind    him    a    weaver    in    Forfsir. 

he  published  his  first  volume,  entitled,  "  Poetical 

Trifles,"  and  soon  after  he  took  a  fancy  to  wandering 

the  length  and  breadth  of  Scotland,  and  the  north  of 

He  visited  historic  scenrry,  abbeys,  castles, 

iefields — whatever     w;us     romantic     and     rendered 
iory  or  song.     In   these   piLrima.ires  he 
was  often  put  to  sad  shifts.      To  replenish  In-  MthftU 
exchequer  he  occasionally   wrought  as  a  gardener.      In 
Some  towns  he  ga\  popular  Mihjects,  and 

sometimes,  as  he  himself  stated  .f  his  brother 

poets — 

"  1're  wainltTfl  ii.  ny  a  weary  day, 
A  &an  auld  ami  hlae  ;. 

l>duii'«l  a  true 

Bin1  licht, 

P 


50  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

I've  shivered  underneath  a  brae 
The  lee  lang  nicht." 

Still  educating  and  training  himself  intellectually,  ht 
was  prepared  for  any  situation  that  might  offer.  H< 
became  schoolmaster  in  several  parishes  in  the  Mearns 
including  Laurence  kirk,  Fordoun,  &c.  One  of  ou: 
poets,  Mr  George  Duthie,  now  deceased,  who  wrote  i 
"  Life  of  George  Menzies "  for  an  edition  of  hi 
"  Poems,"  printed  at  Montrose  in  1854,  informed  ui 
that  in  1829  Menzies  and  Joseph  Grant*  met  a 
Fettercairn  in  the  house  of  a  kindred  spirit.  Menziei 
was  clad  in  black  clothes,  and  had  all  the  appearanct 
of  the  douce,  polished  dominie ;  while  Grant  wa 
dressed  in  home  spun  hodden  grey,  his  rugged  hai: 
bleached  by  the  storms  of  his  mountain  home.  Whili 
a  teacher  at  Auchinblae,  Menzies  wrote  many  of  hii 
most  important  pieces,  the  greater  portion  of  whicl 
were  published  in  the  Aberdeen  newspapers,  am 
generally  went  the  round  of  the  provincial  press.  H< 
also  at  this  time  brought  out  an  enlarged  edition  o: 
his  poems. 

Aware  that  the  want  of  a  formal  educational  statu, 
was  an  insurmountable  barrier  to  his  promotion  as  i 
parochial  teacher,  -and  his  circumstances  prevent 
ing  his  repairing  this  important  defect,  he  resolvec 
to  leave  his  native  country.  He  had  also  coolec 
some  of  his  best  supporters  on  account  of  the  zeal  witl 
which  he  advocated  the  reforming  doctrines  in  th( 
years  1831  and  1832,  during  which  time  the  agitation 
consequent  on  the  passing  of  the  Reform  Bill,  was  al 
its  climax.  Doubtless  this,  also,  made  him  feel  thai 
the  only  prospect  of  bettering  his  condition  was  tc 
become  a  voluntary  exile. 

America  became  the  land  of  his  adoption,  and  aftei 
experiencing  a  few  hardships  he  obtained  a  situatior 

*  See  Tenth  Series  of  this  work. 


GEORGE    MENZIES.  51 

•h<  iol master  in  Chippawa.  We  next  find  him  editor 
of  The  Niagara  Reporter,  and  sub-editor  of  the  Canadian 
( 'hrintian  Eraminer.  This  was  succeeded,  in  an  evil 
hour,  by  his  entering  into  partnership  with  a  printer 
in  Chippawa.  The  concern  was  rotten,  and  after  losing 
his  all  in  the  course  of  a  few  months,  he  again  resumed 
the  editorial  management  of  the  Reporter.  During  the 
rebellion  which  ravaged  Canada  in  1837-38,  he  took  a 
prominent  part  on  the  side  of  the  <  Government,  defend- 
in^  with  characteristic  zeal  and  ability  the  principles 
of  monarchy  and  the  right  of  the  British  Crown. 
Ultimately  he  "saw  a  little  service,"  was  present  at 
two  bombardments,  and  for  many  a  dreary  hour  he 
walked  "the  sentry's  lonely  round." 

We  next  find  him  in  the  county  of  Oxford, 
where  he  began  The  Woodstock  Herald,  and  for 
n  years  lie  conducted  the  paper  with  much  success. 
But  the  mental  and  physical  strain  was  too  much. 
In  1847  he  was  struck  down  by  brain  fever,  and 
died  after  an  illness  of  four  days  He  was 
highly  esteemed  all  over  the  Provinces  of  Western 
Canada  as  a  man,  a  poet,  and  a  politician,  and  his 
trail- atlantic  life,  talents,  and  premature  death  were 
uiented  "ii  by  the  press  of  his  adopted 
country.  !!<•  wa-  -|».ken  of  as  a  man  of  upright  prin- 
ciple^ aii'l  one  of  the  most  able  editors  in  Canada.  He 
wrote  with  1'i.ree  an«l  .  and  his  poems  are 

characterised  i-\  g L  taste  and  fine  feeling.     In  almost 

piece  written  after    he  left  hi-  native  land  there 

irm  reference  t«.    Scotland,  the    IP. me  nf  hi-  heart. 

"The    I'ari-h   church,"  "  T  h   Sdi,,,,!,"  "The 

Land  ..f  <  'ak.-s,"    "  Oor  ain    Kouk,"    and    many    other- 

••nee  to   "hoiinie   Scotland,"   and   prove 

that    altliMiiJi    ehv  iea    compelled    him    to  1- 

ili'-  deep  "   it  held  to 

the  laM    the  li\'-\    place   in   hi-   -en>ili\r  mind. 


52  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

THE    LAND     0'    CAKES. 
(Spoken  at  a  meeting  of  St  Andrew  s  Lodge,  Woodstock.) 

Hurrah  !  for  Scotland — Scotland  yet, 

The  land  o'  kirk  and  schule  ; 
Whae'er  forgets  his  father-land 

Maun  dree  a  dreary  dool. 

He  has  nae  pairt  wi'  us  the  nicht — 

Nae  pairt  wi'  Scottish  men — 
Whase  memory  ever  wanders  back 

To  native  hill  or  glen. 

There  is  nae  truant  Scotsman  here, 

That  winna  gang  wi'  me, 
Back  to  our  mither's  harne  again, 

In  memory,  for  a  wee. 

It's  sweet  to  think  on  early  friends 

That  we  in  Scotland  met ; 
Their  hames,  perchance,  their  graves,  are  there, 

For  they  are  Scotland's  yet. 

And,  oh  !  whate'er  is  Scotland's,  aye 

To  Scottish  hearts  is  dear, 
However  fondly  we  may  be — 

The  loved  and  loving  here. 

We  may  ha'e  woo'd  in  proud  ha'  hoose, 

Or  in  a  theekit  cot  ; 
But  some  sweet  spirit  aye  was  there, 

That  ne'er  can  be  forgot. 

She  may  ha'e  sung  the  lay  we  lov'd 

Or  joined  us  in  the  dance  ; 
Or  grat,  when  we  wad  tell  her  ower 

Some  tale  o'  auld  romance. 

She  may  ha'e  herded  sheep  wi'  us 

Upon  the  gowany  braes  ; 
But  she's  aye  a  fairy  memory 

O'  early  happy  days. 

It's  grand  to  gither  glorious  dreams 

Frae  oot  the  auld  warld  store 
O'  tales  that  tell  o'  stalwart  men, 

Wi'  kilt  and  braid  claymore, 


GEORGE   MENZIES.  53 

Wha  stood  the  atour  o'  mony  a'fecht, 

In  days  o'  auM  langnyne, 
To  guard  the  freedom  and  the  rieht 

That  Scotland  dares  na  tyne. 

Bat  holier  memories  there  be, 

That  bear  the  spirit  back 
To  times  when  atuhushM  foeiuen  watch M 

About  the  kirkward  track  ; 

When  ministers  in  armour  prayed. 

And  Scotland's  kirks  were  caves  ; 
When  bairns  were  christened  frae  the  burn, 

And  bridal  beds  were  graves. 

But  blyther,  better  times  ha'e  come ; 

The  feuds  o'  ither  days 
Are  a'  forgot,  and  now  we  meet 

Wi'  friend*  that  ance  were  faes. 

Hurrah  !  for  merry  England's  rose, 

And  Krin'n  shamrock  tjreen  ! 
Hurrah  !  for  oor  Canadian  hearths— 

Oor  altars  and  oor  Queen. 


OOR    AIN    FOUR. 

Oor  ain  fouk,  oor  ain  fouk, 

Around  the  household  hearth— 

Thae  kindly  words  are  understood, 
And  felt  ower  a'  the  earth. 

A  solace  to  the  stricken  heart., 

Repose  to  weary  feet, 
Ami  a  welcome  said  in  ony  tongue. 

In  ilka  clime  is  sweet. 

I've  been  amang  the  fremit  fouk, 

An'  in  an  unco  land 
Ha'e  felt  in  mine  the  thrilling  touch 

O'  mony  a  gentle  hand. 

I've  heard  the  Granger  breathe  my  name 

In  DUMtef  and  in  prayer, 
And  kindly  words  frae  maiden  lips 

Jiae  met  me  ilka  where. 


54  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

But  the  heart's  maist  deep  an  holy  thochts 

Either  in  speech  or  song, 
Is  the  voice  that  breathes  the  music 

O'  oor  ain  mither  tongue. 


MEETING    OF    MOTHERS   IN    HEAVEN. 

I  dreamed  T  saw  two  mothers  meet 

Beside  the  eternal  throne  ; 
And  these  two  mothers  were,  my  love, 

Thy  mother  and  mine  own. 

Although  they  ne'er  had  met  on  earth, 

They  knew  each  other  well, 
On  meeting  in  that  cloudless  land 

Where  sinless  spirits  dwell. 

I  had  seen  both  their  coffins  laid 

In  far-divided  tombs — 
Between  their  burial  places  now 

The  eternal  ocean  booms. 

And  yet  methought  I  saw  them  meet, 

In  light  of  love  divine, 
As  if  they  had  been  early  friends— 

Thy  mother,  love,  and  mine. 

I  heard  them  talk  together  long 

Of  dear  ones  left  behind, 
As  if  they  wished  us  then  with  them, 

One  family  combined. 

Methought  they  were  commissioned  then, 

By  God  Himself  to  be 
Twin  guardian  angels,  dearest  one, 

To  watch  o'er  thee  and  me. 

Then  let  us,  as  we  journey  on, 

No  matter  how  or  where, 
Pray  that,  when  earth's  stern  strife  is  past, 

We  meet  our  mothers  there. 


THE    MANIAC    MOTHER. 

Blue  roll'd  the  mist  on  the  dark  Clochnahane, 
And  sad  was  the  sigh  of  the  heath  and  the  fern  ; 

Deep  murmur'd  the  Dye  in  her  shadowy  glen, 
And  the  plover's  wild  lullaby  rung  on  the  Cairn. 


GEORGE   MENZIES.  55 

A  poor  homeless  wanderer  had  laid  her  to  rest ; 

Cold  was  her  bed  on  the  hill,  wild  and  bleak  ; 
Sad  was  the  sigh  that  arose  in  her  breast, 

And  bitter  the  tear-drop  that  dew'd  her  pal*  cheek. 

Short  waa  the  pang  of  that  si«h  and  that  tear ; 

Fleeting  and  sad — 'twas  a  dim  gleam  of  light 
From  the  fountain  of  reason,  that  rose  not  to  cheer, 

But  to  sadden  the  gloom  of  insanity's  night. 

Loose  flow'd  her  dark  tresses  and  play'd  in  the  gale, 
And  her  cheek  wore  the  hue  and  the  semblance  of  death  ; 

She  lift  up  her  mourning — O,  heard  ye  the  tale 
As  it  tremblingly  swept  o'er  the  desolate  heath. 

"  Rent  thee,  my  babe  !  undisturb'd  be  thy  sleep, 
And  soft  be  the  cold  earth  that  pillows  thy  head  ; 

Hash  ye  wild  winds,  o'er  the  mountain  that  sweep, 
And  howl  not,  ye  brackens,  that  shelter  bis  bed. 

Where,  O,  my  God  !  is  the  grave  of  my  child  ? 

The  grey  stone  that  mark'd  it  wa*  stain'd  with  a  tear, 
Around  it  the  desert's  red  heather  bloom'd  wild — 

I  thought— but  I  dream'd,  when  I  thought  it  was  here. 

Ah  !  cruel  was  his  father  to  hear  him  away  ; 

Sad,  sad  was  the  night — I  remember  it  well  ! 
My  bosom  grew  cold,  and  my  heart  went  astray — 

Each  blast  of  the  wind  seem'd  his  funeral  knell." 

How  dim  !H  that  eye,  now  extinguish 'd  in  death  ! 

How  pallid  the  cheek  that  once  rivalled  the  rose  ! 
"My  child  !  "  she  exclaimed  with  the  last  throb  of  breath, 

And  her  »oul  nought  the  realms  of  eternal  repose. 


THE    HEATHER. 

O  fair  5*  the  red  rose,  and  sweet  its  perfuming, 

i  i<weet  in  the  daisy  that  flowers  on  the  lea  ; 
But  far  on  the  wild  moor,  the  balm  and  the  blooming 

Of  Scot  ia'*  red  heather  are  dearer  to  me. 
'Tis  nwret,  when  the  breeze  of  the  evening  is  blowing, 
To  mark  the  wild  heather  its  red  blossom  showing ; 

•  .|.-r  alone  by  the  hill-hunter'n  grave, 
Wher«*  Had,  in  the  twilight,  the  green  brackens  wave. 

Tis  sweet  at  the  dawning,  to  stray  on  the  mountain, 

.  brush  the  clear  dew  from  the  red  heather  flower  ; 


56  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

To  wander  at  noon  by  the  glen's  mossy  fountain, 

Or  rest  in  the  shade  of  the  yellow  broom  bower. 
0,  dear  is  the  heather  to  memory's  bosom — 
It  sheds  o'er  the  hills  of  my  fathers  its  blossom  ; 
And  dear  is  the  mountain-bird's  threnody  stave, 
That  thrills  like  the  pibroch's  wild  note  o'er  their  grave. 

Yes,  Caledonia,  the  tales  of  thy  glory 

Recall  to  my  fancy  the  heroes  of  yore  ! 
Ah,  where  are  the  warriors  renowned  in  thy  story? 

They  sleep— and  the  pibroch  awakes  them  no  more. 
Ah,  where  are  the  heroes  whose  blood  dyed  the  heather 
Of  gloomy  Culloden  ? — They  slumber  together  : 
Forgotten  they  sleep,  and  the  dew-water'd  blooms 
Of  Scotia's  red  heather  droop  over  their  tombs. 


THE    PARISH    SCHOOL, 

Whence  doth  that  radient  glory  come 
Which  circles  yon  fair  land  of  ours, 

And  makes  us  prouder  of  our  home 
Than  if  it  were  a  land  of  flowers  ? 

For  frigid  clime  and  sterile  soil, 

Why  should  our  own  old  Scotland  car«  ? 
Nor  storm — nor  povertj — nor  toil — 

Can  crush  the  fervid  spirit  there. 

Why  is  it  so  ?     Oh  !    not  alone 
That  on  each  hill,  in  every  glen, 

Far  more  than  monumental  stone, 
Tells  that  she  hath  unconquered  men. 

Oh  !  not  because  we  never  yield. 

When  deeds  of  iron  war  are  done  ; 
Or  that  when  Scotsmen  take  the  field, 

The  triumph  surely  must  be  won, 

'Tis  not  to  fortress  or  to  tower, 
That  Scotland  owes  her  share  of  rule  ; 

The  source  of  all  her  pride  and  power 
Is  in  the  lowly  Parish  School. 

The  Parish  School— how  warmly  glows 
Each  Scottish  heart  whate'er  its  lot 

In  distant  lands,  when  memory  throws 
Its  halo  round  that  hallowed  spot. 


0.    R.   SIMS.  57 


Close  by  our  Parish  Church  there  stands, 
Albeit,  a  fan*  of  lowlier  kind 

Than  those  which  rise  in  sunnier  lands, 
The  nursery  of  a  nation's  min<i. 

That  mind  hath  travelled  far  and  wide, 
O'er  every  land  and  every  sea  ; 

Bnt  still  its  proudest  cause  of  pride, 
Our  Parish  School,  is  all  of  thee. 

Oh  !  ulory  to  the  Parish  School, 
And  honour  to  it  everywhere, 

For  it  hath  been  the  vestibule 
To  many,  luany  a  house  of  prayer. 


GEORGE  ROBERT  SIMS.*- 
"DAGONET:" 


XORD  COLEKHK;!-;  lately  said  at  Glasgow  "I  am 
not  alto-rtlirr  without  Scotch  connections.  My 
mother  was  u  J'.udianan.  One  of  the  many  houses  of 
I)uiiloj)  is  full  of  my  cousins.  I  was  brought  up  from 
my  early  youth  to  \\or>hij»  Uurns  and  \\-ltcrS-ott; 
and  \YonU\vorth  —  the  delight  and  admirttioli  of  my 
whole  life—taught  me  early  in  the  noblest  of  some  of 
hi>  nohlr  |M,I  :  ,>h  life  am.  cli.iiM-  • 

In     Mr   <;.    K.    Sims,    the     \vi-ll  kimwn    jornialist     and 
dramatist,  \\e    hav«    one   who   lias   an   e(|uall\    itl 

ED,  and  \\«-  iiml    niakr   MO   ic  i    plarinu  him 

amongst  on  r  poets.      Although  l»«»rn  in  Lon-lon  (ai 
also 

1     settled   in     llrrk.s.       I'j)    to  a    i 

!.-d     a     S«-.,trh     place    OJ  p    in 

:  )U. 

1  1    l.y    tin  •]'   the 

Iciirn    that    our  Denial   and 


58  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

versatile  author  was  born  in  1847.  His  mother  is 
well  known  as  a  benevolent  lady,  who  is  president  of 
the  Women's  Provident  League,  and  takes  an  active 
interest  in  all  questions  affecting  the  legal  and  social 
status  of  women.  Mr  Sims  was  educated  at  Hanwell 
College,  Eastbourne,  afterwards  at  Bonn,  and  subse- 
quently in  Paris.  He  was  a  weakly  child,  and,  as  he 
once  wrote,  "  nobody  expected  he  would  make  very 
old  bones."  But  the  Eastbourne  air  infused  health 
into  the  frail  constitution,  and  ever  since  he  has  grown 
in  vigour.  On  completing  his  educational  course  on 
the  Continent,  Mr  Sims  entered  the  office  of  a  London 
merchant,  where  he  rapidly  rose  to  a  high  position. 
This  he  held  until  1881,  when  he  retired  from  the 
mercantile  world  to  entirely  devote  himself  to  litera- 
ture. His  literary  career  had,  however,  begun  seven 
years  earlier.  From  one  of  his  short  sketches  (written 
in  1884)  which  contains  a  good  deal  of  interesting 
autobiographical  information,  we  gather  that  he  had 
"  dreamed  of  being  a  circus-rider,  a  barrister,  a  soldier, 
or  a  stockbroker.  .  .  .  During  the  ten  years  that 
my  life  policy  described  me  as  'a  mercantile  clerk  '  I 
saw  a  good  deal  of  many  phases  of  life.  I  took  long 
holidays  in  many  countries.  At  one  time  I  set  to 
work  to  learn  as  many  foreign  languages  as  I  could, 
and  I  essayed  to  master  Spanish,  Italian,  Russian, 
Dutch,  Romany,  and  thieves'  slang.  Thanks  to  my 
foreign  schooldays,  I  could  already  read  and  speak 
German  and  French.  Later  on  I  thought  I  would 
write  books,  and  I  took  to  studying  character.  Being 
of  a  Bohemian  turn  of  mind,  I  did  not  care  to  dress 
for  dinner  daily  in  order  to  study  'society.'  I  found 
it  more  convenient  to  go  into  back  streets,  bar-parlours, 
penny-gaffs,  to  stand  outside  workhouse  doors,  to  hang 
about  the  early  markets  and  the  dock  gates,  and  to  see 
life  as  it  is  among  the  masses.  These  early  experi- 
ences probably  influenced  my  mind  strongly  in  the 


r,.  R.  SIMS.  59 

direction  it  lias  since  taken.  I  '  scribbled '  a  great 
deal.  I  sent  poems  and  short  stories  right  and  left, 
but  I  never  had  one  accepted.  1  turned  out  of  an  old 
box  the  other  day  a  book  in  which  I  had  entered  the 
address  of  every  magazine  and  periodical  published  in 
London,  and  I  sent  some  of  my  stories  to  each  one  in 
turn,  until  I  got  to  the  end  of  the  list.  I  have  an  old 
diary,  in  which  this  entry  occurs  on  the  31st  of  Decem- 
ber :  *  Nothing  published  yet.  Shall  I  have  to  write 
the  same  on  the  last  day  of  next  year  ? '  Time  gave 
the  answer,  and  I  am  glad  to  say  in  the  negative. 
Drifting  about  among  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men, 
I  met  an  amateur  actor,  and  we  became  chums.  He 
put  me  up  as  a  member  of  a  Bohemian  club  in  a  back 
street  off  the  Strand.  There  I  met  a  journalist,  who 
let  me  help  him  with  his  work,  and  one  day  I  found 
myself  with  my  first  guinea  earned  by  journalism  in 
my  pocket.  It  was  for  a  column  of  'Waifs  and  Str 
in  the  Weekly  Dispatch.  Mr  Henry  Sampson  was  a 
contributor  to  the  pajxjr,  and  so  we  met.  On  tin- 
death  of  Tom  Hood,  Mr  Sampson  was  appointed  the 
edit'  .  sind  invited  UK-  to  join  the  stuff.  1  o-n 

tributed  to  /•>/«  weekly  for  three  years.  It  was  in  the 
quiet  old  Dutch  town  of  Sittard,  over  an  evening  pipe, 
that  wo  two  discussed  a  weekly  paper,  which  soon 
afterwards  took  the  form  of  the  Referee.  To  the 
journal  \\hich  Mr  Sampxm  projected  I  have  contri- 
buted the  article  >L'iied  '  Da-oin-t  '  without  inter 
mission  from  the  commencement  until  no\\."  In  the 
Referee  the  "  Da-onet  hall:..-  i\v  tl  «  li-ht. 

At    the    time  hi>  tiiM  dramatic    piec.  lured, 

"Crutch  and  Toothpick  "  (which  ran    unii.icrruj  i-dl\ 

for  iMO  niL'lit-  in  L«  ndoii)  hi-  \\a>   hard  at    ,•  ork  in  the 

from   ten  to  I'm-.      Ik-   wrote  for  ti,  ,  the 

Weekly  \  \ari«»u>  other   periodicals — 

t-dit  '  -///,    ill    which  he  wi  -to:1.    no\el 

I   by  week,  filling  up   In-  '    t»y    writing 


60  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

melo-drama.  Mr  Sims'  first  production  as  a  melo- 
dramatist  was  "  Lights  o'  London,"  which  has  been 
followed  by  about  a  dozen  other  plays.  In  addition 
to  writing  for  the  stage,  he  has  composed  numerous 
dramatic  pieces  in  verse  suitable  for  recitation.  How 
favourably  those  efforts  have  been  received  is  proved 
by  the  fact  that  over  100,000  copies  of  his  poetical 
works  have  been  sold.  If  the  number  of  plays  Mr 
Sims  has  written  during  the  last  few  years,  the  weekly 
sketches,  notes,  and  ballads  contributed  to  various 
periodicals,  the  constant  rehearsing  of  new  plays,  the 
multitude  of  engagements,  and  the  mass  of  correspond- 
ence connected  with  his  vocation  be  considered,  it  can 
well  be  understood  that  his  life  is  a  perpetual  round 
of  hard  work.  "His  study,"  says  a  writer  in  the 
World,  "  is  his  workshop,  about  which  the  tools  of  his 
trade  are  carelessly  strewn ;  but  it  is  also  an  audience 
chamber.  His  work  among  the  poor,  his  advocacy  of 
the  oppressed  and  wronged,  bring  him  many  unre- 
munerative  clients.  Some  come  '  to  bury  their  hus- 
bands '  as  Mr  Sims  terms  their  asking  financial  help 
in  the  matter  of  funerals ;  others  request  him  to  give 
them  '  a  bit  of  the  law  '  anent  distresses  and  judgment 
summonses ;  and  a  few  insist  on  making  him  a  confi- 
dant of  their  crimes."  "  The  Dagonet  Ballads/'  with 
"  Ballads  of  Babylon,"  and  "  The  Lifeboat  and  other 
Poems,"  have  been  published  by  John  P.  Fuller,  Wine 
Office  Court,  E.G.,  London,  and,  with  various  prose 
sketches  and  tales,  are  sold  at  one  shilling  each  volume. 
One  of  his  latest  works,  "  The  Ring  o'  Bells,"  is  dedi- 
cated to  "  Bessie,  my  brave  and  gentle  wife,"  who  died 
in  December  1886,  after  a  long  and  painful  illness,  at 
the  early  age  of  thirty-two. 

Mr  Sims'  poetry  is  peculiarly  striking  and  original ; 
and  while  melting  in  its  tenderness,  the  pathos  is 
artistically  relieved  by  occasional  flashes  of  real 
humour.  He  is  the  nearest  approach  to  Charles 


O.    B.   SIMS.  61 

Dickens  that  we  have  had  during  the  present  genera- 
tion.] A  genuine  philanthropist,  he  has  acquired  his 
extensive  knowledge  of  the  condition  of  the  London 
poor  through  personal  contact.  He  goes  down 
into  their  very  midst,  and  converses  with  them — 
making  his  way  into  places  where  policemen  always 
walk  in  couples.  Before  the  appearance  of  his  pam- 
phlet entitled  "  Tne  Bitter  Cry  of  Outcast  London," 
he  was  an  earnest  worker  in  the  field,  and  he  has 
followed  it  up  by  much  enquiry  into  the  state  of 
things,  By  letters  and  articles  in  the  newspapers. 
"In  writing  on,  and  working  for  the  good  of  his 
fellows,"  says  the  editor  of  the  Biographical  Maga- 
*ine,  "  Mr  Sims  holds  a  special  place.  His  series  of 
revelations,  4  How  the  Poor  Live,'  will  never  fade  out 
of  mind  whilst  the  literature  of  our  country  survives  ; 
and  this  was  supplemented  but  recently  by  his 
'  Pinch  of  Poverty,'  in  the  Daily  News.  These  manly, 
vigorous,  and  original  descriptions  of  phases  of  life 
have  done  more  to  call  attention  to,  and  create 
sympathy  for,  the  suffering  millions  than  anything 
else  we  know  of."  By  special  permission  we  are 
privileged  to  give  the  two  following  pieces — the  first 
from  "  Ballads  of  Babylon,"  and  the  second  from  "  The 
Dagonet  Ballads." 


FALLEN    BY    TUB    WAV. 

Don't  be  a  fool  and  blub,  Jim,  it'«  a  darned  good  thing  for  you— 

il  find  a  mate  a*  can  carry  and'll  play  the  mu»io  too  ; 
1  in  done  tnia  time,  for  a  dollar — I  can  hardly  get  my  breath  ; 
There's  Houiething  an  tells  me,  somehow,  "  Bill  Joy,  you  be  took 

for  death." 
It's*  wesael  gone  bust,  and  a  big  'un  ;    1  can   hardly  hpeak  for 

bio 
It's  the  last  day's  tramp  as  'as  done  it— the  hills  and  the  miles  o' 

mud. 

I  ain't  not  the  sign  of  a  light,  Jim,   in  thin  God-forsaken 

spot — 
Hunt  for  some  warier,  pardner,  for  my  lips  is  burnln'  I 


62  MODERN    SCOTTISH   POETS. 

How  much  ha'  we  took  to-day,  Jim  ?    Why  not  a  single  brown, 
And  our  show  was  one  of  the  best  once,  and  we  rode  from  town  to 

town  ; 
Now  it's  dirty  and  old  and  battered,  and  the  puppets  is  wus  for 

wear, 
And  their  arms  and  their  legs  is  shaky,  and  their  backs  is  reg'lar 

bare. 
I  ain't  done  my  share  o'  the  work,  mate,  since  I  went  that  queer 

in  the  chest, 
But  I  done  what  I  could,  old  fellow,  and  you  know  as  I  did  my 

best; 

And  now — well,  I'm  done,  I  reckon  ;  it's  life  as  is  flowing  fast — 
Stick  to  me,  Jim — don't  leave  me  ;  it's  the  end  as  is  come  at  last. 

There's  Toby  a-waggin'  his  tail  there  ;  poor  chap,  how  he'll  miss 

me,  Jim  ! — 

Whoever  you  takes  for  mate,  mind,  they  ain't  to  be  'ard  on  'im  ; 
For  I  'ad  him  a  six  weeks'  puppy,  and  I  taught  him  to  box  with 

Punch— 
What  was  that  sound  in  the   distance?     I  fancied  I  heard  a 

scrunch. 

Nothin' — ah  well  no  matter  !  I  thought  'twas  a  footstep  p'r'aps. 
A  traveller  as  might  ha'  helped  us.  or  one  o'  them  farmer  chaps. 
A  doctor  might  stop  the  bleedin' ;  but  there's  never  a  chance  o' 

one. 
I'll  be  cold  and  dead  in  the  mornin' — your  poor  old   pardner's 

done. 

I  feel  just  as  if  I  was  chokin',  and  I'm,  0,  so  faint  and  low ; 
Prop  me  agen  the  boxes,  so  I  can  see  the  show — 
The  dear  old  show  and  the  puppets,  Judy  and  Punch  and  all  ; 
I'd  like  just  to  see  'em  again,  Jim — so  prop  me  afore  I  fall. 
0  the  miles  that  we've  been  together,  I  and  the  puppets  and  you 
And  Toby,  our  faithful  Toby — ah,  when  the  show  was  new  ! 
Do  ye  think  of  the  time,  old  fellow,  when  first  we  took  the  road, 
And  she  was  with  us,  God  bless  her  !    and  never   a   grief  we 
knowed  ? 

It  may  be  as  God'll  let  her  look  down  from  the  sky  to-night, 
From  out  o'  the  stars  up  yonder,  where  she  sits  in  the   Halls  o' 

Light — 

Look  down  on  the  poor  old  showman  and  see  as  his  time  is  nigh, 
And  he  s  comin'  to  join  his  darlin'  where  there's  never  no  more 

Goodbye  ! 


O,  Jiin,  how  I  well  remember  the  night  as  my  sweetheart  died 
When  she  lay  by  the  wee  dead  baby,  only  a  nine  months'  bride, 
•i was  the  fall  from  the  stilts  as  did  it,  and  the  wild,   rou^h   life 

we  led  : 
D'ye  mind  what  she  whispered  dyin'— the  beautiful  words  she 

•aid  * 


Q.    R.    SIMS.  63 

Twas  when  «he  knew  she  was  goin'  ;  I'm  seeing  her  wan  white 

cheek 
And  the  sweet  sad  Minile  that  lit  it  when  she  tried  so  hard  to 

speak  ; 
When  >he  took  our  hands  and  joined  'eiu,  and  bade  us,  through 

had  and  good, 
Be  pals,  and  stick  tight  to  each  other  !  and  both  on  us  said  we 

would. 

I  knew  as  yon  loved  her  fust,  Jim,  and  had  loved  her  all  alonp, 
And  I  see  how  you  'id  yer  feelin's  when  you  bee  as  you  counted 

wrong  ; 
But  you  stuck  like  a  pal  to  the  show,  Jim,  and  you  worked  and 

whistled  away, 
Ami  the  never  guessed  your  secret,  or  she  wouldn't  ha'  been  so 


I  fancy  the  dear  old  days,  Jim,  when  she  was  alive,  poor  lass— 
The  feasts  that  we  had  by  the  hedges,  and  the  chats  in  the  long 

green  grass, 
And  the  cosy  nights  at  the  tavern,  when  the  coin  came  rolling 

in  : 
How  we  laughed  when  she  puffed  our  baccy,  and  pretended  to 

drink  our  gin  ! 

Then  Toby,  a  u»y  young  fellow,  would  lit-  by  the  fire  and  doze, 
While  the  misses  worked  at  the  puppets,  And  altered  and  turned 

their  clo's  ; 

And  Judy  and  Punch  and  .Joey  were  never  so  smart  before, 
And  the  Ghost  had  a  nice  white  gown  on,  as  a  clergyman  might 

ha*  wore. 

She  went  in  the  cruel  winter,  when  the  bread  was  hard  to  get, 
When  we  tramped  and  slept  in  the  cowshed*,  hungry  and  cold 

and  wet. 
How  far   am    1    from   her  grave,  Jim  ?    Ah,  a  hundred  miles 

maybe  ; 

To  lie  by  the  side  o'  one's  darlin*  ain't  meant  for  the  liken  o'  me. 
The  parish  '11  bury  me  here,  Jim     lu-rv  where  I  chance  to  die  ; 
Come  to  the  grave  and  see  me,  and  bid  me  a  last  good-bye. 
Y<"i  can  bring  the  show  and  the  puppets,  and  Toby,  and  beat 

the  drum  ; 
Who  kuowb  but  v  hat  I  may  bear  it  in  the  wonderful  Kingdom 

Come? 

I'm  goin',  old  pal—  don't  blubber  and  look  with  that  nk.-ered 

white  face  ; 

Stan.  I  by  me  h.-re  to  the  last,  lad  ;  it's  a  horrible  lonely  place  ; 
Stoop,  for  I'll  have  to  whisper—  O,  my  eyes  grow  ftrange  and 

dim, 
And  I  feel  like  poor  old  1'unch  feels  when  the  hangman  cornea 

to  him. 


64  MODERN   SCOTTISH    POETS. 

I  warn't  much  iise  as  a  pardner,  and  I  ain't  not  been  for  a  year, 
This  bustin'  <>'  weasels  and  cortin'  has  made  me  that  awful  queer, 
I'd  like  to  ha'  got  to  a  willage  or  ha'  crawled  as  fur  ad  a  shed  : 
Jim,  if  I  lose  my  senses,  stay  till  yer  know  I'm  dead. 

O,  it's  hard  to  die  in  the  open — here  on  a  country  road  ; 

That's  a  matter  o'  sentymuut,  ain't  it  •    well   sentymunt  jes'  be 

bio  wed  ! 

For  where  can  a  cove  die  better  than  under  a  starlit  sky, 
With  his  pardner's  arms  about  him,  and  a  tear  in  his    pardner's 

eye  ? 
Now  I  want  yer  to  do  me  a  favour — it's  the  last  as  I'll  ask   ye, 

Jim— 
There's  a  mist  comin'  over  my  eyeballs,  and  my  senses  seems  to 

swim  ; 

Set  up  the  show  in  the  road  there— there  where  the  moonlight  be— 
Let  down  the  baize  and  work  it,  now,  while  I've  strength  to  see. 

(live  me  the  drum  a  niinit — I  can  hardly  raise  the  stick  ; 
Now,  are  you  ready,  pardner?— up  with  the  curtain  quick  ! 
The  blood  comes  faster  and  faster — that's   it  !     Ah,    Punch,    old 

boy, 

And  Judy,  and  there's  the  Baby,  and  Toby,  the  children's  joy. 
Poor  Toby,  he  knows  there's  trouble  ;  for  see  how  he   hangs   his 

tail  ; 

Bark  at  the  Bobby,  Toby,  he's  a-takin'  old  Punch  to  gaol. 
Where  have  you  gone  to,   parduer?     Where  have  you   put  the 

show  ? 
I  see  but  the  big,  black  shadows  that  darker  and  darker  grow. 

I  know  what  it  is — the  signal  !     Put  down  the  pipes  and  drum. 
I'm  off  to  the  distant  country— the  touch  on  the  shoulder's  come. 
Shall  I  take  any  message  for  you,  JLu  ?    I  shall  see  her  up  there, 

maybe, 
And  I'll  tell  her  how  hard  you  worked,  mate,  and  the  pal  as 

you've  been  to  me. 

Jim,  when  I'm  gone  1  wants  yer  just  to  look  in  the  box  and  take 
The  ragged  old  dress  we  kept  there  and  treasured  for   her  sweet 

sake  — 

The  dress  that  she  made  for  Judy — and  lay  it  upon  my  breast ; 
And  I  want  you,  the  day  J  am  buried,  to  give  the  show  a  rest. 

Bring  'em  away  to  the  churchyard,  and  show  'em  their  master's 

grave. 
Now  take  up  your  pipes  and  blow  'em,  and  tip  us  a  farewell 

stave. 
Mind,  when  you're  choosin'  a  mate,  Jim,  don't  have  a  rogue  or 

muff; 
Make  him  handle  the  puppets  gentle,  for  they've  never  been 

treated  roagh. 


0.    R.    SIMS.  65 

(Jive  me  the  dog  a  minit—  see  how  he  licks  my  cheek, 
N<>w  fur  a  tune  on  the  pipes,   mate,  and  speak  as  the  puppets 
speak  ; 

he  Aiisic  I've  lived  my  life  to—  let  me  hear  it  again  and  die. 
I'm  a-goin'  to  her—  I'm  goin'—  God  bless  yer,  Jim  !  —  good-bye. 

+      BILLY'S    ROSE. 

Billy'*  dead,  and  gone  to  glory  —  so  is  Billy's  sister  Nell  ; 
There's  a  tale  I  know  about  them  were  I  poet  I  wouM  tell  ; 
Soft  it  comet*,  with  perfume  la<len,  like  a  nreath  of  country  air 
Wafted  down  the  filthy  alley,  bringing  fragrant  odours  there. 

In  that  vile  an  1  filthy  alley,  long  ago  one  winter's  day, 
Dying  quick  ot  want  and  fever,  hapless,  patient  Billy  lay, 
While  beside  him  nat  his  sister,  in  the  garret's  dismal  gloom, 
Cheering  with  her  gentle  presence  Billy's  pith  way  to  the  tomb. 


Many  a  tale  of  elf  and  fairy  did  she  tell  the  dying  child, 

Till  his  eyes  lost  half  their  anguish,  and  his  worn,  wan  features 

smiled  : 

Tales  herself  had  heard  bap-hazard,  caught  amid  the  Babel  roar, 
Lisped  about  by  tiny  gossips  playing  round  their  mothers'  door. 

Then  Hhe  felt  his  wasted  fingers  tighten  feebly  as  she  told 
How  beyond  this  dismal  alley  lay  a  land  of  shining  gold, 
Where,  when  ail  the  pain  was  over—  where,  when  all  the  tears 

were  shed  — 
He  would  be  a  white-f  rocked  angel,    with    a  gold  thing  on  his 

head. 

Then  she  toU  some  garbled  story  of  a  kind-eyed  Saviour's  love, 

He'd  built  for  little  children  great   big  playground*   up 
above, 

Where  they  sang  and  played  at  hop-scotch  and  at  horse*  all  the 
day, 
.vhere  beadles  and  policemen  never  frightened  them  away. 

was  Nell's  idea  of  heaven—  junt  a  hit  <>f  what  she'd  heard, 
With  a  little  bit  invented,  an>l  a  little  bit  inferred. 

•  ither  lay  and  listened,  and  he  seemed  lo  understand, 
•  «  closed  hi*  eye*  and  murmured  he  could  see  the  Promised 
Laud. 

"  Yes,''  he  whispere-1,  "  1  can  see  it—  I  can  see  it,  sister  Noll  ; 
Oh,  i  look  so  happy,  and  they're  all  so  strong  and 

well  ; 

•  ••-•  iheni  '  He  i'  |>1  iy  ins'  with  them,  too  I 

Let  us  run  awsi*  .m  I  j  >in  i  n.-tii.  if  MI.  -r   i  .....  i  for  me  and  you." 


66  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

She  was  eight,  this  little  maiden,  and  her  life  had  all  been  spent 
In  the  garret  and  the  alley,  where  they  starved  to  pay  the  rent ; 
Where  a  drunken  father's  curses  and  a  drunken  mother's  blows 
Drove  her  forth  into  the  gutter  from  the  day's  dawn  to  Its  close. 

But  she  knew  enough,  this  outcast,  just  to  tell  the  sinking  boy, 
"  You  must  die  before  you're  able  all  these  blessings  to  enjoy. 
You  must  die,"  she  whispered,  "  Billy,  and  I  am  not  even  ill  ; 
But  I'll  come  to  you,  dear  brother, — yes,  I  promise  that  1  will. 

You  are  dying,  little  brother,— you  are  dying,  oh,  so  fast  ; 
I  heard  father  say  to  mother  that  he  knew  you  couldn't  last. 
They  will  put  you  in  a  coffin,  then  you'll  wake  and  be  up  there, 
While  I'm  left  alone  to  suffer  in  this  garret  bleak  and  bare." 

"Yes,  I  know  it,"  answered  Billy.      "Ah,   but,   sister,  I  don't 

mind, 

Gentle  Jesus  will  not  beat  me  ;  He's  not  cruel  or  unkind. 
But  I  can't  help  thinking,  Nelly,  I  should  like  to  take  away 
Something,  sister,  that  you  gave  me,  I  might  look  at  every  day. 

In  the  summer  you  remember  how  the  mission  took  us  out 
To  a  great  green  lovely  meadow,  where  we  played  and  ran  about, 
And  the  van  that  took  us  halted  by  a  sweet  bright  patch  of  land, 
Where  the  fine  red  blossoms  grew,  dear,  half  as  big  as  mother's 
hand. 

Nell,  I  asked  the  good  kind  teacher  what  they  called  such  flowers 

as  those, 

And  he  told  me,  I  remember,  that  the  pretty  name  was  rose. 
I  have  never  seen  them  since,  dear — how  I  wish  that  I  had  one  ! 
Just  to  keep  and  think  of  you,  Nell,    when   I'm  up  beyond  the 

sun." 

Not  a  word  said  little  Nelly  ;  but  at  night,  when  Billy  slept, 
On  she  flung  her  scanty  garments  an  1  then  down  the  stairs  she 

crept. 

Through  the  silent  streets  of  London  she  ran  nimbly  as  a  fawn, 
Running  on  and  running  ever  till  the  night  had  changed  to  dawn. 

When  the  fogjjy  sun  had  risen,  and  the  mist  had  cleared  away, 
All  around  her,  wrapped  in  snowdrift,  there  the  open  country 

lay. 
She  was  tired,  her  limbs  were  frozen,  arid  the  roads  had  cut  her 

feet, 
But  there  came  no  flowery  gardens  her  poor  tearful  eyes  to  greet 

She  had  traced  the  road  by  asking— she  had  learnt  the  way  to  go  ; 
She  had  found  the   famous   meadow — it  was   wrapped  in  cruel 
snow, 


LAW8ON.  67 

Not  a  buttercup  or  daisy,  not  a  single  venlant  blade 
Showed  its  bead  above  its  prison.     Then  she  knelt  her  down  and 
prayed. 

With  her  eyes  upcast  to  heaven,  down  she  sank  upon  the  ground, 
And  she  prayed  to  God  to  tell  her  where  the  roses  might  he  found. 
Then  the  cold  blast  numbed  her  senses,  and  her  sight  grew 

strangely  dim  ; 
And  a  sudden,  awful  tremor  seemed  to  seize  her  every  limb. 

"  Oh,  a  rose  !  "  she  moaned,  "  good  Jesus — just  a  rose  to  take  to 

Bill !  " 

And  as  she  prayed  a  chariot  came  thundering  down  the  hill, 
And  a  lady  sat  there,  toying  with  a  red  ruse,  rare  and  sweet ; 
As  she  passed  shv  flung  it  from  her,  and  it  fell  at  Nelly's  feet. 

Jnst  a  word  her  lord  had  spoken  caused  her  ladyship  to  fret, 
And  the  rose  I  .id  l>«en  his  present,  HO  she  flung  it  in  a  pet, 
But  the  poor,  half-blinded  Nelly  thought  it  fallen  from  the  skies, 
AM  1  ahe  murmured    "Thank  you,  Jenua,"  as  she  clasped  the 
dainty  prize. 


Lo  that  night  from  out  the  alley  did  a  child's  soul  pass  awxy, 
From  dirt  and  -in  and  misery  to  where  God's  children  play. 
!.«>  that  night  u  wild,  tierce  snowstorm  burnt  in  fury  o'er  the  land, 
And  at  morn  they  found  Nell  frozen,   with  the  red  n>se  in  her 
hand. 

Billy's  dead,  an  I  gone  to  glory— so  is  Billy's  si«ter  Nell  ; 
Am  I  I»1<1  t<>  H.iy  tliiit  happened  in  the  land  where  angels  dwell — 
That  the  children  met  in  heaven,  after  all  their  earthly  woe-. 
And  that  Nelly  kissed  her  brother,  and  said,  "  Billy,  here  s  your 


JAMES     LA  IT80N, 

HUTHOR  of  "Let  us  ower  to  <  ampsie  <;ien,"  u 
|»ii|Mil;  r  ami  \ 

..in  in  «il:i-_'..\v   in    1  7'.M>       Having  coni- 
j-l«-t«-«l  In-   i-4iii-.iti.in    :it    tip  of   lii^   native 


68  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

city,  he,  in  his  seventeenth  year,  emigrated  to  the 
United  States,  and  found  employment  in  the  counting- 
house  of  a  relative  in  New  York.  The  failure  of  this 
firm,  of  which  Mr  Lawson  was  a  partner,  induced  him, 
a  few  years  later,  to  turn  his  attention  to  literature. 
Mr  James  Grant  Wilson,  in  his  "  Poets  and  Poetry  of 
Scotland,"  informs  us  that,  in  company  with  two  other 
gentlemen,  he  established  the  Morning  Courier  in  1827. 
Two  years  afterwards  he  retired  from  this  concern,  and 
for  a  period  of  about  five  years  was  connected  with  the 
Mercantile  Advertiser.  In  1830  he  published  a  volume 
entitled  "  Tales  and  Sketches  by  a  Cosmopolite," 
which  was  followed  by  "Giordano  :  a  Tragedy."  This 
was  an  Italian  State  story  of  love  and  conspiracy,  and 
was  successfully  introduced  in  a  New  York  theatre. 
Mr  Lawson  has  several  times  appeared  before  the 
public  in  connection  with  the  stage,  and  was  associated 
with  William  Cullen  Bryant  and  other  American  poets 
in  the  selection  of  plays,  <fec. 

Since  his  retirement  from  the  press  in  1833,  Mr 
Lawson  has  engaged  in  the  business  of  marine  insur- 
ance, and  is,  so  far  as  we  have  been  able  to  learn,  still 
alive — a  public-spirited  citizen  of  Yonkers,  on  the 
Hudson,  respected  in  mercantile  circles,  and  widely 
esteemed  by  men  of  letters.  Notwithstanding  his 
being  much  immersed  in  business  for  a  period  of  nearly 
fifty  years,  testimony  is  borne  to  his  literary  industry 
by  the  publication  of  several  volumes,  and  the  writing 
of  numerous  criticisms,  essays,  tales,  aiid  verse  for 
the  magazines  and  newspapers.  His  later  volumes 
(printed  for  private  circulation)  include  "  Poems  : 
Gleanings  from  Spare  Hours  of  a  Business  Life," 
and  "  Liddesdale,  or  the  Border  Chief :  a  Tragedy." 
The  first-mentioned  bears  the  following  dedication  : 
— "  To  my  children  and  their  mother,  these  poems,  at 
their  solicitation  thus  gathered  together  but  not 
published,  are  affectionately  inscribed  by  the  father 


JAMES   LAW80N.  69 

and  husband,  James  Lawson."  We  are  informed  that 
the  narrative  and  dramatic  power  of  our  poet  is 
original  and  striking.  His  songs  are  full  of  rich 
melody  and  patriotic  fervour,  while  his  poems  evince 
mature  thought,  and  a  calm,  meditative  spirit. 


CAMP3IE    GLEN. 

Let  UP  ower  to  Campsie  Glen,  bonnie  lassie,  O, 
By  the  dingle  that  you  ken,  bonnie  lassie,  0, 

To  the  tree  where  first  we  woo'd. 

And  cut  our  names  aae  rude 
Deep  in  the  Much-tree's  wood,  bonnie  lassie,  O. 

O'er  the  willow  brig  we'll  wend,  bonnie  lassie,  0, 
And  the  ladders  we'll  ascend,  bonnie  lassie,  O, 

Where  the  wood  roof  loves  to  hide 

Its  scented  leaves,  beside 
The  streamlets  as  they  glide,  bonnie  lassie,  O. 

Where  the  bluebell  on  the  brae,  bonnie  lassie,  O, 
Where  the  sweetest  scented  slae,  bonnie  lassie,  O, 

And  the  flow'rets  ever  new, 

Of  Nature's  painting  true, 
All  fragrant  bloom  for  you,  bonnie  lassie,  O. 

Where  the  music  of  the  wood,  bonnie  lassie,  0, 

And  the  dashing  <>f  the  flood,  bonnie  lassie,  O, 

O'er  the  rock  and  ravine  mingle. 

And  glen  and  mountain  dingle, 

With  the  merry  echoes  tingle,  bonnie  lassie,  0. 

On  the  moss-seat  well  recline,  bonnie  lassie,  0, 
Wi'  a  hand  in  each  <»'  thine,  bonnie  laosie,  O  ; 

The  bosom's  warmest  thrill 

Beats  truer,  safter  still, 
As  our  hearts  now  glowing  611,  bonnie  lassie,  0. 

Then  hefore  bright  heaven's  eye,  bonnie  lassie,  O, 
We  will  double  love-knoU  tie,  bonnie  lassie,  0  ; 

Then  true  affectinri  plighted, 

We'll  lov«  and  live  united, 
\Vith  In-art*  Hud  Un-U  united,  bonnie  lassie,  O. 


70  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

WHEN    SPRING     ARRAYED     IN    FLOWERS. 

When  spring  arrayed  in  flowers-,  Mary, 

Danced  wi'  the  leafy  trees  ; 
When  larks  sang  to  the  sun,  Mary, 

And  hummed  the  wandering  bees  ; 
Then  first  we  met  and  loved,  Mary, 

By  Kelburn's  loupin'  linn, 
And  blyther  was  thy  voice,  Mary, 

Than  linties  i'  the  whin. 

Now  autumn  winds  blaw  cauld,  Mary, 

Aman-,'  the  withered  boughs  ; 
And  a'  the  bonnie  flowers,  Mary, 

Are  faded  frae  the  knowes  ; 
But  still  thy  love's  unchanged,  Mary, 

Nae  chilly  autumn  there  ; 
And  sweet  thy  smile,  as  spring's,  Mary, 

Thy  sunny  face  as  fair. 

Nae  mair  the  early  lark,  Mary, 

Trills  on  his  soaring  way  ; 
Hushed  is  the  lintie's  sang,  Mary, 

Through  a'  the  shortening  day  ; 
But  still  thy  voice  I  hear,  Mary, 

Like  melody  divine  ; 
Nae  autumn  in  my  heart,  Mary, 

And  summer  still  in  thine. 

TO   A    LINTIE    FRIGHTENED  FROM  HER  NEST. 

Wee  lintie,  stay,  an'  dinna  fear  me, 
It  is  nae  i'  my  heart  to  steer  ye, 
Ye  needna  flee,  tho'  I  am  near  ye, 

Frae  lounie  nest, 
But  i'  your  thorny  shelter  hear  me, 

Wi'  unscaithed  breast. 

I  hae  nae  corne  by  ill  inclined, 
Ke^kin'  ilk  leafy  bield  behind, 
As  I  wad  fain  wee  tremblers  find, 

In  hedge  or  brier  ; 
If  I  had  kent  ye  here  reclined, 

I'd  nae  come  near. 

But  tired  o'  Glasgow's  wark  an'  wile, 
I've  wandered  mony  a  weary  mile 
To  see  the  knowes  sae  blythely  smile 
Wi'  wealth  o'  flowers  ; 


JAMES    LAW8ON.  71 

Tlie  burns  and  braen  my  thoughts  beguile 
0'  dreary  hours. 

I've  come  to  muse  by  Grietp's  linn, 
To  hear  it*  |>le;i-iim,  prattling  din, 
To  spy  the  trout  wi'  rapid  tin 

Dart  'neath  a  stane, 
As  frae  its  green  banks  I  peep  in, 

Amused,  alane. 

The  lark  sings  to  the  rising  day, 
The  mavis  to  its  latest  ray  ; 
Frae  morn  to  night  <>n  ilka  spray 

Sweet  wild  notes  ring  ; 
My  heart  exults  at  every  lay 

The  warblers  sing. 

An'  weel  I  lo'e  your  cheerful  sang, 
The  bloomin'  whin  or  broom  amang, 
I've  listened  aft  the  morning  lang, 

Wi'  raptured  ear : 
Puir  thing  !  I  wadna  do  ye  wrang 

For  warldrt  o'  gear. 

Then  wherefore,  lintie.  lea'  your  bield  ? 
Mair  mither-like  to  stay  and  shield, 
Wi'  a'  the  art  that  ye  may  wield, 

Your  yaupin'  things, 
Than  flee  atoure  yon  stibble-field. 

Wi'  flurried  wings. 

If  man  possess  a  selfish  heart, 
Our  mithern  wadna  act  thy  part. 
To  drive  awa'  at  ilka  start 

Sae  heedlessly ; 
TheyVJ  save  their  bairns,  or  share  their  smart, 

Or  wi'  them  dee. 

Come,  lintie,  to  your  cozy  nest, 
An1  cuddle  'neath  your  downy  breast 
Your  uiiHrdgcd  young  ;  their  needfu'  rest 

I've  broke  ower  lang  ; 
I'm  gaun  awa',  but  this  request — 
'ue  a  sang  ! 


72  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 


V  ALEXANDER     SMART 


one  °^  *^e  most  popu^r  contributors  to 
"Whistlebinkie,"  and  although  Dr  Charles 
Rogers  has,  in  his  "Scottish  Minstrel,"  done  him 
justice  by  quoting  two  of  his  beautiful  lyrics,  we  are 
pleased,  in  response  to  the  repeated  wishes  of  several 
correspondents,  to  be  able  to  give  him  a  place  here. 
The  son  of  a  shoemaker,  Smart  was  born  at  Montrose 
in  1798.  His  recollections  of  his  early  schooldays  are 
far  from  pleasant.  Monstrous  cruelties  and  dreadful 
flagellations  were  evidently  the  means  his  teacher 
adopted  for  infusing  knowledge.  Dr  Rogers  gives  one 
or  two  of  these  depressing  reminiscences  in  the  author's 
words  :  —  "  One  day  of  horrors  I  shall  never  cease  to 
remember.  Every  Saturday  he  caused  his  pupils  to 
repeat  a  prayer  which  he  had  composed  for  their  use  ; 
and  in  hearing  which  he  stood  over  each  with  a  paper 
ruler,  ready,  in  the  event  of  omission  of  word  or  phrase, 
to  strike  down  the  unfortunate  offender,  who  all  the 
while  drooped  tremblingly  before  him.  On  one  of 
these  days  of  extorted  prayer,  I  was  found  at  fault  in 
my  grammar  lesson,  and  the  offence  was  deemed 
worthy  of  peculiar  castigation.  The  school  was  dis- 
missed at  the  usual  time,  but,  along  with  a  few  other 
boys  who  were  to  become  witnesses  of  my  punishment 
•and  disgrace,  I  was  detained  in  the  class-room,  and 
dragged  to  the  presence  of  the  tyrant.  Despite  of  his 
every  effort,  I  resisted  being  bound  to  the  bench,  and 
flogged  after  the  fashion  of  the  times.  So  the  punish- 
ment was  commuted  into  'palmies.'  Horrible  com- 
mutation !  Sixty  lashes  with  leather  thongs  on  my 
right  hand,  inflicted  with  all  the  severity  of  a  tyrant's 
wrath,  made  me  scream  in  the  anguish  of  desperation. 
My  pitiless  tormentor,  unmoved  by  the  sight  of  my 


ALEXANDER   8MAMT.  73 

hand  sorely  lacerated,  and  swollen  to  twice  its  natural 
size,  threatened  to  cut  out  my  tongue  if  I  continued 
to  complain ;  and  so  saying,  laid  hold  on  a  pair  of 
scissors,  and  inflicted  a  deep  cut  on  my  lip.  The 
horrors  of  the  day  fortunately  emancipated  me  from 
the  further  control  of  the  despot." 

Having  completed  his  education  at  another  semi- 
nary our  poet  was  apprenticed  to  a  watchmaker,  his 
hours  of  leisure  t>eiug  sedulously  devoted  to  improving 
his  mind.  He  delighted  in  ionising  the  British  poets, 
-  frequently  reciting  his  favourite  passages  during 
solitary  rambles  on  the  sea  beach. 

In  1819,  at  the  end  of  his  apprenticeship,  he 
proceeded  to  Edinburgh,  when*,  during  a  period  of  six 
months,  IK-  wrought  at  his  trade.  But  the  sedentary 
life  of  a  watchmaker  proving  injurious  to  his  health, 
he  was  led  to  seek  employment  in  a  printing  office. 
Ultimately  he  became  editor,  printer,  and  publisher  of 
tin  3fontro*e  Chronicle,  a  newspaper  that  WHS  started 
in  his  native  town,  but  which,  after  a  short  existence, 
pn.\cd  unsuccessful.  He  thereafter  held  an  appoint- 
m«  nt  in  the  ntn'ce  of  the  Jhtndee  Courier,  and  subsequ- 
ently returning  to  Edinburgh,  he  was  employed  as  a 
man,  in  course  of  time  attaining  the  position 
of  press  overseer  in  one  of  the  largest  printing  estab- 
IMni.rnt-  in  tin-  city. 

In  his  twentieth  year  Smart  br^aii  the  composition 
of  verse,  but  i  ith  \\\^  etlorts,  he 

•  •(I  them  to  oblivion.      He   subsequently    renewed 

lu>  invocation  of  the  Muse,  and  in  1  S.'U  the  '  rst  edition 

of  his  volume  of  poems  :md  •  ntitled  "  Itanibliiig 

-  published  by  Adam    and  Charles  I'.lack. 

publication  aitr-en-d  much  attentio;  ,ivd 

for  th.-  . lutho r  tin-  personal 

•ndation  of  Thomas  Carnp- 

D  '-.inlay,    and    oth.-r   litrnt  \ 

and  poetMft]  oelebdtiea       A  new  and  enlarged  edition 


74  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

of  "Rambling  Rhymes"  was  published  in  1845,  and 
dedicated  to  Lord  Jeffrey.  In  thanking  the  public  for 
the  very  favourable  reception  of  the  first  edition,  Mr 
Smart  said  that  "the  best  reward  that  can  be  con- 
ferred upon  any  poet  is  to  read  his  book ;  for,  apart 
from  his  inherent  love  of  approbation,  perhaps  the 
strongest  passion  of  his  mind  is  a  craving  for  sympathy, 
— that  moral  sympathy  with  his  thoughts  and  feelings 
which  makes  the  whole  world  kin,  and  which  elevates 
him  in  the  scale  of  intellectual  beings."  He  also 
refers  to  the  opinion  expressed  by  Lord  Jeffrey,  as 
contained  in  his  letter  from  that  eminent  critic,  in 
which  he  refers  to  the  many  passages  of  great  poetical 
beauty,  and  to  the  still  greater  number  expressive  of 
(and  inspired  by)  those  gentle  affections,  and  just  and 
elevated  sentiments,  which  it  is  so  delightful  to  find 
in  the  works  of  persons  of  the  middle  class,  on  whose 
time  the  calls  of  a  necessary,  and  often  laborious,  in- 
dustry must  press  so  heavily.  "  I  cannot  tell  you  the 
pride  and  the  pleasure  I  have  in  such  indications,  not 
of  cultivated  intellect  only,  but  of  moral  delicacy  and 
elegant  taste,  in  the  tradesmen  and  artisans  of  our 
country." 

At  different  periods  Smart  composed  thoughtful  and 
entertaining  prose  essays  and  sketches  for  Hogg's  In- 
structor. Of  these,  his  papers  on  "  Burns  and  his  An- 
cestors," "Leaves  from  an  Autobiography,"  and 
"  Scenes  from  the  Life  of  a  Sufferer,"  may  be  specially 
enumerated.  Of  a  peculiarly  nervous  temperament, 
he  repeatedly  experienced  the  miseries  of  mental  aber- 
ration, and  died,  lamented  by  a  wide  circle  of  his 
admirers,  in  1866,  in  the  Morningside  Asylum,  Edin- 
burgh. 

His  volume  of  "Songs  of  Labour  and  Domestic 
Life,"  was  published  in  1860  by  W.  P.  Nimmo.  It 
contained  a  section  entitled  "Rhymes  for  Little 
Readers,"  and  was  dedicated  "  to  the  gentlemen  of  the 


ALEXANDER   SMART.  75 

Kdinhurgh  Angus  Club."  In  this  publication  the 
chief  aim  of  the  author  was  the  inculcation  among  the 
working  classes  of  the  ^manly  sentiments  of  self- 
reliance  and  intellectual  culture,  and  the  unobtrusive 
virtues  of  domestic  life,  which  lie  at  the  root  of  all 
national  and  moral  greatness.  "  One  portion  of  the 
book,"  says  the  poet  in  his  introduction,  "  which,  I 
should  be  happy  to  think,  merited  the  approbation  of 
the  gentlemen  of  the  Angus  Club,  is  the  section  en- 
titled «  Hhymes  for  Littl.  leaders.'  The  difficulty  of 
succeeding  in  compositions  in  verse  adapted  to  the 
unsophisticated  mind  of  childhood  is  generally  ad- 
mitted. To  be  simple  without  being  silly, — to  em- 
body wise  thoughts  in  simple  but  chaste  and  elegant 
words, — and  to  influence  the  youthful  mind  through 
the  affections,  by  engaging  pictures  of  love  and  home, 
truth  and  gentleness, — is  an  achievement  which  has 
immortalized  the  name  of  Dr  Watts,  and  is  worthy 
the  ambition  of  writers  of  tar  higher  po\\ers  than  I 
can  have  any  claim  to.  The  wit  and  wisdom  of  many 
of  the  time-honoured  fables  of  .Ksupand  others  I  have 
endeavoured  to  convey  in  the  attractive  form  of  verse, 
which  clings  to  the  young  memory  more  readily  than 
prose;  and  I  believe  children  are  t|uick  enough  to  see 
a  moral  ami  a  meaning  through  the  mythical  veil  of 
fable  and  allegory,  and,  notwithstanding  th<  objections 
of  Kosweau,  ar  ed,  but  highly  amused, 

by  the  feigned  eonfahulat  ion  of  bird*  an-i 

That    Alexander    Smart     ha*    succeeded    in    writing, 
with  sweet  and  unaffected  delicacy,  of  human  exist 
in  its  most    innocent    and  attractive   form  i-  jm.xed  b\ 
tin-   <  \;m.|.l<-    ire   give,       Child  life    \\         I  m    gilded 

with   the  halo  of    tlu     |>ivine   birth   on    the   one    hand, 
while  on    the   ntln-r   yum-.:    MM--    \\eiv   wraj-j.nl    uj>   in 
•nder  <>f  tin-  infinite  possibilities  of  th<    future. 


76  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

THE     CKIPPLE     LADDIE. 

The  wee  cripple  laddie  that  hirples  alang, 

And  canna  keep  pace  wi'  the  hale  and  the  strang, 

Or  join  in  the  sports  that  belang  to  his  37ears, 

Could  ance  run  as  fast  as  hi.s  fleetest  compeers. 

An  accident  lamed  him,  and  mony  a  day 

And  lang  weary  night  in  affliction  he  lay, 

Where  Pain  learn'd  him  patience — that  monitor  stern, 

Wha  tutors  the  auld,  but  comes  hard  on  a  bairn. 

His  form  and  his  face  are  now  shrunken  and  wee ; 

The  rose  in  his  cheek  and  the  licht  in  his  e'e 

Are  dovv'd,  like  a  bud  that  had  blush'd  to  the  spring, 

But  shrunk  frae  the  blast,  wi'  its  cauld  icy  wing. 

Yet  gleams  o'  young  joy  and  love's  dimples  are  there, 

Though  soften'd  by  sorrow,  and  chasten'd  by  care  ; 

And  sadly  the  eye  of  affection  can  trace 

The  lines  they  have  worn  in  that  patient  young  face. 

He  thinks  on  the  time  when  he  clamb  wi'  the  best, 
Could  plunder  a  byke,  or  could  harry  a  nest  ; 
But  Pain,  that  the  thoughtless  may  a'  come  to  dree, 
Has  taught  him  to  feel  for  the  bird  and  the  bee. 
He  wonders  that  bairns  can  be  ever  unkind 
To  bird  or  to  beast,  to  the  cripple  or  blind  ; 
And  kens  by  experience,  that  cost  him  sae  dear, 
How  sweet  is  a  smile,  and  how  sac!  is  a  tear. 

He  dreams  o'  the  days  when  his  limbs  were  as  free 
As  the  burn  dancin'  by,  where  he  waded  wi'  glee, 
When  blythely  he  sprung,  as  the  lark  frae  its  nest, 
And  sank  in  the  gloamin'  as  blythely  to  rest. 
The  sweet  summer  holidays,  lightsome  and  lang, 
Will  sometimes  come  ower  his  young  heart  wi'  a  pang- 
A  pang  o'  regret  that  he  rambles  nae  mair 
As  ance  he  could  ramble,  a  stranger  to  care. 

Be  kind  to  wee  Johnnie  !  his  feeling  are  young, 
Though  a'  their  fine  chords  by  affliction  are  strung  ; 
And  though  he  may  shrink,  like  the  sensitive  leaf, 
Frae  a'  that  to  ithers  brings  trouble  or  grief — 
Though  mischief  has  lost  its  attractions  for  him, 
And  sports  that  bring  danger  to  life  or  to  limb — 
Be  kind  to  wee  Johnnie,  and  linger  awhile, 
When  canny  he  crosses  a  burn  or  a  stile. 

Be  kind  to  the  laddie  at  schule  or  at  hame, 
And  never  join  Cripple  in  scorn  to  his  name  ; — 


ALEXANDER  SMART.  77 

A  cruel  reproach,  that  the  heartier  will  throw 
On  blamele-M  misfortune,  to  sharpen  ith  woe. 
They're  sairly  ileform'd,  baith  in  heart  and  in  mind, 
NVha  pleasure  in  taunting  the  cripple  can  find. 
Such  cripple;-  in  soul,  in  deforn  ity  horn, 
Will  limp  a'  their  lives  as  the  objects  of  scorn  ! 


MY    GRANNY'S    FIRESIDE. 

My  granny's  fireside,  in  the  days  that  are  gane, 
I  mind  aye  sin*  rii.-t  I  could  toddle  my  lane  ; 
The  auld  oily  cruisie  hung  down  frae  the  tow, 
And  the  clear  ruvhy  wick  lent  a  cheerie  bit  lowe  ; 
And  there,  while  my  granny  indulged  in  a  reek 
O'  her  wee  cutty  pipe,  at  her  ain  ingle  cheek, 


on  the  volume  o'  lear. 


My  grand-daddy  Hat  i  the  nenk  in  his  chair, 
And  pored  through  his  specs 

He  kent  ilka  planet  that  glints  in  the  lift, 
How  they  swim  in  their  orbits  baith  siccar  an*  swift  ; 
And  how  the  auld  earlh  stands  on  naethiug  »va, 
But  rows  rouml  the  sun  in  the  air  like  a  ba'  ! 
HP  ilka  thing  kent,  for  he  rend  a*  the  news, 
Could  speak  o'  the  auld-warld  Human*  an1  Jews, 
Ami  a'  thing  that  happened  langsyne  he  could  tell, 
And  aye  point  a  moral  frae  a'  that  l>efel. 

My  granny  wax  skilled  in  a'  ailments  an*  pains, 
An'  brawly  could  doctor  the  wives  an'  the  weans  ; 
To  bind  a  cut  finger,  or  row  up  a  tae, 
Twas  aye  to  my  granny  we  marin'  would  gae. 
My  granny  had  pouthers  an'  pills  o'  her  ain, 
And  cures  o'  rare  virtue  nae  doctor  might  ken, 
His  made  our  faces  to  thraw  — 
But  wi'  something  she  aye  put  the  swither  awa. 

My  grand-daddy's  oes  were  his  pleasure  and  pride, 
The  crown  and  the  glory  o'  granny's  fireside  : 

bairn*  in  abundance  nae  treasure  had  he, 
But  they  were  mair  pivcioux  than  gowd  in  his  e'e. 
b  wild  an   misleared,  I  was  dear  to  his  heart, 

ca'd  me  he  aye  took  my  part  ; 
Hi-  I.-H.-OIIM  I  heard,  and  his  errands  I  ran, 
And  he  prophesied  aye  I  would  yet  b«  a  man. 

Come  pain  or  come  pleasure,  whate'er  might  hetide, 

was  na-  place  on  earth  like  my  granny's  fireside  ! 
II   i  weel-buttered  bannocks  she  M.  ..  r  would  haen, 
An'  a  bawbee  frae  granny  would  ease  ilka  pain. 


78  MODERN   SCOTTISH    POETS. 

My  granny  ne'er  gloomed  on  the  bairns  at  their  play, 
Her  heart  aye  was  young  though  her  haffets  were  grey 
The  sports  and  the  joys  o'  her  youth  she  would  tell, 
An'  mind  aye  when  she  was  a  lassie  hersel'. 

0  !  weel  do  I  mind,  in  the  days  o'  langsyne, 
When  a  pair  o'  new  breeks  or  a  jacket  was  mine, 
To  granny  I  flew  in  my  new-fangled  pride, 
And  my  pouch  aye  was  hansel'd  at  granny's  fireside. 
At  Pace,  or  at  Yule,  or  at  blythe  Hallowe'en, 
At  granny's  fireside  how  delighted  I've  been  ! 
Unscaithed  by  the  canker  of  sorrow  or  pain — 
O  !  wha  wouldna  be  a  wee  laddie  again  ? 


M  ABIE'S    SCHULE. 

When  weary  wi'  toil,  or  when  cankered  wi*  care, 
Remembrance  takes  wing  like  a  bird  o'  the  air, 
And  free  as  a  thought  that  ye  canna  confine, 
It  flees  to  the  pleasures  o'  bonnie  langsyne. 
In  fancy  I  bound  o'er  the  green  sunny  braes, 
And  drink  up  the  bliss  o'  the  lang  summer  days, 
Or  sit  sae  demure  on  a  wee  creepy  stool, 
And  con  ower  my  lesson  in  auld  Madie's  schule. 

Up  four  timmer  stairs,  in  a  garret  fu'  clean, 
In  awful  authority  Madie  was  seen  ; 
Her  close-luggit  mutch  towered  aloft  in  its  pride, 
Her  lang  wincey  upron  flowed  down  by  her  side. 
The  tawse  on  her  lap  like  some  dreaded  snake  lay, 
Aye  watehiu'  an'  ready  to  spring  on  its  prey  ; 
The  wheel  at  her  foot,  an'  the  cat  on  her  knee, — 
Nae  queen  on  her  throne  mair  majestic  than  she  ! 

To  the  whir  o  the  wheel  while  auld  baudrons  would  sing, 
On  stools,  wee  an'  muckle,  a'  ranged  in  a  ring, 
Ilk  idle  bit  urchin,  wha  glowered  aff  his  book, 
Was  caught  in  a  twinklin'  by  Madie's  dread  look. 
She  ne'er  spak  a  word,  but  the  tawse  she  would  fling, 
The  sad  leather  whang  up  the  culprit  maun  bring, 
While  his  sair  bluthered  face,  as  the  palmies  would  fa', 
Proclaimed  through  the  schule  an  example  to  a'. 

But  though  Madie  could  punish,  she  weel  could  reward, 

The  gude  and  the  eident  aye  won  her  regard — 

A  Saturday  penny  she  freely  would  gi'e, 

And  the  second  best  scholar  got  aye  a  bawbee. 

It  sweetened  the  joys  o'  that  dear  afternoon, 

When  free  as  the  breeze  in  the  blossoms  o'  June, 


ALEXANDER   SMART.  79 

And  blythe  as  the  lav'rock  that  sang  ower  the  lea, 
Were  the  happy  wee  laddies  frae  bondage  set  free. 

And  then  when  she  washed  we  were  sure  o'  the  play, 
And  Wednesday  aye  brought  the  grand  washin'  day, 
When  Madie  relaxed  frae  her  .sternness  a  wee, 
And  announced  the  event  wi'  a  smile  in  her  e'e  : 
The  tidings  were  hailed  wi'  a  thrill  o'  delight-- 
E'en drowsy  auld  baudrons  rejoiced  at  the  sight, 
While  Mil-lie,  dread  Madie  !  would  laugh  in  her  chair, 
As  in  order  we  tript  down  the  lang  tiinmer  stair. 

But  the  schule  is  now  skailt,  and  will  ne'er  again  meet. — 
Nae  mair  on  the  tiinmer  stair  sound  our  wee  feet ; 
The  tawse  and  the  penny  are  vanished  for  aye, 
And  gane  is  the  charm  o'  the  dear  washin'  day. 
Her  subjects  are  scattered—  some  lang  dead  and  gane— 
But  dear  to  remembrance,  wi'  them  wha  remain, 
Are  the  days  when  they  sat  on  a  wee  creepy  stule, 
An  coned  ower  their  lesson  in  auld  Madie  s  schule. 

WHEN    THE    BEE    HAS    LEFT   THE    BLOSSOM. 

When  the  bee  has  left  the  blossom, 

And  the  lark  has  closed  his  lay, 
And  the  daisy  folds  it*  bosom 

In  the  dews  of  gloaming  grey  ; 
When  the  virgin  rose  is  bending, 

Wet  with  evening's  pensive  tear, 
And  the  purple  light  i«  blending 

With  the  noft  moon,  riving  clear  ; 

Meet  me  then,  my  own  true  maiden, 

Where  the  wild  flowers  shed  their  bloom, 
And  the  air,  with  fragrance  laden, 

Breathes  around  a  rich  perfume. 
With  my  true  love  as  I  wander, 

Captive  led  by  beauty's  power, 
Thoughts  and  feelings  sweet  and  tender 

Hallow  that  delightful  hour. 

Give  ambition  dreams  of  glory, 
••  the  poet  laurelled  fame, 
Let  n-iiowii  in  song  and  story 
necrute  the  hero's  name  : 
Give  the  great  their  pomp  and  pleasure, 
•  th»-  cou»tier  place  and  |H>wer— 

my  IIOSUU'M  treasure, 
And  the  lonely  gloaming  hour. 


80  MODERN   SCOTTISH    POETS. 

0    THAT    MYSIE'S    TONGUE    WOULD    TIRE. 

O  that  Mysie's  tongue  would  tire  ! 

Flytin''  Mysie,  flytiu'  Mysie, 
Never  dune  wi'  spittin'  fire — 

Cankert,  flytin'  Mysie  ; 
Ragin'  aye  the  bairns  amang, 
Be  they  richt  or  be  they  wrang, 
JEndless  is  the  weary  clang 

O'  cankert,  flytin'  Mysie. 

Up  the  stair  an'  doon  the  stair, 
Flytin'  Mysie,  flytin'  Mysie, 
Rings  her  tongue  for  ever  rnair — 

Cankert,  flytin'  Mysie  ; 
A.ye  the  latest  sound  at  night, 
Aye  the  first  wi'  mornin'  light, 
Waukenin'  bairnies  in  a  fright — 
Cankert,  flytin'  Mysie. 

Peace  an'  love  a'  frightit  flee, 

Flytin'  Mysie,  flytin'  Mysie  ; 
Haine  can  never  happy  be 

For  cankert,  flytin'  Mysie  ; 
Seldom  blinks  a  sunny  hour, 
Mysie's  tongue,  so  sharp  an'  dour, 
Turns  a'  the  bairnies'  tempers  sour — 
Fy  on  flytin'  Mysie  ! 

Muckle  ye've  to  answer  for, 

Flytin'  Mysie,  flytin'  Mysie, 
Drivin'  kindness  frae  the  door, 

Cankert,  flytin'  Mysie  ; 
Maids  an'  mithers  aye  should  mind, 
"  As  bends  the  twig  the  tree's  inclined," 
Rear  them  kindly,  they'll  grow  kind — 
But  dinna  flyte  like  Mysie  ! 

THE    BIRD'S     NEST. 

0  wha  would  harry  the  wee  bird's  nest, 
That  sings  so  sweet  and  clear, 

That  bigs  for  its  young  a  cozy  biel', 

^  In  the  spring-time  o'  the  year  ; 

That  feeds  its  gapin'  Berlins  a', 
And  haps  them  frae  the  rain  — 

0  wha  would  harry  the  wee  bird's  nest, 
Or  giVits  bosom  pain  ? 


ALEXANDER  SMART.  81 

I  wouldna  harry  the  lintie's  nest, 

That  whistle*  on  the  spray  ; 
I  wouldna  rob  the  lav'rock, 

That  sing*  at  break  of  day  ; 
I  wouldna  wrang  the  shilfa, 

That  chants  so  sweet  at  e'en  ; 
Nor  plunder  wee,  wee  Jenny  Wren, 

Within  her  bower  o*  green. 

For  birdies  are  like  bairnies, 

That  dance  upon  the  lea  ; 
They  winna  sing  in  cages 

So  sweet's  in  bush  or  tree. 
They're  just  like  bonnie  bairnies, 

That  mi ther.s  lo'e  sae  weel — 
And  cruel,  cruel  is  the  heart 

That  would  their  treasures  steal. 


MY    GRANNY'S    POUCH. 

My  granny's  pouch  !—  I  kent  nae  care 
When  my  young  hopes  were  treasured  there 
Though  a*  the  wealth  the  world  could  share 

Were  freely  mine, 
There's  naething  in  t  could  ance  compare 

Wi  auld  langsyue. 

My  granny's  pouch  was  my  first  love, 
An'  prized  a'  ither  joys  above  ; 
To  win  its  favour*  aye  I  strove, 

Its  charms  were  such — 
O,  naething  elxe  the  heart  could  move 

Like  granny's  pouch. 

It  hung  suspended  l.y  her  *i 

A  thuinpin   wallet,  deep  an*  wide  ; 

And  ti  . '  •*  stately  |» 

J  hut  pouch  HO  dear, 
The  tear  an 

For  inoiiy  a  year. 

It  wan  a  weel-tilled,  weighty  sacket, 
Wi'  thuiiimels,  1  .it ; 

Wi'  moiiy  an  orra  queer  nick-nacket 

The  |  !..u. 

An'  Usty  thing-  : 

nivu'. 

* 


82  MODERN  SCOTTISH  POETS. 

The  clink  o'  granny's  pouch  to  hear 

Was  music  to  my  youthful  ear  ; 

Nae  hand  but  hers  could  venture  near, 

Or  dare  to  touch, 
The  sacred  miscellaneous  gear, 

O'  granny's  pouch. 

When  in  her  pouch  my  granny  fumbled, 
Through  odds  an'  ends  sae  strangely  jumbled, 
An'  ower  an'  ower  its  treasures  tumbled, 

The  young  heart  panted 
Wi'  hopes  an'  fears,  before  she  stumbled 

On  what  she  wanted. 

And  then,  wi'  sic  a  kindly  look, 
The  lang  suspense  my  granny  broke  ; 
Frae  some  recess,  or  secret  nook, 

O  happy  sight  ! 
The  expected  prize  at  length  she  took, 

An'  a'  was  right. 

It  was  a  cure  for  ilka  grief, 
And  never  failed  to  bring  relief ; 
For  aye  when  ony  black  mischief 

The  bairns  befel, 
My  kind  auld  granny  ne'er  wag  deaf 

To  the  sad  tale. 

My  granny  felt  for  a'  our  woes  — 

A  broken  tae,  or  bloody  nose  ; 

An'  aiblins,  too,  when  quarrels  rose, 

Whilk  aft  were  rife, 
Her  wondrous  pouch  would  soon  compose 

The  noisy  strife. 

But  whiles,  when  we  were  ower  misleared, 
A  pair  o'  leather  tawse  appeared, 
Auld  tenants  o'  the  pouch,  aye  feared, 

Though  seldom  seen, 
An'  seldomer,  when  they  were  reared, 

Laid  on,  I  ween. 

Jt  was  a  wondrous  pouch  to  me, 

Its  countless  treasures  nane  could  see ; 

Forbye  the  bawbees  she  would  gi'e 

For  doin'  her  biddin', 
Far  mair  was  in't  than  met  the  e'e, 

Profoundly  hidden. 


DUNCAN     MACGREGOR.  83 

The  thought  o't  ever  bring*  to  mind 
The  joys  that  I  hae  left  behind— 
Nae  tnair  in  granny's  pouch  I'll  find 

A  cure  for  pain  — 
The  days  o'  childhood,  sweet  and  kind, 

Come  not  attain  ! 


PETTING    AT    FOOD. 

If  ye'll  no  talc'  your  breakfast,  jnst  let  it  alane  ! 
The  porridge  cnn  wait  till  ye're  hungry  again  ; 
Though  sa'ic-y  e'en  n«>w,  ye'll  he  glad  o'  them  soon  — 
Sae  tak:  ye  the  pet  now  and  lay  down  your  spoon  ! 

Ye'll  weary  for  them  ere  they  weary  f'.r  you, 
And  when  they  grow  cule  they'll  no  blister  your  inou'; 
A  twa-three  hours'  fast  might  be  glide  for  ye  a', 
And  help  aye  to  drive  the  ill  humours  awa*. 

fat  little  doggie  that  waddles  alang, 
Sae  pampered  an'  pechin',  he  scarcely  can  gang, 
At  daintiest  dished  he  turns  up  his  nose, 
But  scrimp  him  a  wee,  he'll  be  blythe  o'  his  brose. 

There's  nane  kens  the  gude  o'  a  thing  till  it's  gane  — 

.iretitted  laddie,  ye  met  wi*  yestreen, 
Had  he  such  a  coggie  he'd  no  let  it  cule— 
Hut  just  let  them  wtand  till  ye  come  frae  the  schule. 

The  be*t  cure  for  bairnies,  when  nice  wi'  their  meat, 
IK  the  fre-li  air  <>'  morning  wi'  naethin.;  to  eat  ; 
Sae  tak'  your  ain  time,  like  the  caltle  out-bye  — 

.it  when  ye're  hungry,  an'  drink  when  ye're  dry. 


'  DUNCAN     MA<  <;  REGOR, 

II 1-1  '.man    M  minister   of    the 

parish   <•!'    I  iivi-rall(»cli\ ,    m-ar    l-'ra>«-i  ln;i 
I  »"«•!.  •  I.        All    at!iP.>|.lirrf    ..f 

culti  ,.,,n    liim  fr,,iu  iln-  tir>i.    \'»r  liis  fatli- 

nit"  tlu-  tit-Ids 


84  MODERN    SCOTTISH   POETS. 

of  poetry  and  fiction,  had  attained  considerable  pro- 
ficiency in  Gaelic  scholarship.  The  Celtic  nature  thus 
inherited  did  not,  however,  long  enjoy  an  appropriate 
environment,  his  home  being  soon  shifted  to  Forfar- 
shire.  Mr  Macgregor  has,  nevertheless,  managed  to 
keep  in  touch  with  Gaelic  literature ;  and  the  fruit  of 
his  studies  in  this  direction  may  appear  in  course  of 
time.  Our  poet  never  cared  much  for  school,  although 
he  read  enormously  on  his  own  account.  Of  poetry  he 
was  especially  fond,  and  soon  began  to  write  verses 
himself — 

"The  Muse,  nae  poet  ever  faucl  her, 

Till  hy  himself  he  learned  to  wander 

Adown  some  trottin'  burn's  meander, 

And  no  think  lang." 

It  was  thus  with  the  subject  of  our  sketch.  While 
yet  very  young  he  began  to  delight  in  long  louely 
rambles,  conceiving  a  relish  for  the  beauties  of  Nature 
that  has  deepened  with  the  passing  years.  By  the 
time  he  was  thirteen  he  had  gained  admittance  to  the 
poets'  corner  of  several  magazines  and  newspapers. 
Gaining  by  competition  a  high  bursary,  he,  at  the 
early  age  of  fifteen,  entered  Aberdeen  University.  But 
here,  as  at  the  elementary  school,  he  was  impatient  of 
close  study,  and  had  a  good  deal  of  liking  for  fun  and 
frolic.  Poetry,  indeed,  he  continued  to  cultivate  with 
ardour,  and  in  those  branches  of  study  that  lay  in  the 
direction  of  his  favourite  pursuit  he  acquired  dis- 
tinction. His  reputation  for  Greek  and  Latin  verse 
was  particularly  high.  This  proficiency  implied  a 
thorough  grasp  of  the  mechanical  conditions  of  verse- 
making,  for  which,  indeed,  Mr  Macgregor  has  an 
unusually  keen  instinct. 

In  the  Debating  and  Literary  Societies,  institutions 
established  by  the  students  for  mutual  improvement, 
Mr  Macgregor  was  very  popular.  It  was  to  the  latter 


DUNCAN    MACGREGOR.  85 

of  these  that  he  read  his  mock-heroic  poem,  "The 
Scald;  or,  the  Northern  Ballad-monger" — (Aber- 
deen :  James  Mackay,  1874).  This  extravaganza, 
brimful  of  wit  and  humour,  and  containing  several 
descriptive  passages  of  great  power,  was  received  with 
immense  delight,  and  its  admirers  insisted  on  its  being 
published.  To  this  the  author  consented,  and  the 
poem  has  run  through  two  editions. 

A  literary  career  had  naturally  enough  been  the 
ambition  of  our  poet ;  but,  coming  under  the  influence 
of  religion,  he  decided  on  studying  for  the  ministry. 
For  eight  years  poetry  was  laid  aside.  In  the  auto- 
biographic poem  that  introduces  his  "Clouds  and 
Sunlight,"  Mr  Macgregor  deals  with  these  phases  of 
his  inner  life.  In  youth  he  had  been  led  captive  by 
the  beauty  of  Nature.  Maturer  years  seemed  to  show 
him  that  the  pursuit  of  truth  was  his  mission  : — 

"  I  saw  by  the  flash  of  this  heavenly  beam 
I  had  lived  for  yeara  a  delusive  dream, 
The  beauty  of  Nature  might  charm  the  youth, 
But  the  heart  of  the  man  must  seek  for  truth, 
Then  flitted  my  wml  from  heart  to  head. 
And  within  me  the  spirit  of  song  fell  dead." 

Yet  ever,  as  he  zealously  gave  himself  up  to  the  new 
quest,  he  felt 

"  A  new,  strange  undertone  of  strife  ; 
TWM  the  poet's  heart  that  craved  for  life." 

Nor  did  he  enjoy  peace  and  pleasure  to  the  full  till  he 
h:nl  effected  a  reconciliation  l.itv,<«n  the  two  sides  of 
his  nature  by  recogni>ing  with  Keats  that 

"Beauty  is  Truth  :  Truth  Beauty." 

On  being  licensed  he  went  as  a  missionary  to  the 
Orkneys;  l»ut  a  unanimous  call  very  soon  brought 
him  to  t  :  ustown  Mission  Church  ;  and  from 


86  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

this  charge  again,  after  a  few  years'  incumbency,  he 
was  unanimously  called  to  the  pastorate  of  Inveral- 
lochy  Parish  Church,  where  he  has  since  remained. 

Mr  Macgregor  is  a  man  of  cultured,  catholic  spirit. 
Earnest  and  laborious  in  the  discharge  of  pastoral 
duties,  he  keeps  up  his  studies  in  literature,  and 
hardly  lets  a  day  pass  without  writing  something. 
In  1884  Kegan  Paul,  Trench,  &  Co.  brought  out  a 
volume  of  his  poems,  under  the  title  of  "  Clouds  and 
Sunlight,"  which  met  with  a  very  favourable  recep- 
tion. The  contents  are  lyrical,  and  there  is  no  doubt- 
ful ring  about  them.  They  are  entirely  free  from 
enigmatical  rhapsodies  and  unnatural  straining  after 
high  ideals  that  are  never  reached.  In  his  miscel- 
laneous poems,  united  with  freshness  and  originality, 
we  find  many  quaint  and  pretty  conceits,  and  graceful 
and  noble  thoughts  put  into  graceful  verse.  Of  late, 
Mr  Macgregor  has  devoted  himself  chiefly  to  the  study 
of  human  character,  and  has  written  a  number  of 
narrative  poems  of  considerable  length  which  may 
ultimately  see  the  light  as  "  Tales  in  Verse."  These 
are  much  above  the  average  both  in  construction  and 
in  the  analysis  of  the  more  delicate  shades  of  human 
actions  and  motives.  He  evidently  believes,  like 
Herbert,  in  the  Divine  power  implanted  in  man  for 
good,  no  matter  what  his  sphere  or  station  in  life  may 
be.  While  his  published  pieces  are  of  high  merit,  they 
do  not  by  any  means  do  justice  to  his  powers.  As- 
siduous study  and  practice  are  widening  his  range,  and 
giving  confidence  to  his  touch  ;  and  we  are  not  without 
hope  of  yet  hearing  of  him  essaying  some  theme  of 
epic  dimensions  and  interest. 

THE    LIGHT    ON    THE     HILLS. 

The  light  on  the  hills  at  morning  broke, 
Crowning  their  brows  with  crimson  fire  ; 

The  white  mist,  laid  on  the  slopes,  awoke, 
And  fled  like  a  soul  from  the  funeral  pyre. 


DUNCAN    MACORBQOR.  87 

From  the  rosy  crown 

The  light  ran  down 
To  the  valley  below,  as  the  nun  rode  higher  ; 

And  as  downward  it  hied 

The  red  flush  died 
Like  the  falling  cadence  of  angel  choir. 

The  light  on  the  hills  at  noonday  gleamed, 

Circling  their  forms  with  a  bland  embrace  ; 
From  the  blazing  source  in  the  sky  it  streamed 
Like  the  glory  that  gildeth  a  saintly  face. 

Like  a  mystic  haze 

The  golden  rays 
Were  lovingly  lingering  round  the  place  ; 

And,  intensely  bright. 

The  glorious  fight 
Was  monarch  from  crown  to  base. 

The  light  on  the  hills  at  eventide, 

Like  the  smile  of  a  dying  babe  hath  fled  ; 
But  we  dovbt — BO  alow  did  the  last  rays  glide — 
If  the  day  (and  the  child)  be  wholly  den, I. 

Once  only,  a  flush. 

Like  a  pure  maid's  blush, 
Flared  up  the  crags  to  the  sky  o'erhead  ; 

Then  on  every  height 

The  invading  night 
Her  sable  pinions  proudly  spread. 

The  light  on  the  hills,  the  light  on  the  hills  ! 

On  the  distant  rocks,  on  the  greenwood  near, 
On  the  grassy  slopes,  on  the  foamy  rills, 
On  the  God-made  battlements  tier  on  tier, 

It  broke,  it  flamed, 

And  it  faded  unnamed  ; 
Twas  born,  it  lived,  and  it  tied  the  sphere  ; 

While  its  lovely  sheen 

Was  by  most  unseen, 
But  it*  God  was  pleased  with  its  life-work  here. 


WANTED. 

Wanted  :  Men. 
Not  systems  fit  and 
Not  faiths  with  rigid  eyes, 
Not  wealth  in  mountain  piles, 
Not  power  with  gracious  smiles, 
Not  even  the  potent  pen  ; 

Wanted :  Men. 


88  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

Wanted  :  Deeds. 
Not  words  of  winning  note, 
Not  thoughts  from  life  remote, 
Not  fond  religious  airs, 
Not  sweetly  languid  prayers, 
Not  love  of  sects  and  creeds  ; 

Wanted  :  Deeds. 

Men  and  Deeds. 
Men  that  can  dare  and  do  ; 
Not  longings  for  the  new, 
Not  pratings  of  the  old  ; 
Good  life  and  action  bold — 
These  the  occasion  needs, 

Men  and  Deeds. 


RHYME. 

Rhyme  is  the  wedlock  of  words, 
Pairing  like  early  spring  birds  ; 
Perfect  alone  when  the  bond 
Pictures  the  ties  of  the  fond, — 
Perfect  alone  when  they  strike 
Likeness  amid  the  unlike. 

Rhyme  is  the  chording  of  notes, 
Rung  from  harmonious  throats, 
Which,  by  their  mutual  love, 
Whisper  of  joynotes  above, 
And,  by  their  sweetness  divine, 
Purify,  soothe,  and  refine. 

Rhyme  is  the  echo  that  broods 
Inside  the  rocks  and  the  woods, 
Which,  to  the  questions  of  men, 
Answering  again  and  again, 
Catching  the  song  of  the  hour, 
Gives  it  new  meaning  and  power. 

Rhyme  is  the  blending  of  hues, 
Rhyme  is  the  mingling  of  dews, 
Lakes  that  respond  to  the  breeze, 
Pools  that  are  mirrors  of  trees, 
Ocean  reflecting  the  skies, 
Hearts  that  to  sorrow  give  sighs. 

Nought  in  the  world  is  alone  ; 
You  that  in  solitude  moan, 
Keen  to  discover  the  real, 


DUNCAN    MACGREGOR.  89 

Struggling  to  grasp  the  ideal, 
God  knits  all  thinkers  and  doers  : 
Some  heart  is  rhyming  with  yours. 


THE     SPECTRES. 

Gaunt  and  grim,  vague  and  dim, 
Dyed  in  midnight  s  awful  hue. 
Ever  crying,  nearer  flying, 

An  undying  hideous  crew, 
Countless  as  the  summer  flies,— 
Spider  hands  and  burning  eyes, — 
Flitted  round  in  fierce  array, 
Mocking  me  in  ghastly  play. 

Evening  fell ;  loud  their  yell ; 

Merciless  they  still  pursued  ; 
Irritating,  they  with  grating, 

Sullen  prating  did  intrude, 
H  issing,  in  the  cold  moonbeams, 
Crushing  me  with  fiery  dreams, 
Sowing  madness  in  my  brain, 
Filling  all  the  night  with  pain. 

Morn  arose,  but  my  foes 

Would  not  thuB  be  scared  away  ; 
Spells  I  chanted,  safe  they  vaunted, 

And  they  taunted  all  the  day  ; 
Mingling  curse*  with  my  prayers, 
Piling  weights  upon  my  cares, 
Poisoning  every  cup  of  joy, 
Marring  all  my  loved  employ. 

Like  thy  howl,  midnight  owl, 
In  the  lone  and  sombre  grove, 

Rang  their  eerie  voices  dreary  ; 
With  me  dreary  Htill  they  strove. 

First,  through  life  we  scourge,  to  meet 

Thee  before  the  judgment  neat ; 

And  our  fellowship  shall  be 

Thy  unblext  eternity. 

Holy  ground,  where  I  found. 
Penned  by  saintly  bards  of  yore, 

Pages  olden,  verses  golden, 
That  "verrnore. 

Learned  I  in  that  antique  Kcroil, 

Skill  to  scare  them  from  my 

Hence  !  with  holy  tn.. 

Seek,  je  ghouls,  your  native  pit. 


90  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

Wild  waves  roar  on  the  shore 

'Neath  a  breathless  autumn  dawn 
Sinking,  sighing,  wailing,  crying, 
Moaning,  dying,  these  are  gone. 
And  the  secret  of  iny  power, 
My  defence  in  haunted  hour, 
Placed  between  me  and  my  pain, 
Is  a  Lamb  that  hath  been  slain. 


BETHEL. 

Beside  a  crawling,  peaty  stream 

A  pauper's  hut  I  know  ; 
The  walls  are  striped  with  many  a  seam, 

The  thatched  roof  is  low, 
Around  the  walls  the  thistles  teem, 

And  high  the  nettles  grow. 

A  window  of  a  single  pane 

Admits  one  sunny  ray  ; 
And  through  a  rent  the  dropping  rain 

Makes  music  in  its  play  ; 
The  plaster,  brown  with  many  a  stain, 

Is  crumbling  fast  away. 

Upon  the  earthen  floor  there  stand 

A  stool,  a  shaky  chair, 
A  table  where  no  loving  hand 

Bespreads  the  homely  fare, 
And  grate  that  hath  no  kindly  brand  : 

Who  can  he  happy  there? 

Behold  !  a  beam  of  perfect  joy 

Upon  that  cott.-ige  falls  ; 
The  sweats  of  heaven's  all-blest  employ 

Are  found  within  its  walls  ; 
Not  the  foul  streams  that  pain  or  cloy 

Flowing  in  marble  halls. 

Threescore  and  ten  !    So  many  years 

With  silver  crown  her  brow, 
And  over  cheeks  well  known  to  tears 

Time  drags  his  ruthless  plough  ; 
But  night  or  day  God  bending  hears 

Her  humble  prayer  and  vow. 

For  five  long  winters  on  that  bed 

A  prisoner  she  hath  lain  ; 
Surely  she  pines  with  drooping  head, 


DUNCAN    MAOOREGOR.  91 

With  weary  heart  and  brain  ? 

Oh  n<>  !  her'lipHjto  song  are  wed, 

Nor  knows  she  to  complain. 

Oft  at  the  fall  of  starry  eve, 

Oft  in  the  morning  hours, 
Her  aged  voice  the  strain  will  weave, 

Like  bird  'mong  summer  flowers. 
The  passer-by  forgets  tojgrieve, 

As  near  angelic  bowers. 


Without  one  loved  one's  fond 
Why  heavest  thou  no  moan  ' 

"  Thank  God  !  I  have  no  weariness 
And  I  am  not  alone  ; 

I  rest  assured  He  will  me  bless 
Who  did  for  me  atone. 

"  A  cheerful  neighbour  makes  my  meals, 

I  see  her  thrice  a  day  ; 
And  for  my  woes  my  Saviour  feels, 

Brother  of  human  clay  ; 
My  every  wound  of  soul  He  heals 

And  I  have  time  to  pray. 

"  You  ask  me  of  my  banished  gloom  : 

I  have  no  wealth,  'tis  true  ; 
No  sound  relieve*  my  silent  room, 

Save  raindrop*  pattering  through, 
Or  winds  that  down  the  chimney  boom  ; 

Each  day  brings  nothing  new. 

"  Yet  here  a  prisoner  of  the  Lord, 

The  last  of  loving  seven, 
I  wait,  while  treasures  inly  stored 

With  joy  my  trouble*  leaven, 
And  heaven  i*  feasting  at  my  board  ; 

Where  Christ  is,  there  is  heaven." 


MY    SHIELD. 


When  guilt,  with  worse  than  iron  chain, 
My  soaring  spirit  would  detain  ; 
When  subtle  8in,  to  soil  my  n.in  ; 
The  flesh  an«l  Satan  hath  combined  ; 
know  what  hun<l  c.m  make  and  keep  uie  free  ; 
1  truat  in  Thee. 


92  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

When  stern  bereavement's  pointed  pang 
Poisons  my  heart  like  serpent  fang  ; 
When  want,  with  piercing  chill  annoy, 
Freezes  the  founts  of  earthly  joy  ; 
Thy  hand  of  love  through  sparkling  tears  I  see 
I  trust  in  Thee. 

When  doubt,  in  thought's  abyss  profound, 
Disturbs  my  wonted  anchor-ground  ; 
When  worldly  worries  force  to  stay 
And  fears  obstruct  the  onward  way, 
Thy  word  of  life  conducts  and  teaches  me  ; 
I  trust  in  Thee. 

When  foes  with  stinging  spite  arise  ; 
When  friends  give  hurt  with  words  unwise, 
When  danger's  nearing  night  plume  shakes, 
When,  vext  by  even  my  own  mistakes, 
To  my  one  refuge  then  in  haste  I  flee  : 
I  trust  in  Thee. 

When  death's  beclouded  wintry  skies, 
Will  snow  my  cheeks  and  ice  my  eyes  ; 
When,  heralded  by  angel  choir, 
The  judgment  bathes  the  world  in  fire  ; 
Yea,  even  before  the  Throne,  I  fearlessly 
Will  trust  in  Thee. 

Oh  !  soon  will  fail  temptation's  power, 
And  soon  will  pass  vexation's  hour  ; 
All  foes  will  die  ;  all  pains  be  healed  : 
I  wear  a  never-broken  shield. 
Teach  me,  O  Christ,  to  use  it  skilfully,— 
To  trust  in  Thee. 


WILLIAM     BROWN     SMITH, 

HMAN  of  varied  gifts,  who  died  suddenly  in  the 
prime  of  life  in  July  last  (1887),  was  born  at 
Saltcoats  in  1850.     Mr  Smith    was  delicate   from  his 
boyhood,  and  in  his  youth  suffered  much  from  inflam- 
mation of  the  eyes,   which  caused   his  attendance  at 


W.    B.   SMITH.  93 

school  to  be  much  broken.  If  not  strong  in  body, 
however,  he  early  manifested  the  possession  of  vigorous 
mental  powers.  Besides  the  poetic  gift  he  had  a 
talent  for  drawing  and  painting,  which,  says  the  writer 
of  a  sketch  in  the  Ardrottaan  and  Saltcoats  Herald  at 
the  time  of  his  death,  "  might  have  been  developed 
had  he  chosen  to  devote  himself  to  art."  Although 
entirely  self-taught,  he  had  a  tine  eye  for  the  beautiful 
in  Nature,  and  could  sketch  and  paint  landscape  and 
marine  views  with  much  skill.  But  most  of  all  he 
cultivated  music,  his  knowledge  of  which  was  very 
remarkable  when  the  fact  is  taken  into  account  that 
he  never  received  any  instruction  save  for  six  weeks 
from  a  lady  teacher.  He  sang  with  great  taste  and 
skill,  and  played  on  several  instruments  in  a  masterly 
manner.  In  addition  to  following  his  calling  of  a 
•ner,  he  was  a  teacher  of  music,  and  trained  the 
children  <>f  the  Ilmnes  at  Canal  Bank  and  Rock  vale, 
tl  Salt! >;ith  Schools,  the  Young  Men's  Christian 
Association,  and  at  the  time  of  his  death  he  conducted 
the  psalmody  in  the  Free  Church,  Saltcoats.  He  pos- 
sessed the  good  ear,  the  cultivated  taste,  and  the  neces- 
sary enthusi.usm  for  making  a  choir  work  and  aim  at 
something  like  perfection.  Mr  Smith  was  also  an 
active  worker  among  young  meu,  and  for  some  time 
carried  on  religious  classes  for  the  young  and  meetings 
for  uon  church  ;:« ,«.•!•*.  Tluit  they  valued  the  counsels 
ol  SO  sympathetic  a  nature  evidence  was  afforded  by 
the  K|»-. nt. m. •••!.-  |>i<  >«  nee  at  his  funeral  of  large  bodies 
of  children,  u-.rkiiig  men,  and  women. 

In    1883   Mr   Guthrie,   Ardrossan,   published  in  a 

handsome   little  volume  a  selection  of   his   poetical 

•itle«l  "I.  s,"  and  at   the  time  of  his 

illace,     printer,    Saltcoats,    had    passing 

thr-.u-h    the    poBM    aii'-ther    volume,    entitled    "The 

\V,,rl.I  Without  au.l  Within."      Thi*    VOrfc  u;i«leftby 

the  [...••!  t«.  ill.-  .ire  of  Mr  Alexander  Winr-n  i'.ucliun, 


94  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

author  of  "  Poems  of  Feeling,"  "  The  Vision  Stream, 
or  the  Song  of  Man,"  &c.,  noticed  in  our  Sixth  Series, 
in  whose  hands  it  was  carefully  superintended,  and 
prepared  for  the  public. 

Mr  Smith  had  an  observant  eye,  and  in  his  poems 
loved  to  describe  bird,  flower,  and  tree.  He  was 
deeply  sympathetic,  and  could  strike  the  minor  chords 
with  much  power.  Simple  and  guileless,  he  was  not 
one  of  those  who  like  to  magnify  the  dark  spots  that 
through  humanity  have  crept  into  this  fair  creation. 
He  rather  delighted  to  expatiate  on  the  beauties  that 
unfolded  themselves  to  an  eye  and  instinct  that  loved 
to  revel  amidst  scenes  of  natural  beauty.  "  His 
slender  frame,"  says  the  writer  of  the  sketch  we  have 
already  referred  to,  "  was  like  that  of  a  harp,  the 
sensitive  chords  of  which  vibrate  at  touch  of  every 
breath  of  Nature.  Alongside  his  dreamy  poetic  mus- 
ing and  more  serious  religious  thoughts  and  feelings, 
lay  a  mirthfulness,  a  vein  of  humour,  and  a  lively  ap- 
preciation of  it  in  others.  Describing  a  holiday  spent 
in  Arran  he  says,  in  an  unpublished  MS.  of  his  we 
have  at  hand : — On  disembarking  at  the  pier,  got  a 
seat  in  Ribbeck's  post-gig  for  Sannox,  about  eight 
miles  awa,  and  a  grand  drive  we  had  for  a  shillin' 

each Arrived  at  Sannox,  Mr  Smith  and 

friend  had  a  '  stravaig '  up  the  Glen,  '  enjoying  the 
scenery  immensely.'  We  cam'  to  a  staun  still  at  a  wee 
wuden  biggin'  wi'  sweeties  an'  portraits  in  the  win- 
nock,  an'  asked  the  wife  that  kept  the  shop  if  she  had 
ony  lemonade  or  ocht  to  drink.  '  Ay,  ay,  shentlemen, 
I  hae  some  vera  goot  milk,  shist  fresh  in  frae  the  coo,' 
an'  accordin'ly  we  were  supplied  wi'  a  tumlerfu'  the 
piece  an'  twa-'re  biscuits.  While  enjoyin'  oor  feed,  in 
steps  a  packman  for  anither  tumlerfu,  an'  syne  an 
English  gentleman  an'  his  sonsy  wife  took  their  seats 
at  the  door  an'  had  arie  an'  a  hauf  each,  an'  about  four 
wee  biscuits.  When  they  were  busy  supplyin'  the 


W.    B.    SMITH.  95 

cravin's  o'  nature,  the  packman  sings  oot — *  Whit  am 

I    awn    ye    for    the    milk,    mistress?    a   pen V 

'Whist,  whist,  man'! '/"says  she,  in  a  whisper,  'ye 
shouldna  ask  ta  price  afore  ta  shentry' — an'  my 
frieu's  knee  cam'  vi'lently  in  contac'  wi'  mine,  as  we 
heard  her  add — '  It's  shist  a  penny  to  you.'  Weel, 
sir,  what  think  ye  ?  She  was  vera  gen'rous  to  us,  an' 
charged  three  bawbees  the  tumler  (an'  no  a  big  ane 
aither) ;  an',  wi'  a  smile  an'  a  curtsy  to  the  English 
folk,  she  said — '  Ninepence,  if  you  pleeze,  sir,  it's  rael 
goot  milk.'  Ay,  says  we  to  oorsels,  an'  a  vera  goot 
price,  whatever." 


THE    GLOAMIN'    GREY. 


Blythe  children  straggling  home  from  school, 
Laden  with  spoil  from  field  and  dell, 

With  faces  Hushed,  past  tree  and  pool, 
They've  halted  at  the  village  well ; 

And  MtairiH  of  berries  wash  away 

With  laughter  in  the  gloatuin'  grey. 

Two  figures  walking  lovingly 

Where  grow  wild  Hower*  on  meadow  green  ; 
When  years  have  swiftly  panned  away 

Since  first  they  roamed  each  well-known  scene  ; 
While  birds  cease  Hinging  on  the  spray — 
They're  happy  in  the  gloamin'  grey. 

A  mother  xtanding  on  the  shore, 

With  children  playing  by  her  side, 
While  sombre  shades  are  stealing  o'er, 

1 1>  r  eye  is  far  across  the  tide, 
Watching  a  vessel  <>n  its  way  ; 
With  tear-drops,  in  the  gloamin'  grey. 

Two  peaceful  pilgrim*,  old  and  frail, 

iieside  a  rustic  window  sit, 
While  softly  sk'hn  the  scented  gale, 

And  mingled  roem'rie*  round  them  Hit  ; 
They  smile,  and  speak  <>f  a  brighter  day 
1 1 in'  grey. 


96  MODERN  SCOTTISH  POETS. 

THE    LAN'   THAT'S   FAR   AWA 

Like  ane  that  wanders  far  frae  hame 

Across  the  ocean  wide, 
When  a'  he  sees  an'  hears  is  tame 

His  native  Ian'  beside, 
My  he'rt  is  aften  langin', 

As  days  and  nichts  gae  by, 
For  Heaven,  wi'  angels  thrangin', 

An'  rest  ayont  the  sky  : 
Where  comes  nae  trials  o'er  ye, 

Nor  darksome  nicht  ava', 
For  Christ  is  a'  the  glory 

In  the  Ian'  that's  far  ava1. 

It's  true  we  rnauna  fash  at  care, 

Or  poortith's  hitter  day, 
For  surely  we  maun  hae  oor  share, 

The  Bible  tells  us  sae  ; 
It's  here  we  get  oor  trainin' 

For  yon  bricht  warl'  aboon, 
Faith's  e'e  is  aften  strainin' 

For  the  prize  it  yet  may  win  ; 
But  the  he'rt  is  unco  dour  aye, 

An'  patience  is  sae  sma', 
We  weary  ilka  hour  aye, 

For  the  Ian'  that's  far  awa.' 

When  wand'rers  venture  back  again 

Frae  lan's  ayont  the  tide, 
To  reach  the  hame,  they  loo  sae  fain, 

They  aften  need  a  guide, 
Sae — leanin'  hard  on  Jesus, 

An'  lipp'nin'  aye  for  grace, 
May  nocht  that's  sinful  please  us, 

Until  we  see  His  face  ; 
Then — grander  far  than  ony 

0'  this  warl's  sichts  sae  braw, 
We'll  reach  our  home  sae  bonnie, 

An'  the  Ian'  that's  far  awa'. 

THE    A'    THINGS    0'    LIFE. 

I've  kent  the  glint  o'  fortune's  smile  ; 
I've  marked  her  gaet  for  mony  a  mile, 
And  found  her  fan  my  heart  awhile 

Wi'  meikle  power  : 
She  tied,  tho'  woo'd  wi'  winsome  wile, 

Awa'  like  tstoure. 


W.    B.    SMITH.  97 


I've  stood  misfortune's  hitter  blast  ; 
I've  mourned  the  loss  o'  joys  ^antt  pa*t, 
An'  warstled  hard  'neath  lift  o'ercaat 

\VT  dark  despair  : 
I've  wearit  sair,  till  licht  at  last 

Brak'  thro'  the  air. 

A  secret  sweet  I've  learned  sin'  gym-, 
That  on  life's  sea,  be't  muijh  <»r  tine, 
Frae  sic'  as  heart*  and  wills  resign 

Nocht  shall  IMS  hi-!  ; 
A  Hand  abune  xars  a'  combine 

To  work  for  guid. 


THE    SONG-BIRDS     OF    BONNIE    SCOTLAND, 

Wee  warbler-,  I  loV  ye  :  ye're  dear  to  my  heart  ;  — 
My  thocht*  uoo  pursue  ye     In  summer,  ye  dart 
Amang  the  green  bushes,  on  hillside  an'  glen, 
Whaur  clear  the  burn  Bushes  an'  ^ur^les  far  ben, 
'Mau#  heather  an'  wild  Howera,  the  rocks  an'  tlie  stane->, 
Frae  mornin'  till  e'enin  ,  ye  sin*;  your  sweet  strains. 

Your  lilts  intermin'le  wi'  scenes  that  are  #ane  : 
I  fin*  the  hluid  ilinnle  thro'  ilka  sma'  v«  in 

0  my  heart,  aye  sae  youthfu',  despite  a'  its  care, 
Till  I  lariK  f»r  ;i  nmuthfu'  o'  ^ui.l  culler  air 

M.iiiK  the  cornfield*  and  lealan's  to  wander  aronn', 
1'  the  lowlan's  an'  hielau's,  far  awa'  fiae  the  toun. 

1  hear  noo  the  Untie  HIUK  sweet  on  the  broum  ; 

idackie  ahint  me  disperses  the  gloom 
.    n  thick  grow  in'  covert  ;  while  robin  and  wren 
Quite  near  me  ha'e  hovert  ;  the  blue  lift  I  scan- 
There  the  lav'rock  is  Mprin^in^  like  a  spec,  fu'  »'  i^lee  ; 
Nae  blyther  he's  siiiKinu'.  twin  the  mavis  an*  me. 


Wee  warblers,  I  lo'v  ye,  ye're  dear  to  my  heart, 

ye  I  start 
To  praise  th.-  <  reator,  wha's  far-seem'  e'e 

•,-t  man,  l»inl,  HII  cratur,  whar'e'er  they  mi.   IK 
i.y  wants  II.-  1,  ^upply  till  wi'  earth  I  am  d-nie, 
An   my  s.»il  then  shall  fly  to  a  bricht  warl'  abune. 


I  II  i;     A  I'  LI)     K  IKK-  V  A  I  I!  I). 
They  are  sleepin  here  un 

\,   lull  twu  or  tin 

0 


MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

Whar  aft  their  footsteps  went 

Beside  the  soundin'  sea  ; 
Amang  the  grass,  like  rashes, 

An'  headstanes  auld  an'  grey, 
Their  ashes  mix  wi'  ashes, 
An'  lanesome  forms  decay. 

They  are  sleepin'  here  at  last, 

I'  the  bustle  o'  the  toun, — 
Life's  fitfu'  changes  past, 

They  heed  nae  sicht  or  soun', 
Tho'  loud  the  thunder  crashes, 
Or  lichtnin's  roun'  them  play, 

While  ashes  mix  wi'  ashes, 

An'  lanesome  forms  decay. 

They  are  sleepin'  here  in  peace, 

Oor  forebears,  leal  and  true, — 
Whar  a'  life's  weal  and  wae  maun  cease, 

'Neath  skies  sae  bright  and  blue  : 
Noo — gowd  or  gear  ne'er  fashes, 

Nor  poortith's  bitter  day, 
When  ashes  mix  wi'  ashes, 

An'  lanesome  forms  decay. 

They  are  sleepin'  here  at  e'en, — 

Death's  nicht  it  is  na  lang  ; 
They  find  at  last,  that  but  yest'reen 

They  lived  their  friens  amang. 
When  morn  o'  heaven  flashes 

A  lang— lang  joyfu'  day, 
Nae  ashes  mix  wi'  ashes, 

Nor  lanesome  forms  decay. 


AS    WE    TALKED    TOGETHER. 

I  remember  the  joy  of  our  last  meeting  : 
The  precious  moments  so  swiftly  fleeting  ; 
Whilst  my  heart  with  love  was  fondly  beating, — 
As  we  talked  together. 

The  warm  summer  sun  was  brightly  beaming  ; 
The  waters  with  sparkling  rays  were  gleaming  ; 
Whilst  I  in  sweet  harmony  was  dreaming, — 
As  we  talked  together. 

High,  high  overhead  the  lark  was  singing  ; 
Louder  and  louder  his  notes  were  ringing, 


JESSIK     l.IiiiiHTON. 

As  through  the  air  his  way  he  wan  winging, — 
As  we  talked  together. 

All  nature  around  wore  a  peaceful  smile, 
Seeming  to  cheer  us  all  the  while, 
As  we  onward  strayed  for  many  a  n.ile,-- 
As  we  talked  together. 

The  evening  shades  came  gently  down  at  last, 
Hrin^'inu'  with  them  dear  metu  ries  of  the  past, 
That,  one  by  one,  came  crowding  round  us  fast, — 
As  we  talked  together. 

Then  the  parting  hour  drew  rapidly  nigh  ; 
And  the  pale  moon  rose  in  the  eastern  sky, 
As  fondly  we  whimpered  those  »ad  words.  "GuO'1-bye  !" 
Ah  !  it  was  forever. 


JESSIE     LEIGHTON 

AS  born  of  Scotch  parents  in  London  in  1868, 
and  ly    related    to    tw«>    well-known 

who  possessed  ;:ii'u-d    mind*  ami  ] 

genius  of   hi_rh    m-der,    an-i  -ill   died   in    1869. 

In-other   of    William   Lei^hton,    the 

author  of  Died  To-day"  and  other  poem>,  and 

nepl.  etjiuilly  gifted  author 

r.aj.trocniriit  ..'  the  Itairn. 

.11  and  'I'iiiliii- '.i  lM>jmU-,"    "/rin-  l/iddir'.s    l.;un.-n 
:i    l'i«r    thi      i  •'•  -  graphic    w«»rd 

i    an-  popular  \\  la-n  \  .-r  tin- 
is   known     ai.  il    voluijn 

and 

I,"     &C.         It      iniirht      IM-     add.'d     -hal 

:'  \N  illiain  and 

..f  Eloberl  .  Chinde^    ap 

:  i.-li,     uii 


100  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

ceived  her  education  partly  in  London  and  partly  in 
St  Leonard's-on-Sea,  has  been  writing  verses  from  a 
very  early  age,  but  has  only  recently  begun  to  publish 
them.  Three  of  the  following  poems  have  appeared  in 
the  columns  of  the  People's  Friend,  and  show  that  she  has 
not  only  inherited  the  poetical  faculties  of  her 
uncle  and  grand-uncle,  but  also  the  tenderness  of  feel- 
ing and  grace  of  expression  so  noticeable  in  their 
poems.  Viewed  as  written  by  one  so  young,  her 
effusions  are  full  of  promise.  While  it  is  evident 
that  she  is  singularly  sensitive  to  all  forms  of  beauty, 
animate  and  inanimate,  her  verse  is  marked  not  only 
by  contemplative  seriousness,  but  also  by  lively  play  of 
fancy,  an  easy  flow,  and  much  grace  and  neatness. 


"ONLY    ME. ; 

"  Who  is  there '?  "    A  gentle  tapping 

Comes  upon  rny  study  door, 
Warning  me  that  for  the  present 

Dreams  and  quietness  both  are  o'er. 
i{  Who  is  there?'   again  I  questioned, 

As  I  oped  the  door  to  see, 
Then  a  small  voice,  lisping,  answered, 

"  Please,  papa,  it's  only  me." 

"  Only  me  "  sat  by  the  fireside, 

With  a  quaint  and  childish  grace, 
Tossing  back  the  golden  ringlets 

Falling  round  his  little  face. 
Though  I  was  a  man  of  thirty, 

And  a  child  of  five  was  he, 
Deep  and  strong  was  the  affection 

'Tween  myself  and  "  Only  me." 

He  would  sit  and  watch  the  firelight 

Shining  through  his  small  thin  hand, 
Asking  me  the  strangest  questions — 

Things  I  could  not  understand. 
I  would  sit  for  hours  together 

With  his  head  against  my  knee, 
Telling  many  an  ancient  story — 

Juat  myself  and  "  Only  rne." 


JESSIE   LEIOHTON.  101 


But  a  clond  wan 

my  darling  *  irnlilen  head  ; 
"Only  me"  lay  slowly  dyir)_'  ' 

While  I  prayed  "Take  n.e  instead." 
But  an  angel  swift  descended— 

From  all  pain  my  child  set  free— 
I  was  left,  half  broken-hearted  ; 

Now  in  truth,  'twaH  "  Only  me." 

Yean  have  panned—  I  still  am  waiting, 

Till  at  last  my  call  shall  come  ; 
And  once  more  my  child  shall  greet  me 

In  our  everlasting  home. 
Though  my  heart  is  very  lonely, 

Yet  I  know  that  I  shall  see, 
In  a  land  where  is  no  parting, 

Once  again  my  "  Only  me." 

THE    HUGENOT.* 

"  For  my  sake."    To  tie  that  kerchief  round  his  arm  she  vainly 

trie*; 
And  she  looks   with  piteous  pleading  in  her  lover's  steadfast 

cyt-s  ; 

"  For  my  sake—  Oh,  listen  to  me—  should  you  fall  I  die  with 

you." 
Fast  the  bitter  tears  are  falling  from  her  gentle  eyes  of  blue. 

Hut  he  take*  her  trembling  fingers,   holds  them  firmly  in  his 

own— 

"  Darling,  I  am  but  a  soldier,  and  I  am  not  yours  alone  ; 
I  am  fighting  for  my  Master—  would  you  have  your  lover  fly? 
Would  you  have  the  Catholics  tell  you  that  1  was  afraid  to  die? 

"  Loved  one,  if  I  fall  this  evening,  you  will  know  that  I  was 

true  : 
True  to  God,  and  home,  and  country  ;  true  to  mine  own  self  and 

you. 
Never  would  I  wear  this  kerchief,  even  though  my  life  'twould 

save,    ' 
can  desire  no  better  than  a  soldier's  death  and  grave. 

•A-  farewell,  farewell  for  ever,  think  of  me  when  I  am  gone, 
ly  or  sadly,  thunirh  thy  life  be  spent  alone  ; 
lit  of  darknww-  sorrow  cannot  last  for  aye  — 
•oni  will  make  the  brighter  seem  the   dawning  of  the 

day." 

•  MillaU'  oele- 

bntted  picture. 


102  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

A     SPRIG     OF     HEATHER. 

When  I  see  the  purple  heather  clustering  thickly  on  the^  hills. 
Gone  are  all  uiy  thoughts  of  gladness,  and  regret  my  spirit  tills, 
For  I  see  a  winsome  maiden, 
From  the  North  with  heather  laden, 
And  a  sense  of  fear  and  wondering  all  my  troubled  being  thrills. 

Then  I  see  a  vision  pass  me— shadowy,  dreamy,  thin  as  air— 
'Tis  a  girl  with  eyes  reproachful,  full  of  anguish  and  despair. 
And  I  hear  a  voice  beside  me, 
But  the  tones  ne'er  seem  to  chide  me, 

And  I  see  once  more  brown  ringlets,  clust'ring  o'er  a  brow  so 
fair ! 

Jessie  was  a  Highland  maiden — up  among  the  hills  lived  she- 
Round   her  rose   the   snow-topp'd   mountains,    in  the   distance 
stretched  the  sea. 

Ah,  T  know  she  loved  me  dearly, 
And  I  loved  her  quite  sincerely — 
No  two  souls  in  all  the  country  could,  be  happier  than  we. 

But,  alas  !  a  cloud  came  o'er  us,  and  we  were  obliged  to  part ; 

I,  to  fight  in  foreign  countries,  from  the  Highlands  had  to  start ; 
But  I  whispered,  as  we  parted, 
"  Darling,  do  not  be  sad-hearted, '' 

And  she  gave  this  sprig  of  heather,  which  I  laid  upon  my  heart. 

Many  years  passed  by  in  silence,  'mid  the  hardships  of  my  lot, 
Little  did  I  think  of  loving,  and  my  darling  near  forgot ; 
Till  one  night  my  desk  o'erturning, 
And  a  few  old  letters  burning, 

Came  I  on  this  sprig  of  heather,  and  the  words   "  For-get  me 
not." 

How  the  old  remembrance  thrilled  me  !  how  my  heart  leapt  at 

the  sight ! 

I  could  see  our  last  long  parting  in  the  evening's  waning  light ; 
As  our  sad  farewells  were  spoken, 
Solemnly  she  gave  this  token — 

Just  a  sprig  of  purple  heather  gathered  from  the  mountain's 
height. 

Soon  I  hastened  back  to  Scotland,  with  my  spirits  full  of  joy- 
Would  my  darling  know  her  lover  ? — now  no  more  a  Highland 
boy  ; 

What  will  Jessie  say  in  greeting  ? — 
Oh,  how  glad  will  be  our  meeting  ! 

.  Will  my  love  run  forth  to  see  me  ?     Will  she  be  reserved  and 
coy? 


JB881B    LEIGHTON.  103 

Musing  thus,  I  climbed  still  onward  to  the  summit  of  the  hill, 
Then  I  paused  and  looked  around  me,  and  my  eyes  began  to  till 

In  the  churchyard  just  above  me 

Lies  the  mother  who  did  love  me, 
I  will  go  and  breathe  a  prayer  o'er  her  gravestone  green  and  still. 

0  er  my  mother's  grave  in  prayer  for  some  moments  I  had  been, 
When  1  looked  and  saw  another  where  the  grass  was  not  yet 

green; 

And  a  cross  of  purple  heather, 
Spoiled  and  withered  by  the  weather, 
Laid  upon  the  earthy  mound,  the  only  flower  that  could  be  seen. 

"  Whom  can  this  new  grave  belong  to  ?  "  thought  I  as  I  walked 
along, 

1  will  Hit  and  rent  beside  it,  list'ning  to  the  skylark's  song  ; 

Then  the  sunlight  bright  came  streaming, 
Through  the  thickest  branches  gleaming, 
While  on  high  the  merry  birdies  carolled  forth  in  joyous  throng. 

What  in  this  I  see  before  me,  carved  upon  the  mossy  stone? 
'Tis  her  name — and  she  has  left  me,  as  I  left  her,  all  alone  ! 
Oh,  my  Jesnie — gone  for  ever  ! 
Fast  between  us  rolls  Death's  river, 

I  came  back  with  joy  to  greet  you,  but  to  find  that  you  were 
gone. 

Twas  my  fault  for  having  left  her,  and  my  mind  with  anguish 

fills, 
So,  whene'er  I  see  the  heather,  all  my  troubled  heart  it  thrills. 

Never  will  this  feeling  leave  me— 

Never  will  it  cease  to  grieve  me — 
Till  I  lie  at  rest  for  ever  in  among  my  Highland  hills  ! 


SILENCE. 

Who  stands  upon  the  evening  star, 

With  outstretched  wings  of  rosy  hue, 
Reflecting  light  from  where,  afar, 

The  sun  U  quenched  in  waters  blue  ? 
Th«-  shadows  gather  far  below. 

:.ides  the  ro*y  twilight  glow 
That  kisnes  oft  U,  snow 

On  gleaming  mountain  tops  afar. 

••  softly  swaying  pine  trees  are  ; 

it  in— that  unseen  breath 
That  look*  on  Sleep,  but  kisses  Death. 


104  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

When  evening  shadows  gather  dark, 

Each  bird,  all  hnshed,  hides  in  its  nest ; 
Tiif  moon,  a  solemn,  silver  barque, 

Comes  sailing  o'er  the  mountains  crest. 
And  Silence  looks  with  loving  eyes 
Upon  the  world  that  'neath  her  lies, 
And  hushes  every  heart  that  sighs  ; 
The  slightest  whisper  pain  can  give, 
Has  power  to  reach  where  she  doth  live  ; 
And  swift  as  starry  wings  can  fly, 
She  sends  down  comfort  from  on  high. 

She  looks  with  benediction  sweet 
On  all  below,  whoe'er  they  be, 
And  steals  with  noiseless,  unseen  feet 

In  haunts  of  wealth  and  poverty. 
We  cannot  see  her  gentle  face, 
But  we  can  feel  her  soothing  grace, 
And  e'en  her  shadowy  footsteps  trace 
Where  she  has  passed  with  soothing  wing, 
The  shadows  from  her  hair  to  fling, 
And  wrap  the  world  in  peace  a  time, 
Till  o'er  the  mountain  top  do  climb, 
With  glowing  garments,  wings  outspread, 
The  sun's  outriders,  cloudlets  red. 
Then  far  away  does  Silence  fly 
Till  once  more  evening  clouds  the  sky. 


JAMES     M'PHERSON, 

H  STUDENT  of  rare  worth  and  bright  pro- 
mise, whose  career  was  cut  short  just  as  he 
was  verging  into  full  manhood,  was  born  at  Newmilns, 
Ayrshire,  in  1861,  and  died  in  June,  1887.  He  re- 
ceived his  elementary  education  in  the  Free  Church 
School  of  his  native  village,  and  at  the  Free  Church 
Normal  College,  Glasgow",  he  was  recognised  as  a 
young  man  of  no  ordinary  attainments.  The  writer 
of  a  tribute  to  his  memory  in  the  columns  of  kthe 
Galston  Supplement  informs  us  that  "  early  promptings 


JAMBS  M'PHBRSON.  105 

led  him  to  choose  the  great  harvest  field  of  the 
ministry  for  his  life's  work,  and  though  the  full  reali- 
sation of  those  hopes  the  hand  of  Providence  interfered 
with,  enough  we  know  to  claim  for  him  that  had  life 
been  lengthened  he  would  have  occupied  an  honoured 
place  in  the  vineyard,  and  that  his  star  would  have 
shone  as  a  bright  light  in  the  firmament.  At  college 
his  calibre  was  marked,  and  in  the  Divinity  Hall— 
which  place  he  was  privileged  to  attend  for  one  session 
ami  part  of  another — the  intellectual  abilities  disclosed 
there  gave  promise  of  a  brilliant  future.  His  impas- 
sionate  delivery  and  fiery  eloquence  we  well  remember 
while  he  endeavoured  to  force  home  the  truth  by  apt 
illustration." 

Mr  M  Thereon  laboured  with  much  success  at  Lauder 
and  in  Shetland  during  two  successive  summers  under 
"The  Students'  Recess  Scheme"  of  the  U.P.  Church. 
To  his  other  studies  he  added  music,  in  which 
he  was  very  proficient;  and,  as  shown  in  his  writings, 
his  love  for,  and  knowledge  of,  flow*ers  were  deep  and 
extensive.  A  life  abstainer,  he  was  a  zealous  worker 
in  the  temperance  and  anti-tobacco  movements.  Four 
years  ago,  however,  says  our  informant,  the  harness 
had  to  be  unbuckled.  The  seeds  of  disease  had  taken 
foot — had  laid  their  tightening  grasp  upon  him,  and 
necessitated  cessation  of  mental  labour.  Nevertheless, 
In-  hours  of  solitude  and  retirement  were  not  marked 
by  idleness,  and  from  this  time  his  poetical  and  prose 
ilUitions  to  the  GaUton  Supplement  and  other 
newspapers  were  pervaded  by  a  spirit  of  irentleness 
ami  resignation.  Much  beloved,  he  had  a  <li>po>ition 
that  won  love  and  sympathy  from  all.  Ilomr  ami  tin- 
B  were  with  him  r..nL'eni;»l  tha&ea,  I-M  in- 
eonM  at  times  !.<•  jo, 

a   rich  vi-in  of  j,lr.ixii,._r  humour 

in  hi>  eoin|io*ition.       i  i.f  his  probation, 

howc\.T,  were  to  him   year*   <>f   spiritual  growth,   and 


106  MODERN    SCOTTISH   POETS. 

his  longings  to  leave  the  world  of  Time  increased  with 
the  lapse  of  weeks  of  weariness  and  suffering.  As  a 
voice  from  the  grave  came  his  latest  verses.  Realising 
the  end  approaching,  he  composed  the  following  lines 
to  be  put  on  a  memoriam  card,  which  he  styled  "  My 
Last  Composition  "- 

Lord,  receive  me  into  glory, 

That  my  prayer,  and  this  my  plea, 
Simply  the  old  Gospel  story, 

Fraught  with  rest,  and  heaven,  and  Thee — 
Rest  for  my  poor  harrassed  body, 

Heaven  for  my  world-weary  soul, 
Now  with  Thine  arm  underneath  me, 

Fearless,  see  I  Jordan  roll. 

A  small  memorial  volume,  consisting  of  a  selection 
of  his  sermons  and  other  writings,  and  edited  by  the 
Rev.  Mr  Dalgleish,  U.P.  Church,  Newmilns,  was  pub- 
lished shortly  after  his  death. 

THE    NOSE    EVERYBODY    KNOWS. 

% 

See  the  toper's  fiery  nose — 

What  a  nose  ! 
What  a  tale  of  tippling  does  its  ruddy  hue  disclose  ! 

'Tis  so  red,  red,  red, 

And  with  pimples  overspread  ; 

Like  a  lizard  changing  hue, 

Now  it's  crimson,  now  it's  blue. 

What  a  wealth  of  whisky-blossoms  all  around  it  grows  ! 
How  it  glows  ! 
How  it  shows 

The  reward  awaiting  those 

Who  tipple,  tipple,  tipple, 

At  morning,  noon,  and  night, 

And  say  they  take  so  little 

That  it  never  makes  them  "tight." 

Not  the  least  of  all  the  woes 

Such  a  habit  may  impose 
Is  that  puffy,  pimpled,  fiery,  flaming  nose  ! 

See  it  shine,  shine,  shine, 

With  the  hue  of  ruby  wine. 
'Tis  the  signal  light  of  Nature  showing  red, 

In  so  prominent  a  place 

As  the  scenter  of  the  face, 


JAMES  M'PHERSON.  107 

And  it  seems  to  say  "there'-  danger  on  ahead." 

It's  a  nose  you  wouldn't  covet, 

Sure  nobody  can  love  it — 
Such  a  -iu'ht  ! 

And  the  face  that  does  possess  it 

Does  appear  (we  must  confess  it) 
Such  a  fright ! 

And  the  whisky— ah,  the  whisky, 

That  make«  people  blythe  and  frisky 
As  it  flows, 

And  that  painting,  painting,  painting, 

By  every  little  dose, 
Is  sure  to  manufacture  such  a  nose — 

Is  good  for  neither  roan  nor  woman, 

For  no  one,  brute  or  human, 
It's  a  devil  ! 

And  the  Drink  it  is  that  paints, 

Both  on  sinners  and  on  saints, 

Such  a  highly  coloured  nose. 

And  his  handiwork  he  shows 

In  each  blooming  whisky  rose 

On  the  toper's  fiery  nose, 

AH  it  (dances  and  it  glows. 

\Vhat  a  lurid  light  it  throws 

(Where'er  iU  owner  goes) 

On  the  cause  of  all  his  woes, 

Which  everybody  knows  ! 

If  it  be  you  may  not  *mdl  it. 

You  easily  can  tell  it 
From  the  silent  witness-hearing  of  his  scintillating  nose. 

See  it  shine,  shine,  shine, 

With  the  hue  of  ruby  wine, 
Such  a  sight  of  a  nose  !  such  a  fright  of  a  nose  ! 
Such  a  florid-looking  nose  !  such  a  horrid-looking  nose  ! 
Such  a  very  flabby  nose  !  such  an  awful  shabby  none  ! 

Such  a  tiery,  flaming  «yre  of  a  nose  ! 

THE    DOCTOR. 

The  doctor  he  cam'  here  to  heal, 

Ha,  ha,  the  healin' ot  : 
Visits  folk  that  arena  weel, 

Ha,  ha,  the  healin'  o't  : 
Looks  yer  tongue,  and  says  ye're  ill, 
RecomiiMMi  I-  the  m-.-  Ifif  i.ill, 
Then  i  •  little  bill, 

Ha,  ha,  the  healin'  o't. 

Bottles,  too,  he  does  prescribe, 
.  ha,  the  healin  v 


108  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

Patients  then  the  stuff  imbibe, 

Ha,  ha,  the  healin'  o't ; 
When  they  drink  they  thraw  their  mou' 
Mony  a  shape  their  face  they  screw, 
While  they're  like  to  hock  and  spue, 
Ha,  ha,  the  healin'  o't. 

Are  ye  troubled  wi'  a  cough  ? 

Ha,  ha,  the  healin'  o't ; 
Doctor  soon  will  send  it  off, 

Ha,  ha,  the  healin'  o't ; 
Mixture  he  will  for  you  make, 
Spoonful  doses  you  must  take, 
After  you  the  bottle  shake, 

Ha,  ha,  the  healin'  o't. 

Hae  ye  got  a  headache  sore  ? 

Ha,  ha,  the  healin'  o't ; 
Doctor  has  relief  in  store, 

Ha,  ha,  the  healin1  o't ; 
Pain  wi'  pouther  he  can  bang, 
Lays  his  chairge,  an'  aff' 11  gang, 
Nae  yer  heid,  but  juist  the  pang, 

Ha,  ha,  the  healin'  o't. 

Does  a  fever  fire  yer  bluid  ? 

Ha,  ha,  the  healin'  o't ; 
Doctor  comes  to  dae  ye  guid, 

Ha,  ha,  the  healin'  o't. 
Feels  yer  pulse,  an  shakes  his  heid, 
Says  ye're  gey  far  wrang  indeed, 
He'll  hae  to  blister  or  to  bleed, 

Ha,  ha,  the  healin'  o't. 

Are  ye  bothered  wi'  the  bile  ? 

Ha,  ha,  the  healin'  o't ; 
Doctor  comes  to  mak'  it  skyle,  . 

Ha,  ha,  the  healin'  o't ; 
Liver  tonic  he'll  direct, 
Indigestion  to  correct, 
An'  free  yer  bluid  frae  a1  defect, 

Ha,  ha,  the  healin'  o't. 

Hae  ye  ony  beelin'  lump? 

Ha,  ha,  the  healin'  o't ; 
Doctor  conies  to  gar  ye  jump, 

Ha,  ha,  the  healin'  o't ; 
Wi'  his  lance  he  jags  the  sair, 
Gars  ye  "  Oh  !"  and  maybe  rnair, 


JAMBS    M'PHERSON.  109 

Bids  ye  then  o'  caul'  beware, 
Ha,  ha,  the  healin'  o't. 

Hae  ye  inflammation  pangs  1 

Ha,  ha,  the  healin'  o't ; 
Doctor  comes  to  richt  yer  wrangs, 

Ha,  ha,  the  healin'  o't  ; 
Owre  the  spot  yer  pain  to  ease 
He  claps  a  blister  made  o'  fleas 
An*  pepper 'd  a'  wi'  stangs  o'  bee?, 

Ha,  ha,  the  healin'  o't. 

Hae  ye  ony  broken  banes  ? 

lla,  ha,  the  healin'  o't ; 
Doctor  comes  to  ease  yer  pains, 

Ha,  ha,  the  healin'  o't ; 
Them  he'll  souther  en'  to  en', 
Row  wi'  sticks,  an'  sune  they'll  men' 
Hoo  it's  dune,  ye  never  ken, 

Ha,  ha,  the  healin'  o't. 

Doctors  differ,  patients  die, 

Ha,  ha,  the  healin'  o't ; 
True  it  is,  I  kenna  why, 

Ha,  ha,  the  healin'  o't ; 
But  ae  point  there  seems  to  be 
On  which  the  doctors  a'  agree, 
That's  the  matter  o'  a  fee, 

Ha,  ha,  the  healin'  o't. 


VOICE    OF    THE    ROSE. 

fSent,  witA  a  row,  to   thru  invalid  brother*,  ktlpUu  from  birth  owing  to 
tpinal  tltfectj 

Afflicted  brothers,  unto  you  I  send 

A  Himple  flower — accept  it  from  a  friend, 

Who  knows  the  cross  of  frailty  you've  to  bear, 

An. I  in  affliction,  too,  has  had  a  share. 

Plucked  from  its  parent  stem,  thin  fragrant  rose 

Is  swiftly  hasting  to  its  brief  life  H  close, 

To  heart  that  heeds  the  message  that  it  breathes, 

Rich  in  the  legacy  a  dying  flower  bequeaths. 

AH' -n«l.  and  ere  iU  transient  bloom  departs, 

Learn,  while  it  lives,  the  lesson  it  imparts  : — 

"  I'm  but  a  flower,  but  this  I  know, 
Though  born  to  bloom  and  fade  and  die, 


110  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

Twas  heavenly  wisdom  made  me  so, 
It  is  not  mine  to  question  why. 

God  might  have  made  me  great  in  power, 
And  higher  lot  to  me  assigned, 

But  since  He  willed  me  for  a  flower, 
My  will  was  unto  His  resigned. 

"  I  now  appear  as  beauty's  prize, 

Transformed  to  life  from  dust  of  earth, 
'Twas  (rod  who  taught  me  how  to  rise, 

To  perfect  bloom  from  humble  birth. 
'Tis  not  in  vain  that  He  bestows 

So  much  of  care  and  tenderness, 
On  me,  an  unassuming  rose, 

His  bounteous  Hand  hath  deigned  to  bless. 

"  I're  basked  beneath  the  sunbeam's  light, 

And  grateful,  oped  my  petals  wide, 
To  bathe  them  in  the  radiance  bright, 

My  bosom  swelling  high  with  pride. 
I've  pined  beneath  the  threat'ning  gloom 

Of  lowering  clouds  surcharged  with  power, 
To  quench  the  hopes,  and  blast  the  bloom, 

Of  every  frail  aspiring  flower. 

"  I've  heard  the  zephyr's  wooing  sigh, 

And  fluttering,  blushed  beneath  his  kiss, 
I've  felt  the  raptured  moments  fly, 

That  bore  away  ray  hour  of  bliss. 
I've  trembled  at  the  rising  breeze, 

And  quirered  'neath  the  angry  gale, 
Whose  wrestling  with  the  giant  trees 

Makes  little  flowers  in  terror  quail. 

"  I've  mourned  the  loss  of  many  a  friend, 

Swept  by  the  blast  to  early  doom, 
I've  felt  the  dews  of  heaven  descend, 

Chill  on  my  bosom's  opening  bloom. 
I've,  helpless,  swayed  beneath  despair, 

And  languid  drooped  my  weary  head, 
While  breathing  even  the  hapless  prayer, 

That  my  poor  little  life  were  sped. 

"  Yet,  'neath  a  watchful  Eye  I've  grown, 
And  now  my  slender  stem  is  crowned 

With  wealth  of  leaves  I'm  proud  to  own, 
Sweet  perfume  shedding  all  around. 

The  sun,  the  cloud,  the  storm,  the  dew, 
Were  ministers  of  higher  power, 


JAMES  M'PHERSON.  Ill 

Whose  wondrous  care  is  brought  to  view, 
In  life  of  every  little  flower. 


44  My  scented  leaves  must  early  fade. 

And  fall  as  death's  demanded  spoil- 
Soon  scattered  all,  and  lifeless  laid, 

To  mingle  with  their  native  soil. 
Yet  I,  a  little  fading  flower, 

Will  bless  the  future  of  my  kind, 
With  feeble  fertilizing  power 

Which,  dying,  I  shall  leave  behind." 

Oh  happy  human  heart  where  thoughts  like  these 

Awake  responsive  echo,  and  that  sees 

In  all  its  varied  lot  a  Hand  divine, 

And  trustful  says  "  Thy  will  be  done- not  mine." 

The  lowlieHt  flowers  most  beauty  oft  possess, 

And  humblest  souls  the  highest  happiness. 

To  life  the  frailest  mortal  can  impart 

Kich  fragrance  from  a  consecrated  heart — 

A  heart  where  redolent  and  beauteous  grows 

The  flower  divine  and  fair— sweet  Sharon's  Rose. 


WINTER. 

Snow  has  fallen  through  the  night, 
Wreathing  robes  of  purest  white, 

Earth  adorning 

In  her  mourning— 
For  the  world  of  Nature  is  dead, 
Lying  asleep  in  her  snowy  bed. 

Wrapp'd  in  her  shroud,  prepar'd  for  the  tomb, 
Silent  in  death,  'mid  the  wintry  gloom  ; 

Sky  overcast, 

Snow  falling  fast- 
Feathery  flowers  are  softly  spread 
To  deck  the  grave  of  the  buried  dead. 

Without,  the  world  looks  lone  and  dreary  : 
Within,  the  heart  feels  sad  and  weary. 

Clouds  are  flyi 

Winds  »re  sighing— 
Wailing  a  requiem,  weird  and  low, 
O'er  the  dead  world  entomb'd  in  snow. 


ffi 


MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

Hush'd  is  the  pattering  sound  of  feet 
Hurrying  through  the  noisy  street ; 

A  carpet  of  snow, 

Spread  out  below, 

Softens  the  tread  of  the  busy  throng, 
Each  on  his  errand  speeding  along. 

The  snow  has  ceased  and  now  lies  deep, 
Shrouding  the  Earth  in  Death's  cold  sleep, 
The  light  of  Day 
Has  passed  away  ; 

.  The  twinkling  orbs  of  Night  appear, 
Winds  are  hushed,  and  skies  are  clear. 

Heaven's  starry  dome  is  overhead, 
Luna's  lustre  now  is  shed 

Upon  the  scene, 

Calm  and  serene — 
A  silv'ry  sheen  is  softly  spread 
Over  the  still  and  beauteous  dead. 

The  trees — mute  mourners — are  draped  in  white, 
The  landscape  like  fairyland  seems  to  the  sight ; 

The  breeze's  breath 

Is  hushed  in  death  ; 

And  winged  warblers  have  ceased  to  sing, 
Awed  by  the  might  of  the  Terror-King. 

A  solemn  stillness  reigns  around, 
Unbroken  by  the  faintest  sound  ; 

By  silence  pained, 

The  ear  is  strained 

To  catch  one  life-born  echo,  in  vain — 
Oh  Death  !  wilt  thou  thus  forever  reign 


Say  not  that  Nature  is  really  dead — 
She  only  sleeps  in  her  wintry  bed  ; 
And  soon  will  arise 
'Neath  sunnier  skies 

To  liberate  Earth  from  the  Winter's  sway, 
And  deck  it  again  in  Summer  array. 


JAMES   BALLANTYNE.  113 


JAMES     BALLANTYNE. 

A  M  I •:>  !  .ALLANTYNE  is  a  name  dear  to  all  lovers 
of   Scott  i>h  song,  and  the   humble   poet    bear- 
in;:  the  same  name  is  a  writer  of  much   promise,  and 
whom  \\e  have  special  pleasure  in  bringing  under 
the  notice  of  our  readers.     Mr  Ford   in   hi*  M  I'oet's 
Album  "  speaks  of  him  as  learning  in  sadness  what  he 
r  he  has  cherished  his  love  of  poetry 
amidst  uncongenial  occupation,  and  through  a  number 
of  years  of  confirmed  invalid  life.      He  was  born  in 
1860   in  the  little  village  of  Crindledyke,  parish  of 
<  aiuliuMiethan.      His    father  was   originally  a  shoe- 
maker, but  took  to  the  occupation  of  "black  diamond 
(in ting"  during   the  time  of  the  "big  wages,"  and 
when  the  subject  of  our  sketch  was  but  a  boy.     In 
tin-   H   ih  year  of  his  age  young  Ballantyne  was  sent 
hool,  his  teacher  having  taught  his  mother  the 
rudiments  of  learning  many  years  before.     In  course 
time    the   family  removed  to  the   mining    villas 
of     Waterloo,     near     Wishaw.         Here,    at     the     early 

age  \e,     was    closed     the     record     of     his 

school    day-,     aud    he    was     sent    into    the     great 

school    of    discipline,     in     which     he    has    had     per- 

1  experience   than    most   are   called    to 

!  apprenticed   to  a  watchmaker  in 

i.ut,  not  liking  tin-  business,  an  arrangement 

was  come  to,  and  i  filled  by  a  brother,  who 

tin-   firm    of   <  ;iM»   iV    r.allantyne,   Anna 

Having  entered    the    nun.-,    Iii> 

11  day  behind  a   trap  door,  ami 

and  shut    it    u  hen  eoal    hut    '  M  to 

•  pit    hot:  .     monotonous 

.     h''    Uaf    M'-'Mr  .!.-•!      I"      Mi-'      ll,--!'-    I|U'I\     all'!     I   i'i!<    I 

H 


Il4  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

paid  position  of  pony-driver,  and  afterwards  to  work 
at  the  "  coal  face "  with  his  father.  This  was  then 
the  golden  age  with  miners,  and  he  was  thus  able  to 
spend  some  of  his  earnings  in  the  purchase  of  books. 
With  aspiring  miners  there  is  always  one  position  that 
young  men  are  anxious  to  reach — that  of  colliery 
manager ;  and  with  the  view  of  acquiring  the  neces- 
sary certificate,  Ballantyne  took  to  the  study  of  mining 
literature,  mathematics,  &c.,  and  had  a  course  of 
lessons  in  theoretical  and  practical  mining  engineering. 

In  1880  the  family  removed  to  Woodend,  near 
Armadale,  where  they  now  reside.  Here  James,  at 
the  age  of  twenty-two,  was  appointed  the  overs- 
man  at  Craigregrigg  Colliery,  and,  by  attend- 
ing evening  classes,  qualifed  himself  for  the  position 
of  manager  when  an  accident  befell  him  that  deprived 
him  of  all  feeling  and  motion  in  his  lower  extremities, 
rendering  him  totally  unfit  for  his  calling.  Having 
occasion  to  go  down  the  pit,  by  some  means  or  other  a 
huge  stone  fell  from  the  roof  of  the  mine,  and,  striking 
him  with  great  violence,  caused  a  serious  fracture  of 
the  spine.  During  winter  he  is  a  prisoner  in  the 
house,  where  he  is  visited  by  numerous  friends  whose 
sympathy  does  much  to  add  joy  to  the  dull  existence 
of  an  invalid's  weary  days.  In  the  summer,  however, 
he  is  able  to  visit  the  many  loved  spots  that  he  has 
sweetly  portrayed  in  verse — moving  from  place  to 
place  on  a  tricycle  kindly  provided  by  the  Coltness  Iron 
Company  and  his  admirers  in  the  district.  "  See  him 
when  you  may,"  says  one  who  knows  him  well,  "you 
will  always  find  him  with  a  smiling  countenance,  and 
with  a  cheerful  heart  under  his  grievous  affliction." 

After  gaining  a  little  strength,  an  active  spirit  like 
his  could  not  remain  idle.  Previously  the  poetic  side 
of  his  character  had  been  receiving  some  attention. 
He  had  been  diligently  studying  the  poetical  works  of 
some  of  the  best  authors,  and  occasionally  giving  the 


JAMES   BALLANTYNB.  115 

public  a  few  of  his  own  verses.  These  have  been 
printed  from  time  to  time  in  the  Airdrie  and 
Hamilton  Advertiser,  West  Lothian  Courier ;  Dundee 
Weekly  News,  <kc.  One  of  his  pieces,  "  The  Angler's 
Song,"  which  originally  appeared  in  the  Glasgow  Even- 
ing Times,  attracted  the  attention  of  Mr  Ferric,  a 
well-known  publisher  of  Scottish  music  in  Glasgow. 
Of  thi>  >"ii_:  the  Scottish  Leader  says: — "  Mr  James 
Bullantyne  has  in  the  verses  entitled  'The  Angler's 
Song ;  or  the  Muckle  May-flee,'  drawn  a  graphic 
picture — in  strong  Doric — of  the  pleasures  of  the 
ttorial  art  and  of  the  conditions  under  which  it 
1 H  'roughly  enjoyed.  To  these,  lines  Mr 
T  S.  (deadhill — an  experienced  and  prolific  producer 
of  national  music — has  composed  an  air  which  is 
catching  and  breezy,  and  imbued  with  those  peculiar- 

-t  met ure  characteristic  of  Scotch  music." 
In    Mr    Ballantvne's    minor  pieces  we  find  several 
delicat.lv  fresh  and  dainty  little  poems,  pictured  with 
much  vividness  and  glow  of  language,  and  showing  him 
to  be  a  cl  ver  of  nature,  and  a  loving  admirer  of 

ies.      His  more  lengthy  productions  evince  a 
mm  illy  of  a  poetic  type,  considerable  literary 

culture,  a  keen  appreciation  of  homely  enjoyments,  and 
A  ide  knowledge  of  the  "  hamely  Doric." 

time  liaek  there  has  hern  appcarinu  in  the 

.mis  of  iii«'   ll'>xt  L»flu<;  /•  a  series  of  gr 

fill  and   thoughtful   articles,  entitled   "Tin-    P<>ctry  of 

hell,"  in  which  much  information   is  uriven  by  Mr 

1'.  I:  <d  in  our  Tenth   8  id  others 

'din;:    tin-     [xxstti    and    poetry    of   the  district   of 

lend.      I  '.•    i.  .  •    r  of  the  Courier  ha  .usly 

t.»  puhli-h  them  in  book  form,   the  proceeds 

de  ..f  which  is  to  be  handed  over 

:r  poet. 

thiit    while   at    pre->    tin-    intelli- 


116  itODEBN   SCOTTISH   POE1& , 

West  Lothian  Courier  of  September  17,  1887,  says  : — 
"  He  came  out  this  summer  as  usual  from  his  indoor 
confinement  and  moved  about  on  his  tricycle,  making 
his  wonted  calls  at  the  door  of  his  most  intimate 
friends,  and  seemed,  considering  his  condition,  in  his 
usual  health  and  spirits,  but  about  six  weeks  ago  he 
caught  a  little  cold  which  produced  inflammation,  and 
was  the  beginning  of  the  end.  He  was  again  confined 
to  bed,  and  his  wasted  form  being  unable  to  bear  the 
additional  strain  on  his  vital  powers,  he  gradually  grew 
worse  until  on  the  morning  of  the  9th  September  he 
calmly  and  peacefully  breathed  his  last."] 


THE    ANGLER'S    SONG. 


I'll  up  in  the  morning,  and  rig  mysel'  oot, 
Wi'  ray  stockings  and  basket  and  tackle  sae  stoot, 
And  aff  to  the  burnie,  whaur  trooties  sae  slee, 
Are  jumpin'  to  nab  up  the  inuckle  May-flee. 

An'  O  for  the  fun  'mang  the  sweet  singing  rills, 
And  the  boulder  stanes  big,  like  to  wee  frowning  hills, 
Where  lies  the  sleet  trootie,  wi'  sharp  greedy  e'e, 
Aye  ready  to  rise  at  the  muckle  May-flee. 

Then  O  for  the  breeze  that  can  dress  in  a  fril!, 
The  lang  glassy  flats  wi'  their  surfaces  still, 
Where  lies  the  big  trootie,  sae  bonnie  to  see, 
That's  plumpie  been  made  by  the  inuckle  May-flee  ! 

An'  O  for  my  basket,  my  rod,  and  my  reel, 
An'  O  for  the  trootie,  the  pike,  and  the  eel, 
An'  wee  speckled  par,  aye  sae  sportive  and  free, 
That  jumps  a'  its  pith  at  the  muckle  May-flee. 

An'  O  for  the  'oor,  when  back  to  my  hame, 
I  tak  my  big  basket,  weel  stow'd  i'  the  wame, 
An'  0  for  the  wifie  that's  happy  to  see 
A  tak'  that's  been  got  wi'  the  inuckle  May-flee. 


JAMES    BALLANTYNE.  117 

THE    LAND    I     WINNA     LEA.'. 


Men  talk  o'  lands  beyond  the  sea, 

Whose  skies  are  ever  clear, 
Where  orange  groves  and  roses  sweet 

Their  scenery  make  dear  ; 
Bat,  ah  !  for  them  I  dinna  care, 

I  seek  not  distant  bowers, 
I'm  quite  content  wi'  Scotland's  hills, 

And  Scotland's  bonnie  flowers. 


Auld  Scotland's  honnie  woods  an'  dells, 

Aye  help  to  charm  my  e'e, 
An',  for  her  glens  an'  streamlets  deep, 

Nae  bonnier  I  see  ; 
The  music  o'  her  siller  brooks 

Aye  cheers  my  Scottish  he'rt ; 
Na,  na,  for  me  there's  nane  sic  like, 

Frae  them  I  canna  pairt. 

I  love  her  purple  moorlands  wild, 

An'  tufts  o'  waving  broom, 
That  aye  in  sonny  summer  time 

Are  clad  in  gowden  bloom  ; 
I  love  the  land  where  grows  the  slae, 

An'  stately  birken  tree, 
The  scenery  o'  Scotland  dear 

I  canna,  canna  lea'. 


I  canna  lea'  my  native  land, 

Where  a'  my  faithera  rest, 
Deep,  deep  below  the  verdant  sod 

Wi  modest  gowans  drest ; 
Their  graves  an'  battle  fields  o'  fame 

Are  ever  dear  to  me, 
My  Scotland,  land  o'  liberty, 

I  winna,  winna  lea'. 


like  to  roam  at  freedom  'mong 

The  thistles  and  the  fernn, 
And  view  upon  the  moorlands  quiet 

The  venerated  cairn*, 
Where  sleep  the  noble  men  of  old, 

Wl,,,  fought  t<>  try  and  free 
Aul.l  Sc.itUiinl,  land  »'  liberty, 

Th<'  land  1  winna  lea*. 


118  MODERN    SCOTTISH   POETS. 

A    RETROSPECT. 


Ilk  primrose  in  a  shady  nook, 
An'  cheery  sang  frae  siller  brook, 
An'  woody  glen  wi'  fairy  look, 
Remind  me  aye  o'  Bonkle 

An:  a'  its  bonnie  glens  an'  braes, 
Where  linties  trill  their  gleesome  lays, 
An'  where  I  ran  in  bygone  days 
Wi'  schule  companions  cheery, 

Wha  had  like  me  nae  care  or  wae 
When  searching  through  ilk  glen  an'  brae 
For  nits  sae  sweet  an*  berries  blae 
In  places  dull  and  dreary. 

The  birdies'  sangs  we  liked  to  hear, 
They  banished  frae  oor  minds  ilk  fear, 
ftae  thocht  had  we  o'  ghaist  bein*  near, 
An'  never  were  we  eerie. 


We  liked  to  pu'  the  crimson  haw, 
The  rowan  red  an'  rose  o'  snaw, 
Frae  mid-day  bricht  to  gloamin'  fa' 
We  ran  e'er  we  gat  weary. 

Got  on  the  brae  by  auld  Bridgend, 
Where  Calder  clear  an  Auchter  send 
Up  sangs  sae  sweet  as  on  they  wend 
'Mang  woods  an'  groves  sae  briery. 


*  JEAN     KYD. 

t  F%ERY  favourably  known  under  the  nom-de-plume 
V'  of  "  Deborah  "  as  the  author  of  poems  possessing 
much  power  of  imagination  arid  considerable  vigour  of 


JEAN    KYD.  119 

thought,  was  born  and  educated  in  Dundee.  She  lived 
on  the  outskirts  of  that  town  until  her  marriage,  at  the 
age  of  nineteen,  in  the  year  1877.  For  a  short  period 
following,  she  resided  at  Carnoustie.  By  the  time 
she  was  twenty-one  years  of  age  she  was  a  widow,  and 
again  lived  under  her  father's  roof.  About  three 
years  later,  her  first  literary  effort — "  Confirmation 
Day  " — was  written,  and  duly  received  the  honour  of  a 
place  in  the  Dundee  Evening  Telegraph.  Since  then,  at 
short  intervals,  and  in  varied  and  trying  circumstances, 
she  has  contributed  with  much  acceptance  prose  and 
verse  to  its  columns,  as  well  as  short  tales,  ballads, 
and  poems,  to  several  Scottish  and  English 
periodicals.  Mrs  Kyd  lived  a  few  years  in  Kenilworth 
and  London,  until,  in  the  early  winter  of  1886,  she 
again  returned  to  Dundee — a  widow  for  the  second 
time,  and  Iraving  Ixihind  the  remains  of  a  husband 
and  two  children  buried  in  St  Mary's  Cemetery, 
Battersea. 

It  has  been  frequently  remarked  that  "  Deborah " 
in  her  writings  is  sad,  but  when  we  have  thus  made 
known  the  fact  that  she  has  been  led  through  deep 
and  dark  "waters  of  affliction,"  it  will  readily  be 
understood  why  her  thoughts  are  so  often  in  a  sub- 
dued and  reflective  strain  Home  and  the  aflfec- 
-  are  to  her  genial  themes,  and  all  her  utterances 
are  full  of  pathetic  sympathy,  and  are  consequently 
pervaded  by  a  spirit  of  gentleness. 

DO    YOU    REMEMBER. 

via  remember  how  the  ronea  bloomed 
Beneath  the  nursery  window  wide  and  low, 
.  all  day,  the  chamber  wan  perfumed 
With  their  rich  fragrance— many  years  ago? 
And  I  ow  we  woke  to  greet  tt>>  i*t  smile 

I>1\  .lie  &»  the  birds  on  the  old  apple  tree 

door?— no  wish  to  rest  awhile 
With  our  young  poises  dancing  in  our  glee. 


120  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

Do  you  remember  how  the  mid-day  sun 

Came  streaming  in  through  the  wide  lobby  door, 
And  how  bold  garden  sparrows  oft  would  run, 

And  chirp  and  peck  upon  the  polished  floor 
And  how  we  used  to  sing  and  run  and  laugh, 

With  never  thought  of  trouble  that  might  be? 
Surely  the  days  were  longer  then,  by  half, 

Than  those  the  passing  years  now  bring  to  me  ! 

Do  you  remember  the  soft  soothing  song 

From  the  broad  river,  and  its  quiet  flow  ? 
And  the  fresh  breath  of  seaweed  borne  along 

Which  filled  our  garden  in  that  long  ago  ? 
Our  feet  ne'er  seemed  to  tire  or  weary  be, 

No  winter  seemed  to  come  with  frosty  dew  ; 
But  now  it's  ever  winter  cold — ah  me  ! — 

And  sore  I  lag  ere  half  the  day  be  through. 

There  seemed  no  haste,  no  busy  bustling  hours, 

No  jarring  words,  nor  bitter  pushing  ways; 
But  now  there's  never  time  for  wayside  flowers, 

Work,  heavy  work,  so  fills  my  hands  and  days. 
Ay,  far  in  olden  years  are  those  sweet  times, 

Worn,  now,  my  frame,  my  hair  is  white  as  snow, 
Yet,  like  the  soothing  sound  of  Sabbath  chimes, 

Come  memories  of  the  days  of  long  ago. 


THE    SEA. 

"  The  foaming  waves  are  fair  to  see," 
You  say  ;  but  I  know  they're  cruel  and  deep  ; 

If  you  were  a  fisher-wife,  same  as  me, 
Maybe  you'd  smile  on  'em  then— I  weep. 

See  how  they  sparkle  along  the  shore, 
Wooing  and  kissing  the  golden  sand  ! 

As  tho'  they  ne'er  rose  in  an  angry  roar, 
And  dashed  our  boats  on  the  rocky  strand  ! 

Smooth  and  smiling  they  chime  so  sweet, 
And  the  children,  laughing,  dip  with  glee 

Their  little  brown  hands  and  little  brown  feet 
In  the  dancing  sheen  :  my  heart's  i'  that  sea. 

0  there  be  many  o'  mine  at  rest 

Deep  down  where  the  sun  can  never  shine, 
And  the  black,  cold  water  laps  over  their  breast, 

And  their  hair  is  hard  with  the  cruel  brioe. 


JEAN    KYD.  121 

Sometimes  they  call  on  me  "  Come  !"  so  shrill, 
That  I  ri.se  and  loosen  the  latch  o'  the  door, 

But  soon  as  I  open  it  all  in  still, 
And  the  night-ware  breaks  on  the  shrouded  shore. 

The  neighbours  call  me  "soft"  and  "  queer," 

I  know  my  brain  gets  mazed  at  night, 
But  I've  lived  so  lonesome  this  many  a  year 

Wi'  only  my  dead  and  drowned  i'  my  sight. 

I'll  see  them  again,  but  the  time  seems  long- 
Yen,  all  of  them,  father,  husband,  son, 

And  my  mind'11  be  clear,  and  my  head  not  wrong, 
And  none'll  be  missing,  no,  not  one. 

He  knows  the  way  o'  the  boundless  sea, 
His  path  is  among  the  rocks  and  the  foam  : 

Surely  he'll  think  o'  them  all,  and  me, 
And  bring  his  poor  fisher  children  home. 


NEAR    HAME. 

The  gloamin'  wind  in  pleasant, 

The  sun  has  westered  far  ; 
The  licht  that  shines  upon  my  road 

Comes  na  frae  moon  or  star  ; 
The  music  soundin'  in  my  ears 

Cornea  frae  nae  earthly  string, 
It's  the  harpin*  and  the  aingin' 

In  the  city  o'  the  King. 

The  cup  the  Father's  gi'en  me 

Banna  aye  been  fu*  and  sweet, 
And  the  path  HIM  hand  has  led  me 

Aft  has  wearied  my  weak  feet ; 
Ami  the  noughin'  wind  o'  sorrow* 

Aft  ha*  killed  life'*  dearest  thing  - 
But  there'll  be  nae  eighin' 

In  the  city  <>'  the  King. 

The  friends  that  wi'  me  started 
tig,  at  break  of  day, 
ft  gMD  in  afore  me, 
•  »ke  my  way  ; 

.  .«•  na  nae  brirhtlv. 

it    \S  illl.Jl  r-il»tf, 

.  tune  ii. \   li|^  to  praise  Him 
In  the  city  o'  the  King. 


122  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

Ane  after  ane  !  my  dear  gudeman, 

The  kindest  and  the  best, 
And  twa  dear  little  bairnies 

That  hung  aboot  my  breast, 
Till  I  thocht  my  very  heart  would  burst 

Or  brak  its  secret  spring — 
But  they're  waitin'  a'  to  greet  me 

In  the  city  o'  the  King. 

O  pleasant  is  the  gloamin'  oor 

To  them  that's  needin'  rest, 
And  to  the  weary  traveller 

The  nicht's  a  welcome  guest. 
The  tticht  is  nearly  ended  noo, 

And  weary  is  my  wing, 
But  new  strength  will  be  gi'en  me 

In  the  city  o'  the  King. 

My  pilgrim  shoon  are  a'  outworn, 

The  dust  cleaves  to  my  dress, 
But  there  is  Ane  has  bocht  me 

A  robe  o'  righteousness  ; 
Nae  hands  on  earth  could  fashion 

Sae  tine  and  fair  a  thing, 
And  He  will  put  it  on  me 

Iq  the  city  o'  the  King. 

It's  MO  the  gold-crooned  angels 

That  will  mak'  the  place  sae  sweet, 
As  wi'  viol,  harp,  an'  singin' 

They  throng  the  shinin'  street ; 
The  Lamb  will  be  the  pleasure, 

And  kent  faces  He  will  bring 
To  smile  on  me  a  welcome 

In  the  city  o'  the  King. 


ONE    MORE     RIVER. 

I  hear  the  boom  and  the  rushing 

Of  a  hundred  rivers  behind, 
The  voice  of  their  song  and  gushing 

Comes  borne  on  the  breath  of  the  wind 
The  rivers  of  this  world's  pleasure 

That  have  caused  us  sorrow  and  loss, 

And  they  sing  in  their  flowing  measure 

"There's  one  more  river  to  cross." 

We  have  traversed  valleys  and  meadows, 
The  mountains  and  hills  are  all  clomb, 


JEAN    KTD.  123 


Now,  far  thro*  dim  mists  and  shadows, 
We  catch  a  glimmer  of  Home — 

Of  gloriet*  that  flash  and  quiver, 
And  the  pearly  gateway's  gloss, 

But  "there's  one  more  river. 
One  more  river  to  crow." 

Courage  !  Christ  will  deliver, 

The  grasp  of  His  hand  can  save, 
His  feet  have  crossed  the  river. 

Have  dipped  in  its  cold  black  wave  ; 
He  hath  redeemed  us,  sought  us, 

Purchased  us,  not  with  dross. 
He'll  not  let  us  sink— for  He  bought 

In  the  "  one  more  river  to  cress.'' 
The  ark  of  His  love  is  our  guiding, 

Among  us  is  Israel's  GodT 
The  waters  will  burst  at  His  bidding, 

And  we  will  pass  over  dryshod. 

I  hear  the  boom  and  the  rushing 

Of  a  hundred  rivers  behind. 
The  voice  of  their  HOII-  and  gushing 

Comes  borne  on  the  breath  of  the  wind 
The  rivers  of  this  world's  pleasure, 

That  have  caused  us  sorrow  and  loos, 
And  they  tell  in  their  flowing  measure, 

"There's  one  more  river  to  cross." 


MARJORIE'S    TRYST. 

"  O  tryst  me,  luve,  by  the  caatle  yett, 

At  the  lane  mirk  hour  when  starns  are  set ; 

Naue  »all  be  there  oor  joy  to  mar 

Wi'  words  <>'  rebuke,  or  strife,  or  war." 

O  the  moonlicht  Hhitnmers  on  tree  an*  stane, 
An*  the  owlet  screech*  i'  the  tower  alane. 

"  It's  I  will  come,  my  luve,  sae  true, 
An'  plight  i'  the  greenwood  my  troth  to  yon, 
Whaur  the  rockin'  branches  wave  sae  green 
A  boon  the  wimplin'  burnie's  sheen." 
0  the  moonlicht,  &c. 

The  tryst  wa»  fixed,  the  kisM  wan  gien, 
:  what  ill  had  been? 
O  the  in-Mitilirht.  &C. 

i   the  shade  u'  the  mined  caatell 
u»e  in  wh'wc  bn-.i.-t  Ha  ned  the  tirea  o'  hell ; 


124  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

He  swore — till  the  great  trees  shuddered  an'  shook, 
An'  the  licht  o"  the  starns  the  place  forsook — 
That  the  blude  o'  man  wad  rin  like  rain 
Ere  thae  luvers  should  meet  an'  pairt  again. 
O  the  raoonlicht,  &c. 

She  sail  be  mine,  fair  Marjorie, 
Come  weal  or  woe,  my  bride  maun  she  be, 
For  what  is  Donald  ?     A.  shepherd  mean  ! 
An'  I  am  the  laird  o'  Eaglesdean. 
An'  what  owns  he?    Some  sheep  !  a  gray  plaid  ! 
While  my  coffers  rin  ower  wi'  the  gowd  sae  red. 
Yet  what  is  my  gowd  if  it  canna  gie 
This  Marjorie  sweet  my  wife  to  be? 
Sae  I  swear  it  again,  come  weal  or  pain, 
Thae  twa  shaunna  meet  in  peace  again. 
0  the  moonlicht,  &c. 

When  the  still  starns  gleamed  on  the  castle  green, 
When  the  breath  o'  nicht  was  on  the  scene, 
Then  Donald  blythe  and  Marjorie  fair 
To  keep  their  tryst  to  the  place  repair. 
0  the  moonlicht,  &c. 

Afore  the  first  sweet  kiss  was  gien 
(O  the  moonlicht  shimmered  on  tree  an'  stane), 
A  sharp  licht  flashed  i'  the  brioht  moon's  sheen 
(An  the  owlet  screeched  i'  the  tower  alane). 

Wi'  a  curse  an'  a  shout,  great  Eaglesdean's  lord 
Leapt  on  young  Donald  wi'  unsheathed  sword  ; 
Dumfounded  aud  wordless  the  shepherd  gazed, 
But  Marjorie  saw  the  hand  upraised, 
She  saw  the  gleam  in  the  laird's  black  een — 
The  death-gleam  o'  anger  an'  bitter  spleen. 
0  the  moonlicht,  &c. 

Wi'  never  a  word,  ere  the  sword  could  fa' 
She  flung  her  fair  bodie  atween  the  twa, 
^n'  the  stab  that  was  meant  to  be  Donald's  pairt 
Has  twined  the  life  frae  sweet  Marjorie's  heart. 
0  the  moonlicht,  &c. 

As  tho'  hounds  o'  hell  were  at  his  back 
Fast  flew  the  laird  ower  bush  and  brack, 
Wi'  never  a  hindward  glance  for  fear, 
Awa  he  flew  ower  bracken  an'  brier. 
O  the  moonlicht,  &c. 


JEAN    KYD.  125 


An'  never  again  near  Eaglesdean 
Was  the  Hwnrthy  face  <>'  the  laird  ance  seen, 
But  waste  lie  his  lands,  an'  his  mansion  gray 
I*  the  howff  <>'  ilk  fiercesome  beast  o*  prey. 
An*  the  moonlicht,  &c. 

But  Donald  young,  the  shepherd  lad, 
Laid  hiti  ain  sweet  luve  in  his  aiild  «ray  plaid, 
An'  bore  her  awa  ower  IDOSH  an1  fen 
Far,  far  frae  the  haunts  o'  women  an'  men. 
()  the  moonlicht,  &c. 

But  brocht  her  back  — when  days  were  past  - 
An'  buried  her  deep  whaur  the  burn  rins  fast, 
Whaur  branches  High  her  requiem  hymn 
An'  the  mavis  lilts  i*  the  gloamin'  dim. 
O  the  moonlicht,  &c. 

Yet  never  a  word  to  man  nor  maid 
Frae  that  nicht  to  this  ha*  Donald  said, 
An*  never  a  word — alas  an*  alack  !  — 
To  a'  their  speerin'  gae  he  back. 
O  the  moonlicht,  &c. 

Bat  like  a  speerit  lost  he  gam, 
An  inoatiM  to  the  gloamin  wind  his  waes  ; 
An*  ever  an'  aye  he  sabn  an*  sighs, 
Till  the  castle  echoes  back  his  cries  ; 
An'  aye,  i*  the  gloamin',  ye  him  may  see 
Still  teekin'  the  grave  <>'  liin  Marjorie  ; 
An  they  wander  thegither  ower  uioss  an'  fell 
Till  ower  the  fields  chimes  the  matin  bell. 
O  the  moonlicht,  &c. 

Th<>'  rua*s  for  fair  Marjorie's  saul  has  been  said, 
An  the  prieat  haschaunted.  an'  preached,  an'  prayed, 
Aye  yet  i'  the  greenwood  her  white  ghaist  strays, 
An'  we  daurna  k'ang  there  after  gloauiin's  rays, 

Whaur  the  moonlicht  hhimmerH  on  tree  an'  stane, 
An'  the  owlet  screens  i'  the  tower  alane. 


126  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

ISABELLA     FYVIE     MAYO. 

"EDWARD  GARRETT." 

UITE  recently  the  genial  and  talented  writer  of 
"  Literary  Notes  "  in  the  Glasgow  Mail  satisfied 
a  natural  curiosity  as  to  the  personality  of  a  well- 
known  writer,  and  revealed  the  fact  that  "Edward 
Garrett "  is  the  nom-de-plume  of  a  Scottish  authoress, 
whose  maiden  name  is  Isabella  Fyvie.  Although  she 
had  the  misfortune  to  be  born  in  London,  she  has  not 
a  drop  of  English  blood  in  her  veins.  When  a  child 
her  delight  was  to  sit  in  the  "  gloamin'  firelight "  on 
her  father's  knee  and  listen  to  the  legends  of  Buchan, 
and  the  stories  that  he  brought  with  him  from  his 
father's  farm,  where  his  ancestors  had  been  settled  for 
three  hundred  years.  His  people  were  staunch  Scotch 
Episcopalians,  one  of  them  being  the  Dean  of  Moray 
and  Ross.  Our  poet's  mother's  ancestors,  on  the 
paternal  side,  belong  to  the  Border  country,  and  have 
been,  and  are,  all  of  the  nonconforming  religion — 
among  her  near  relatives  being  the  late  Rev.  A. 
Hislop,  Free  Church,  Arbroath,  author  of  "  The  Two 
Babylons,"  &c.,  and  the  Rev.  S.  Hislop,  missionary 
and  scientist  in  India ;  while,  on  the  maternal  side, 
her  mother's  people  belong  to  an  old  and  respected 
Aberdeen  family  of  Established  Kirk  persuasions.  In 
her  own  person  she  thus  unites  the  three  lines  of 
argument  on  which  her  countrymen  have  sharpened 
their  intellects  for  so  many  centuries. 

Mrs  Mayo  was  born  in  1843.  Younger  by  many 
years  than  the  rest  of  the  family,  she  was  educated 
at  a  day  school,  where  she  took  many  prizes, 
not  perhaps  because  she  was  particularly  fond 
of  study,  but  because  she  had  set  her  heart  on  succeed- 
ing, and  was  willing  to  work.  That  she  was 
strenuously  conscientious  even  in  childhood  will  be 


ISABELLA    P.    MAYO.  127 

lily  believed  by  any  one  who  is  conversant  with 
In T  writings.  Her  first  impulse  to  literary  work,  as 
we  are  informed  by  the  writer  of  the  "notes"  referred 

came  from  a  relative,  then  a  student  at  King's 
('••liege,  who  saw  promise  in  her  school  essays  and 
occasional  poems,  and  threw  out  the  suggestion  of  a 
literary  career.  For  seven  years  she  worked  with 
literally  no  pecuniary  return;  and  it  was  not  till  her 
"Occupations  of  a  Retired  Life"  apoeared  in  the  Sun- 
day Magazine  that  such  encouragement  came  as  fixed 
her  for  life  in  the  guild  of  letters.  She  was  only 
seventeen  w  hen  her  life  became  severely  practical,  the 
dreamy  girl  period  over  and  gone,  the  future  lying  in 
a  thick  mist  before  her;  and  the  next  few  years  were 
full  of  severe  discipline,  for  which,  however,  she  now 
feels  devoutly  thankful,  as  to  that  discipline  she  owes 
tin  l>e*t  part  <>f  her  power  to-day.  It  has  enabled  her 
to  make  her  books  helpful  in  the  highest  degree  to 
others,  and  especially  to  those  who  are  harassed  by 
don  I  it.  At  ' -LI  i  teen  she  made  the  acquaintance  of 
S,  C  Hall,  whose  encouragement  and  practical 
help  were  of  great  use  to  her,  and  who  became  the 
good  genius  of  her  early  womanhood.  In  1870  she 
was  married  to  Mr  Mayo,  a  young  London  lawyer. 
HI  was  in  ilelirate  health,  which  made  travel  impera- 

.  ;m<l  thi.>  led  to  a  i  anadiaii  tour,  followed  by  much 
resilience  in  Surrey,  of  winch  we  get  bright  jliinpses 
in  more  than  one  of  her  storiev  In  1877  she  became 
a  widow,  and  in  the  following  year  she  left  London, 
u Inch  h;id  then  ^n.wn  unendurable  to  her.  At  first 
she  was  in  danger  of  laj^in-j  into  hopeless  invuldism, 
Inn  from  tin  i.s  saved  by  fixing  her  home  in 

Aberdeen,  and  ul>"  h\  de\«.tin-  h«-r-elf  to  the  interests 
and    needs  of  others.     An  adopted   son   and   young 
Chared  he  h   home.     She  is  best 

kn  -I,  by  hernom-de-plunu, 

in    the    j  ill-     Sunday  .';  d    Word*, 


128  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

The  Quiver,  Sunday  at  Home,  Girls'  Own  Paper,  Pall 
Mall  Gazette,  &c.  From  several  of  these  magazines 
we  are  privileged  to  give  the  following  selections  from 
her  poetical  productions.  These,  like  her  very 
popular  tales  and  sketches,  are  always  charming  and 
natural  in  detail,  and  show  that  her  sympathies  are 
wide,  while  her  narratives  are  ever  drawn  with  power 
and  accuracy.  Her  ballads  are  remarkable  for  quaint 
simplicity  and  those  lightly  marked  rhymes  peculiar 
to  that  style  of  verse.  She  also  takes  easily  to  the 
artificial  measures  of  the  sonnet,  and  all  her  utter- 
ances possess  not  only  directness  of  thought,  but  also 
much  depth  of  imagination  and  artistic  finish. 


THE    FATHER'S    HAND. 

I'm  only  an  old  wife  now,  sir,  and  I've  time  to  sit  on  the  strand, 
A-watching  the  boats  come  in  and  the  children  at  play  on  the 

sand. 

Seventy  years,  sir — all  of  my  days — I  have  lived  beside  the  sea, 
And  it  has  been  meat  and  money,  and  joy  and  sorrow  to  me. 

Father  and  husband  and  boys,  sir,  there  was  not  a  man  of  them 

all 
Could  have  lain  still  in  the  house,  sir,  when  the  winds  and  the 

waters  call, 
My  father  and  husband  sleep  in  the  graves  of  our  folk  by  the 

shore, 
But  both  of  the  boys  who  left  me — they  never  came  back  any 

more. 

I've  often  felt  ready  to  sink,  sir,  but  one  thought  would  keep  me 

afloat, 
Something  I  learned  as  a  little  lass,  going  out  in  my  father's 

boat. 

Do  you  know,  sir,  it's  often  struck  me  the  lesson  of  life  is  writ 
Plain  out  in  the  world  around  us,  if  we'd  but  gire  our  minds  to 

My  father  hadn't  a  lad,  sir,  so  he  paid  the  more  heed  to  me, 
Would  take  me  with  him  in  summer,  far  out  on  the  open  sea, 
And  he'd  let  me  handle  the  oars,   sir,   and   pull  with   my  might 

and  main, 
But  if  I'd  been  left  to  myself,  sir,  we'd  not  have  seen  home  again. 


ISABELLA    P.    MAYO.  129 

"  Pull,  little  maid  ! '  he  would  cheer  me,  but  still  kept  his  hand 

on  the  oar, 
Bo  though  I  might  try  to  turn  us  to  some  pretty  bay  on  the 

shore, 
Still  straight  went  our  boat  to  our  harbour— and  I  grew  stronger 

each  day, 
And  found  that  the  only  wisdom  was  in  rowing  my  father's  way. 

And  I  think,  sir,  that  God  our  Father  keeps  hold  of  the  world 

just  so, 
We  may  strive  and  struggle  our  utmost,  that  thus   we  may 

stronger  grow, 

Stronger  and  wiser  and  humbler,  till  at  last  we  can  understand 
The  beauty  and  peace  of  His  keeping  the  oar  of  our  life  in  His 


For  our  Father  knows  what  we  really  want  is  labour  and  rest 

with  Him, 
So  He  bears  us  straight  over  joy  and  loss  and  discontent  and 

whim, 
Though  oft  it't  not,  till  we  sit  like  me,  a-watching  life's  sinking 

sun, 
That  we  feel  our  best  is  our  latest  prayer,  and  that  is  "  God's 

will  be  done." 


A    PARABLE. 

Far  up  the  quiet  country  side 
Near  lonely  farm  and  ancient  kirk, 

\Vh-n-  neighbours  stroll  at  eventide 
With  homely  talk  of  love  and  work, 

A  silver  stream  flows  soft  and  fair, 

And  any  hand  might  turn  it  there. 

But  from  the  heights  of  pathle**  hills 
A  thousand  streamlets  join  its  own, 

Until  its  voice  the  echo  fill* 
And  shakea  the  bridges  o'er  it  thrown, 

And  startles  awestruck  hearts  of  m<  n, 

And  woe  to  aught  would  stay  it  then. 

Now,  still  once  more,  but  mighty  grown, 
To  God's  great  sea  it  find*  it*  way, 

Which  laps  the  shores  of  lands  unknown, 
Where  our  dark  night  is  bright«»»t  day. 


iet  stream  beside  the  kirk, 
Wnll  could  fiireiiee  your  way  <>r  w 


130  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

THE    CHUKCH    MILITANT. 
(WRITTEN  DURING  WAR  IN  THE  BODDAN.) 

Old  wrongs  and  new  go  rampant  o'er  the  time, 
In  Christ's  own  house  the  money-changers  sit, 
And  none  are  found  His  whip  of  cords  to  knit. 

None  dare  to  strangle  slander  in  its  slime, 

Or  grapple  sin  before  it  grows  to  crime — 
The  men  whose  wealth  is  plundered  from  the  poor 
Are  praised  for  feeding  beggars  at  their  door  ! 

So  rushes  on  the  world  to  clutch  and  climb 
Smiling  on  martyred  saints  as  out  of  date — 

Yet  where  the  desert  sands  are  dry  and  hot 

Our  soldiers  fight — the  wherefore  asking  not, 
Stern,  as  their  Moslem  foes  who  rest  on  Fate, 

They  perish,  patient — one  man  facing  ten. 

Only  God's  battles  lag,  for  lack  of  men  ! 

DOWN    WHITECHAPEL    WAY. 

O,  don't  I  wish  I  was  ill  again, 

That  I  might  go  where  the  ladies  sing, 
And  tell  one  about  the  lovely  fields, 

Where  they  gather  the  nosegays  they  always  bring. 
For  down  in  our  court  'tisn't  hymns  we  hear, 

Save  sometimes  trolled  as  a  drunken  song  ; 
And  if  some  of  us  gets  a  bit  put  out, 

We  pitches  our  language  pretty  strong. 

Why,  father  himself — but  to  speak  the  truth, 

And  yet  be  fair  to  the  poor  old  dad, 
If  he  isn't  so  very,  very  drunk, 

He  isn't  so  very,  very  bad. 
Mother  gets  out  of  his  way  those  nights, 

Or  he'd  beat  her  till  she  was  black  and  blue  ; 
But  she  only  says  it  is  all  all  because 

The  London  pubs  sell  such  fiery  brew. 

An'  she  owns  she's  sharp  o*  the  tongue  and  cross ; 

But  if  she  is,  is  she  much  to  blame  ? 
There's  no  fine  clothes  for  her,  as  there  is 

For  the  girls  that  she  calls  by  the  awful  name  ; 
And  she's  no  nice  room  like  our  nurses  had, 

With  flowers  and  pictures  and  friends  to  call, 
But  a  three-pair  back  where  the  washing  swings, 

And  father  must  work  and  the  babies  squall. 

I  wonder  sometimes  how  mother'd  look 
In  a  clean  white  cap  and  a  lilac  gown  ? 


ISABELLA   P.    MAYO.  131 

Yet  I'll  never  see  her  in  such,  I  gness, 
Though  the  parsons  promise  us  robe  and  crown, 

And  silver  gateways  and  streets  o'  gold — 
And  I  hope  the  angels  can  keep  them  clean, 

An*  that  folks  won't  crowd  into  heaven  so  thick 
AJ  not  to  leave  us  a  bit  o'  green. 

But  there's  some  don't  believe  what  the  parsons  say — 

And  one's  the  tailor  who  lives  downstairs, 
Who  uses  the  Bible  to  light  his  pipe, 

And  scoffs  at  prayer,  though  he  always  swears  ; 
And  there's  Long  Dick,  too,  of  another  sort, 

Sober  and  decent  and  kind  and  fair, 
Who  thinks  that  the  world  could  not  be  what  it  is, 

If  there  was  a  Father  above  to  care. 

And  he's  BO  sorry  to  fear  there  ain't, 

That  he  tries  to  care  for  the  world  himself  ; 
I've  known  him  give  to  a  starving  boy 

All  the  food  he  had  on  his  little  shelf— 
(I  was  that  boy,  so  I  ought  to  know) ; 

And  though  he  isn't  the  sort  that  tights, 
Women  and  children — and  cats  and  dogs — 

Know  to  look  to  Dick  when  they  want  their  rights. 

Says  I  to  Long  Dick  this  day  last  week, 

14 1  believe  there's  a  God,  because  there's  you  ! 
Where  do  you  come  from,  Dick,"  says  I, 

"  If  the  best  that  they  tell  «.f  Him  isn't  true?' 
But  now  Dick's  going  abroad,  he  says, 

To  seek  some  place  where  the  -mi-l.ine's  free  ; 
Perhaps  he'll  find  God  in  the  far,  far  West, 

And  I  trust  God  will  still  keep  an  eye  on  me  ! 

I'd  go  myself,  but  I'm  just  too  old 

To  be  taken  out  as  the  children  are, 
And  the  gentlemen  folk  that  I've  Hpnlo-n  t<>, 

Say  I'm  not  the  sort  that  should  truvi-1  far  ; 
They  pinch  my  muscles,  and  shake  their  heads, 

"There's  no  farm-labour  in  him,"  they  Hay — 
So  there's  nothing  better  in  store  for  me 

Than  a  coster's  barrow  Whitechapel  way. 


BLESSED    ARE    THEY    THAT    MOURN.' 

Ance  I  had  a  wife  o'  my  ain, 

An  ingle  warm  and  1-; 
A  caudle  in  my  window  set 

To  cheer  me  hame  at  night ; 


132  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

But  now  the  wife's  in  heaven  above, 
An'  through  its  opened  door, 

Heaven's  glory's  haudin'  up  my  heart, 
Across  earth's  lonely  moor. 

Ance  I  had  a  bit  bonnie  farm, 

An'  watched  for  rain  and  shine, 
But  noo  I  look  on  a'  the  land, 

An'  a'  the  land  seems  mine. 
In  the  vera  sun  i'  the  ift 

I  feel  to  have  my  share — 
There's  something  in  me  sib  to  all 

That's  living  anywhere  ! 

An'  thochts  come  ben,  I  canna  tell — 

In  words  they'd  only  look 
Like  butterflies  wi'  pins  stuck  through, 

An'  fastened  in  a  book ; 
I'd  rather  let  'em  flutter  out 

On  God's  own  bonnie  trees — 
The  eyes  may  often  hae  a  sight 

O*  what  hands  shouldna  seize. 

There's  depth  in  life  man  canna  sound, 

There's  height  he  canna  reach, 
But  there's  a  Light  that  shines  for  all, 

And  there's  a  Way  for  each  ; 
And  turning  to  the  right  is  joy, 

And  to  the  wrang  is  hell, 
Yet  there's  one  thing  man  canna  miss, 

An'  that  is  God  Himsel'. 


THE    ELDER    SISTER. 

Sis  and  I  were  alone  together  : 

Our  mother  had  died  before  I  knew  ; 
Sis  remembered  her  dying  whisper — 

"  Baby,  Sis  must  be  good  to  you  ! " 
And  every  morning  she  kneeled  and  prayed 
To  keep  the  trust  which  was  on  her  laid. 

Sis  learned  the  lessons  I'd  have  to  learn, 
She  read  the  books  that  I  liked  to  read, 

She  kept  my  cash,  and  she  darned  my  socks, 
And  fed  the  pets  I  forgot  to  feed  ! 

It  seemed  her  pleasure,  and  that  was  true  : 

The  good  heart  likes  what  it  ought  do  ! 

She  never  spoiled  me,  my  loyal  Sis — 
She  spoke  the  truth,  though  it  brought  me  blame. 


PRAKOI8   BUCHANAN.  133 

"Who  learns  to  blush  for  himself,"  said  Sis, 

"  IB  saved  from  the  bitter  outer  shame." 
Sis  loved  enough  to  have  used  a  knife 
On  a  loved  one's  limb,  to  save  his  life. 

So  she  loved  me  all  through,  my  Sis, 

As  only  the  strong  hearts  dare  to  do 
Who  fears  the  truth  is  afraid  to  love, 

And  cares  for  himself  and  not  for  you  ! 
For  Love  has  ever  to  pay  the  cost 
To  save  the  sinking,  and  find  the  lost. 

And  when  life  broadened  before  my  feet, 

And  faces  turned  to  the  far,  far  west, 
Bis  rose  to  follow.     "  No  land  on  earth 

Is  meant,"  said  she,  "for  our  lazy  rest. 
When  loved  ones  go,  it  is  time  to  move  ; 
The  best  of  living  is  work  and  love." 

Hardships  she  bore  with  ready  laughter, 

Never  a  word  had  our  shifts  but  praise  : 
Life  will  be  richer  ever  after 

For  thoughts  of  those  dear  old  roughing  days  ; 
While  Sis  has  now  her  own  home  to  grace, 
And  I  know  someone  to  fill  her  place  ! 


FRANCIS    BUCHANAN, 

HUTHOR  of  "  The  Crusader  and  other  Poems  and 
Lyrics"  (1848),  and  "  Sparks  from  Sheffield 
Smoke"  (1882),  is  a  native  of  Perth,  where  he  was 
born  in  1825.  He  was  educated  at  Kiunoul  School, 
and,  much  against  his  own  inclination,  was  afterwards 
(at  the  age  of  seventeen)  aj  1  to  a  draj  «r.  H  i  - 

<li>like  to  thi  •'   it  he 

:it  length  ran  a\\;iy  i'r..m  In  me  with  the  view  of  be- 
coming u  sailor.  lie  \\:IN,  h«> \\ever,  ignominiously 
brought  back  to  the  drudgery  of  the  counter,  at  which 
he  continued  until  recent  years.  After  experiencing 


. 

134  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

many  changes  throughout  the   United  Kingdom,  he 
settled  in  Sheffield,  where  he  still  resides. 

Mr  Buchanan,  at  a  very  early  age,  evinced  a  love 
for  the  Muse.  He  was  always  happy  in  the  solitude 
of  wood  and  glen,  embracing  every  opportunity  of 
communing  with  Nature,  and  even  frequently  "playing 
truant "  from  school  to  attain  that  object.  When 
twenty-two  years  of  age  he  was  elected  Bard  of  the 
Worshipful  Brotherhood  of  the  Royal  Arch  Free 
Masons  of  Perth,  and  has  the  honour  of  being  enrolled 
amongst  "  The  Modern  Yorkshire  Poets,"  a  work  of 
much  interest  and  ability,  edited  by  Mr  William 
Andrews  of  Hull.  He  still  occasionally  writes  for 
several  magazines,  and  also  to  the  local,  and  a  number 
of  the  Scotch  and  Australian  newspapers.  Mr 
Buchanan  is  a  versatile  writer,  ever  smooth  and 
melodious;  and  though  he  has  found  a  home  in 
England,  his  heart  still  turns  fondly  to  Auld  Mither 
Scotland,  his  poetry  showing  how  deeply  the  scenes 
and  recollections  of  his  early  days  are  engrafted  in  his 
memory.  In  the  words  of  a  writer  in  the  Dundee 
Weekly  News,  to  which  he  is  an  occasional  contributor, 
"  Though  his  lot  has  been  cast  in  the  midst  of -the  din 
and  smoke  of  the  great  manufacturing  town,  he  finds 
leisure  amidst  the  rushing  and  crashing  of  machinery 
to  evolve  some  bright  poetic  "  sparks  "  to  illumine  the 
murky,  stifling  atmosphere  by  which  he  is  surrounded." 
Mr  Buchanan  is  evidently  of  a  reflective  and  philo- 
sophic turn  of  mind.  He  loves  to  muse  on  things  past 
and  present,  and  treats  his  subjects  in  a  clear  and 
lucid  manner,  his  lines  having  a  smooth,  pleasant,  and 
healthy  ring  about  them.  Many  of  his  poems  are 
beautifully  descriptive,  and  all  of  them  indicate  that 
the  author  is  possessed  of  a  cultivated  and  refined 
taste. 


FRANCIS   BUCHANAN.  135 

THE    DYING    POET. 

He  is  Billing  at  a  table,  and  a  tallow  candle's  sputter, 

As  it  crackles  to  exist  amidst  the  gloom, 

Throws  a  baleful  sort  of  glimmer,  and  the  shadows  danoe  and 
flutter 

On  the  wretchedness  that  floats  around  the  room, 

And  a  pallid  face  within  that  dusky  room. 

Thro*  the  attic's  dusty  lattice  streams  a  midnight  glory,  beaming, 

And  it  struggles  to  alight  upon  the  floor, 
Just  beneath  the  chair  and  table,  where  the  poet  in  his  dreaming, 

Is  enshrined  amongst  the  treasurings  of  yore — 

The  lovings  that  are  dead,  and  gone  before. 

Far  from  that  squalid  garret,  where  the  fever-hag  is  breathing, 

He  is  soaring,  upward  soaring,  thro'  the  vast, 
And  the  king  is  busy  gnawing,  as  the  garlands  are  enwreathing 

Round  the  shadowy  memorials  of  the  past — 

The  far  off  gleaming— duskness  of  the  past. 

The  batter'd  clay  is  shrinking,  and  the  candle's  wick  is  blinking 

As  it  moves  the  dreary  shadows  on  the  wall ; 
And  nearer  to  the  table,  the  impressive  face  is  sinking, 

He  is  dying  of  starvation— that  is  all — 

Jostled,  from  life's  busy  cycle-that  is  all  I 

"Home,  home,"  the  poet  murmurs  ;  "  they  are  beckoning  and 

AndTsee^eloved  faces  all  a-sraile  ; 
And  the  tassel'd  broom  is  golden,  where  the  summer  brook  is 

laving, 

By  the  stepping-stones  beneath  the  rustic  stile— 
It  is  but,"  be  whispers  softly,  "but  a  mile. 

"Ah,  the  flowers  of  May  their  tribute  to  my  weariness  are 

bringing, 

For  they  loved  me,  as  they  loved  the  golden  light ; 
And  I  hear  the  dear  old  voices,  as  they  welcome  me  with  sing* 

ing." 

Twas  the  tempest  singing  dirges  to  the  night-^ 
Singing  death  songs  as  his  eyes  were  meeting  light. 

He  is  roaming,  in  bis  fancy,  where  the  mountain  straineth  higher, 

Bonneted  with  snows  of  ages  in  the  blue, 
Ami  he  looks  upon  the  emblem,  as  his  soul  is  getting  nigher, 

To  the  purity  that  streameth  on  its  view  ; 

To  a  *mcthing  that  is  gladdening  and  new. 


136  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

And  the  silver  ray  is  creeping,  tho'  it  seemeth  to  be  sleeping,, 
On  the  coldness  of  the  bare  and  boarded  floor  ; 

And  the  poet's  soul  ascending  is  amongst  the  golden  reaping, 
Which  they're  garnering  within  the  mystic  door, 
Where  the  weary  are  at  rest  for  evermore. 


LABOUR. 

Labour,  labour,  labour, 

In  workshop  and  in  field  ; 
Labour  with  a  willing  heart ; 

Earnestness  will  yield  ; 
And  if  a  gloomy  adverse  comes, 
He's  a  coward  who  succumbs. 

Labour  with  thy  brains,  man, 

Labour  with  thy  hands  ; 
Shew  the  talent  God  hath  lent ; 

Stand  by  His  commands  ; 
Strike  through  the  rock  ;  the  purest  gold 
Is  not  found  above  the  mould. 

When  thy  country  wants  thee 

Give  her  all  thy  might, 
Or  in  council  or  in  craft, 

Or  in  deadly  fight ; 
Sacrifice  upon  the  shrine 
All  the  strength  that  may  be  thine. 

Raise  her  flag,  if  trodden 

Down  into  the  dust ; 
Tis  a  sacred  symbol  given 

Sacred  to  thy  trust. 
Ah,  resist  ignominy — 
Ye  are  still  the  mighty  free. 

Raise  the  banner  royal ; 

Will  ye  have  it  risen 
At  the  fore  peak  and  the  main, 

And  the  lofty  mizzen  ? 
It  hath  flaunted  there  before 
In  the  brave  old  days  of  yore. 

Labour,  Britain,  labour ; 

Rest  not  with  thy  fame  ; 
Duty  wants  thy  strong  right  arm 

To  protect  thy  name  ; 
Thy  escutcheon  dimmer  grows 
With  the  breaths  of  inborn  foes. 


FRANCIS   BUCHANAN.  137 

THE    AULD    THING    OWER    AGAIN. 

When  I  was  young — a  careless  loon — 

My  mither  used  to  say  to  me, 
14  Afore  you  lift  your  parritoh  spoon 

Ask  God  to  bless  the  things  ye  hae  ; 
An*  when  ye  ((row  to  be  a  man — 

In  lichtsorae  pleasure  or  in  pain — 
Be  sure  'twill  be  the  wisest  plan 

To  do  the  auld  thing  ower  again." 

My  mither's  words  I've  kept  in  view, 

In  plenty  or  in  waesorae  doon  ; 
An*  conscience  aye  the  lichter  grew 

When  mindin'  o'  my  parritch  spoon. 
Eh,  sirs  !  I've  been  in  raony  a  splore 

At  hame  an*  yont  the  stormy  main, 
An',  as  they  did  in  times  afore, 

I  try  the  auld  thing  ower  again. 

When  gowks  fa'  oot,  like  heidstrong  fools, 

An*  scart  an*  crack  ilk  ither's  croons, 
I'm  fear'd  they've  tint  the  gowden  rules, 

An'  clean  forgat  their  parritch  spoons  ; 
It's  better  let  sic  quarrels  be, 

Help  ane  anither  on  like  men  ; 
Hoo  pleasant  if  we  could  agree 

To  do  the  auld  thing  ower  again. 

Come,  stir  your  stumps,  the  warld's  fine, 

December's  just  as  fair  as  June, 
Try  as  they  did  in  auld  langsyne 

Afore  ye  lift  your  parritch  spoon  ; 
Ae  drap  o'  dew  cheers  up  a  weed, 

It's  sent  by  Nature  to  sustain — 
God  blesM  the  charitable  deed, 

An'  bleu  the  auld  thing  ower  again. 

0    STAY    WI»    MB. 

O  stay  wi'  me,  my  lassie  dear, 

Until  the  moon  peep«  ower  the  hill ; 
The  burnie  murmurs  saft  an'  clear, 

An'  Hangs  o'  lave  the  woodland  till  ; 
0  stay  ye  by  the  rashies  green, 

An'  when  the  Ntarnie  opes  its  e'e, 
An'  nicht  is  busk'd  in  siller  sheen, 

111  whi-per  tales  o'  luve  to  tbee. 


138  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

The  laverock  seeks  her  lowly  nest 

Amang  the  clover's  scented  bloom, 
The  dewdrap  weets  her  speckled  breast, 

The  lintie  bends  the  yellow  broom, 
My  truesoine  luve  I  daurna  tell 

Before  the  blush  o'  day  will  dee  ; 
When  gloamin'  creeps  around  the  dell 

I'll  whisper  tales  o'  luve  to  thee. 

Thy  glancin'  e'e,  sae  bonny  blue, 

Is  clear  as  yonder  lift  sae  hie, 
The  whiteness  o'  thy  lily  broo 

The  spotless  anawdrift  canna  gie  ! 
An;  oh  thy  cheeks  an'  cherry  mou' 

Invite  to  rest  the  honey  bee — 
Whate'er  betide  I  will  be  true, 

An'  whisper  tales  o'  luve  to  thee. 

Dear  lassie,  come,  the  sun's  gane  doun, 

An'  ilka  grassy  howe  an'  knowe 
Is  glintin'  'neath  the  gowden  moon— 

0  come  an'  hear  my  true  luve's  vow ; 
I  couldna  wi'  deceit  beguile 

For  a'  the  walth  the  world  can  gie, 
If  I  was  king  o'  Britain's  isle 

1  still  wad  whisper  luve  to  thee. 


MAGGIE    LYLE. 

My  lassie  sits  by  yonder  burn, 

Singin'  a'  the  while, 
Saftly  blaws  the  westlan'  wind 

Bound  sweet  Maggie  Lyle  ; 
Oh,  there's  nane  like  Maggie, 

Winsome  Maggie  Lyle  ; 
My  luve's  the  queen  amang  the  flowers — 

Bonny  Maggie  Lyle. 

The  gowan  on  the  summer  mead — 

Whiter  than  the  snaw— 
Glints  like  yonder  bonny  star 

That's  sae  far  awa, 
But  it's  no'  like  Maggie, 

Wi'  her  silvery  smile — 
My  luve's  the  queen  amang  the  flowers — 

Modest  Maggie  Lyle. 

My  Maggie's  fairer  than  the  rose 
Enf ram'd  in  vernal  green ; 


PRANCIS^BUOHANAN.  139 

Wot  ye  whaur  my  wild  bad  grows 
In  the  brake  unseen  ; 

Oh,  list,  ye  slumbering  flowers, 
Fairy  notes  beguile, 

Tia  your  queen  that  warbles  there- 
Gentle  Maggie  Lyle. 

The  dewdraps  glance  in  summer's  morn 

Like  my  Maggie's  een, 
On  the  blaworts  in  the  com 

Brichter  arena  seen  ; 
An'  they  droop  to  Maggie, 

Trippin'  ower  the  stile— 
My  lure's  the  oueen  amang  the  flowers— 

Blythesome  Maggie  Lyle. 

READY    AND    WILLING. 

Ready  and  willing  our  fathers  of  yore 
Fought  like  true  Britons  for  Queen  and  renown, 

We,  their  descendants,  are  still  to  the  fore, 
Readv  and  willing  to  die  for  the  crown. 

Up  with  the  banner  o'er  ocean  and  plain, 
It  hath  protected  the  slave  and  the  free, 

Under  its  shadow  we'll  conquer  again— 
England,  old  England,  is  queen  of  the  sea. 

Sailors  be  ready- steady,  boys,  steady- 
Pall  altogether  our  rights  to  maintain  ; 

Plant  the  broad  standard— first  in  the  vanguard 
England,  old  England,  will  ever  remain. 

Ready  and  willing  with  help  for  the  weak, 

Glorious  our  no  fusion  and  proud  our  command, 
Quarrels  with  neighbours  we  never  will  seek, 

But  we'll  be  ready  with  heart  and  with  hand- 
Ready  to  succour  the  nations  afar, 

England's  proud  banner  floats  over  the  sea, 
Noble  in  commerce,  terrific  in  war, 

The  terror  of  tyrants,  and  joy  of  the  free. 
Soldiers,  be  ready— ateady,  boys,  steady- 
Pull  altogether  our  rights  to  maintain  ; 
Plant  the  broad  standard— firat  in  the  vanguard 
England,  old  England,  will  ever  remain. 


140  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 


REV.     DR     KENNEDY    MOORE. 

HLTHOUGH  William  Kennedy  Moore  was  bon 
in  India,  he  spent  his  boyhood  and  received  his 
University  training  in  Scotland.  His  father  was  ir 
the  service  of  the  Hon.  East  India  Company,  having 
been  first  attached  to  the  Bombay  Native  Infantry 
and  afterwards  promoted  to  the  Commissariat  Depart 
ment.  He  had  his  early  education  from  som< 
missionaries  of  the  London  Missionary  Society  at  Bel 
gaum,  and  afterwards  he  came  under  the  care  of  th< 
Scottish  missionaries  in  Bombay,  who  at  that  time 
were  Dr  John  Wilson,  Mr  Robert  Nesbitt,  and  D] 
Murray  Mitchell.  On  retiring  from  the  army  hii 
father  returned  to  Scotland,  and  subsequently  wenl 
out  to  Melbourne,  taking  all  his  family  with  hiir 
except  the  subject  of  this  sketch,  who  had  commencec 
his  attendance  at  the  classes  in  the  University  o: 
Glasgow.  Here  he  had  a  brilliant  career  as  a  student 
winning  prizes  in  every  branch  of  study  which  he 
pursued,  and  attaining  the  highest  rank  in  classics  anc 
the  mental  sciences.  After  taking  his  degree  of  M.A, 
he  removed  to  Edinburgh,  and  studied  at  the  Ne\\ 
College.  He  afterwards  became  assistant  to  the  Rev, 
Dr  Stewart,  of  Leghorn,  Italy ;  and,  on  his  return  tc 
Scotland,  he  acted  for  a  short  time  as  assistant  to  the 
well-known  Dr  Begg,  of  Newington,  Edinburgh,  with 
whom  he  always  continued  to  be  on  very  friendly 
terms.  He  was  subsequently  ordained  as  minister  at 
St  George's  Presbyterian  Church,  Liverpool,  in  1864, 
and  in  1876  he  removed  to  Portsmouth.  For  the  last 
few  years  Dr  Moore  has  resided  in  London,  and  given 
himself  mainly  to  literary  work.  He  is  editor  of  the 
Presbyterian  Messenger,  the  organ  of  the  Presbyterian 
Church  of  England,  and  also  of  Evangelical  Christendom, 
the  organ  of  the  Evangelical  Alliance. 


W.   K.   MOORE.  141 

Dr  Kennedy  Moore  has  written  three  or  four 
olumes,  besides  his  very  numerous  articles — his 
rincipal  work  being  entitled  "  Proverbial  Sayings  of 
>ur  Lord."  He  is,  however,  perhaps  most  widely 
nown  by  the  "  Holy  Supper,"  a  little  volume  which 
as  met  with  a  very  favourable  reception.  His  mis- 
sllaneous  articles  are  marked  with  considerable 
umour,  but  his  poetical  pieces '  deal  mainly  with 
icred  subjects.  These  are  unmistakably  the  product 
[  an  attentive  eye  and  a  thoughtful  and  reverent 
eart — breathing  genuine  poetry,  and  full  of  true 
hristian  feeling. 


WITH    THEE. 
"  When  I  awake,  I  am  still  with  Thee."— Pi.  cxxxix.  18. 

Fresh  sunbeams  herald  in  the  new-bora  day, 
And  chaae  oblivious  clouds  of  sleep  away  ; 
Sweet  thought  that  fa*  Us  me  ere  the  shadows  flee, 
When  I  awake,  Lord,  I  am  still  with  Thee. 

With  Thee  beside  me  slumber  sealed  mine  eyes, 
Thy  smile  of  welcome  gladdens  me  to  rise, 
Even  while  I  slept  my  heart  yearned  longingly, 
Till  I  awoke  and  found  myself  with  Thee. 

Through  sternest  toils  and  thronging  shapes  of  fear, 
Thy  hand  shall  lead  me  and  Thy  lore  shall  cheer, 
Till  day  is  done  and  night  comes  peacefully, 
To  bid  me  sleep  again  and  wake  with  Thee. 

When  life's  long  changeful  day  is  near  an  end. 
And  I  must  part  from  kinsman,  home,  and  friend, 
In  last  farewells  this  hope  shall  comfort  me, 
That  still,  my  Jesus,  I  shall  rest  with  Thee. 

Thy  constant  eyes  shall  watch  my  narrow  bed, 
•      '  HIM 


Thy  voice  shall  rouse  the  unforgotten  dead, 
From  the  cold  couch  of  breathless  slee 
.tkeful  years  of  endless  bliss  with 


142  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

SCOTLAND. 


Stern  land  of  mist  and  mountain, 

Rough  nurse  of  stubborn  sons, 
Within  whose  fervid  patriot  veins 

The  blood  of  freedom  runs  ; 
Thy  craggy  wilds  are  hallowed, 

The  sainted  great  were  there — 
Sweet  incense-breath  of  solemn  vows 

Has  balmed  thy  holy  air. 


Wide  sweeps  of  purple  heather 

Robe  the  broad  mountain's  breast — 
'Tis  the  imperial  winding-sheet 

Of  martyrs  laid  to  rest. 
The  plover  pours  her  wailing, 

The  mournful  breezes  sigh, 
And  rude-built  cairn  or  mossy  stone 

Marks  where  the  godly  lie. 


Their  heads  fell  on  the  scaffold, 

They  perished  in  the  sea, 
Were  hunted  down  by  men  of  blood, 

Died  on  the  shameful  tree. 
Grey  sires  and  tender  maidens 

Faced  bullet,  flame,  and  steel — 
Their  truth  to  Him  who  died  for  them 

They  gave  their  blood  to  seal ! 


Three  hundred  years  of  conflict 

With  ruthless  tyrants1  rage 
With  crafty  priest  and  grasping  lord, 

Have  won  our  heritage. 
From  Knox's  lion  spirit 

To  Chalmers'  soul  of  flame 
Brave  heaven-girt  guards  have  watched  our  ark 

In  Christ's  sole-kingly  name. 


"  For  Christ,  His  crown  and  kingdom  ! " 

Our  fathers  toiled  and  died— 
That  banner  is  our  birthright  now, 

'Twill  be  our  children's  pride. 
We  stand  for  Christ's  free  gospel, 

His  Kirk's  pure  company, 
From  prelate,  priest,  and  statesman's  rule 

God  keep  our  Zion  free. 


W.   K.   MOORE.  143 

WATCHMAN,    WHAT    OP    THE    NIGHT? 

"  Say,  watchman,  comes  there  yet  no  beam  of  morning, 
With  tender  light  to  bless  our  aching  eyes  ? " 

"  I  see  no  lucid  gleam  the  east  adorning. 
But  all  enwrapt  in  deepest  midnight  lies." 

O  weary  times  of  wickedness  and  wailing  ; 

0  wretch«d  prisoners  bound  in  death's  black  shade  ; 

0  fruitless  prayers  and  hopes  that  now  are  failing  ; 
Great  God !  when  will  Thy  mercy  send  us  aid  ? 

No  more  the  stars  their  twinkling  watch  are  keeping  ; 
The  stormy  clouds  are  gathering  thick  and  fast ; 

1  hear  the  raving  tempest  onward  sweeping, 

1  feel  the  terrors  of  the  shuddering  blast" 

0  brother  men,  what  means  this  dread  upheaving  ? 

Whence  are  thy  piteous  agonies,  O  earth  ? 
War,  fever,  famine— is  it  past  believing 

These  are  thy  throes  before  a  better  birth  ? 

"  The  storm  is  past,  and  morning  winds  are  blowing 

A  song  of  joy  o'er  darkness  chased  away, 
The  radiant  east  with  golden  flame  is  glowing 

To  herald  in  the  orb  of  glorious  day.'' 

Farewell,  ye  times  of  sadness.  Every  nation 
Lift  up  your  eyes  and  let  your  sorrows  cease  ; 

Adore  the  Sun  whose  light  is  your  salvation, 
The  eternal  Lord  of  Heaven  and  Prince  of  Peace  1 


EXILE. 

Beside  these  alien  streams  we  pine, 

And  think  of  Zion  far  away, 
That  sacred  home  whose  dwellings  shine 

In  cloudless  Love's  eternal  ray. 
On  sighing  boughs  of  willow  trees 

We  hang  our  harps  in  silent  woe, 
Or  give  their  murmurs  to  the  breeze 

In  mournful  cadence  sad  and  low. 

Yet  oft  an  impulse  fires  the  son! 

To  bid  a  vaster  anthem  ring, 
And  thanks  and  adoration  roll 

From  tuneful  voice  and  dulcet  string  ; 
For  though  we  brook  in  exile  here 

The  scoff  and  scorn  of  many  a  foe, 


144  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

Faith  sees'beyond  the  starry  sphere 
The  golden  city's  blissful  glow. 

And  if  some  plaintive  chords  that  tell 

Of  trial  with  the  music  blend, 
Transfused  in  joy's  harmonious  swell 

They  speak  of  sorrows  soon  to  end, 
When  willow  glooms  we  haunt  no  more] 

But  walk  where  leaves  of  healing  grow, 
And,  far  from  Babel's  fretful  shore, 

Life's  crystal  waters  calmly  flow. 


THE    CANDIDATE. 

"Ye  tuneful  masters  of  triumphant  song, 

Before  your  circled  thrones  I  bow  with  awe  ; 
To  you  eternal  fame  and  power  belong, 

To  rule  the  ages  with  melodious  law. 
I  dare  not  ask  your  lofty  seats  to  share, 

Nor  round  my  brow  your  deathless  laurels  twine  ; 
To  dwell  within  your  halls  is  all  my  prayer, 

A  humble  follower  of  your  art  divine." 

"  We  love  thy  modest  plea,  0  gentle  youth, 
And  fain  would  call  thee  to  the  sacred  choir, 

Hast  thou  the  vision  of  diviner  truth  ? 
And  glows  thy  bosom  with  celestial  fire  ?" 

"  I  know  sweet  Nature  in  her  every  mood, 

The  pomp  of  earth,  and  glory  of  the  skies  ; 
The  summer  fragrance  of  the  shadowy  wood, 

The  crash  of  thunders  when  the  tempest  flies. 
And  with  this  reed  that  grew  by  mountain  stream, 

Each  charm  of  Beauty  I  can  well  declare, 
Whate'er  endows  the  world  with  rich  esteem, 

Sublimely  great,  or  delicately  fair. " 

"  Thy  woodnotes  sweet  are  full  of  rapture  wild, 
Well  dost  thou  pipe  thy  simple  rustic  lay  ; 

But  nobler  tasks  await  the  Muses'  child, 
And  ripened  genius  crown  with  glory's  ray." 

"  With  men  I  mingled,  roaming  far  and  near, 
In  scattered  hamlet,  and  in  crowded  mart, 

Where  rang  the  shout  of  joy,  where  flowed  the  tear, 
That  brought  some  faint  relief  to  breaking  heart. 

This  trumpet,  full  of  rich  and  varied  tone, 
On  a  proud  field  of  victory  did  I  gain  ; 


GILBERT   CLARK.  145 

Well  can  it  breathe  the  sorrow-laden  moan, 
Or  sound  the  martial  valour-kindling  strain." 

"  Yes,  man  in  more  than  Nature,  and  we  praise 

Thy  sympathy  with  every  birth  of  Time  ; 
Yet  can'st  thou  not  a  grander  anthem  raise, 

To  wrap  the  soul  in  ecstasy  sublime  ?" 

"  Once  by  the  western  sea-marge  did  I  stray, 

Where  surges  broke  beside  a  hallowed  cell, 
Beneath  whose  shade  an  aged  hermit  lay 

And  listened  to  the  billow's  requiem  sAvrll  ; 
His  withered  finger  sought  the  sacred  string, 

A  radiance  strange  lit  up  his  failing  eye, 
This  harp  was  his,  and  well  its  chords  can  ring 

The  hymn  of  Faith  and  Immortality." 

"Above  the  frail  and  fleeting  do^t  thou  rise, 

The  true  ethereal  spark  we  hail  in  thee  ; 
Those  are  the  favoured  children  of  the  skies, 

Who  look  through  Time  to  great  Eternity." 


REV.     GILBERT    CL'ARK,     M.A., 

H  YOUNG  minister  of  rich  promise,  was  born  at 
Auehenlongford,    Sorti,    Ayrshire.     His    father 
was  farmer  there,  as  had  been  his  father  before  him  in 
tin    united  tenancy  of  it  and    the   adjoining   farm   of 
Merklund,  famous  in  covenanting  times.       The  farm 
1  (.11  the  uplands  of  the  Ayr.       From  it  can 
be  seen   a  very   L-.  t   ..f  o.untry — of    hill   and 

,  of  moorland  and  lea — and  in  tl  lu'hlxmr- 

i   is  Aird's  M<»>,  the  .so-uc  of   Kichard  ( 'aim-ron's 
Mi.rtlv    afu-r     Mr    Clark's    father's 
to   <  '.itriuo,    in  sight  of  the 

"  lirae>  ••'    !•  allochmyli .         II   iv,^  amid  beautiful  sur- 

njy   lived    for    two   years — the  youthful 

j    a  lady  .->  private 


146  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

school.  Both  made  rapid  progress,  but  scarlet  fever 
and  measles  soon  laid  them  low,  and  while  his  life  was 
despaired  of,  the  little  sister  was  taken  to  the  "  land 
of  the  blest."  This  event  made  a  deep  impression  on 
his  mind,  for  she  had  been  his  constant  companion. 
Shortly  after  the  sister's  death  they  removed  to  the 
beautiful  village  of  Sorn,  on  the  banks  of  the  Ayr,  his 
mother  having  purchased  a  small  property  there. 
Here  he  attended*  the  Parish  School,  where  ho  was  an 
apt  scholar,  and  generally  was  able  to  be  dux  of  his 
class.  He  was  always  fond  of  books,  and  punctually 
did  his  lessons  when  he  got  home  from  school.  An 
ardent  lover  of  Nature,  he  was  then  free  to  rove  in  the 
woods  and  fields,  or  wade  and  "  guddle  "  in  the  Ayr. 
He  informs  us  that  at  this  stage  he  especially  loved 
the  English  and  Bible  lessons.  The  story  of  the 
Cross  deeply  affected  him,  and  now  he  determined 
by  all  means  to  be  a  minister  of  the  gospel. 
It  was  between  the  age  of  twelve  and  sixteen 
that  he  began  to  read  for  himself,  and  even  thought 
of  rhyming.  He  had  been  taught  to  think  that  "  a 
poet  must  be  born  not  made,"  and  went  the  length  of 
expressing  this  in  his  own  words.  There  was  even 
then  a  burning,  inexpressible  hunger  in  his  soul  for 
the  lofty,  the  pure,  the  loving,  and  the  beautiful — a 
hunger  that  increased  with  the  years. 

After  his  course  as  a  scholar  was  finished,  he  taught 
for  some  time  in  the  same  school ;  but  the  confine- 
ment soon  affected  his  health.  At  this  period  his 
mother  was  bereaved  of  her  second  husband — his 
much-loved  stepfather.  Arrangements  were  made 
shortly  after  for  our  poet  preparing  to  enter  the  Uni- 
versity. He  removed  to  St  Andrews,  studied  at  the 
Madras  College,  enjoying  greatly  his  residence  in  the 
venerable  city,  with  its  sacred  memories.  He  spent  his 
leisure  hours  amongst  its  hoary  ruins,  or  in  walking 
by  the  sea,  which,  we  understand,  always  appeals  to 


GILBERT   CLARK.  147 

his  feelings  in  a  mysterious  way.  Mr  Clark  made  good 
progress  at  the  Madras  College,  chiefly  in  Latin, 
Greek,  and  Mathematics  ;  and  we  next  find  him  at 
Glasgow  University — he  and  a  younger  brother  lodging 
in  the  same  room.  He  was  very  diligent,  and  took  a 
good  place  in  several  of  his  c.  The  eloquent 

lectures  of  Professors  Veitch  and  Nichol  stirred  up  his 
poetic  feelings,  and  these  were  strengthened  by  his 
rambliugs  during  summer  in  his  native  vale,  studying 
and  roaming  in  the  fields  or  by  the  beautiful  Ayr.  He 
had  previously  visited  Loch  Doon,  and  sailed  over  its 
limpid  waters — having  first  passed  up  through  the 
the  romantic  glen  of  Ness.  The  scenery  impressed 
him  deeply,  aud  set  him  dreaming  with  a  strange 
fervour;  but  yet  he  wits  dumb  as  far  as  poetry  in  its 
usual  form  was  concerned. 

On  completing  the  usual  course,  Mr  Clark  took  his 
degree  of  Master  of  Arts  at  Glasgow,  and  then  went  to 
Edinburgh  to  study  divinity.  After  the  first  session, 
he  pled  the  cause  of  the  Edinburgh  University  Mis- 
sionary Association,  which  enabled  him,  in  the  sum- 
mer mouths,  to  see  more  of  the  beauties  of  the  country. 
But  by  far  the  greatest  event  of  his  divinity  c< 
WM  toe  •pending  of  two  summers  in  <Ierinany.  His 
first  season  was  at  Heidelberg,  and  having  madr  some 
acquaintance  with  Schiller  and  (Joel lie  through  Carlyle, 
he  longed  to  make  friends  with  them  in  the  vernacu- 
lar. Having  no  one  to  -peak  to  but  foreigners,  he  for 
a  time  felt  homesick,  longing  for  his  native  land,  and 
realising  how  much  be  Io\<  :  .d  Scotland.  Hut 

many  fr.  .died    hard    under    I'm 

1  'o,  and  visited  many  enchant  ing  and  romantic 
08.      Next   summer    he    proceed-  i»ic  Ulii- 

ity,    attending     ti.  <.f     Luth.i 

Del/  -  len  and  its  art  galleries,  the 

/.    Mounta          and    Tliimnniaii  uidd-iin: 

homage    ill  .  and  Schiller. 


148  MODERN  SCOTTISH  POETS. 

In  December,  1878,  Mr  Clark  was  licensed  as  a 
preacher  in  the  Church  of  Scotland,  and  succes- 
sively assisted  for  a  short  time  the  ministers  of 
Portobello,  Penninghame,  Newton-Stewart,  and  for 
longer  periods  the  ministers  of  Prestonpans,  and 
Buittle.  It  was  while  at  Prestonpans  that  he  began 
to  pen  some  lines  of  religious  verse.  The  beauties  of 
Nature  in  this  picturesque  and  historic  part  of 
Scotland  were  duly  appreciated  by  him,  and  when  he 
removed  to  Buittle — a  quiet  pastoral  district,  with 
lovely  combination  of  hill  and  sea  and  wood — he 
found  many  fitting  subjects  for  his  Muse.  While  here 
his  poem  entitled  "  Auld  Buittle  Kirk"  was  printed  in 
the  Kirkcudbrightshire  Advertiser  and  reprinted  in  the 
Scottish  American  Journal.  This  encouraged  him  to 
tune  his  harp  in  his  leisure  moments.  Passionately 
fond  of  music,  too,  he  has  composed  tunes  to  one  or 
more  of  his  songs. 

In  1884  Mr  Clark  was  called  to  the  charge  of  Hay- 
wood  Chapel,  parish  of  Carnwath.  Here,  although 
the  surroundings  are  somewhat  bleak,  the  Pentlands 
and  the  Lowthers  picturesquely  stand  around,  re- 
dolent with  the  name  of  Ramsay  ;  to  the  south  are  the 
Tweed  and  Clyde — the  one  with  its  classic  memories 
of  Scott  and  the  Ettrick  Shepherd,  the  other  with  its 
romantic  and  beautiful  falls,  and  the  name  of  Wallace, 
as  it  were,  blended  in  their  roar.  As  a  minister,  he 
has  the  love  and  esteem  of  his  flock.  His  wealth 
of  imagination  and  poetic  nature  is  seen  in  his 
vigorous,  earnest,  and  devout  discourses — the  result  of 
minute  observation,  extensive  reading,  and  of  sound 
thinking ;  while  as  a  poet,  we  consider  his  most 
marked  characteristics  are — keen  and  tender  suscepti- 
bilities, warm  love  towards  humanity,  and  for  Nature 
not  only  in  her  quiet  but  also  in  her  more  sublime  and 
awe-inspiring  aspects.  All  his  utterances  possess  a 
sweet  sincerity,  like  the  artless  notes  of  the  bird  that 


OILnERT    CLARK.  149 

sings  because  she  c:iim<>t  help  it;  although  he  is 
humble  enough  to  feel,  in  the  words  of  Byron — 

"  Friendship  and  truth  be  my  reward — 
To  me  no  hays  belong." 

Early  in  1888,  he  published  in  a  neat  volume  (Brechin  : 
D.  H.  Edwards;  Edinburgh:  Jas.  Gemmell)  a  selection 
of  his  verse,  bearing  the  title  "  Home,  and  other 
Poems  and  Songs." 


THE    DYING    MOTHER. 

A  happy  place  lie*  yonder,  dear,  beyond  the  bright  blue  skies, 
In  splendour  greater  than  the  sun,  when  he  at  morn  doth  rise, 
Ann  death  in  hut  the  darkened  door,  that  open  to  let  us  in, 
That  free*  us  from  our  load  of  care,  and  shuts  out  all  our  sin. 

And  there  the  mountains  stand  around  in  awful  majesty. 
Km. .lied  in  dazzling  whiteness  Keen  as  thrones  of  the  Most  High, 
While  far  around  lies  glimmering  the  s--a  of  glassy  shei-n, 
That  sings  eternal  harmonies,  'mid  bowers  of  fadeless  green. 

And  thousands  of  bright  angels  there  do  flit  on  golden  wing. 
An  through  the  balmy  atmosphere  they  hie  with  love,  and  sing 
of  Him  who  dwells  in  rainbow  light,  and  smiles  on  them  with 

love. 
Who  sent  His  Son  to  die  for  men  that  they  might  reign  above. 

And  thither  I  am  going,  dear,  if  God  will  take  me  in, 

MM  dear  sake  Who  died  on  earth,  our  golden  crown  to  win. 
Ami  i ih  !  I  pray  our  Father  that  Hi*  may  bring  tin- 
That  He  may  keep  thee  from  all  sin  and  give  thee  life  anew. 

Oh  !  keep  in  i   :n<l,  my  darling,  the  place  of  happy  blM«. 
Where  never  entereth  anyone  with  stain  from  world  like  thin  ; 
.\ii. I  if  you're  tempted  to  do  wrong,  n*k  for  the  snow-white  robe, 
That  you  may  walk  the  golden  street*  with  them  who  never  sob. 

i. ie  me.  darling,  and  I  will  pray  for  thee, 
with  angels,  who  are  calling  now  for  me. 

Ami  1  will  Mess  thee  ft. .m  my  heart,  and  ask  the  L«>rd  to  keep 
The  laiub  within  His  bosom  who  care*  for  all  His  sheep. 


150  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

(She.  prays J 

Our  Father  in  the  heavens,  we  cry.  our  portion,  Lord,  art  Thou, 
When  in  the  needs  of  life  and  death  we  low  before  Thee  bow  ; 
Look  down  in  mercy  on  my  child,  to  Thee  I  her  commend, 
And  when  no  mother  is  anear,  Thy  guardian  angels  send. 

The  streets  of  gold,  our  Father,  the  streets  of  gold  are  Thine, 
And  Thine  the  peaceful  river  that  radiantly  doth  shine ; 
Thine  too  the  golden  city  thro'  which  it  e'er  doth  flow, 
And  Thine  the  pearly  walls  and  gates  that  sainted  ones  do  know. 

And  if  Thy  mercy  take  me  in  to  walk  with  Thee  in  white, 
I  pray  Thee  round  my  darling  shed  an  aureole  of  light, 
That  o'er  the  desert  path  of  earth  she  may  in  safety  go, 
And  stand  at  last  before  Thy  throne  in  robes  as  white  as  snow. 

I  lift  her  on  my  heart  to  thee.     O  !  keep  from  sin  and  shame, 
That   from   this  day  she  may  be  Thine  in   word  and  deed  and 

name  ; 

I  weep  for  her,  but  rest  in  Thee,  let  me  depart  in  peace  : 
Again  the  angels  call  on  me  ;  let  all  my  troublings  cease  ! 


SPEAK     SOFTLY. 

Speak  softly  to  me,  for  the  day  is  done," 

And  silence  fits  the  restful  hour  of  night ; 
Speak  calmly  to  me,  for  the  fight  is  won, 

Though  much  be  lost  in  trying  to  do  right. 
And  when  the  weight  of  armour  is  laid  past, 

And  the  tired  body  racked  with  pain  or  fret, 
I  need  the  softly-spoken  word  at  last, 

To  take  away  vain  worry  or  regret. 
Speak  softly  to  me,  and  bring  angels  near, 

From  out  the  blue  heaven  wafted  silently, 
And  let  our  converse  be  'tween  souls  so  dear, 

As  fitting  beings  of  eternity. 
Speak  softly,  then,  for  heaven  is  in  the  air, 
And  I  would  breathe  the  atmosphere  of  pray'r. 


MORNING. 

Fresh  springs  the  morn  from  out  the  saffron  east, 
And  blushes,  like  a  maiden  in  her  prime, 
Chasing  away  the  vapour  and  the  rime, 

That  night  doth  spread  as  banquet  cloth  at  feast 
Of  star-gods,  and  spirit-nymphs  of  yore, 
Who  start  to  life  in  ancient  Grecian  lore  ; 

And  sparkles  on  each  blade  of  grass  the  dew, 


GILBERT   CLARK.  151 

An  countless  pearls  upon  the  youthful  breast 

( )f  fairest  lady  on  a  couch  at  rest, 
While  flow'm  awake  to  greet  the  morn  anew  ; 

And  hark  !  within  the  urove  are  heard  the  notes 

Of  myriad  choristers  whose  liquid  throat* 
Pour  forth  a  Hood  of  SOUK.     The  peasant  hears, 
When  frewh  from  sleep  for  labour  he  appears. 


TWO    TINY    BURNIES 
••  Union  la  strength."— Old  Proverb. 

Two  tiny  burnies 

Tinkle  down  the  hill, 
Frisking  like  the  lambkins 

With  a  gleeful  will : 
Unite  in  their  ardour 

To  form  a  bigger  stream, 
And  sing  a  fuller  soag, 

Like  music  in  a  dream. 

And  their  wedded  currents  • 

Glance  and  gleam  along, 
Happier  and  sweeter 

For  their  union  strong. 
And  the  world  seems  fairer, 

Imaged  in  their  breast. 
And  HowerM  bloom  frenher, 

While  heaven  in  at  rest. 

In  their  ample  waters 

Troutlings  are  at  play. 
And  the  little  birdie 

<  'nines  to  bathe  each  dav  ; 
Sprouts  the  sea-green  hern, 

In  their  crystal  clear  : 
Each  pebble  is  a  diamond 

To  little  children  dear. 

And  thus  on  and  onward 

They  glide  in  joy  away, 
Ta*ting  all  the  fresh  new 

Of  the  happy  May  : 
Till  in  the  ocean  placid 

They  fall  asleep  at  Uflfth, 
II;ii'py  in  their  sweetne**, 

Happy  in  their  strength. 


152  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 


O  gentle  rea'ler  ! 

Read  the  riddle  here, 
In  the  brooklet's  union, 

In  their  gladsome  cheer  ; 
In  the  happy  union 

Of  two  souls  and  true, 
Felt  is  more  of  heaven, 

And  earth  is  happier  too. 

And  the  gladsome  music 

Swells  as  on  they  go, 
Down  the  rale  of  sorrow, 

To  their  rest  below  ; 
Till  the  mighty  music 

Swells  around  the  throne, 
And  two  lives  are  ended 

In  heaven  to  be  one. 


SOMEBODY'S    FUNERAL. 

Hear  the  tramping  of  marching  feet, 
Echoing  hollow  along  the  street, 
While  heedless  passers  hurry  and  meet 
Somebody's  funeral  ! 

How  slowly,  slowly  they  move  away 
To  the  churchyard,  in  the  twilight  grey 
Of  a  dark  and  dull  December  day, 
Like  a  natural  pall  ! 

Is  it  the  babe  from  its  mother's  breast, 
Away  from  its  soft  and  downy  nest, 
Away  to  take  its  lone,  long  rest? 
Somebody's  funeral  ! 

Or  is  it  a  maiden  in  her  prime, 
Nipped  like  the  bud  before  her  time, 
To  bloom  in  a  calm  and  softer  clime  ? 
And  was  it  a  sudden  call  ? 

Or  haply  the  mother  is  silent  there — 

Those  fervent  lips  oft  moved  in  prayer 

For  her  loved  ones  in  motherly  care  ? 

Ah,  somebody's  funeral  ! 

Or  'chance  it  may  be  a  father  strong, 
Or  the  little  lad  who  would  ere  long 
Have  sought  to  fight  with  evil  and  wrong 
Pays  the  common  debt  of  all. 


GILBERT   CLARK.  153 

Whoe'er  it  be,  there  are  hearts  that  grieve, 
Who  sob  and  cry  on  tlm  winter  ere, 
Who  bear  a  sorrow  with  no  reprieve 
For  somebody's  funeral ! 

THE    BROOK. 

1  bubble,  bubble  from  the  rock 

To  see  the  blessed  sun  ; 
I  trouble,  trouble  at  the  shock 

As  o'er  the  fall  I  run. 

I  prattle,  prattle  as  T  go, 

I  sing  and  never  stay  ; 
I  battle,  battle  onward  to 

The  ocean  far  away. 

I  tinkle,  tinkle  o'er  the  stones, 

As  by  the  lea  I  flow  ; 
I  twinkle,  twinkle  round  the  thrones 

Of  fairy  folk  I  know. 

I  glitter,  glitter  in  the  light, 

As  through  the  ylen  I  glide  ; 
I  fritter,  fritter  in  my  fright 

And  o'er  the  mill-wheel  ride. 

I  tremble,  tremble  at  the  gate 

Of  mill-maid  fair  and  kind  ; 
I  grumble,  grumble  all  too  late, 

When  she  is  left  behind. 

I  tumble,  tumble  to  the  sea 

And  loose.myttelf  therein  ; 
I  "tumble,  -tumble  all  the  way, 

But  would  again  begin. 


I'D     RATHER. 

I'd  rather  be  a  lark  and  sing 

Far  up  upon  the  winir, 

Than  man,  who  crawls  upon  the  sod. 

And  never  praises  God. 

IM  rather  be  a  butterfly 
AIH!  fall  when  niu-ht  i«  nigh, 
Than  be  a  giddv  *  <n  of  time 
To  reel  at  midnight  chime. 


154  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

I'd  rather  be  a  dog,  and  hay 

The  moon  at  shut  of  day, 

Than  creeping,  unchaste,  subtle  thief, 

Who  steals  out  virtue's  leaf. 

I'd  rather  be  a  mole  and  scrape 
'Neath  earth  for  grub  or  tape, 
Than  miser  'mid  his  heaps  of  gold, 
With  heart  all  frozen  cold. 

I'd  rather  be  a  cuckoo  bird 

To  be  by  lovers  heard, 

Than  he  who  never  keeps  his  word 

To  man  or  to  his  Lord. 


JANE   CATHERINE    LUNDIE. 

(MRS    HORATIUS    BONAR.) 

T'HE  gifted  authoress  of  the  well-known  hymn, 
VJf  ''Pass  Away  Earthly  Joy,";', which  has  taken  a 
place  in  many  collections,  arid  has  been  reprinted  in 
America  with  other  names  appended,  was  born  at 
Kelso  in  1821.  She  was  a  daughter  of  Robert  Lundie, 
minister  of  Kelso,  who  was  a  man  of  great  piety  and 
amiability,  was  possessed  of  remarkable  literary  ac- 
complishments, and,  besides  being  acquainted  with  Sir 
Walter  Scott  and  other  literary  celebrities,  was  an 
early  contributor  to  the  Quarterly  Review.  Her 
mother,  Mary  Grey,  was  a  native  of  Northumberland. 
She  was  a  woman  of  much  intellectual  power,  earnest 
piety,  and  marked  individuality.  Her  influence  was 
such  as  to  make  itself  felt  on  all  around  her;  and 
besides  being  the  authoress  of  several  volumes,  she  was 
the  active  helpmeet  of  herhusbandin  all  matters  pertain- 
ing to  the  welfare  of  his  flock.  Mrs  Bonar's  grandfather, 


J.    C.    LUNDIE.  155 

<  <  >rnc1iiis  Lnndie,  had  also  been  minister  of  Kelso, 
and  had  preached  in  the  venerable  Abbey  before  its 
ruined  condition  required  the  erection  of  the  un- 
romantic  building  occupied  by  her  father.  Our 
poetess  was  born  in  the  old  manse  by  the  Tweed,  and 
the  larger  part  of  her  life  is  associated  with  the  lovely 
little  border  town,  where  she  rambled 

"  Beside  the  waters'  meeting 
The  fairest  Scotland  knows." 

Her  childhood's  home  nestled  closely  under  the  Abbey's 
shade — her  dead  lay  in  its  cloisters.  On  her  father's 
sudden  death  she  left  Kelso  when  nine  years  of  age, 
and  returned  to  it  as  the  wife  of  the  Rev.  Horatius 
Bonar,  the  author  of  many  of  our  sweetest  hymns. 
Married  in  1843,  she  was  the  first  Free  Church 
minister's  bride.  The  intervening  years  were  spent 
partly  in  Edinburgh  and  partly  in  Ruthwell — her 
mother  having  become  the  wife  of  the  Rev.  Henry 
Duncan  of  that  parish.  These  were  years  of  very 
chequered  experience.  Her  elder  and  much-loved 
brother,  (Jeorge,  went  with  a  missionary  band  to 
Samoa,  in  the  all  too  fond  hope  that  the  climate  might 
restore  his  failing  health,  and  enable  him  to  lead  the 
useful  life  he  longed  for.  In  those  days  of  slow 
travel,  the  suspense  was  harder  to  bear  than  any 
possible  certainty  ;  and  it  was  only  after  about  three 
years  that  this  agonising  suspense  \\.is  « -nded  by  the 
tidings  that  tin-  dicri-licd  In-other  had  died  long  ago 
among  stran^-i-.  Close  upon  this  blow  followed 
the  onezped  of  her  sister,  Mary.  Sorrows 

such  as  1 1 .  :  near  to  break  her  heart,  and  for  a 

Ion-  tin  '  life  on  this  side  the  grave  seemed  to  have 
lost  its  charm  for  her. 

Tin-    In -lit  ness    of    her    marriage    followed — her 

•untry  minister's  \\  if.- ; 
li< T  removal  to  Edinburgh  with  her  husband  and  family 


156  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

in  1867.  But  in  the  midst  of  much  blessing  and  joy, 
bereavement  ever  followed  her.  Of  nine  children  she 
lost  five  ;  her  naturally  bright  and  elastic  nature  was 
almost  borne  down,  and  her  lyre  seemed  only  tuned 
at  her  children's  grave.  Those  who  knew  Mrs  Bonar 
in  early  life  describe  her  as  a  perfect  sunbeam  for 
brightness — radiant,  impulsive,  terribly  sensitive  to 
joy  and  pain.  On  such  a  nature  sorrow  could  not  fall 
without  developing  a  very  peculiar  and  deep  power  of 
sympathy.  Her  unselfish  sympathy  and  love  were 
marked  by  all.  Not  only  did  she  cling  to  her  own 
with  a  rare  intensity,  but  it  seemed  to  be  her 
mission  to  seek  out  lonely  people  for  whom  no  one 
cared.  With  health  never  very  strong,  she  often 
wore  herself  out  for  others.  Yet  such  ministra- 
tions were  her  delight,  and  she  continued  them  till 
within  a  week  of  her  death,  which  took  place  at  Edin- 
burgh on  3rd  December,  1884.  "He  giveth  me  Sal- 
vation," were  among  her  last  words,  and  many  times 
she  asked  for  "  Songs  of  Praise  "  from  those  around 
her. 

Mrs  Bonar's  poetry,  like  the  hymns  of  her  gifted 
husband,  possess  a  deep  spirituality  of  tone  that  gives 
them  a  double  force  as  they  enter  the  feelings  and 
penetrate  the  heart.  In  her  gravest  mood  there  is  a 
hopeful,  submissive  "  glint "  of  true,  warm  piety. 
The  hymn  we  quote — "  Pass  Away,  Earthly  Joy," — 
was  written  in  1843,  and  shortly  after  printed  in 
"  The  Bible  Hymn  Book  "  (Nisbet  &  Co.).  The  others 
we  give  are  from  manuscripts  kindly  supplied  by 
friends.  Mrs  Bonar's  elder  sister — the  Mary  Lundie 
Duncan,  of  the  favourite  and  well-known  "  Memoir," 
was  also  a  poetess,  and  it  might  be  added  that 
two  of  her  brothers  still  survive — Cornelius,  engineer 
and  railway  manager  of  an  important  branch  in  South 
Wales,  and  Robert,  minister  of  the  Presbyterian 
Church,  Fairfield,  Liverpool. 


J.    C.    LtfNDlB.  157 

PASS    AWAY     EARTHLY    JOY. 

Pass  away  earthly  joy, 

Jesus  id  mine ; 
Break  every  mortal  tie, 

Jesus  is  mine  ; 
Dark  is  the  wilderness  ; 
Distant  the  resting-place ; 
Jesus  alone  can  bless  ; — 

Jesus  is  mine. 

Tempt  not  my  soul  away, — 

Jesus  in  mine  ; 
Here  would  I  ever  stay, 

Jesus  is  mine ; 
Perishing  things  of  clay, 
B<»rn  but  for  one  brief  <lay, 
Pass  from  my  heart  away, 

Jesus  is  mine. 

Fare  ye  well,  dreams  of  night, 

Jesus  is  mine ; 
Mine  is  a  dawning  bright, 

Jesus  is  mine  ; 
All  that  my  soul  has  tried 
Left  but  a  diMiiul  void, 
Jesus  has  satisfied, 

Jesus  is  mine. 

Farewell  mortality, 

Jesus  is  mine ; 
Welcome  eternity, 

Jesus  is  mine!; 
Welcome  ye  scenes  of  rest, 
Welcome  ye  mansions  blest, 
Welcome  a  Saviour's  breast, 

Jesus  is  mine. 

1  II  K     liDGE    OF    Til  E    RIVER. 

I  have  been  to  the  brink  of  the  river, — 
The  cold,  dark  river  of  Death, — 

And  still  in  tin-  valley  I  -liiv.  r  f 

\Vh-ie  my  child  yielded  up  his  breath. 
Chill,  chill  wan  the  touch  of  ti.e  billow 

As  it  cloned  o'er  my  darling'*  head, — 
left  him  anleep  on  his  pillow — 

My  L.autiful,  beautiful  dead  : 


158  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

Oh,  dark  was  the  day  when  the  token 

Was  sent  from  the  palace  on  high, 
That  the  sweet,  silver  cord  rnu*t  be  broken 

And  the  pitcher  all  shattered  must  lie  ! 
Oh,  that  midnight  wa^  starless  and  dreary 

When  he  fought  the  last  tight  with  the  foe ; 
At  length,  of  the  conflict  a-weary, 

Love  loosed  him,  and  sobbed  "  Let  him  go  !" 

Great  Father  !  receive  the  sweet  spirit 

That  is  bursting  its  fetters  of  clay  ! 
He  slept  !     He  was  gone  to  inherit 

The  crown  and  the  kingdom  of  day  ! 
That  smile — like  an  infant's,  escaping 

From  danger  to  mother's  own  breast — 
Told  the  moment  the  angels  were  taking; 

Our  weary  oae  home  to  his  rest. 

We  pressed  to  the  edge  of  the  river, 

And  caught  but  one  vanishing  gleam, 
As  he  entered  the  portals  for  ever 

That  oped  the  bright  city  to  him  ; 
And  still  on  the  borders  we  linger, 

And  gaze  on  the  pathway  he  trod  ; 
We  hear  not  the  voice  of  the  singer, 

But  we  know  he's  at  home  with  his  God. 

And  silently  still — while  I  wander 

'Mid  wrecks  that  are  left  by  the  tide, 
Repeating  the  tearful  surrender 

Of  the  life  that  with  Christ  must  abide  — 
I  hear  a  soft  whisper  of  pardon, 

And  promise  of  wiping  all  tears, 
A  meeting  beyond  this  dark  Jordan 

To  last  through  unchangeable  years  ! 

And  oft  in  my  solitude  musing, 

Sweet  breezes  my  soul  seem  to  stir, 
Such  balm  and  such  fragrance  diffusing 

As  come  from  the  mountains  of  myrrh  ; 
The  hills — past  all  sin  and  all  weeping  — 

Where  our  lost  ones  are  watching  for  day  ! 
Soon,  soon  in  Emanuel's  safe  keeping, 

We  shall  meet  where  e'en  death's  tied  away  ! 

Green,  green  are  the  pastures,  tho'  lowly, 
Where  the  mourners  are  led  by  their  guide, 

And  the  ground  wet  with  tears  should  be  holy 
Where  we  for  a  time  must  abide. 


J.    C.    LUNDIB.  15$ 

Oh,  green  be  th*  fruit*  from  such  flowing, 

Of  patience,  of  faith,  und  of  Jove  ; 
Thrice  precious  this  season  for  growing 

More  meet  for  the  kingdom  above  ! 

NUUSEKY    FLOWERS. 

Mother  !  in  thy  nursery  ground, 

Guarding  well  and  fencing  round 

Thy  sweet  floweret*  day  and  night, 

Happy  while  they  bless  thy  sight  ! 

Summer  passes  !     Ah,  remember, 

June  is  followed  by  December  ! 

Train  them  well  for  Him  who  lent  them  ; 

Seek  in  beauty  to  present  them 

When  He  comes  again  to  claim 

All  the  flowers  He  knows  by  name  ! 

Toiling  in  the  nursery  plot, 

Mother,  thou  art  not  forgot ! 

PreciouH  in  the  Saviour's  eyes 

Are  these  flowers  of  Paradise. 

SING    TO    ME. 

Oh,  sing,  my  children,  sing  to  me, 
Tho1  low  and  sad  the  strain  may  be, 
Oh,  sing  Home  ancient  melody, 

To  soothe  this  breaking  heart. 
Ah  !  often  in  youth's  whining  hour, 
When  life  was  rich  with  many  a  flower, 
A  simple  strain  with  magic  power 

Would  melt  my  eyes  in  tears  ; 
Come,  then,  <tnd  with  some  heavenly  lay, 
.  Perchance  your  simple  art  to-day 
May  help  to  chase  these  clouds  away, 

And  raise  my  thoughts  to  heaven. 

Oh,  twig,  though  there  are  voices  gone 
That  u«ed  to  swell  the  joyous  tone — 
N<>  more  will  they  your  chorua  join, 

They  swell  the  heavenly  choir. 
Sing  soft  and  low  wrV-n  mein'ry  brings 

I* eerily  Mofoff|OttM  tiling*. 
And  wildly  sweep*  the  trembling  strings 

Of  each  young  tender  *<»il. 

loud  and  free  when  you  can  rise 
In  tli..un'ht  to  Cod's  bright  Paradise. 
We  cannot  hear  th,,r  m.  1 

but  we  shull  join  them  soon. 


160  MODERN  SCOTTISH  POETS. 

Oh,  sing,  in  sorrow's  darkest  hour, 
Sing  sweetly  of  the  Spirit's  power 
To  calm  us  'mid  the  tern  pest's  roar, 

And  whisper  "  Peace  be- still. " 
And  if  you  stand  beside  my  bed 
When  earth's  last,  sad,  fa  ix- wells  are  said, 
And  death  draws  near  with  silent  tread, 

My  children,  will  you  sing? 
Oh,  sing,  though  heart  and  flesh  may  fail, 
Sing  of  the  joys  within  the  veil, 
Sing  "  Christ  our  Conqueror  will  prevail  " — 

Soon  all  shall  sing  at  home. 

THROW    OPEN    THE    WINDOW. 

Throw  open  the  window  to  wait  for  the  day, 
The  cage  is  deserted,  the  birdie's  away  ; 
Guard  it  no  longer  from  danger  or  pain  ; 
In  its  own  cherished  home  it  will  ne'er  sing  again. 
No  longer  to  tempt  with  what's  sweetest  and  best 
Need  you  lovingly  bend  o'er  the  desolate  nest. 
Throw  open  the  window,  for  safely  you  may, 
The  tender  one's  gone,  little  birdie's  away. 

Throw  open  the  window  !  no  more  can  the  storm 
Hurt  a  hair  on  the  head  of  that  still,  sleeping  form  ! 
Gaze  up  through  the  darkness— away  from  thy  dead  ! 
Let  the  chill  of  the  night  bathe  thine  own  ferered  head. 
Upward  !  look  up  through  the  deep  midnight  sky  ! 
Keep  down  the  heart-throbbings  and  utter  no  cry  ! 
Angels  are  winging  their  way  through  the  air, 
And  a  sweet  ransomed  spirit  is  safe  in  their  care. 

Throw  open  the  window  !  the  angels  are  singing  ! 

Couldst  thou  but  hear  them,  the  joy-bells  are  ringing 

Let  not  a  murmur,  nor  even  a  sigh, 

Cross  the  faint  echo  of  music  on  high  ! 

These  eyes  might  see  glory,  except  they  were  holden — 

Oh  for  one  glimpse  of  sweet  Salem  the  golden  ! 

Oh  for  one  strain  from  the  gateway  of  day 

To  make  me  forget  that  my  birdie's  away  ! 

Throw  open  the  window  !  the  dark  clouds  are  riren, 
Thy  darling  has  entered,  a  dweller  in  heaven. 
Couldst  thou  wish  mere,  had  he  lived  to  grow  old, 
Than  a  harp,  a  crown,  and  a  sceptre  of  gold, 
And  a  right  with  his  Saviour  for  ever  to  stay, 
And  sing  the  old  song  that  is  new  every  day  ? 
His  poor  earthly  cage  is  exchanged  for  a  throne, 
To  his  God  and  his  Saviour  thy  baby  has  gone. 


M.    L.    DUNCAN  161 


MARY     LUNDIE     DUNCAN, 

ELDER  sister  of  Mrs  Horatius  Bonar,  the  subject 
of  the  preceding  sketch,  was  born  in  Kelso 
manse,  in  1814.  In  a  pleasing  account  of  her  life 
given  in  a  volume  of  deep  interest — "  Personal  Remi- 
niscences and  Biographical  Sketches,"  by  the  lute  Rev. 
James  Dodds,  D unbar,  (Edinburgh :  Macniven  & 
Wallace,  1887) — it  is  said  that  from  her  infancy  she 
was  surrounded  with  all  the  elements  of  a  healthy 
physical  and  moral  training.  Her  fine  natural  parts 
were  gradually  developed  under  judicious  parental 
care,  and  she  early  manifested  great  sensibility,  un- 
common imaginative  powers,  and  a  quickness  of  percep- 
tion that  was  full  of  promise.  Gifted  with  a  delicate 
musical  ear,  and  a  sweet  voice,  she  soon  began  to  sin_r 
the  "  Songs  of  Zion,"  as  well  as  some  of  the  old  lays 
of  her  native  land.  She  also  composed,  even  before 
her  twelfth  year,  some  beautiful  verses,  which  ha , 

in  her  much-valued  and   widely-read   "Memoir." 

.  in  a  lovely  part  of  Scotland,  and  brought  uj>  in 

an  atmosphere  of  poetry  and  piety,  she  revelled  in  the 

exquisite  enjoyment    of   Nature,   and   soon   learned  to 

ij  the  higher   pleasures  of  religion,  and  early 
came  the  subject  of  that  divine  grace  which  strengthens 

uind  while  it  purities  the  heart. 
\Vh--n  lilt    .1  years  of  age  this  child  of  the  mm->t> 
was  sent  to  school   in    '  he  romp 

her  education.     At  this  time  she  att-  tin- 

«ry  meeting  of    the    gr  ties, 

Aith  int.-i'.ij.Mit    eiithu 

MOS  of  such   philanthropies  as  \Vil- 
.,,  aii-1    others,  whom   in  II-T  Uti: 
u  she*  ha>  1 

oYn    . .  .  . 

K 


162  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

eldest  of  the  family  of  three  sons  and  two  daughters, 
she  most  largely  shared  her  mother's  grief,  and  greatly 
helped  to  comfort  her  brothers  and  sister.  On 
"leaving  the  manse,"  they  took  up  their  abode  in 
Edinburgh,  where  Mary  enjoyed  ample  opportunities 
of  intellectual  improvement.  In  1836  she  was  married 
to  the  Rev.  W.  Wallace  Duncan,  of  the  parish  of 
Cleish,  Kinross-shire,  youngest  son  of  the  Rev.  Dr 
Henry  Duncan,  of  Ruth  well.  She  entered  heartily 
into  the  duties  of  a  minister's  wife — visited  the  poor, 
taught  classes  of  young  girls,  and  carried  sunshine 
with  her  wherever  she  went.  Her  literary  tastes  and 
studies  were  still  followed,  and  she  wrote  numerous 
poetical  effusions.  But  if  the  life  of  Mary  Lundie 
Duncan  was  beautiful,  it  was  also  brief.  Here  we  give 
merely  a  slender  outline,  and  not  a  filled-up  portrait. 
From  the  sketch  we  have  already  alluded  to,  and  to 
which  we  are  indebted  for  the  details  here  given,  we 
learn  that  towards  the  end  of  1839  she  returned  home 
from  a  religious  meeting  she  had  attended  at  the 
neighbouring  town  of  Dunfermline — spiritually  re- 
freshed, but  with  the  germs  of  disease  in  her  some- 
what debilitated  frame.  She  was  soon  prostrated  with 
fever,  and  as  her  constitution  in  childhood  had  been 
rather  feeble,  it  now  proved  to  be  unable  to  struggle 
against  the  perilous  ailment.  Her  dying  hours,  so 
full  of  tender  feeling  and  brightest  hope,  are  patheti- 
cally described  by  her  mother  in  that  work  which  has 
long  kept  the  highest  place  in  the  Christian  biography 
of  Scotland,  and  which  has  comforted  and  instructed 
so  many  in  different  lands.  "Wonderful  peace," 
"  The  Cross  is  my  hope,"  were  amongst  the  last  words 
that  escaped  the  lips  of  the  young  mother  on  leaving 
her  husband  and  two  babes.  She  calmly  fell  asleep 
on  5th  January,  1840,  aged  twenty-five. 

The   sweet   Christian    character    of   Mary   Lundie 
Duncan,  and  her  fine  talents,  were  widely  known  and 


M.    L.    DUNCAN.  163 

admired  by  many  who  had  never  seen  her ;  but  "  The 
Memoir,"  first  published  in  1841,  made  her  name 
known  wherever  the  English  language  is  spoken.  Nine 
editions  have  been  published  in  this  country ;  and  the 
work  has  been  at  least  equally  popular  in  America.  Her 
11  Rhymes  for  My  Children  "  were  published  in  1853, 
in  a  neat  form,  with  several  beautiful  illustrations. 
"Her  sweet  little  poems  or  hymns,  written  for  her 
children,"  says  Mr  Dodds,  "are  deservedly  the  delight 
of  numberless  English  nurseries.  Her  poetical  genius 
is  further  evinced  by  the  numerous  bountiful  effusions 
scattered  over  the  pages  of  her  biography ;  and  this 
suggests  the  thought  that,  had  her  life  been  spared, 
she  would  have  taken  a  high  place  among  the  female 
poets  of  her  time.  But  as  a  refined  and  devoted 
Christian,  a  loving,  generous  daughter,  wife,  and 
mother,  she  will  long  be  held  in  dear  and  honoured 
remembrance." 


TilKKE  IS   A   SPOT   WUERK    MEMORY   LOVES  TO   REST. 

There  is  a  spot  where  memory  love*  to  rest,— 

A  scene  whose  image,  pictured  in  rny  breaat, 

Is  twined  with  all  that  .s  beautiful  ami  dear, 

With  all  that  weeps  affection'*  mournful  tear — 

My  home! — By  th*-  soft  sunshine  of  thy  K'l  i 

Thy  daisied  pastures,  mixed  with  forest  shades  ; 
gentle  breeze,  that  fan*  thy  waving  tr 

By  thy  sweet  wild-flower*.  I'll  remember  thee  ! 

Ami  tiiou,  ii. y  native  Mtream,  whose  wavelens  How, 

Whether  tho<i  Uu^h  -L  in  morning  «  roseate  ulow, 

Or  Hpread'nt  thy  boiotn  to  the  inxm-ti  le  !>• 

Or  NinU'st  in  beauty  at  the  sunset  *  «i- 

1«  lively  still.— Bright  Mtream,  farewell  to  thee  ! 

Thy  M!V< ry  w  vt.-r-t  tlow  no  more  f»r  me  ; 

No  inure  for  nn-  tin-  inu-ic  of  thy  play, 

\\  li.-n  I'-n^thening  Hhaden  pruclnim  the  close  of  day. 

i  )n-  h .'ur  th«-re  U,  I've  prized  above  the  rest, 
halcyon  hour,  when  th<»u  wert  I 
M  when  the  day  of  re-«t  wan  \vi-ll  ni    h     |i  d, 

When  courtiii.; 

i.jht  for  tMmce,  in  c'linui'inin^  with  heas 


164  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

'Twas  rapture  then,  to  gaze  on  thee,  fair  stream, 

All  sparkling  in  day's  last  and  tenderest  beam  ; 

While  the  rich  trees  that  graceful  o'er  thee  wave, 

Were  trembling  in  the  golden  light  it  gave  ; 

And  breezes  stirred  the  incense  of  the  air, 

As  tho'  some  spirit  kept  his  Sabbath  there  ; 

It  seemed,  as  if  those  deep  and  spacious  skies, 

That  kindled  earth  with  their  celestial  dyes, 

Shot  rays  of  glory  from  some  heavenly  clime 

To  bless  the  Sabbath  of  the  sons  of  time, 

And  raise  the  soul,  on  contemplation's  wing, 

To  the  pure  source  whence  endless  pleasures  spring — 

A  foretaste  of  that  glorious  land  of  light, 

Where  those  who  love  the  Lamb  shall  dwell  in  robes  of  white. 

A    HYMN. 

0  Thou  who  hear'st  the  contrite  sinner's  mourning, 
And  meet'st  the  trembling  soul  to  Thee  returning, 
Bow  down  Thine  ear,  and  grant  me  answer  speedy, 

For  I  am  needy. 

Thou  know'st  the  sacred  vows  so  often  broken, 
Thou  hear'st  the  words  forgot  as  soon  as  spoken, 
Thou  seest  earth's  chains,  of  fatal  lustre,  twining 
This  heart,  declining. 

From  the  fair  paths  of  peace  too  often  straying, 

1  wander  far,  my  Saviour's  love  betraying  ; 
Till,  wounded  by  the  thorns  that  mercy  scatters, 

I  seek  life's  waters. 

My  gracious  Shepherd,  in  Thy  pasture  lead  me  ; 
With  living  streams,  with  heavenly  manna  feed  me  ; 
With  Thine  own  voice  of  love,  oh  !  call  me,  guide  me  ; 
From  evil  hide  me. 

Be  Thou  my  iirst,  my  best,  my  chosen  treasure  ; 
Delight  my  soul  with  love  that  knows  no  measure  ; 
Filled  with  Thyself,  can  earth's  delusions  charm  me? 
Can  Satan  harm  me  ? 

From  strength  to  strength,  my  Lord  will  lead  my  spirit, 
The  purchased  crown  in  Zion  to  inherit ; —  . 
Mine  eyes  shall  close  on  time,  shall  cease  from  weeping, 
In  Jesus  sleeping. 

Then,  clad  in  robes  made  white  by  love  redeeming, 
I'll  veil  my  sight,  before  His  glory  beaming, 
And  ever  sing  His  praise  in  accents  lowly, 
Whose  name  is  holy  ! 


M.    L.    DUNCAN.  165 

EVENING. 

Oh  !  is  there  a  time  when  enchantment  descends 
Like  light  from  a  sphere  that  i*  brighter  than  this  ? 

When  the  soul's  warm  emotion  HO  dazzlingly  blends, 
That  they  seem  but  as  one, — the  sensations  of  bliss  ! 

Tis  the  hour  of  the  evening  when  daylight  is  fled, 
And  with  it  the  toils  that  awakened  the  day  ; 

And  the  tapers,  that  glow  in  the  drawing-room,  shed 
Their  reflection  on  faces  still  brighter  than  they  : 

When  the  man  from  his  desk,  and  the  boy  from  his  book, 
And  the  lady  from  thousands  of  matronly  cares, 

And  the  maid  from  her  work,  and  her  lone  little  nook, 
Have  cast  to  the  wind  every  trouble  of  theirs  : 

And  he  to  whose  genius  a  senate  might  bow, 

The  champion  of  right,  to  humanity  dear, 
Forgets  the  proud  laurels  that  wave  o'er  his  brow, 

And  gilds  like  a  sunbeam  the  moment  of  cheer  ; 

And  eye  answers  eye,  in  the  sparkle  of  mirth, 
Reflecting  the  dance  of  the  heart  in  its  ray, 

And  the  chorus  of  laughter  swells  loud  round  the  hearth, 
And  the  past  and  the  future  are  lost  in  to-day. 


IMAGININGS. 

I've  imaged  a  land  where  flowers  are  growing 
In  pristine  sweetness  all  the  year, 

And  purest  crystal  streams  are  flowing, 
And  sunbeams  kios  the  waters  clear. 

Where  music's  voice,  the  hours  beguiling, 
Comes  floating  on  the  summer  air  ; 

Where  beaming  suns  arc  mildly  smiling, 
And  cloudless  skies  are  ever  fair. 

But  darkness  here  the  daylight  close*, 
1  storm*  ob*cure  the  sunlit  «ky  ; 
v>ruH  are  mingled  with  our  TOMS, 
round  us,  grief  is  nigh. 


O  !  were  I  in  that  land  of  gladness 
I've  imaged  fair  within  my  breast, 

.  f:n  .-  Aril  t>  .  rief  and  sadnets, 
Welcome  soul-refreshing  real. 


166  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POBT8. 

Within  the  leafy  grot  reclining, 
While  balmy  breezes  round  me  played, 

I'd  gaze  on  scenes  all  brightly  shining, 
With  nought  to  make  my  heart  afraid. 

My  heart  should  rise,  with  Nature  blending, 
In  one  sweet  song  of  harmony  ; 

Each  lovely  object  round  me  tending 
To  make  my  soul  all  melody. 


TBE     LAMBS'     LULLABY. 
CHILD. 

The  pretty  little  lambs  that  lie 

To  sleep  upon  the  grass, 
Have  none  to  sing  them  lullaby 

But  the  night  winds  as  they  pass. 

While  I,  a  happy  little  maid, 

Bid  dear  papa  good-night ; 
And  in  my  crib  so  warm  am  laid, 

And  tucked  up  snug  and  tight. 

Then  Annie  sits  and  sings  to  me, 

With  gentle  voice  and  soft, 
The  Highland  song  of  sweet  Glenshee, 

That  I  hare  heard  so  oft.  } 

Or  elie  tome  pretty  hymn  she  sings, 

Until  to  sleep  I  go  ; 
But  the  young  helpless  lambs,  poor  things  ! 

Hare  none  to  lull  them  so. 

O,  If  the  lambs  to  me  would  come, 

I'd  try  to  sing  Glenshee  ; 
And  here  in  this  warm  quiet  room, 

How  sound  their  sleep  would  be  ! 

Haste,  kind  mamma  !  and  call  them  here, 

Where  they'll  be  warm  as  I ; 
For  in  the  chilly  fields,  I  fear, 

Before  the  morn  they'll  die. 

MAMMA'S  ANSWER. 

The  lambs  sleep  in  the  fields,  'tis  true. 
Without  a  lullaby  ; 


M.    L.    DUNCAW.  167 

And  yet  they  are  as  warm  as  yon, 
Beneath  the  summer  sky. 

They  choose  some  dry  and  grassy  spot, 

Below  the  shady  trees  ; 
To  other  son^s  they  listen  not, 

Than  the  pleasant  evening  breeze. 

The  blankets  soft  that  cover  you, 

Are  made  of  fleeces  warm, 
That  keep  the  sheep  from  evening  dew, 

Or  from  the  wintry  storm. 

And  when  the  night  is  bitter  cold, 

The  shepherd  comes  with  care, 
And  leads  them  to  his  peaceful  fold  : 

They're  safe  and  sheltered  there. 

How  happy  are  the  lambs,  my  lore, 

How  safe  and  calm  they  rest  ! 
But  yon  a  Shepherd  have  above, 

Of  all  kind  shepherds  best. 

His  lambs  He  gathers  In  His  arms, 

And  in  His  bosom  bears  ; 
How  blest — how  safe  from  all  alarms — 

Each  child  His  love  who  shares  ! 

0!  if  You'll  be  His  gentle  child, 
And  listen  to  His  voice, 

Be  loving,  dutiful,  and  mild- 
How  will  mamma  rejoice  ! 

Then,  when  you've  done  His  will  below, 

And  you  are  call'd  to  die, 
In  His  kind  arms  your  soul  shall  go 

To  His  own  fold  on  high. 


168  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 


ISABELLA     KOBEBTSON, 

HRACY,  thoughtful,  and  melodious  writer,  is  an 
elder  sister  of  William  Robertson,  who  has  a 
place  in  our  Seventh  Series.  She,  too,  was  born  in 
Dundee,  and  for  many  years  had  a  tobacconist  and 
fancy  goods  shop  in  that  town.  Although  she  began 
to  write  verses  when  young,  "  these  were  now  and 
again  made  a  small  bonfire  of,"  and  she  does  not  think 
the  world  lost  much  in  consequence.  From  the  nature 
of  her  business,  she  had  a  number  of  smart  young 
lads  amongst  her  patrons,  and,  being  a  lady  of  some 
experience,  she  was  often  made  the  confidante  of  their 
little  love  affairs.  Sometimes  Miss  Robertson  would 
hit  off  their  foibles  in  annonymous  rhyme.  They  little 
thought  that  the  lady  behind  the  counter  was  the 
cause.  "  Tammas  Bodkin  " — the  veritable  "  Tam- 
mas  " — was  one  of  her  most  genial  and  pleasant  custo- 
mers. Miss  Robertson  retired  from  business  about 
five  years  ago,  and  has  ever  since  resided  in  the  village 
of  Bankfoot,  Perthshire,  with  her  much-esteemed 
brother.  Having  now  abundant  leisure,  she  enjoys 
long  and  solitary  walks  in  that  beautiful  and 
picturesque  district.  In  this  pleasant  retreat  she  has, 
under  the  name  of  "Blumine"  and  other  noms-de- 
plume,  written  much  excellent  verse,  which  has  been 
published  in  the  People's  Journal,  Glasgow  Weekly 
Mail,  and  other  newspapers.  Her  poetry  shows  the 
lover  of  Nature,  her  mirthful  and  sympathetic  heart, 
and  her  hatred  of  shams  and  make-believes,  especially 
in  manner  and  conduct.  Her  felicitous  home-pictures 
and  sketches  of  child-life  afford  evidence  of  wholesome 
taste,  and  the  faculty  of  noticing  little  things  and 
simple  joys,  and  of  depicting  them  with  graphic  power. 


ISABELLA    ROBERTSON.  169 

DAVIE    DAKERS. 

Auld  Davie  Dakers,  o'  oor  guid  toon, 

A  wee  fat  carle,  an*  bald  i'  the  croon  ; 

What  do  ye  think  he  ta'en  in  his  heid  ? 

T«>  r..me  courtin'  m*,  an'  his  wife  new  deid  ! 

He  spier'd  for  me  kindly,  an'  drew  in  his  chair, 

Tauld  he  had  oilier,  an*  wan  aye  roakin'  mair, 

Looked  iu  my  face  wi'  a  blink  in  his  e'e — 

"My  bonnie  lasa,  will  ye  marry  me? 

I'll  busk  ye  sae  genty  an'  keep  ye  sae  braw, 

Ye'll  baud  up  your  heid  wi'  the  best  o'  them  a'." 

"  Gae  'wa'  wi'  your  havers  ye  fule  auld  man  ; 
Tak*  ye  to  your  heels  as  fast  as  ye  can  ; 
I've  a  lad  o'  my  ain  an'  he's  far  ower  the  sea, 
But  he's  comin'  hame  mine  to  marry  me." 

He  grippet  up  his  staff,  while  bis  pent-up  ire 
Glared  in  his  e'en  like  a  roarin'  tire. 
Quo'  he.  "  Bonnie  lass,  as  sure'a  a  bawbee, 
Ye'll  get  a  fine  jilt  frae  your  lad  ower  the  sea." 

"  Gae  'wa'  wi'  your  cauld  kail,  dinna  come  here  : 
They  taste  o'  the  pat,  an*  aye  smell  queer  ; 
Gae  hame  to  your  ain  fire  an'  toast  your  auld  taea, 
It's  winter  wi  you  noo  the  rest  o'  your  days." 

NODDIN'   TO    ME. 

0  I'm  an  auld  carle  o'  threescore  an'  mair, 

1  never  wan  married— ah,  weel  may  ye  stare  ; 
I'm  a  bit  <>'  a  dandy,  M  ony  micht  bee, 

An'  the  tflaikit  y(>ung  queans  are  a'  noddin'  to  me. 

I'm  livin'  toy  lane  in  a  h<w>se  o'  my  ain— 

T  .  !.-  in  t .  -Me  me  I  ken  they  are  fain  : 

But  I  want  nae  sic  gentry — the  jauds  canna  see 

That  they  winna  mak'  muckle  o'  noddin'  to  me. 

In  the  aaft  summer-gloamin*  I  nit  at  my  door, 
An'  tin-re  they  cmne  troopin'  I'm  sure  near  a  score, 

i/  naftiu'— a  fairley  to  Me 
The  daft  -illy  taupie*  aye  noddin'  to  me. 

I'm  sure  if  they  kent  it,  I  want  nae  sic  trash, 
They  soon  wad  line  a'tl  uash  ; 

'  they're  aift>-r  I  i  liiinly  can  see, 
AD'  sae  they  keep  beckiu*  an'  uoddin  t 


170  MODERN   SCOTTISH    POETS. 

I  was  left  twa-three  hunner  by  auld  Grannie  Broon, 
I  was  helpfu'  to  her  when  a  young  country  loon  ; 
She  didna  forget  me,  the  body,  you  see, 
An1  that  is  the  reason  they're  noddin'  to  me. 

There's  an  auld  widow  body,  she  bides  up  the  stair, 
She  keeps  a;thing  richt-like,  an'  draws  in  my  chair ; 
Mak's  a  cosy  bit  dinner,  an'  pours  oot  my  tea, 
Sae  they  needna  be  fashin'  wi'  noddin'  to  me. 

I  will  ne'er  cheenge  my  life — aft  my  heart  it  is  sair, 
When  I  mind  on  the  time  I  was  left  in  despair — 
When  the  love  o'  my  youth  was  by  death  torn  frae  me, 
Ah  !  I  shall  remember  that  day  till  I  dee. 


THE     LANELY    HAME. 

I  am  my  father's  little  loon, — 
He  says  the  best  in  a'  the  toon  ; 
He  wadna  gie  me  for  a  croon — 
His  ain  wee  mannie. 

He  kaims  my  hair,  an'  dichts  my  mou', 
An*  gi'es  me  porridge  till  I'm  fu'  ; 
Syne  bids  me  rin  an  play  me  noo — 
His  ain  wee  mannie. 

He  says  my  hair  is  black  as  jet, 
An'  I  am  just  his  only  pet, 
That  I  will  be  a  braw  man  yet — 
His  ain  wee  mannie. 

He  tak's  me  up  upon  his  knee, 
An'  shares  wi'  me  his  drappi*  tea  ; 
An'  oh,  sae  guid  he  is  to  me — 
His  ain  wee  mannie. 

My  mammie  she  is  dead  an'  gane, 
An'  I've  to  bide  a'  day  my  lane  ; 
I  weary  sair  till  da  comes  hame — 
An'  greet  for  mammie. 

They  carried  her  sae  far  awa', 
An'  buried  her  amang  the  snaw  ; 
The  hooae  is  no  the  same  ava — 
For  want  o'  mammie. 

My  daddie  he  is  wae  an'  sad, 

There's  naething  noo  will  mak'  him  glad, 


ISABELLA    ROHERT80N.  171 

An*  though  he  lo'es  bin  ain  wee  lad- 
He  greets  for  mammie. 

He  flairs  she'll  no  come  back  nae  raair, 
She's  bidin*  noo  wi'  angels  fair  ; 
I'ID  wishin'  da  and  me  were  there — 
To  be  wi'  mammie. 


WELCOME,    BONNIE    SNAWDKAPS. 

Welcome,  bonnie  snawdraps,  sae  hricht,  sae  fresh,  an'  fair, 
Ye've  come  again  to  cheer  me,  an*  lichten  me  o'  care  ; 

0  weel  I  lo'e  the  summer  rose,  I  lo'e  the  daisies  fine, 

Yet  they  gie  me  nae  sic  pleasure  as  thae  pearly  draps  o'  thine, 
Peepin*  oot  sae  modest-luce  frae  'mang  the  wreaths  o'  snaw, 

1  will  be  laith  to  pairt  wi'  ye  when  winter  gangs  awa', 
Cauld  winter's  brocht  to  mony  hames  baith  poverty  an'  mane, 
But  noo  that  ye  are  bloomin*  rare  thae  ills  will  sune  be  gane. 

Ye've  come,  my  bonnie  floo'ries,  the  waefu'  hearts  to  cheer  ; 
To  anes  lang  ailin'  ye  proclaim  that  balmy  days  are  near, 
An*  mair  than  a',  ye  tell  us  o'  oor  Father's  love  an'  care, 
An*  sae  oor  hearts  are  lifted  up  an'  keepit  frae  dispair  ; 
My  bonnie  sweet  wee  fl«»o'ries,  ye're  lo'ed  by  ane  an'  a', 
Ye're  welcomed  by  the  lowly  cot,  an*  by  the  lordly  ha'. 


OH    THAE    BAIRNS. 

Sic  gilravagin'  an'  din, 
Kinnin'  oot  an'  rinnin'  in  ; 
Sic  a  clamour  an'  a  steer, 
Ram  pin'  there  an'  loupin'  here  ; 
My  held  is  like  to  rive  in  twa,— 
Sail  111  up  an'  thrash  ye  a*. 

Yet  baud  me  here  ;  my  he'rt  grows  saft, 
To  see  thae  bairns  wi'  fun  sae  daft ; 
I  maun  look  on  an*  let  them  be, 
An'  downa  stey  their  noisy  glee  ; 
Sae  loup  an'  fling  an*  dance  awa' 
My  bonnie  bairnies  ane  an'  a'. 

Happy  let  your  gambols  be, 
Wi'  rosy  cheek  an*  laughin'  e'e  ; 
Bairnhood  joys  will  snne  be  dune, 
Warldly  cares  come  aye  ower  sane  ; 
May  He  wha  watches  ower  us  a* 
Be  guide  to  mine  when  I'm  awa'. 


172  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

There's  my  wee  Jock — a  perfect  man  ; 
He's  sac  ta'en  up  wi'  little  Fan, 
Oor  neebour  bairnie,  through  the  wa', 
'Certy,  you  ne'er  saw  sic  a  twa  ; 
She— the  bonnie  sweet  wee  doo  ; 
He— the  gallant  leal  and  true  ; 
He  tak's  her  by  the  tiny  hand 
An'  leads  her  gently  ower  the  strand  ; 
Syne  sets  her  doon  upo'  the  green, 
As  if  she  were  a  verra  queen. 
An'  this  gaes  on  frae  day  to  day, 
An'  there  they  hae  their  little  say. 

Belyve  he  guides  her  hame  wi'  care 
An*  leaves  her  in  her  wee  airm-chair. 
My  blessin's  on  ye,  bairnies  twa  ; 
May  nae  ill  on  your  we«  heids  fa' ; 
The  saut  tear  aften  dims  my  e'e 
When  thinkin'  what  your  lives  may  be. 


ROBERT     TROTTER 

MAS  a  son  of  the  chief  of  the  old  Border  Clan  of 
Trotter,  one  of  the  most  turbulent  of  the 
clans  located  on  the  Scottish  side  of  the  Tweed.  He 
was  born  at  New  Galloway,  Kirkcudbrightshire,  in 
1798,  and  was  the  fourth  and  surviving  son  of  Dr 
Robert  Trotter,  the  famous  Muir  Doctor  of  the  Glen- 
kens,  vrho,  as  we  have  said,  was  the  head  or  chief  of 
the  clan.  They  were  originally  chiefs  of  the  abori- 
ginal Pictish  clan  MacTrottar,  and  were  at  the  close 
of  the  Brucian  wars  transferred  from  Carrick  to 
Tweedside,  where  they  received  lands  in  the  parish  of 
Eccles,  on  condition  of  "  herrying  the  English,"  a  duty 
they  performed  with  great  assiduity.  The  clan  suf- 
fered severely  at  the  hands  of  Cromwell,  who  described 
them  as  a  "  pest  of  hornets,"  and  blew  up  their  peels 


ROBERT  TROTTER.  173 

of  Prentonan,  Quickwood,  and  Charterhall  with  gun- 
powder. Shortly  after  the  whole  of  the  family  estates 
were  sold,  and  the  proceeds  sent  off  to  support  Charles 
II.  when  in  exile — the  merry  monarch  promising  to 
replace  them  twofold  from  the  lands  of  the  rebels,  and 
to  confer  a  patent  of  nobility  with  them,  when  he 
came  to  his  own  again.  But  as  usual  he  did  not  keep 
either  promise.  The  dissappointed  laird  retired  to 
Edinburgh,  where  his  eldest  son  Robert  entered  the 
medical  profession,  and  was  one  of  the  founders  of  the 
Royal  College  of  Physicians  there  in  1681,  and  the 
second  President  in  1694.  With  one  exception  his 
representatives  have  been  medical  men  ever  since. 

Notwithstanding  their  treatment  by  Charles  II., 
the  Trotters  attached  themselves  to  both  the  Preten- 
ders, furnishing  them  with  money,  and  receiving 
promises  of  lands  and  titles  in  return,  and  came  to 
grief  as  usual  in  consequence.  This  famous  "  Muir 
Doctor,"  probably  on  account  of  his  Jacobite  propen- 
s,  had  a  very  extensive  practice  among  the  nobility 
:in«l  gentry,  and  was  noted  in  his  time  on  account  of 
having  discovered  a  remedy  for  frambesia  or  v 
then  i  vi TV  j>n-\;tlent  and  dangerous  disease,  now 
almost  unknown.  He  was  a  sporting  man,  and  had 
one  of  the  best  studs  of  r:u.vh«.r>es  and  pens  of  fighting 
cock  south  of  Seuthuid.  I )r  Trotter  wrote  a 

ible  amount  of  poetry,  chiefly  of  a  sarcastic 
f   which  tw..  -(Mcimeus  are  here  given.     He 
die.l  in  1815,  in  his  77th  year. 


TO    A    NOBLE    GENTLEMAN. 


O,  «ay  deceiver  I  who  can  proudly  boast 

<  »f  .ill  the  female  conauents  you  have  won  ; 
Can  make  the  subject  of  some  ribald  toast 

•-•hood  has  uii'loric. 

Thi:.  retribution  i«  asleep, 

Wh  *s  weep? 


174  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

0,  proud  deceiver !  while  with  sneering  frown 

You  spurn  the  wretched  you  yourself  decoyed  ; 
How  can  you  calmly  with  contempt  look  down 
Upon  the  ruined  virtue  you  destroyed? 
Think  you  not  vengeance  only  waits  its  time 
To  recompense  such  dastard  crime  ? 

0,  vile  deceiver  !  sneaking,  perjured  wretch  ! 

What  loving  hearts  your  falsehoods  have  beguiled  ; 
What  fond  affections  your  vile  heart  could  watch, 
Till  through  their  love  for  you  they  sank  defiled  ; 
Think  you  that  justice  on  the  earth  is  dead, 
And  hangs  not  o'er  your  head  ? 

O,  curs'd  deceiver  !  there  shall  come  a  time, — 

And  even  you  shall  writhe  beneath  its  force, — 
When  ruined  maids  shall  come  to  cast  each  crime 
To  add  unto  the  torments  of  your  curse  ; 

Your  cries  for  mercy  mix  with  every  moan — 
And  mercy  you'll  find  none. 


THE     LAIRD'S     SOLILOQUY. 

I'm  Turkey  Jock  Miller,  there's  ne'er  sic  anither, 
I'm  laird  o'  Glenlee,  a  great  man  a'thegither  ; 
Fifty  fat  wethers  like  rattons  I'll  smother, 

An'  eat  them  mysel'  at  the  Mill  o'  Glenlee. 

My  body's  sae  big  wi*  the  wecht  o'  my  paunches, 
The  fat  o'  my  back  it  hings  over  my  haunches, 
And  makes  me  unable  to  kiss  the  brisk  wenches, 
When  I  lift  my  rants  at  the  Mill  o1  Glenlee. 

When  I  am  dead  they  11  say—"  Here  lies  a  fat  one  ;  " 
Ithers'll  say — "  He's  a  drunkard  and  glutton  ;  " 
They  may  say  what  they  will,  for  I'll  feast  on  fat  mutton, 
And  die  like  a  lord  at  the  Mill  o'  Glenlee. 

I've  gorged  and  I've  guzxled,  I've  worried  and  riven, 
But  once  I  am  buried  'twill  all  be  forgiven, 
And  they'll  write  up— "Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven  ;' 
This  famous  fat  laird  frae  the  Mill  o'  Glenlee. 


Dr  Robert  Trotter,  son  of  the  subject  of  the  fore- 
going sketch  and  selections,  was,  at  an  early  age,  sent 
to  Worsley  Mills,  Yorkshire,  where  he  was  apprenticed 
to  his  brother,  Dr  John  Trotter,  his  medical  educa- 


ROBERT   TROTTER.  175 

tion  being  obtained  at  Edinburgh.  He  practised 
for  many  years  at  Auchencairn,  Galloway,  and  in 
the  West  Highlands,  and  eventually  retired  to  his 
native  Glenkens,  where  he  died  in  1S75  in  his  77th 
year.  From  notices  in  the  newspapers  of  the  time  we 
glean  the  following  :  — 

Dr  Trotter  was  one  of  the  last  of  a  phalanx  of 
authors  produced  by  Galloway  in  the  early  part  of  the 
present  century.  For  nearly  two  hundred  years  the 
family  was  connected  with  Galloway,  and  for  several 
generations  its  members  were  distinguished  for  literary 
talent.  It  is  a  somewhat  singular  fact  that  his  grand- 
father, his  father,  his  brother,  and  all  his  five  sons, 
entered  the  medical  profession.  Dr  Trotter  wrote 
numerous  articles  and  brochures,  his  most  popular 
work  being  "  Herbert  Herries  :  a  Tale  of  Dundrennan 
Abbey."  He  was  acquainted  with  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
and  on  one  occasion  published  a  book  by  his  advice. 
He  also  contributed  to  "  Notes  and  Queries,"  and 
other  magazines  and  newspapers.  From  his  boyhood 
he  was  an  ardent  collector  of  antiquities,  and  he 
succeeded  in  gathering  one  of  the  most  valuable 
collections  in  the  south  of  Scotland.  He  devoted  the 
declining  years  of  his  life  exclusively  to  literary  and 
antiijimrian  pursuit  >,  and  left  behind  him  in  MS.  an 
interesting  autobiography,  containing  letters  from  a 
number  of  the  most  eminent  men  of  his  time,  refer- 
ences to  well-known  literary  men,  and  to  many 
<>f  the  old  Galloway  families,  besides  local  traditions, 
which  would  otherwise  have  been  buried  in  oblivion. 

,L      PROl'lM.y      THULI.S     THY     WITCHING     VOICE. 

Still  proudly  thrill*  thy  witching  voice, 

The  nweetfHt  of  the  »weet  ; 
And  still  the  airy  note*  rejoice 

Thy  fairy  hand 


I  knew  thee  when  'twa*  sweeter  Mill, 
Or  sweeter  seemed  to  be  ; 


MODERN   SCOTTISH  POETS. 

When  music  echoed  at  thy  will, 
With  magic  witchery. 

'Twas  ere  unmeaning  flattery,  free, 
Had  hung  upon  thy  song  ; 

'Twas  when  you  wished  for  only  me, 
Nor  sought  th'  applauding  throng. 

'Twas  when  thy  notes  for  me  alone 
Their  thrill  of  rapture  sent ; 

'Twas  when  the  magic  of  thy  tone 
With  love  alone  was  blent. 

I  care  not  that  thy  songs  may  swell 
Like  what  I  once  adored  ; 

If  once  the  heart  I  had  rebel, 
I  would  not  be  its  lord. 

Thy  heart  so  clear,  thy  faith  so  free, 
These  wove  my  spirit's  net ; 

Thy  beauty's  radiance  fades  to  me 
When  truth,  its  sun,  is  set. 


THE    TIMES    ABE    CHANGED. 

How  bright  and  how  beautiful  night  cometh  on, 
When  the  steeds  of  the  warriors  to  battle  have  gone  ; 
When  banners  are  waving  aloft  in  the  breeze, 
And  helms  gleaming  bright  in  the  shade  of  the  trees, 
And  claymores  were  glancing  as  morning  arose 
As  bright  as  the  sun  on  Cormilligan's  snows. 

But  times  are  now  changed,  and  religion  hath  laid 
The  mail-armed  knight  by  the  gentle  young  maid, 
For  whom  his  right  arm  in  his  chivalry  drew 
The  claymore,  in  battle  avenging  and  true. 

.Religion  hath  come  like  an  angel  of  light, 

And  blazoned  our  country  all  radiant  and  bright ; 

Those  times  are  all  changed,  and  the  warriors  at  rest, 

And  the  grief-stricken  heart  is  with  happiness  blest. 

The  orange  tree  yieldeth  its  blossoms  of  white, 

And  the  maiden  is  blest  with  her  gallant  young  knight, 

And  joyously  raises  her  thanksgiving  song, 

While  sweet  flowers  are  blooming  her  Eden  among. 

The  times  they  are  changed,  and  Religion  we  find 
Makes  man  to  his  brother  true-hearted  and  kind  ; 


ROBERT  DE  BRUCE  TROTTER.          177 

*Tis  the  friend  of  the  friendless,  of  aye  the  resource, 
In  eloquence  strong  as  the  stream  in  it*  omr-e  : 
The  joy  of  the  righteous,  the  hlemin^  which  heaven 
To  earth  in  its  merciful  goodoeM  huth  ^iven  ; 
And  seraphs  are  flinging  their  thank^'iving  nong, 
And  Eden  IH  blooming  our  valleys  among. 


ROBERT  DE  BRUCE  TROTTER 

S  the  eldest  son  of  the  foregoing,  and  present  "head 
of  the  clan."  He  was  born  in  1833  at  Dalbeattie, 
in  <iallo.\ay.  When  he  was  about  four  months  old  his 
father  removed  to  the  picturesque  village  of  Auehen- 
cairn,  in  the  Parish  School  <>f  which  our  poet  received  his 
education.  Although  he  left  school  when  very  young, 
he  was,  however,  an  excellent  classical  scholar.  After 
som-  \j><'rieiice  in  a  law  office  in  (Jla-o-w,  and 

in  civil  elicit.  •  -ring,  he  went  abroad,  and  passed  several 
in  the  tropics.  Having  great  aptitude  in  pick- 
ing ii|>  1  he  acquired  a  knowledge  of  Spanish, 
Portuguese,  Chinese,  llindustaiiee,  Bengalee,  Tamil, 
and  Telegu,  with  a  smattering  of  several  others — 
writing  Tamil  to  :  o  fluently  in  their  native 
alphabets. 

On   account    of     having    s»itl«-ivd     for    four   years 

severely  with  ague,  caught  in  South   America,  he  was 

rtluotantly  obliged    t<>    return    to    Britain    in   order  to 

he    hrul    been    much  thrown  in 

•i  medical  matt-T-,  he  resolved    to   enter  the 

medical  pr  1    with  tl  *    in    \iew  he 

I 

and  i     • 

tiiu  .  '          •      t tou in  genera] 


178  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

education  with  special  honours,  and  taking  high  First 
Class  in  Surgery,  Practice  of  Medicine,  and  Physiology, 
and  the  Highest  First  Class  in  Materia  Medica  and 
Therapeutics.  In  the  Andersonian  Chemical  Society 
he  obtained  the  second  prize  (1861)  for  au  essay  on 
"  The  Chemistry  of  Sugar ;  "  and  in  a  prize  essay  on 
the  "Ohemistry  of  Fermentation,"  read  before  the 
same  Society  in  1862,  he  advanced  the  theory  that 
cholera,  typhus,  scarlatina,  smallpox,  and  diseases  of  a 
febrile  character  generally,  were  caused  by  the  intro- 
duction and  multiplication  in  the  blood  of  micro- 
organisms, allied  in  many  respects  to  those  causing  the 
various  forms  of  fermentation,  and  argued  that  all 
fevers  should  be  treated  by  the  administration  of  such 
substances  as  should  be  found  by  experiment  to  be 
capable  of  poisoning  the  specific  organism  or  ferment 
of  each  particular  fever.  For  introducing  this  "  ab- 
surd and  ridiculous  theory,"  as  it  was  styled,  although 
it  is  now  in  general  acceptation,  his  essay  was  awarded 
the  second  prize  instead  of  the  first,  to  which  it  would 
otherwise  have  been  entitled. 

On  becoming  qualified,  our  poet  commenced  prac- 
tice on  his  own  account  in  the  ancient  town  of  Bed- 
lington,  Northumberland,  where  he  rapidly  took  up  a 
prominent  position.  Having  in  the  course  of  profes- 
sional duties  successively  contracted  typhus,  diphtheria, 
and  scarlatina,  he  removed  to  Wigtonshire,  where  he 
married  and  remained  for  four  years.  Getting  tired, 
however,  of  the  inactivity  of  a  country  practice,  he 
returned  to  Northumberland,  where  his  four  brothers 
were  settled  as  doctors,  and  took  up  his  former  con- 
nection, acting  for  many  years  as  surgeon  and  joint- 
surgeon  to  some  of  the  largest  collieries  .hi  England. 
In  1872  he  originated  the  "Northumberland  and 
Durham  Medical  Association,"  the  largest  medical 
society  out  of  London,  of  which  he  was  for  a  long 
period  secretary.  He  went  largely  into  politics, 


ROBERT  DB  BRUCE  TROTTER.          179 

and    was    for    many    years    a    prominent    member 

of  the  Bedlingtonshire  Sanitary  Reform  Association, 
and  of  the  Bedlingtonshire  Local  liourd  of  Health,  by 
means  of  which  the  sanitary  condition  of  the  district 
was  immensely  improved,  and  generally  he  did  much 
to  advance  the  social,  political,  and  moral  condition  of 
the  people.  In  the  midst  of  a  busy  life,  he  found  time 
to  lecture  all  over  the  district  on  political,  social,  and 
scientific  topics,  and  in  1877  he  edited  and  published 
a  book  called  "Galloway  Gossip  Sixty  Years  Ago,"  a 
quaint  collection  of  his  mother's  fireside  tales  and 
anecdotes  connected  with  that  district.  It  is  embel- 
lished with  quaint  and  very  clever  initial  letters  and 
headings,  cut  out  with  his  penknife  during  his  noctur- 
nal vigils  by  the  bedsides  of  his  lady  patients.  This 
now  exceedingly  rare  and  much  valued  volume  con- 
tains a  few  specimens  of  his  poetry.  Most  of  his 
pieces  were  published  in  the  Kirkcudbriyhtxhirc 
Advert ixer  and  the  d'ulloicay  Gazette,  to  the  latter  of 
which  he  has  been  a  frequent  contributor  from  its 
commencement.  A  long  series  of  descriptive  articles 
entitled  -A  Voyage  to  the  Glenkens"  attracted  much 

did   also  a  series  of  about  forty   : 
illustrating  the  prevalent   superstitions  of  Galloway,  a 

b  is  not  yet  compl* 

In    1.SSO    l)r  Trotter   made   up   his    mind    to  retire 
from  practice,  and  emigrate  to  a  warmer  climate,  but 
he  wa*  induri-d  in  •_'"   instead    to    Perth,  in  which  city 
in  as  active    practice  as  ever.      He  is 
.lent  of  the  I'erth  'iation,  and  a 

;i    of   the    Perthshire    Society   of    Natural 
Science,   and    is  a  member  of  the   Ayr    and    Wilton 
•;ety.      He  is  aU«>  a  frnjueiit  lecturer 
on  ai  .'-al,  microscopic,  ethnological,  and   medi- 

cal subjects. 

Afterwai  ;  Mii-mj.i.-d     p,.  ad     humorous 


180  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

pieces,  with  the  usual  "sprinkling  of  spooney  isms." 
Although  Dr  Trotter  lias  naturally  a  keen,  sarcastic, 
and  humorous  vein,  iiis  inter  productions  are  note- 
worthy for  their  lively  patriotism,  and  a  warm  sym- 
pathy with  the  finer  feelings  of  our  common  humanity. 
Some  of  his  racy  pieces  evince  fine  perception  of  the 
ridiculous,  and  a  lively  sense  of  incongruity,  abound- 
ing in  rich  and  fresh  humour ;  while  his  more  reflec- 
tive poems  are  very  fanciful  and  highly  poetic,  and 
show  the  scholar  as  well  as  the  thoughtful  observer. 

THE    IVY. 

Low  in  a  sheltered  smiling  vala, 
Secure  from  every  boisterous  gale, 

A  lovely  sapling  grew  ; 
The  creeping  ivy  at  its  feet, 
With  soothing  accents,  calm  and  sweet, 

Thus  speaking,  rose  to  view, 
"  To  love  you  is  my  only  joy." 
It  lied,  it  wanted  to  destroy. 

"  Oh  !  let  me  at  thy  feet  recline, 
Around  thy  graceful  trunk  entwine, 

Along  thy  branches  grow, 
I'll  shield  thee  from  the  raging  storm, 
I'll  deck  with  leaves  thy  beauteous  form 

Amid  the  winter's  snow. 
Oh  !  let  me  thy  support  enjoy," 
And  yet  it  meant  but  to  destroy. 

On  sweet  voluptuous  joys  intent, 
The  yielding  sapling  breathes  consent, 

The  ivy  mounted  high  ; 
At  first  with  tender  anxious  care, 
Distrust  nor  fear  to  waken  there  ; 

Insidious,  bland,  and  sly, 
To  grace  that  sapling  seemed  its  joy, 
It  graced  it  only  to  destroy. 

The  tree  beheld  with  glowing  pride 
The  graceful  ivy  deck  its  side  ; 

And  trusting,  chaste,  and  young, 
With  pride  its  kind  embrace  receives, 
With  pride  it  views  the  glittering  leaves, 

That  round  it  closely  clung  ; 


ROBERT  DE  BRUCK  TROTTER.          181 

And  dreamt  not  in  its  pride  and  joy 
It  clung  so  closely  to  destroy. 

Alas  !  the  ivy's  gentle  clasp 
Changed  to  a  clone,  a  deadly  grasp, 

Around  the  trusting  tree  ; 
Too  late  it  knew  the  treacherous  lie, 
It  could  but  droop,  nnd  fade  and  die  : 

The  ivy  laughed  with  glee. 
The  sapling  dreamed  of  love  and  joy, 
The  ivy  loved  but  to  destroy. 

Even  as  some  maiden,  warm  and  young, 
Trusts  in  her  swain's  deceitful  tongue, 

Her  bosom  glows  with  pride, 
To  think  that  loved  one  is  her  own  ; 
Till  virtue  yielded,  honour  gone, 

He  only  will  deride. 
The  artless  fond  confiding  toy 
He  loved — but  only  to  destroy. 


GENTEEL    HOSPITALITY. 

The  Royal  Bruce  in  ancient  times  when  huntin'  lost  his  way, 
And  wander M  till  the  chid*  o'  nicht  had  droun't  the  sinkin'  day. 
Worn  out  wi'  hunger  an'  fatigue,  till  he  could  scarcely  stan', 
He  wauchel't  to  an  aul'  wife's  cot— She  speer't  "  Whanr  are  ye 
gaun  ?  " 

"  Come  rest  ye  ;  wall  ye  no  come  in  ? 

Come,  stranger,  come  awa, 
Ve're  welcome."     Low  she  muttered  then — 
"Say  Na,  say  na." 

The   Monarch  glower't—  the  crone   was  deaf— she  didnit  ken  he 

heard, 
Bat   mutterin'   toom't  her  porritch  oot,  and  tair  his  comfort 

marred — 

"  I  wi«h  the  nupper  had  been  l>y  afore  the  dyvour  came, 
The  hungry  lo<m  '11  t-.it  u-  up,  ay,  not  of  house  an*  hame/'J 

ip  yer  wa'»,  kind  Kir,"  she  sayn, 
"  Noo  try  an'  aup  them  a', 
My  word  !  ye're  welcome,  come  yer  ways — 
Say  na." 

Gentility  ha*  ne'er  forgot  the  crone's  delightful  art, 
Aye  hospitable  wi'  the  Him,  but  seldom  wi'  tin-  heart. 

iii  ntill  rnak'tt  an  ftwln  fnss  when  some  aul'  freen  comes  in— 
41  Jew,  bring  some  whiskey  frae  the  shop,  an'  mind  you  limmer, 

rib," 


182  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

There  micht  be  gallons  in  the  house, 

The  shop  a  mile  awa, 
His  heart  was  whisperin',  though  sae  crouse — 

"Say  na." 

Some  neebour  wife  comes  drappin'  in  ye  didna  want  to  see, 
Your  wife  cries  "  Fit  yer  bonnet  aff,  an'  stay  an'  tak'  yer  tea, 
An'  hoo  is  John,  an'   hoo's  the  wean  ?    ye  micht  a'  brocht  them 

too, 

Noo  never  say  ye  canna  wait — pit  aff  yer  bonnet — do. 
The  ribe  !  whatever  brocht  her  here, 

I  hope  she'll  gang  awa." 
She  wished  she  wud,  to  a'  she'd  speir, 
Say  na. 

Got  p'  politeness  they'll  invite  a  stranger  to  the  house, 

An'  if 'he's  fule  eneuch  to  gang,  they'll  look  sae  grave  an'  douce, 

They'll  speer  sae  stiffly  for  his  freens.     "  Ye'll  bide  a  month  or 

inair. " 

They'll  say,  while  wonnerin'  a'  the  time,  what  deevil  sent  him 
there. 

"  We'll  be  sae  glad  to  pit  ye  up, 

Noo  dinna  gang  awa'." 
Their  hearts  are  quiverin'  like  a  whup — 
"  Say  na." 

If  some  acquaintance  or  some  freen  should  ask  ye  oot  to  dine, 

He'll  keep  invitin'  ye  to  eat,  an'  no'  to  spare  the  wine, 

He'll  heap  yer  plate — wi'  bad  champagne  he'll  want  to  fill  yer 

bowl, 

And  grudge't  as  if  each  bite  an'  sowp  was  chirted  through  his 
sowl. 

He'll  ask  ye  to  come  aften  back, 

Ye'll  scarce  can  get  awa', 
Though  Truth  still  mutters  through  a  crack, 
"Say  na." 

If  ye'll  gang  oot  an'  tak'  yer  tea,  the  minute  ye  begin, 
The  man  cries  "Bring  some  jeely  oot,"  or  "Fetch  the  honey  in,'' 
Or  "Set  us  doun  some  ham."    The  wife  ^its  silent  as  a  mouse, 
They  hae'na  got,  she  kens  fu'  weel,  sic  things  in  a'  the  house. 
He  swears  the  wife'll  fetch  them  ben, 

"  If  ye'd  like  ane  or  a'," 
Their  hearts  are  whisperin'  strong  ye  ken — 
"Say  na." 

Sic  freenly  folk,  a  stranger  thinks,  they're  kindly,  can  he  doot? 
Sa»  hospitable  they  appear  until  he  fin's  them  oot, 
He  snne  can  see  they  offer  maist  thae  things  he  canna  tak', 
An1  if  he  yields  when  they  insist,  they  never  ask  him  back. 


ROBERT    DB   BRUCE   TROTTER,  183 

The  raair  they  seem  uncommon  kind, 

Innistin',  sweet,  an'  a', 
The  niair  they're  whisperin'  in  their  mind— 

44  Say  na." 

\V  E  E     M  A  R  y  . 

Its  1)1  i-  eye-  sparkled  to  clear  and  bright, 

Ami  it  laughed  with  joyous  glee — 
It  laughed  and  it  crowed  with  mad  delight 

<t  danced  on  its  mother's  knee. 
How  her  heart  rejoiced  in  its  little  joys 

With  a  mother's  fondest  pride  ; 
How  hhe  loved  to  hear  its  happy  noise, 

And  she  wept  when  her  darling  cried  ; 
She  kissed  its  little  tears  away, 

Ami  she  blessed  it  when  it  mailed, 
And  hhe  fondled  it  close  to  her  doting  heart — 

Her  first,  her  only  child. 

It  danced  and  it  crowed  on  its  mother's  knee — 

It  yiive  one  fearful  gasp. 
She  shuddered— its  little  face  grew  black 

AH  it  writhed  in  her  shielding  clattp  ; 
It  could  not  breathe,  but  it  whispered  "  Ma''  — 

It  wax  all  her  child  could  say, 
A  nd  it  closed  its  eyes  in  the  sleep  of  death, 

For  its  spirit  had  passed  away. 
A  cold  thrill  hhot  through  her  sinking  heart, 

And  her  terror  was  deep  and  wild, 
As  she  strained  to  her  bosom  the  lifeless  form 

Of  her  6rnt,  her  only  chill. 

Breaking  her  heart  for  her  bright-eyed  girl, 
is  u  retched  and  lonely  now  ; 
Her  liu-liaml  is  trying  to  soothe  her  grief, 
Hu*  how  can  he  comfort— how  ? 
is  eye  still  rents  on  her  little  cot 
•  is  .standing  empty  there, 
And  lie  looks  «.n  the  toys  of  his  dear  wee  pet, 

[•air. 

irs  still  stream  o'er  her  thin  pale  face 
\\'i  I-M  she  thinks  how  her  darling  smiled  — 
How  the  cold  clay  covers  her  best-beloved — 
Her  first,  1          If 

She  is  happy  once  more,  and  she  smiles  again  — 
has  found  a  comfort  n 

mr  her  darling  chill 
With  a  gloomy  and  thoughtful  brow, 


184  MODERN    SCOTTISH   POETS. 

For  she  dreamed  that  she  looked  on  her  dear  wee  wean 

In  the  happy  heavens  above, 
And  it  cried  "Oh,  mother  !  I  want  you  here 

To  bask  in  our  Father's  love." 
It  smiled  on  her  heart  with  its  angel  face, 

And  its  eyes  so  sweet  and  mild, 
And  she  models  her  life  to  join  it  there — 

Her  first,  her  only  child. 

HAIR 

A  tattered  drunkard  staggers  along, 

He  falls  in  the  melting  snow, 
The  scorn  and  the  jest  of  the  passing  throng 

That  scoff  at  his  self-sought  woe. 
Ah  !  little  they  think  that  the  withered  cheek 

That  lies  on  the  mud-stained  ground, 
Was  a  mother's  pride  and  was  soft  and  sleek, 

And  ruddy  and  bright  and  round  ; 
That  the  lips  now  cursing  the  Powers  above 

Had  been  tutored  to  praise  and  prayer, 
Or  that  tear-dimmed  eyes  still  look  with  love 

On  a  lock  of  his  once  bright  hair. 

He  rises,  he  staggers  along  again, 

He  dashes  agrtinst  the  wall, 
He  struggles  to  steady  his  steps — in  vain  ! 

He  can  only  rise  to  fall, 
Till  a  woman  goes  past,  with  a  cold  hard  face, 

But  a  heart  still  soft  and  warm, 
For  she  turns  and  pities  his  dire  disgrace, 

And  she  leads  him  away  from  harm. 
Oh  !  why  in  her  eyes  do  the  tear-drops  start, 

As  she  looks  on  the  drunkard  there? 
Oh  !  she  treasures  in  love  on  her  once  light  heart, 

A  lock  of  his  bright  brown  hair. 

She  shudders !  she  knows  him  !  with  heart  distress't 

She  shrinks  in  the  deepest  shade  ; 
What  thoughts  arise  in  her  tortured  breast 

As  she  looks  on  the  wreck  she  made  ! 
For  she  loved  him  once,  and  his  heart  was  hers 

In  her  joyous  and  youthful  days  ; 
Oh  !  bitter  remorse  her  heart  bestirs, 

As  she  thinks  o'er  her  selfish  ways  ; 
Looking  back  to  the  eve  when  he  told  her  his  love, 

That  wretched  outcast  there, 
When  she  took  that  token  of  endless  love, 

That  lock  of  his  bright  brown  hair, 


ROBERT  DE  HRUCK  TROTTER,          185 

What  aweet  sad  thought*  of  the  buried  past 

Now  crowd  her  accusing  mind  ! 

'  clouds  of  sorrow  her  heart  o'ercast ; 

For  he  once  was  good  and  kind. 
She  had  told  that  wretched  ruined  man 

That  she  loved  him  heart  and  soul, 
Then  threw  him  aside  in  a  selfish  plan 

For  a  higher  and  brighter  goal ; 
And  he  plunged  in  vices  to  smother  his  love, 

And  he  drank  to  drown  his  care, 
And  she  scorned  him,  yet  treasured  all  else  above 

That  lock  of  his  once  bright  hair. 

Deeper  and  deeper  he  plunged  in  sin, 

Lower  and  lower  he  fell, — 
Dropped  like  a  star  from  the  sphere  she  was  in, 

Where  he  lighted  she  ne'er  could  tell. 
She  had  blighted  his  heart,  and  the  one  she  prized 

Had  a*  cruelly  spurned  her  own  ; 
Though  loved  awhile,  she  was  soon  despised, 

And  her  cherished  hopes  o'erthrown. 
Oh  !  she  lifted  her  tearful  eyes  above 

As  she  sank  in  her  dark  despair, 
And  she  treasured  with  deeper  and  purer  love 

The  lock  of  that  once  bright  hair. 

Oh  !  it  lights  up  a  glow  in  her  cheerless  heart 

As  she  looks  on  that  keepsake  now  ; 
And  the  scalding  tears  from  her  blue  eye*  start, 

As  she  thinks  of  her  broken  vow  : 
Keprnaches  rise  in  her  aching  breast, 

As  she  treasures  that  token  still, 
And  she  kisses  it  fondly,  and  sinks  to  rent 

With  a  sad  but  enraptured  thrill  : 
Her  dark  lone  heart  it  lien  above, 

Ah  !  fondly  she  keeps  it  there, 
And  her  tear-dimmed  eyes  still  look  with  love 

On  that  lock  of  his  once  bright  hair. 


186  MODERN    SCOTTISH   POETS. 


JAMES     TROTTER, 

at  Auchencairn,  Kirkcudbrightshire,  in  1842, 
is  a  brother  of  the  foregoing,  and  fourth  son  of 
Dr  Robert  Trotter  of  Glenkens.  He  received  the 
rudiments  of  his  education  in  his  native  place,  and  at 
Southend,  Argyllshire.  His  subsequent  education  was 
self-acquired.  On  removing  from  Kintyre  he  went  to 
the  Isle  of  Skye.  He  collected  from  oral  tradition 
numerous  legends  and  folk  lore,  some  of  which  he  after- 
wards published.  He  also  employed  himself  in  sketch- 
ing from  Nature  notable  scenes  and  antiquarian  remains, 
several  of  which  found  their  way  into  various  publica- 
tions. In  1872  Dr  Trotter  published  "  The  Banks  of 
Humford  Mill,"  in  verse,  and  in  the  same  year  was 
printed  at  Edinburgh  his  "Clachan  Fair,  a  Descriptive 
Poem  by  Bartholomew  Powhead,  Esq.,"  a  racy  and 
humorous  production  that  speedily  ran  through  several 
editions. 

On  removing  to  the  north  of  England  he  instituted 
"The  Bedlingtonshire  Sanitary  Reform  Association" 
for  improving  the  dwellings  and  surroundings  of  the 
Northumberland  miners  and  the  working  classes  of 
that  district.  He  also  became  one  of  the  founders  of 
the  school  of  "Bedlington  Radicals."  In  1872-73, 
along  with  Thomas  Glassey  and  Robert  Elliot,  author 
of  the  "  Pitman  gan  te  Parleymint,"  Dr  Trotter,  editor 
of  "Galloway  Gossip,"  and  others,  he  originated 
the  famous  ''Franchise  Movement"  in  the  Borough  of 
Morpeth.  Our  poet  was  appointed  Secretary,  fought 
the  franchise  question  through  the  law-courts,  and 
established  the  right  of  the  borough  miners  to  political 
citizenship,  eventuating  in  the  return  of  Thomas  Burt, 
a  Northumberland  miner,  as  the  first  working-man 
representative  in  the  House  of  Commons.  Dr  Trotter 


JAMES   TROTTER.  187 

is  joint  originator  of  "Eraser's  Blyth  and  Tyneside 
ictorial  Annual,"  in  which  for  several  years 
many  clever  productions  in  prose  and  verse  have 
emanated  from  his  pen.  He  first  began  to  write 
in  the  h'irkcudbriyhtxhire  Advertiser,  in  the  form 
of  songs  and  ballads,  and  numerous  songs,  poems,  and 
ballads  have  been  composed  by  him  from  time  to  time 
and  {MiMNird  in  "The  Border  Counties  Magazine," 

rth  of  England  Household  Magazine,"  Richard- 
son's and  Metcalfs  Almanacs,  "Eraser's  Poet's  Album," 
Ac.  One  of  Dr  Trotter's  productions—"  The  Song  of 

dom  " — has  been  widely  popular.  It  has  been 
translated  into  several  laniruaiies,  and  is  still  recited  in 

•hratres  and  music  halls  in  the  United  States 
«.n  the  anniversary  of  American  Independence.  All 
hi>  subjects  evince  the  true  poetic  faculty;  and, 
while  his  humour  is  rich  and  rollicking,  and  his 
satirical  vein  such  as  to  cause  those  who  come  under 
his  lash  to  remember  it,  he  has  written  many  poems 
full  of  a  natural  sweetness  and  pathos  that  commend 
irresistibly  to  the  affections  and  the  heart. 


THE    WEE    BRUCKJT    LASSIE. 


The  mm  has  s.  t,  the  tfloamin'a  come,  the  day  has  iflidrd  by, 
The  lassie*  liltin'  through  tin-  broom  are  caain'  haine  their  kye ; 
I'll  dauner  doun  th«-  clachan  brae  to  meet  the  ane  I  lu'e — 
My  wee,  u. •••  i.ruckit  lassie  that  milks  her  njammie's  coo. 

Wha  wadna  1"  ••  thi*  w.  e  hit  thirty,  Hue  winsome  ami  aae  free, 
The  Htnilin'  dimple  <>   \\<  r  chin,  her  merry  twinkling  e'e  ; 
Her  hair  aae  artleuM  h  ui^iiu-  doun,  hut  Miaded  frae  her  broo — 
My  wee,  wee  bruckit  lassie  that  milks  her  mammie's  coo. 

Yestreen,  wh»-n  up  the  Mnlloch  Knowe,  I  set  her  on  my  knee  ; 

will  you  leave  your  frit-ii's  and   C"iue  wi' 

ipdonn  <>ti  1 1..-    niHH  and  cried—"  I  wadna  K*nK  w'   y«»u" — 
My  \vf  .  wee  bruckit  lauie  that  milks  her  manimie'i  coo. 


188  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

And  when  I  asked  her  for  a  kiss,  she  turned  and  looked  sae  shy, 

Affected  wonder  in  her  face,  sae  modest  and  sae  coy, 

Then,  wheelin'  roun',  she  stamp'd  her  fit— "Sic  tricks  I'll  no 

aloo" — 
My  wee,  wee  bruckit  lassie  that  milks  her  mammie's  coo. 

She  gangs  on  Sundays  to  the  kirk,  sae  bonnie  and  sae  braw, 
And  haith  my  wee  thing  bears  the  gree,  the  belle  amang  them  a' ; 
But  then  she  winna  court  wi'  me,  she's  far  ow'r  young  to  woo — 
This  wee,  wee  bruckit  lassie  that  milks  her  mammie's  coo. 

SONG    OF    FKBEDOM. 

Hail  the  dawn  of  Freedom  breaking, 

Clouds  and  shadows  melt  away  ! 
Nations  !  from  your  slumbers  waking, 

Joyful  greet  the  blessed  ray  ! 
Freedom's  banner,  soul  entrancing, 

Blazons  wide  its  shrunken  fold  ; 
Manhood's  charter  still  advancing, 

Tyrants  trembling  to  behold. 
See  yon  motto  proudly  glancing  : — 

'*  Freedom  neither  bought  nor  sold." 


Not  with  sounding  drum  or  tabor, 

Seek  we  for  a  world's  applause  ; 
Rifled  gun  and  burnished  sabre 

Lend  no  triumph  to  our  cause. 
Heart  and  brain  our  weapons  ever. 

Logic  clear  and  reason  strong, 
Striving  in  one  grand  endeavour 

Aiding  right,  repelling  wrong  ; 
Planning,  scheming,  to  dis-sever 

Conquered  weak  from  tyrant  strong. 

Men  ar«  men  the  wide  world  over, 

Kings  and  despots  nothing  more  ; 
Man  of  man  should  be  a  lover, 

Never  shed  a  brother's  gore. 
Mark  the  fruits  of  mad  ambition, 

Grief  and  sorrow,  want  and  toil, 
Bound  in  chains  of  dark  tradition, 

Circling  like  a  serpent's  coil ; 
Linked  by  gloomy  superstition, 

Brooding  o'er  some  wretched  broil. 

Who  shall  say  our  work  is  treason, 
Truth  and  Justice  by  our  side ; 


JAMBS   TKOTTBR.  189 


may  triumph  for  a  season, 
:it  is  right  whate'er  betide  ; 
Hail  the  march  of  Education, 

Future  history's*  guiding  star, 
Mighty  friend  of  Arbitration, 
Destined  foe  of  hateful  war, 
Blending  in  one  glorious  nation 
Tribes  and  peoples  from  afar. 


CHRISTIAN    ASPIRATIONS. 


Oh  for  a  heart !— one  mighty  heart ! 

To  beat  responsive  to  our  own, 
As  hopes  decay  and  joys  depart, 

To  guide  us  to  the  realms  unknown. 

Oh  for  the  power  !— the  magic  power  ! 

Those  happy  moments  to  recall, 
Ere  rice  had  nipped  each  budding  flower, 

Which  after  pleasure  steeped  in  gall. 

Oh  for  the  task  !— the  blessed  task  ! 

Oar  wretched  passions  to  destroy  ; 
The  bnares  of  Satan  to  unmask, 

And  free  the  soul  from  guilt's  alloy. 

Oh  for  an  arm  !— a  giant  arm  ! 

To  succour  all  the  virtuous  poor ; 
To  bear  aloft  'mid  wreck  and  storm 

The  gospel  flag  from  shore  to  shore. 

Oh  for  the  time  !— the  hallowed  time  ! 
When  all  mankind  shall  brethren  be  ; 

When  men  shall  learn  the  truth  sublime- 
That  God's  the  Lord  of  Liberty. 

Oh  for  the  day  ! — the  glorious  day  !; 

When  men  and  nations  all  shall  own 
That  heaven  has  lent  its  brightest  ray 

To  light  us  to  the  Father's  throne. 

r  the  hour  .'—the  sacred  hour  ! 
\Vh<  n  Nature's  weary  paths  are  trod  ; 
To  hail  beyond  t  . 

A  refuge  in  ..ur  Savii.uMiod. 


190  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

THE    BEGGAR'S    FATE. 

0  lassie  dinna  steek  your  door, 
Nor  turn  frae  me  wi'  cauld  disdain  ; 

For  pity's  sake,  oh,  let  me  in, 

And  shield  me  frae  the  wind  and  rain  ! 

I'm  auld  and  frail,  my  claithin's  thin, 
My  limbs  are  numb,  I'm  like  to  fa" ; 

My  heart  is  sick,  I  canna  thole 
The  piercin'  sleet  and  driftin'  snaw. 

Tho'  pinched  wi'  hunger,  frost  and  cauld, 
This  lee  Jang  day  I've  wandered  wide  ; 

But  still  I'm  spurned  frae  ilka  door, 
And  scorn  and  want  are  sair  to  bide. 

I've  stood  where  comrades  focht  and  fell, 
Beneath  auld  Scotland's  banner  blue  ; 

And  shared  their  fame  when  glory  led 
The  auld  Black  Watch  at  Waterloo. 

But  fourscore  years  hae  thinned  my  blude 
I'm  doylt  and  donnart,  worn  and  poor  ; 

And  now  that  youthfu'  vigour's  gane, 
I'm  forced  to  beg  frae  door  to  door. 

The  nicht  is  wild,  the  muirland  drear, 
I've  nane  to  guide  me  on  my  way  ; 

Ha'e  pity  then  an  let  me  bide, 
I'll  leave  y«  by  the  screich  o'  day. 

Wi'  tremblin'  voice  the  auld  aian  spak', 
The  saut  tears  tricklin'  frae  his  e'e  ; 

He  weened,  at  last,  his  ways  had  sprung 
Some  spark  o'  Christian  charity. 

And  weel  his  wan  and  wasted  form 
Micht  melt  a  heart  o'  granite  stane  ; 

But  lang  ere  half  his  tale  was  tauld 
The  lassie  frae  the  door  had  gane. 

The  snaw  had  dimmed  his  aged  e'en, 

He  cleared  his  sicht — nae  help  was  there  ; 

Ae  hopeless  glance  he  cast  around, 
Then  turned  away  in  mute  despair. 

The  mornin'  dawned  on  hill  and  dale, 
That  circled  roun'  that  stately  Ha', 

And  fand  the  beggar  stiff  and  cauld, 
His  windin'  sheet  a  wreath  o'  snaw  ! 


ISABELLA    TROTTER.  191 


ISABELLA    TROTTER. 

BEFORE  leaving  this  poetic  and  literary  family, 
we  might  add  that  Miss  Trotter,  daughter  of 
Dr  Robert  Trotter,  who,  as  we  have  seen,  practised  as 
a  surgeon  in  the  Glenkens  for  upwards  of  fifty-five 
years,  wrote  several  tales,  poems,  &c.  Their  relative, 
Lady  Abercromby  of  Birkenbog,  established  her  in  a 
school  at  Moffat,  procuring  her  many  pupils.  The 
school,  notwithstanding  this  patronage,  was  unsuccess- 
ful, and  Miss  Trotter  went  into  several  families  as 
governess.  Extracts  from  her  journal  at  this  period, 
entitled  "  Leaves  from  the  Journal  of  a  Dumfriesshire 
Governess,"  appeared  in  a  local  newspaper.  In  1822 
she  published  a  small  volume,  entitled  "  Family 
Mi  -in.  .!r>,"  which  was  in  effect  a  life  of  her  father.  It 
had  a  ready  sale.  Her  tale  "The  Four  Glenkens 
Ministers,"  was  published  in  1826  in  Bennet's  Dumfries 

tzine,  and  from  thence  was  copied  into  Nicholson's 

!lo\vay  Tales,"  and  reprinted  in  "  Gallovidiana." 
Afterwards  the  Rev.  Dr  Gordon  procured  her  the  post 
of  mistress  «-f  Leven  Lodge  School,  Edinburgh,  where 
she  resided  several  years  and  acquired  some  property. 
II'  r  rigid  adherence  to  Free  Church  principles  during 

height  of  the  Disruption  controversy  is  said  to 
have  caused  her  to  lose  this  situation.  She  afterwards 

ht  :t  school  at  Preston-holm,  near  Lass  wade,  where 
she  died,  after  a  short  illness,  in  1847.  We  are  only 
able  to  give  a  portion  from  a  single  specimen  of  her 
muse. 

HOME. 

Home  !  happy  home  !  thrice  happy  they  who  call 

It  -urli.  und  tin. I  it  so.     Thrice  huppy  they 
\VI...  titxto  with  feeling  fttmt  ita  dear  delight", 
lu  ,  and  tranquil  pleasure's  flow. 


192  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

Ye  little  birds  !  ye  have  a  home  !  the  shade 
Your  covert  green,  your  shelter,  and  a  calm 
Retreat :  but  I  have  none— of  all  bereft. 
My  home  !  my  home  !  where  is  my  home  !  I  cried, 
And  echo  answered  where.     Worn  with  fatigue 
And  fainting  weak,  a  humble  cottage  now 
I  reached,  and  trembling  rai«ed  the  latch  :  in  vain 
I  tried  to  move,  in  vain  essayed  to  speak. 

Clad  in  the  dark 

Habiliments  of  woe,  an  aged  form 
I  saw  reclined  upon  a  wooden  seat. 
Close  by  her  well  worn  Bible,  and  a  few 
Decaying  embers  on  a  cheerless  hearth, 
With  fitful  glare  the  glimmering  light  that  on 
Her  pallid  features  shone,  the  ghastly  hue 
Of  death  disclosed.     The  lengthened  sigh  that  from 
My  bosom  heaved  her  fixed  attention  caught, 
And  as  she  raised  her  beamless  eye,  'twas  for 
A  moment  lighted  up,  a  transient  gleam 
Of  mingling  joy  with  recollected  grief, 
Which  for  an  instant  flushed  her  sallow  cheek. 
It  was  my  mother,  but  how  sadly  changed 
The  deepening  furrows  told,  the  hues  of  woe 
That  marked  her  careworn  face.     It  was,  alas  ! 
My  mother,  but  'twas  not  her  wonted  smile 
Of  glowing  warm  affection,  it  was  not 
The  joyful  glance  of  pleasure,  or  the  grasp 
Of  cordial  welcome,  but  a  hand  so  cold 
It  chilled  my  heart,  and  life's  warm  current  froze. 
'Twas  sorrow's  apathy,  and  penury's  icy  grasp 
With  misery's  saddened  gaze,  which  dark  despair 
Had  pictured  there.     I  saw  and  felt  it  all, 
Then  saw  and  felt  no  more,  but  sought  in  sweet 
Insensibility  oblivion  of  my  woes.     And  this  was  Home. 


GEORGE     NEIL 

AS  born  in  1858  at  Whiteletts,  a  village  distant 
about  two  miles  from  Ayr.  His  father  was 
then  employed  in  a  colliery,  but,  through  taking  an 
active  part  in  a  great  and  lengthened  strike,  he  was, 
on  the  resumption  of  work,  discharged.  As  the  house 


OEOROB   NEIL.  193 

occupied  by  the  parents  of  our  poet  belonged  to  the 
Company,  th.  <iuit  it,  and  In-  was  bora  on  the 

morning  of  the  day  on  which  the  factor  came  to  per- 
form the  disagreeable  duty  of  "eviction."  They  were, 
however,  allowed  to  remain  a  few  days  on  the  father 
promising  to  "  stay  in  the  house,  and  keep  the  doors 
and  windows  closed."  On  the  mother's  recovery,  they 
removed  to  Ayr,  afterwards  to  Glasgow,  aud  subse- 
itly  to  Tollcross,  a  village  three  miles  to  the  west 
lasgow.  Here  they  remained  about  eleven  years, 
and  they  ar»-  next  found  at  Middlequarter,  and,  three 
years  after,  at  Burraclmic,  a  small,  village  on  the 
Airdric  and  Bathu'ate  road.  The  cause  of  so  many 
rem«  i  the  intemperate  habits  of  the 

father,  fr«nu  whom  they  were  ultimately  compelled  to 
;rate.     Their  circumstances  were  very  straitened, 
for  the  duty  of  providing  for  five  children  devolved  on 
the  mother,  who  strove  bravely  to  bring  them  up. 

is  the  only  one  who  received  what  might 
be   termed    "  a  smattering  "    of  education.      He    was 
early  at   work,   and   his  life   has  been  full  of  varied 
On  leaving  school,  he  was  first  employed 
in  a  foundry,  next  in  a  baker's  shop,  and  successively 
l.y  B  drapter,  and  a  carrier.      He  then  worked  in  a  coal 
and  afterwards  served  seven  years  in  the  army. 
r.  as  a  soldier  he  for  a  time  embraced  the 
'.lent  opportunities  of  mental  culture  allonled  by  a 
mil  it  and    inialitiud    himself    for    promotion. 

Although   wKen   a  lu<l  of   thirteen  he  had    made   an  at- 
tempt at   v.  i    ifyi]  not  till  with  his  regiment — 
i  :tth  I'ri:  lit  Infantry,  t ' 

.  i.st    India     -that    he    mttte    "  M»w   can    I 

which    appeared    in    the 

i  <imial."      These    wen-    the 

•y  many 

principally  on  orue 

uich    htrnmr  |M.pui.ir.       !!<•    a! ...  wn.te  news  items 
M 


194  MODERN  SCOTTISH  POETS. 

and  prose  articles  for  the  Madras  Journal  and  several 
Indian  newspapers.  On  his  return  home,  some  four 
years  ago,  he  was  for  a  period  traveller  for  a  drapery 
establishment,  and  he  is  now  in  business  on  his  own 
account  as  a  tailor  and  clothier. 

Mr  Neil's  productions  have  frequently  a  place  in 
the  poet's  corner  of  the  Glasgow  Weekly  Mail,  the 
Dundee  Weekly  News,  the  Hamilton  Advertiser,  <fec. 
His  temperance  verses  have  the  true  elevating  ring 
about  them,  while  his  songs  on  love  and  home  and 
country  are  tender,  sweet,  and  patriotic,  and  such  as 
find  a  responsive  echo  in  all  hearts. 

HE'S    COMIN'    HAME    TO    ME. 

I've  had  a  letter  frae  my  love,  an'  oh  !  hoo  glad  to  tell, 
My  bosom  heaved  wi  boun'less  joy  to  learn  that  he  is  well, 
For  oh  !  it's  lang  sin'  he  left  hame  to  cross  the  angry  gea, 
But,  thank  kin'  Providence,  my  love  is  comin'  hame  to  me. 

He's  comin'  hame  to  me — yes,  me, 

He's  comin'  hame  to  me  ; 
But,  thank  kin'  Providence,  my  love  is  comin'  hame  to  me. 

I  broke  the  seal  wi'  tremblin'  han',  for  little  did  I  ken 

The  joyfu'  news  that  it  did  bring  frae  him,  the  best  o'  men  ; 

I  read  it  owre  an'  owre  before  I  could  believe  it  true, 

An'  wept  wi'  joy  owre  the  fond  words,  I'm  comin'  hame  to  you. 

I'm  comin'  hame  to  you — yes,  you, 

I'm  comin'  hame  to  you, 
An'  wept  wi'  joy  owre  the  fond  words,  I'm  comin'  hame  to  you. 

I  always  thocht,  though  some  said  na,  that  he'd  be  true  to  me, 
For  ere  he  left  he  told  me  that  he'd  love  me  faithfully  ; 
His  promise  he  indeed  hath  kept,  his  love  I'll  never  tyne, 
For  noo  he's  comin'  hame  at  last,  to  be  for  ever  mine. 

To  be  for  ever  mine — yes,  mine, 

To  be  for  ever  mine, 
An'  noo  he's  comin'  hame  at  last,  to  be  for  ever  mine. 

0  glorious  love  !  pure,  undefined  !  that  doth  so  touch  the  heart, 

An'  stimulate  the  lowliest  to  play  a  noble  part ; 

Thy  poo'er  hath  here  been  truly  felt  in  all  its  purity, 

For  hast  thou  riot  made  Geordie  say-  he's  comiu'  hame  to  me  ? 

He's  comin'  hame  to  me — yes,  me, 

He's  comin'  hame  to  me, 
For  hast  thou  not  made  Geordie  say — he's  comin'  hame  to  me.  ? 


GEORGE   NEIL.  195 


MARRIED     AN'    SETTLED     AT    LAST 

Oh,  lang  I  a  bachelor  was, 

An'  ne'er  thocht  o*  weddin'  a  laasiV  ; 
But  little  I  kent  o'  the  bliss 

When  I  ca'd  a'  the  women  folks  saucy. 
For  e'er  since  I've  ta'en  to  inyael 

A  lassie.  I  never  feel  weary ; 
An'  I  seem  to  be  under  r\  spell 
That  male's  me  keep  siri^in'  fu'  cheerie. 
Married  an'  settled  at  last, 

I've  got  a  wee  wifie  to  cheer  me  : 
Sae  blaw,  Winter,  blaw  yer  wild  blast, 
I'll  never  again  hae  to  fear  ye. 

My  meals  an'  my  claes  are  aye  clean, 

I  in  keepit  K«-y  snod,  an'  I  ken  it ; 
The  house  is  aye  like  a  new  preen, 

Sae  weel  does  my  Katie  atten'  it. 
An*  at  nicht,  when  I'm  dune  wi'  my  wark, 

An'  washed,  an  my  supper  is  owre, 
I  feel— oh,  ye  single  men,  hark  !- 

Transported  to  some  fairy  bower. 
Married  and  settled,  ic. 


ODE    TO    DRINK. 

:,  thou  wrecker  of  human  life, 
Thou  murderer,  thief,  thou  cause  of  strife, 
Thou  ^epanitir-t  in:in  and  wife, 

Thou  cur-eil  thing ; 
The  source  of  tiisrontvut  thou  art, 

y's  pictured  on  thy  chart ; 
Thou  ne'er  hast  played  a  manly  part- 
Death's  in  thy  sting. 

To  thee  we  easily  can  trace 

The  abject  want  and  haggard  face 

Of  countless  numbers  of  our  race 

lu  this  fair  land  ; 
ike  the  Upas  tree,  thou'rt  found 

•r  the  human  race  abound, 
Spreading  thy  death-like  fragrance  roun  1 
On  every  hand.* 


Illusive  joy  they  but  receive 
U'li«.  in  thy  pleasures  do  believe, 
And  thinking  thou  wilt  not  deceive 
•  it.  alas! 


196  MODERN  SCOTTISH  POETS. 

The  drunkard's  grave  doth  plainly  show 
That  pleasure's  but  thy  name  for  woe, 
Which  takes  that  form,  that  it  may  go 
The  round,  and  pass. 

Yet  'tis  impossible  for  me 

To  picture  thee,  as  thou  shouldst  be  ; 

But,  oh  !  may  good  aye  keep  me  free 

From  thy  fell  power  ; 
May  I  ne'er  more  thy  craving  feel, 
Which  deeper  wounds  than  sharpest  steel, 
But  see  thee  trodden  under  heel 

Life's  every  hour. 

Oh,  soon  may  man  the  evil  see 

Of  harbouring,  and  drinking  thee, 

And  treat  thee  just  as  thou  shouldst  be — 

What  joy  to  tell ! 
From  ev'ry  home  in  ev'ry  land, 
Will  rise  triumphant,  mighty,  grand, 
"     The  thanks  of  those  who  could  not  stand 

Thy  crushing  spell. 

AWA'    OWRE    YON     HILL. 

Awa  owre  yon  hill  where  the  burnie  sae  cheery 

Kins  gurglin'  an'  singin'  ailoun  to  the  Clyde, 
In  summer  I've  roved  owre  an'  owre  wi'  my  dearie, 

An'  felt  life  to  be  quite  a  heaven  by  her  side. 
An'  oft  'neath  the  shade  o'  yon  hawthorn  hoary 

That  grew  in  the  sweet  floo'ery  neuk  i'  the  glen, 
Enraptured  we're  breathed  the  sweet,  sweet  gowden  story 

0'  love,  an'  there  sealed  it  again  an'  again. 

She's  nane  o'  yer  prood,  haughty  leddies  o'  fashion, 

Wha  dress  up  in  jewels  an'  satins  sae  fine, 
For  sic  gaudy  grandeur  she  ne'er  had  a  passion, 

Oh,  no  !  for  her  beauty  does  far  them  outshine, 
The  roses  that  bloom  on  yon  brier-bush  sae  bonnie, 

The  wee  crimson  daisies  on  yon  gowany  lea, 
Are  charmin'  to  view,  an'  gie  pleasure  to  mony ; 

But  a  glint  o'  my  lassie's  far  dearer  to  me. 

FANCY. 

O,  who  can  praise  thee,  gift  divine  !  I  feel 

At  times,  though  much  fatigued  and  worn,  when  done 
With  work  at  night,  as  if  that  I  had  won 

Admittance  to  some  heaven  as  fair  and  real 


R.    8.    0.    ANDERSON.  197 

As  Scriptures  prove  :  for  sweet  o'er  me  doth  steal 

Such  hlisx,  a*  though  the  world  had  sorrows  none 

In  xto-e  f«>r  me,  but  that  there  had  be^un 
That  glorious  refcn  which  God  will  yet  reveal. 
Such  is  thy  power.  C)  Fancy  !  such  thy  sphere  ; 

Forgetful  quite  of  all  our  woes  on  earth 
We  roam  at  will  among  those  scenes  so  dear, 

To  which  thun  cliwt  delightfully  give  birth  : 
And  life's  worst  blows,  worst  stings,  and  deepest  grief, 
Thou  givest  for  the  while,  sweet  Saviour-like  relief. 


R.     S.     G.     ANDERSON. 

.  ROBERT  STUART  GUTHRIE  ANDERSON 

is  a  son  of  the  Rev.  Robert  Anderson,  D.D.,  St 
George's  l;«.:ul  l.*.P.  Church,  Glasgow.  He  was  born 
in  the  quaint  <>!<!  village  of  Ceres,  about  three  miles 
from  Cup.-ir,  Fife.  There  he  received  much  of  his 
early  education,  and  for  a  short  time  he  attended 
Ceres  Public  School.  In  \t<7'.\  his  father  accepted 
a  call  to  the  U.P.  Church  of  Milnathort,  Kinross- 
shire,  and  soon  afterwards  our  poet  entered  as  a 
pupil  of  Dollar  Academy — travelling  daily  by  rail 
a  <lM:iii<<  of  thirteen  miles  for  about  four  years.  It 
was  during  this  period  that  he  first  attempted  to  write 
verse.  A  ludicrous  incident  in  one  of  the  classes 
1  the  etlort.  Sen  :  that  he 

;d  he  tried,  and  astonished 

himself  b\  finding  that  he   e«uld   rhyme.      Here,  how- 

dity,    so    often    seen    in  our  ex- 

;is   we   I,  1    with   this   work,  had 

another    illustration,     for    a     sister    had    already    dis- 

11 -hed  lierHelf  as  a   writer  of  verse,  his  uncle,  the 

Rev.  Matthew  Dickie,  has  a  place  here  amongst  our 

f    the  family  who 
li;i\.  u  evidence  "f  a  similar  talent. 


198  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

Mr  Anderson's  life  at  Milnathort  had  a  great  influ- 
ence on  his  writing.  He  frequently  wandered  out  alone, 
and  delighted  to  trace  the  burns  to  their  source  in 
the  Ochil  Hills,  to  climb  the  Lomonds,  or  to  sit  on 
the  shore  and  listen  to  the  murmurs  of  the  waters 
that  inspired  Michael  Bruce.  The  manse  occupied  a 
magnificent  situation — the  view  of  Lochleven,  with  its 
islands  being  beautiful  in  the  extreme.  Often  he 
lingered  looking  at  the  glorious  sunsets — the  light 
playing  on  the  waters,  the  castle  standing  out  white 
against  its  green  background  of  trees,  and  behind 
all,  the  noble  Benarty  rising  up  from  the  very  edge  of 
the  lake.  Amid  such  surroundings  the  poetry  of 
Nature  unconsciously  took  possession  of  him. 

In  1880  his  father  accepted  a  call  to  his  present 
charge  in  Glasgow,  and  soon  after  our  poet  entered  its 
University.  Ever  sensitive  to  the  influence  of  his  en- 
vironments, his  contact  with  all  sorts  and  conditions 
of  men  at  once  influenced  him.  He  began  to  make 
mankind  his  study ;  but  much  of  what  he  wrote  at 
this  time  was  merely  of  a  nature  peculiar  to  students 
and  of  class  interest — squibs,  parodies,  &c.  In  the 
English  literature  (senior)  class  his  poetical  efforts 
were  several  times  highly  commended  by  the  Professor. 
About  1882  one  of  his  productions  was  printed  for  the 
first  time.  He  always  shrank  from  sending  them  to  be 
published,  and  wrote  only  because  it  gave  him  pleasure 
to  do  so.  His  poem,  "  Lochleven."  saw  the  light  in 
the  People's  Friend,  and  others  appeared  in  the  pages 
of  the  "Dollar  Institution  Magazine."  In  1884  he 
took  his  degree  of  M.A.  at  Glasgow  University,  and 
then  went  to  the  U.P.  Theological  Hall  in  Edinburgh. 
Here  his  studies  at  once  influenced  and  coloured  his 
writings.  At  the  close  of  the  session  of  1887,  Mr 
Anderson  took  his  B.D.  degree,  and  in  the  following 
July  he  was  licensed  by  the  Glasgow  U.P.  Presbytery 
(North)  as  a  probationer.  In  November  he  received 


R.    8.    O.    ANDERSON.  199 

the  appointment  of  assistant  in  the  North  U.P. 
Church,  Auchternmehty,  where  he  still  remains, 
much  esteemed  for  his  vnried  gifts,  his  earnest  and 
attractive  ministrations,  and  his  genial  and  kindly 
nature.  The  poet  who  has  had  the  greatest  influence 
upon  his  mind  is  Tennyson,  whose  chaste  language, 
so  full  and  sweet  and  round,  has  ever  had  great  at- 
tractions for  him.  Evidently  his  delight  is  in  apt, 
exact,  and  rich  expression.  Mr  Anderson  has  seldom 
touched  the  native  Doric.  He  considers  that  it 
juires  a  giant's  strength  to  beat  music  with  this 
hammer  from  the  anvil  of  the  soul."  All  his  produc- 
tions that  have  come  under  our  observation  show  that 
he  is  an  exact  thinker,  and  that  he  can  deftly  express 
hi>  ideas  in  verse.  He  has  clearly  a  decided  poetic 
gift,  rich  fancy,  and  sweet  lyrical  power,  and  while  his 
versification  is  always  good,  his  sentiments  are  ever 
pure  and  ennobling. 

THE    YOUNG    MINISTER. 
LAIRD'S  WIFE  IN  CHURCH,  loquitur. 

He's  jist  a  bit  callan1  o'  twenty, 

And  bran*  new  not  frae  the  collidge  ; 
Hut  they  tell  me  wha  ken  that  he's  gleg  wi'  the  pen, 
And  hi*  heid's  fu'  o'  book-tear'  and  knowledge. 
And  O  but  he's  graun',  graun', 
And  O  but  he's  deep,  deep. 
Tho'  I  canna  complain,  for  I  never  kent  ane 
That  cud  Rend  me  sae  sune  to  sleep. 

He's  the  nattiest  man  i'  the  pairinh, 

There'H  no  anither  HJC  bra* ; 
Wi'  his  honni*  surtou  o'  the  bluer-black  hue 
And  hi-  ro..nd-aboot  collar  and  a'. 
And  ()  but  he's  spry,  spry, 
And  O  but  he  s  uweet,  sweet, 

Wi'  his  "  how  d'ye  do,"  ami  "  ^\u<\  mornin'  to  you,1' 
n  he  panes  ye  oot  in  the  street 

II—  »  wine-luikin1  chi.-l   j1  the  poopit, 
For  he's  no  sic  an  ill-faurit  loon  ; 


200  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

And  the  specs  on  his  nose  gie  a  look  o'  repose 
When  they've  riggit  him  up  i'  the  goon. 
And  O  but  he's  graun',  graun', 
And  O  but  he's  bra',  bra', 

He  has  sicna  a  po'er,  he  can  daud  oot  the  stour, 
Owre  the  buikboard,  and  choir,  and  a'. 

He's  the  gleggest  bit  laddie  at  preachin', 

Wi'  his  staurs  and  the  ruimnlin'  spheres  ; 
There's  no  ane  cud  hear  it  and  ever  grow  wearit, 
We're  aften  a'  ineltit  to  tears. 

And  O  but  he's  glib,  glib, 
And  O  but  he's  canty,  canty, 
Were  he  ca'd  on  to  speak  either  Latin  or  Greek, 
He'dijist  spiel  owre  yer  Shakespir  and  Danty. 

He's  maybe  a  wee  bit  conceitit, 

Tho'  I  winna  jist  say  that's  a  failin' ; 
An'  he's  apt  to  forget  we've  oor  dinners  to  het ; — 
Eh  ?  what  !  It's  the  ither  kirk  scalin'  ! 
0,  O,  but  he's  dreich,  dreich, 
O,  0,  but  he's  lang,  lang, 

If  he  dinna  stap  preachin',  I'll  sune  tak  to  fleechin* 
I  wish  he'd'gae  aff  the' fang  ! 


LOCH    LEVEN. 

Softly  'neath  the  western  Ochils  sinks  the  slowly  setting  sun, 
Casting  shadows  on  the  hillside  where  the  babbling  brooklets 

run  ; 

See  its  radiance  kiss  the  waters,  follow  in  the  brooklet's  wake 
Till  the  brooklet  joins  the  river,  and  the  river  joins  the  lake. 
There  the  purple  radiance  lingers  o'er  Loch  Leven's  fairest  isle, 
Lingers  'raid  the  nooks  and  crannies  of  the  castle's  mouldering 

pile. 

In  a  little  dungeon  chamber — thro'  a  window  frameless  now, — 
Falls  a   ray  of  sunlight  flashing   from   the  distant  mountain's 

brow. 

Steals  into  the  mouldy  chamber,  creeps  along  the  earthen  floor, 
Seeks,  in  silence,  the  departed  glory  of  the  days  of  yore  ; 
Silence,  shroud  of  fleeting  ages,  wraps  the  old  and  mouldy  cell, 
While  the  ruins  tell  the  secrets  mortal  tongues  can  never  tell. 
.  Mary  !  thou  art  not  forgotten, — thou,  who  perished  in  thy  prime, 
Graven  is  thy  name  for  ever  on  the  circling  wheel  of  time  ! 
Mark  the  sunbeams  tint  the  waters   rippled  by  the  evening 

breeze, 

Flinging  ever-shiftin?  colours  over  ivied  walls  and  trees. 
On  the  bosom  of  the  waters  floats  this  calm  and  peaceful  isle, 
Proudly  conscious  of  her  beauty,  radiant  with  her  happy  smile  ; 


H.    8.    O.    ANDERSON.  201 

Boldly  sends  she  forth  a  challenge  out  upon  the  water's  track, 
Till  the  towers  of   I'.urleigh  Castle  from  the  northward  answer 

back. 
There,  where  high  o'er  clash  of  armour  loud  has  rung  the  battle 

Prattling  children  gambol  gaily  while  the  autumn  days  go  by. 
Gloomy  shadows,  evil  spirits,  round  the  silent  ruins  brood, 
Sttirit*  that  had  seen  the  lover  do  his  ghastly  deed  of  blood. 
Nay  !  thy  ruins  cannot  cover  secrets  of  such  woeful  crime, 
Ever  rolls  the  story  onward  thro*  the  endless  aisle*  of  Time. 

the  sun  sinks  softly  downwards  'neath  the  distant  Ocbil's 

height, 
While  like  bird  from  tree  to  tree  the  sunbeam  wings  its  western 

Hight ; 
And  the  shades  of  night  come  drifting  slowly  down  the  narrow 

glen, 
Seeming  in  their  onward  movement  like  the  ghosts  of  armed 

men. 

THE    OLD    STORY. 

In  the  waning  of  the  summer, 

U  the  gloaming  of  the  day, 
By  the  washing  of  the  ocean 

In  the  yellow-sanded  bay  ; 

She  and  T,  in  lonely  splendour, 
Trembling  on  each  other's  arm, 

Felt  the  heart  its  deepest  secret 
Beating  out  in  faint  alarm. 

In  the  moonlight's  silver  showers 

Streaming  down  the  silent  skies  ; 
In  the  brilliancy  of  glory 

tin;,'  up  those  wondrous  eyes  : 

All  my  longing  found  expression, 

A«  her  lips  returned  my  k 
And  my  soul  in  heavenly  rapture 
««ed  the  rubicou  of  bliss. 

Now  my  life  grows  bright  and  better 

And  th«  world  not  half  so  sad, 
And  the  German  hand  plays  sweeter 

On  the  dusty  promenade. 

DROWNED. 

O  sleep,  oad  sea,  in  thy  shell-strewn  caves, 
And  silence  that  shivering  sigh  ; 


202  MODERN   SCOTTISH    POETS. 

Ye  wild  fowl,  rest  on  the  ocean's  breast, 

And  stifle  your  wild,  weird  cry  ; 
Ye  winds,  breathe  softly  over  the  waves — 
Sleep  on,  sad  sea,  in  thy  shell-strewn  caves. 

Sleep  on,  my  love,  'neath  the  sobbing  sea, 
It  never  will  cease  its  sorrow  ; 

As  it  moans  to-day  thro'  its  restless  spray, 
It  will  moan  again  to-morrow  ; 

And  the  wind  for  ever  will  sigh  at  sea, 

And  the  sea-gull's  shriek  be  a  dirge  for  thee. 

O  sleep,  sad  sea,  in  thy  shell-strewn  caves, 
Where  the  beams  of  the  setting  sun, 

O'er  the  crystal  caves  and  the  mimic  waves, 
Like  ripples  of  laughter  run  ; 

And  the  winds  breathe  low  as  the  water  laves 

The  silver  walls  of  the  sunlit  caves. 


THE    JAUNTING     CAR. 

Some  poets  have  sung  of  the  gondolas  gliding 
Thro'  the  whispering  waters  of  Venice  the  Fair  ; 

And  some  of  the  glories  of  snow-sledges  sliding  ; 

And  sworn  that  with  these  there  can  nothing  compare. 

But  I'll  sing  of  a  pleasure  surpassing  them  far — 

'Tis  the  rattle  and  jolt  of  a  jaunting  car. 

American  Saxe  sings  his  rhyme  of  the  rail, 

And  Irishman  Moore  tunes  his  harp  in  the  hall, 

And  others  have  wrested  a  song  from  a  gale  ; 
But  I  sing  of  sweet  music  surpassing  them  all — 

In  the  twilight  you  hear  it,  when  roaming  afar, 

In  the  rattle  and  jolt  of  a  jaunting  car. 

Some  poets  have  warbled  of  love  in  the  bowers, 
And  others  of  love  on  a  lake  in  the  gloaming  ; 

While  many  have  sung  of  a  love  'mong  the  flowers  ; 
And  love  on  the  bank  of  a  rivulet  roaming  ; 

But  I  sing  of  a  love  that  surpasses  them  far — 

There's  nothing  like  love  on  a  jaunting  car. 

For  love  lost  his  way  as  he  flew  to  the  bowers, 

^And  fell  from  the  boat  in  the  star-spangled  lake  ; 
O'ercome  by  the  scent,  he  was  smothered  by  flowers  ; 

And  fell  from  a  rock  'mid  the  mountain  brake ; 
But  who  ever  heard — be  it  near  or  afar— 
That  love  ever  fell  from  a  jaunting  car. 


DAVID    BRBMNER.  203 

l,et  poet*,  then,  slog  of  the  silvery  motion 
in  Venice  the  Pair, 
ex  or  trains,  or  of  ships  on  the  ocean, 
\  i..l  -h..ut  tli»»  with  these  there  can  nothing  compare  ; 
We  know  of  a  glory  surpassing  them  far — 
Tis  the  rattle  and  jolt  of  a  jaunting  car. 


DAVID     BREMNER, 

OUNGEST  son  of  the  village  baker  of  Aberchir- 
der,  was  born  at  that  place  in  1813.  His 
parents  IK -iir_r  in  comparatively  humble  circumstances 
— the  making  of  wheateu  bread  in  a  small  country 
village  in  those  days  being  anything  but  a  lucrative 
calling — he  received  little  schooling,  but  was  at  a 
tender  age  hired  as  a  herd  to  a  neighbouring  farmer  on 
Deveronside.  He  had  a  great  taste  for  reading,  how- 

.  and  soon  made  himself  familiar  with  the  limited 
amount  of  literature  that  came  within  his  reach.  It 
was  his  duty  to  read  aloud  of  an  evening  to  his  fellow- 
servants  round  the  farmer's  kitchen  fireside  the  weekly 
paper,  which  in  former  times  was  passed  from 

e  t..  h.. use  till  it  had  attained  what  would  now  1x3 

•  rded  as  quite  a  respectable  antiquity.  On  the 
death  of  his  father,  which  took  place  while  he  was  still 

nth,  he,  along  with  an  elder  brother,  continued  to 

ik«-ry  i.u-iiios ;  but  the  com*  ^  too 

11  for  tin-  support  of  both,  David,  when  a  little  over 

ess  on  his  own 

:int  as  a  gener  .1  im-rrhant  in  th<»  villas-  of  Stuart- 
i  iii>  venture  In-  .-on ducted  with  a  fair  measure 
!  till   ls-}.\  \\  I  a  widow  who  was 

•  urishing    Juiciness   at  Lanaho,  some 
Id.        Urn-,    in     18/)0,    lie 
lii>  tiret  great  ben-  rhn.ugli  the  death 


204  MODEKN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

from  fever  of  his  wife  and  her  two  daughters  by  her 
previous  marriage  within  a  few  days  of  each  other. 
In  1855  he  married  Anne,  daughter  of  the  Rev.  David 
Allison,  of  the  U.P.  Church,  Stuartfield.  For  the 
benefit  of  his  family  he,  in  1874,  removed  to  Aberdeen, 
where  he  opened  a  grocery  shop.  This,  however, 
turning  out  a  losing  concern,  he  disposed  of  the  busi- 
ness after  some  two  years'  occupation.  Town  life  was 
less  Congenial  to  him  than  that  of  the  country,  and 
about  this  time  his  health  began  to  show  signs  of 
breaking  up,  and  in  May,  1878,  he  passed  away. 

As  a  man,  Mr  Bremner  was  of  a  very  sensitive  and 
retiring  disposition,  of  sterling  principle,  and  deeply 
sympathetic  ;  and,  although  ever  shrinking  from  public 
appearance,  he  was  the  very  life  of  a  private  gathering. 
Always  a  reader,  he  was  specially  familiar  with  modern 
poetry,  and  took  great  pleasure  in  reading  aloud  of 
a  winter's  evening  to  his  family  from  his  favourite 
authors.  In  his  younger  days  he  was  an  enthusiastic 
botanist,  and  his  acquaintance  with  the  wild  flowers 
of  his  native  district  was  very  considerable.  As  a 
mark  of  respect  to  the  memory  of  the  deceased,  his 
son,  Mr  M.  A.  Bremner,  published  a  memorial  volume 
consisting  of  a  selection  of  his  poems  and  essays  con- 
tributed to  Aberdeenshire  and  other  newspapers.  His 
prose  productions  are  thoughtful  and  elevating,  and 
show  that,  of  broad  and  generous  principles  himself, 
he  was  strongly  opposed  to  all  manner  of  narrowness 
and  bigotry.  His  poetry  is  mainly  reflective,  with  an 
occasional  glimpse  of  quiet  humour.  It  evinces  con- 
siderable power  of  expression  and  rhythm,  and  abounds 
in  not  a  little  that  is  fresh  and  vigorous. 

WAIL     OF    THE     WEARY. 

Wearily,  oh  !  wearily, 

From  morning's  dawn  till  dark, 
This  spirit  floats  on  life's  rough  sea, 

Rock'd  in  a  crazy  bark, 


DAVI1>    liHUMXER.  205 

Without  a  sail  to  woo  the  gale, 

She  falters,  falters  ever, 
With  wind  and  tide  to  chafe  and  chide, 

Till  Death  the  freight  deliver. 

Wearily,  oh  !  wearily, 

From  dark  till  morning's  dawn, 
The  long,  long  lapse  of  sleepless  hours 

By  feverish  pulse  is  drawn  ; 
Or  when  some  interval  of  ease 

In  soft  eclipse  falls  o'er  me, 
The  spirit  through  its  thin  veil  sees 

The  cold  sea-waste  before  inc. 

Wearily,  oh  !  wearily, 

From  June  till  warbling  June, 
The  seasons  in  their  marches  breathe 

No  gladness  in  their  tune  ; 
For  vainly,  vainly  summer  glows, 

Or  birds  their  matins  pour, 
When  by  the  snows  of  thawless  woes 

The  heart  is  wintered  o'er. 

Tediously,  oh  !  tediously, 

The  hours  with  hours  are  meeting, 
As  if  the  pulse  through  Time's  hoar  heart 

Were  slowly,  lowly  beating; 
And  heavily,  full  heavily, 

of  j«.ys  no  morr  returning, 
I  sit  and  sigh  till  morning's  eye 

Upon  the  wave  is  burning. 

Mournfully,  oh  !  mournfully, 

Oiime  forth  the  spirit  bells, 
'.Mi. I  halls  where  keen  eyed  Joyance  dwelt, 

\\  ht-re  now  her  spectre  dwells  ; 
A  low,  a  noft,  tho'  dying  note — 

A  fall,  a  rest,  and  fall— 
The  sounds,  like  ling'ring  farewells,  Boat 

O'er  Hope's  dim  funeral. 

Gloomily,  oh  !  gloomily, 

The  forlorn  Fancy  pines, 
Like  some  sad  bird,  oomplainingly, 

O'er  Love's  deserted  shrines  ; 
While  moon-eyed  phantoms,  in  pale  host*, 

Hatch  M  'neath  her  wizard  wings, 
(ili.le  forth,  as  from  the  dance  of  ghosts 

A  gri/./ly  radiance  springs — 
I 'i in  meteors  lo<>:  D  afar — 

The  soul  herself  a  wandering  star. 


206  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 


COME,     HIE    TO    THE    MOUNTAINS. 

Come,  hie  to  the  mountains  !  'tis  Nature  that  calls, 

The  banquet  is  set  in  her  mystical  halls  ; 

The  minstrels  have  woke,  and  their  jubilant  hymn 

Is  away  over  woodland  and  wilderness  dim  ; 

Nought  living  is  mute,  from  the  lark  high-up  borne, 

To  the  insect  that  hums  through  its  infantile  horn, 

While  the  flow'rets,  I  ween,  in  joint  chorus  are  singing 

Round  the  moss-tufted  cairn  where  the  harebell  is  ringing. 

Come,  hie  to  the  mountains  !  'tis  Nature  invokes, 
With  the  life-dew  of  heaven  on  her  redolent  locks  ; 
And  the  blush  of  the  earth  and  the  tints  of  the  sky 
Woo  the  weary  and  worn  to  her  dwellings  on  high, 
Where,  love  and  life-fraught,  a  bright  healer  she  stands, 
With  the  chalice  of  health  in  her  ministering  hands, 
And  a  skill  far  surpassing  professional  schemes, 
She  cures  with  her  winds,  and  her  waves,  and  her  streams. 

Come,  hie  to  the  mountains  !  drink  glory  and  gladness, 
The  rush  of  their  streams  is  the  requiem  to  sadness  ; 
The  care-killing  blasts  round  their  foreheads  that  play 
Will  chase  the  soul's  sickness,  like  vapour,  away — 
And  the  hopes  which  have  lain  like  young  love  in  a  tomb, 
Will  be  found,  with  the  heathbell,  to  brighten  and  bloom  ; 
While  the  pleasures  you  dream  of  as  perish'd  or  flown,  - 
On  the  mountains,  like  manna,  the  angels  have  strewn. 

Then  away  from  your  homes,  and  your  prison  retreats, 
Ye  dwellers  in  alleys,  ye  hedge-bound  in  streets, 
Allow  the  free  spirit,  from  exile  withdrawn, 
To  soar  and  to  sing  with  the  bird  of  the  dawn  ; 
With  the  dew  on  her  wing,  and  the  fire  in  her  eye, 
And  the  pulse  of  her  hopes  beating  fearlessly  high, 
While  her  dream  of  wild  gladness,  of  freedom,  and  mirth, 
Takes  the  sunshine  of  heaven  with  no  shadow  from  earth. 


SONG    OF    THE    SICKLE. 

Sweet  moon  of  the  dear  harvest  sky  ! 

Inspire  by  thy  mellowing  beam, 
The  song  that  the  sickle  would  try  ; 

For  of  song  e'en  the  sickle  may  dream, 
Since  all  objects  around,  on  the  wide  earth  or  near  it, 
Have  a  voice  to  be  heard  if  you  only  could  hear  it. 

At  the  peep  of  the  struggling  dawn, 
Ere  the  grey  mists  have  mounted  again, 


DAVID  UREMHBR.  207 

From  my  sheath  of  the  night  I  am  drawn, 

By  full  many  a  stalwart  swain  ; 
And  the  glance  of  my  lance  in  the  rising  sun 
Proclaims  that  the  feasts  of  the  day  have  begun. 

And  away  o'er  the  field,  right  away, 

'Tin  a  mercilesH  onslaught  I  wage- 
Not  a  stalk  of  that  nodding  array 

But  must  yield  to  my  pitiless  edge- 
As  I  sweep,  as  I  ateep  my  bright  blade  deep — 
As  I  smash,  as  I  dash  in  my  rage. 

From  the  sea  of  the  wide  waving  corn 

My  song  like  a  timbrel  ascends, 
While  an  echo  from  Plenty's  full  horn, 

Along  the  green  uplands  extends  ; 

And  the  beautiful  sheaves  spring  erect  from  the  wreaths, 
And  dance  to  the  music  it  lend*. 

.To  the  sound  of  the  song  and  the  laugh- 
To  the  smile  of  all  bounteous  Heaven, 
I  leap  upon  life's  saving  staff, 

While  my  dower  is  the  bread  that  is  given  ; 
Thus  careering  I  Hash— thus  exultant  I  dash, 
By  the  strung  arm  of  industry  driven. 

I  sing  of  the  blyth*  harvest  home, 

When  around  the  warm  ingle,  all  gay, 
Not  the  peean  in  palace  or  dome 

Bears  so  gleenome  a  chorus  as  they — 
A  banquet  more  rich  than  of  revelling  squires, 
TU  the  heart  brews  the  bumper  true  gladness  inspires. 

Of  stackyards  and  granaries  replete 
Is  the  burthen  and  gust  of  my  lay, 
With  the  swift-turning  mill  at  my  feet, 

Rolling  bass  to  the  tribute  I  pay  ; 

While  around  the  bright  hearth  chimes  the  requiem  of  dearth, 
And  of  want  cowers  the  ghost  all  away. 

Then  hurrah  !  for  the  sickle  so  keen— 

r  its  trophies,  its  booty,  and  spoils  ; 
A  fig  for  your  reaping  machine — 

From  its  rude  grasp  the  victim  recoils  ; 
But  the  sickle,  impelled  by  the  sinewy  arm, 
Is  of  manhood  the  glory,  of  motion  the  charm. 

Tin.  harsh  he  my  song,  and  tho'  Mhrill, 
It  wings  joy  to  the  innermost 


208  MODERN  SCOTTISH  POETS. 

Kindles  hope  at  its  magical  will, 

Till  the  heart,  like  a  spring  welling  o'er, 
Pours  its  gratitude  forth,  not  penurious  and  fickle, 
But  in  answ'ring  acclaim  to  the  song  of  the  sickle. 


WILLIE    WARD. 

Some  seventy  winters  now  ha'e  sped,  since  one  grey  drizzly  dawn, 
Within  a  shieling,  rudely  reared,  my  first  wee  breath  was  drawn ; 
With  no  fond  greetings  was  I  hailed  -no  joyous  natal  morn 
Was  mine,  but  like  a  thing  unsought,  poor  Willie  Ward  was  born. 
A  widow'd  mother,  sickly  sad — a  father's  grave  not  green — 
Dread  poverty  outspying  want  with  weeping  woe  between  ; 
I  shall  not  wait  the  tale  to  tell — no  sister  I  nor  brother 
Had  e'er  to  bless,  nor  friend  at  all,  save  that  poor  sickly  mother. 
I  grew  as  grows  the  sapling  wild  —a  gaunt  but  wiry  form, 
My  small  feet  rooted  in  the  rock,  and  fondl'd  in  the  storm. 
I  grew  in  spite  of  adverse  fate  — 'twas  God  that  bade  me  grow — 
Till,  by  His  seal,  He  struck  the  stamp  of  manhood  on  my  brow. 
My  childhood,  could  I  picture  it,  was  wild  as  wild  might  be — 
Child  of  the  river  and  the  cliff,  the  mountain,  and  the  sea  ; 
All  bonnetless  and  barefooted,  uncollar'd  and  uncomb'd, 
Dweller  in  unknown  dwelling  place — unsheltered  and  unhomed. 
A  wandering  wight — yet  all  the  while,  the  urging  stream  within 
Gave  omen  that  the  chase  of  life  had  some  bright  goal  to  win. 
Thus  panoplied  with  sinew  tough,  and  swift  and  lithe  of  arm, 
I  sped  me  to  the  river's  bank — the  ferry  boat  my  charm. 
Beneath  my  ever  plastic  hand,  ere  many  moons  did  close, 
A  cottage,  antique  and  unique,  hard  by  the  river  rose — 
Commodious  to  a  very  fault — apartments  five  to  ten, 
Where  I  should  reign  the  happiest  man  of  all  the  happiest  men. 
But  now,  the  psssion  of  rny  soul,  the  ferry  boat,  ah  !  where  ? 
The  cottage  rears  its  curly  smoke,  but  yet  no  boat  is  there. 
I  toiled  with  an  incessant  faith  ;  Hope  laugh'd  away  mistrust, 
While  still  I  laboured,  still  I  prayed,  as  work  and  pray  I  must. 
At  length  the  heavens,  in  sympathy,  for  so  I  might  have  deem'd, 
In  answer  to  my  bootless  cry,  or  what  such  answer  seem'd, 
Hung  deeply  dark,  and  darkly  deep — rain  clouds  on  clouds  up- 
driven, 
That  to  my  spirit's  after-thought  proved    sure   an  answering 

heaven. 
Along  the  uplands  league  on  league,  the  dark  brew'd  torrents 

gush'd, 

Till  rivulets  like  lambkins  leapt,  careering  rivers  rush'd — 
A  deluge  wild — on  swept  the  tide — a  thousand  fragments  float 
By  my  ha'  door,  and  'mong  the  spoil,  a  glorious  ferry  boat  ! 
I  caught  her  with  my  hook  and  chain,  and  moor'd  her  fast  and 

tight,— 
My  day-dream  realised,  my  joy,  my  trophy  and  delight. 


DAVID   BREMNER.  200 

Unclaim'd  she  lay,  day  after  day,  nor  search  nor  questioning  ; 
I'll  tiow  the  water*,  as  the  wind,  tuut  good  to  n  >  one  i.ring. 

rry  boat  !  uiy  ferry  boat  !  Ill  row  and  slug  to  tl. 
Mayhap  some  pilgrim*,  river-ward  may  swell  the  jubilee  ; 
Fortune  may  .-dumber  in  thy  bow,  as  strength  in  this  right  arm. 
As  on  we  go,  right  to  and  fro,  secure  of  skaith  or  harm. 


But  pause,  indulgent  reader,  pause  ;  pardon,  should  I  dig 
The  boatman>liip  soon  proved  to  be  a  beautiful  success. 
Now  untold  troubling*  stirr'd  my  soul  with  other  lads  in  common, 
1  vow'd  a  vow   o'er   my  boat's  bow,  to  wed  some  Lright-eyed 

woman. 

The  love  o'  Lillie  Allardice— the  fond  love  o'  langsyne, 
Still  clung  around  my  bosom's  core  with  witchery  divine, 
I  felt  it  when  a  ragged  boy,  but  how  the  genii  wove 
Th'  enchanting  web,  I  could  not   guess,  nor  knew  that  it  was 

Suffice  it  that,  one  evening  fair,  I  pull'd  my  peerless  Lillie, 

To   plant  her   by   the   water's  edge— the   bride  and  queen  of 

Willie. 

Still  on  the  days  glide  cheerily  ;  to  lengthen  out  my  tether, 
bethought,  me  *>f  a  farm  by  conquest  on  the  heather  ; 
An  i  "M  and  on  tne  higher  steam  —  my.-elf  the  engine  steady, 
Tho'  still  the  deeper  motive  power  the  fond  love  of  my  lady  ; 
Till  i'V  and  bye,  as  years  on  tiy,  by  this  my  well-strung  arm, 

I'juer,  like  a  mountain  king,  my  subject  a  fair  farm. 
Hail  !  poverty,  nurse  of  the  great,  when  dandled  on  thy  knee, 

little  deems  thy  startling  child  how  blunt  is  poverty. 
Through /M-A/o.-i  y-  :u^  of  infancy — no  soul  coniP.tsaioii  stung 

,i'd  thee,  as  with  shrivell'd  arms,  to  thy  cold  breast  1  clung; 
yet  1  love  thee,  poverty,  stern  mother  of  the  brave  ! 

.  i-tues  which  I  claim  are  virtues  which  you  gave. 
,  the  iii'ii-pendfiit  mind— from  thee,  the  dauntU--s  will 
Drew  aliment,  from  feeding  tires,  on  which  1  banquet  still. 

ir  reader,   and  adieu,  you've  scanned  an  old  man's 
ditty— 

ithful  and  an  artless  tale,  though  neither  grand  nor  witty  ; 
. .  1  it  be  yours  to  beard  the  storm,  be  strong,  and  pre.>s  tuil 

u  with  impossibilities— remember  Willie  Ward. 


WHAT    18    HOPE? 

Hope  is  a  solitary  star— 

i..l  in  night  of  sorrow — 
th-  weary  soul  afar, 
-  niiig»  of  a  brighter  morrow. 
K 


210  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

Hope  is  a  taper  lit  in  hea»en, 
That  burns  unceasing  in  the  breast, 

By  God  in  love  and  mercy  given, 
To  lead  the  wanderer  on  to  rest. 

Hope  is  the  tree  for  ever  green, 
That  in  the  soul's  blest  garden  grows  ; 

And  happiness  may  rest  unseen, 

Like  some  sweet  bird  amid  its  boughs. 

All  meaner  blossoms  may  decay, 

And  from  the  care-worn  soul  depart, — 

Hope  is  a  flower  that  blooms  for  aye, 

And  breathes  young  odours  through  the  heart. 

Misfortune's  gloom  may  grow  apace, 
And  sorrow  for  the  time  hold  sway, 

But  Hope  uplifts  her  beaming  face, 
And  laughs  the  shadows  all  away. 

Sad  winter  on  the  soul  may  fall, 

And  chill  with  care  or  blight  with  woe, 

But  Hope,  like  Spring,  shall  conquer  all, 
Till  pleasure's  ice-bound  streamlets  flow. 

Hope  is  a  bird  that  soars  for  aye, 

Upborne  as  if  on  angel  wings, 
And  looks  abroad  all  wistfully 

For  what  of  bless  the  future  brings. 

Hope  is  the  star  that  guides  us  o'er 
Life's  ever-changing  billowy  sea, 

But  when  we  gain  the  further  shore 
It  melts  into  eternity. 


WILLIAM     M.     SMART, 

BUTHOR  of  a  small  volume  of  songs  and  poems, 
entitled  "  Some  Tuneful  Numbers  "    (Heath  & 
Co.,   Forfar),   was  born  at  the   village  of  Lunanhead, 
near  Forfar,  in  1854.     On  attaining  the   age  of  four- 
teen, he  entered  as  a  pupil  teacher  under  the  late  Mr 


W.    H.    SMART.  211 

James  Smith,  noticed  in  our  First  Series.  Having 
served  his  apprenticeship,  he  went  through  the  usual 
course  of  t\v.  lining  in  the  Established  Church 

Normal  School,  Edinburgh,  \\  here  lie  proved  himself  a 
distinguished  student,  entering  eighth  of  the  first 
class,  and  standing  first  of  the  first  class  at  the  final 
examination  in  December,  187  L  His  first  appoint- 
ment as  teacher  was  at  Curestoii,  four  miles  from 
Brechin,  where  he  eujoyed  the  personal  friendship  and 
•in  of  the  parish  minister,  the  late  Rev. 
William  L.  Baxter,  who  bequeathed  to  Mr 
Smart  a  copy  of  the  "  Encyclopedia  Britannica." 
Having  applied  for  a  vacancy  in  the  Arbirlot  School, 
he,  in  1878,  received  the  appointment,  which  he  held 
for  about  eighteen  months,  when  his  naturally  weak 
constitution  -rave  way,  and  he  was  compelled  to  rc>Lrn 
his  situation,  and  spend  the  summer  at  home.  On 
recovering  his  strength  to  some  extent,  he  proceeded 
to  (ilasgow  University,  and  there  attended  the  junior 
classes  in  Lutiu  and  (ireek  and  the  upper  junior 
Mathematics.  From  the  end  of  April,  1881,  till 
November,  1885,  he  taught  temporarily  at  several 
placet},  remaining,  however,  at  Mey,  in  Caithness,  from 
th.  beginning  of  1883  till  near  the  end  of  1884. 
About  three  years  a-.ro  he  began  b  a  tobac- 

iar.     Mr  Smart  is  a  great    admirer  of 
Milt«>n  and  Hum-,  and    the   offspring  of  his  own  lyric 
is  frequently  to  be    found    in   the  columns  of  the 
sand  the    Dundee    weekly   newspapers.      His 
verse  is  very  plcashn:  and  smooth,  and  he  is  fertile  in 

:i.md   "f  rhythm.      He  . 
.     and    love    of    h-  ;u,d 

country  ristic    of     his 

poems  and  songs. 


MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 
THEBRIGHTEST    SIDE. 

When  trial  comes  with  bitter  pangs, 
And  o'er  your  head  misfortune  hangs 

To  humble  low  your  pride, 
You  should  not  bend  at  Fortune's  frown 
But  spurn  her  arts  to  bear  you  down  ; 

Look  to  the  brightest  side. 

The  threat'ning  cloud  that  sails  on  high, 
And  gathers  in  the  dark'ning  sky, 

Does  showers  refreshing  hide  ; 
So  what  you  blindly  trouble  call, 
May  helpful  as  a  blessing  fall ; 

Look  to  the  brighest  side. 

You  should  not  look  in  hopeless  gloom 
At  certain  signs  of  future  doom  ; 

Good  fortune  may  betide, 
When  most  you  feel  your  course  forlorn  ; 
To  darkest  night  succeeds  the  morn  ; 

Look  to  the  brightest  side. 

You  must  not  grieve  at  others'  gain, 
Mark  their  prosperity  with  pain, 

Though  they  your  schemes  deride  ; 
The  tickle  favours  of  success, 
May  yet  your  modest  efforts  bless  ; 

Look  to  the  brightest  side. 

You  now  as  base  and  worthless  deem 
What  once  you  held  in  high  esteem ; 

Nor  should  you  vainly  chide, 
If  what  you  wished  with  just  desire, 
In  expectation  must  expire  ; 

Look  to  the  brightest  side. 

Experience  taught  you  in  the  past 
That  joy  on  sorrow  follows  fast, 

So  they  your  days  divide  ; 
The  future  yet  untried  you  know, 
Will  equal  t^rief  and  pleasure  show  ; 

Look  to  the  brightest  side. 

The  past  may  bear  a  gilded  hue, 
The  future  gleam  with  hope  untrue, 

By  i -resent  joys  abide. 
Yield  not  to  treacherous  delay, 
The  fleeting  moments  make  the  day  ; 

Look  to  the  brightest  side. 


W.    M.    SMART.  213 

NEXT    MORNIN'. 

It'n  mornin*  cauld  an'  early, 
The  air  in  damp  and  raw, 
An'  deed  it's  juist  a  ferlie, 

Hoo  I  am  here  ava. 
Last  nicht  the  twal  had  chaj.pit 

Afore  I  left  the  toun  ; 
An*  doun  i'  ditch  I'd  drappit, 
An*  hae  been  deepin'  mum'. 
Ochon  !  the  whisky  bottle, 
The  weary  whisky  bottle  ; 
Ochon  !  uiy  drouthie  throttle, 
Is  there  nae  slockenin'  o't  T 

My  legs  are  oot  o'  fettle, 

My  heid  is  bizzin'  sair ; 
But  I  maun  up  an'  ettle 

To  tak'  the  road  ance  niair. 
Thae  fouk  'at  miss  nae  clashes 

Will  see  me  stibblin'  hame, 
Their  cluik  a  bodie  fashes— 

They  gie's  an  unco  name. 

Ocbon  !  the  whisky  bottle,  Ac, 

Gin  I  were  richt  an'  sfccar, 

An*  started  to  my  wark, 
I'll  never  mair  touch  bicker, 

Nor  gang  oot  after  dark. 
The  best  o'  men  hae  hankert, 

An'  sometimes  gane  aiee  ; 
But  the/  the  wye  be  cankert, 

I'll  lat  the  drink  abee. 

Ochon  !  the  whisky  bottle,  &c. 

A    SONG    OP     SCOTLAND. 

Come  youths  and  maidens  dear, 
A  song  of  Scotland  hear, 
Rejoice  that  mighty  heroes  fought  and  won  ; 
Fame  cherishes  each  story 
That  tell*  of  Scotland's  gf«ry, 
Wb**n  victors  cheered  a*  gallant  deeds  were  done  : 

ll  dread  i>-n<>wn  y.mr  courage  warms, 
Their  names  possess  enduring  charms. 
Scotti-li  heart*  ar«  brave  and  true, 

.I'M  I  <  nnie  mountains  blue 
May  never  shelter  wrung. 


214  MODERN    SCOTTISH   POETS. 


Hurrah  !  the  kilt  and  plaid, 

Beloved  by  Scottish  maid, 
Hurrah  !  the  warpipe  sounding  o'er  the  plain; 

The  proudest  foe  has  trembled 

While  in  array  assembled 
Bold  Scotland  rushed  to  victory  amain — 

All  lands  have  heard  the  rousing  cry 

Of  Scots  who  ever  do  or  die. 

Scottish  hearts  are  brave  and  true,  &c. 

The  patriot  bosom  thrills 

For  Scotland's  dales  and  hills, 
That  they  may  nurse  the  noble  and  the  free  ; 

That  storm  and  danger  braving 

The  sturdy  thistle  waving 
May  guard  the  home  of  love  and  liberty, 

As  sire  and  son  by  right  and  might 

Maintain  dear  Scotia's  honour  bright. 

Scottish  hearts  are  brave  and  true,  &c. 

WOKK. 

Work,  brother,  work  ;  the  common  doom 
With  equal  strength  o'ershadows  all ; 

Work,  that  despair  with  dark'ning  gloom 
May  never  at  the  threshold  call. 

Work,  brother,  work  ;  a  full  reward 
Repays  the  humble  toiler's  care  ; 

The  inspiring  smile  and  fond  regard 
Of  priceless  Friendship  be  our  share. 

Work,  men  ;  the  favouring  gift  of  Time 
Gives  but  occasion  and  is  gone  ; 

Toil  we  Perfection's  heights  to  climb — 
Our  day  to  darkness  passes  on. 

Work,  sister,  work  ;  though  mean  or  great 
Bravely  thy  loving  duties  do  ; 

A  deed  of  kindness  soon  or  late 
A  tenfold  worth  returns  to  you. 

Work,  sister,  work  ;  with  influence  sweet 
To  Virtue's  path  be  thou  the  guide  ; 

The  treacherous  snares  of  Vice  defeat : 
Be  thou  the  sorrowing  friend  beside. 

Work  one,  work  all ;  harmonious  chimes 
Of  Labour  raise  from  earth  to  sky ; 

With  gainful  work  we  lend  the  times 
A  lustre  that  will  age  defy. 


J.    M.    MArnKATH.  215 


.fAMES     MAINLAND     MACBEATH,     F.S.A. 

|N  both  sides  of  the  Pentland  Firth  have  been 
branches  of  the  Macbeath  family,  holding  promi- 
nent positions,  and  traditionally  known  for  strong 
individuality  of  conviction  in  politics  and  religion. 
The  subject  of  our  sketch,  who  was  born  in  1828  in 
the  ancient  and  Royal  Burgh  of  Kirk  wall,  Orkney, 
was  happy  in  the  circumstances  of  his  home  life,  and 
in  the  high  character  of  his  parents.  He  was  brought 
up  in  an  atmosphere  of  literature  and  religion.  In 
the  father,  culture  was  combined  with  Christianity  of 
the  sturdy  Covenanting  type ;  in  the  mother",  that 
refined  graciousness  which  marked  the  gentlewomen 
of  the  last  generation.  From  James'  earliest  days, 
standard  authors  were  studied  under  the  paternal 
roof.  His  whole  life  was  inoculated  with  classic 
speech  and  thought  "  from  the  well  of  English  unde- 
filed."  The  father  was  a  lover  of  literature — prefer- 
ring poetry,  with  its  cognate  subjects,  music,  painting, 
and  statuary.  The  educational  outgrowth  of  such  a 
training  is  apparent  in  the  son,  whose  receptive  nature 
has  done  justice  to  it  in  more  departments  of  literature 
than  one.  During  the  forty  years  of  his  business  life  Mr 
Macbeath,  though  shrinking  from  official  work,  prefer- 
ring the  congenial  paths  of  study,  was  called  by  his 
fellow  citizens  to  the  Board  of  the  Town  Council,  to  the 
School  Board,  and  other  public  positions  of  trust.  As 
a  man  of  pronounced  Christian  reputation  he  has  long 
held  some  of  the  highest  offices  in  tli--  larL'e  and  influ- 
ential United  Presbyterian  Church  of  Kirkwall. 
Several  years  ago  he  purchased  the  property  of 
L\  infield — a  |  r  it*  n>n. mantling 

and  other  amenities.     His  library  of  rare  books, 
and  his  collect  i-.n  «-f  <  worthy  of 

inspection. 


216  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

Mr  Macbeath  has  the  faculty  of  literary  criticism 
in  no  small  measure,  and  has  used  it  largely  in  news- 
paper articles,  and  in  papers  read  before  various 
societies ;  a  poetic  vein,  considerable  in  quantity,  fine 
in  quality,  runs  through  his  nature ;  while  these  and 
other  strong  instincts  and  aspirations  are  in  sympa- 
thetic alliance  with  religion.  The  most  casual  contact 
of  a  kindred  spirit  with  his  reveals  a  man  to  be  noted. 
Mr  Charles  Wood,  editor  of  the  Argosy,  in  articles  in 
that  paper  descriptive  of  a  trip  to  Orkney,  pays  a  high 
tribute  to  Mr  Macbeath.  To  find  such  a  man  so  far 
north  was  a  surprise  to  him.  Mr  Macbeath  is  a  deep 
thinker  on  high  themes.  "  Lux  in  Tenebris  "  shows 
how  he  is  given  to  searching  self-analysis.  This  is  a 
dominant  force  in  all  he  writes — at  high  pressure  in 
"  Lux,"  but  not  so  as  to  destroy  the  descriptive  and 
dramatic  character  of  that  piece.  "Sir  Hugh's  Seat" 
evinces  how  he  can  embody  in  tripping  dainty  verse 
an  intangible  superstition,  and  give  to  airy  nothing  a 
local  habitation  and  a  name.  "Noltland  Castle"  is  a 
specimen  of  that  creative  faculty  which,  "  building  the 
lofty  rhyme,"  builds  palaces  and  peoples  them.  "  In 
Memoriam,"  on  the  death  of  a  young  sister,  dear  to 
the  writer  and  family,  composed  when  the  heart  was 
young  and  tender,  is  the  "first-fruits"  of  his  Muse, 
made  vocal  by  the  touch  of  death.  It  is  in  a  minor 
key,  soft  and  low,  and  goes  straight  to  the  heart.  Mr 
Macbeath  has  written  a  number  of  hymns,  which  could 
take  rank  in  any  collection  of  sacred  song. 

LUX    IN    TENEBRIS: 

A   CHURCHYARD   REVERIE. 

Now  does  still  autumn  gather  sombre  round, 
Night  casts  her  dewy  treasures  on  the  ground, 
She  mounts  her  ebon  throne  'mid  clouds  on  high, 
And  spreads  her  dusky  train  athwart  the  sky. 


J.    M.    MACBKATH.  217 

I  love  to  wander  in  this  lonely  hour — 
When  nitwit  rotm--  down  I  pensive  leave  my  bower, 
Ami.  wt  11  accordant  with  my  shadowed  mind. 
Seek  the  dark  glade.     By  the  lone  darksome  wynd 

v  drear  stand,  heneath  the  ruined  pile 
Of  Karl  Patrick,  and  the  ancient  Hnhop's  Aisle, 
I  li.-t  to  the  wail  of  the  dark-wing'd  gale 
As  it  si^'lis  <>'er  the  wall,  with  moaning  tale 
All  through  the  leafy  wood.     With  rustling  noise 
Resounds  the  midnight  breeze's  rueful  voice. 

Thrice  welcome  thin  lone  hour  of  nightsome  shade, 
When  thousands  sink  upon  their  downy  bed  ! 
Welcome  this  time  ;  away  from  haunts  of  man, 
I  mutte  upon  their  ways,  and  seek  to  scan, 
Through  their  own  ceaseless  acts,  a  boundless  mind, 
That  seettiH  to  long  till  it  be  unconfined — 
To  satiate  itself  in  pleasures  pure, 
Which  in  this  world  of  woe  it  may  not  lure. 
O  Life  !  thou  transient  day  of  fleeting  dreams, 
How  vain  and  worthless  all  thy  pleasure  seems  ! 

Car  fathers,  where  are  they  ?    Where  is  their  home  ? 
Beneath  the  turf  around  Saint  Magnus*  dome  ; 
There  low  they  lie,  unconscious  of  the  blast 
That  blows  above,  where  their  long  slumbers  last. 
The  t,'ra*-  LTOW.-  rank  around  the  turf  that  hides 
The  narrow  cell  where  their  lov'd  dust  abide*. 
Though  there  the  show'r*  descend,  and  tempests  rave, 
They  heedless  sleep  within  the  restful  grave. 

And  we,  ere  long,  must  lie  beside  oar  sires 

n  all  our  strength's  decay'd  and  Hfe  expires. 
make  our  long,  long  home,  and  silent  wait 
Till  death  nhnll  open  wide  his  portal  gate 
Ami  v  it-Id  his  ancient  charge  at  day  of  doom — 
Hi-  legal  right  o'er  dwellers  of  the  tomb. 

Lo  !  what  gloriou*  vision  bursts  from  heaven  ! 
Before  its  beams  the  sombre  clouds  are  driven. 
The  effulgence  Hung  by  this  light  divin- . 
On  the  moon's  pale  face,  makes  her  feebly  shine, 
Or  dwindle  from  the  view,  'mid  starry  gems, 
nor  wish  to  reign,  at  all  she  claims. 
Sji!i-nd"'i!  p  .in  -  fortli  like  that  before  the  throne, 
Ai  wti.  M  of  old  •  •  no  it  shone. 

And  u.  idling  fear 

When  the  bright  mean-:  iched  near. 


218  MODERN    SCOTTISH  '  POETS. 

Hark  !  how  the  loud  tremendous  peals  abound, 
While  conscious  earth  shakes  'neath  the  dreaded  sound. 
Listen,  the  thunders  roll  in  awful  state  ! 
Behold,  the  light  bursts  forth  from  heaven's  own  gate. 

Bend  low  thy  mortal  form  before  the  Lord, 
For  now  thou'st  seen  His  glory — heard  His  word, 
Thus  humbly  laid  in  dust  thou'lt  hear  begin 
A  still  small  voice — know  thou  heaven  is  in 
The  Holy  sound  : — 
"  Mortal,  attend  ! 

Why  reas'nest  thou  in  vain, 

When  thou  should'st  raise  thy  voice  in  grateful  strain, 
To  bless  Thy  God,  for  mercies  from  thy  youth, 
And  search  with  care  His  Holy  Book  of  Truth. 
There  He  has  open'd  wide  a  glorious  plan, 
In  which  heaven's  joys  are  freely  given  to  man, 
And  all  thou'rt  ask'd  to  do  is  to  accept 
God's  gracious,  proffered,  heavenly  gift, 
Most  freely,  fully,  offered  to  all  'mong  men, 
Who  prize  this  greatest,  richest,  dearest  boon 
Which  Heav'n  can  grant,  and  God  himself  bestow 
On  all  'mong  men  who  seek  Him  here  below. 

Vain  is  the  pride  of  man.     His  earthly  power 
But  blooms  awhile,  like  gaudy  flaunting  flower  ; 
For  when  the  edge  of  Fate  shall  sweep  the  ground, 
Long  wilt  thou  search,  but  it  will  not  be  found. 
Heaven  is  the  portion  which  thy  soul  should  claim  ; 
There  shall  the  Christian  of  the  lowliest  name 
Wear  high  in  state,  a  crown  of  regal  gold, — 
And  mortal  tongue  can  ne'er  the  bliss  unfold. 

Arise,  direct  thine  aim  beyond  those  graves, 
Believe  in  God,  and  dauntless  stem  the  waves 
Of  death  :—  redeeming  love  thy  only  plea — 
Then  shalt  thou  safely  cross  the  dreaded  sea." 

As  when  effulgent  high  the  rising  snn, 
His  splendid  course  by  morning  has  begun, 
And  breaks  the  silent  vigils  of  the  night, 
With  all  his  orient  glow  of  crimson  bright, 
Dispelling  thus  the  vapours  of  the  gloom, 
And  telling  all  the  weeping  flow'rs  to  bloom  ;— 
So,  in  my  darken'd  soul,  these  accents  flow'd, 
And  filled  my  heart,  while  all  cny  bosom  glowed. 

To  sad  repining  thus  I  bade  adieu 

And  to  the  arms  of  boundless  mercy  flew  : — 


J.    M.    MACBEATH.  219 

There  may  my  spirit  joy,  when  low  my  head 

Is  wrant  in  diut,  'mong  these  my  kindred  dead, 

And.  0  my  soul,  adore  thy  God, 

A  full  atonement  Jesus  made  : 

My  Hints  He'**  pardoned  through  Hia  blood, 

For  all  my  sins  on  Him  were  laid, 

And  such  a  weight  of  woe  He  bore, 

AH  ne'er  on  earth  wax  known  before. 

He  died  for  sin  that  He  might  win 

The  vict'ry  o'er  Satanic  King  : — 

Then  burst  his  chain,  and  ruse  again, 

Ascending  high  while  angels  sang— 

Give  way,  ye  overlaying  doors,  give  way, 

That  Chribt,  now  King,  re-enter  may. 

Our  fathers,  where  are  they  ?  tho*  now  their  home 
Be  'neath  the  turf  around  Saint  Magnus'  tomb, 
And  though  ere  long  we  lie  beside  our  sires, 
When  all  our  work  is  o'er,  and  life  expires  :— 
Yet  we  shall  rise  to  join  Heaven's  praise  ; 
And  while  on  earth  we  shall  in  grateful  lays 
Of  song  rejoice  :— for,  confident  in  this, 
Eternity  is  ours,  with  God  in  bliss. 


A    LEGEND    OF    SIR    HUGH'S    SEAT.' 

Snch  wond'rouH  tales  old  people  tell 
Of  what  on  Orkney's  knoll*  befel  ! 
They  once  believed  these  tales  were  true, 
And  say  that  fairies  did  renew 
Their  moon-lit  gambols  o'er  the  dew  ; 
For  way-lorn  travellers  oft  to  view, 
They  saw  them  trip  light  o'er  the  grass, 
And  knew  that  fairies  thus  did  pass  ! 

Full  oft  they  came  on  ev'nings  mild. 

With  martial  music  crossed  the  wild, 

In  armed  squad i  v  size, 

On  some  heroic  enterprise  ! 

Their  helm*,  the  hollow-pea  ;  their  plumes 

Were  softest  down,  of  new  blown  blooms  ! 

t  was  the  nime  given  to  a  "  knoll  "  or  gruftiy  "  hillock." 

,  the  west  side  of  and  close  to 

par!-.!)  of   Holm.     It  was  the 

spot  f '.  he  first  tflimptc  wan  caught  of  that  beautiful  panorama 

ravvllur,  and    which  has 

rod  one  of  great  beauty.    The  knoll  cave  place  to  the 
....  M.-,  in  that  locality  nearly  a  quarter  of 


220  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

Their  spears  the  brittle  straw,  with  darts 
Of  thistle  tops,  for  fated  hearts 
Of  enemies  !  thus  valiant,  they 
Marched  forth  in  battle's  proud  array  ! 

Or  a  more  courtly  train  would  come, 
All  through  the  knolls  and  vales  to  roam — 
Then  Fairy  King  and  Fairy  Queen 
Would  lead  the  dance  in  glitt'ring  sheen, 
Followed  by  maids  of  elh'n  form, 
And  worthy  knights,  that  in  the  storm 
Of  fiercest  war  made  good  their  claim 
To  glory,  in  their  rolls  of  fame. 

In  green  they  came— their  fav'rite  hue, 

With  plumes  of  white— and  belts  of  blue. 

Their  minstrels  form'd  a  ring  apart, 

And  each  excell'd  his  former  art. 

Their  music  was  of  sweetest  sound, 

While  knierht  with  maid,  and  maid  with  knight, 

Tripp'd  lightly  'neath  the  pale  moonlight. 

But  should  the  cock,  with  wakeful  note, 
Strain  his  ill-omen'd,  fateful  throat, 
They're  off— whether  to  plain  or  hill, 
Or  green-topp'd  knoll,  or  silver  rill  ! 

If  on  the  knowe  near  Sir  Hugh's  seat, 
By  Summer's  dale,  their  old  retreat, 
Towards  the  south  they  then  fast  speed — 
All  light  and  swift  as  on  a  steed  ; 
And  ere  their  shadows  reach'd  the  earth 
Their  barques  were  safe  o'er  Ronald's  firth. 
And  when  their  minstrels  stopp'd  to  sing 
It  made  the  neighbouring  isles  to  ring  ! 
And  should  their  warriors  form  in  line, 
Their  arms  on  Ronaldshay  did  shine- 
Where  many  a  fairies'  feast  has  been, 
And  their  fantastic  gambols  seen. 

Orcadian  lore  has  many  a  tale 
Of  how,  full  oft,  the  evening  gale 
Bore  sounds  of  elfish  music  far, — 
Of  wanton  mirth,  or  threatened  war  ; 
And  how  their  leader  wav'd  his  wand, 
Thence  to  north  isles  or  colder  land 
They  all  repair'd,  'mid  jovial  haste, 
To  foot  the  green  or  spread  the  feast. 


J.    M.    MACBEATH.  22l 

Many  the  tales  of  these  dark  days, 
That  crowd  the  mind  with  strange  amaze  ! 
All  nurs'd  by  cloud  of  Gothic  ni^ht, 
Man  while  in  darkness  to  affright ; 
And  shrouded  close  in  Romish  mist, 
These  superstitions  did  exist. 

And  though  light  shines  brightly  now, 
Dark  superstition,  'mid  that  glow 
Of  light,  found  out  a  lurking  place  :  — 
As  on  that  morn  when  sun-beams  chase 
Away  the  darkness,  night  tries  hard 
To  shield  itself  'gainst  fate  unt'ward, 
Behind  some  hanging  rock  or  dell, 
Or  in  a  thick-set  forest  dwell ; 
Or  when  the  wintry  storm  doth  throw 
Its  covert  o'er  the  earth  of  snow  : — 
The  sun  then  darts  his  warming  ray, 
And  melts  the  fleecy  robe  away  ; 
Save  in  some  dark,  deep  bra  nobly  den, 
Which  shuns  his  eager  prying  ken, 
Then  doth  the  snow,  still  freezing,  lie 
And  slowly  waste — then  ling'ring  die  : — 
80  superstitions  kept  firm  hold 
On  mind  of  man,  and  made  him  hold — 
Until  by  rays  of  heaven'*  own  light. 
These  were  dispelled  in  darkest  night. 


NOLTLAND'S    FAIR?    QUEEN.- 

FTTTE  WK8T. 

O'er  Noltland  Hall  the  moon  shone  fair, 
And  rolling  in  on  banks  near  there, 
With  deaf'ning  sound,  the  seas  wage  war, 
And  bring  the  many  waves  from  far— 
To  dash  on  beach. 


o  fine  old  ruin  of  Noltland  Castle  stands  at  the  head  of  the  bay  of 
Pler-o-wall,  at  the  n<.rUi-c*»t  »l»nd  of  Westray,  in  Orkney. 

iliflcc  waa  begun  in  1422  by  Thoiuaa  de  Tulloch,  Bishop  of 
Orkney,  who  WM  it  Prelate  of  elegant  U*te  and  great  munificence.  The 
.  letters,  "  T.  T ."  with  the  figure  of  a  Ulsbop  in  a  kneeling  posture, 
ornaments  the  capital  of  tbe  pillar  which  »U|>porU  the  great  stair-case. 
The  main  huiMing  1*  in  the  shape  of  an  oblong  parallelogram,  baring 
other  buildings  at  t< }..  .1  to  its  angVs.  There  are  remains  of  an  exten- 
sive court-\. ml,  »ith  embrasures  or  port- hole*  In  iU  walls.  Tbe  windows 
are  large,  and  d.  Hcately  and  hoavlly  moulded  and  ornamented,  while  all 
around  them  UK  re  has  evidently  been  •  continuation  of  string  courses  of 
tablets,  which  gave  greater  effect  and  eumr4oteneM  to  the  »  hole.  The 


222  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

Wave  after  wave  comes  furious  on, 
Another  comes,  another's  gone  ; 
Yet  stands  the  Hall  in  stately  pride, 
And  scorns  the  onset  of  the  tide — 
Which  rolls  anon. 

Why  shone  so  fair  the  moon  that  eve? 
Why  furious  pour'd  the  foaming  wave? 
Why  bright  those  stars  in  serial  blue? 
Why  shone  so  bright  that  mystic  hue — 
O'er  Noltland  Hall  ? 

That  night  she  came,  fair  Queen  she  came, 
Near  Noltland's  pile,  with  stately  plume, 
In  fairy  softness.     Hark  the  strain 
That  issues  from  her  bright  clad  train — 
Upon  yon  knowe. 

Quick  round  and  round  the' dancers  flew, 
Timbrels  sounded,  and  trumpets  blew, 
And  tapers  streaming  forth  soft  light, 
Add  wonder  to  the  wond'rous  sight — 
Of  moon-lit  dance. 

They  meet,  they  part,  they  join,  they  pair, 
Now  on  the  knowe — now  in  the  air ; 
In  silver-spangl'd  robes  was  seen, 
To  lead  the  dance — the  Fairy  Queen — 
With  air  sublime. 

FYTTE   SBOOND. 

Sudden  they  halt,  and  silent  stand, 
Then  wav'd  the  Fairy  Queen  her  wand, 
And  bright  around  her  all  appeared  ; 
Anon  the  magic  wand  she  rear'd — 
Then  all  was  dark. 

The  moon  which  lately  shone  so  bright, 

basement  is  stronger  and  more  massive  than  the  upper  storeys,  but 
there  is  a  unity  of  design  in  these  interesting  ruins.  The  Castle  and 
estate  adjoining  have  been  in  the  Balfour  family  for  a  considerable  time. 
Vedder,  an  Orcadian  poet,  says,  "  Like  castles  of  higher  celebrity,  Nolt- 
land had  its  brownie."  The  immediate  neighbourhood  has  been  found, 
during  the  past  fifty  years,  to  be  rich  in  pre-historic  remains,  of  great 
value  to  the  archaeologist.  The  knolls  and  grassy  links  all  around  were 
looked  on  with  veneration  and  awe  in  the  olden  times.  A  drawing  of  the 
Castle,  with  a  short  history,  will  be  found  in  "  Billing's  Views  of  the 
Ecclesiastical  and  Baronial  Buildings  of  Scotland."  Other  works  on  the 
subject  of  Orkney  contain  references  to  the  structure. 


J.    M.    MACBEATH.  223 

Forbears  to  lend'.her  silv'ry  light ; 
The  stars  which  twinkl'd  in  the  sky, 
To  far  recesses  seem'd  to  fly— 

And  hide  themselves. 

The  waves  which  roar'd  with  dashing  sound, 
Were  hush'd  in  silence  most  profound  ; 
The  grass  round  NoltlaiuU  hoary  pile 
With  pearly  dewdrops  oeas'd  to  smile — 
All  round  was  dark. 

Faint  rising  on  the  knowe  so  near, 
A  shining  column  doth  appear  ; 
And  lambent  light  leaps  round  its  sides, 
With  circling  tongues  the  flame  far  glide* — 
In  mystic  glow. 

Now  shone  the  moon  with  beaut'ons  light, 
The  stars  appeared  now  doubly  bright ; 
And  all  with  golden  radiance  shone, 
While  high  the  column  rose  upon 
Its  base  of  light. 

From  out  the  knowe  light  murky  shone, 
With  magic  skill  were  arrows  thrown,* 
Of  pale,  and  green,  and  yellow  hue, 
In  numbers  great  the  missiles  flew 
Both  far  and  near. 

The  column  rose,  and  in  the  clouds 
Its  fiery  flaming  crown  enshrouds, 
While  thunder  shook  the  knowe  around, 
And  ev'ry  mortal  dread  had  bound 
In  strongest  chains. 

How  black  the  clouds  are  in  the  sky  ! 
Capping  the  column  now  so  high  : 
Wasting  its  wealth— spoiling  its  might, 
Throwing  its  beauty  into  night 

With  darkling  force. 

Quick  down  in  fiery  wrath  it  pours, 
l.ikf  furious  demon  down  it  show'rs  ; 
While  o'er  the  t«pot  from  whence  it  sprang, 
Its  broken  fragments  seem  to  bang — 
Then  sinks  amain. 

*  Flint  arrow  head*  ••;  tin   v    n«  |>i-ii-xi,  whirli,   in  former  time*,  were 
«nt  All  over  Orkney,  »n-l  wore  of  the  colours  named  In  the  text. 


224  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

Black  was  the  mist  which  hung  around, 
And  dark  that  knpwe  of  magic  ground  ; 
Till  sounds  melodious  wake  the  ear, 
Which  banish'd  ev'ry  rising  fear 

From  breast  of  man, 

Again  floats  forth  sweet  music's  strain, 
The  Fairy  Queen  with  all  her  train, 
Was  seen  in  robes  resplendent  there, 
With  elfin  maids  to  dance  and  pair 
In  lightsome  step. 

They  meet,  they  part,  they  join,  they  pair, 
Now  on  the  knowe — now  in  the  air  ; 
Clad  in  her  spangl'd  robes  was  seen 
To  lead  the  dance — the  Fairy  Queen — 
In  regal  state. 

FYTTK  THIRD. 

She  wav'd  her  wand,  and  silent  all, 
When  from  the  ground  arose  a  Hall, 
The  like  for  beauty  ne'er  was  seen, 
As  that  before  the  Fairy  Queen — 
A  roy  al  pile. 

A  feast  she  spread,  the  tapers  blaze, 
The  fairies  sang,  the  tabour  plays  ; 
The  wine  is  quaff'd,  and  mirth  abounds, 
And  louder  wax'd  the  joyful  sounds 
Near  Noltland  Hall. 

The  gentle  gale  from  northern  seas 
Attends  at  Fairy  Queen's  levees  ; 
The  East  keeps  up  her  train  with  mirth, 
When  blowing  from  wide  west'rn  firth, 
Round  green-clad  knowes. 

Boreas  yields  his  martial  strain, 
And  tills  with  glee  the  fairies'  train  ; 
But  fatal  to  their  mirth  and  spree 
When  blows  the  wind  from  southern  sea 
On  Noltland's  shores. 

The  wind  which  blew  so  soft  of  late, 
Changing  its  course  in  bitter  hate, 
Bursts  from  the  East  with  horrid  roar — 
Destruction  lay  all  round  the  shore, 
Jn  dread  array. 


J.    M.    MACBEATH.  225 

The  beauty  which  so  lately  shone 
Near  Noltlaml «  stately  hall  is  gone, 
And  where  the  fairies  danced  around 
There's  nothing  seen  but  ^raMsy  wound — 
All,  all  is  gone. 

They  meet,  they  part,  they  join,  they  pair, 
No  more  on  knowe— HO  more  in  air, 
Nor  any  spangled  robes  were  *een 
To  lead  the  dance  AH  Fairy  Queen — 
With  air  supreme. 


NO  MORE,    DEAR  CHILD,  THOU    LISTNEST   TO   MY 
SON 

M  Hemori.im. :  A  Loved  Sitter,  who  dud  SSrd  October,  1810.  aged  8  yeart. 

Mo  more,  dear  child,  thou  list'nest  to  my  song, 
•lion  hast  gone  whither  thou  did'st  belong. 
Oft  hast  thou  smiltl  to  my  responsive  look, 
As  we  renewed  the  lay  from  Holy  Hook  : 
Thy  sweet  smile  beguil'd  full  many  a  care, 
For  thou  wast  dear  to  me,  and  wondrous  fair. 

0  say,  dear  child,  where  now  thy  happy  home  ? 
Is  it  where  streams  of  purest  pleasure  coine 
From  out  the  throne  ot  God,  in  highest  heaven* 
Ami  lia-*  the  golden  harp  to  thee  been  given 
To  strike  thy  great  Kedeemer's  eudle**  praise, 
In  sweet  celestial  notes,  and  heavenly  lays  T 

••»  thy  infant  voice  aye  join  that  choir 
Who  chant  sweet  hymns,  their  .Muk.-r  to  adore? 

I  by  the  Heavenly  King, 
..ip  thou  hover'st  near  on  seraph  wing — 
A  guardian  of  the  just — a  witness  true 
'Moug  that  great  throng,  who  know  what  good  men  do, 

Be  thou  still  near  thy  kindred,  and  attend 
Their  MimlK  to  heaven,  when  Meeting  life  shall  end. 
I  shall  thy  lisping  tongue,  employ  M  for  aye, 

r  voice,  thrill  in  the  blissful  lay* 
May  thine  be  sweetest  in  thy  S;ivi-m  '•<  love — 

ven  will  smile,  and  Hod  Himself  approve. 

There  m .vy  thy  harp  he  sweetest  nine, 

.('at  thy  l>i  i  heaven's  own  way*. 

ineuii'lerm,,',  glides  that  joyful  - 
That  raise*  high  the  soul  to  bliss  suprci 


226  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

There  shalt  thou  be,  bless'd  child,  for  evermore — 
Nor  sin,  nor  death,  can  reach  that  distant  shore. 

Thou  sure  was  lent  of  heaven  in  favour'd  hour, 
And  ah  !  we  lov'd  the  beaut'ous  borrow'd  flower — 
Lov'd  it  too  much  to  wish  it  back  again — 
To  this  lone  world  of  care,  and  varied  pain. 
Thou  wast  a  heavenly  plant,  and  could  not  grow 
In  this  drear  waste,  where  blighting  tempests  blow. 

Spirit  redeem'd  !  dear  is  thy  mem'ry  here, 
Be  thine,  right  oft,  the  tributary  tear. 
Whilst  long  we  grieved  thy  early  loss  below, 
Sweet  hope  now  bids  our  glowing  bosoms  know 
A  heavenly  joy — to  meet  in  bliss  above, 
And  spend  eternity,  with  God,  in  love. 


WILLIAM    J.     CURRIE, 

N  of  James  Currie,  author  of  "Wayside  Mus- 
ings"  and  "Poems  and  Songs"  (see  Third 
Series),  was  born  in  the  ancient  and  royal  burgh  of 
Selkirk  in  1853.  At  school  he  is  said  to  have  been 
very  slow  in  the  "  up-tak',"  the  only  "R"  he  had  any 
delight  in  being  reading,  and  he  early  manifested  a 
special  interest  in  the  poetical  literature  of  "  the  dear 
a-uld  land."  The  family  removed  to  London  when  he 
was  in  his  twelfth  year,  and  shortly  after  his  arrival 
there  he  began  the  battle  of  life  as  a  message  boy. 
In  1866  the  household  again  returned  to  Selkirk, 
where  William  soon  found  employment  as  a  "  creeshie  " 
— that  is,  a  worker  amongst  the  carding  machines — 
in  one  of  the  tweed  factories  for  which  the  Borderland 
is  so  famous.  He  removed  to  another  factory  in  Gala- 
shiels  in  1869,  and  for  the  last  seventeen  years  he  has 
worked  for  his  present  employers. 


W.    J.    CURRIE.  227 

Brought  up  where  the  power  of  poesy  was  felt,  it 
could  scarcely  be  other \\iso  than  that,  from  his  earliest 
years,  the  subject  of  our  sketch  lias  had  an  intense 
regard  for  poets  and  poetry.  It  was  not,  however, 
until  1873  that  his  first  verses  appeared  in  the  Border 
Advertiser,  and  he  has  continued  to  write  ever  since, 
generally  under  such  notnt-de-plume  as  "Ettrick," 
"  Peter  Pirnie,"  «tc.,  in  the  Hawick  papers,  Weekly 
News,  and  League  Journal.  His  love  of  Nature  is 
intense.  He  has  pulled  wild  flowers  by  Yarrow's 
classic  stream,  and  listened  to  the  soul-thrilling 
melody  of  its  mournful  song ;  he  has  roved  by  Ettrick, 
and 

"  Seen  Tweed's  gilvery  stream 
(llintin'  in  the  -sunny  beam,'' 

and  wandered  over  the  battlefield  of  Philiphaugh 
ami  other  places  dear  to  the  heart  of  every  Borderer. 
(an  it,  therefore,  be  wondered  at  that  Fancy,  thus 

1,  should  wake  to  -sing? 

Mi  Currie  is  a  member  of  the  Border  Bards'  As- 
.:i«.n,  of  which   he   was  secretary  for  some  time. 
has  long  been  a   total   abstainer,   and  has  held  im- 
int  offices  in  connection   with   the   Order  of  Good 
•  iany  of  his  most  successful  songs  and 
re  «»n  the  subject  of   temperance,  and  are  well- 
.  H  and  |)opul;ir.      In    l.SS?    he    published    a   small 
.me,    entitled     "Doric    Lilts"    (<  lala-hirls  :     .John 
M 'Queen),  being  a  selection   of   his   venes  on  temper- 
ance and  other  subjects.     Mr  ( 'arris's  Muse  is  inelodi- 
.nd  full  of  In-art.       lie   depicts    with  miu-h  t61 

be  i-njo\mriit.>  and  delights  of  Ijomr, 
th.  -.--ide,  the   in;  i  child  lilV  ;    while 

e  poems  e  >  it   hi^  desire  i*>  to 

intlnciM «  character  by  appealing  to  the  moral  h- 

hilii ; 


228  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

THE    AULD    FOLK. 

Oh,  the  auld  folk,  the  auld  folk, 

Are  wearin'  doon  the  brae  ; 
Their  steps  are  gettin'  slower  noo, 

Their  heids  are  unco  grey. 
Fu'  weel  they've  warsled  through  the  past 

Mid  trials  they  hae  ha'en, 
An'  sair  we'll  miss  the  dear  auld  folk 

When  frae  us  they  are  ta'en. 

Oh,  the  auld  folk,  the  auld  folk, 

Wi'  muckle  furthy  glee 
Hae  seen  around  their  cosie  hearth 

Their  ain  bairns'  bairnies'  wee. 
They've  seen  them  daffin'  fu'  o'  mirth, 

They've  seen  them  blear'd  wi'  wae, 
And  aye  their  hearts  lap  hie  wi'  joy 

To  hear  the  bairns  at  play. 

Oh,  the  auld  folk,  the  auld  folk, 

Wi'  hearts  sae  warm  an'  true, 
While  we  are  wi'  them  here  oorsel's 

We  winna  cease  to  lo'e. 
We'll  dae  oor  best  to  cheer  them  aye 

While  trudgin'  owre  life's  road — 
Wi'  kindly  words  an'  lovin'  smiles 

We'll  make  them  feel  fu'  snod. 

Oh,  the  auld  folk,  the  auld  folk, 

When  they  are  laid  at  rest 
Within  the  grave,  we'll  plant  braw  flow'rs 

Abune  ilk  dear  lo'ed  breast. 
An'  far  abune  yon  bricht  blue  sky, 

In  heavenly  mansions  fair, 
We'll  meet  the  couthie  guid  auld  folk 

To  pairt — no,  never  mair. 


YET    THERE'S    ROOM. 

Art  thou  weary  of  thy  sin  ? 

At  the  Cross  there's  room  ; 
If  thou  would'st  be  pure  within, 

At  the  Cross  there's  room. 
Jesus  died,  dear  one,  for  thee, 
Bore  the  shame  of  Calvary's  tree, 
That  thou  might'st  from  sin  be  free — 

At  the  Cross  there's  room. 


W.    J.    CURRIE. 

Pleasures  fade  and  pass  away, 
At  the  Crota  there's  room  ; 
Jesus'  love  will  ne'er  decay, 

At  the  Cross  there's  room. 
Truths  to  light  the  darkeu'd  mind, 
Healing  for  the  aick  and  blind, 
All  we  need  in  Him  we  find — 
At  the  Cross  there's  room. 

Linger  not  though  tempest  tos't, 

At  the  Cross  there's  room  ; 
Linger  not,  thou  might'st  be  lost, 

At  the  Cross  there's  room. 
Look  from  self,  there's  nothing  there, 
Look  to  Christ,  Hi*  glory  share, 
He  can  save  from  sin  ami  care— 
At  the  Cross  there's  room. 

Time  is  passing,  death  is  near, 
At  the  Cross  there's  room  ; 

Jeans  calls,  doubt  not  nor  fear, 
At  the  Cross  there's  room. 

Angels  whisper  come  away, 

All  thy  cares  on  Je*us  lay, 

Life  eternal  have  to-day, 

At  the  Cross  there's  room. 


WAE    PA'S    THE    DRINKING    O'T, 

Auld  Scotch  whisky  some  folk  lo'e, 
Wae  fa's  the  drinkin'  o't, 

Nor  content  wi'  getting  fou, 
Wae  fa'H  the  drinkin'  o't ; 

They  maun  play  the  Hilly  fool, 

Sink  themsel's  in  depths  o'  dool, 

Act  the  part  o'  Satan's  tool, 
Wae  fa's  the  drinkin'  o't. 

Laddie-  think  they're  daein'  weel, 
Wae  fa's  the  drinkin'  o't, 

Oin  some  lassie's  heart  they  steal, 
Wae  fa's  the  drinkin'  o't ; 

Then  in  pride  they  loodly  boast, 

And  in  drink  their  vict'ries  toast, 

Countin*  not  the  after  cost, 
Wae  fa's  the  drinkin 

Jamie  dwelt  in  yon  wee  toon. 
Wae  fa's  the  drinkin'  o't ; 


230  MODBEN    SCOTTISH   POETS. 

And  wi'  bliss  bis  life  to  croon, 

Wae  fa's  the  drinkin'  o't, 
Jamie  socbt  young  Jeanie  fair 
Wedded  joys  wi'  him  to  share, 
Dreamin'  not  o'  strife  and  care, 
Wae  fa's  the  drinkin'  o't. 

Jamie  lo'ed  the  drappie  weel, 

Wae  fa's  the  drinkin'  o't ;    • 
Aft  on  pay-nichts  hame  he'd  reel 

Wae  fa's  the  drinkin'  o't ; 

Then  he  loodly  stamp'd  and  swore, 

Kicked  the  chairs  and  tables  o'er, 

Chased  puir  Jeanie  to  the  door, 

Wae  fa's  the  drinkin'  o't. 

Want  and  care  made  Jeanie  fail, 

Wae  fa's  the  drinkin'  o't, 
Then  she  took  to  preein  ale, 

Wae  fa's  the  drinkin'  o't ; 
Ruin'd  soon,  they  lost  their  name, 
Forth  they  wander'd  frae  their  hame, 
Begg'd  and  drank,  nor  e'er  thocht  shame, 
Wae  fa's  the  drinkin'  o't. 

Templars  guid,  their  tale  sune  heard, 

WTae  fa's  the  drinkin'  o't, 
Gat  them  pledged  baith  heart  and  word, 

Wae  fa's  the  drinkin'  o't ; 
Noo  they're  bien  and  croase  the  twa, 
Sin'  frae  drink  they  keep  awa', 
May  they  ne'er  though  tempted  fa', 
Wae  fa's  the  drinkin'  o't ; 

Freends,  arise,  there's  work  for  you, 
Wae  fa's  the  drinkin'  o't, 

Gin  oor  brave  auld  land  ye  lo'e, 
Wae  fa's  the  drinkin'  o't  ; 

Lood  the  trump  o'  battle  blaw, 

On  to  action,  ane  an'  a', 

Drive  the  trade  in  drink  awa', 
Wae  fa's  the  drinkin'  o't. 


IN    OOR    AIN    GLEN. 

Bonnie  is  the  hawthorn  bush 

In  oor  ain  glen, 
Sweetly  sings  the  blythesome  thrush 

In  oor  ain  glen  ; 


W.    J.    CURRIE.  231 

An*  wi'  joy  oor  hearts  a'  fill 
When  we  hear  the  murm'rin'  trill 
0'  the  bonnie  glintin'  rill 
In  oor  ain  glen. 

Oh,  there's  bairnies  fu'  o*  glee 

In  oor  ain  glen. 
Joy  gleams  brichtly  in  ilk  e'e 

In  oor  ain  glen  ; 
Happy  is  ilk  cottar's  hearth 
At  braw  bridal  or  at  birth  ; 
There's  no  ae  wee  «pot  on  earth 

Like  oor  ain  glen. 

Purple  blooms  the  heather  bell 

In  oor  ain  glen, 
Canty  sangg  oor  bosoms  swell 

In  oor  ain  glen  ; 

Nature'*  gems*  that  grow  sae  fair, 
Flow'rets  bathed  wi'  dewdrape  rare 
Seem  to  rob  us  o'  a*  care 

In  oor  ain  glen. 

In  the  warld  there's  no  a  place 

Like  <)<>r  ain  glen, 
Perfect  beauty  we  can  trace 

In  oor  ain  glen  ; 
Then  contented  we  will  be, 
Baskin  in  the  joy  sue  free 
Beamiu*  frat-  bricht  skies  on  hie 

'Hune  oor  ain  glen. 


AT    YOUR    AIN    FIRESIDE. 

Gin  ye'd  keep  the  sweets  o'  joy 

At  your  ain  fireside, 
Let  nae  warld  cares  annoy 

At  your  ain  fireside  ; 
Let  the  blythesome  notes  o*  tang, 
Th<>'  the  nicht*  *eem  drear  an'  lang, 
Tirl  a*  your  heart-strings  thrang. 

At  your  ain  fireside. 

Tis  a  bonnie  scene,  I  trow, 

At  your  ain  fireside, 
When  tr.t  the  lowe, 

At  your  ain  fireside, 
Oar*  the  bairnies  loup  wi'  glee, 

ours  like  meenito  flee. 


232  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

Oh,  hoo  lichtsome  hearts  may  be 
At  your  ain  fireside. 

When  ye're  hame  frae  weary  toil,  - 

At  your  ain  fireside, 
Oh  !  hoo  sweet  the  welcome  smile 

At  your  ain  fireside. 
Frae  au Id  Scotland's  scaith  abstain, 
An'  your  hard-won  siller  hain, 
Gin  ye  wish  sic  bliss  to  reign 
At  your  ain  fireside. 

Though  wealth  o'  gear  be  sma' 
At  your  ain  fireside, 

An'  your  cleedin'  be  nae  braw 
At  your  ain  fireside, 

Keep  your  hopes  a'  set  aboon, 

Where  the  leal  shall  wear  a  croon  ; 

Sae  fear  nae  ye  the  warld's  froon 
At  your  ain  fireside. 


OOR    BONNIE    BAIEN. 

Lay  gently  by  that  lock  o'  hair, 
'Twas  worn  by  ane  o'  beauty  rare, 
Sae  dear  we  lo'ed  an'  made  oor  care — 
Oor  bonnie  bairn. 

Hoo  winsome  was  ilk  sunny  smile 
O'  Bessie  free  frae  earthly  guile, 
She  won  oor  hearts  wi'  ilka  wile — 
Oor  bonnie  bairn. 

But  cruel  death  wi'  noiseless  tread 
Cam'  saftly  ben  an'  suapt  life's  thread, 
An'  she  was  numbered  wi'  the  dead— 
Oor  bonnie  bairn. 

Yet  precious  thought,  sublime  an'  sweet, 
We  ken  that  ance  again  we'll  meet, 
Safe  in  the  fauld  at  Jesus'  feet — 
Oor  bonnie  bairn. 


THE    WIDOW'S    MITE. 

The  widow's  mite  was  mair  to  God 
Than  the  rich  man's  siller  croon  ; 


W.    J.    CURRIE.  233 

The  Maister  ken'd  in  pride  they  gi'ed, 
But  the  widow's  heart  was  soun*. 

Be  ca'd  the  twal'  to  Him  an'  said— 

"  The  puir  buddy's  cast  in  in  air 
Than  a'  the  lave,  weel  though  they've  gi'en, 

For  they  had  an'  weel  could  spare. 

But  she,  rare  gift  fn'  rich  an*  sweet, 

To  God  she's  gi'en  her  a' ;  " 
Nae  doot,  when  frae  His  boose  she  turned, 

Weel  blessed  she  gaed  awa*. 

An'  what  to  Him,  freens,  hae  we  gi'en  T 

Let's  search  oor  hearts  an'  ken, 
For  noo's  the  time  God's  love  to  test 

Ere  comes  to  us  life's  en*. 


OOR    AIN    WEE    BAIRN. 

Bonnie  wee  totikins, 

Hricht  as  a  bee, 
Cheeks  aye  sae  rosy  red 

Brimfn  o'  gle«. 
Mither's  sweet  petikins, 

Faither's  wee  joy, 
Fillin*  the  boose  wf  bliss, 

Free  o'  alloy. 

Darlin*  wee  laugbin'  face, 

Ken  bricht  an'  blue  ; 
Kisses  like  hinny  drape 

Come  frae  that  moo'. 
In  a'  the  warld  wide 

Nane  crouser  craw, 
Goad  cann a  buy  oor  bairn, 

Bonnie  an*  braw. 

Denty  wee  dauted  bairn, 

Twa  Hpurriu'  feet, 
Kickin'  wi*  lifieneM 

Chubby  hands  meet. 
A*  thing  maun  pleasure  thee, 
King  owre  us  a', 

..ay  nae  blightin' blast 
l.y  life  fa. 


234  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 


THOMAS     RAE 

S  a  youthful  poet  of  bright  promise,  whose  utter- 
ances,  while  occasionally  gleaming  with  the 
brightness  of  ennobling  thought,  appeal  to  the 
tenderest  emotions  of  the  heart,  and  are  full  of  keen 
feeling.  He  was  born  at  Galashiels  in  1868.  He 
must  have  been  very  early  brought  into  contact  with 
music,  for  we  are  told  that  as  far  back  as  he  can  re- 
member he  was  acquainted  with  some  of  the  sweetest 
of  our  Scottish  songs.  These  have  ever  remained  with 
him,  and  they  now  and  again  spring  up  into  his  mind 
like  the  memory  of  an  old  dream.  At  the  age  of  four 
he  was  sent  to  school,  but  being  of  a  very  delicate 
constitution,  his  progress  was  much  impeded  ^by 
frequent  absence.  The  only  things  he  excelled  in 
were  drawing  and  painting,  which,  with  music,  are 
still  his  delight.  When  strong  enough,  he  spent  much 
of  his  time  in  the  woods,  amongst  the  flowers  and  the 
birds.  He  loved  the  flowers  with  their  varied  hues 
and  fragrant  odours,  and  the  birds  with  their  sweet 
music.  His  delight  was  to  listen  to  the  purling  brook 
and  the  humming  bee,  and  his  happiest  moments  were 
when  he  held  communion  with  the  spirit  of  Nature — 
her  sights  and  sounds  speaking  to  him  as  beautiful 
thoughts  from  the  great  mind  of  God,  and  telling  of 
His  wisdom  and  His  love.  Leaving  school,  in  which 
he  took  no  great  delight,  at  the  age  of  twelve,  he  was 
apprenticed  to  a  draper,  with  whom  he  remained  two 
years,  when  he  entered  one  of  the  factories.  Here  his 
health  very  soon  failed  him,  he  was  forced  to  leave, 
and  ever  since  he  has  been  so  weak  as  to  be  unable  to 
engage  in  any  work  for  a  livelihood.  He  has,  how- 
ever written  a  number  of  poems  of  much  merit — pen- 
ning his  pieces  generally  in  the  silence  of  the  night 


THOMAS    RAE.  235 

when  unable  to  sleep,  and  for  the  purpose  of  soothing 
his  heart  when  sad  or  weary.  Although  he  first  put 
his  thoughts  in  rhyme  when  about  fifteen  years  of  age, 
it  was  not  till  about  a  year  ago  that  he  began  to  pub- 
lish his  pieces.  "  He  only  sang  away  to  himself,"  we 
are  told.  He  "  could  not  look  on  his  productions  as 
having  any  poetry  in  them,  and  it  was  only  after  the 
urgent  solicitations  of  friends  that  he  ventured  to 
allow  any  of  them  to  appear  in  print.  He  has  written 
many  sweet  and  reflective  pieces  for  the  Border  Adver- 
tiser under  the  notn-de-plume  of  "  Dino."  Indeed,  his 
five  years'  illness  and  retirement  has  given  him  a 
thoughtfulness  much  beyond  his  years,  and  the  witch- 
ing Muse  has  beguiled  many  weary  nights  of  sleepless- 
ness. Like  William  Thomson,  the  gifted  author  of 
"  The  Maister  and  the  Bairns,"  our  poet  "sings  away 
his  pain,"  and  has  taken  to  the  "pleasures  of  the 
imagination,"  his  t><>nk>,  his  pencil,  his  music,  and  his 
"  fiddle,"  in  order  to  soothe  his  aching,  feeble  body. 
And  the  result  is  that  the  world  is  nil  the  richer  for 
his  care-fully  thought-out  verses,  full  of  directness  and 
natural  pathos.  Beii  tically  and  naturally 

expressed  in  appropriate,  musical,  and  pleasing  rhythm, 
they  appeal  directly  to  the  heart,  and  are  liked  the 
better  the  oftener  they  are  read. 

LE\D    THOU    ME    ON. 

U»d  Thou  the  way,  O  Father  ! 

Dark  though  it  \>e  ; 
Lead  Thou  my  footstep*  thither, 

Nearer  to  Thee. 

On  through  the  darksome  ni^ht, 
On  in  the  path  of  right, 
On  to  the  dawning  light, 

Nearer  to  Thee. 

Dark  in  the  path  and  dreary, 

Wand'ring  alone, 
Sometimes  I  sink  no  weary  ; 

Lead  Thou  me  on  ; 


236  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

Strengthen  me  day  by  day, 
While  on  life's  rough  pathway, 
And  near  me  ever  stay — 
Guiding  me  on. 

What  though  in  weary  pain 

1  journey  here ; 
Thy  love  doth  aye  remain, 

Ready  to  cheer. 
With  Thy  sweet  love  divine 
Calming  this  soul  of  mine, 
Cheering  through  cloud  or  shine— 

What  need  I  fear  ? 

Blend  Thou  Thy  will  with  mine, 

Day  after  day  ; 
And  may  Thy  love  divine 

Light  my  lone  way. 
On  till  the  night  is  o'er, 
Till  life  shall  be  no  more, 
Then  on  that  fairer  shore 

With  Thee  I'll  stay. 


ONWARD ! 

Onward  !  let  your  soul  be  crying, 
On,  'midst  glorioHs  truth  sublime  ; 

'Tis  immortal,  never  dying, 
Through  eternity  'twill  shine. 

On  through  endless  spheres  in  heaven, 
On,  with  truth  to  guide  aright, 

For  to  man  it  has  been  given 
To  progress  towards  the  light. 

On  amidst  eternal  glory, 

There  our  minds  will  nobler  grow  ; 
Strengthened,  purified,  and  holy, 

Free  from  every  sin  and  woe. 

Live  thou  nobly  for  the  future  ; 

There  is  work  aye  day  by  day  ; 
Strive  to  help  your  fellow  creature 

As  you  journey  o'ei  life's  way. 

Help  them  as  you  journey  onward, 
Help  those  fallen  'midst  the  strife  ; 

Lead  them  upward,  lead  them  God-ward, 
To  a  purer,  nobler  life. 


THOMAS    RAE.  237 

Raixe  them  gently,  oh,  so  kindly, 

Out  of  ain  to  thoughts  above  : 
They  have  wandered  downward  blindly, 

Raise  them  now  to  God'n  sweet  love. 

Onward,  then,  let  us  be  marching, 

In  the  path*  of  truth  and  lore, 
So  that  we  may  live  in  beauty 

In  that  fairer  land  above. 


A     LULLABY. 

Hush  ye,  my  baby  !  lie  snug  in  thy  bed, 
No  danger  shall  harm  thee  here  ; 

Mother  will  watch  o'er  thy  wee  tiny  head, 
And  guard  thee,  and  soothe  thy  fear. 

Sleep  then,  my  baby  !  thy  Father  above 
Shall  watch  thee  with  love  and  care, 

He'll  cover  thee  with  His  mantle  of  love— 
His  presence  is  everywhere. 

Softly  the  ni^ht-winds  sigh  'mid  the  trees, 

Murmuring  sweetest  lullaby  ; 
Hush  ye,  my  baby  !  lint  to  the  breeze, 

Singing  to  thee  its  sweet  melody. 

List  ye,  my  babe  !  to  the  spirit's  song 
Blending  like  zephyrs  soft  and  mild  ; 

Breathing  of  holy  (»eace,  so  calm, 
And  hushing  thee  to  sleep,  my  child. 

Sleep  then,  n.y  baby  !  oh  !  softly  sleep, 
And  through  the  dark  and  silent  night 

Angela  will  round  thee  their  vigil  keep, 
And  guard  thee  aafe  till  morning  light. 


"NANNIE'S"    DEAD. 

Closed  those  dear  eyes  of  blue, 
tin  their  sweet  light  ; 

Silent  the  inn-ic  too 
<  >f  laughter  bright. 

1  that  dear  voice  of  thine, 

Which  seemed  like  bright  sunshine, 

Both  day  and  uiK-ht. 


238  MODERN    SCOTTISH   POETS. 


But  death  hath  chilled  the  flower 

I  held  so  dear, 
And  'neath  its  mighty  power 

Life  felt  so  drear  ; 
I  miss  the  voice  so  sweet, 
Which  used  my  coining  greet, 
And  the  patter  of  her  feet 

No  more  I  hear. 

And  now  my  heart  is  sad, 
The  loved  one's  gone, 
That  made  my  heart  full  glad, 

Like  some  bright  song. 
And  in  my  heart  I  fain 
Would  see  that  face  again, 
To  ease  the  heart's  dull  pain, 
I  feel  so  lone. 

But  in  that  fairer  land, 

My  darling  fre« 
With  the  sweet  angel  band 

Will  brighter  he. 
And  though  I  long  to  hear 
Her  voice,  I  have  no  fear  ; 
I  know  that  she  is  near 

To  comfort  me. 


WILT     THOU     REMEMBER    ME? 

Wilt  thou  remember  me,  when  thou  art  gone  ; 
Will  the  past,  like  the  wail  of  a  distant  song, 
Steal  over  your  mind  with  a  gentle  tone, 

And  waken  a  thought  of  your  loved  one  then  ? 

Or  wilt  thou  in  the  twilight's  holy  hour, 
When  birds  sing  low  ; — or  the  breath  of  a  flower 
May  touch  your  soul  deep  with  its  magic  power, 
And  waken  a  thought  of  your  loved  one  then 

And  so,  when  a  thought  of  the  happy  past 
Steals  over  your  mind,  may  its  presence  cast 
An  holy  peace,  that  forever  may  last, 

To  comfort  and  soothe  with  its  holy  power. 


ANDREW    WOOD. 


ANDREW    WOOD. 

>R  ANDREW  WOOD,  for  many  years  a  prominent 
medical  practitioner  in  Edinburgh,  belonged 
to  the  fourth  generation  of  eminent  men  of  the  Wood 
family  who  practised  that  profession  there.  His  great- 
grandfather, William,  became  a  Fellow  of  the  Royal 
College  of  Surgeons  in  1716,  and  his  grandfather, 
Andrew  Wood,  joined  the  College  of  Surgeons  in  1 769. 
The  latter  was  a  cousin-german  of  "  Lang  Sandy 
Wood,"  whose  appearance  is  so  characteristically  pre- 
sented in  "  Kay's  Portraits."  William  Wood,  father  of 
the  subject  of  our  sketch,  was  born  in  1 782,  and  was 
a  bold  and  well-known  advocate  of  medical  reform. 
Our  poet  was  born  in  1810,  and  was  educated  at  the 
Old  High  School.  He  held  a  high  place  in  his  class, 
and  after  going  through  the  humanity  course  at  the 
University,  he  began  his  medical  studies,  which  he 
prosecuted  with  much  zeal.  The  next  stage  of  his 
<-r  was  his  becoming  a  medical  officer  of  the  New 
Town  Dispensary,  which  office  was  useful  for  the  sub- 
sequent successful  practice  of  his  profession.  He 
afterwards  succeeded  his  father  in  several  important 
appointments,  and  w:is  surgeon  t<>  Id- riot's  Hospital, 
an  office  held  by  hi.--  family  since  the  year  1755.  He 
was  surgeon  to  the  M«  n  li.mt  Maiden  and  Trades 
Maiden  Hospitals,  and  held  the  office  of  Inspector  of 
Anatomy  fur  many  years.  The  Hcot*man  at  the  time 
of  his  death  said  that  he  was  known  as  a  man  of 
i:il  zeal  and  activity,  and  for  some 
resented  the  Kxtr.mmral  Medical  ( '..r|«.r;i' 

.1   «.f  the   ( ta  <tical 

'       .Mcil.       11'    wafl  ih'Tc  a  uanu  and  eariR-st  supporter 
of  \\hat  i  li«  interests  of  the  >.-,,m>h 

medk-al    >rhM.,U         I'r    W««*d    u:i>    U'.side.>    an    ;.< 


24-0  MODERN  SCOTTISH  POETS. 

member  of  the  British  Medical  Association,  at  whose 
meeting  at  Cambridge  he  was  one  of  the  members  of 
the  profession  whom  the  University  authorities 
selected  for  the  honour  of  the  LL.D.  degree.  He  held 
the  degree  of  M.D.,  and  the  Fellowship  of  the  Royal 
College  of  Surgeons,  Edinburgh,  which  he  represented 
in  the  Medical  Council."  As  a  manager  of  the  Royal 
Infirmary,  he  brought  his  business  habits  and  sound 
sense  to  the  assistance  of  that  noble  charity,  and  he 
took  an  active  part  in  making  arrangements  for  the 
building,  and  also  superintended  the  progress  of  the 
new  Infirmary. 

The  author  of  a  loving  and  touching  obituary  notice 
in  the  Edinburgh  Medical  Journal,  to  which  we  are 
indebted  for  many  of  these  details,  says  that  when 
the  University  and  Medical  School  of  Edinburgh  were 
attempted  to  be  stormed  by  a  small  band  of  lady 
students,  who  insisted  on  their  right  to  be  taught 
along  with  their  masculine  brethren,  "  Dr  Andrew 
Wood  stoutly  withstood  the  innovation,  and  shared 
with  others  the  odium  unjustly  incurred  for  daring  to 
assert  that  the  introduction  of  such  an  element  would 
go  far  to  ruin  the  prosperity  of  the  school.  The  pro- 
moters of  the  movement  would  not  understand  that  it 
was  not  a  jealousy  of  their  fair  rivals  that  prompted 
the  opposition  they  encountered,  but  the  feeling  that 
it  would  not  be  beneficial  to  the  morals  of  either  sex 
for  these  young  people  to  be  associated  together  in 
medical  classes." 

Dr  Wood's  active  mind  was  never  idle.  He  was 
fond  of  literary  pursuits,  and  being  a  staunch  Conser- 
vative, he,  for  a  number  of  years,  supplied  a  series  of 
political  articles  to  the  Edinburgh  Courant.  He  also 
wrote  on  many  social  subjects  under  the  sobriquet  of 
"Timothy  Dryasdust,"  and  many  a  newspaper  wel- 
comed his  humorous  and  racy  verses.  In  1870  he 
began  a  series  of  translations  from  Latin  and  German 


ANDREW    WOOD.  241 

authors,  the  "  Satires  of  Horace  "  being  the  subject  of 
his  first  effort,  followed  by  the  "  Epistles  "  and  "  Art 
<>f  1'oetry."  He  next  truncated  Scliiller's  "Don 
Carlos,"  "Lay  of  the  Bell  aii.l  other  Ballads,"  &c. 
These  were  favourably  received  on  account  of  their 
elegance  as  well  as  for  the  clas>U:ul  knowledge  they 
di-pluyed.  Many  of  hi.>  songs,  full  of  his  Imp; 
vein  of  humour,  brightened  the  social  gathering  in 
which  he  shone.  \Ve  are,  however,  also  able  to  give 
specimens  of  what  few  but  his  nearest  and  dearest  of 
kin  knew  lay  at  the  bottom  of  a  calm  and  undemon- 
strative heart  strong  natural  utleetion  and  touching 
tenderness,  Mended  with  an  unostentatious  piety. 

While  at  the  I'niversity  he  joined  the   Royal  Medi- 
cal   -  nl  took  a   prominent    part  at  the  weekly 
meetings  for   discu^in^    medical    papers.      Among  his 
conteniporar:  ^ir    Douglas    Maclagan,    J.    H. 
liulfour,    rh.ir.                 m,    and    others,    SO   that    it    can 
easily  b»-  imajin'-d    how    lively,   and   at   the  >ame  time 
full  of   promise    were    the-e    student    deliates.      It 
at  the  re-union*  of  the  medical  officers  of  the  New 

ary  that  .-if    Di.uulus   Maclagan  bn> 

out  his  in  -V'///«   t'tinnru   Mnlirti;  and 

at  a  later  period  of  his    life    Dr    Wood  discover*  «1  that 
"O  could  contribute  to    the    enjoyment  of  the  com 
puny  by  a  topical   .song.      Though   he  worked  hard  at 
liis  ]  :  il  gatherings. 

||.-  RFttB  8       .    mber   of    the    (fid    High    School    Lin«l>uy 

-  ( 'lub,  th(  1  and   limited   bin. 

il    Cluh,    and 
hi-  prolilie  pen  \  i, 

m.u.  iiich 

lurly  his 
lit    l>e    h-  :   that,  in   !>>•'>,  M 

I 
iilliie,     entitled     "I.  |  lie    (  '.•!!. 

v  mem 


242  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

bers  of  several  of  these  professional  Clubs.  The 
object  of  the  publishers  was  to  respond  to  the  fre- 
qently-expressed  -wish  of  "  outsiders "  to  become  pos- 
sessed of  the  songs  and  rhymes  in  book  form,  and  so 
well  was  the  work  received  that  it  soon  became  ex- 
ceedingly rare  and  difficult  to  get.  It  contained  a 
number  of  Dr  Wood's  effusions,  as  well  as  several  by 
Sir  Douglas  Maclagan,  Professor  Blackie,  and  others. 

Dr  Wood's  family  consisted  of  six  sons  and  three 
daughters.  His  eldest  son,  shortly  after  taking  his 
medical  degree,  was  cut  off  by  consumption,  just  as  he 
had  given  promise  of  being  a  valuable  aid  to  his 
father.  This  event  occurred  not  long  after  he  had 
lost  his  eldest  daughter,  and  it  had  been  preceded, 
only  a  month  previously,  by  the  sudden  death  of  his 
youngest  daughter.  These  sad  and  touching  bereave- 
ments produced  a  severe  impression  on  his  health, 
and  doubtless  fostered  the  disease  that  ultimately 
proved  fatal.  The  end  came  with  startling  sud- 
denness. On  the  25th  January,  1881,  although  for 
some  days  he  had  not  felt  well,  he  had  gone  out  as 
usual  in  the  morning  011  his  round  of  visits.  As  was 
almost  his  daily  habit,  he  called  about  noon  at  Messrs 
Maclachlan  &  Stewart's,  medical  booksellers,  to  have 
a  "  crack  "  with  the  surviving  partner,  when  he  must 
have  felt  something  wrong,  as  he  abruptly  returned 
to  his  carriage  and  ordered  his  coachman  to  drive 
home.  On  his  arrival  at  the  house,  this  servant  found 
his  master  lying  apparently  lifeless.  He  never  re- 
gained consciousness,  though  he  repeatedly  muttered 
the  first  part  of  the  Lord's  prayer,  "  Our  Father  which 
art  in  heaven,"  showing  that,  though  insensible  to 
external  impressions,  he  was  aware  that  he  was  on  a 
journey  to  a  better  world. 


ANDREW    WOOD.  243 

THE    FEMALE    DOCTORS. 

That  women  of  late  bare  increased—  are  increasing — 
In  ratio  that  threatens  to  prove  quite  unceasing 

Is  fact,  painful  fact,  which  can/tut  be  deni-i. 
There  are  too  many  females— too  little  employment  ; 
Then  what's  to  be  done  to  increase  their  enjoyment? 
Some  ladies  have  struck  out  a  new  proposition — 
Why  not  the  profession  embrace  of  physician  T 

A  plan  which  in  reason  one  should  not  deride. 

When  women  have  once  taken  up  a  decision, 

Very  hard  'tis  to  drive  them  from  out  their  position. 

At  the  door  for  admission  they  steadily  knock'd, 
Importunate  widow,  importunate  maid, 
Unceasingly  clamour'd,  nor  tired,  nor  afraid  ; 
At  one  door  rejected,  they  then  tried  another, 
And  Board  after  Board  they  continued  to  bother, 

Till  our  University  its  door  unlock'd. 

To  teach  them  Anatomy  first  they  applied 
To  Turner  and  Handyside,  who  both  denied 

To  lend  them  assistance  the  subject  to  learn. 
As  they'd  not  l>e  tempted  by  love  or  hy  siller, 
Despairing,  these  ladies  went  off  to  John  MilUr, 
Who  boned  thrm  at  once,  for  he  thought  it  correct — 
Although  1  -ioii't  think  so-  that  they  bhould  dissect 

The  viscera,  muscles,  and  joints  in  their  turn. 

Our  heart*  which  with  love  for  the  ladies  oft  beat. 
These  ladies  to  cut  up  will  reckon  a  treat, 

And  explore  their  recesses,  their  valve*,  and  their  wall*. 
Hard-Aearta/  they  think  I  >r  Thin— even  rude, 
And  they're  heartily  glad  they're  now  out  of  the  wood; 
'(>ainst  their  foes  1  sunpect  that  they  clin  i-h  -  .me  iplccn, 
For  them  all  their  revenge  has  a  stomach,  I  •.. 

And  nothing  their  ardour  e'er  daunt*  or  app«*ls. 

Hut  Komewlut  discouraged  and  somewhat  cast  down, 

Jj  of  true  comfort  they've  ^ot  from  (  'rum-Hrown, 
Who'll  tea<-h  them  affinities,  atoms  and  ail. 
I'rofes-or  Hughes  Bennett  they  *  >  i>usy 

Preparing  eApur^ated  lectures  on  l'h\ 
.c«  adapted  for  ladies, 

guineas  per  head,  they  say,  paid 
The  honour  is  great — honorarium  nuiall. 

i  James,  is  th>  ir  n£  *•  ever : 

He's  ti  j>ain"  and  from  toil*  a 

•  is'd  It-male.-,  in  >|ue»t  of  degrees  ; 


244  MODERN  SCOTTISH  POETS. 

He  favours  their  crotchet — for  he  has  no  rnind 
That  woman,  dear  woman,  should  still  be  confined 
Within  those  poor  limits  which  old-fangled  fogies 
For  them  would  prescribe,  whilst  they  conjure  up  bogies, 
Sentimental  humbug,  not  at  all  like  the  cheese. 

In  days  antiquated  the  ladies  did  stitch, 

And  plied  well  their  needles,  but  now  they've  an  itch 

To  try  acwpressure,  which  Simpson  devised, 
Needlework  they  think  needless — pin-money  they  spend 
On  pins  that  are  used  hare-lip  gashes  to  mend, 
'Stead  of  puddings  they  poultices  make  with  high  art, 
And  if  you  should  chaff  them  they'll  answer  you  tart, 

And  show  you  that  they'll  be  by  no  means  despised. 

Stay  at  home  was  the  motto  of  women  of  old  ; 
Ste-a-to-matous  tumours  are  now,  we  are  told, 

Familiar  to  masculine-feminine  swells. 
To  make  the  pot  bod  painful  boils  they'll  incise, 
Brooches  set  with  carbuncles  no  longer  they'll  prize, 
The  jewels  they  love  are  these  jewels  of  peril — 
Carbuncles,  the  terror  of  peasant  and  earl, 

On  which  one  with  horror,  nay  agony,  dwells. 

"  Then  here's  to  the  ladies  whose  merits  surpassing, 
In  eloquent  phrases  were  lauded  by  Masson  ; 

Who  told  us  how  wide — nay,  how  boundless  their  sphere." 
Old  maids  we  no  longer  need  send  to  the  atties, 
Attic  Greek  let  us  teach  them,  and  pure  mathematics, 
In  science  and  classics  they're  more  than  a  match 
For  men,  as  most  clearly  was  proved  by  that  batch 

Of  these  fine  learned  women  -regardless  of  fear. 

"This  fear  of  the  ladies,"  our  Principal  cried  ; 
"This  talk  of  their  sphere,"  sturdy  Masson  replied, 

"  Is  nothing  but  rubbish  '' — and  just  like  a  whale. 
As  the  fins  of  a  whale  rudimentary  arms 
Undoubtedly  are  ;  so  mere  groans  and  alarms 
Are  Phin's  rudimentary  arms  'gainst  the  women, 
We  well  may  consider,  and  think  that  he's  dreaming, 

And  thus  we  shall  bring  to  a  fin-is  our  tale. 

"PEACE,  PERFECT  PEACE,   AND   LIGHT.*" 
In  Memoriam :  W.  T.  Wood. 

Dear  Will  !  thy  days  were  few  on  earth, 
'Gainst  sickness  hard  thy  fight ; 

*  He  calmly  gave  up  life's  latest  breath  with  these  words  on  his  lips. 


ANDREW   WOOD.  245 

But  God  in  mercy  sent  at  last 
Peace,  perfect  peace,  and  light. 

How  gentle,  calm,  unmurmuring, 

'Midst  pain  and  weariness  ' 
Who  would  not  fly  to  give  thee  ease 

And  lighten  thy  distreMS  ? 

So  quiet,  thoughtful,  and  reserved, 

So  brave,  so  tender  too. 
So  loving  and  BO  fondly  loved, 

So  guileless  and  so  true. 

Oh,  many  a  weary  day  thou  pass'd, 

And  many  a  weary  night : 
At  times  'twas  dark  ;  at  last  thou  found'st 

Peace,  perfect  peace,  and  light. 

I  thought  my  heart  would  break  when  I 

Looked  on  thy  pale,  wan  face, 
And  when  I  watched  from  day  to  day 

Thy  young  life  ebb  apace. 

H»it  now  'tis  o'er,  the  struggle's  o'er  ; 

From  sin  and  pain  released, 
Thou'rt  in  that  bright  and  glorious  land 

Where  anxious  cares  have  ceased. 

Lo  !  at  the  gate  an  angel  band, 

Three  ulsters,  thee  surround. 
To  lead  thee  to  that  Saviour  dear 

Whom  they  had  sought  and  found. 

Joy,  joy  for  them  !  Joy,  joy  for  thee  ! 

Put  on  thy  robe  of  white  ; 
Tbou'st  found  on  earth,  in  heaven  thon'It  keep, 

Peace,  perfect  peace,  and  light. 

THK    TIME    IS    DRAWING    NEAR. 

No  longer  through  my  veins  the  tide 

Of  youthful  blood  runs  clear  ; 
In  dull  and  sluggish  stream  It  flows  : 

The  time  is  drawing  near. 

I  once  could  breast  the  mountain  steep 

With  vigour,  without  fear  ; 
Now  I  must  trembling  totter  down  : 

The  time  is  drawing  near. 


246  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

The  thin,  gray  hairs,  the  waning  strength, 

Remind  me  year  by  year 
That  this  my  home  on  earth  to  leave 

The  time  is  drawing  near. 

Fortune  and  health,  e'en  friends  may  fail, 

And  little  left  to  cheer  ; 
But  why  repine  ?  for  bliss  beyond 

The  time  is  drawing  near. 


THE    FALL    OF    THE    LEAF.* 

The  Professor  of  Botany  eloquent  waxed, 

As  he  ran  o'er  the  keys  both  of  joy  and  of  grief  ; 

His  theme  to  illustrate,  his  brains  well  he  taxed, 

But  his  climax,  no  doubt,  was  "the  fall  of  the  leaf," 

In  natural  order  his  subjects  arranged, 

From  his  tongue  glibly  fell — how  I  wish'd  he'd  be  brief  ; 
Though  calmly  I  listened,  my  countenance  changed, 

When  sudden  I  gazed  on  "  the  fall  of  the  leaf.'' 

His  budding  oration  expanded  too  fast — 

So  fast  that  in  vain  did  I  seek  for  relief  ; 
He  was  nearing  the  goal — all  the  danger  seemed  past — 

When  envious  fate  brought  "the  fall  of  the  leaf." 

Yet  no  stigma  on  him  might  that  accident  bring, 
Nor  his  laurels  could  it  filch  away  like  a  thief  ; 

His  fame  as  a  Botanist  loudly  I'll  sing, 

For  that  will  not  fade  like  "the  fall  of  the  leaf." 

His  style  may  be  flowery,  but  stamina  still 
Will  render  him  firm  as  a  strong  coral  reef  ; 

You  may  petulant  carp,  but  you  ne'er  will  do  ill 
To  one  who's  unmoved  by  "  the  fall  of  the  leaf." 

I'll  pistol  that  man  who  my  friend  dares  impeach  ; 

I'll  shove  through  his  vitals  of  arrows  a  sheaf  ; 
Let  him  pine — let  hirn  droop — let  him  mercy  beseech  ; 

Let  him  wither — decay—  like  "  the  fall  of  the  leaf." 

*  These  lines  were  suggested  by  an  incident  of  the  capping  of  the 
Medical  Graduates  of  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  1869,  when  Professor 
Balfour,  the  Promoter  of  the  \ear,  whilst  discoursing-  most  eloquently, 
by  a  tour  de  main  sent  the  leaves  of  his  MS.  flying  in  all  directions,  till 
the  ground  near  where  he  stood  was  strewed  with  them  in  admired  con- 
fusion. 


ANDREW    HORSBURGH.  247 

No  Radical  he,  for  true-bine  i.«  his  plume  ; 

His  Ton-aCTf-a-TOBY,  it  mocks  all  Mief, 
There  his  palm*  and  his  orchidt  are  seen  in  full  bloom, 

In  winter,  spring,  summer,  and  "fall  of  the  leaf." 

Then  your  chalices  fill— fill  with  nectar  so  sweet, 
A  feast  let  n«  have  of  plum  pudding  and  beef ; 

The  worthy  Professor  with  plaudits  we'll  greet, 
And  him  we'll  console  for  "the  fall  of  the  leaf." 

Then  long  live  John  Balfour,  and  long  may  he  teach 
Those  subjects  of  which  woody  fibrei't  the  chief  ; 

May  the  fruits  of  his  labours  maturity  reach 
Ere  we're  called  to  lament  for  "  the  fall  of  the  leaf." 


ANDREW     HORSBURGH. 


.  Andrew  Horeburgh  was  born  in  Pitten- 
wei-m,  Fife-shin*,  in  1827,  and  was  educated, 
first  at  the  Parish  School  there,  and  then  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  St  Andrews.  After  taking  his  degree  he 
attended  for  two  years  the  theological  lectures  of 
Bishops  Terrot  and  Russell  in  Kdinhurgh,  and  at  the 
early  age  of  t\\rnty-one  was  ordained  deacon  in  the 
Scottish  Episcopal  Church  —  a  church  of  which  his 
family  had  l«.n<:  been  devoted  members.  In  1850  he 
went  liina,  where  he  acted  for  nearly  a  year 

as   chapkiiii   to  the    Foreign    Factories,  Cant.  n.    -md 
i<_'  been  ordained   priest  by  the   Hislmp  of  Hong- 
Ki'ii".,  I.-  1  there  for  an>  r,  attached  to 

the  Cathedral  staff.      During  this  period  Dr  Mard«.'. 
head  of  t!  :  neo,  visited  China, 

and  ha\ii  «-f  tin-  wide  field  of  labour  that  was 

in   Borneo,  Mi   II   r  i  urgh  volunteered  to  join  him  as 
a  mi  I,  he  was 

appoint,  ,1  |,,.;,d   «.f  il,,-  minion  for  three  years  \\lnl. 


248  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

Dr  Macdougal  was  absent  in  England.  During  this 
period  he  acted  not  only  as  chaplain  to  the  English 
residents  in  the  settlement  and  pastor  of  the  small 
Chinese  Christian  congregation  which  Dr  Macdougal 
had  gathered  together,  but  also  as  medical  atten- 
dant of  the  settlement.  Dr  Macdougal,  who  had  been 
a  skilful  surgeon  and  physician  before  he  became  a 
clergyman,  had  induced  Sir  James  Brooke  to  establish 
anhospital  and  dispensary  in  Sarawak,  of  which  he  under- 
took medical  charge.  He  had  trained  one  of  the  mis- 
sionaries to  act  under  him,  and  this  gentleman  con- 
tinued to  do  so  alone  when  Dr  Macdougal  was  com- 
pelled by  ill-health  to  return  to  England.  Soon  after 
Mr  Horsburgh  joined  the  mission,  however,  the  medical 
missionary  went  back  to  India,  and  there  being 
no  one  to  take  medical  charge,  our  poet,  who 
had  a  fair  knowledge  of  chemistry,  undertook  the 
duty.  He  thus  acquired  a  knowledge  of  medicine  and 
of  the  treatment  of  simple  diseases,  which  afterwards 
stood  him  as  a  missionary  in  great  stead.  When  Sir 
James  Brooke  returned  to  Sarawak  from  England  he 
had  a  very  dangerous  attack  of  confluent  smallpox,  and 
the  native  doctor  who  was  called  in  to  attend  him 
told  his  nephew,  Captain  Brooke,  that  the  Rajah  would 
certainly  die.  Captain  Brooke,  upon  this,  sent  for  the 
missionary,  and  asked  his  opinion  of  the  case,  when 
Mr  Horsburgh  said  that  he  had  seen  as  bad  cases  in 
Hong-Kong  which  recovered,  and  that  if  the  treatment 
prescribed  in  English  medical  books  was  followed,  he 
believed  the  Rajah  would  recover  too.  Captain  Brooke 
accordingly  asked  him  to  take  charge  of  the  case, 
which  he  did,  and  nursed  him  carefully  and  successfully 
through  the  crisis  of  his  disease. 

When  Bishop  Macdougal  returned  from  England 
and  resumed  his  place  as  head  of  the  Mission,  Mr 
Horsburgh  joined  Mr  Chambers,  the  missionary  at 
Banting,  and  assisted  him  in  founding  a  church  among 


ANDREW   HORSBURGH.  249 

the  head  hunting  Dyaks  there — a  church  which  is 
ii«-\v  in  :i  mo^t  flourishing  condition,  and  which,  in 
conjunction  with  Rajah  Brooke's  just  and  firm  Govern- 
ment, has  succeeded  in  weaning  these  otherwise  simple 
and  most  interesting  people  from  their  bloody  and 
shocking  customs.  He  was  scon  after  obliged  to 
return  to  England,  and  in  1859  was  appointed  an 
Indian  chaplain,  and  continued  in  the  service  of  the 
Indian  Government  till  1881. 

Mr  Horobnrgh  has  met  with  more  adventures 
than  generally  fall  to  the  lot  of  clergymen,  but  we 
rannnt  relate  any  of  the  stirring  scenes  through  which 
IK  lias  passed.  He  has  published  a  pamphlet,  entitled 
"  Sketches  in  Borneo,"  and  also  "  Redemption,"  a  poem 
in  six  books  on  the  last  days  of  our  Lord.  Since  his 
retirement  he  has  written  a  number  of  lengthy  histori- 
cal ballads.  These  are  full  of  "  auld-waiT  "  lore,  and 
show  much  descriptive  talent ;  while  some  of  his  less 
ambitious  productions  evince  high  reflective  powers, 
and  the  true  impulses  of  the  poet's  mind. 

THE    MOON- FLOWER:    AN   INDIAN    LEGEND. 

Why  amongHt  the  village  maidens 

Moveth  Seeta  now  no  shy  ? 
Where  have  gone  her  pealing  laughter, 

Merry  mood,  and  spirits  high  ? 

Why.  when  at  the  well  they  (rather, 

xhe  so  gubdued  and  still  ? 
Hath  misfortune  overta'en  her? 
Aught  of  nick  ness,  aught  of  ill  ' 

She  to  Rama  is  affianced, 

ml*  of  both  have  pledged  their  word  ; 
Many  field*  and  many  oxen 
Own  hU  father  as  their  lord. 

Tall  and  handsome  in  the  "tripling, 
axe  a  maiden'*  eye  ; 

\\  hy  doth  S«-eta  nhrink  from  marriage, 
Why  to  meet  him  in  no  nhy  ? 


250  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

Dear  she  is  to  both  her  parents, 
She  their  blessing  from  on  high  ; 

But  in  vain  are  all  their  questions, 
Silence  is  her  sole  reply. 

And  the  secret  in  her  bosom 

Seeta  guards  with  jealous  care — 
Guards  it  from  her  loving  parents, 

Guards  it  from  both  light  and  air. 

• 

For  one  evening  in  the  garden, 

As  the  moon  shone  clear  and  bright, 

Stood  a  youth  of  wond'rous  beauty 
Near  her  in  the  silver  light. 

Seeta  was  an  Indian  maiden, 
Gentle,  timid,  soon  amazed, 

Yet  she  sat  with  face  uplifted- 
Full  upon  the  stranger  gazed — 

Upward  gazed  until  his  beauty 

Had  entranced  both  heart  and  mind, 

Steadfast  gazed  until  his  image 
With  her  life  became  entwined. 

And  this  youth  of  wond'rous  beauty 

Stooped  and  kissed  her  lovely  face, 
Yet  nor  shame  nor  anger  moved  her, 

Still  she  sat  in  modest  grace. 

» 
But  by  that  soft  kiss  her  spirit 

Evermore  with  his  was  blent, 
Soul  and  life  and  will  and  wishes 

Instant  to  that  stranger  went. 

Never  more  again  she  saw  him, 
From  her  gaze  he  passed  away, 

But  his  form  of  wond'rous  beauty 

Filled  her  thoughts  both  night  and  day. 

And  thence  forward  in  the  garden, 
In  the  moon's  clear  silver  light, 

Oft  she  sat  with  face  uplifted 
As  on  that,  her  fateful  night. 

And  her  mind  for  ever  brooded 
O'er  the  kiss  that  stranger  gave, 

Till  she  pined,  a  helpless  victim 
Slowly  sinking  to  the  grave. 


ANDREW   HOR8BURGH.  251 

Then  nhe  prayed  the  Mahadeva 

Once  again  that  youth  to  meet, 
But  to  see  hia  wond'rous  beauty, 

But  to  sit  low  at  his  feet. 

And  Great  Mahadeva  heard  her, 

Granted  her  her  meek  request. 
Wafted  up  her  soul  to  meet  him 

In  the  regions  of  the  blest 

Then  he  changed  her  lifeless  body 

To  the  moon-flower  pure  and  whitt, 
Which  at  eve  unfolds  its  beauty, 

Flowering  in  the  clear  moonlight 

In  the  garden  lowly  blooming 

Upward  still  its  pure  white  bell 
Turns  spontaneous  to  the  moonlight 

Which  the  maiden  loved  so  well. 

And  at  night,  when  o'er  the  garden 

Streams  the  pure  and  silver  light, 
Still  it  reiKiis  the  Queen  of  Beauty 

'Midst  the  flowers  that  deck  the  night. 

And  its  unobtrusive  perfume 

With  its  sweetness  fill*  the  air, 
Like  a  maidens  gentle  goodness 

Kitting  in  unspoken  prayer. 

F»r  that  youth  of  wond'rous  beauty 

Was  the  Moon-God,  who  had  seen 
Her,  the  pure  and  lovely  maiden, 

And  had  wooed  her  as  his  Queen. 

And  her  soul  on  high  was  wafted 

By  the  Mahadeva's  power, 
An<l  I!M  M.H.n  < ;,„{  met  and  led  her 

To  his  bright  and  heavenly  bower. 

There  her  spirit  lives  for  ever 
Wrapt  in  pure  celestial  bliss,— 

<>f  the  maiden 
And  the  Moon-God's  loving  kiss. 

IB    TBVIOTDALE    BRIDE. 

The  moon  Jiliines*  bright  mi  Teviot'g  banks, 
And  dances  on  Te viol's  water, 


252  MODEBN   SCOTTISH    POETS. 

And  blythe  are  they  all  in  Minto's  hall 
At  the  wedding  of  Minto's  daughter. 

With  flowers  and  with  banners  the  castle  is  decked, 
The  bridesmaids  have  decked  the  bride, 

And  high  beats  the  heart  of  that  lady  fair 
As  she  sits  at  her  true  love's  side. 

Now  in  feasting  and  dancing  the  night  has  sped, 

The  last  of  her  maiden  life, 
For  to-morrow  she  leaves  her  father's  hall — 

Her  young  lord's  wedded  wife. 

Her  maidens  convey  her  to  her  room, 

And  there  they  bid  good-night, — 
The  loveliest  she  of  that  lovely  band, 

So  joyous,  and  beauteous,  and  bright. 

And  now  they  have  taken  the  last  chaste  kiss, 

And  have  left  her  all  alone  ; 
The  lamp  scarce  paled  the  bright  moon-beam 

That  through  her  casement  shone. 

The  taper  she  placed  in  the  shade,  and  she  sat 

In  a  flood  of  silver  light ; 
The  moon-beam  played  on  her  clear  blue  eye, 
Her  soft  rosy  cheek,  and  her  forehead  high  ; 
Her  lips  that  opened  so  prettily, 
And  clustering  ringlets  of  golden  dye, 

That  shaded  her  bust  so  white. 

Her  bosom  gave  a  gentle  heave, 

Like  the  aspen's  leaf  on  a  still  summer's  eve, 

And  a  little  sigh  out  stole  ; 

And  she  thought  of  her  love — "  for  ever  I'm  thine," 
When  a  low,  hollow  voice  seemed  to  echo  "mine," 

In  a  tone  that  thrilled  her  soul. 

She  started  and  looked  ;  her  flesh  'gan  creep, 
Like  the  worms  that  gnaw  us  in  death  s  cold  sleep, 

And  her  cheek  grew  pale  and  wan  ; 
For  a  few  steps  off,  by  her  lamp  which  shone, 
With  a  sickening  glance  on  his  eyes  of  stone, 

Stood  the  corpse  of  a  murdered  man. 

The  blood  seemed  to  drop  from  his  mail  to  the  ground, 
And  pattered  the  floor  with  a  deep,  heavy  sound, 

Like  the  boding  death  watch  slow, 
While  a  fiendish  look  both  of  joy  and  of  hate 
He  darted  from  under  his  cleft  bassinet, 


ANDREW    IIORSBURGH.  253 

Where  a  crest  battered  gore,  bat  still  borne  elate, 
Showed  her  house's  ancient  foe. 

Her  heart  grew  chill  and  her  blood  ran  cold, 

And  she  thought  of  the  tale  which  her  nurse  had  told, 

That  the  young  heir  of  Riddell  in  days  of  old 

Loved  secretly  Minto's  daughter  ; 
And  the  grim  old  chieftiun  made  a  divorce 
With  a  murderous  band  of  twenty  horxe, 
Left  his  child's  wedded  husband  a  lifeless  corpse, 

Then  told  her  the  tale  with  laughter. 

She  did  not  shrink,  or  faint,  or  start : 
The  tidings  crushed  her  widowed  heart, 

And  she  sank  into  the  grave. 
But  ere  she  was  laid  in  her  lonely  tomb, 
The  doom  was  foretold,  that  a  day  would  come 
When  the  dead  should  appear  at  her  noble  home, 

And  in  vengeance  a  bride  should  have. 

Quick  as  light  Hashed  the  tale  thro1  the  maiden's  brain 

When  she  saw  that  spectre  dread, 
And  like  molten  brass  sank  the  words  in  her  heart 

As  the  dreadful  phantom  said— 

44  Long  I've  waited  this  to  see 
Fate's  unerring  just  decree, 
When  my  vengeance  shall  be  laid, 
And  my  wrongs  in  full  be  paid, 
And  my  soul  in  yon  dread  clime 
Mingles  gratefully  with  thine," 

Then  close  to  the  lady  the  spectre  came, 
An-l  his  stony  eyes  changed  to  burning  flame, 
While  shrinking  in  terror  she  fitfully  clung 
To  the  window  seat  as  these  accents  rung 

,,'h  her  quaking  *<>ul,  "  Behold  I  come 
T»  claim  thee,  n.y  bride,  and  to  take  thee  home. 

.  -lirinke*t,  girl,  but  vain  thy  power 
To  reHiHt  the  fate  of  thy  natal  hour 
When  to  me  thou  wast  given.    And  how  quickly  could  I 
To  my  gloomy  abode  with  thy  slight  body  fly, 
But  if  at  so  sudden  a  call  thus  to  leave 
Thy  treasures  and  loves  and  delights  thou  dost  grieve, 
And  if  thou  wilt  promise  one  behest  to  obey 

in  peace  till  a  far  distant  day, 

An. I  will  give  thee  a  long  life  of  wealth  and  of  power 
Till  arrives  thy  fated  natural  hour. 
When  life  must  cease,  then  again  shall  I  come 
To  claim  thee,  my  bride,  and  to  take  thee  borne. 


254  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

Thou  canst  not  escape,  yet  a  respite  is  thine 
If  thou  wilt  obey  this  behest  of  mine." 
And  her  promise  to  extort  his  behest  to  obey 
He  stretched  out  his  hand  as  to  take  her  away. 

Frozen  were  speech  and  life  and  thought, 

Motion,  blood,  and  breath  ; 

But  the  hand  he  outstretched  as  to  take  her  away 
Unentranced  her  soul,  and  in  thought  she  could  say — 
"No,  none  such  as  thou  shall  I  ever  obey. 

O,  save  me,  Lord,  from  skaith." 

So  a  lambent  light,  like  the  milky  way, 
O'er  the  maiden's  head  is  seen  to  play — 
Forth  it  streams  like  the  softened  electric  ray 

That  cheers  the  polar  skies  ; 

And  the  point  whence  it  streams  takes  a  form — the  face 
Of  an  angel  beaming  with  heavenly  grace, 
And  this  beauteous  being  of  celestial  race 

To  the  phantom  fiend  replies  :  — 

"  A  vaunt,  thou  fiend  1  back  to  thy  place, 

Void  of  ruth  and  curst  from  grace, 

Ever  on  the  watch  to  find 

Entrance  to  a  guileless  mind, 

Back  to  thy  place  !  must  I  compel  ! '' 

He  spoke.     The  phantom  sunk  to  hell 

'Midst  a  fierce  foul  blaze  of  lurid  light 

In  his  own  curst  shape  and  black  as  night  ; 

And  then  the  angelic  radiance  shone 

With  a  bright  mild  lustre  all  its  own, 

Which  bade  her  fearful  trembling  cease, 

And  poured  o'er  her  spirit  its  heavenly  peace, 

And  soon  she  forgot  in  its  cheering  light 

The  horrors  of  the  infernal  sight. 

Next  morning  the  lady  looked  thoughtful  and  still, 

But  her  beauty  was  fresh  as  the  mountain  rill, 

For  radiance  divine  and  heavenly  grace 

Were  beaming  from  her  lovely  face, 

And  she  told  not  then  of  the  terrible  sight 

Of  horror  and  trial  she  endured  that  night, 

Nor  how  in  her  terror  to  heaven  she  sought, 

And  the  aid  that  her  guardian  angel  had  brought. 

Long  and  happy  she  lived  her  young  lord's  wife, 

And  her  son's  sons  marked  in  the  eve  of  her  life 

That  celestial  glory  and  grace  seemed  shed, 

As  by  angel  hands,  on  her  silver  head, 

Till  that  crown  of  glory  in  death  she  laid  dovrn 

To  receive  from  her  Saviour  the  heavenly  crown. 


ANDREW    HORBBUROH.  255 

MOTEE'S    UNCLE. 

A  TBDK  8TOBY. 

Lukmni  iroing  to  the  market 

Led  her  daughter  by  her  Hide, 
Decked  with  all  her  silver  trinkets 

Fine  as  any  little  bride. 

An.)  as  thus  the  child  she  guided 

With  her  face  concealed  from  view, 
Spoke  a  man's  voice  close  beside  her — 

"  Ah,  my  Motee,  is  this  you  ? 

•'  Ah,  my  niece,  my  little  darling, 

IIuw  I  hope  your  heart  is  light ; 
How  my  brother,  your  good  father, 

Must  rejoice  him  at  the  sight." 

Lukami  stopped  to  let  the  uncle 

Speak  unto  her  little  child  ; 
Stopped,  but,  like  a  modest  matron. 

Could  but  stand  completely  veiled. 

And  not  only  did  she  cover, 

But  she  turned  away  her  face, 
While  the  uncle,  in  hu  fondness, 

Prattled  on  at  rattling  pace. 

And  the  kind,  good  uncle  gave  her 

Toys  and  »weetineats  more  than  one  ; 
Talked  and  chatted  gently  to  her, 

Ceased  at  last,  and  then  was  gone. 

Then  unto  her  little  daughter 

Luksroi  turned  and  ranted  her  veil  ; 
What  has  happened  ?    Why  does  Luksmi 

Look  HO  frightened,  faint,  and  pale. 

Twa*  a  thief  who,  as  the  uncle. 

Prattled  on  so  false  and  fair, 
Aii'l,  while  tuodent  Lukxmi  listened, 

Stripped  the  child  of  jewel*  b;u 


256  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 


JAMES     WHITELAW, 

HPOET  of  superior  merit,  and  an  essayist  of  real 
excellence,  was  born  in  Dundee  in  1840.  After 
receiving  a  common  school  education,  he  was  sent  to 
the  office  of  the  Dundee  Advertiser  to  learn  the  trade 
of  a  compositor.  Here  he  "  served  his  time,"  and  here 
he  worked  as  journeyman  till  his  appointment  as  sub- 
editor to  the  People's  Friend  in  1884.  His  genuine 
literary  abilities  had  long  marked  him  out  for  the  first 
vacancy  in  the  office  where  he  had  laboured  so 
faithfully,  and  no  appointment  could  have  been  found 
more  congenial  to  his  tastes,  or  suited  to  his  abilities, 
than  that  of  assistant  to  Mr  Andrew  Stewart,  its 
genial  and  talented  editor.  Mr  Stewart  informs  us 
that  Mr  Whitelaw  had  been  for  years  an  esteemed 
contributor  of  prose  and  verse  to  the  Friend.  His 
prose  frequently  took  the  form  of  essays  or  sketches 
on  subjects  generally  of  outdoor  interest,  such  as 
walks  in  the  country,  hill  climbing,  botanizing  in  the 
fields  and  woods,  &c. ;  and  his  poetry  was  for  the  most 
part  of  a  reflective,  spiritual,  or  didactic  character, 
though  at  times  a  spirit  of  genuine  humour  pervades 
his  verse.  He  was  a  quiet,  thoughtful,  earnest-minded 
man,  and  one  who  inspired  love  and  esteem.  He  loved 
books  and  study,  and  had  a  keen  pure  taste  in  litera- 
ture, and  a  deep  enthusiasm  in  scientific  research. 
Botany,  geology,  and  microscopy  were  his  favourite 
studies,  and  Ruskin  was  his  favourite  author,  but 
reading  and  information  had  made  him  a  man  of  wide 
culture.  He  cultivated  music  also  to  some  purpose, 
being  for  a  number  of  years  leader  of  psalmody  in  the 
church  he  attended,  and  was  also  one  of  its  most 
energetic  and  earnest  Christian  workers,  so  long  as  his 
health  permitted.  As  a  poet,  he  has  distinct  claims 


JAMES  WHITELAW.  257 

to  a  place  in  this  gallery,  and  to  loving  remembrance 
for  1  •  t  and  helpful  utterances.  He  had  an 

observant  eye,  a  delicate  touch,  and  an  elevation  of 
thought  and  feeling  that  make  his  poetry  refreshing 
to  read  and  pleasant  to  remember.  11  is  lighter  mood 
is  set  forth  in  such  pieces  as  "A  Washing  Day 
Episode,"  "  Don't  Care,"  and  "  A  Vernal  Rhapsody." 
That  he  was  also  a  poet  of  true  martial  fire  and  de- 
scriptive vigour  will,  we  think,  be  admitted,  on  a 
perusal  of  the  spirited  poem,  entitled  "  Abu  Klea." 

At  the  time  of  Mr  Whitelaw's  appointment  to  the 
sub-editorship  of  the  Friend  he  was  suffering  from  the 
internal  malady  which  cut  him  off  in  his  bright  and 
promising  career,  but  though  he  endured  much  pain 
he  was  always  able  to  attend  to  his  duties,  which  he 
continued  tn  discharge  with  marked  ability  up  till  the 
week  in  which  he  died.  He  was  held  in  high  esteem 
by  the  wide  circle  of  friends  he  had  drawn  around 
him,  <)uirt  m<l  retiring  though  he  was,  and  he  was 
sincerely  mourned  by  all  who  knew  him  as  a  gifted 
poet,  a  ui'-i-k  and  gentle  spirit,  and  a  t  nu-  hc.-u  t.-.l 
tender  friend.  He  breathed  his  la>t  at  Whitrhills, 
near  Ahernyte,  on  17th  April,  1887,  aged  forty  seven, 
and  lies  buried  in  the  churchyard  of  Abernyte,  among 
the  hills  he  loved  so  well. 

"A    BITTIE    NEARER    HAM  I 

Some  gowden  streaks  lit  up  the  went, 

Hut  Kluainin'  gathered  gray, 
Twn  :  awhile  t<>  i 

Half  up  the  lang.  "tey  brae  : 
Ane  fair  as  rose  that  glints  wi'  dew, 

her  a  whitc-haire<l  <l.v 
.1,  sitting  <loon,  said—"  Ay  we're  IH><> 
A  bittie  nearer  hame  !" 

Haroe  !— blessed  spot  to  young  an'  auM, 
l  ir  worn  and  weary  r 
;p  life's  brae  we  climb  twa  fauld, 
lmrdt!ii»  sairly  prest, 


258  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

We  warsel  on — we're  lichtsome  too, 

When  thinkin'  on  Thy  name, 
Aii'  strength  returns  ilk  step — "  We're  noo 

A  bittie  nearer  hame  !" 

An' — blessed  thocht ! — when  ower  time's  hills 

Oor  life-sun's  sinkin'  low, 
When  gruesome  aye  creeps  on  an'  chills 

The  heart— when  frail  an'  slow 
The  fitstaps  fa'— the  aince  smooth  broo 

Shows  inony  a  crookit  seam, 
'Tis  sweet  ilk  nicht  to  feel  —  "  We're  noo 

A  bittie  nearer  Hame  !" 


A     VERNAL     RHAPSODY. 

One  fair  spring  morn  I  strayed  in  pensive  mood, 

Pondering  o'er  life  and  duty, 
Till,  rapt  with  Nature's  loveliness,  I  stood 

And  cried — "  Earth  teems  with  beauty. 

"Each  phase  of  life— each  season  hath  its  charms, 

Replete  with  grace  and  glory  ; 
From  childhood — laughing  in  maternal  arms — 

To  age — though  frail  and  hoary  ; 

"  From  early  springtide's  first-born  snowdrop  bloom, 

Through  summer's  glow  of  flowers, 
An«l  autumn's  wealth  ;  yea,  'mid  stern  winter's  gloom, 

Thou,  Beauty,  showest  thy  powers  !" 

I  turned,  while  round  me  visions,  fair  and  bright, 

Of  springtime's  beauty  hovered, 
And,  homeward  wending,  filled  with  keen  delight, 

There — chaos  T  discovered  ! 

An  earthquake's  wreck  there  seemed,  and  from  above 

A  deluge  supervening  ! 
Then  through  me  thrilled  the  cry — "  Come  in,  my  love  ! 

I've  started  our  spring  cleaning  !'' 


"HOME,     SWEET    HOME." 

(The  striking  incident  narrated  in  the  following  verses  was  related  to 
the  writer  by  a  lady  who  knew  the  facts.) 

A  baby  lay  'mong  pillows  soft  and  white 
As  plumage  of  the  wild  swan's  wave-washed  breast ; 


JAMES  WU1TELAW.  259 

Sweet  were  its  slumbers  ;  smile*,  as  of  delight, 

Played  round  it*  features  in  its  peaceful  re«t — 
Smiles,  sunny,  bright  as  if,  celestial  born, 
Its  eye*  should  only  ope  in  Heaven's  eternal  morn. 

Unconscious  nursling  !    Thou  hast  not  yet  n 

The  sweetest  blessings  childhood  ever  knows  ! 
A  mother's  lips  thine  own  have  never  kissed  ; 

mother  lovingly  around  thee  throw* 
Her  tender,  sheltering  arms  ;  nor  to  her  breast 
Hast  thou,  with  fond  caret*,  been  ever  closely  pressed  ! 

But  where  was  she  from  whom  sprang  that  sweet  flower  ? 

1>M  Death,  untimely,  cut  the  parent  stem 
When  Life's  fair  blossom  reached  its  natal  hour  ? 
Death  camu  not :  Keason  Hed  --the  brightest  gem 

God-lit,  in  the  glorious  crown 
Of  human  nature  lost,  and  darkness  settled  down. 

Night  of  the  soul,  uncheored  by  any  beam — 

Dark,  doleful,  spectre-haunted -brooded  there  ; 
The  joyous  past  had  vanished  like  a  dream — 

-••nt  and  future  hideous  with  despair, 
Her  spirit  wandered  on  its  weary  way, 
Nor  orient  >treak  appeared  to  herald  dawning  day. 

Oh  !  what  a  change  had  swept  o'er  that  fair  form  ! 

A  raving  maniac — not  a  mother  glad  ! 
A  homes  whole  happiness,  in  one  swift  storm, 

Lay  levelled  low  in  desolation  sad, 
At  that  blest  season  when  joy's  well-spring  flowed, 
And  Hope  had  forward  looked  along  its  Hower-strewn  mad. 

Watched,  lest  mischance  befell  by  her  own  hands. 

One  day  escaped,  through  several  rooms  she  went, 
Till  a  pi.mo.  open,  by  her  stand-  ; 

:  she  looks  in  *tony  wonderment, 
Then,  *ittiii_c  down,  her  tinkers  touch  the  keys, 
And  melody  awakes  which  might  a  matter  please. 

ie  was  one  by  Nature  richly  dowered, 
And  Art  had  fu-tered  yjfts  ami  made  her  skill-  d  ; 

red, 

As  "Home.  Su  with  variations,  tilled 

The  chamber  with  a  soul-entrancing  st  i 
Which  summoned  back  the  past,  and  wade  it  live  again. 

Attendant*,  listening,  mark,  with  eager  eye, 
.ange*  passing  o'er  the  player's  fi 


260  MODERN    SCOTTISH   POETS. 

Like  sun-glints  bursting  through  a  cloudy  sky, 

When  light  and  shadow  o'er  the  mountains  chase  ; 
Then,  as  the  clouds  roll  by,  the  peaks  appear 
In  glorious  sunshine  bathed,  all  shadowless  and  clear  ; 

So  stood  she  up — all  shadows  passed  away — 

Dissolved  her  soul's  deep,  starless,  moonless  night ! 
Once  more  her  spirit  basked  in  reason's  day, 

As  memory  dawned,  and  shed  its  hallowed  light ; 
For  music's  charm — "  Home,  Sweet  Home's  "  blessed  strains — 
Had  foiled  the  demon's  spell,  and  burst  the  captive's  chains  ! 

ABU    KLEA. 


Graceful   palm   trees   often  cluster  by   the  sand-girt  fountains 

clear, 

But  round  Abu  Klea  glances  many  an  Arab  ranger's  spear  ; 
Keen-edged   swords  and  deadly  rifles  by   the  thousand  are  in 

sight, 
Till  thp  darkness  gathers  round  them,  and  the  stars  gleam  through 

the  night. 

Ah  !    in   that  dread  hour  of  midnight,    while  the  rifle  bullets 

whirred, 
Fondest  memories  were  quickened — Nature's  inner  depths  were 

stirred  ; 

And  if  love  or  filial  feeling  drew  the  tear-drop  to  the  eye, 
'Twas  a  seal  of  that  true  manhood  which  can  love  but  bravely 

die. 

Morning  breaks  :  With  Emirs  prancing,  standards  flying,  gather 

men, 

Lion-hearted,  eagle-sighted—hundreds  ne'er  to  see  again! 
Sunrise  in  their  native  deserts — all  impatient  for  the  fray — 
For  would  Paradise  not  welcome  those  who,  fighting,  died  that 

day? 

Now  the  British  square  is  marshalled,  and  the  foe,  for  battle 

tierce, 
Surge   around  in  savage  bravery,  spear  in    hand,   its    walls  to 

pierce  ; 

Mown  by  bullets,  death  despising,  on  the  Arab  legions  rush — 
"  Allah  !"  and  the  "  Mahdi !"  shouting— every  infidel  to  crush  ! 

Strength  of  human  arms  is  bounded,  though  the  heart  that  nerves 

be  bold, 
And  as  thousands  round  the  hundreds  in  their  wave-like  masses 

rolled, 


JAMKS  WIUTKLAW.  -'"'I 

Marve!  not  if,  stunned  beneath  them— as  if  mortals  fought  with 

gods- 
Inward  bent  the  Britinh  column  by  the  crash  of  fearful  odds. 

Yawning  ruin  seems  there  brooding,  when  the  square  a  moment 

parts; 
Carnage,  gloating,  plonged  her  sharp  fangs  into  brave  and  loyal 

heart*  ; 

But  aa  down  the  gulf  sprang  Curtius,  on— into  that  fatal  break 
Nobly  ruaheJ  such  men  heroic— death  to  deal,  or  death  to  take. 

Ringing  cheers  proclaim  the  victory — British  valour,  as  of  old, 

Triumphs,  and  of  Abu  Klea  shall  the  story  oft  be  told  ; 

For,  when  brav«  with  brave  men  battle,  'tis  a  sight  which  ever 

thrills, 
And  the  thought  of  British  prowess  every  British  bosom  fills. 

Bind  the  wounds  with  tender  fingers— they  are  marks  of  duty 

done, 

Nobly,  loyally,  and  truly— honours  bravely,  dearly  won  ; 
Tear-eyed,    cover   up  the   fallen— Albion's   boast  and   parents' 

pride, 
Soundly  sleep  they  in  the  desert— as  they  struggled— side  by  side. 


"LORD,     WHAT    IS    MAN?" 

When  over  Bethlehem's  plains  in  splendour  gleaming, 

The  Htarry  hunt*  begemmed  the  midnight  sky  ; 
Or  when  the  mo»n.  fnll-orlved,  in  radiance  beaming, 

ROM  over  Judah's  vine-clad  hills  on  high  ; 
The  Royal  Bard,  in  raptured  meditation, 

Looked  up,  and,  as  his  eyes  the  heavens  scan, 
With  their  magnificence  and  revelation 

Of  power  supernal,  pondered — "  What  is  man  ?" 

Fragile  as  dewdrops,  which  at  daybreak  glisten  ; 

Weak  an  the  trickling  of  the  mountain  Hpring  ; 
Transient  as  »oun<l,  which  die*  even  an  we  li-ten  ; 

'lent  an  to  the  touch  the  quivering  *trn 
Light  an  the  spindrift  tomjed  by  ocean  billows. 

When  ten  pei»tH  sweep  in  fury  o'er  the  seas  ; 
Swayed  fitfully  and  easily  ax  willows 

Curve  to  the  breath  of  every  passing  breeze  ; 

Yet  as  the  mighty  nun  in  dewdmps  glance*, 
nan  may  mirror  hi*  celesti  > 

>k,  which  xuAward  dances. 
By  passion  mad<lened.  wild  may  grow  bit  course  ; 


262  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

Fleeting  as  sound,  yet  death  itself  surviving, 

In  immortality  he  stands  arrayed  ; 
Mobile  and  light,  the  mighty  Spirit's  striving 

He  may  resist — defy  God  who  him  made. 

Strength  mixed  with  weakness — good  with  evil  blending — 

Withjaspirations  and  ideals  high, 
Yet  prone  to  lowest  depths  of  guilt  descending, 

In  vilest  sloughs  of  vice  may  weltering  lie, 
Drawn  Godward,  up  heaven's  toilsome  steeps,  truth-lighted, 

Man's  faltering  steps  may  arduously  climb, 
But,  losing  faith,  he  falls,  like  one  benighted, 

O'er  error's  precipice  from  heights  sublime. 

Strange  paradox — mysterious  bond  of  union 

'Twixt  flesh  and  spirit — Deity  and  clay- 
That  with  the  Great  Eternal  holds  communion, 

Or  grovels,  sated  with  life's  passing  day  ; 
By  pleasure  lured,  to  ruin  blindly  fleeing, 

He  who  would  wrestle  with  God's  secret  plan  ; 
Heights,  depths  unmeasured  in  his  complex  being, 

We  turn  from  him  and  ask — "  Lord,  What  is  man  ?  " 


BELLA     HOWATSON 

MAS  born  at  Tarbrax  in  1863.  Her  father  was 
then  coachman  to  Mr  David  Souter-Robert- 
son  of  Lawhead  and  Murlingden.  She  can  still  re- 
member the  rhymes  she  made  when  only  a  child  of 
seven,  but  which  no  one  was  ever  permitted  to  see  or 
hear.  Bella  was  sent  at  that  age  to  school  at  Auchen- 
gray,  a  distance  of  two  miles.  She  got  on  pretty  well 
with  her  education  there  till  she  was  in  her  tenth  year, 
when  her  father  and  mother  removed  to  Sidewood,  a 
small  farm  on  the  estate  of  Westsidewood,  and  about 
two  miles  from  the  villages  of  Braehead  and  Forth. 
Her  father  at  the  same  time  became  surfaceman  for  a 
section  of  the  roads  in  the  district.  Here  she  was 


[.A  HO  WATSON.  263 

sent  to  the  village  school  of  Rraehead,  where  she  con- 
tinued until  she  was  fourteen  years  of  age — a  time 
sufficient  at  least  in  which  to  have  gained  a  fairly 
elementary  education  if  justice  hod  been  done  her. 
But,  as  it  was,  we  have  no  doubt  that  she  made 
better  progress  than  she  herself  is  willing  to  allow. 
She  may  have  been  slow,  or  apparently  so,  but  very 
likely  because  she  was  deeply  thoughtful.  Even  Sir 
Isaac  Newton  and  Sir  Walter  Scott  were  accounted 
"  dunces "  at  school,  and  most  good  minds  are  some- 
what slow  in  ripening.  The  subject  of  our  sketch  left 
school  at  fourteen,  but  she  did  not  yet  leave  home  for 
other  two  years,  and  we  cannot  help  thinking  that 
home  has  been  her  true  nurse  and  educator  in  the 
sense  of  drawing  out  all  that  was  best  in  her — her 
parents  (from  the  district  of  Annandale)  being  of 
the  good  old  peasant  stock  of  Scotland — of  the  same 
race  as  was  Carlyle's  father  and  mother,  but  appar- 
ently possessing  more  of  the  "milk  of  human  kind 
ness.  From  her  mother,  she  says,  she  learned  to  love 
poetry  and  folk-lore.  When  very  young  she  used  to 
read  aloud  to  her,  and  tell  her  stories  of  the  spirit- 
world.  Her  early  home  is  a  quiet  picturesque  old- 
fashioned  j'lace,  cosily  situated  In-hind  a  wood,  but 
inanding  in  front  a  nm*t  deli<jhtful  view  of  the 
Pentland  and  Lowther  Hills.  The  entirely  rural 
character  of  the  scene  did  not  fail  to  act  powerfully 
upon  a  you i IL',  thoughtful,  poetic  temperament;  and 
taking  tbifl  alniitf  with  the  fact  that  she  read  and 
studied  carefully  h«-r  KiMe,  I'.urns,  Carlyle,  Dickens, 
Thomson,  an  1  \V<>r<l  •-. i.rth,  .\  •  do  not  need  to  wonder  at 
th«-  rij -  iim_'  <>f  h<-r  thought  and  expression  to  the 
point  of  poetical  eft'uMon.  It  was  n  until 

she  was  eighteen  that    she  showed  any  of  her  produc- 

Two  years  before  she 

had  gone  into  .  uv.      Her  tir>t    "pUpes" 

by  no  means  congenial  or  comfortable,  but  she  ulti- 


264  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

mately  served  for  a  period  of  "  three  very  happy 
years  "  with  a  family  near  Linlithgow,  where  she  was 
taught  much  to  which  she  had  hitherto  been  a  perfect 
stranger. 

After  her  experience  of  the  world's  rough  and  kindly 
ways  she  again  returned  home  to  help  her  mother  in 
the  dairy  and  domestic  duties.  Here  it  is  that  some- 
times "musing  the  fire  burns,"  and  she  strikes  off  a 
verse  with  the  greatest  ease — a  whole  poem  being 
frequently  composed  and  firmly  retained  in  the  memory 
perhaps  for  days  or  weeks  before  being  written  down. 
Under  a  sudden  impulse,  as  in  the  case  of  her  piece 
called  "  Dreamland,"  she  will  compose  rapidly — giving 
a  reply  to  some  question  or  idea  in  another  poem,  and 
send  it  off  to  the  Hamilton  Advertiser •,  the  Annandale 
Observer,  &c.  She  continues  quietly  at  home  to  do 
her  simple  household  duties,  and,  along  with  her  sister, 
to  cheer  and  comfort  her  now  invalid  mother. 

Several  of  Miss  Howatson's  prose  writings,  not  as 
yet  many  in  number,  are  full  of  rich  promise.  They 
evince  not  a  little  native  genius,  and  make  one  feel 
that  she  only  wants  practice  and  encouragement.  Her 
poetry  is  no  mere  idle  tinkling  of  the  lyre.  It  is 
redolent  of  power  and  sweetness,  and  we  ever  find  the 
presence  of  fertile  imagination — the  fruits  of  pure  and 
serious  thought  on  the  simple  loves  and  hopes  and 
aims  and  faith  with  which  her  heart  is  well  content. 
Miss  Howatson  is  altogether  genuinely  gifted,  and  one 
of  the  humble  yet  noble  daughters  of  which  Scotland 
has  a  right  to  feel  proud. 


ANOTHER    BABY. 

Another  face  to  brighten 
The  circle  round  your  hearth  ; 

Another  voice  to  lighten 
Your  home  with  joyous  mirth. 


BELLA     HOWAT80N.  265 

Another  heart' to  love  you, 

Another  link  to  bind, 
Another  care  to  prove  you, 

Another  curious  mind. 

Another  plant  to  nourish 

And  train  with  patient  skill, 
Another  flower  to  cherish 

Anotherjittle  will. 

Another  little  traveller 

To  tread  thin  vale  of  care, 
And  sometime  in  the  future 

To  leave  its  footprints  there. 

An  instrument— a  treasure 

Whose  chords,  so  finely  strung, 
Full  oft  will  throb  to  pleasure, 

And  oft  with  woe  be  wrun^. 

For  none  are  free  from  sorrow 

Who  tread  the  path  of  life, 
And  no  one  but  may  borrow 

Some  pleasure  from  the  strife. 

Another  deathless  spirit 

Dear  to  a  Saviour  s  love  ; 
An  heir  meant  to  inherit 

The  realms  of  bliss  above. 


THE    DYING    CHILD'S    WORDS. 

Lay  my  head  upon  your  bosom  now,  father,  and  tell  me  a  long,  long 
story/.' 

Tell  him  a  story,  father,  glad  and  long, 
i  be  sweet  as  some  triumphant  *••  • 
Your  <!ar  ':overn  on  the?  wit 

.ml  you  utill  hi*  heart's  fond  tendrils  cling, 
Angels  bend  over  him,  to  break  life's  cords  ; 
Heaven's  glories  COMT  him,  so  let  your  words 
Flow  smooth  and  gently  ;  let  your  story  be 
The  glorious  theme  of  immortality. 

His  pure  young  soul  ban  plumed  itself  to  rise, 
robbing  npirit  pants  to  reach  the  skies, 

lit  litu-« -M  at  the  very  gates  of  $'. 
To  bear  tm  father  tell  another  story. 


266  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

Tell  him  a  story,  father,  shrink  not  now, 
For  angels'  shadows  flit  across  his  brow  ; 
The  rustling  of  their  wings  is  in  his  ear, 
And  yet  he  lingers,  from  your  lips  to  hear — 
Your  dear  loved  lips — a  story  glad  and  long, 
To  be  remembered  'mid  the  heavenly  throng. 

Oh,  father,  use  your  wonted  eloquence, 
Tell  him  a  story  ere  he  goeth  hence. 
Tell  him  a  story  of  the  Grod  who  waits 
To  meet  your  darling  at  the  pearly  gates. 

The  dying  head  rests  on  the  father's  bosom, 
Close  to  his  heart  he  holds  his  fading  blossom, 
While  from  his  lips  in  cadence  soft  and  low, 
Yet  language  eloquent,  we  hear  the  flow 
Of  words  that,  welling  from  a  heart  of  love, 
Seem  to  be  echoes  of  the  world  above. 

Heaven  still  uses  Pain  as  a  holy  art — 
A  key  to  ope  the  temple  of  the  heart, 
And  oft  for  him  the  dreaded  veil  is  raised, 
Into  the  inner  glory  he  has  gazed. 
We  know  it,  for  we  feel  that  none  by  pain  untaught, 
Could   have  such   power    to    sway,    such    deep    soul-searching 
thought. 

But  hush,  Heaven's  light  dawns  on  the  youthful  brow, 

O'er  every  pang  he  is  triumphant  now  ; 

The  pure  young  soul  has  issued  into  glory, 

And  his  brief  lifetime  is  a  finished  story. — 

A  finished  story — and  the  stainless  page 

Is  viewed  with  reverence  both  by  youth  and  age. 


DREAMLAND. 

When  earth's  joys  have  seemed  as  follies 
To  your  spirit  bruised  and  sore, 

Have  you  ever  turned  for  solace 
To  fair  Dreamland's  happy  shore  ? 

Yes,  my  friend,  I  oft  have  wandered 
In  that  glorious  sunny  clime, 

On  its  joys  I  oft  have  pondered, 
And  beheld  its  scenes  sublime. 

I  have  turned  from  earth's  sad  sorrow 
To  that  region  of  the  blest, 


BELLA     HOWAT80N.  267 


If  perchance  my  w>ul  might  bor 
Aii^ht  of  heavenly  peace  and 


borrow 
rest. 


I  have  heard  the  strains  of  gladness 
That  its  sweet  musicians  raise, 

In  their  songs  there's  naught  of  sadness, 
Naught  of  sorrow  in  their  praise. 

I  have  friends  who  love  me  ever 
In  that  wondrous  world  of  bliss  — 

Gentle  friends  who  shun  me  never 
In  my  joy  or  my  distress. 

Ah,  we  never  turn  in  anguish 
From  the  people  of  that  land, 

For  the  spirit  has  no  language 
Which  they  cannot  understand. 

Well  our  Father  knew  His  children 
Were  too  weak  to  comprehend 

All  the  sighing  and  the  crying 
In  the  bosom  of  a  friend. 

So  He  stooped,  and  to  each  mortal 
Gave  a  key  of  Dreamland's  crate, 

Where,  whateVr  the  spirit  seeketh, 
We  can  for  ourselves  create. 

There  the  sunbeams  kiss  the  river 
With  a  light  earth  hath  not  seen  ; 

There  the  blossom  fadeth  never, 
And  the  leaves  are  ever  green. 

There  the  stream  of  plenty  ever 
Through  each  fertile  valley  pours, 
•rim  want  and  woe  have  never 
their  feet  upon  it*  shores. 


There  we  never  wait 

For  H  l<«Tf«l  on»-'«4  parting  breath, 
ur  one  there  can  languish 
On  a  bed  of  pain  and  death. 

land  holds  the  richest  treasures 
That  to  mortal*  have  been  given, 
An.l  tli.  >u  i  pleasures 

la  a  foretaute,  friend,  of  Heaven. 


268  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

ONLY. 

Only  a  human  blossom, 

Pure  and  tender  and  mild, 
Clasped  to  a  mother's  bosom, 

Only  a  lovely  child. 

Only  a  few  fleet  summers 
And  the  babe  is  a  laughing  boy, 

The  dear  delight  of  his  parents, 
The  source  of  their  deepest  joy. 

Only  a  few  more  seasons 

And  the  boy  is  a  fearless  youth, 

Puzzled  with  life's  hidden  problems, 
Earnestly  searching  for  truth. 

A  proud  independent  spirit, 

A  generous  and  noble  soul, 
A  gem  of  the  rarest  merit, 

Though  impatient  at  times  of  control. 

A  step  in  the  wrong  direction, 
Then  remorse  and  the  bitterest  shame, 

And  from  those  who  should  yield  protection 
Only  a  torrent  of  blame. 

Only  a  young  heart  aching — 

Aching  in  dumb  dull  pain, 
For  the  want  of  that  sympathy  breaking, 

Which  it  sighs  and  longs  for  in  vain. 

Only  a  word  kindly  spoken- 
Spoken  in  tones  of  love, 

Might  have  healed  the  chord  that  was  broken, 
And  pointed  to  light  above — 

Might  have  shown  him  by  gentle  persuasion, 
That  the  way  of  transgressors  is  hard, 

And  allured  from  the  path  of  temptation 
Ere  his  life  became  bloated  and  marred  ; 

But  Love's  gentle  words  were  unspoken, 
And  her  message  of  cheer  was  unsaid, 

For  she  wept  o'er  the  laws  he  had  broken,     • 
Till  all  hope  of  redemption  had  fled. 

Oh,  Father,  restore  us  from  blindness, 
Why,  oh  why,  do  thy  children  not  think 


BELLA     HOWAT80N.  2<>D 

That  that  soul  has  most  need  of  their  kindness 
Whose  feet  tread  temptation's  dark  brink. 

The  heart  that  is  whole  needs  no  solace, 

The  soul  that  is  well  needs  no  cure  : 
Thou  ilid'tit  stoop  to  the  weak  in  their  follies, 

Thou  did'st  yearn  o'er  the  vile  and  the  poor. 


Oh  !  remember,  the  chords  oft  throb  wildly 
That  Nature  most  finely  has  strung, 

And  you  scarcely  can  touch  them  too  mildly 
In  the  sensitive  breasts  of  the  young. 


HIS    LAST    LOOK. 

The  hush  of  rest  has  filled  the  chamber  now, 

A  silent  angel  watch  above  him  keeps, 
The  rapture  of  repose  is  on  his  brow  : 
Our  darling  sleeps. 

He  Bleeps.     His  lashes  veil  the  eyes  of  blue 
As  though  he'd  lift  them  in  a  little  while, 
His  cheeks  retain  their  loveliness  of  hue, 
The  lips  their  smile. 

And  o'er  his  temple,  like  a  sunny  gleam, 

His  auburn  trenses  wander  as  of  old, 
Once  to  your  dreaming  fancy  they  did  seem 
Like  waves  of  gold. 

You  used  to  part  them  on  the  sleeping  brow, 
think  the  sleeper  was  surpassing  fair, 
Then  with  a  full  heart  to  the  Father  bow 
For  him  in  prayer. 

Strange  you  should  think  him  like  an  angel  bright, 

Yet  never  for  a  moment  dream  that  he 
Might  spread  hi-  pinion*  f<>r  the  heavenward  flight, 
*  Nor  think  of  tbee. 

You  used  to  gaze  enraptured  on  the  boy, 

And  feast  your  eyes  upon  hi»  loveliness  ; 

Think  of  him  .still,  then,  with  a  chastened  joy, 

A  saint  in  bliss. 


270  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

JESSIE     MARGARET     KING. 

("MARGUERITE.") 


yilVANY  will  be  very  pleased  to  find  that  this 
JL  IU  graceful,  charming,  and  picturesque  prose 
writer  is  entitled  to  a  place  amongst  our  poets.  Miss 
King  has  hitherto  been  widely  and  popularly  known 
under  the  nom-de-plume  of  "Marguerite,"  and  we  are 
glad  to  be  able  to  reveal  her  identity.  All  readers  of 
the  Dundee  Evening  Telegraph  admire  her  vivacious 
and  thoughtful  articles  on  dress,  and  her  bright  and 
clever  descriptive  papers  on  men,  women,  and  manners 
at  public  gatherings.  Her  style  is  exceedingly  attrac- 
tive, terse,  clear,  and  apt,  while  her  original  comments 
and  reflections  are  judiciously  and  racily  intermixed. 
She  has  a  graphic  pen,  and  possesses  the  enviable  faculty 
of  always  being  able  to  seize  upon  points  of  interest  and 
importance,  and  of  giving  due  proportion  and  sym- 
metry to  the  various  phases  of  her  subject. 

Miss  King  was  born  at  Bankfoot,  in  the  parish  of 
Auchtergaven,  Perthshire,  in  1862,  and  received  her 
education  at  the  village  school  there.  She  was  delicate 
as  a  child,  but  was  very  studious,  and  a  great 
reader.  Her  father,  a  man  of  remarkable  intelligence, 
encouraged  her  in  her  studies  ;  and  every  now  and 
then  a  box  of  miscellaneous  reading  —  magazines,  re- 
views, &c.  —  would  come  per  carrier's  cart  from  Perth, 
where  her  uncle,  Mr  James  Sprunt,  was  editor  of  the 
Perthshire  Advertiser.  At  school  the  subject  of  our 
sketch  was  a  very  apt  pupil,  carrying  off  many  prizes 
and  the  girls'  dux  medal.  Teaching  promised  to  be 
her  future  career;  but  she  had  been  only  just  entered  at 
Sharp's  Institution,  Perth,  when  her  father  fell  ill, 
and  this  altered  all  the  family  plans.  After  a  long 


J.    M.    KINO.  271 

illness  he  died,  and  Miss  King  entered  an  office  in  the 
village.  While  here,  the  Free  Church  "  Welfare  of 
Youth  Scheme "  came  into  existence,  and  in  the 
"  Essay  Section "  she  found  a  congenial  outcome  for 
her  dawning  literary  energies.  The  first  year  she  was 
seventh  on  the  list,  the  next  she  was  first  in  the  senior 
section  and  third  in  the  junior.  The  following  year 
she  again  competed  for  both  essays,  and  then  accom- 
plished the  unparalleled  feat  of  carrying  off  the  first 
prize  in  the  junior  and  senior  sections.  She  continued 
to  compete  in  connection  with  this  "  scheme "  up  to 
1885,  and  gained  four  first  prizes — a  medal  accompany- 
ing each.  After  being  two  years  in  the  Bankfoot 
office,  Miss  King  received  an  appointment  in  the  Dun- 
dee Advertiser  Office,  and  shortly  afterwards  attained 
a  responsible  and  important  position  on  the  staff  of 
the  Evening  Telegraph,  with  which  paper  she  is  still 
connected. 

It  was  not  until  about  four  years  ago  that  Miss 
_'  began  to  rhyme ;  and  she  had  the  rare  satisfac- 
tion  of  seeing   her   first    attempt,    a   poem   entitled 
•udland,"  in  print.     For  a  year  or  two  she  wrote 
very  fn-ijuL-ntly — most  of  her  poems  appearing  under 
various   noms-de-plume   in  the    Telegraph   and    Friend. 
Miss  King's  poetry  is  highly  imaginative,  frequently 
lively,  and  sparkling  and  vivid   in   expression.       We 
also  find  felicity    in   her  choice   of   subject,    and   an 
tin^   method   of   treatment   peculiarly  her  own. 
Her  poems  are  marked  by  a  high  moral  tone  and  deep 
human  feeling,  and  they  evince  power  and  facility  over 
the  difficulties  of  rhyme  and  versification,  which  prove 
that  she  does  not  court  the  Muse  in  vain. 


"A    MIDSUMMER    NIGHT'S    DREAM. 

Ae  e'enin'  I  lni<l  myRel'  doon  to  sleep 

the  moss  that  cushioned  a  bonne's  brim, 


MODERN   SCOTTISH    POETS. 


An'  some  eldrich  pooer  'gan  rny  senses  steep, 

An'  the  munelicht  was  thrangit  wi'  shapes  fu'  grim. 

Frae  'neath  leaves  o'  dockens  an'  ilka  grass  blade 
Cam'  unearthly  bodies  wi'  coats  o'  green, 

An'  wee  red  Kilmarnocks  on  touzled  head, 
And  the  wizendest  faces  that  «*,'er  were  seen. 

Ilk  warlock  was  hotchin'  an'  lauchin'  wi'  glee, 
An'  they  paidl't  aboot  an'  they  wadna  be  still  ; 

Till  a  fiddler  loon,  wi'  his  bonnet  agee, 

Was  cannily  stanced  in  his  seat  on  a  hill  — 

A  cosy  bit  nook  in  the  fair  dingle  side, 

Whaur  the  mune  glinted  bricht  on  the  dewdraps  wat  ; 
But  the  rest  o'  the  company  still  cou'dna  bide, 

But  waitin'  the  fays,  by  the  burnie  sat. 

Some  leaves  o'  last  autumn  cam'  sailin'  doon, 
Ilk  riggit  wi'  moonbeams  an'  helm  o'  fate  ; 

An'  steered  wi'  a  stalk  o'  hemlock  broon  — 
The  barges  o'  fairies  travelin'  in  state. 

It  was  awesome  to  see  ilk  enchantit  carle 

Handin'  oot  a  fair  leddy  wi'  aul'  farrant  grace  ; 

But  the  bonniest  sicht  I  hae  seen  i'  this  warP 
Was  the  blythesome  blink  o'  ilk  fairy  face. 

Their  goons  were  o'  thistledoon,  fa'in'  like  air, 

An'  their  gems  o'  the  dewdraps'  glimmerin'  sheen  ; 

An'  never  a  Queen,  be  she  bonnie  or  fair, 
Was  drest  like  thae  fairies  this  midsummer  e'en. 

They  stude  i'  their  places  a'  ready  to  reel, 

An'  the  music  struck  up,  an'  the  dance  began  ; 

An'  they  turned  an'  linkit  an'  trippit  fu'  weel, 
Ilka  fairy  white  wi'  a  warlock  man. 

I  turned  me  aboot  to  see  mair  o'  the  fun, 
But  a  wailin'  sough  ower  the  gatherin'  fell  ; 

I  was  fear'd  they'd  hae  meltit  like  snaw  'neth  the  sun 
Had  they  kent  mortal  een  lookit  doon  on  the  dell. 

Sae  I  keepit  ncy  breath,  an'  I  lay  fu'  still, 
Juist  keekin'  wi'  ane  o'  my  een  at  the  ploy, 

Till  the  fiddler  wight  frae  his  seat  on  the  hill 
Played  up,  an*  the  company  fell  tee  wi'  joy. 

At  last  a  great  supper  was  laid  oot  at  twal 
On  a  patch  o'  muneshine  aneath  a  tree, 


J.    M.    KINO.  273 

A1  ileckit  wi'  wil.l  flutter*  an'  goblets  tall, 
An'  nparklin'  wi'  red  wine  frae  Normandy. 

An'  warlocks  an'  fairies,  wi  daffin*  an'  mirth, 
Sat  d<x>n  to  the  feast  an'  the  red  wine  <|UatTt  ; 

I  fairly  forgot  what  uiy  silence  was  worth, 
An'  clean  lost  my  gumption  an'  roared  an'  laugh't. 

Like  the  shadowy  raunelicht  they  raeltit  awt/, 

An*  left  nae  a  ribbon  to  tell  o'  their  joy  ; 
But  I'll  no  be  persuadit  by  ony  ava 

That  I  didna  tak'  pairt  in  a  fairy  ploy. 

O,     WIND    OF    THE    WEST. 

O,  wiud  of  the  west,  what  beareat  to  me  ? 

What  message  from  those  that  I  love  the  best? 
Tidings  or  token  from  them  to  me  ': 

Thou  that  art  fresh  from  my  home  in  the  went. 

0,  wiud  of  the  west,  what  bearest  to  me  ? 

Down  by  the  river  and  over  the  hill  — 
Echoed  of  far-off  memory, 

Voices  all  silent,  feet  that  are  still. 

O,  wiud  of  the  west,  what  bearest  to  me? 

From  the  fragrant  gardens  thou  rove*t  by  — 
Scent  of  the  briar  and  hawthorn  tree, 

And  heather  from  hills  against  the  sky. 

O,  wind  of  the  we«t,  what  bearest  to  me? 
'  of  fresh  budding  on  every  gale  ; 
First  notes  of  summer  bird'*  melody, 
And  from  brown  moorlands  the  peewit's  w.iil. 

0,  wind  of  the  went,  what  beare»t  to  me  ? 
Echoes  of  eliil<li'-ii  -h'.utiti:,'  at  play  — 
ing  and  falling  like  billowy  sea, 

with  belU  from  the  kirk  on  the  brae. 


f  the  west,  what  bearest  to  me  ? 
What  wrack  from  the  misty  shores  of  the  past, 
(  'Id  Mounds  and  Mights  that  I  used  to  Me 
Like  seaweed  brown  on  the  sea-beach  cant  ? 

O,  wind  of  the  west,  thou  nearest  to  me— 
Often  in  Madness,  sometimes  in  pain  — 

Id  be, 

An-!  in.-  .....  M.--i  ••ii'lin/  in  '  run. 


274  MODERN    SCOTTlSii    POETS. 


LIFE    AND    DEATH. 

O,  it  is  hard  to  die 

When  life  is  strong  within  the  throbbing  veins 
And  age  with  sombre  retinue  of  pains 

Lies  in  futurity  ! 

O,  it  is  hard  to  die 

When  every  day  new  glowing  visions  ope 
Before  the  spiritual  senses,  and  fair  hope 

Foretells  felicity. 

O,  it  is  hard  to  die 
Before  the  eye  is  wearied  of  the  sun, 
While  life's  long  blissful  day  seems  scarce  begun  ! 

Then  bitter  is  our  cry  ! 

Yet  sweet  it  is  to  die 

Before  our  lips  are  chilled  by  eld's  cold  kiss, 
When  the  soul  joys  to  leave  its  chrysalis 

As  doth  the  butterfly. 

How  sweet  it  is  to  die 

When  life  becomes  a  guest  that  hath  outstayed 
Welcome  and  cheer,  and  leaves  with  moan  unmade, 

Sans  farewell  courtesy. 

Sure  it  were  sweet  to  die 
To  men  world-weary,  with  their  souls  a-fret, 
And  cankered  by  dire  toils  and  tears— and  yet 

How  sad  it  is  to  die  ! 


THE    PERFIDIOUS    SEA. 

0  fair  and  fause,  like  fickle  lover, 
Grey  sea  that  pratest  to  the  beach, 

Say  what  dark  things  thy  waters  cover  ? 
Dead  lips  that  call  and  hands  that  reach. 

About  our  feet  thon  creepest,  gleaming, 
With  serpent  grace  thy  surges  glide  ; 

High  <>n  the  sand  thy  foam  lies  dreaming, 
And  all  is  calm  from  tide  to  tide. 

But  yesterday,  by  east  wind  driven, 

Thy  waves  all  white  with  fear  and  rage  — 

Defiant   ca*t  themselves  to  heaven, 
Like  glove  that's  thrown  in  battle  gage. 


HELEN    ACQUROFF.  27f) 

And  many  a  bark  that  on  thy  waters 

In  jnyons  freedom  used  to  roam 
Went  <lown,  while  trembling  wives  and  daughters 

Kept  watch  for  those  that  ne'er  came  home. 

0  midnight  dark  !    O  parting  vessel ! 

O  human  hearts  all  helpless  then  ! 
O  drowning  cry  and  dying  wrestle  ! 

Far  from  all  aid  of  fellow-men. 

O  hearts  full -breathed  and  full  of  ardour, 

.-,-ulfed  in  dark  Lethean  deepa  ; 
To-day  the  sea,  our  island  warder, 
Rests  peaceful  as  a  child,  and  sleeps. 

Ah,  perfidy  so  cruel,  common, 

Its  waters  wooed  them  to  its  breast — 
Played  with  them,  like  capricious  woman, 

Grew  tired  of  them — and  now  they  rest. 


HELEN     ACQUROFF. 

H<Mll.  \l     blank     was    caused    in     temperance 
circles     throughout    Scotland    by    the    death, 
in     September     1887,     of     Mi»     Helen     Acijnn.tV, 
tii>     talented     and     popular     blind     lady     advocate 
their    cause.       She     was     bora     in     Edinburgh 
in     1S3:1.       Owing    to    a    serious     defect     in 

i-^ht,  she   was  sent   to   the    Blind  Asylum  Sri,,,,,], 

.Useijiu-iitlv    acted    in    the    capacity    of   a 

jiirit — \vhi«-li  -In-  inherited  fnna 

rse — sho\\ 

at  a  very  early  a^e.      Her  Hrwt  piece  was  written  uh<  n 
:ie   yearn   old.      She    was    very  cjnit  k 
aii-1  .t^e  of  el- 

.  and,    under  the   Oil  ,.-es,    dir« 

h<  )'     :' 

d     hrr    tl 


276  MODERN    SCOTTISH 

harmony  caused  universal  surprise.  Though  her  execu- 
tion was  not  brilliant,  it  was  very  remarkable,  when 
we  consider  the  few  opportunities  afforded  her  for 
mastering  the  technique  of  the  pianoforte.  Like  most 
of  the  blind,  Miss  Acquroff  possessed  a  remarkably 
retentive  memory.  She  would  compose  many  a  song 
and  sing  it  without  ever  committing  it  to  paper. 
Indeed,  the  MS.  of  her  last  volume  was  copied  out 
without  pause,  straight  from  the  treasure-house  of  her 
memory.  She  was  always  very  diffident,  both  as  a 
girl  and  a  woman,  about  having  her  verses  made 
public,  and  although  she  never  tired  carolling  her 
songs  about  the  house,  or  singing  them  in  aid  of  any 
benevolent  scheme,  she  very  rarely  consented  to  let 
her  friends  take  them  down  from  her  dictation. 

Much  of  Miss  Acquroff's  music,  of  which  she  com- 
posed a  considerable  quantity,  is  lost.  Her  hymns 
and  temperance  melodies,  however,  will  live  long  in 
the  memory  of  those  who  are  striving  to  promote  the 
cause  of  total  abstinence,  and  to  establish  feelings  of 
charity  and  goodwill  among  men.  On  more  than  one 
occasion  she  has  been  applied  to,  from  distant 
parts,  for  a  song,  which  she  has  composed,  and 
thought  no  more  about,  although  it  had  passed 
into  the  hearts  of  hundreds  who  have  heard  it  and 
loved  it,  and  made  it  part  of  their  spiritual  daily 
bread.  Possessing  remarkable  rhythmical  balance, 
quiet,  sparkling  humour,  deep  sympathy  and  tender- 
ness, and  the  desire  of  brightening  and  ennobling 
life  in  everything  she  said  or  wrote,  her  songs  will  live 
in  the  hearts  of  many.  With  the  temperance  cause 
she  early  allied  herself,  and  upon  the  introduction  of 
the  Good  Templar  movement  into  this  country,  she 
became  a  member  of  the  Order.  No  social  meeting 
was  complete  without  her  presence,  and  as  she  was 
"  a  host "  in  herself  a  soiree  was  regarded  as  a  success 
as  soon  as  her  name  appeared  on  the  bills.  As  an 


HELEN    ACQUROFP.  277 

exponent  of  pawky   humor  -,   she  had   few  to 

•  I  her.      Nearly  all    her  .-re  on  temperance 

subjects,  and  sung  to  familiar  tunes,  and  it  was  quite 
a  common  practice  for  her  to  adapt  her  contribution* 
t«»  the  proceedings  of  the  evening,  introdurin<_:  the 
.1  colouring  in  an  amusing  and  almost  inimitable 
manner.  Her  songs,  which  numbered  many  hundreds, 
were,  as  we  have  already  said,  composed  without  Ixjing 
committed  to  manuscript,  as  she  had  a  wonderfully 
retentive  memory.  A  number  were,  however,  pre- 
served, and  published  in  1873,  in  the  form  of  "  A  Good 
Templar  Song  Book."  Miss  AcqurofTs  services  were  in 
requisition  all  over  Scotland,  and  wherever  she  went  her 
bright,  cheerful  disposition  ensured  her  a  hearty  wel- 
come. She  had  a  keen  sense  of  humour,  as  is  attested 
not  only  by  several  leading  contributors  to  our  comic 
journals,  but  is  proved  by  a  number  of  her  productions. 
She  used  to  sing  her  most  amusing  verses  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  temperance  meetings,  with  the  view  of 
imbuing  the  audience  with  a  kindly  esprit  till  the 
serious  aspects  of  the  question  were  brought  before  them. 
One  peculiarity  that  may  be  mentioned  was  that  her 
surname  was  very  seldom  used  ;  she  was  known  every- 
ithednil,"  or,  according  to  Good  Templar 
usage,  u  ^  •  lie-drill, '  and  she  promptly  checked 

any  one  \\hoaddiv-r.i  ln-r  •  .t  !I»TU  JM-.      Thi>  cognomen 

D  in  consequence  of  an  address  she  published, 

which  represented  the    Cathedral    of   <;]a  •  ning 

in>t    the  evils  .,f  intemper- 
Tii     tract,  or   ad«lr»->>,    which   is   written  in  a 
niter,   was  exceedingly 
popular.      ( Mi  lip-  •!   Tempi. 

u   1S71  Heard   by   the 

I'MILT     the      Milijeets     i.l' 
•  lind    WOOD 

ability.     Mi-   \<  pi rolf  also  wrote  several  tales  in  the 


278  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

same  homely  style,  and  she  published  two  small 
volumes  of  poetry.  These  are  now  very  scarce,  but 
we  believe  arrangements  are  being  made  for  the  publi- 
cation of  a  selection  of  her  pieces  from  these  and 
several  Good  Templar  and  temperance  song  books, 
which  will  be  issued  as  a  memorial  volume 

POLLY     HOPKINS. 

Here  comes  Polly  Hopkins,  ever  ready  at  command, 
Bearing  precious  fruits  and  flowers,  the  fairest  in  the  land, 
Quite  a  travelling  garden,  cannot  fail  to  please  the  eye, 
Sweet  and  fragrant,  fresh    and  blooming,   will  you  please  come 
buy? 

Please  come  buy, 
Oh,  do  try 

Gather  round  me  lads  and  lassies, 
Please  come  buy. . 

Frenchmen  praise  the  lily,  and  the  English  boast  the  rose, 
Paddy  loves  the  shamrock  which  in  dear  old  Erin  grows  ; 
Scotchmen  love  the  thistle  and  the  grand  old  hills  so  high, 
There  I  pulled  this  blooming  heather,  which  I  hope  you'll  buy. 

Cowslips,  tulips,  violets,  dahlias,  daisies,  evergreens, 
Apricots,  plums,  peaches,  melons,  nnts,  figs,  dates,  and  geens, 
Oranges  and  grapes,  to  cool  your  throat  when  parched  and  dry, 
Pears  and  apples,  ripe  and  mellow,  which  I  hope  you'll  buy. 

SABBATH    SCHOOL    SONG. 

We  love  the  Sabbath  school, 
We  love  to  read  and  pray  ; 
With  joy  each  heart  is  full 

Upon  God's  holy  day. 
How  thankful  we  to  God  should  be, 

Let  praise  employ  each  girl  and  boy  ; 
We'll  prize  the  day,  all  days  above, 
Which  calls  to  mind  the  Saviour's  love. 

fm^, 

May  strife  and  envy  cease, 

Nor  in  our  breast  be  found  ; 
May  love  and  joy  and  peace 

Still  more  and  more  abound, 
And  may  the  rule  thus  taught  in  school 
Through  every  day  direct  our  way. 


uri  ;  279 

Onr  faithful  pastor's  voice 

We  children  love  to  hear  ; 
It  makes  each  heart  rejoice, 
For  we  his  name  revere  ; 
He  bid*  us  shun  the  Kvil  One, 
And  points  the  road  that  leads  to  God. 

THE    SWISS    GIRL. 

I'm  a  little  Switzer  ;  friendless  here  I  roam  ; 

i  poor  stranger,  wont  you  help  me  home? 
I  am  not  seeking  charity,  I  mean  to  earn  my  bread, 
Once  I  had  dear  parents,  but  alas  !  they  both  are  dead. 

Now  girls,  now  boys, 
Come  this  way  and  buy  my  toys, 
I've  lolly  pops,  humming  tops,  and  pictures  rare  and  grand. 

Children,  you  are  hungry,  I  have  cakes  and  buns  ; 

Who  would  be  a  soldier?  here  are  swords  and  guns  ; 

Cannon,  powder,  shot,  and  shell,  with  flutes,  fifes,  drums,  and 

flags  ; 
Grand  c<>ckt<l  hats,  hoops,  balls,  and  bats,  balloons  and  travelling 


Scotch  folks  all  read  history,  I  am  snre  they  do  ;  — 

Here  are  famous  pictures,  quite  well  known  to  you  ; 

Ca«tle«,  old  cathedrals,  chapels  mountain*,  rivers,  lakes  ; 

Men  who  gave  their  life's   blood   for  their  dear  old  country's 


Here  are  dolls  and  trinkets,  come  and  take  a  view  ; 
Yes,  you  can't  resist  it,  I  shall  sell  a  few, 
For  you  love  your  native  land,  and  have  no  wihh  to  roam — 
Every  little  toy  you  purchase  helps  this  stranger  home. 

my  friends,  'tis  time  that  you  and  I  must  part ; 
Yet  you'll  always  have  a  place  in  my  warm  heart ; 
An'!  I  know  I've  pleaded  you  all,  and  y<>u  II  r<  member  long 

MB  th--  Switzer,  and  her  coaxing  little  song. 


WHEN    WE    WERE    BAIRNS    THlOITHBB 

It's  forty  years,  my  ain  gudeman, 
Since  I  was  made  your  wife  ; 

•me  in  a'  this  warld  can  say 
Hut  we've  led  a  i 
But  ah,  waes  me,  it's  sixty  year 
|   ,.•!.:  :i!r-  .in;'  li«-r   ; 


280  MODERN    SCOTTISH   POETS. 

For  hand  in  hand  we  gaed;to  schule 

When  we  were  bairns  thegither. 
When  we  were  bairns,  happy, Lhappy  bairns, 

When  we  were  bairns  thegither  ; 

For  hand  in  hand  we  gaed  to  schule 

When  we  were  bairns  thegither. 

An'  mony  a  time  ye  focht  for  me 

Wi'  big  red-headed  Jock, 
An'  brocht  me  turnips,  peas,  an'  beans, 

Snaps,  muffins,  pies,  an'  rock  ; 
For  if  ye  hadna  ae  fine  thing, 

Ye  were  sure  to  hae  anither ; 
Baith  kind  an'  guid  you've  been  to  me 

Since  we  were  bairns  thegither. 

I  used  to  greet  ilk  time  ye  got 

A  palmy  at  the  schule, 
An'  then  the  maister  turned  on  me 

An'  ca'd  me  a  great  fule  ; 
An'  when  I  think  on  a'  the  flights 

We  baith  got  frae  nay  mither, 
Hech,  man,  it  seems  like  half-an-hour 

Since  we  were  bairns  thegither. 


THE    KEFOKMED   DRUNKARD    TO    HIS    WIFE. 

Five  short  years  ago,  dear  Mary, 

You  were  all  the  world  to  me  ; 
Hours  and  days  flew  swift  as  moments, 

You  were  happy,  I  was  free, 
Till  the  demon  Drink  beguiled  me, 

Turned  my  love  for  you  to  hate, 
And  from  our  home  I  drove  you  weeping  ; 

Now  I  mourn  your  hapless  fate. 

Through  the  long  dark  hours  of  midnight, 

Our  dear  baby's  face  I  see  ; 
By  his  silent  grave  at  even 

I  have  watched  and  longed  for  thee. 
There,  on  bended  knee,  I  promised 

With  God's  help  to  break  the  chain  ; 
Oh,  yes,  I've  prayed  for  strength  from  Heaven, 

And  I  have  not  prayed  in  vain. 

Now  I  praise  your  worth,  my  Mary, 

You  were  all  a  wife  should  be ; 
And  I  feel  how  much  I  need  you, 

Since  I've  none  to  care  for  me — 


JOHN    SK  ELTON.  281 


None  to  tend  me  when  in  trouble, 
to  calm  ray  reitlesn  heart  ; 
None  to  watch  beside  my  pillow, 
Peace  and  comfort  t<>  impart. 

1  entreat  you,  dearest  Mary, 

By  the  vows  once  made  to  me, 
By  the  memory  of  our  infant 

Sleeping  'neath  the  willow  tree. 
Come  and  soothe  me  with  your  presence, 

Your  long  absence  I  deplore  ; 
Oh  !  come  and  say  that  you  forgive  me, 

And  my  peace  of  mind  restore. 

10  my  Mary  standing  by  me? 
Let  me  clasp  you  to  my  heart. 

I  have  prayed  for  this  glad  moment ; 
In  this  world  no  more  we'll  part. 

Now  I  feel  I  am  forgiven, 
For  I  hear  you  tell  me  so  ; 

And  our  dear  angel  boy  in  heaven- 
He  forgives  me  too  I  know. 


JOHN  SKELTON,  C.B.,  LL.D. 


men,  either  professionally,  or  by  their  writ- 
ings  have  done  so  much  for  "  puir  auld  Scot- 
land's sake"  as  the  author  of  the  following  verses. 
H<  i>  one  of  our  tn<  t  popular,  brilliant,  and  thought- 
ful essayists  —  an  accomplished  man  of  letters,  versa- 
•  I  overflowing  with  intellectual 
and  scholarly  in-tincts.  Born  in  Kdinbur^h  in  I* 
John  Skelton  is  ii  n  of  James  Skelton,  \\ 

one  of  tii  lire.     He  was  educated 

wh    uml    tin-    I'm  f    Kdinl>n! 

passed  as  an  advocate  in    1**54,    retired   from   tin 
on  a<  ill-lii-alth.  aiid    u. 

to   tin*   >'    ttisl    :  ;"ii    in    lhO>*.      In 

recognition  of  hi.s  services  t«.  Scotland  l»y  his  work 


282  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

law  and  in  general  literature,  he  received  the  degree 
of  Doctor  of  Laws  from  the  University  of  Edinburgh 
in  1878,  and  in  1887  he  was  created  a  Companion  of  the 
Bath.  Since  1854,  when  he  returned  from  a  long  stay 
in  Italy,  he  has  been  a  frequent  contributor  to  "  Black- 
wood,"  "Eraser,"  and  other  magazines,  under  the 
well-known  nom-de-plume  of  "Shirley."  Messrs  Wm. 
Blackwood  &  Sons,  Edinburgh,  have  published  a 
number  of  his  works.  These  include  two  important 
volumes  in  connection  with  the  literature  of  his  own 
profession — "  The  Law  of  Evidence  in  Scotland,"  and 
"  Pauperism  and  Pauper  Education  in  Scotland,  with 
Special  Reference  to  the  Boarding-Out  System." 
These  scholarly  and  thoughtful  works  have  attracted 
a  large  amount  of  public  interest,  the  latter  especially, 
on  account  of  the  author's  practical  experience  as 
Secretary  to  the  Poor  Law  Board  in  Scotland.  It  is 
a  solid  and  well-considered  contribution  to  the  discus- 
sion of  a  most  important  social  problem.  His  other 
works  are  "Nugce,  Critics  :  Life  and  Letters  by  the  Sea- 
side"— fresh,  genial,  and  pleasant  sketches  of  public 
men,  manners,  and  places — spoken  of  by  Lord  Lytton 
as  "abounding  in  beauties  of  thought  and  style;" 
while  the  Spectator  holds  that  "  there  is  but  one  recent 
writer  who  has  caught  the  spirit  of  Charles  Lamb — 
who  is  an  original  thinker,  whose  style  is  pure  and 
simple  and  refreshing  as  the  green  fields,  and  whose 
papers  are  full  of  delicate  touches  of  humour  and 
pathos."  In  his  volume  entitled  "The  Impeachment 
of  Mary  Stuart,  and  other  Essays — Historical  and 
Biographical,"  he  discusses  Queen  Mary  from  an 
original  point  of  view,  and  in  a  manner  calculated  to 
gain  for  the  Scottish  Queen  a  large  amount  of  sym- 
pathy. He  is  still  farther  pursuing  this  subject  in 
the  pages  of  Blaclcwood,  and  a  second  volume  is  antici- 
pated. Dr  Skelton's  work,  entitled  "  The  Comedy  of 
the  Noctes  Ambrosianse,"  treats  of  the  wit  and  wisdom 


JOHN    SKTT.TON.  283 

'iese  famous  colloquies,  and,  with  an  incisiveness 
ami  brilliancy  i.f  >t\lr.  >li«.\\>  the  famous  Christopher 
at  hi*  best.  Indrrd.  tin-  \.  r-atility  of  hi>  Lrift^,  and 
the  natural  bent  of  hi*  mind,  entitles  him  to  be  ranked 
as  our  present-day  Wilson.  Aird,  or  "Delta."  We 

•  •lily  mention  his  other  works  as  including  "The 
Crookit  Meg,"  "A  Campaigner  at  Home,"  "Spring 
Songs,"  "  Essays  in  History  and  Biography,"  "  Mait- 
land  of  Lethington,"  and  "Essays  in  Romance,"  con- 

ng  of  studies  from  life,  tales,  sketches,  and  a  num- 
}•<•]•  of  poems,  entitled  "  Leaves  from  the  Sketch- Rooks 
of  I'lnlij  n.  I'.-iinter."  From  these  we  are 

privileged  to  give  the  following  selection,  which  shows 
the  true  and  tender  poet.  He  is  not  only  fertile  in 
poetic  ideas  and  fancies,  but  his  versification  evinces 
the  scholar  as  well  a.s  his  deep  knowledge  of  humanity 
and  of  Nature.  We  also  find,  along  with  a  mine  of 
beautiful  thought  and  graceful  description,  many 
homely  pictures  of  lowly  life,  full  of  deep  pathos  and 
n  loving  kindness.  With  no  ordinary 

l»allad>  have 

all  thefervnnr,  the  \\itrln-ryof  lu-auty,  and  the  natural 

and   !<.nrliiir_f   >in  plicity   of    "The    Slin>trelsy   of   the 

I '.older,"  while  lii>  eminently  devotional  spirit 

in  his  exquisite  poem,  "The  K'en  I'r 
a'    llainr."       1  M    SkeltOD   sho\\s  that    p.,,-try    li;«>  to  deal 

with  man  as  well  as  with  Nature,  that  lii.  ^res- 

sive  development    of  all   the  materials  for   j. or  try,  and 
ry  accumulation  of  truth  that  advanciirj  y«-ar-  may 
bring    lif>    i-iiilx-dded    in    tin-    miin!  line    and 

essential  passion, 

and  fashioned  by  t  ati«.n  (»f  man. 

••  I  II  1.     i  IIIN08     A'     HAM 

n'l  in  nharp  and  cold, 
Tl .-•  «H*en  witlit-r  "ii  ' 

i      .   fold  ; 
Uul  cvttiiiig  brings  u«  \i» 


284  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

Among  the  mists  we  stumbled,  and  the  rocks 
Where  the  brown  lichen  whitens,  and  the  fox 
Watches  the  straggler  from  the  scattered  flocks  ; 
But  evening  brings'us  home. 

The  sharp  thorns  prick  us,  and  our  tender  feet 
Are  cut  and  bleeding,  and  the  lambs  repeat 
Their  pitiful  complaints,— oh,  rest  is  sweet 
When  evening  brings  us  home. 

We  have  been  wounded  by  the  hunter's  darts. 
Our  eyes  are  very  heavy,  and  our  hearts 
Search  for  Thy  coming, — when  the  light  departs 
At  evening,  bring  us  home. 

The  darkness  gathers.     Thro"  the  gloom  no  star 
Rises  to  guide  us.     We  have  wandered  far. 
Without  Thy  lamp  we  know  not  where  we  are. 
At  evening  bring  us  home. 

The  clouds  are  round  us,  and  the  snow-drifts  thicken, 
0  Thou,  dear  Shepherd,  leare  us  not  to  sicken 
In  the  waste  night, — our  tardy  footsteps  quicken. 
At  evening  bring  us  home. 

LOVE    IS    BEST. 

Beside  the  rosy  islands  of  the  West, 

There  winds  a  glen  of  all  the  glens  most  fair, 
Where,  day  and  night,  the  North  wind  is  at  rest, 
For  Love  lives  there. 

Thence  wandering  in  the  noontide  of  my  life, 

A  goddess  stept  from  out  the  shadowy  green. 
With  pensive  eyes,  and  lips  by  love's  sweet  strife 
Opened  between. 

And  through  the  dewy  coolness  of  the  leaves 

Echoed  a  voice  which  taught  us  how  to  woo — 
The  voice  of  love  in  visionary  eyes — 
"  Cuckoo  !  Cuckoo  ! '' 

And,  cheek  to  cheek,  we  lay  among  the  bent, 

And  through  the  wood  we  wandered  hand  in  hand, 
And  all  the  goodness  of  the  Lord  was  spent 
Upon  that  summer  land. 

Then,  stooping  down,  she  whispered  in  my  ear, — 

"There  is  a  marvellous  fountain  in  the  wood, 
And,  drinking  there,  whoever  cometh  here, 
Shall  find  it  good. 


JOHN   8KELTON.  $85 

"  For,  Drinking  there,  hi-*  name  shall  grow  a  name 

Known  unto  men  through  all  the  far  abodes, 
And,  mounting  up  a*  incense-smoke,  his  fame 
Shall  reach  the  < 

Then,  turning  quick,  I  toucheil  her  on  the  nr.outh, 

And  said, — "O  sweetest,  let  thia  matter  be  ; 
I  ask  nut  anything  of  North  and  South, 
But  love  from  thee. 

**  I  never  more  will  laT  my  lance  in  re*t, 

Nor  in  the  storm  of  battle  shall  my  crest 
Break,  like  the  foam,  against  the  foe  man  >  breast, 
For  love  is  best. 

"  And  I  am  all  aweary  of  the  world. 

And  teaming  o'er  the  *eas  with  hungry  heart ; 
In  this  deep  bay  my  tattered  uaiU  are  furl'd  - 
I  will  not  part 

"  From  thee,  and  from  the  tresses  of  thy  hair 

Tangling  my  sense,  ami  fr<>m  thy  perfect  breast, 
And  from  the  sweeteut  lips  Love  anywhere 
Has  ever  ki»t. 

44  Trample  upon  me  with  thy  dainty  feet, 

Upon  thy  slave  who  break*  hid  captive  bow  ; 
But  from  thy  ft-et  which  trample  on  me,  sweet, 
I  will  not  KO." 


THE    FISHER    LAD. 

.  the  la-*  with  the  curly  locks 
Sit*  and  Hpins  on  the  top  of  the  rock*  ; — 
All  night  long  iihe  sleeps  in  her  nest, 
Ami  dreamii  of  the  fisher-boy  out  in  the  West. 

All  night  long  he  rocks  in  his  boat, 

And  hums  a  song  as  he  lien  afloat,— 

A  song  about  Klsie,  the  r«me  of  the  town, 

Whose  lamp  shines  out  as  the  sun  goes  down. 

The  dun  duck  dives,  and  the  roving  lark 
Flits,  with  nhrill  whistle,  into  the  dark  ;— 
Atxi,  heaving  the  herring  nets  over  the  side, 
•  »njf  the  fisher-boy  drifts  with  the  tide. 

feet  the  herring  are  ttreami: 
Over  his  head  the  stars  are  drean 


286  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

And  he  sits  in  his  boat,  as  it  rocks  in  the  bight, 
And  watches,  and  waits  for  the  morning  light. 

The  wind  is  soft  and  the  stars  are  dim, 
But  never  a  mermaid  whispers  to  him  ; 
And  the  siren  may  warble  her  softest  note, 
But  she  won't  beguile  him  out  of  his  boat. 

At  break  of  day  from  the  sandy  bay, 
He  draws  his  nets,  and  he  sails  away  ; — 
"  Over  the  foam  let  gipsies  roam, — 
But  Love  is  best  when  it  stays  at  home." 

WHITHER. 

She  lay  upon  her  bed  with  folded  hands, 

And  pitiful  straight  fingers  closely  prest 
By  one  who  loved  her  only.     God  in  heaven, 

Why  hast  thou  still'd  the  beatings  of  her  breast, 
And  left  me  stranded  in  the  mire  of  hell  ? 

For  deepest  hell  has  no  more  dire  eclipse 
Than  passed  across  me,  when  I  watched  her  die, 

And  saw  the  spirit  flutter  from  her  lips. 

Then  I  went  out  into  the  windy  night ; 

For  she  had  said,  "  Darling,  I  go  before 
A  little  way,  and  when  I  reach  Christ's  heaven 

I  will  await  thy  coming  at  the  door." 
And  the  night  looked  less  lonely  than  the  place 

Wherein  she  lay  upon  her  bridal  bed  ; 
Not  moving  from  the  right  hand  to  the  left— 

For  no  breath  stirred  the  gold  upon  her  head. 

And  so  the  dark  was  round  me  and  the  night, 

The  populous  night  with  all  ifs  trains  of  stars, 
And  o'er  its  dome  the  chivalry  of  heaven 

Flashed  all  their  spears,  and  in  the  wake  of  Mars 
An  angry  light  showed  where  the  armies  pressed 

Around  thefr  leaders, — till  the  battle  ceased, 
And  the  light  waned  behind  the  northern  star, 

Where  Odin  and  the  strong  Immortals  feast. 

0  foolish  fancy  ! — the  Immortals  linger 

In  the  fond  passion  of  the  bard  alone. 
Lord  God  of  Hosts,  Thy  hosts  are  ranged  fur  battle, 

The  heavens  are  Thine,  and  Thine,  0  Lord,  alone. 
But  not  loud  winds,  nor  lightning,  nor  heav'ri's  trump 

Affright  us.     Mightier  is  Night.     We  shrink 
From  uncomplaining  night  with  its  calm  stars— 

Innumerous  worlds  that  sparkle  to  its  brink. 


CHARLB8   STEWART.  287 

The  Htar8  may  whisper  through  the  infinite  waste, 

But  tfton  art  mute.     T  >  what  divine  retreat 
Hast  thou  withdrawn,  and  which  of  all  these  worlds 

Is  gladdened  hy  the  music  of  thy  feet? 
I  cannot  know  :  I  fall  upon  my  face, 

And  pray  our  Lord  I  may  not  IOMC  *hee  there, 
In  the  great  company  of  white-robed  saints, 

Whose  awful  number  no  man  can  declare. 

'*  The  sun  shall  no  more  be  thy  light  by  day, 

Nor  shall  the  uioon  thee  light,  for  Christ  our  Lord 
Shines  on  thy  face  until  thy  bruised  heart 

Is  cured  of  sickness.     Nor  shall  flaming  sword 
Thee  keep  from  out  the  garden  of  the  Lord, 

But  by  green  pastures  and  the  running  streams 
He  leads  His  flock,  and  in  His  arms  the  lambs 

He  carries  tenderly,  until  the  gleams 

"  Of  the  Eternal  City  are  made  plain  ;  " 

><>  it  is  written.     But  the  night  moves  on 
Thro'  the  abyss.     And  my  most  passionate  heart 

Call.-*  to  the  ni^'ht.     But  from  the  darkness  none 
Answers  my  speech.     And  I  am  left  alone 

To  look  into  the  darkness  for  a  face 
Which  looks  on  God  :  to  listen  for  the  voice 

Which  joins  Hi*  Seraphs'  in  the  holy  place. 


CHARLES    STEWART, 

BUTHOR   of  a  volume  entitled   "The   Harp   of 
Strathnavcr  :    A  Lay  of   the   Scottish    Highland 
1    ill.  Ontario),  was  l><>m 

at  t),  i  11,   near  Glasgow,   in   1813. 

As  a  child  he  was  HO  delicate  that  for  more  than  three 
years  it  was  uncertain   whether  he   would    live  or  die, 
-In-   tender  care  of  u  loving  and  intelligent 
mother  the  scale  at  length  turned  in  hU  favour.     At 
the  age  of  seven  he  was  sent  to  a  country  lohool 
milrs -li-tant.      Ili-    father   Ix-ing  a  handl<>< .n. 
he   ha. I  van.    t..   ss  md  every  morning 


288  MODERN  SCOTTISH  POETS. 

before  setting  out,  and  another  when  he  returned,  so 
that  his  time  for  study  or  play  was  very  limited.  At 
the  tender  age  of  nine  years  his  school  days  were 
ended,  and  he  was  inducted  "  a  knight  of  the  shuttle." 
Having  a  taste  for  reading,  however,  he,  by  self-appli- 
cation, continued  to  improve  his  mind.  For  a  long 
time  his  daily  companions  were  "Johnson's  Diction 
ary,"  "Gobbet's  English  Grammar,"  and  a  copy  of 
"  Burns,"  keeping  them  on  the  loom  beside  him,  and 
studying  them  while  at  work.  He  had  by  this  time 
taught  himself  to  write,  and  attempted  the  composi- 
tion of  verse.  A  few  years  later  his  mother  died,  the 
father  went  to  live  with  a  daughter  by  his  first  wife, 
and  Charles  was  thrown  upon  the  world.  Being  in 
poor  health,  he  did  not  take  kindly  to  lodgings  and  a 
strange  fireside.  Regaining  his  health,  he  left  the 
loom,  never  to  return  to  it,  and  found  employment  as 
a  labourer  in  an  iron  work  at  Coatbridge.  After 
working  as  an  engine-keeper  at  a  colliery,  and  subse- 
quently as  engineer,  he,  in  1856,  emigrated  to 
Canada,  with  the  view  of  bettering  his  condition,  and 
thus  enabling  him  to  give  his  family  a  good  education. 
Nine  years  ago  he  was  chosen  librarian  of  the 
Mechanics'  Institute,  Gait,  Ontario,  Canada,  which 
office  he  at  present  holds,  occupying  his  leisure  hours 
in  literary  pursuits  and  writing  occasional  verses. 
The  leading  poem  in  his  volume  is  full  of  noble 
patriotism,  with  graphic  and  well-sustained  descrip- 
tions of  scenery  and  sketches  of  Highland  character. 
His  miscellaneous  poems  are  distinguished  by  a  love 
of  home,  friends,  and  country,  stamped  with  true 
poetic  fervour  and  the  beauty  and  power  of  simplicity. 

MY    AULD    SCOTCH    PLAID. 

I  wadna  gie  my  auld  Scotch  plaid 

For  a'  the  dainty  haps  I  see  ; 
Though  twascore  years  siuce  it  was  made 

It's  aye  the  sauae  as  new  to  me. 


CHARLES   8TBWAHT.  289 

I  wat  it  lack.-*  the  gaudy  charm 

That  HJcinkles  in  a  foppish  e'e, 
But,  O,  it  keeps  me  ti^ht  an'  warm, 

And  while  I  live  my  hap  'twill  be. 

It's  been  a  comforter  for  lang, 

To  my  auld  wife  a*  weel'*  to  me, 
It  deftly  on  her  Khouthers  hani*, 

An<i  wrappe  I  the  liairns  when  they  were  wee; 
Now  they  are  a'  to  manhood  grown, 

And  buirdly  chiel's  as  ye  may  see  ; 
0,  may  they  aye  through  life  be  known 

A  credit  to  the  plaid  and  me. 

There's  something  in  the  Scottish  plaid 

Mair  than  to  fend  frae  weet  and  cauld  ; 
Bright  memories  that  ne'er  shall  fade, 

It  Mtill  endears  to  young  an*  auld  ; 
Of  worship-consecrated  dells — 

Of  bluidy  heath  and  martyr's  urns — 
ID  mystic  eloquence  it  tells, 

And  of  a  Wallace  and  a  Burns. 

Auld  Scotia  to  her  clansmen  said, 

When  tir.st  their  ranks  »he  did  review. 
"  Let  hearts  that  beat  beneath  the  plait) 

Be  ever  generous  and  true — 
Your  backs  ne'er  turn  on  friend  or  foe — 

The  peaceful  stranger  shield  and  aid — 
Let  despot,  knave,  and  traitor  know 

The  law  that  gleams  beneath  the  plaid." 

And  wad  ilk  nation  don  the  plaid, 

And  wear  it  as  it  should  be  worn, 
Usurpers  wad  be  feckless  made, 

Bairns  a'  be  independent  born  ; 
lannmen  brave,  the  warld  o'er, 

Ilk  servile  impulse  trample  donn, 
And  homage  ceas*  frae  shore  to  shore, 

Save  to  the  Chief  wha  rules  aboon. 

O,  there's  a  treasure  in  the  plaid, 

A  tome  of  classic  hem  lore  ; 
And  'twas,  ere  court  costumes  were  made, 
The  royal  garb  young  Freedom  wore  ; 

bough  it  lack*  the  gaudy  charm 
That  sk inkles  in  a  foppixh  e'e, 
It  keep**  me  tidy,  tight,  an'  warm, 
1  while  I  five  my  hap  'twill  be. 


MODERN    SCOTTISH 


0,     HOW     HAPPY. 

O,  how  happy  is  the  chiel', 

By  his  ain  fireside, 
Wha  has  rowth  o'  milk  an'  meal 

By  his  ain  fireside  ; 
Wi'  an  ingle  burning  clear, 
And  a  wifie  he  lo'es  dear, 
Wha  aye  smiles  when  he  is  near, 

By  his  ain  fireside. 

Life  to  him  can  ne'er  seem  lang, 

By  his  ain  fireside, 
Such  domestic  sweets  amang, 

By  his  ain  fireside, 
And  mair  than  a  king  is  he, 
While  his  subjects  a'  are  free, 
Living  in  sweet  harmonie, 

By  his  ain  fireside. 

He  sees  a'  things  aye  gang  weel, 

By  his  ain  fireside, 
And  he  seeks  nae  ither  biel' 

Than  his  ain  fireside  ; 
There  his  toils  are  a'  repaid. 
While  he  kindly  ^ives  his  aid, 
For  he's  loved,  and  he's  obeyed, 

By  his  ain  fireside. 

And  when  death  does  on  him  ca', 

By  his  ain  fireside, 
With  a  summons  to  withdraw 

Frne  his  ain  fireside  ; 
He  is  soothed  in  his  distress, 
And  feels  Nature's  pangs  grow  less 
In  his  family's  fond  caress, 

By  his  ain  fireside. 

But  oh,  woes  me  for  the  chiel', 

By  his  ain  fireside, 
Wha  would  fain  hae  a'  things  leal, 

By  his  ain  fireside  ; 
Yet  frae  e'en  till  dawn  o'  morn, 
Still  must  quaff  the  cup  of  scorn, 
And  endure  a  bosom  thorn, 

By  his  ain  fireside. 

O,  a  dowie  wight  is  he, 
By  his  ain  fireside, 


CHARLES  STEWART.  291 

For  he  hears  nae  family  glee, 

By  his  ain  fireside  ; 
On  his  features,  drooping  sair, 
1 8  the  weary  path  o'  care, 
And  joy  never  ventures  there, 

By  his  ain  fireside. 

Wi'  his  cauldrife,  sullen  mate, 

By  his  ain  fireside, 
He  sits  owrie,  dull  and  blate, 

By  his  ain  fireside  ; 
Till  his  bairn i^s,  ane  an'  a', 
Wha  ne'er  kind  example  saw, 
Gie  him  cause  while-*  to  withdraw 

Frae  his  ain  fireside. 

To  some  evening  howff  he  gangs, 

Frae  his  ain  fireside, 
Where  to  triumph  o'er  the  wrangs 

O*  his  ain  fireside  ; 
He  the  maddening  dregs  doth  sop 
Of  intoxication's  cup, 
Till  death  winds  the  sorrows  up 

O'  his  ain  fireside, 

AUI.D    SCOTLAND    I8NA    DEAD. 

ild  Mither  Scotland  dead  au'  gaue  1 " 
Na,  Bir  !  I  winna  let  ymi  May't ; 
Ye  maun  be  wonderfu'  mista'en, 
Tu  think  her  heart  has  craned  to  beat. 

On  being  tauld  what  ye  had  said, 

To  ken  if  sic  tnixhap  could  he, 
I  wrapped  my  shouth-r-  in  my  plaid. 

An*  dauuer'd  o'er  the  gate  to  see. 

But  she  nae  symptom*  ha^  <>'  death  ; 

And  tlitiuk'ii  "he'*  b«"  i  -  fu'  H^ir 

1  fashed  at  times  wi  grippit  breath, 
She's  aye  been  spinnin  le*s  or  mair. 

though  she's  growing  nomewhat  auld, 
-  ha»na  tint  her  ways  o'  thrift ; 

next  toil  through  heat  an'  cauld, 
I  for  hersel'  she  aye  could  shift. 


To  keep  wi'  care  or  .. 


292  MODERN    SCOTTISH   POETS. 

That  she  may  cleed  an'  schule  her  bairns 
To  fit  them  for  some  usefu'  en'. 

Nae  thriftless,  randie  beggar,  she 

For  sympathy  and  alms  won't  whinge, 

But  work  or  fecht  until  she  dee, 
And  never  for  an  awmos  cringe. 

Sae  drap  you  coronach  of  woe  ; 

Lilt  up  wi'  glee  some  blyther  strain 
And  briskly  gar  the  numbers  flow, 

For  dear  auld  Scotland  isna  gane. 

And  that  He  lang  her  life  may  spare, 
Ilk  ane  should  wi'  the  giftie  plead, 

For,  ane  an'  a',  we'd  miss  her  sair 
For  usefu'  wark  an  doughty  deed. 

When  ony  black  mischief  appears, 
Menacing  Britain's  rights  or  laws 

Were  Scotland  dead,  I  hae  my  fears, 
Nane  e'er  like  her  wad  wield  the  tawse 

For  when  there's  need  to  skelp  a  fae, 
An1  bluid  maun  e'en  be  freely  spilt, 

Aye  foremost  in  the  deadly  fray 
Are  seen  the  bonnet  and  the  kilt. 

And  whereso'er  abroad  you  gang, 
Her  bairns  at  honour's  post  ye'll  see, 

And  hear  encored  her  ilka  sang 
That  breathes  o'  love  or  libertie. 

Then  what  could  put  it  in  your  head 
In  lamentation  loud  to  rave 

About  auld  Scotland  being  dead, 
And  buried  in  an  English  grave  ? 

Gae  doff  again  your  auld  grey  plaid, 
If  it  as  mourning  weeds  you  wear, 

And  for  your  chanter  send  the  maid, 
That  ye  may  blaw  it  loud  an'  clear. 

But  cease  your  coronach  of  woe, 
An'  lilt  a  blyther  strain  instead, 

And  gaily  let  the  numbers  flow, 
For  brave  auld  Scotland  isna  dead 


ISABELLA    A.    GRAY.  293 


ISABELLA    A.    GRAY 

MAS  boru  at  Hawthorn  Cottage,  Lillicsleaf,  St 
Boswells,  where  she  still  resides.  Her  father, 
who  owned  "  two  cottages  and  a  few  acres  of  land," 
was  a  man  of  much  intelligence.  His  mother,  it  mi^'ht 
be  noted,  and  the  mother  of  Thomas  Carlyle,  were 
neighbours  and  friends.  Before  going  to  school 
Isabella  had  "learned  her  letters"  on  old  tattered 
books  that  had  done  service  in  other  hands.  She 
made  good  progress,  and  soon  went  over  aU  the 
books  in  the  Sunday  School  and  the  Subscription 
Libraries — including  "Tales  of  a  Grandfather"  and 
the  "  History  of  the  Reformation."  As  soon  as  she 
could  afford  it,  she  bought  Cassell's  "  Popular  Edu- 
cator," and,  among  other  educational  pursuits,  she 
studied  the  German  language.  In  course  of  time  she 
published  a  very  thoughful  little  work,  entitled  "A 
Reasonable  Faith."  Miss  Gray  generally  appears  in 
print  under  the  nom-de-plume  of  "  Free  Lance,"  and 
li'T  contributions,  in  prose  and  verse,  have  appeared 
in  the  columns  of  "The  Border  Magazine,"  and  the 
Haddington,  Dumfries,  Haiwick,  and  other  newspapers. 
li-r  poems  and  songs  show  a  pure,  refined,  and 
modest  originality,  keen  reflective  powers,  tender 
sympathies,  and  a  remarkable  richness  of  fancy. 

BYES. 

Loving,  laughing,  beautiful  eyes, 
Wondering,  thoughtful,  and  wise, 

juent  eves  that  to  mine  unfold 
Treasure*  far  nobler  than  parent  gold. — 

Eager  eyeu  ever  so  bright, 

AH  they  hail  and  drink  the  lik'ht, 
Like  the  youiu-  plant  pushing  abroad 

The  root*  and  leaves 

That  toi.ull  the  sheaves 
Flung  down  at  the  feet  of  liud. 


294  MODERN   SCOTTISH    POETS. 

Dear,  dear  eyes  !  in  the  coming  years 
Only  the  noblest  be  thy  peers, 
And  only  love  shine  in  thy  tears  ; 

And  when  the  hosts  of  right  and  wrong 

Are  mustered  face  to  face,  and  strong, 
Then,  O  wise  eyes  !  the  perfect  law  read  ye, 

And  lift  the  sword  of  right 

With  willing  hands  to  fight 
For  laws  that  make  men  free, 

And  when  the  angel  comes, 
After  long  fruitful  years, 

Lay  down  the  sword  and  go 
With  him  to  higher  spheres. 

Hound  thee,  a  life  well  proven, 

In  thee,  heaven  inwoven. 


THE    BAIRNS. 


Oh,  oor  he'rts  are  heavy  an'  sair  ! 
A'  things  are  changed  for  evermair  ! 
Twae  o'  oor  bairnies  are  gane, 
An'  nicht  an'  day  we  make  oor  mane, 
Ailie  an'  me. 

Johnie  scarce  could  stagger  across  the  floor, 
When  his  twae  wee  sisters  cam', 

He  airtit  aye  for  the  open  door 
To  look  for  me,  for  he  was  his  dada's  lamb, 

An'  weel  he  likit  to  lie  on  my  breast : 

My  wee  lamb  noo  is  wi'  God  at  rest. 

We  had  oor  hands  weel  filled  wi'  wark, 
But  love  made  oor  labour  sweet, 
For  we  likit  the  patter  o'  little  feet, 
Ailie  an'  me. 

Oh,  what  plannin'  we  had  for  the  bairns  ! 
We  were  prood  o'  oor  bairns, 

Ailie  an'  me. 

Johnie's  queer  bits  o'  says,  . 
An'  his  innerly  ways 
We'll  mind  a'  oor  days, 

Ailie  an'  me. 

But  now,  when  we  think  o't,  the  angels 

Wad  surely  be  near, 
Pittin'  the  thochts  in  his  heid 

That  made  him  sae  dear  ; 


ISABELLA    A.    GRAY.  295 

For,  now  that  he's  pane, 

It  a'  seeraH  sae  clear 
That  minist  line  -|  iriu  should  like 

To  be  pettlin'  him  here. 

Pair  wee  Jeanie.  only  fifteen  months  auld, 
Had  to  waroel  for  breath 

Ae  lang  weary  nicht, 
Till  the  angel  o  death 
Took  her  an'  left  a  Hair  blank  in  oor  fauUl 
To  Ailie  an'  me. 

The  vera  next  week  the  angel  came  back 
For  Johnie,  for  Johnie,  the  licht  o'  ray  een  ! 

Oh  !  the  clnds  then  grew  starless  an'  black, 
An'  my  he'rt  could  do  nocht  but  coropleen  ! 

I'll  never  forget  his  bits  of  sensible  says, 

I  canna  forget  his  kind  bits  o'  ways, 
For  he  was  the  licht  o'  my  e'en. 

Still  it's  a  comfort  to  ken  they're  but  ta'en 

Got  o'  ae  faither's  hoose  to  another's  ; 
The  bairn*  were  iruid  an'  the  angels  are  guid, 

An'  they'll  tend  them  wi'  care  like  a  mother's. 
We've  but  ae  lamb  left  in  oor  fauld, 

An*  we  hap  her  at  nicht  wi'  the  tears  in  oor  e'en, 
To  keep  her  wee  feetie  frae  fin-lin'  the  cauld, 

For  whae  ken*  but  the  angels  about  her,  unseen, 
May  whisk  her  away 
Ere  the  break  o'  the  day 

Frae  Ailie  an*  me. 

Little  we  ken  what's  afore  us, 

An'  to  kenna  is  maybe  as  weel  ; 
Bat  the  Faither  that's  ta'en  them 
Frae  the  faither  that's  ha'en  them 

Oor  he'rts  will  comfort  an'  heal 
In  HIM  ain  guid  time  an*  way  ; 

For  His  is  a  Faither's  love  sae  leal. 

And  He  kens  a'  that  we  feel, 
ic  an' me. 

Langsyne  folk  nsed  to  say 

When  evil  spirit*  were  seen. 
If  ye  named  trie  name  o'  God 

They  wad  vanish  frae  'fore  your  e'en  : 
Sae  the  memory  o'  onr  pet  lambs  "hall  lie 

In  .Hi*  nninu  forever, 

Keepin'  away  ill  thochts,  bringin'  gude  anes  nigh, 


296  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

Till  we,  too,  cross  the  boundary  river, 
An*  meet  them  again  as  angels  bright 
On  the  green  marged  strand 
Of  oor  Fatherland, 

Ailie  an'  me. 


GOSSIP 

When  neebor  meets  neebor  they  tatter 

The  neebor  that  isna  there, 
An'  mirror  themsel's  in  every  word 

Mair  truly,  I  do  declare, 

Than  the  neebor  they  tatter  sae  sair. 

They  speak  what  their  hearts  contain, 
And  mindna  the  golden  law  ; 

They  gloat  ower  their  neebor's  fauts, 
And  blacken  every  flaw — 
They  wad  blacken  the  very  snaw. 

And  its  less  frae  hardness  o'  heart 
As  for  something  el«e  to  say, 

Still  it  dis  seem  unco  strange 
To  mak'  sic  a  rank  display 
O'  a  spirit  better  away. 

And  maybe  the  neebor  dissected 
Is  doing  the  self-same  thing — 

Tippin'  wi'  gall  an'  venom 
Every  bit  as  ruthless  a  sting. 

Truly  this  world  is  bad  eneuch, 
But  oh  !  what  a  world  it  wad  be 

Did  every  yin  hear  what's  said 
By  the  tongues  that  wag  sae  free  : 

I  wat  the  license  they  take 
They  wad  like  gey  ill  to  gie. 

I  rather  think  it  wad  be 
A  jumble  o'  wrath  an'  spite, 

Wi'  every  yin  ready  to  say 
It  was  a'  their  neebor's  wite 
That  life  was  mair  black  than  white. 

Oh  !  this  wearyfu',  wearyfu'  wrangness  : 
That  the  time  were  here  I  wtis, 

When  we'll  think  an'  speak  o'  others 
As  we'd  like  them  to  speak  o'  us  ! 

When  a'  oor  hearts  will  be  kind  and  leal, 

An'  a'  oor  tongues  us.  true  as  steel. 


DAVID    W.    PURDIE.  297 


DEAR    LITTLE    LOO. 

Dear  little  Loo.  qneer  little  Loo, 
0  she  loves  the  wild  flowers  well, 

But  the  Hweetent  flower  o'  a*  to  me 
IB  dear  little  Loo  berael'. 

My  heart  hi  fu'  o'  wistfu'  dreams 

Forecast  inn  the  coming  time  ; 
Hoping  for  a'  things  guid  an*  fair 

T«.  come  in  a  golden  prime. 

But  wise  wee  Loo,  the  blasts  are  rough 
That  blaw  ower  the  gentlest  life. 

And  a  brave,  strong  heart  is  needed 
To  warsel  through  the  strife  ; 

But  there's  a  Faither's  love  abune 

To  bield  the  tendered  buds  : 
And  the  flowers  are  watered  wi'  rain 

That  fa's  frae  heaven's  ain  cluds. 

I'll  brine,  if  prayers  can  bring  frae  heaven, 

An  angel  «ae  leal  »n  true, 
To  keep  frae  every  stain  o'  sin 

Oor  ain  auld-farraut  Loo. 


DAVID     WALTER    PURDIE, 

|pAMILIARLY  known  as  "The  Ettrick  Bard,"  was 
JJ  born  ut  Hutlurhiiry,  in  the  Vale  of  Ettrick,  in 
1860.  Having  received  his  education  at  the  parish 
school.  In-,  at  th<  of  'liir  •••!!,  was  sent  to  work  on 
a  farm.  H-  •-.,!  unif«l.  h«.w«'\t-r,  to  add  to  his  elemen- 
tary stock  <.f  knowledge,  and  by  dint  of  studious 
is  and  extensive  reading,  aided  by  a  retentive 
memory  and  a  quick  "uptake/'  he  soon  began  to 
be  known  and  respected  for  hi*  intelligent  and  practi- 


298  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

cal  views  on  public  matters  in  the  district.  Mr  Purdie 
presently  resides  at  Brockhill,  a  small  croft  situated 
close  to  the  village  of  Ettrick  Bridgend,  and  as  a  proof 
of  the  esteem  in  which  he  is  held,  it  might  be  added 
that  at  the  last  School  Board  election  in  his  native 
parish  he  was  returned  at  the  top  of  the  poll.  His 
curling  songs  appear  yearly  in  the  "Curler's  Annual," 
and  he  contributes  largely,  both  in  prose  and  verse,  to 
the  Border  newspapers.  Up  to  the  years  of  manhood 
he  had  rarely  read  a  verse  of  poetry,  and  he  had 
attained  his  majority  ere  he  had  written  a  line.  In 
1885  he  published  a  small  selection  of  his  verse,  under 
the  title  of  "Warblings  from  Ettrick  Forest,"  which 
met  with  wide  popularity.  He  is  presently  preparing 
a  larger  volume  for  publication.  Kindliness,  charity, 
and  good  humour  run  all  through  his  productions, 
and  although  he  occasionally  breaks  out  in  a  quiet 
sarcastic  vein,  his  Muse  is  generally  of  a  homely  nature, 
ever  smooth  and  musical.  A  lover  of  Nature,  too,  he 
can  note  her  beauties  with  warm  intelligence,  and  re- 
produce them  with  graphic  and  attractive  word- 
painting. 

THE    KIRN. 

The  sun  lay  dying  in  the  west 

Upon  a  couch  of  yellow  ; 
A'  Nature  smiled,  serenely  drest 

In  autumn's  robes  sae  mellow. 
The  last  cartload  now  snugly  lay 

Secure  up  in  the  barn, 
And  folk  begoud  to  tak'  their  way 

To  haud  a  rantin'  kirn, 

Cheerie  that  nicht. 

The  lasses  gaily  were  rigg'd  oot 

In  a'  the  kinds  o'  ribbons  : 
The  rainbow's  hues — an  auld  dishcloot 

Beside  such  gaudy  weapons — 
A'  smiling  like  the  month  o*  May, 

A'  modest  as  the  daisy  ; 


DAVID    W.    PURDIE.  299 

The  road  was  dad,  I'm  proud  to  say, 
Wi'  mony  a  weel-faur  d  hissy, 
An'  kind  that  nicht. 

The  lad*  a'  swathed  in  Sunday  braws, 

Their  nice  rosettes  were  sportin', 
And,  gabblin'  like  a  flock  <>'  craws, 

Were  strongly  bent  on  courtin'. 
For  in  this  weary  world  o'  strife, 

Where  daily  cares  harass  ye, 
An'  hour  at  e'en's  the  joy  o'  life 

If  wi'  a  sonsie  lassie, 

An*  lo'ed  that  nicht. 

Hung  roond  aboot  the  kitchen  wa's 

Were  corn  sheaves  au'  barley, 
An'  folk  cam  troopin*  in  in  raws, 

Some  late  an'  some  fu*  early. 
The  table  groan 'd  'neath  the  good  things, 

That  were  spread  out  in  plenty  ; 
An*  a'  sat  donn  like  queens  an'  king*, 

And  every  bit  as  cantie 

As  them  that  nicht. 

Oi'e  royal  feasts  to  learned  loons 

WT  polite,  polhhed  mai oners, 
Cemmend  me  to  the  plain  beef  roon's, 

The  kail,  an'  tattie  denners. 
Had  our  forefaithers  been  high  fed 

Wi'  rich  an'  dainty  dishes, 
Could  Robert  Bruce  sic  heroes  led, 

Or  made  sic  glorious  dashes 

Wi'  them  yon  day  ? 

Syne  to  the  granary  they  repaired 

l>end  the  nicht  in  dancin', 
Where  Fiddler  Tarn  his  elbows  squared 

Like  horses'  houghs  when  pranrin'. 
But  what  cared  they  for  musio  sweet, 

\ST  variations  dandy  ? 
If  it  in  motion  kept  the  feet, 
Twa«  Kuid  eneoch  an'  handy. 
An'  cheap  that  nicht. 

Nae  kid-gloved  hands  were  there,  I  ween, 

For  fear  ye  toiled  the  dreates, 
Nae  fashiooB  etiquette  between 

The  country  lads  and  lassen  ; 
Nae  "  MI™  "  nor  "  mem»  "  had  ye  to  aay, 

Wi'  bptreches  highly  grammar 'd  ; 


300  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

'Twas  juist  the  hamely  yea  or  nay, 
In  guid  Scotch  bluntly  stanamer'd, 
Wi'  them  that  nicht. 

THE    AULD     FIRESIDE. 

What  changes  ha'e  ta'en  place  wi'  a', 

Changes  far-reaching,  wide, 
Since  youth  upon  us  lichtly  sat, 
When  we  were  bonnie  bairnies  at 
The  auld  fireside. 

When  prayers  a'  were  duly  said 

With  what  affection,  pride, 
Sweet  mother  kissed  each  darlin'  babe, 
And  laid  us  snugly  in  oor  crib 
'Yont  the  fireside. 

She  bade  us  hae  a  fear  o'  guid, 

And  in  the  Lord  confide, 
And  we  would  never  gang  astray, 
Tho'  time  might  take  us  far  away 
From  the  fireside. 

Baith  father,  mother  noo  are  gane 

To  swell  the  unseen  tide  ; 
Life's  battles  we  have  had  to  fight, 
Smoothed  by  the  halo  of  the  light 
O'  yon  fireside. 

Tho'  we  hae  hames  noo  o'  oor  ain, 

A  dear  wife  by  oor  side, 
And  other  happiness  we've  found, 
Nae  joys  are  like  the  joys  around 
The  auld  fireside. 

OOR    YOUTHFU'    DAYS. 

Oor  youthfu'  days,  sic  happy  days, 
When  bairns  we  roved  aboot  the  braes  ; 
We  clam  the  trees  and  tore  oor  claes — 
The  tawse  but  added  to  oor  waes 
When  we  gaed  haine. 

We  guddled  in  the  burnie  clear, 
For  wat  feet  then  we  had  nae  fear, 
Oor  breek-feefc  oft  we  had  to  wring, 
Yet  durstna  tell  o'  sic  a  thing 
When  we  gaed  hame. 


DAVID   W.    PtTRDIB.  $01 

We  kenn'd  o'  nests  on  tree  an'  hag — 
\Vha  kennM  the  irai-t  had  aye  the  brag  ; 
And  when  at  booh*  we  lout  oor  a', 
Wi'  knuckler  on  we  changed  the  thraw, 
And  wan  the  game. 

Sic  glorious  days  at  nchule  we  had, 

>me  wee  lasn  we  focht  an'  bled, 
Whose  sweet  wee  face  doon  thro*  the  yearn 
At  odd  times  noo  an'  then  appears 
The  same's  iangsyne. 

And  when  oor  spells  we  couldna  say, 
And  when  oor  coonts  we  couldna  dae, 
We  got  oor  licks,  ^ot  keepit  in, 
When  lett'n  oot  we  sharp  din  rin 
Away  for  name. 

TboM  happy  days,  like  morning  mist 
That  creeps  alan^  the  mountain  breast, 
Hae  Bed  before  the  dawning  day — 
We'd  nocht  to  care  for  then  but  play 
When  we  gaed  hame. 

The  battles  noo  we  fecht  are  waur 
Than  when  at  achule  we  used  to  spar  ; 
Temptations  that  we  knew  not  then 
Assail  as  noo  ;  watch  weel,  O  men, 
And  mind  aye  hame. 

Then  let  us  pray  to  Ood  ilk  nicht 
To  guide  oor  fit«tep«  aye  aricht ; 
Oor  actions  aye  fair  honour  bricht, 
Then  joyously  we'll  wing  oor  flicbt 
To  oor  last  hame. 


NEED    I    TELL    THEE    THAT    I     LO'B    THEE? 

Need  I  tell  ye  that  I  lo'e  thee? 

Need  I  whisper  words  of  love? 
Need  I  nay  how  dear  you're  to  me  T 

Ask  yon  shining  stars  above 
That  have  witnessed  my  devotion, 

If  I  ever  falsa  could  prove. 

Time  roll*  on  with 


Marking  out  the  chanceful  yeam  : 
Summer,  golden  autumn,  dying, 


302  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

Winter,  then  the  spring  appears. 
Ever  changing,  ever  flying, 

Onward  time  unflinching  steers. 

Can  such  change  within  my  bosom 
Through  the  course  of  time  take  place? 

Can  the  daisy's  vernal  blossom 
Bloom  beneath  the  winter  ice  ? 

Sooner  shall  the  Alpine  mountain 
All  its  ruggedness  erase. 

Sooner  shall  the  sparkling  fountain 

But  a  desert  spot  appear, 
Than  I  could  forget  thee,  dearest, 

Or  the  love  to  you  I  bear. 
Within  my  heart's  most  inmost  glade 

You  reign  supremely  there. 


THOMAS     BURNS 

MAS  born  in  1848  at  Cessford,  a  farm  in  the 
parish  of  Eckford,  almost  under  the  shadow 
of  the  old  castle,  now,  as  it  was  then,  a  hoary  remnant 
of  feudal  times.  After  having  attended  the  parish 
and  other  schools,  he  and  his  mother  were  cast  upon 
the  broad  bosom  of  the  world.  At  the  early  age  of 
nine  years  he  was  hired  into  the  service  of  a  farmer  in 
the  parish  of  Ford,  Northumberland.  His  master  was 
a  good  and  kindly  gentleman,  and  our  poet  served  him 
faithfully  till  he  grew  to  man's  estate.  When  about 
fifteen  years  of  age  he  first  began  to  be  sensible  of  the 
uncultivated  state  of  his  intellectual  faculties.  This 
led  him  eventually  into  a  course  of  diligent  study. 
In  the  introduction  to  the  first  edition  of  his  volume 
of  poetry,  entitled  "Chimes  from  Nature,"  from  the 
pen  of  the  Rev.  J.  G.  Potter,  Newcastle-upon-Tyne, 
that  gentleman  says  : — "  Few  persons  can  understand 


THOMAiTBURNS.  303 

and  appreciate  the  circumstances  of  Mr  Bums'  bygone 
life  without  being  constrained  to  acknowledge  the  amaz- 
ing industry,  and  singular  self-application  which  must 
have  characterised  his  efforts  in  order  to  produce  a 
volume,  every  section  of  which  is  calculated  to  teach  a 
lesson  of  moral  purity,  practical  benevolence,  or  sin- 
cere affection.  His  love  of  Nature  is  conspicuously 
exhibited  in  every  page.  Mountain  and  meadow,  tree 
and  flower,  the  heavens  above  and  the  earth  beneath, 
sea  and  shore,  stately  man  and  winsome  woman,  inci- 
dents recorded  in  Holy  Scripture,  in  history,  and  in 
daily  life  have  all  been  laid  under  contribution  to 
furnish  him  with  themes  for  his  Muse.  .  .  .  The 
social  circle  in  which  Mr  Burns  was  born  and  bred 
rendered  his  life,  in  its  earlier  stages,  peculiarly  trying 
and  severe.  Till  twenty-seven  years  of  age,  his  life 
was  spent  in  the  hard  and  ceaseless  toils  of  husbandry 
amid  the  northern  villages  of  Northumberland.  He 
enjoyed  only  for  a  few  months  the  benefits  of  a  school 
education.  All  he  knew,  in  this  respect,  was  taught 
him  by  his  worthy  and  pious  mother,  and  the  range 
of  her  literary  culture  was  confined  within  the  boards 
of  her  Bible.  A  great  and  manifest  change  came  over 

Mr  Bums  when  about  twenty  years  of  age 

Without  teacher,  or  any  assistance   whatever,   he  ap- 
plied   hiuiM  If    tn   il,"    study    of   arithmetic,    \vri: 
grammar,  phonography,  and  composition ;  and,  whilst 
thus  engaged  in  his  searching  after  knowledge,   he 
K  luned  the  plough,  and  joined   the   police  force  of 
le.     Shortly  after  the  institution  of  our  School 
Board,  he  was  appointed  one  of  its  officers,  the  duties 
<>f  \\lii.-li  situation  he  at  present  discharges." 

Mr  Burns'  literary  labours  have  been  almost  exclu- 

iitinnl  to  contribution*  in  prose  and  verse  to 

newspapers — the  first  series  of  his  poems  and 

be<-n   published   in    l**.r>,  followed  by  an 

enhirutMl  an.i  bandaome  edition,  |uii>li*heil  in   is*7  by 


304  MODERN  SCOTTISH  POETS. 

J.  M.  Carr,  Newcastle-upon-Tyne.  His  themes  are 
ever  well-chosen,  and  cannot  fail  to  impress  the 
thoughtful  reader.  This  is  observable  in  his  more 
lengthy  reflective  poems,  which,  although  at  times 
wanting  in  rhythmical  flow,  always  express  the  finer 
feelings  of  human  nature,  and  deep  sympathy  with  the 
joys  and  sorrows  of  humanity.  In  his  poems  describ- 
ing Nature,  we  find  numerous  deftly-drawn  word- 
pictures,  while  his  songs  evince  the  true  lyrical  gift. 

THE    TEMPLE    OF    FAITH. 

This  world's  solemn  temple  unto  me, 

Filled  with  awe-pervading  majesty, 

The  sun  which  gildes  the  firmament  above, 

That  changeless  emblem  of  exhaustless  love, 

Who  measures  time,  and  over  earth  presides, 

Whose  universal  courtesy  and  pride 

Shines  gloriously,  indeed,  but  brighter  far 

Is  Faith  to  me  than  sun,  or  moon,  or  star. 

From  it  ten  thousand  streams  of  interest  flow, 

To  glad  the  face  of  Nature  here  below, 

And  flood  the  earth  with  joy,  and  love,  and  bliss; 

O  !  what  a  grand,  sublime,  conception  s  this, 

Faith's  noble  monuments  o'erwhelm  the  sight 

Of  all  who  stand  in  its  supernal  light. 

GUIDE    OUR    SOULS. 
TUNE— "  Land  ahead,  its  fruits  are  waving," 

Guide  our  souls  to  Calvary's  mountain 

Ready  waits  redemption's  Lord, 
Close  beside  the  open  fountain, 

Which  His  dying  love  procured. 

CHORUS. 

Then  transported  we  shall  be, 
By  bright  glory,  gliding  free, 

Beaming  from  the  Saviour's  face, 
O'er  the  sacred  heights  of  grace. 

Let  the  Holy  Spirit's  blessing 

Fan  the  spark  of  love  Divine, 
Till  our  souls,  new  love  possessing, 

In  Thy  farour  rise  and  shine. 


TllOMAfl    BURNS.  305 

Let  the  eye  of  Faith  immortal, 

Kindling,  view  the  joyful  train, 
Marching  up  to  Heaven  s  portal, 

Victors  over  care  and  pain. 

Radiant  in  the  dazzling  brightness, 

That  illumes  eternity  ; 
Wearing  robes  of  snowy  whiteness, 

1'iirchased  by  redemption'*  fee. 

SNOW. 

Uow  pure  is  the  snow,  the  beautiful  snow, 
Dancing  down  on  the  earth  below, 

ing  the  t«>pi  of  the  mountains  green. 
Gemming  the  valleys  with  crystal  sheen  ; 
Whirling  cheerily  through  the  air, 
Making  the  world  look  all  so  fair. 

Watch  how  it  wheels  in  its  virgin  flight, 
On  feathery  pennons  soft  and  light. 
Gently  falling  to  carpet  the  ground, 
Muffling  the  traffic's  humming  sound  ; 
Sweeping  along  so  buoyant  and  fast, 
On  the  slanting  boreal  blast. 

Shrouding  the  city  in  radiance  sweet, 
uing  the  forms  out  in  the  street, 
Hailing,  with  kisses,  the  new-horn  smile, 
Trembling  iti  pity  all  the  while ; 
Soft  ait  the  sigh  of  the  morning  beam, 
Frisking  over  the  placid  stream. 

Fanning  the  cheek  of  the  youthful  maid, 
Mantling  over  the  leafless  glade  ; 
Loading  the  boughs  of  desolate  trees, 
Iterlng  them  from  the  angry,  breeze  ; 
.  Iding  with  pearls  the  skirts  of  night, 
1  >i  rising  Nature  in  nuptial  white. 

THE  FLUSH  IS  ON  THE  MORN. 

The  flush  is  on  the  nn-rn, 

The  gleam  is  on  the  grass, 
Ami  the  bloom  is  on  the  t 

Where  the  lover  meets  his  law. 

The  blush  is  on  the  rose, 
The  bee  i*  at  the  sweet, 
T 


306  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

And  the  graceful  lily  blows 
In  the  shady,  cool  retreat. 

The  birds  are  full  of  glee, 

The  echo's  on  the  wing, 
And  the  daisy-dappl'd  lea 

With  a  thousand  anthems  ring. 

But  Beauty's  choicest  grace 
Grows  languid,  staid,  and  pale, 

When  contrasted  with  the  face 
That  I  met  in  Derwent  Vale. 

THE     MOUNTAIN    TARN. 

In  the  cleft  of  the  mountain,  wild  and  cool, 

Flashes  a  silvery,  flower-edged  pool ; 

And  the  gloom  from  the  rock-rimm'd,  tufted  crest, 

Sleeps  silently  over  its  mirrored  breast. 

Here  the  eagle  dreams  on  his  high-poised  throne, 

Or  soars  in  his  pride  to  gaze  at  the  sun, 

While  Nature  exults  in  the  furze  ami  fern, 

To  publish  her  joy  by  the  mountain  tarn. 

Here  Beauty  basks  on  the  prospect  fair, 
Caressed  and  kissed  by  the  mountain  air, 
Not  a  jar  is  heard  but  the  white  sea-mew 
Answering  the  pipe  of  the  grey  curlew ; 
Or  the  rattling  stone  which  slides  from  the  hill, 
Disturbing  the  silence  intense  and  still, 
Scaring  to  flight  the  lapwing  and  heron. 
Perched  by  the  side  of  the  mountain  tarn. 

Here,  too,  is  the  bee,  on  the  sweet  heather  bell, 

Dipping  her  fangs  in  the  juice  of  the  fell ; 

Also  the  butterfly,  active  and  bright, 

Sporting  herself  in  the  blazing  sunlight ; 

While  'neath  the  dark  peaks  of  the  mountain  shroud 

At  rei4  sleeps  the  spirit  of  solitude, 

Half  veil'd  in  his  bed  by  the  grey-backed  cairn 

That  hangs  like  a  cloud  o'er  the  mountain  tarn. 

The  trembling  rushes  that  gleamed  in  the  morn, 
And  insects  that  hummed  on  the  leaf  of  the  thorn, 
With  the  tide  which  flow'd  from  the  cold  veined  rock, 
Like  a  wild  night  dream  on  my  fancy  broke, 
For  the  sweep  of  the  summer's  orient  wing 
Inspired  the  birds  with  a  rapture  to  sing, 
And  the  sunless  caverns,  dank  and  stern, 
All  blended  their  song  round  the  mountain  tarn. 


ALEXANDER    N.    SIMPSON.  307 


ALEXANDER     NICOL    SIMPSON. 

T  is  perhaps  becau>e  "tin-  MUM-  of  Scotland  is  not 
it  cla-:cal  beauty,  nor  a  cmwncd  queen,  nor  a 
tine  lady,  but  a  simple  country  lass,  fresh,  buoyant, 
buxom,  and  bonnie,  full  of  true  affection  and  kindly 
charity  ;  a  barefooted  maiden  that  scorns  all  faNe 
pretences,  and  speaks  her  honest  mind  .  .  .  her 
laughter  as  refreshing  as  her  tears,  and  her  humour  as 
genuine  as  her  tenderness " — it  is  perhaps  because 
thi-  i.>  the  character  of  our  Scottish  Muse  that  her 
wooers  are  M>  numerous  ainoiii:  all  classes.  Kverv 
rank  and  -n,  every  town  and  village  in  8 

land,  has  hel.u-d  to  add  to  that  ever-increa>in_'  .\calth 

-    a    people.      Arbroath 

ha>  !"ii_r  been  a  distinguished  contributor  to  poetical 
literature,  ai-. I  the  latot  name  that  >he  has  added  t<> 
tin-  l"ii_'  H-*  -f  Scotland's  minor  p<»ets  is  a  \\riter  ..f 
rich  j)roiui--  indeed  -Alexander  Nicol  Simpson. 

Mr   Simp>..n   was    born   in    Arbn.ath    in    1855,   and 

i    there.      When    he    left    school    he 
fully  a  year  employed    with    his   father,  and   un  ler 
him  i   general   kn. -\\led-e  of   the  flax  ti 

II  Father,  however,  through  that  laudable  ambition 
so  common  a  tchmen,  wished  to  see 

ettcr  than    hiiiiM-l',"   and  Alexander 
apprenti'-'  ll«. \\.-ver,    ->ou»e 

expiry  of  the  thir 

appr.  ,  found  that  1. 

assistance  in  the  mana 

ness,  and  he  50!  Al- \.uider  to  abandon  lu>  ch. nice  of 
yariM    before    wigged    and    po\\.i- 

'•ription.      ||. 

>  the 


308  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

management  of  the  business  of  the  firm  of  John  Simp- 
son &  Son,  of  which  he  is  now  junior  partner. 

Mr  Simpson's  first  "  writings  "  were  done  when  he 
was  at  school.  His  strong  love  of  animals  was  his 
chief  characteristic  even  then,  and  a  never-failing 
source  of  healthful  amusement  to  himself  and  his 
kindred  spirits  is  found  in  several  manuscript  volumes 
in  which,  while  still  unburdened  with  the  knowledge 
of  the  relation  of  subject  to  predicate,  he  carefully 
wrote  down  extensive  notes  of  the  virtues  and  vices,  the 
clever  and  amusing  behaviour  of  his  innumerable  dogs, 
rabbits,  birds,  bees,  pigeons,  &c.  As  he  grew,  Mr 
Simpson's  love  for  natural  history  extended  to  the 
living  tribes  which  inhabit  earth,  air,  and  sea,  and  as 
experience  widened  he  came  also 

"To  look  with  feelings  of  fraternal  love 
Upon  the  unassuming  things  that  hold 
A  silent  station  in  this  beauteous  world." 

He  became  a  naturalist  of  the  best  description.  His 
leisure  time  was  spent  in  long  walks  in  the  country, 
where,  he  says,  "  leisure,  note-book,  pencil,  and  a  ditch- 
side  were  a  very  heaven  to  me."  All  his  experiences 
during  such  tours  in  the  country  were  committed  to 
writing,  but  it  is  only  about  three  years  since  he  first 
thought  of  publishing  anything.  His  early  articles 
were  on  "  Town  and  Country  Life,"  and  from  what  we 
have  said  of  Mr  Simpson  it  will  readily  be  understood 
that  the  town  had  to  take  second  place  : — 

"  The  toiling  crowds,  the  city's  noise,  the  dreary  desk  and  books 
I  leave  behind  for  the  fields  and  woods  and  the  music  of  the 
brooks." 

As  a  proof  of  the  esteem  in  which  he  is  publicly  held 
for  his  gifts  and  acquirements,  we  may  add  here  that  Mr 
Simpson  is  secretary  for  the  Arbroath  Museum  and  a 
vice-president  of  the  Natural  History  Association. 
He  is  also  corresponding  member  on  ornithology  for 


ALEXANDER    N.    SIMPSON.  300 

Arbroath  for  the  East  of  Scotland  I'liion  of  Naturalist-. 
For  some   time  Mr  Simpson   ha>  IM-.-U  a   .-.Mutant 
OOntributor  to  the  local  paper*,  and   his   writings  have 
also   found    a   place    in    Chambers    Journal, 
Telegraph,  and  Weekly  News.     He  is  best  known,  how- 
ever, as  the   "N.   Nihil  Naething"   of  the   Arbroath 
te    and   the   "  Edie    Ochiltree "  of  the  Arbroath 
•hi.     Our  poet  has  just   published  a  volume  of  his 
exceedingly  attractive  and  instructive   natural  history 
sketches,  under  the  title  of   •'  I'ari>h  1'atches,"  and  he 
has  also  written   and    published  a  pamphlet  on  the 
ornithology  of  Arbroath. 

It  is  scarcely  two  years  since  Mr  Simpson  first 
wrote  verses.  The  incident  which  set  him  to  this  kind 
of  composition  was  rather  a  curious  one.  Two  local 
poets  were  smiting  him  very  hard  for  maintaining 
that  poets  are  made  not  born.  The  subject  ni" 
sketch  was  getting  rather  the  worst  of  the  wordy 

o  save  himself,   In     >aid      "Well,  I  n- 
e  poetry  in  my  life,   but    I'll    take  on  to  write 

In  verses  before  to-morrow,  and  to  get  them,  as 
poeir  ay  local  paper  you  Hke  to  name." 

indignant  bards  laughed  him  to  scorn,  tin 
written,  the  Weekly  News  chosen  as  jud^-  :  ih.-y 
sent  off  on  a  Tuesday,  and  appeared   on  the   Friday 
of   that    ireek,   much   to  the  chagrin  of  his  broth,  r 

continued  to  write  poetry. 

It  was  really  no  distinctly  new  departure  for  him,  for 
many  of  h  |  natural  history  sketches  have  the  ring  of 
poeti"  !li-  poemi  m-  simjily  little  bits  of 

sweetness,   in   Nature  and    in   human   1:  i   to 

y   are   full  of  the   kindliness   which 

whole  life,  and    their  simplicity  and 
finely  ill 
and    genial    benLrnit\  iior. 

i>e  suid  of  Mi 
e — 


310  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

"...     To  whom  the  garden,  grove,  and  field 

Perpetual  lessons  of  forbearance  yield, 

Who  would  not  violate  the  grace 

The  lowliest  flower  possesses  in  its  place, 

Nor  shorten  the  sweet  life,  too  fugitive, 

Which  nothing  else  than  Infinite  Power  could  give." 


THE    OLD    HOME. 

I  am  a  waif  on  our  busy  streets,  where  people  pass  me  by, 
Where  the  crack  of  vanman's  whip  is  heard,  and  chimneys  tall 

and  high 

Emit  a  smoke  in  clouds  above  the  seat  of  busy  loom, 
And  I  long  again  for  the  bridle  path  'mid  the  heather's  purple 

bloom. 

And  I  miss  the  ploughman's  joyous  tune  out  o'er  the  kindly  lea, 
And  the  beeches'  shade  where  zephyrs  play  with  never-ceasing 

glee  ; 

I  stroll  at  night,  in  the  lamps'  dim  light,  and  idly  gaze  around, 
But  Fancy  bears  me  to  the  glades  where  Nature's  flowers  abound. 

The  claims  of  town  and  its  teaming  crowds  to  me  are  poor  and 

tanae, 
Where  the  golden  wealth  gilds  marble  walls  beside  the  halt  and 

lame  ; 

The  toiling  crowds,  the  city's  noise,  the  dreary  desk  and  books 
I  leave  behind  for  the  fields  and  woods,  and  the  music  of  the 

brooks. 

I'm  away  to  the  haunt  of  roving  bee,  in  dark  grepn  mossy  wall, 
Where  fir  trees  stand  in  columns  deep,  from  which  the  cushats 

call; 
To  my  old  loved  spot  by  the  winding  track,  where  roses  sweetly 

blow, 
To  the  low  thatched  roof  where  swallows  love  to  flutter  to  and  fro. 

I  see  the  lambkin's  fleecy  shape,  and  mark  its  mother's  care, 
And  I  hear  the  low  of  browsing  kine  beneath  a  heaven  so  fair  ; 
Again  I  scent  the  odours  sweet  from  meadows  broad  and  vast, 
And  follow  with  a  pleased  eye  the  dark  Swift  rushing  past. 

There  aged  beech  gives  ample  rest  for  the  March  bird's  rocking 

home, 
And  the  sparrows   there  .protect   their   brood   'neath   Nature's 

primal  dome  ; 

Then,  oh  !  the  music  of  the  lark,  with  its  soul  that  floats  in  song; 
The  merle's  Nature-shapen  reed,  for  its  melody  I  long. 


A  I.  i:\.\NDKR    N.    SIMPSON.  .'HI 

Then  by  the  stream  I'll  tempt  the  trout  with  dainty  painted  fly, 

Or  on  the  hillnide  *tay  at  dusk  tu  hear  the  curlew'n  cry  ; 
I'll  forget  the  worM  RIV)  its  lead  .,f  (-a  ,^  and  iu  strife. 

In  my  rustic  home,  with  the  birch*  and  flowers,  I'll  live  a  rural 
life. 

ON    MY    DOOR8TKI. 

At  my  door  I  hear  the  moaning  from  the  city  past  the  tree*, 
As  the  sound  of  human  voices  float*  upon  the  evening  breeze, 
A  mellow  sound  that  floats  and  M.-nd.i  far  o'er  the  distant  dells, 
Far  o'er  the  sombre  landscape  'mid  the  daisies  aud  bluebells. 

\V|,.  i)  I  listen  to  the  music  of  those  voices  far  away, 

When  the  still  night  drawn  around  me  and  the  shades  get  darker 

While  the  moon  rides  by  so  proud  and  hik'h  across  those  darkened 

plains, 
Then  I  dream  of  memories  past  and  gone  while  stillness  sweetly 

reigns. 

Then  I  think  of  home  —  the  old  home  —  where  true  love  was  ever 

shed 
Around  young  lives,  as  'twere  golden  beads  that  saintly  fingers 

thread, 

And  I  look  u|>«ri  the  li^ht  above,  hear  whispers  long  and  low, 
Like  a  simple  cradle  love-song  by  a  mother  long  ago. 

Do  I  hear  my  mother'*  v..ic»-  once  more  pray  for  her  dnrling  boy? 
I  can  feel  her  gentle  tin^crx  mid  my  curl*  play  ami  toy  ; 
f  mother-  worship,  junt  a  pressing  of  those  .•» 
And  a  sob  of  bitter  anguiih  f»r  the  world's  snare*  and  harms. 

•  hen  in  accents  sweet  there  come  the  words  so  clear,  so  plain, 
That  with  pleasure  thu*  I  lixten—  'Tin  a  pleasure  thus  to  gam 
A  glimpse  of   bi.yi-h  dreamland,  of  which,  to-day,    no  mortal 

tongue 
To  the  heart  can  tell  too  often  of  those  days  when  we  were 


•  hen  no  In-  i  «ee«, 

I  thu  '  *i«  trees, 

Ami   .  •'  !y  alone 

>  nood  that  are  now  forever  gone. 

IN    THE    GLOAMIN'. 

In  the  summer  gloamin', 
When  the  sun  is  low, 


312  MODERN    SCOTTISH   POETS. 

Shall  I  wander  idly, 
Musing  as  I  go — 
In  the  gloamin'. 

Down  the  river  margin, 

Where  the  shadows  fall, 
And  the  trout  are  leaping 

Near  the  ashes  tall — 
In  the  gloamin'. 

Then  the  birds  are  resting, 

Hid  from  kestrel  glance  ; 
Then  tiny  insects  whirl 

In  their  ceaseless  dance — 
In  the  gloamin'. 

Underneath  the  branches 

Nimble  swallows  fly, 
As  the  fleeting  zephyrs 

Whisper  day's  goodbye— 
In  the  gloamin'. 

Then  the  shadows  deepen  ; 

Waning  is  the  light, 
And  the  landscape's  beauty 

Fades  into  the  night— 
In  the  gloamin'. 

Thus  to  ramble  lonely 

By  the  brooklet  free, 
Dreaming — wishing  life  would 

Thus  for  ever  be — 
In  the  gloamin'. 

THE    ANGLEK'S    SONG. 

When  cloudy  day,  without  a  ray  of  sunshine,  lives  above, 

I  think  of  angling  hopes  and  joys  amid  the  scenes  I  love, 

By  reedy  bed  where  Walton's  words  still  reach  the  thinking 

heart,— 

'Tis  then  the  picture  proves  too  real,— the  angler  makes  a  start. 
Hurrah  for  the  trout 
That  lies  with  its  snout 

Under  the  rushing  flow  ; 
Hurrah  for  the  art 
With  its  mimic  dart, 
That  lays  the  monster  low. 

The  surging  mass  of  ordered  class  that  labour  in  our  mills 

I  pass  beyond,  shake  off  the  dust,  and  march  for  the  distant  hills 


ALEXANDER    X.    SIMPSON.  313 

Beyond  the  town,  where  winds  are  free,  and  the  perfumes  ever 

flow 

O'er  laden  fields  on  balmy  air, — to  the  river  side  I'll  go. 
Hurrah  for  the  trout,  &c. 

My  tackle  out,  I'll  look  about  for  rippling  cascade's  flow, 
For  there  the  finny  tribe*  stay  long  to  dine  at  will,  I  know  ; 
The  flowers  are  there  ;  the  in^rt  -.  t<><>,  display  their  silken  ooata, 
While  birds  sing  sweetly  by  the  stream  on  which  the  moor-hen 
float*. 

Hurrah  for  the  trout,  &c. 

Where  foaming  torrents  cut  their  way  deep  in  the  rocky  glen, 
And  spread  afar  out  o'er  the  glade  a  marshy,  boggy  fen, 
The  duck  will  startle  at  the  sight  of  human  form  divine, 
Where  whistling  winds  rush  wildly  past  the  mountain's  keen  de- 
fine. 

Hurrah  for  the  trout,  &c. 

At  noon  I'll  leave  the  river's  brink  and  rest  beneath  the  shade 
Of  alder  bush,  till  Hm-lm*'  power*  descend  beyond  the  glade  ; 
Then  wary  trout,  and  wimple  trout,  and  trout  that  know  a  fly 
Will  see  my  art  in  th<*ir  retreat,  'mid  rushes  towering  high. 
Hurrah  for  the  trout,  Ac. 

At  evening  from  the  window  pane,  set  deep  in  earthen  wall 
I'll  watch  the  fury'*  spirit  burnt,  and  hear  the  peewit's  call  ; 
The  thunder'h  boom,  and  the  dark-edged  clouds  that  onward 

fleeting  roll 

Will  mark  the  pent-up  energy  of  Nature's  lengthened  sen -II. 
Hurrah  for  the  trout,  Ac. 

Be  basket  light,  I  will  not  tight  with  Fortune's  fickle  frown  ; 
I  do  not  court  the  scale's  report  nor  crave  old  Walton's  crown  ; 
The  stream  is  mine,  the  birds  and  flowers,  the  aun-hine  and  the 

rain 

All  carve  me  out,  when  fishing  trout,  a  man  unknown  to  fame. 
Hurrah  for  the  trout,  &c. 


314  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 


THOMAS     WHITEHEAD 

son  °^  George  Whitehead,  teacher  of  modern 
languages  in  Perth  Academy,  and  was  born 
in  Perth  in  1818.  His  mother's  name  was  Margaret 
Ritchie,  who  is  described  as  a  fine  specimen  of  the  old 
Scottish  gentlewoman.  His  father  was  an  English- 
man, and  a  very  successful  teacher.  Young  White- 
head,  after  finishing  his  education,  was  apprenticed  to 
a  solicitor  in  Perth,  and  he  eventually  set  up  business 
for  himself  as  a  commission  agent.  He  was  a  man  of 
exceptional  ability,  with  strong  tendencies  towards 
sporting  and  artistic  pursuits,  which  made  his  society 
much  courted  by  people  of  wealth  and  distinction.  He 
excelled  particularly  in  etching  on  copper,  a  pastime 
to  which  he  devoted  a  great  deal  of  attention.  In 
1876  his  chief  literary  effort,  "Ardenmohr  Among  the 
Hills  :  A  Record  of  Scenery  and  Sports  in  the  High- 
lands of  Scotland,  by  '  Samuel  Abbot,' "  was  published 
by  Chapman  &  Hall,  London,  illustrated  by  several  of 
his  splendid  etchings.  It  is  written  in  a  very  attrac- 
tive, chatty  style,  and  interspersed  with  some  of  his 
poetical  effusions.  In  1864  a  poem  in  the  Scottish 
language,  entitled  "  The  Bard's  Ghost,"  Ab  Inferu, 
with  two  etchings  by  the  author,  was  published  by 
Thomas  Richardson,  Perth,  and  had  a  large  local  sale. 
It  is  a  very  clever,  sarcastic  production.  Some  time 
after  this  his  mental  faculties  became  obscured,  and 
it  was  found  necessary  to  place  him  in  Murray's  Royal 
Asylum,  Perth,  where  he  died  in  1880  of  disorganism 
of  the  brain.  We  give  a  few  verses  from  "The 
Bard's  Ghost " — "  a  wraith's  opinions  in  plain  Scotch 
Verse : "— 

"  How  grand  the  progress  since  the  day 
I  toiled  and  sang  my  namely  lay  ; 
Then,  trade  and  thought  in  mony  a  way 


THOMAS   WHITEHKAD.  315 

Was  salr  repressed ; 
Now,  ilk*  man  may  work  and  pray 

A*    «flMlirtl.     U'-t. 


"  See  all  around  the  k'iant  stride 

Of  science,  art,  and  a*  beside, 

That  prove  a  country's  pith  and  pride, 

And  freedom's  blewin', 
Strength,  trade,  and  wealth  on  every  tide, 

Yet  aye  progreasin'. 

.in  hones  flee  wi*  restless  folks  ; 
Lightnin'  brings  news  thro'  seas  or  rockn, 
Ye  speir  a  question  in  a  box — 

It'*  hardly  canny, 
Straight  comes  afar  the  price  <>'  stocks, 

Or  word  frae  granny. 

"  And  sure  to  see  (is  worth  a  groat,) 
Poor  crofts,  used  scarcely  feed  a  goat, 
Improved,  now  gie  a  crop  o*  note 

An>l  Huliii  rent ; 
Scores  o'  braw  farms  I  might  quote, 

Ance  whins  and  bent. 


"  Kind  deeds  throughout  the  land  are  spread, 
The  auM  and  .-ickly  housed  and  fed, 
Bairns  an>l  trrin'  women  led 

Krae  devil's  den, 

truch  in',  l-ourd,  and  lied, 

lake  honeitt  men. 

"  Ay,  while**  in  that  Home  rink  IH  hraveil. 

<et  <>nt  if  «louce  behaved  ; 
Bat  aft  ill-fiiviiureil  HIK!  juil  Hha«e<l, 

Fail  gettin'  wark, 
(iarotte,  im-l  tak*  what's  vainly  craved 

•  folk  at  dark. 


may  leal  Scotland  aye  command. 
At  hame,  on  sea,  in  foreign  land, 
Thi«  weel-won  fame  o'  bead  an1  hand, 

11. k  an- 1  (in, 

Lang,  lang,  my  dear  auld  country,  stand 
Loyal  and  true." 


316  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 


THE     WINDS. 

Be  thankful  when  the  north  wind  blows 
For  sheltered  peace  in  hut  or  hall, 
Let  thought  of  many  lacking  all 

Thy  heart  dispose 
To  seek  the  sad  with  grief  untold, 
And  help  the  helpless  and  the  old 

When  north  wind  blows. 

Be  patient  when  the  east  wind  blows 
With  chilling  blasts  through  lagging  spring, 
It  but  delays  the  swallows'  wing 

Or  budding  rose  ; 

Slight  are  the  ills  that  do  not  last, 
While  summer's  bloom  yet  cometh  fast 

When  east  wind  blows. 

Be  joyous  when  the  west  wind  blows 
With  balmy  breath  o'er  field  and  flower  ; 
Work  cheerfully,  or,  in  the  bower 

Thy  loved  one  knows, 
Kiss  thy  sweet  maid  ;  but  be  ye  wise, 
Fix  the  glad  day,  time  quickly  flies 

When  west  wind  blows. 

Be  thankful  when  the  south  wind  blows 

On  ruddy  fruit  and  ripened  field, 

When  earth  and  sea  their  treasures  yield  ; 

Their  giver  knows 
If  ye  be  worthy  of  possessing 
With  common  gifts  still  deeper  blessing 

When  south  wind  blows. 

Be  frank  and  true  whiche'er  wind  blows^ 
Share  joy  and  grief  one  with  another, 
See  in  each  suffering  soul  a  brother, 

And  smooth  his  woes  ; 
The  kindly  heart  is  doubly  blest, 
Thy  God  is  love,  so  take  thy  rest 

Whate'er  wind  blows. 


AUTUMN. 

The  heather  bloom  is  come  and  past, 

The  tender  wild  flowers  faded, 
And  withered  leaves  are  falling  fast 


On  mossy  banks  they  shaded, 

While  earth  looks  sad  and 


weary. 


THOMAS    WII1TBHKAD. 

The  misty  mountains  dim  and  grey. 

The  flooded  stream*  yet  filling, 
Cool  starry  night  and  shortened  day. 

The  robin's  plaintive  trilling — 

All  presage  winter  dreary. 

ARISTOCRATIC    DESCENT, 
Not  from  Adam,  at  propounded  by  the  Modern  Sage. 

Who,  by  geology  surmising 
How  much  man's  wisdom  needs  revising, 
Dethrones  at  once  his  love  and  pride 
With  fossil  bones,  and  what  beside, 
By  grubbing  far  in  womb  of  time 
When  monster  lizards  lived  in  slime — 
With  mud  Silurian  quickly  poses 
Those  who  believe  the  Books  of  Moses  ; 
Then,  by  development  of  races, 
From  newts  a  Newton  quickly  traces  ; 
Proves  Eden's  garden  all  a  myth, 
Unfit  for,  and  not  suited  with 
Amphibious  parents,  who  were  nursed 
In  mud,  as  other  things  at  first — 
And  clearly,  therefore,  like  the  rest, 
Were  toads  or  tadpoles  at  the  beat 

But  after  a  few  million  agea 

••ny,  by  lengthened  stages, 
.1  limbs  and  wit*  more  nearly  human, 
Articulation  and  acumen, 
Progressed  (as  shown  by  retrospection, 
Aii'l  I  >  .ruin     proceas  of  selection)— 
titti),  but,  bear,  and  chimpanzee, 
la,  bush-man,  you  and  me  : 
'I  lu-ri  ttii-  urand  progress  drops  the  veil 
Just  when  our  ^'rand-tire*  drop  their  tail. 
thit  my  faith,  sweet  sages?     No.  in.  ; 
Think  I'm  an  ape  ?    Why,  aa  bonof 


318  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 


THOMAS     MILLAR 

*fp%AILS  from  Coatbridge,  a  busy  town,  enshrouded 
•!•/  in  smoke  and  steam,  and  sacred  to  the  Muse 
as  the  dwelling-place,  for  many  years,  of  Janet  Hamil- 
ton. He  is  the  son  of  the  passenger  guard  on  the 
Slamannan  Branch  of  the  North  British  Railway, 
popularly  known  as  "  Davie  the  Gaird."  Thomas  was 
born  at  Dunfermline  in  1865.  Being  the  eldest  of  a 
family  of  eight,  his  parents  were  able  to  learn  him  to 
read  and  write  before  he  was  old  enough  to  go  to 
school.  When  five  years  of  age  he  "got  on  his  first 
breeks,"  and  began  his  educational  career  "  in  the 
sixpenny."  Three  years  later  the  family  removed  to 
Coatbridge,  where  the  subject  of  our  sketch  is  pre- 
sently in  business  on  his  own  account  as  an  upholsterer. 
Mr  Miller  began  first  to  express  his  thoughts  in  verse 
at  the  early  age  of  eleven,  and  has  been  doing  so'at 
intervals  ever  since.  Many  of  his  poems  have  ap- 
peared in  the  Airdrie  Advertiser,  the  Coatbridge  Ex- 
press, and  other  newspapers.  In  1887  he  published  a 
selection  of  his  prose  and  poetry,  under  the  title  of 
"Readings  and  Rhymes  from  a  Reeky  Region"  (Coat- 
bridge  :  William  Craig).  These  readings  are  full  of 
genuine  humour  and  pithy  common-sense,  and  have 
been  warmly  received  on  the  platform  and  at  the  fire- 
side. His  Muse,  too,  is  happy  and  melodious,  and  he 
frequently  expresses  himself  with  perspicuity  and 
warmth,  and  shows  a  love  for,  and  a  quick  percep- 
tion of,  what  is  mentally  and  morally  beautiful  in 
human  nature. 

WEE    ARCHIE. 

'Twas  hard  to  pairt  wi'  Archie,  he  was  sic  a  tnkin'  wean, 
An'  aye  a  little  steeraboot  sin'  he  could  rin  his  lane  ; 
A  soopler  laddie  for  his  age  I'm  sure  ye  never  saw  — 
He's  run  the  race,  an'  noo  he's  in  the  laun'  that's  far  awa. 


THOMAH    MILLAR.  319 

Twas  nice  to  see  him  loop  aboot  wi'  Princie  in  the  yaird, 
Mony  an  awfu'  fa*  he  got,  but  very  seldom  cared  ; 
When  playin*  'mang  the  bairniex  he  wan  foremost  o'  them  a' — 
The  Frien'  u'  bairns  has  ta'en  him  to  the  laun'  that's  far  awa. 

An'  then  to  hear  him  whutlin',  I'm  sure  'twas  worth  your  while, 
For  tho'  sae  young  he  did  it  in  the  rale  auld-fahhioned  style  ; 
At  ither  times  he'd  roar  an*  sin^  as  loud  as  ony  twa — 
He  sings  a  sweeter  anthem  in  the  laun'  that's  far  awa. 

Aft  times  I've  said,  "  Noo,  laddie,  dinna  deeve  me  wi'  yer  din  ;  " 
Hut  little  little  did  I  think  we'd  hae  to  paint  sae  sune ; 
Noo  I'd  he  prood  to  hear  him  "ing  or  otiything  ava, 
An'  I  will  gang  an'  meet  him  in  the  laun'  that's  far  awa. 

I  maist  could  think  I  see  him  gaun  to  school  on  Sabbath  day, 
Sae  proud  aboot  hi*  ticket,  an'  the  lessons  he'd  to  say  ; 
When  dressed  up  in  Ms  Sunday  suit  he  look  it  aye  sae  braw — 
He  wears  a  grander  garment  in  the  laun'  that's  far  awa. 

0  may  w<*  in  life's  battlefield  b«  ever  leal  and  true, 
Inspired  by  hopes  o'  meeting  yet  the  bairnie  that  we  loV, 
Aii'l  when  life's  ntormsare  endit  and  the  win'  has  ceased  to  blaw 
We'll  gang  an*  bide  wi'  Archie  in  the  laun'  that's  far  awa. 


HOME. 

What  place  on  earth,  what  mansion  fair, 
Can  I  at  all  with  home  compare? 

.ilaee  of  a  king  or  lord 
Could  be  to  me  so  dear, 

s  nouulit  could  me  the  joy  afford, 
Or  give  the  heart  such  cheer. 

When  done  with  daily  toil  and  care, 
The  workman  homeward  doth  repair, 
Yes,  humble  tho'  that  c»t  may  be 
In  which  hit  lot  to  live, 

here  rest  and  liberty, 
No  other  place  can  give. 

The  soldier  on  the  battle  plain, 
Where  bulloU  round  him  fall  like  rain, 
Hi-  obtofol  th.mght  amid  the  strife 

ft  of  home  so  sweet, 
Hi-  children  dear  and  loving  wifi>, 
\M...m  IK-  d..th  lung  tu  greet. 


320  MODERN  SCOTTISH  POETS. 

Far  out  upon  the  ocean  dark, 
The  sailor  in  yon  lonely  barque, 

Which  rises  with  the  waves  and  sinks 

Amid  the  dashing  foam, 
Tho'  far  from  land,  and  friends,  now  thinks 
Of  that  loved  spot,  his  home. 

It  matters  not  where  man  may  roam, 
There  lives  in  him  a  love  of  home, 
The  prodigal  may  well  conceal, 

But  it  will  never  die  ; 
Like  as  the  magnet  draws  the  steel, 
Man's  heart  to  home  doth  fly. 

The  Christian's  thoughts  doth  heavenward  rise, 
Unto  a  home  beyond  the  skies, 
It  cheers  his  soul  'mid  earth's  turmoil, 

When  troubles  many  come, 
And  death  he  welcomes  with  a  smile, 

Because  it  calls  him  home, 
O  best  of  blessings  God  has  given — 
A  home  on  earth,  a  home  in  heaven. 


JEANIE    THE    PRIDE    0'    LANG  LOAN, 

Wee  Willie,  the  wricht,  was  a  rale  dacent  chiel', 

Wi'  feelin's  akin  to  oor  ain, 
The  company  o'  laddies  he  likit  fu'  weel, 

But  lads  canna  aye  be  their  lane. 
The  tea  maun  be  sugared,  the  kail  maun  hae  saut, 

An'  butter  is  best  on  the  scone, 
Sae  gallant  Wee  Will  socht  to  hing  up  his  hat 

Wi'  Jeanie  the  Pride  o'  Langloan. 

CHORUS. 

An'  Jeanie  in  scorn  cuist  her  heid  in  the  air, 

She  slichtit  him  aften  an*  sair, 
Wi'  a  "gang  to  the  schule  till  yer  bigger,  ye  fule," 

But  Willie  aye  lo'ed  her  the  mair. 

He  raved  i'  the  nicht,  and  he  dreamed  thro'  the  day, 

Till  the  hammer  cam'  doon  on  his  thoom, 
His  he'rt  it  was  fu'  baith  vvi*  true  love  an'  wae, 

And  his  stamach  was  aften  gey  toorn. 
He  threatened  to  jump  in  the  Monklau'  Canal, 

Since  Jeanie  wad  change  na'  her  tone, 
Said  he  "  even  then  love  could  ne'er  turn  caul'  " 

For  Jeanie  the  Pride  o'  Langloan. 


THOMAS   MILLAR.  321 

Noo  Jean's  sister  Jemie,  mair  cleanly  than  braw, 

A  docile  bit  lassie  an*  douce, 
She  pitied  puir  Willie,  whase  virtues  she  saw, 

An*  bade  him  come  doon  to  the  boose. 
An*  sune  be  gi'ed  up  his  auld  love  for  a  new, 

Whase  feefin's  to  his  did  respon', 
Gat  love  for  his  love,  an'  a  he'rt  that  was  true, 

No  Jeanie  the  Pride  o'  Langloan. 

SECOND  CHORUS. 
An*  Jean,  wha  in  scorn  cui*t  her  heid  in  the  air, 

An'  slichtit  him  aften  an*  Hair, 
Wi'  a  "  gang  to  the  schule  till  yer  bigger,  ye  f  ule,'* 

Prood  lassie,  she  did  it  nae  mair. 

An'  strange  'tis  to  tell,  Jessie  ne'er  could  agree 

Wi'  Jeanie  her  sister  again, 
Wha  noo  saw  in  Will  what  she  yince  failed  to  see, 

But  likin'  him  noo  was  in  vain. 
Sune  Willie  took  Jessie  for  guid  or  for  ill, 

AD'  Jean  "  on  the  parish     was  thrown, 
She  treated  them  a'  as  she  treated  Wee  Will, 

An'  dee'd  an  auld  maid  iu  Langloan. 

FREEMASON'S    SONG. 

Long  may  oor  noble  freemen  wi'  prosperity  b*  bleated, 
Combined  by  square  an'  compass,  an'  the  Book  that  we  have 

kissed. 

The  shade  o'  Burns  abnne  us  for  a  hundred  years  has  stood, 
We're  a*  a  happy  faintly  liuked  in  glorious  brotherhood. 

Whaure'er  upon  this  great  wide  earth  it  be  oor  lot  to  steer, 
A  hoet  o'  frien's  encircle  UK,  oor  loneliness  to  diet  r. 
The  monarch  in  the  mansion,  an'  the  peasant  in  the  wood, 
A  grand  united  faimly  linked  in  ^l-.ri.nm  brotherhood. 
Long  may  oor  noble,  Ac. 

We  see  a  brither  up  the  hill,  we  share  hi*  honent  pride  ; 
We  see  anither  striving  hard  hit  poverty  to  !. 
We  dae  oor  best  to  male'  him  riclit,  nor  tell  the  act  alood, 
We're  a*  a  happy  faimly  linked  in  glorious  brother). 
Long  may  oor  noble,  Ac. 

LIZZIE. 

A  gloom  seems  to  rest  on  our  once  happy  hearth. 
.•rw>w  an'  sadness  has  ban  tilted  oor  mirth, 
C 


322  MODERN    SCOTTISH 'POETS. 

Dread  sickness  stole  in,  bringin'  death  in  its  train, 
An'  noo  a  sweet  flooer  frae  oor  hoosehold  is  gane, 
But  earth  only  loses  what  Heaven  secures — 
Ower  tender  a  plant  for  this  rough  world  o'  oors. 

The  first  laid  her  low,  an'  the  last  eased  her  pain, 
An'  may  be  'twas  better  that  she  should  be  ta'en, 
But  oh  !  its  the  loss  mak's  her  inem'ry  sae  dear, 
We  canna  help  seekin'  relief  in  a  tear. 
She  blossoms  abune  'mangst  the  fairest  o'  flooers — 
Ower  tender  a  plant  for  this  rough  world  o'  oors. 

She  winna  come  back  ;  oh  !  hoo  sair  to  believe 
Its  hard  to  be  happy  an'  human  to  grieve. 
Return  here  she  canna,  but  we  can  gang  there, 
Hope,  blessed  hope,  sweetest  comfort,  to  share  ; 
Till  then  she  is  safe  frae  life's  tempests  an'  shooers — 
Ower  tender  a  plant  for  this  rough  world  o'  oors. 


JOHN     MACTAGGART, 

HUTHOR  of  "The  Gallovidian  Encyclopedia" 
(London,  1824),  was  born  in  the  parish  of 
Borgue,  Kirkcudbrightshire,  in  1800.  The  title-page 
of  his  famous  work  reads  thus — "  The  Scottish  Gallo- 
vidia,  or  the  original,  antiquated,  and  natural  curiosi- 
ties of  the  South  of  Scotland,  containing  sketches  of 
eccentric  characters  and  curious  places,  with  explana- 
tions of  singular  words,  terms,  and  phrases,  interspersed 
with  poems,  tales,  anecdotes,  &c.,  and  various  other 
strange  matters ;  the  whole  illustrative  of  the  ways  of 
the  peasantry  and  manners  of  Caledonia,  drawn  out 
and  alphabetically  arranged,  by  John  Mactaggart." 
Never  was  such  a  medley  published  by  any  author. 
To  avoid  prosecution  for  the  personal  nature  of  one  of 
the  sketches,  the  work  was  suppressed,  and  conse- 
quently it  became  scarce.  A  limited  reprint  was 


JOHN  HACTAOOART. 

issued  in  1876  by  Mr  Paterson,  Edinburgh,  which 
soon  after  hx'iug  published  brought  from  £1  to  £3  a 
copy.  It  is  said  that  Mactaggart's  father  first  became 
aware  of  the  existence  of  the  volume  through  seeing  it 
in  a  bookseller's  shop  in  Kirkcudbright,  and  when  he 
reached  home  he  thus  accosted  his  sou — "John,  yer 
ain  family  kent  ye  were  a  fule,  but  noo  the  hale  warld 
'ill  ken." 

John,  however,  was  no  fool,  as  his  after  career 
showed.  In  the  work  referred  to  he  thus  alludes  to 
his  early  history : — "  My  father  is  a  farmer,  and 
throughout  my  pilgrimage  on  earth,  from  the  cradle 
till  this  moment,  I  have  never  met  with  any  whom  I 
considered  had  so  much  native  strength  of  intellect. 
Let  no  man  say  of  me  that  I  am  a  creature  of  ability, 
for  such  would  be  wrong ;  but  that  my  worthy  parent 
is,  and  to  a  great  degree,  is  right ;  his  father  was  also 
a  farmer,  and  my  grandfather's  grandfather  got  his 
head  cloven  at  the  brack  o'  Dun  bar  fighting  in  the 
Highland  army  against  Oliver  Cromwell.  My  father 
rented  the  farm  of  Plunton  from  Murray  of  Broughton, 
and  this  being  at  the  outskirt  of  the  parish  my  lot 
was  cast  three  miles  from  the  parish  school.  A  half- 
grown  boy  was  therefore  brought  into  the  house  to 
teach  my  sisters  and  me  the  A,  B,  C,  for  I  had  then 
two  sisters  older  than  myself,  though  I  was  the  oldest 
of  the  boys.  This  boy  taught  and  lashed  us  occasion- 
ally. I  mind  of  being  happy  when  the  harrowing 
came  on,  as  my  father  required  him  to  harrow  the 
ploughed  land  in  the  sowing  season,  and  not  us.  A 
neighbouring  farmer  became  partner  with  my  fat  IP  , 
in  this  dominie,  so  one  part  of  the  year  my  sisters  and 
me  went  to  the  farmer's  house,  and  were  taught  ft] 
with  his  family,  and  they  came  to  us  in  return.  While 
at  this  work  coming  home  one  night  I  tumbled  into  a 
peat  hole,  and  should  have  been  drowned  had  not  my 
sisters  been  with  me;  they  haurl'd  me  out,  and  so  K. 


324  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

a  valuable  life  from  perishing  in  glaur.  At  length  my 
sisters  were  thought  strong  enough  to  go  to  Borgue 
Academy ;  the  teaching  boy  was  set  adrift,  and  I  being 
only  six  years  of  age  was  allowed  to  remain  happy  at 
home,  as  not  thought  capable  to  accompany  them. 
After  a  time,"  he  continues,  "  I  was  thought  fit  to  go 
with  my  sisters  to  school,  and  then  again  began  my 
woes.  Nothing  could  I  learn.  I  was  looked  upon  as 
a  careless  boy,  spoiled  heuchs  for  gull  eggs,  and 
trees  for  young  craws,  went  a-fishing  frequently,  at- 
tended all  raffles  and  fairs."  He  was  afterwards  sent 
to  Kirkcudbright  Academy,  and  walked  four  miles 
going  and  coming  each  way.  He  learned  Latin  and 
French  in  a  short  time,  and  obtained  the  head  prize 
for  mathematics.  When  thirteen  years  of  age  he  took 
a  dislike  to  the  school,  and  went  to  work  on  the  farm, 
at  which  employment  he  continued  until  he  was 
twenty-one  years  of  age,  with  the  exception  of  inter- 
vals, during  which  he  attended  two  winter  sessions  at 
Edinburgh  University. 

From  "  Sketches  of  Galloway  Worthies,"  by  Dr 
Alex.  Trotter,  we  learn  that  soon  after  the  publication 
of  the  "Encyclopedia"  John  Mactaggart  removed  to 
London.  He  had  become  familiar  with  the  business 
of  a  millwright,  and  even  before  setting  out  for  that 
city -had  in  some  degree  learned  engineering,  which 
profession  he  eventually  chose  as  a  means  of  liveli- 
hood. He  was  befriended  by  Allan  Cunningham  and 
John  Mayne  (author  of  the  "  Siller  Gun  "),  then  resi- 
dent in  London,  and  under  their  patronage  engaged 
in  a  literary  speculation,  which,  however,  was  unsuc- 
cessful. He  also  became  a  frequent  contributor  to 
the  magazines  and  journals  of  the  period.  In 
London  he  became  acquainted  with  the  celebrated 
engineer,  Mr  Rennie,  and  through  him  received 
the  Government  appointment  of  Clerk  of  Works  and 
resident  engineer  to  the  Kideau  Canal  in  Upper 


JOHN    MACTAGOART.  325 

Canada,  then  about  to  be  commenced,  and  proposed  to 
extend  between  the  Ottawa  River  and  Lake  Ontario, 
a  distance  of  160  miles  through  an  uncleared  wilder- 
ness. On  his  arrival  in  Canada  his  first  work  was  to 
survey  the  proposed  route,  and  offer  suggestions  as  to 
the  best  method  of  proceeding.  In  this  work  his 
engineering  abilities  came  into  play,  and  it  is  con- 
sidered .that  in  an  undertaking  calculated  to  cost 
about  £500,000  a  fifth  part  of  that  sum  was  saved  by 
his  skill  and  exertions. 

When  in  Canada  Mactaggart  was  a  frequent  writer 
to  the  provincial  newspapers,  and  was  a  member  of 
various  learned  societies.  One  of  his  personal  friends 
was  John  Gait,  author  of  "  The  Provost,"  "  Annals  of 
the  Parish,"  "The  Entail,  or  Lairds  of  Gruppy,"  and 
other  works  celebrated  for  their  pawky  Scotch  humour. 
In  the  summer  of  1828  Mactaggart  wan  seized  with  a 
dangerous  fever,  and  although  he  passed  through  the 
crisi>  in  if<  ty,  his  constitution  was  so  much  shattered 
that  it  \v;t>  thought  advisable  he  should  return  to  his 
native  country  to  recruit.  On  his  arrival  in  Britain 
he  prepared  for  publication  a  work  in  two 
volumes,  small  octavo,  entitled  "Three  Years  in 
Canada — an  account  of  the  actual  state  of  the  country 
in  1826-7-8,  comprehending  its  resources,  productions, 
improvements,  and  capabilities,  ami  including  sketches 
of  the  state  of  society,  advice  to  emigrant*,  <kc."  The 
work,  which  is  mainly  a  descriptive  one,  is  interspered 
with  aneoldtes  and  accounts  of  queer  characters  he 
with  in  ('ana. la.  M  '  did  not  live  to 

enjoy  the    fame  he  hail    merited.     In    the  number  of 
*  Weekly    Visitor  for   15th   .January,    1830  (only  a 
r  the  pubiiuati..n  of  the  \\«.rio,  «Tcur»  the 

following  obituarj    notice :     "hir-l  at   T.-IT-.  of  Kirk- 

cudhrL'h'    »n  tiie  7th  iiiM.mt.   \l  i 

its  of    his    lucubration  1608  d 

good-humoured  sarcasm,  aimed  at  various  minor  poeU 


326  MODERN    SCOTTISH   POETS. 

and  prose-writers,  who  at  the  time  abounded  in  the 
Stewartry.     It  is  entitled 

AN    EXCELLENT    NEW    SONG. 
CHOBUS. 

The  kintra's  fu'  o'  rhyming  cuifs, 

There's  scarce  a  mailen  free  o'  them  ; 

Tie  their  blethers  to  their  tails, 
An'  o'er  the  Brig  o'  Dee  wi'  them. 

Frae  Cadgerbole  to  Bogle  Buss, 

An'  roun'  by  Ballantrae  wi'  them, 
Swoop  the  loons  frae  shore  to  shore — 
Auld  Hornie  swith  away  wi'  them. 
Up  the  Nith,  and  down  the  Ken, 

An'  cross  the  Moss  o'  Cree  wi'  them  ; 
Tie  their  blethers  to  their  tails, 
An'  o'er  the  Brig  o'  Dee  wi'  them. 

Through  a'  the  glens  o'  Gallowa'— 
I  wat  there  arena  few  o'  them — 
Scores  o'  bards  in  ilka  parish, 
Town  an1  clachan's  fu'  o'  them. 

The  pillars  o'  the  kirk  themsel's, 

Gude  faith  they  arena  free  frae  them  ; 
Tie  their  blethers  to  their  tails, 
An'  o'er  the  Brig  o'  Dee  wi'  them. 

When  plewman  Tarn  meets  sewster  Bess 

His  dogg'rel  rhymes  he'll  chime  till  her  ; 
An'  midden  Meg  maun  smile  on  Rab 
Because  he  blethers  rhyme  till  her. 
Chaumermaids  will  chatter  Terse 

When  flunkies  tak'  their  tea  wi'  them  ; 
Tie  their  "  besoms  "  to  their  tails, 
An'  o'er  the  Brig  o'  Dee  wi'  them. 

At  kirns  an'  waddin's  kintra  chiel's, 
Wi'  a'  their  Sunday  gear  on  them, 
Gamping  o'er  their  nainby  pambles, 
Hottentots  wad  sneer  on  them. 

Calves  as  weel  might  rout  in  rhyme, 

I  downa  let  them  be  wi'  them  ; 
Tie  their  blethers  to  their  tails, 
An'  o'er  the  Brig  o'  Dee  wi'  them. 


JOHN    MACTAGGART.  327 

Yill  house  drabs  an'  clachan  dandie«— 

Sober  men  wad  grue  at  them— 
Sp.. ut ing  plays  an'  mincing  vemes, 
( oiumon  sense  wad  spue  at  them. 
On  market  nights  we  canna  hae 

Our  crack  in  social  glee  wi'  them  ; 
Tie  their  blethers  to  their  Uila, 
An'  o'er  the  Brig  o'  DM  wi'  them. 


MY    AULD    ARM-CHAIR. 

Sae  there  ye  sit,  my  worthy,  snug, 
In  nuik  aside  the  cnimla-lug, 

Whar  there  is  nae  frost  air  ; 
'Bout  sofas  let  the  gentles  craik, 
Of  velvet  cushions  raise  a  fraik. 
They  canna  match  the  black  mom-aik, 

My  muckle  auld  arm-chair. 

Nae  worm  nor  clock  can  break  thy  skin, 
To  hand  a  ticking  din  within, 

And  crump  and  hole  thee  sair  ; 
Thy  airny  joint*  what  time  can  fade, 
That  wricht  kend  surely  weel  his  trade. 
Whan  thee  sae  strongly  a'  he  made, 

My  darling  auld  arm-chair. 

Faith,  aiblins  true  is  that  remark. 
That  thou  wert  ance  in  Noah's  Ark, 
Some  plank  or  timmer  there. 


And  through  the  wunter  lang  forenighU, 
Mine  Giitchers  auld  done*  farming  wight*. 

O'  clatters  warna  spare  ; 
They'd  crack  'bout  thing-  o'  ither  year*. 
Or  tak  a  turn  at  wads  and  wears, 
Whilk  ay  the  heart  sae  blithly  cheers, 

My  noble  auld  arm-chair, 

And  ftften  too,  wi1  •erioiu  luik. 
They  sat  in  thee  and  cut*  the  buik, 

Then  read  and  gaed  a  prayer  ; 
While  a'  ni. .mi'  wi'  a'e  accord. 
Wad  li»t*Mi  to  the  sacred  w 
The\  aim*  wad  prai*e  the  Lord. 

Frae  thee,  tbou  auld  arm-chair. 


328  MODERN   SCOTTISH    POETS. 

Whan  gurly  norlan'  blasts  wad  blaw, 
And  swurl  in  sneep  white  wrides  the  snaw, 

While  lochs  wi'  frost  wad  rair  ; 
And  burdies  frae  the  wuds  grew  tame, 
And  curlers  trimmled  at  their  game, 
I  wat  they'd  fin'  themsells  ahame, 

Whan  in  the  auld  arm-chair. 

O  !  how,  my  ancient  seat,  I  Inve  ye, 
Nae  plenishen  in  a'  oor  Cruevie, 

Can  wi'  thee  ava  compare  ; 
The  glorious  days  o'  Auld  Lang  Syne," 
Ye  lay  afore  the  fancy  fine, 
While  some  ane  o'  the  tunefu*  nine, 

Aye  haunts  the  auld  arm-chair. 

Whan  I  grow  auld  wi'  blinkers  hazy, 
Wi'  banes  a  shiegling  and  crazy, 

To  thee  I  will  wi'  joy  repair  ; 
Forsake  my  craigs  aside  the  shore, 
Whar  whiles  I  sit  whan  surges  roar, 
And  nature's  howfs  whilk  I  adore, 

For  thee,  my  auld  arm-chair. 


I  hope  the  warl'  will  thee  regard, 
And  never  reel  ye  unco  hard, 
But  let  some  honest  rustic  bard 
Enjoy  the  auld  arm-chair. 

Tho'  ne'er  will  your  brade  bodden  bear 
A  man  sae  excellent,  sae  dear, 

And  fu'  o'  nature's  lair, 
As  he  wha  now  possesses  thee  ; 
And  lang  may  he  possessor  be, 
I  mean  my  father,  kind  and  free, 

Now  in  the  auld  arm-chair. 

TWA    WORDS    TO    THE    SCOTCH    FOLK    IN    LON'ON. 

My  trusty  country  folks,  how's  a', 
How  chirt  ye  on  thro'  life  ava, 

In  this  tremendous  clachan. 
I  meet  ye  whiles  as  grave  as  priests, 
At  ither  times  at  social  feasts, 

Blythe,  clattering,  and  laughing. 
On  brigs  in  squares  on  mony  a  street, 

As  I  do  pass  alang, 
Your  hardy  visages  I  meet — 

Aye  meet  ye  thick  and  thraag. 


JOHN    MACTAOOART.  329 

A  wan'ring,  a  dan'ring, 

A  curiouH  tribe  are  we, 
Aye  travelling,  unravelling, 

The  hale  o'  yirth  an*  sea. 


But  let  ii8  ramble  where  we  will. 

Auld  Scotland  — we  maun  mind  her  still, 

Our  canty,  couthy  mither. 
Upon  her  heathery  mnuntainH  wild 
She  wishes  weel  to  ilka  child, 

An'  hopes  we'll  gree  wi'  ither. 
Sae  be  na*  nweer  t«>  wag  the  han', ' 

Or  yet  to  draw  the  purse  ; 

Wha  winna's  an  unfeeling  man, 

An'  weel  deserves  a  curse. 

Yet  guide  still  your  pride  still 

\\  T  independent  grace  ; 
Ne'er  whinge  no'  nor  cringe  no* 
Wi'  slave  insipid  face. 


Ye  maistly  a'  do  brawly  ken 
The  nature  o'  the  native  glen 

Whaur  humble  virtue  dwells  ; 
Sae  let  as  aye  stick  by  our  creed, 
Scorn  an  unmanly  vicious  deed, 

An*  ne'er  misken  oursel's. 
Let  flashy  blades  gae  »kyting  by, 

An'  silky  hizzie*  braw — 
Let  gilde« I  coaches,  rattling  fly, 
Move  calmly  on  for  a*. 

Nor  fret  then  to  get  then 
A  "sax-in-han*  "  to  ca' ; 
To  whang  up  and  bang  up 
Amang  the  gentry  a . 

Ye're  easy  ken'd,  ye  silly  rakes, 
Wha  do  detest  the  l»n'  <>'  cakes- 

The  Ian'  where  ye  were  born  ; 
Poor  surfjio-  souls  that  can  but  skim. 
And  SCP  %s  thrir  k-ftl-  and  chatter  prim, 

Your  bitterness  we  w 
Oae  wa'  an'  mimic  Johnnie  Bull 

Or  ony  else  ye  please. 
Your  rattling  reasons  in  y«ur  skull 
Sound  Kay  like  bla-hler  d  pea*. 

Nae  mense  there,  nae  sense  there, 

True  gonierals  ye  are  a* ; 
Sae  dash  on,  an'  fla*i 
An  try  to  rise  to  fa'. 


330  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

We  see  the  bonny  broomy  knowes, 
We  hear  the  burnie  as  it  rows. 

While  o'er  the  linn  it  splashes  ; 
Thro'  gloomy  woods  whar  Wallace  ran, 
O'er  Highland  hills  with  yelling  clan 

The  raised  fancy  flashes. 
The  sangs  we  heard  when  we  were  wee 

Can  ony  ane  forget  ? — 
We  think  we're  on  our  mither's  knee 
A  listening  them  yet. 

Half  sleeping,  half  weeping, 

Our  cradle  days  awa' ; 
"Ne'er  minding,  yet  finding — 
They're  no  forgot  ava. 

Sae  let  us  aften  ither  meet 
In  social  unison  sae  sweet 

(To  laugh  at  this  a  pity). 
Imagination  then  will  feed 
In  glorious  pastures  yont  the  Tweed, 

Far  frae  this  ineikle  city. 
The  let  us  talk  in  gude  braid  Scotch 

An'  crack  awa'  by  turns, 
Aft  gieing  to  our  glee  a  hotch 
By  singing  sangs  o'  Burns, 

Sae  moving,  sae  loving, 

Sae  glorious  every  way, 
Pathetic,  ecstatic, 
Beyond  what  I  can  say. 


GANG    AND    BE     SLAVES. 


Gang  and  be  slaves,  ye  fools,  wha  will, 
And  get  wharwith  your  kytes  to  fill, 

Frae  ither  bigger  knaves  ; 
I  envy  not  your  fu'  broth  pot, 
Your  beefy,  bursen,  rifting  lot, 
And  roomy  howket  graves. 
Rather  aneath  yon  Mnwud  brae, 

Amang  the  yellow  broom, 
I'd  on  the  bonny  e'ening  stray, 
Wi'  belly  rather  toom — 

What's  jinking,  and  slinking, 

And  crouching  night  and  day, 
To  grandeurs,  and  splendours, 
Which  Nature  doth  display. 


JOHN    MACTAGOAKT.  331 

111  never  bae  a  poet's  name, 
Nor  in  the  gaudy  hou»e  <>f  fame 

Enjoy  a  wee  bit  garret ; 
The  clinking  I  may  hit,  booh,  boo, 
As  also  could  the  cockatoo, 

Or  green  Brazilian  parrot. 
I  want  that  potent  pithy  nerve 
Which  bardies  ought  to  hae, 
Frae  Nature,  too,  I  owre  far  swerve, 
And  her  sweet  melody — 

The  Muse  whiles  refuse  while*, 

To  lend  poor  Mac  a  lift, 
She'll  sneer  me  and  jeer  me,    • 
And  winna  come  in  tift 


For  a*  sae  shortly'*  I  hae  been 
Upon  this  warl'  what  hae  I  seen  T 

Big  bubbles  never  ending  ; 
How  mony  millions  ither  nosing, 
How  mony  thousands  peace  proposing, 

Yet  the  de'il's  ne'er  mending. 
Broils  wi'  pens,  and  broils  wi'  swords. 

And  graves  wi'  bouks  a  cramming, 
Gloomy  plots,  and  lofty  words, 
Silly  man  a  shamming— 

But  brattle  and  rattle, 

My  slavering  gomfs,  awa', 
I'm  fearless  and  careless 
O'  you  baith  ane  and  a'. 

Ill  ramble  down  my  rural  howea. 

And  jump  amang  the  clinta  and  knowes, 

And  rant  my  sangs  fu*  cheery  ; 
And  rooM  auld  Scotland  a'  1  can, 
Like  ony  ither  honest  man, 

Foi  o'  her  I'm  ne'er  weary, 
She  yet  has  been  fu'  kind  to  me, 

A  mitber  true  and  faithfu', 
To  glunch  at  her  I'd  sorry  be, 
Ay  mo»t  confounded  laithfn'— 

Hut  here  then,  I'll  speer  then, 

Gif  it  be  time  to  quat, 
The  de'il,  man,  can  tell,  man, 
Tin  fully  time  for  that. 


332  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 


JOHN     MILLER. 

OHN  MILLER  was  born  in  1840,  at  Goukha',  a 
small  village  about  two  miles  to  the  west  of 
Dunfermline.  Goukha'  is  beautifully  situated  at  the 
foot  of  "  Luscar  Knowes,"  and  in  his  beautiful  poem 
on  the  "  Knowes "  Mr  Miller  makes  the  following 
happy  reference  to  his  birth-place  : — 

"  And  there  the  chief  among  them  a', 
Low  in  the  vale  lies  auld  Goukha', 
'A'here  first  the  light  of  day  I  saw, 
Where  first  I  ran,  and  first  did  fa', 
Where  first  I  handled  bat  and  ba', 

And  many  a  thing  beside  ; 
There  first  I  did  my  peerie  spin. 
There  to  the  schule  I  first  did  rin, 
And  there  to  toil  did  I  begin, 

And  launch  upon  life's  tide." 

Mr  Miller  received  part  of  his  education  at  the 
parish  school  of  Carnock,  about  a  mile  to  the  west  of 
Goukha',  which  was  taught  at  that  time  by  Mr 
Alexander  Ferguson. 

"  The  Village  school,  I  see  it  still, 
Close  by  the  burn,  and  near  the  mill. 

By  yonder  stately  trees  ; 
We  loved  our  i-lay,  we  sought  for  lore, 
And  oft  drew  from  our  master's  store — 
But,  oh  !   he  loved  his  bees. 

A  worthy  man  no  doubt  he  was, 
But  oft  with  ruler,  cane,  or  tawse, 

He  made  our  lugs  to  bum  ; 
And  yet  for  a',  his  laws  we'd  spurn, 
The  cane  we'd  out,  the  taws  we'd  burn, 
And  send  them  up  the  lum— 

A  fitting  place  for  things  and  trash, 
When  they  have  laddies' backs  to  thrash, 

Until  they  smart  full  sore  ; 
But,  oh  !  what  fun  was  yon  auld  wig, 
For  nane  ower  we«,  for  some  ower  big, 

Which  a'  wild  laddies  wore. 


JOHN     MILLER.  333 

Yet  near  that  school  we  oft  have  stood 
In  nilent  awe,  and  Meum  mood, 
Close  by  the  Kirky.ir  I  xtile  ; 
And  there  we  saw  «ur  matter  laid, 
And  when  the  hollow  sound  was  made, 
We  dropped  a  tear  the  while." 

Another  scene  from  "  Luscar  Kuowes  "  represents 
our  friend  in  his  boyhood  days,  engaged  in  the  well- 
known  pastime  once  so  much  enjoyed  by  boys  at 
Christmas  and  New-Year  time — 

"  To  that  cot  there  I  once  did  gang  • 

On  Hogmanay  to  sing  my  sang, 

And  sung  behind  the  door  ; 
My  br«o  and  checks  and  nose  were  black, 
My  faither's  auld  coat  on  my  back — 

Like  some  wee  hlackitn«.or. 

Th*y  ope'd  the  door  and  pressed  me  in, 
And  glowered  me  ower  from  hat  to  shin, 

And  wondered  who  I'd  be  ; 
They  coaxed  me  sair  to  make  me  speak, 
They  watched  mr  e'en  and  ilka  cheek, 

Then  guessed  that  it  was  me. 

• 

They  ipiered  my  sang,  and  made  me  sing, 
Then  laughed  and  u  ade  the  rafters  ring, 

But  why  1  ne'er  did  ken  ; 
Each  one  wa*  happy  roond  that  fire, 
The  matron  ami  the  worthy  Hire — 
And  bairnieri  but  and  ben." 

Mr  Miller  afterwards  attended  a  school  at  Milesmark, 
near  Dunfermlinc,  which  was  taught  at  that  time  by 
Mr  Kol>  iisaou,  who  has  a  place  in  our  Tenth 

Series.  Here  he  became  an  adept  at  drawing,  which 
has  enabled  him  to  act  as  his  own  architect  in  the  pro- 
fession in  whirl,  he  is  now  engaged  as  a  builder 
contractor.  In  tin-  midst  <•!  the  cares  and  anxieties 
of  his  large  bu.siiu-->  IK-  d«-li_'ht>  to  lu-lj.  those  who  are 
not  so  able  to  hrlp  themselves.  II-  i-  th<  >uneriuten- 
dent  of  a  lai  ion  Sabbath  >rhool  at  Clap- 

h.n..    Londo  <  hildren   attend m-    this   school 

an  .iiiiiu.il  trip  to  some  distance  from  the  great 


334  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

city,  and,  as  might  be  expected,  Mr  Miller  is  the  leader 
and  main  supporter  of  this  grand  outing  for  the  young 
folks.  Occasional  poetic  epistles  are  still  exchanged 
between  the  subject  of  our  sketch  and  his  respected 
teacher.  In  one  of  these  Mr  Fergusson,  referring  to 
his  former  pupil's  work  amongst  the  young,  closes  as 
follows  : — 

A  leader  ye  are  still,  as  I'm  right  glad  to  see, 
For,  as  the  laddie  is,  sic  like  the   nan  will  b<=. 
Noo  ye  lead  a  noble  band,  the  fallen  to  upraise, 
To  train  the  raggit  bairns  to  walk  in  wisdom's  ways. 

Mr  Miller  began  his  trade  of  joiner  at  Alloa,  in 
1856  ;  went  to  London  in  1861,  and  began  on  his 
own  account  in  1859.  He  has  been  successful  in 
business.  Indeed,  whatever  he  takes  in  hand  seems 
to  prosper.  There  is  a  saying  that  poetry  and  poverty 
generally  go  together.  In  the  case  of  Mr  Miller  it  has 
been  the  reverse.  With  him  it  has  been  poetry,  pro- 
gress, plenty,  and  prosperity.  Mr  Miller  is  also  a 
popular  lecturer,  and  few  can  tell  a  humourous  story 
with  more  glee,  especially  when  he  is  surrounded  by 
Scottish  friends — for  although  he  has  resided  nearly 
a  quarter  of  a  century  in  England  he  has  still  a  warm 
heart  to  his  native  land  and  all  its  associations.  Mr 
Miller's  poetry  is  evidently  a  faithful  transcript  of  the 
impressions  produced  upon  an  honest  heart  and  a 
discerning  mind  by  mutual  contact  with  the  realities  of 
life.  While  his  clever,  yet  quiet  humour  frequently 
breaks  out  into  broad  fun,  it  is  ever  pleasingly  and 
musically  expressed,  and  all  his  productions  show  a 
keen  eye  to  observe,  and  a  warm  heart  to  commiserate 
the  sorrows  of  mankind. 

ZIG-ZAG,     ZIG-ZAG. 

A  little  swallow  skims  the  air, 

Zig-zag,  zig-za^  ; 
Now  its  here,  and  now  its  there, 

Zig-zag,  zig-zag  ; 


JOHN    MILLER  335 


Now  perched  and  chattering  on 
Now  its  little  next  it'*  ' 


Arid  then  it's  wi'  it*  neighbours  diggin', 
Zig-zag,  zig-zag. 

A  streamlet  _  u-hes  through  the  dell. 

Zig-zag,  zig-zag  ; 
On,  on  it  runs  past  wood  and  fell, 

Zig-zag,  zig-zag  ; 
In  winter,  rolling  in  its  pride, 
In  summer,  Howret*  kin*  its  tide, 
And  in  it  little  fishes  glide, 

Zig-zag,  zig-iag. 

A  narrow  path  leads  up  the  hill, 

Zig-zag,  >fe  zajf  ; 
Though  far  away  I  »ee  it  still, 

Zig-zag,  zig-zag  ; 

Up,  up  it  winds  round  whins  and  cairns, 
A    fringed  wi'  heather  bells  an<i  ferns, 
Aft  we  ran  there  when  we  were  bairns, 

Zig-zag,  zig-zi»g. 

Pads  and  lasse*  wandered  there, 

Zig-zag,  zig-zag  ; 
Light  were  their  heart*,  am)  «tff  flew  care, 

Zig-*ag,  zig-zag  ; 

How  like  that  path  to  human  life, 
Sae  aft1  wi'  ciookx  an.l  corners  rife— 
For  here  come*  calm,  and  there  cornea  strife, 

Zig-zag,  zig-zag. 

A  stately  sh;p.  it  plmiKhs  the  sea, 

Zitf-*aK,  zi*  zag  ! 
Now  to  windward,  then  to  lee, 

/i  -lug.  zig-zag  ; 

Frae  richt  to  left,  f  rae  left  to  richt. 
Like  hinl  «>f  l-eaiity  in  its  flicht, 
Yet  beating  on  wi  giant  micht, 

Zig-zag,  zig-zag. 

The  inHgM  dance  abune  the  burn, 

-xag,  zig-zag  ; 
See  how  they  jink  and  twi»t  and  turn, 

Zix-zag,  zig-zag  ; 
The  life  lhat'n  only  for  a  day, 
They  neem  t«»  npend  in  sport  and  play, 
And  revels  in  the  sunny  ray, 


336  MODERN    SCOTTISH   POETS. 

The  lambkins  frisk  upon  the  lea, 

Zig-zag,  zig-zag  ; 
And  mankins  whirl  in  merry  glee, 

Zig-zag,  zig-zag  ; 

The  kittlin  gambols  on  the  hearth, 
In  antics  queer  that  fill  wi'  mirth, 
And  helps  to  drive  the  cares  of  earth, 

Zig-zag,  zig-zag. 

All  these  are  things  we  love  to  see, 

Zig-zag,  zig-zag  ; 
Yea,  half  their  beauty  seems  to  be 

Zig-zag,  zig-zag  ; 

Make  straight  the  paths,  they  dreary  grow  ; 
And  rills  that  wimple  to  and  fro 
Are  cheerless,  if  they  cease  to  flow 

Zig-zag,  zig-gag. 

Ah,  friend  o'  mine,  what  maks  ye  gang 

Zig-zag,  zig-zag? 
I  fear  there  maun  be  something  wrang, 

Zig-zag,  zig-zag ; 
It  isna  sicht  that's  failing  thee  ; 
Nor  is  it  age,»wi'  feeble  knee, 
That  maks  you  thus  t«  gang  ajee, 

Zig-zag,  zig-zag. 

I've  met  a  friend  wi'  eyeballs  dim, 

Zig-zag,  zig-zag ;  ^ 
I've  seen  a  friend  wi'  palsied  limb, 

Zig-zag,  zig-zag  ; 

Beneath  affliction's  load  they  bent, 
Yet  'neath  it  smiled  wi'  sweet  content, 
But  you,  my  friend,  'twas  drink  that  sent 

Zig-zag,  zig-zag. 

Yet  wha  among  us  hasnae  gane 

Zig-zag,  zig-zag  ; 
We  a'  hae  gane,  e'en  every  ane, 

Zig-zag,  zig-zag  ; 

There's  few  that  can  reprove  a  brither, 
For  some  gang  ae  way,  some  anither, 
From  helter-skelter  a'  thegether, 

Zig-zag,  zig-zag. 

Then  pity  those  that  sadly  rin 

Zig-zag,  zig-zag  ; 
Think  first  what  we  oursel's  had  done, 

Zig-zag,  zig-zag  ; 


JnliN     Mil  ; 


Thru,  if  we  will,  yet  gently  chide 
A  friend  that  has  gaiie  sair  aside, 
AH  though  he'd  wreck  upon  life's  tide. 
Zig-zag,  zig-zag. 

Remember  ilia  that  visit  Home, 

4iK-*ag.  *ig-zag; 
temptation*,  trials,  bitter  come, 

Zig-zag,  zig-zag ; 
Remember  theae,  then  pity  may 
Glow  in  thy  heart  for  those  that  stray, 
And  wander  in  life's  narrow  way, 

fcik'-zag,  zig-zag. 

MY    LAWYER. 

I  met  him  just  the  other  d%y, 

And  gave  a  nod, 
But  never  dream't  upon  the  way 

What  would  come  odd. 
Another  time  we  met  again  : 

I  gave  a  wink, 
And  he  returned  it,  just  as  plain. 

Yet,  who  would  think  ? 
That  uod,  it  c«>st  me  three-and-fr.ur  ! 
The  wkik,  by  jingo  !  something  more, 
And  from  my  pnr*e  I  had  to  pour 

The  solid  clink. 

Another  time  I  doff  d  my  tile, 

That  in,  my  hat : 
ll>  .lit)  the  same,  and  gave  a  hinile  : 

Twaij  tit  for  tat. 
I  gave  a  Holdierly  salute 

(  me  day  in  town, 
But  never  thouuht  that  he  would  put 

Theite  matters  down  ; 
Hut,  hmiir  it  all,  ho  put  tlu-ui  -truant; 
I  Mull)  that  I  have  |>ower  to  nay'l — 
M    .       .  Hill,  I  had  to  (*ay't: 

Yea,  every  brown  ! 

Our  <lar  I  H. rt  "in'  i"  'I'"  Slr.iii'l, 

Or  thereabout, 
irc«  <lid  more  than  nhake  hi*  hand — 

•<  out 
I  siinpk  for  lii-.  hr:ilth  inquir.-.l, 

Mr  111 

jii  frl  "  l-rea-t  ii. 

\  all  wan  • 


338  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

But  was  it  tho'  ?  0  botheration, 
He  puts  it  dawn  a  consultation  ! 
The  like  was  never  in  creation 
Heard  of  before. 

There  was  another  time  we  met, 

Too  close  I  fear  : 
It  was  a  day  both  dull  and  wet, 

And  far  from  clear. 
"  D'you  think,"  said  I,  ''it's  going  to  fair?" 

"  It  might,  it  might." 
(He  said  it  with  an  upward  stare) — 

"  It  might  ere  night." 
And  so,  the  chat  it  seemed  to  end, 
And  each  his  several  way  did  wend  ; 
But  in  my  bill  the  whole  was  penned, 

With  black  on  white. 


When  next  we  met,  'twas  frost  and  cold, 

It's  worth  relating  : 
I  said,  "Friend  think  you  this  will  hold  ? 

I  want  some  skating." 
"  Ah  well,"  he  says,  "  its  doubtful,  quite, 

But  let  me  see, 
You  watch  the  sky  at  dust  to-night  ; 

If  red  'tmay  be." 

I  laughing  said,  "Why,  this  is  prime, 
I've  heard  and  read  that  many  a  time." 
He  quoted  but  the  ancient  rhyme, 

And  claimed  his  fee. 


I  in  his  chambers  chanced  to  say 

One  afternoon, 
"  I  think  the  hens  are  going  to  lay, 

Ami  very  soon." 
"  Indeed,  indeed,"  he  quietly  said, 

And  took  a  test  ; 
"  Well,  if  their  heads  are  getting  red, 

Give  each  a  nest." 
'Twas  said  in  such  an  easy  way, 
One  ne'er  would  thought  he  wanted  pay 
'Twas  in  the  bill,  as  clear  as  day, 

Beyond  a  jest. 

I  scanned  these  items  with  surprise, 

And  little  wonder  ; 
I  felt  my  monkey  on  the  rise, 

My  looks  were  thunder. 


•IAMBS   LITM8DKX. 

I  donned  my  hat,  and  grasped  my  stick, 

And  out  I  went ; 
Perhaps  I  thought,  to  aged  Xick 

I'd  Hend  the  Kent. 
He  calmly  listened  to  my  tale, 
He  vniled  just  when  i  thought  he'd  <|uail ; 
He  >'niled,  and  said,  "  It «  just  the  scale  ; 

H'H  Parliament !" 


JAMES     LUMSDEN, 

HS  "  Samuel  Mucklebackit,"  and  under  uther 
pseudonyms  has  fur  many  years  contributed  to 
the  press  songs,  poems,  sketches,  essays,  and  "  letters." 
A  large  first  edition  of  a  selection  of  his  writings  in 
book  form  appeared  in  1886,  and  was  very  quickly 
disposed  of.  He  was  born  in  1839,  at  the  Abbey  Mill 
mil  "clachan"  a  mile  below  the  county  town 
of  Haddiugtou.  His  father  was  the  mill  master — a 
self-made  and  self-educated  man  who  had  risen  fnun 
the  lowest  human  strata,  and  who  was  then  a  sub- 
stantial and  prosperous  business  man,  and  a  highly 

ected  elder  of  the   Established  Church.     So  suc- 
cessful was  he  in  trade  that,  in  our  author's  tenth  \ 
he  was  able  to  lease  the  large  farm  of  Nether  Hade*, 

•  ted  tlnv  miles  further  down  tin-  river,  whether 
In-  re-moved  with  his  wife  and  large  family.  The  loss 
of  his  mother,  which  quickly  followed,  was  a  great 
trial  to  our  jHXit.  She  was  deeply  imbued  with  tin- 
poetic  feelin_r,  and  was  .1  r  <-f  tin- 
JB."  HIT  i'a\«.urite  soi,  The 

L:,lid  0    tin-    I.-M!.       IMT  :ug  of  which  often 

touched   the-   tender  mid   >vmpat  het  i  "i;ttl«- 

.Ian..  'ill.  .'ii-l  ..u  in-   l«.  don, 

and  ..lln-i-  dllticnlli-  B,   In-   VM  '  hkl  n   ti    a    H  I.....1. 


340  MODERN'  SCOTTISH    POETS. 

In  "  Rural  Reminiscences,"  the  volume  referred 
to,  Mr  Lumsden  gives  an  interesting  account  of  his  boy- 
hood adventures.  He  there  informs  the  reader  that, 
at  the  age  of  twelve,  he  stood  five  feet  six  inches  in  his 
stockings.  At  school  he  was  the  leader  in  all  boyish 
sports  and  scrapes,  he  "  devoured  "  ballads  and  dying 
speeches  by  the  yard,  delighted  to  read  of  sea  fights, 
and  was  enchanted  with  the  histories  of  gruesome 
pirates. 

In  his  thirteenth  year  he  was  apprenticed  to  a  grocer 
in  Prestonpans.  Here  the  sea,  with  its  wonders  and  its 
vastness,  calmed  his  sorrowing  heart.  But  no  sooner, 
however,  was  this  effected  than  misfortune  was  again 
at  his  heel-s.  His  master  became  bankrupt,  and  he 
had  to  look  out  for  another  "place."  This  was  found 
at  Haddington,  in  the  workshop  of  a  relative — a  mill- 
wright--with  whom  he  "served  his  time."  "Muckle- 
backit"  then  left  for  Edinburgh,  and  after  working 
there  for  a  period  he  wandered  over  most  of  Scot- 
land '  and  a  large  portion  of  England  and  Ireland, 
tramping  from  place  to  place,  working  when  work 
could  be  found,  suffering  frequent  hardship,  and 
meeting  with  many  adventures.  Ultimately  "  the 
rolling  stone  "  stopped,  and  settled  for  a  time  in  Lon- 
don. 

Some  years  previously  his  father  had  taken  a 
farm  for  an  elder  brother,  who  died  while  in  possession, 
and  the  lease  was  transferred  to  James,  who  accord- 
ingly left  London  to  become  a  farmer.  It  was  with 
the  greatest  difficulty  that  he  carried  out  the  lease — 
the  rent  being  high,  and  the  holding  an  expensive 
one  to  work. 

Thrown  upon  his  "  beam  ends  "  once  more,  he  went 
to  America,  with  no  fixed  aim,  but  with  the  firm  resolu- 
tion to  push  his  way.  In  course  of  time  he  secured  a 
remunerative  position  as  inspector's  clerk  on  the  Grand 
Trunk  Railway.  Alas  !  his  prosperous  course  in  the 


JAMES    LUMS!  311 

New,  as  in  tin-  Old  World,  M.-d  to  be  of  short 

duration.  Hr  only  h.-ld  tin-  appointment  for  little 
ii.« -iv  than  .1  .  i  he  was  attacked  with  dyscntry 

and  ague  tin  n>ult  of  exposure,  and  drinking  the 
saline  wat«  rs  of  the  backwoods.  After  months  of  pro- 
longed siit1  'ring  he  \\a-  urged  by  his  medical  advisers 
to  return  to  Scotland.  He  arrived  at  the  "old 
homestead,"  only  to  find  the  family  struggling  with 
povi-rtv  Mill  had  times.  They  strained  themselves  to 
their  mill-  -f,  hut  all  was  of  no  avail.  Ultimately  they 
were  cast  upon  the  world  penniless.  A  small  house 
taken  in  Kast  Liuton,  where  James  ultimately 
embarked  in  the  potato  trade,  in  which  business  he  is 
still  engaged,  conjointly  with  journalism. 

Mr  Lun    den  is  a  very  frequent  contributor  of  prose 
and  'lie  Haddington  and  district  newspapers, 

lu>  -kt 'i dies  of  rural  life  and  character  being  replete 
with  genial  humour,  racy  anecdote,  and  evincing 
minute  ah  1  thoughtful  observation.  They  are  clover 
and  pleas  ntlv  and  naturally  drawn  pictures,  full 
of  "  go  "  and  intep-M,  and  show  considerable  literary 
skill.  He  inform-  us  that  he  has  another  book  "on 
tli.  block,  and,  no  doubt,  as  the  Scotsman  said  of  his 
first  voln:  \  homespun  qualities  will  widely 

umiend  it  out>id<-  the  hounds  of  'Samuel  Muckle 
backit's'  much  Joved  shire."  His  jx>etry  is  marked  by 
the  :i^  his  prose — his  Doric  being  ex- 

lie  h  \Vhi!« 

he  very  frc- 


342  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

"  W  A  E      W  AE    IS    ME!" 


In  my  lone  little  cot  in  the  suburb  o'  the  toon, 
Musing  to  the  music  o'  the  wind's  eerie  soun' — 
Brooding  in  a  strange  land  on  a'  me  an'  mine, 
How  a'  my  joys  hae  fled  wi'  the  days  o'  Lang  Syne. 

To  think  T  ance  was  queen  o'  my  ain  faither's  hame, 
A  bright  lauchin  lassie  nae  care  wad  tame  ; 
When  Willie,  dear,  he  woo'd  me.  an'  won  me  for  to  pare 
Wi'  the  dear  anld  place  an'  that  auld  faither's  heart, 

0,  shame  befa'  the  fause  friends  that  wiled  Willie  on 
Frae  his  fireside  and  his  Mary  to  their  haunts  about  the  toun 
Sae  happy  for  a  year  were  Willie,  dear,  an'  me — 
O,  that  awfu',  awfu'  drink,  that  such  a  thing  can  be. 

For  a'  things  prospered  then,  an'  our  little  tot  was  born, 
An'  Willie  was  sae  pmud  that  birthday  morn  ; 
Noo  they  baith  sleep  side  by  side — so  dear,  so  dear  to  me — 
In  that  strange  kirkyard  in  this  strange  countrie. 

A  gloom  fell  ower  the  hame  when  Willie  jee'd  awa', 

No  mony  nichts  a  week — at  first  bnt  ane  or  twa  ; 

But  aye  it  deepened  deeper— the  storm  he  wadna  see, 

For  the  world  was  a'  against  him,  an'  he  was  changed  to  me. 

0,  waefu'  was  the  douncome,  waefu'  was  the  fa'  : 

Credit  lost-  a  bankrupt-  sold  oot  house  an'  ha — 

Despair — disease — the  mad-house,  and  onward  wi1  the  wave, 

Till  the  shatter'd  wreck  was  sunken  in  a  lowly  pauper's  grave. 

O,  my  heart  is  like  to  break,  my  Willie,  dear  to  me, 
An'  wee  Jamie,  too,  what  gar'd  my  laddie  dee  ; 
What  gar'd  my  darling  dee,  when  I  only  had  but  ane  ? 
O,  Willie,  Willie,  Willie,  we've  pay'd  the  wage  o'  sin  ! 

Noo  to  think  that  a'  around  me  is  blooming  in  the  May, — 
The  green  fields  gettin'  greener  wi'  the  lengthenin'  o'  the  day  ; 
The  very  birds  so  happy  wi'  their  loves  in  ilka  tree, 
While  lonely  I  maun  wail — O,  wae,  wae  it>  me. 

The  sun^is  in  the  far  west  enthroned  on  glowing  gold, 
My  heart  is  wi'  my  dear  ones  in  the  kirkyard  cold  ; 
When  morning  breaks  so  brightly  o'er  wood  an*  flowery  lea, 
It  will  break  upon  me  wailing — wae,  wae  is  me. 


JAMES    LUMSIH 


THE    WKE    BROON    SQUJRRKL. 

In  the  t'r  plantin',  fru*>  the 

Like  the  plumed  prin<  \  irl'. 

What  tun**  the  elfin*  dauri  tae  — 

Up  a  tree,  look  at  me,  the  wee  broon  *<iu'rr«l  ! 
Mi-rrier  than  cuckoo  heard, 
Gleuer  than  xwallow  bird. 
"  Puck  "  himsel'*  a  gowk  t<»  me— the  wee  broon  squirrel ! 

Deep  in  the  heart  o'  the  ever-^reen  tree, 

Far  frae  th««  ken  o'  the  mnnenhine  crew, 
Kockit  liy  the  winds  my  forest  bower*  be, 
The  cushat's  my  trumpeter--croodle,  croodle,  doo  ! 
(»yte  wi'  luve— railin', 

in*  an'  wail  in', 
Summer  nicht  an*  mornin'— croodle,  croodle,  doo ! 

Swith  as  the  hoolet  to'*  auld  blichtit  tree, 

Steal',  th  on  Baft  winy  at  early  cock-craw, 
Bright  a«  a  star  flaucht.  I  spool  up  on  hie, 
What  time  the  laverocks  on  morn'ri  ctar  ca' — 

it  lutr^ieM.  curly 
I.ani;  tail,  an'  Kwirly, 
Twinklin'  on  the  lerrick  tajw  in  the  wauk'nin'  daw' ! 

The  born  Jack-tar  o'  the  woodland  am  I 

le-Jack  "  datirna  wa^e  a  spiel  wi'  me  ; 
Y"ii  -priice-|iine  tap.  Hp»-:irin    tli»-  liowe  »ky, 
I  wad  lay  it  at  hi"  fet-t  or  he'd  coont  three  ; 
1'p,  like  the  hnwk,  I'd  vault, 
I  '   un.  like  the  thunderbolt, 
Syne,  oh  whanr,  "  Steeple  .Jackie,"  wad  a'  yer  glory  be  ! 

Up  a  tn-e.  look  at  me,  the  wee  hroon  Mo,iiirrel ! 
r  than  !:..!, in  Mood,  the  lea-lam;  day  ; 

arl, 
What  time  the  nicht  f««»«  datirna  nhake  a  tae  ! 

^  irly. 
A*  the  elves  are  aloth*  to  me— the  wee  broon  squirrel ! 


O  white,  v  hite  lie*  the  winter  roun'  the  null  OMtle  wa', 
An   i  it!;''i  wi  the  snaw, 

tho'  but  deid  wa'ii  they  be, 
A mnl  the  «naw»  o'  winter,  they  dearer  grow  to  me  I 


344  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POET8. 

For  they  mind  me  o'  langsyne,  when  in  the  dear  old  days 
I  ran  a  thochtless  lassie  o'er  Tyne's  sweet  banks  an'  braes, 
An'  roun'  an'  roun'  the  Castle,  like  bairn  roun's  mither's  knee, 
up,  little  dreaming  how  clear  it  was  to  me. 


Here  I  a  maid  was  courted  —  was  wooed  an'  wed  an'  a', 
Here  a'  the  bairns  were  born,  an'  ane  was  ta'en  awa', 
Here  we've  been  lang  sae  happy  —  the  bairns,  gudetnan,  an'  me 
It  hurts  like  death  to  think  o',  this  parting  that  maun  be. 

Never  again,  0  never  to  ca'  this  hoose  oor  hame  ! 

Never  again,  0  never  this  auld  fireside  to  claim  ! 

Thro'  a'  the  lang  years  coming  the  strangers'  place  'twill  be, 

When  we  are  gane  for  ever  —  the  bairns,  gudernan,  an'  me  ! 

The  bairns  they  cling  to  mither,  the  gudetnan  downa  speak, 
I  cheery  like  tend  to  them  when  my  heart's  like  to  break  ; 
A.n'  frae  this  ben-room  window,  when  nae  ane's  bye  to.  see 
What  longing  looks  I'm  taking  o'  the  auld  oountrie  ! 

Ah  !  wae  is  me,  thou  robin  that  singest  by  the  door, 

Ae  waefu'  lilt  o'  sorrow  is  a'  thy  birdie's  store, 

A  wail  for  bygane  summer  that  soon  returns  to  thee  ; 

But  oor  bonuie  auld  hame  —  never  can  time  gi'e  back  to  me  ! 

To  say  "  Fareweel  for  ever,''  ye  bonnie  banks  an'  braes  ! 
An'  fare  ye  weel,  Tyne  river,  that  I've  loved  a'  my  days  ! 
Fareweel  Traprain  an'  Kippie  !  fareweel  the  dear  auld  mill, 
The  brig  across  the  water,  the  fit-road  up  the  hill  ! 

But  we  a'  maun  say  "  fareweel  "—  on  earth  we  canna  stay  ; 
"Fareweel  !''  "fareweel  !"  "fareweel  !"—  day  cryeth  unto  day! 
The  warld  is  wide  an'  wearie,  an'  hard  is  life  I  trew  — 
A  touch,  a  turn  of  fortune  —  the  auld  is  changed  to  new! 

But  oh  !  my  heart  is  dowie,  sae  weel  it  lo'ed  this  nest, 
An'  a'  its  ties  asunder  this  flicht  to  rive  at  last  ! 
But  take  this  flicht  it  maun,  nor  spurn  at  Fate's  decree, 
An'  gae  seek  anither  hame  in  a  strange  countrie  ! 


"  JAMIE    THE    JOITER."* 

O  hae  ye  ne'er  heard,  man,  o'  Jamie  the  joiter? 
It's  hae  ye  ne'er  heard,  man,  o'  Jamie  the  joiter? 
Wha  drank  a'  his  siller,  syne  Fortune  did  wyte  her, 
For  the  mony  mischances  o'  Jamie  the  joiter. 

*  A  Ne'er-do-weel. 


JAMES    M'VITTIE.  345 

A  jack  o'  a'  trades  man,  when  sober  a  day, 
II  1  men'  for  a  neebor  a  stool  ,,r  a  »hae  ; 

the  clock  tickiu1  when  a'  cures  wad  fail — 
Mak*  truck*  fur  the  bairnies,  or  *pin  them  a  tale. 

At  this  time,  ..or  doctor— a  Nabob—  teuk  ill, 
An'  wi'  drinkin'  hi*  drugs,  hiinsel'  mine  did  kill  ; 
Sae  his  widow,  dein.-ntit  wi'  ^rief  or  wi'  gear, 
An'  teetotal  crazy,  for  Jamie  'K»I»  »peer. 

Wi's  best  Sunday  nark  on,  an*  face  weeahin'  clean, 
.li.it  r  in'  .Jamie  laid  siege  to  the  Nabob's  fair  queen  ; 
An'  the  en'  o*  the  twalmonth— let  VN  it  nane  deride  !  — 
Saw  the  "joiter"  (Juid  Templar,  the  widow  braw  bride. 

The  mai-ter  an*  laird  <>'  a  grand  mailin*  noo, 
Jamie's  cant  atf  the  auld  man  an'  ta'en  on  the  new  : 
But  the  daft  days  lie  minds  aye,  an' John  Barley  bree, 
An'  pity  his  heart  rends  a  drunkard  to  ttee. 

O  hae  ye  ne'er  heard,  man,  o'  Jamie  the  joiter? 
It's  hae  ye  ne'er  heard,  man,  o*  Jamie  the  joiter? 
Wha  won  the  rich  widow,  an'  now  *tar«  it  brighter 
Than  the  fule*  that  a*  laugh'd  ance  at  Jamie  the  joiter. 


JAMES     M  «  V  I  T  T  I  1  : 


MA-    iH.ni    in    is:;.",   in    the  .juirt    little   town   of 
I.itlijli    in..    It)    1  .    >.'!  .  i.r  ricli.-vt   aii-1 

most  i  >iuitfricHM. 

;:ill(l,    itllil    i>    ill".  Hi    rijjt     I!,!lf>     if,.H.    tin-    J!JIH-ti..|| 

be  two  >. 

|,-,1    ,,u    -  JIM^V    hill-,    \\ith 

thnv  narrow  vallcp,   ili.wn  winch  fn-iu    tii.     moiiii 

juui  the  Eak,  and  at  the-  town  join  into  one 


346  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

and  form  the  River  Esk,  famous  in  Border  story  of 
feud  and  fray.  Here,  on  its  banks,  are  remains  of  the 
castles  or  keeps  of  the  bold  Buccleuch,  Johnny  Arm- 
strong o'  Gillnockie,  and  Archie  o'  the  Caufield.  Here 
lived  the  author  of  "  Nae  Luck  aboot  the  Hoose." 
Here  Telford,  the  famous  mason  and  architect, 
was  born,  lived  his  boyhood,  and  by  the  light  of  its 
peat-fires  and  aid  of  borrowed  books,  laid  the  founda- 
tion of  a  great  life.  Here,  too,  are  monuments  to  the 
memory  of  one  of  the  most  remarkable  familiesof  modern 
times,  the  Malcolms  of  Eskdale.  The  father  of  this 
family  was  a  pious  crofter  farmer  or  shepherd,  whose 
four  sons  having  joined  the  service  of  their  country,  and 
gained  honours  and  distinctions  were  all  knighted,  and 
were  known  as  the  four  knights  of  Eskdale.  Sir 
Pulteney  founded  a  school  for  the  children  of  the  poor 
in  Langholm,  which  the  subject  of  our  sketch  attended 
till  he  was  seven  years  of  age.  After  leaving  this 
seminary,  he  had  "about  five  quarters"  at  the  Broom- 
holm  Free  School,  and  was  there  engaged  in  the 
humble  occupation  of  carrying  food  to  the  factory 
workers  and  going  other  errands,  till,  at  nine  years  of 
age,  he  was  apprenticed  with  his  father  as  a  cotton 
weaver,  which  was  the  staple  trade  of  the  district  in 
those  days.  This  industry  was  very  fluctuating  and 
often  very  poorly  paid,  the  weekly  earnings  varying 
from  2s  6d  to  8s  per  week,  with  occasional  depressions, 
during  which  they  had  to  apply  to  the  local  proprietor, 
the  Duke  of  Buccleuch,  who  would  provide  work  in 
the  woods  or  on  the  roads  at  Is  per  day  for  the  married 
men,  9d  for  the  single,  and  6d  for  the  apprentices, 
with  broken  time.  But,  with  all  these  privations, 
there  were  corresponding  advantages.  These  weavers 
were,  as  a  rule,  intelligent,  thoughtful  men,  keen 
.politicians,  tough  in  debate,  and  highly  patriotic.  The 
weaving  shop  was  their  university,  the  weekly  news- 
papers and  Bible  their  classics. 


JAMES  M'vmn:  347 

uas  a  good  reader,  and  although  not  yet  in 
hi>  treus,  had  taken  his  share  in  these  night 
studies.  This  was  t<»  him,  as  to  many  others  of  his 
class,  the  school  in  which  life's  lessons  were  learned. 
Under  such  severe  training  it  was  no  wonder  that  he  was 
delicate  and  \\eak,  and  tormented  by  sick  h< 
which,  for  quiet  ivst.  would  often  drive  him  to  the  hills, 
where  he  would  l»athe  his  hunting  forehead  in  the 
mountain  rill,  and  >«»othe  himself  to  sleep  by  the 
sound  of  the  plover,  or  the  warbling  of  the 
skylark.  He  was  passionately  fond  of  flowers,  and 
though  he  knew  nothing  of  botany,  he  was  familiar 
with  every  moss,  heat  h,  grass,  fem,  and  mountain  flower 
that  grew  on  his  native  mountains,  and  would  weave 
them  into  garlands  and  make  presents  of  them  to  his 
companions  He  revelled  in  nature,  and  would  hear 
the  trees  rocked  by  the  winds  speaking  to  him  ;  the 
winds  lauirhing,  and  the  bumies  singing  ;  the  fleecy 
clouds  unfolding  to  him  the  inner  life  of  heaven. 
:  !'_''•  thoughts  and  day  dreams  would  fill  his  young 
mind,  which,  in  his  j.i.vi-rty  of  words,  he  would  try  to 
rhyme  into  music  of  hi>  o\\n  composition.  When 
the  tra<:  "'.1  rn.ni.ili  in  admit  of  it,  Jai 

\\fnt  t"  a  ni^'ht  school,  and  used  to  improve  him- 
self in  writing  by  earryini:  «»u  th  Midence 
between  tin-  i'  i  Is  and  their  al-rnt  lovers.  He 
would  often  write  their  let  tent  in  rhyme,  and  then 
•••h  the  el 

On    one    OOOasion,    alarmed     |,\    ;t    ti.  i.. -in- 

thrown  into  the  ri\er  f  -*«'ll 

and  pp-r.    i:id  con.niit trd  them  • 

Ail>       IIOU 

iv  as  awooll.  n  -j.ii 
.iding    novel-    an«l  \\hich 

easily  obtuinud  fnuu  a  goixl    cir«  ulatm^    iii«i.ii\.        In 


348  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

the  summer  months,  being  fond  of  foot-racing  and 
wrestling  —  favourite  Border  games  —  he  interested 
himself  in  getting  up  these  sports,  and  was  often  a 
successful  competitor. 

Shortly  after  his  marriage,  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  a 
religious  awakening,  which  was  called  the  American 
Revival,  came  to  the  town,  and  he  became  a  changed 
man,  taking  a  delight  in  religious  work.  He  began 
again  to  take  pleasure  in  the  Muse,  and  he  became  a 
much  appreciated  writer  of  verse  in  the  local 
papers  under  the  nom-de-plume  of  "  Eskdale."  His 
style  was  tender  and  soothing,  and  many  of  his  pieces 
were  religious  and  political,  but  many  of  them  possessed 
a  moral  manly  ring  of  aspiration  for  a  better  time  and 
a  higher  life.  He  occasionally  tried  the  lyric  lay,  and 
one  or  two  of  his  love  songs  are  very  tender  and  sweet. 

Mr  M'Vittie  is  an  out-and-out  temperance  reformer, 
and  he  has  written  some  good  temperance  songs. 
He  is  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  Good  Templar,  and 
also  the  League  Journal,  of  which  association  he  is  at 
present  a  travelling  agent — much  and  widely  esteemed 
as  a  gifted,  attractive,  and  earnest  advocate  of  total 
abstinence. 

I     KEN     A     BIT     LASSIE. 

I  ken  a  bit  lassie,  I  ca'd  her  my  Jessie, 

But  I  wat  she  cares  little  for  me  ; 
For  though  I  caressed  her,  and  mony  time  kissed  her, 

Yet  she  says  it's  hut  glakin  and  glee. 
She  says  I'm  owre  auld,  my  head's  growing  bald — 

I'm  fifty  and  she's  thirty-three — 
But  love  has  a  charm,  and  my  heart  it  is  warm, 

And  there's  room  in't,  my  Jessie,  for  thee. 

Lang,  lang  hae  1  loo'd  her,  and  fain  hae  I  woo'd  her, 

I've  caM  her  my  pet  and  my  doo  ; 
Kicht  pawkie  and  sleek  she  turns  aye  her  cheek 

When  a  kiss  I  wad  pree  at  her  mou. 
She's  wee  in  her  si^e,  but  sma  jewels  I  prize, 

For  they  sparkle  and  dazzle  sae  free  ; 
The  licht  o'  her  een,  like  the  shimmering  sheen 

O'  the  morning,  is  Jessie's  to  me. 


JAMBS  M'VITTIB.  349 

Sae  gnid  and  «ae  tender,  sae  trig  and  sae  slender. 

There's  nane  wi'  my  la«t»ie  can  vie  ; 
She  plays  and  she  sings  aye  the  sweetest  <>'  thing*, 

And  she  says  *1  .  t  when  I'm  nigh. 

Still  for  a'  I  liae  coft.  still  she  says  I  am  soft, 

In  my  heid  she's  sure  "  there's  a  bee  ;  " 
But  if  I'm  to  thrive,  then  the  bee  it  maun  hive 

In  some  neat  little  dwelling  wi'  thee. 

I  hae'na  much  wealth,  but  I'm  bleated  wi'guid  health, 

My  estate  is  my  han'  and  my 'heid, 
A  weel  .stockit  mailin'  ye'll  never  find  failin — 

What  tnair  could  a  braw  bodie  need  ? 
Then  mak'  up  yer  mind,  a'  fears  cast  behind, 

F,.r  this  the  la-st  olfc-r  I'll  gee— 
There's  my  han',  ye've  my  heart  aa  lang  a*  I'm  apair't, 

We'll  be  happy  my  Jessie  and  me. 


"IS    IT    WELL?" 

•'  Tis  well,  'tis  well,"  I  heard  the  voices  say, 
This  was  tin  fancy  in  a  sleepless  night, 

For  universal  nature  sang  this  jiibMant  lay  ; 
The  Judge  of  all  the  earth,  lie  shall  do  right, 
loin  myriad  tongues  it  rose  and  fell, 

The  past,  the  present,  and  the  future,  "all  in  well." 

Tis  well  the  thunders  roll  this  monody, 
The  avalanche  sw«pt  down  the  mountain's  side, 

The  Ikbtoilig  flashed  it"  wierd  wilil  symphony, 
Ati-1  hu-riH  1  th.-  I-i-!iitu-  liill..\v-  of  the  restless  tide, 

Creation  chimed  a  |.;i-  m  on  its  mighty  bell. 

And  back  from  Cl.ao*  came  the  chorus  "all  is  well." 

re  in  all  that  thrilling'  MHIK  was  mute, 

The  key  was  l..-t  mi  harp,  on  lute,  and 

.  and 


'Twas  inun'H,  till  truth  '  iitneKs.  and  kissed 

•til  with  heavenly  fire  ; 
-••tied  tongue  was  swiftest  now  to  tell 
Of  mercy's  crowning  gift,  the  Savour,  all  was  well. 

.  well,"  the  seraphs  sang  on  harps  of  gold, 
Angelic  band*  with  wonder  and  amaze 
!  ••  itching  ears,  desiring  to  be  told 

U,  ,v.  •   r*!i  -h«.uld  loudest  pt  li 

iW  the   ||..:-.  -Ul"  dwell, 

touted  "glory  be  to  <J,,J.  for  all  is  well.' 


350  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

Hell  and  the  grave  in  covenant  dark  and  drear. 
With  one  last  effort  proudly  reared  their  head, 

Smote  the  strong  Son  of  God  in  wrath  and  dread, 
But  at  His  touch  sin,  death,  and  hell  lay  dead  ; 

The  world  in  laughing  chorus  heard  their  knell, 

And  heaven  triumphant  shouted  "  all  is  we]l." 

The  little  feet  that  climbed  the  father's  knee, 
The  tiny  hands  that  wove  the  mother's  hair, 

The  bright  blue  eye  that  laughed  in  happy  glee, 
The  silvery  voice  that  lisped  its  little  prayer, 

All  now  is  hushed,  and  yet  we  hear  them  tell 

That  up  in  heaven,  their  future,  "all  is  well." 

The  mighty  vessel  with  its  human  freight 
Bore  down  its  victims  to  a  watery  grave, 

The  dashing  train  leapt  from  the  bridge's  height, 
No  eye  to  pity,  and  no  hand  to  save  ; 

The  howling  tempest  drowned  their  last  farewell, 

But  hope,  in  soothing  whispers,  tells  us  "  all  is  well. 


A     MAIDEN    STOOD     AT     HER     LOOM     AND     WOVE. 

A  maiden  stood  at  her  loom  and  wove 

Colours  of  every  hue, 
As  all  day  long,  keeping  time  to  her  song, 

The  merry  shuttle  flew. 

Light  was  her  step  and  bright  her  eye, 

Her  fingers  were  crafty  and  skilled, 
While  her  shuttles,  treddles,  and  heddles  complied, 

And  wove  whaterer  she  willed. 

On  her  card  was  stamped  the  figure  of  hope, 

In  her  warp  were  colours  bright, 
And  there  she'd  weave  from  morn  till  eve, 

And  enjoy  sweet  rest  at  night. 

'She  said,  "  I  will  weave  in  this  beautiful  web 

Flowers  both  sweet  and  mild  ;  " 
In  fancy  she'd  sing  of  the  years  to  come, 
But  her  song  was  the  song  of  a  child. 

For  the  weft  was  a  delicat^  tender  thread 

And  often  she  dropped  the  shot, 
And  the  sprig  i<i  the  border  puzzled  her — 

Twas  a  neat  forget-me-not. 


.IAMBH  M'VITTIE.  351 

Ah  !  little  she  dreamer!  of  the  future  at  hand, 

-  illicit  she  have  n?en  the  tear 
Steal  gently  down  her  parent's  fave. 
And  fall  on  Jeannie'a  bi<-r. 

She  wove  till  her  tinkers  weary  grew 

And  her  lovely  eye  waxed  dim, 
Till  the  colours  she  thought  HO  lovely  once 

Grew  faded,  dark,  and  grim. 

Hut  He  who  designed  the  web  of  life 

By  this  diligent  weaver  stood. 
An  I  He  said,  "  Sweet  maid,  you  have  woven  well 

The  web  of  your  womanhood. 

Henceforth  and  for  aye  is  an  endless  day, 
Where  no  cloud  o'ercaats  the  sky. 
On  the  loom  of  love  in  Heaven  above, 
'Neath  the  loving  Saviour's  eye, 

"  Y<>u  shall  weave  from  the  web  begun  below 

A  pattern  rich  and  rare, 
Your  eye  shall  not  fade  nor  finger  fail, 

Nor  aught  your  strength  impair.'' 

No  more  at  the  loom  the  maiden  stands, 

task  of  life  ij  done, 
But  -he  stands  by  the  side,  as  the  ransomed  bride, 


Til  K    TK  A  I:     i.liOP. 

A  way  in  tl  -.d  buttle  of  life, 

Where  h.iiiour-«  art-  seldom  \\<>n, 
In  the  fwted  breath  of  moral  death, 

An  oltl  man  sought  his  son  ; 

and  lie  carried  a  Untern  bright, 
Which  -treau  t--l  ..n  hi-  locks  of  silvery  white. 

I. nr.  l-'iu-  hail  he  nought  the  prodigal  lad, 
\n  I  li"pe,  like  a  h«aven-*ent  ray, 

if.  and  cheered  the  sad  old  man 

Witl,  the  thought  ot  a  brighter  day  ; 
Hark  !  what  in  that,  a  groan,  n  High, 
>  |..Nir  moital  longing  to  die. 

He  st.»-.|>e.l.  and  over  him  threw  the  light, 
lay  in  the  city  s  darkest  - 
Ireary  depth  of  a  sUrleat  night, 


352  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

The  features  rigid,  the  pale  lips  dumb, 
To  that  father's  heart  came  a  burning  tear, 
And  fell  on  that  face  so  loved  and  dear. 

For  weary  years  he  had  sought  the  lad, 
Many  the  prayers  to  Heaven  he'd  sent, 

They  are  answered  now,  thank  God  !  he  cried, 
Not  yet  too  late,  he  may  repent ; 

Aud  that  tear  like  an  arrow  had  entered  fast 

The  soul  of  the  prodigal,  found  at  last. 

And  what  was  he  in  a  mantle  of  flesh 
Expressing,  the  thought  of  the  Infinite  God, 

But  a  pearly  tear  from  the  father's  heart, 
To  dissolve  humanity's  sin  stained  load, 

And  win  from  his  error  by  sweetest  love 

This  prodigal  son  to  his  home  above. 

YARROW'S    BONNY    ROSE. 

There's  a  wee,  wee  hoosie  by  Yarrow's  bonny  stream, 

An'  a  wee  lassie  in  it,  that  haunts  my  wakin'  dream. 

Her  een  are  like  the  inornin',  when  its  smile  o'er  Nature  throws  ; 

The  only  name  she  bears  to  me  is  Yarrow's  Bonny  Rose. 

Her  face  an'  form  are  Nature's  ain — nae  airt  wi't  can  compete  ; 
An'  Nature's  ways  shine  in  her  lays,  sae  winnin'  an'  sae  sweet  ; 
For  sangs  o'  beauty  an'  o'  love  does  she  wi'  grace  compose — 
Nane  sing,  amang  the  Border  Bards,  like  Yarrow's  Bonny  Rose! 

Untutored  in  the  ways  o'  men,  yet  glegly  can  she  spy 
The  hollow  cant  an'  meanness  that  roon'  her  pathway  lie  : 
Wi'  words,  baith  saft  an'  solemn,  in  tales  o'  sangs  an'  prose, 
She  makes  them  feel  the  thorns  that  grow  'neath  Yarrow's  Bonny 
Rose  ! 

In  the  mornin'  mists  I  see  her,  like  a  nymph  oot  o'  the  sea  ; 
In  the  noisy  noonday  bustle,  I  feel  her  sympathy, 
In  the  gorgeous  tinted  glory  the  sun  at  evening  throws, 
I  can  revel  in  communion  wi'  Yarrow's  Bonny  Rose  ! 

I  hae  watched  her  modest  meekness,  I  hae  seen  her  honest  pride  ; 
Through  classic  scenes  and  cities  I  hae  wandered  by  her  side  : 
Nae  secrets  lie  between  us,  for  each  the  other  knows, 
An'  just  because  1  know  I  love  this  Bonny  Yarrow  Rose. 

Long  may  this  Bonny  Rose  be  spared  to  bloom  baith  fresh  an'  fair  ! 
May  nought  within  her  reach  e'er  come  to  make  her  heart  grow  sair! 
And  when  Life's  winter's  ended,  in  Heaven's  calm  repose, 
Then  fairer  still  and  dearer  will  its  Yarrow's  Bonny  Rose  ! 


ALEXANDER  JENKIXS. 


ALEXANDER    JENKINS 

MAS  horn  at  St  Ninians,  neat  Stirling,  in  1841. 
After  utU'iulini:  a  country  school  for  two  or 
throe  years,  he  was  sent  to  the  Stirling  High  School, 
where  he  remained  until  he  attained  the  age  of  sixt 
when  he  was  apprenticed  to  a  "writer"  in  Stirling.  After 
completing  his  apprenticeship,  he  went  to  Edinburgh, 
and  entered  the  office  of  a  Writer  to  the  Signet  While 
there  he  attended  the  law  classes  in  the  University. 
On  the  death  of  his  old  master  in  Stirling,  he  succeeded 
to  his  business,  which  he  still  carries  on  in  company 
with  a  brother,  under  the  firm  of  A.  &  J.  Jenkins. 

Although  actively  engaged  with  professional  work, 
Mr  Jenkins  occasionally  relieves  the  strain  of  business 
by  "mounting  Pegasus,"  and  composing  neat  and 
thoughtful  little  poems,  but  he  has  not  hitherto  pub- 
lished any  of  his  verses.  He  is  a  frequent  contributor 
—by  way  of  correspondence — to  the  daily  papers  on 
public  questions.  He  wrote  with  much  power  against 
the  law  of  imprisonment  for  debt  for  some  vi-ar*  before 
it  was  abolished  by  the  "Debtors'  Act,  1880."  Mi* 
s  then  were  that  it  was  a  barbarous  law,  and  "  in 
nineteen  cases  out  of  twenty"  failed  in  .serurin.ir  pay- 
that  it  ii  i  IK-  character 

of  the  debtor's  wife  and  family,  and   oftni  threw  th.-m 
on  the  parish.     This  \.  md  IK-  h 

that  Mich  a  law  "will  never  again  disgrace  the  Statute 
Book.     The  merchant  wh<»  can   put    his  brother 

.t    in   jail    for  debt   can    h:.r  his 

hiiiiM-lf,'  or  ti  ha  \\.-uM 

to  be  done    by."  Thi*   .sympathetic   and    loving 

spirit   is   shown   in    Mr  .Iciikin  r  in 

e.       Altl,  M-    is  by  ii"  ii. 

prolific,  tth.ii  l»-    i  '  liiou^hl 

in 


354  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

and  sentiment,  a  reflective  mind,  and  deeply  religious 
feeling. 

MOVE     ON! 

Whenever  life  begins  to  beat,  within  the  little  heart, 
Whenever  once  the  little  feet  begin  to  play  their  part, 

Command  is  given, 

Which  comes  from  Heaven, 

Which  must  be  done, 

And  none  can  shun, 

Move  on  ! 

Move  on  in  joy,  in  hope,  in  love, 
Through  earthly  scenes  to  Heaven  above  ; 
Move  on  through  grief,  and  doubts,  and  fears, 
Increasing  with  increasing  years. 

Whene'er  decay  begins  to  prey  upon  the  human  heart, 
Whene'er  the  spirit,  freed  from  clay,  is  ready  to  depart, 

Command  is  given, 

Which  comes  from  Heaven, 

Which  must  be  done, 

And  none  can  shun, 

Move  on  ! 

Move  on  through  worlds  unknown  before, 
Move  on  in  life  for  evermore  ; 
Continuous  bliss,  o'ertiowing  love, 
Abounding  in  the  realms  above. 


UNTIL    THE    DAY    DAWN. 

Ancient  prophecy  fortelling 

Of  a  glorious  day  to  dawn, 
Misery  and  woe  dispelling 

To  the  suffering  race  of  man. 

What  shall  be  the  signs  preceding, 
Heralding  that  glorious  morn? 

Will  it  be  a  star  appearing, 
As  when  the  Prince  of  Peace  was  born  ? 

Or  shall  the  earth  be  rent  asunder, 
And  worlds  unto  destruction  hurl'd? 

Or  will  men  simplv  wake  from  slumber 
To  find,  created,  "  The  new  world?" 


ANDREW   BUCHANAN.  355 

THINE    EAR    13    EVER    OPEN. 

He  who  formed  the  human  «ar, 
Every  human  sound  doth  hear  ; 
Every  whisper,  every  sigh, 
Reaches  His  abode  on  high, 
Who  can  such  a  listener  be. 
Heavenly  Father,  like  to  Thee  ! 

Sound*  of  anguish,  grief  and  pain, 
To  thine  ear  an  entrance  gain  ; 
Songs  of  gladness,  words  of  love 
Are  wafted  to  thine  ear  above, 
Who  can  such  a  listmer  be, 
Heavenly  Father,  like  to  Thee  ! 

Ever  since  the  world  began, 
And  while  endures  the  race  of  man, 
Endless  murmuring  and  cries 
Continous  to  Thy  throne  arise  ; 
Who  can  such  a  listener  be, 
Heavenly  Father,  like  to  thee  ! 

That  great  sounding-board — the  sky, 
Thunders  earthly  sounds  on  hi«h, 
And  Thine  ever-listening  ear 
Hears  the  feeblest  cry  of  fear  ; 
Who  can  such  a  listener  be, 
Heavenly. Father,  like  to  Thee  ! 

Great  prayer-hearing,  Heavenly  King, 
We  adoration  to  Thee  bring, 
And  at  Thy  throne  of  grace  bow  down 
To  say,  "Do/Thou  our  efforts  crown  ;" 
For  who  can  such  a  listener  be,. 
Heavenly  Father,  like  to  Thee  ! 


ANDREW  BUCHANAN 

a  native  of  Stirlingshire,   having  been  horn  nt 
Cowic  Bank,  a  small  property  about  four  miKs 
(In-    OOUntj    Eown,    |M,irhjtvcl    by    his    an 
is  the  uinl  "t"  tlu-  hiM   rt'iitury.      His  father,  who 


3-56  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

was  a  great  lover  of  Burns'  poems,  and  was  a  man  of 
remarkable  strength  of  character,  who  possessed  a 
wide  knowledge  of  men  arid  things,  fostered  and  en- 
couraged Andrew's  early  love  of  books.  He  devoted 
all  his  spare  time  to  the  education  of  his  children,  in 
which  he  was  ably  assisted  by  their  intelligent  mother. 
His  father  frequently  described  many  of  the  incidents 
that  took  place  at  the  time  of  Waterloo — how  the 
simple  country  people  expected  to  see  the  French 
armies  at  their  doors,  and  how  rebellious  children  were 
awed  at  once  into  submission  by  the  very  mention  of 
"Buonaparte."  After  attending  school,  he  was  appren- 
ticed to  the  grocery  trade  in  Stirling,  and  ten  years 
later  saw  him  in  business  there  on  his  own  account,  in 
which  calling  he  is  presently  engaged.  When  a  mere 
lad  he  was  wont  to  amuse  himself  by  writing  poetical 
acrostics  for  his  friends  ;  and  in  recent  years  he  has, 
under  various  noms-de-plume,  contributed  prose  and 
verse  to  several  journals.  He  has  frequently  been 
amused  to  hear  the  authorship  of  many  of  his  produc- 
tions attributed  to  various  individuals.  Particularly 
fond  of  children,  he  has,  for  about  twenty  years,  been 
an  active  worker  as  teacher  and  superintendent  in  a 
mission  school.  Mr  Buchanan's  mode  of  poetical  ex- 
pression is  exceedingly  smooth,  musical,  and  thought- 
ful, and  often  earnestly  religious  in  its  tone. 

L I  F  E  . 

What  is  life  ?  a  little  rosebud, 

Promise  bright,  and  perfume  rare  ; 
Soon  the  frosts  of  winter  gather — 

Nip  the  blossom,  sweet  and  fair. 

What  is  life  ?  a  little  flow'ret, 

Shedding  fragrance  all  around  ; 
Ruthless  blasts  of  desolation 

Dash  it  quickly  to  the  ground. 

What  is  life  ?  a  little  garden, 
With  a  cros«,  and  eke  a  grave, 


AXDRRW    BUCHANAN.  357 

Standing  out  in  all  their  primness, 

Wounding  hearts  both  stout  and  brave. 

What  is  life  ?  a  mighty  burden, 

.-in  and  Horraw,  grief  and  care, 
Crushing  noble  aHpirutioim, 

Filling  heart*  with  dark  despair. 

What  is  life  ?  a  race  of  strong  one*, ' 

Where  the  goal  is,  who  shall  say  ; 
Not  the  swiftest  gains  the  laurel. 

Oft  "  the  feeble  take  the  prey." 

What  is  life  ?  a  battle  raging 

Day  by  day  and  hour  by  hour  : 
Strength  of  heart  and  »oul  engaging, 

Till  is  won  sweet  vict'ry's  dower. 

What  is  life  ?  a  shadow  fleeting 

Over  time's  dark  sullen  tide. 
Till  "life'8  fitful  fever  over," 

Safe  we  reach  the  other  side. 

What  is  life?  a  painful  climbing 
Through  the  darknexs  towards  the  light, 

Stumbling,  falling  faint,  and  weary, 
Praying  for  the  dawning  bright. 

What  is  life?  a  mournful  record. 

Broken  vows,  ami  fond  hopes  chilled  ; 
True  heart-  itlighted,  true  love  blighted, 

Youth's  bright  promise  unfulfilled. 

What  is  life  ?  a  cup  of  wormwood, 

Nature  bids  us  from  it  *hrink, 
Love  can  make  us  drain  the  goblet, 

Tis  our  Father  bid*  us  drink. 

What  is  life?  unceasing  praises 

•  the  blood- washed  sons  of  men, 

an,  who  in  pity 
Died  for  all,  and  roue  again. 

SYMPATHY. 

'Tin  strange  when  we  are  filled  with  fear, 

li  grief  and  care  opprest, 
If  wi  «**, 

One  •yuipatuUiotf  breast, 


'*. . 


358  MODERN   SCOTTISH    POETS. 

Our  cares  and  sorrows  flee  away, 
Ashamed  are  all  our  fears, 

The  mountain  a  molehill  becomes, 
Mayhap  it  disappears— 

'Tis  passing  strange. 

'Tis  strange  when  joy  doth  fill  the  soul 

Until  it  overflows, 
The  more  our  happiness  is  shared 

The  greater  still  it  grows. 
Our  griefs  are  robbed  of  half  their  smart, 

If  they  but  once  be  told, 
Our  joys,  if  shared  a  hundred  times, 

Increase  a  hundred  fold — 

'Tis  passing  strange. 

Yet  after  all  it  is  not  strange, 

For  well  our  Father  knows, 
Were  it  not  so  our  burdened  hearts 

Would  sink  beneath  their  woes. 
Oh,  let  us  then  His  goodness  praise, 

His  wondrous  grace  adore, 
And  henceforth  in  His  strength  resolve, 

To  love  and  serve  Him  more. 

H  AME. 

Awa'  wi'  tittle  tattle, 

Gie  me  my  bairnies'  prattle, 

An'  manfully  I'll  battle 

To  keep  a''  richt  at  hame. 

Hame,  sweet,  sweet  hame, 

What  place  can  be  like  hame  ? 

My  but-an'-ben  sae  cozy, 
My  lassies  sweet  an'  rosy, 
Wha'  cuddle  in  my  bosie, 
At  e'en  when  I  come  hame. 
Hame,  &c. 

My  faithfu',  thrifty  Meg- 
She's  aye  sae  clean  an'  trig, 
There's  ne'er  a  care  can  fleg 
Sae  lang's  I've  her  at  hame. 
Hame,  &c. 

I've  nae  desire  for  fame- 
It's  but  an  empty  name, 
An'  aj  its  joys  are  tame 
Compared  wi'  joys  at  hame. 
Hame,  &c. 


ALEXANDER  GOLDIE.  359 

Bat  tho'  this  warld's  fair, 
Oor  he'rts  are  aften  sair 
Wi»  dool  an'  dowie  care. 
For  this  is  no  oor  hatne. 
Hame,  ic. 

Within  the  gates  o'  licht, 
Abune  the  stars  sae  bricht, 
Ayont  a*  mortal  sicht 
Lies  hoar  tnony-mansion'd  hame. 
Hame,  Ac. 

We're  strangers  ane  an*  a', 
We  seek  oor  Faither'a  ha', 
An'  if  on  Him  we  ea'. 
Some  day  Hell  talc'  as  hame. 
Hame,  &c. 

This  thocht  oor  he'rts  '11  cheer, 

The  hoar  is  drawin'  near 

When  oor  Faither's  voice  we'll  hear 

Say  in'  "  Bairns  o'  mine,  come  hame." 
Hatne.  sweet,  sweet  hame, 

Oor  bluid-bocht  heavenly  hame. 

Nae  sin  nor  sorrow  there 
Can  sink  us  in  despair, 
Wi'  Jesus  evermair 

We'll  safely  bide  at  hame. 
Hame,  sweet,  sweet  hame, 

Oor  Faither'M  hoose  at  hame. 


ALEXANDER    GOLDIE. 

K  subject  of  this  sketch  was  born  at  Catrine, 
Sorn    Parish,    Ayrshire,    in    1841,    where   his 
parents  reared  a  large  nunilj  in  ImmUr  c«.mf«.rt   and 
i.ilitv.      O  'cliil.lr.-n 

in  tii  ilM  "f  In.  ,  in   the   cotton 

>ry    iw    buiu-il    liis   strength.       He  entered 


360  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

employment  of  Messrs  James  Finlay  &  Company  as  a 
half-timer  when  eight  years  of  age,  at  which  time  he 
began  to  attend  that  Company's  school.  Songs, 
history,  and  traditionary  tales  were  the  first  food 
offered  to  his  awakening  appetite  for  knowledge. 
At  an  early  date  the  sacred  fire  caught  the  ready  fuel 
which  nature  had  adjusted  for  its  supply,  and  his  early 
and  constant  reading  became  rooted  in  his  memory 
and  gushed  forth  into  song.  When  a  young  man  he 
had  an  ardent  longing  for  information  of  every  de- 
scription, and  to  this  was  added  untiring  energy  in  the 
pursuit  of  what  he  conceived  to  be  the  right.  He 
became  a  member  of  the  Total  Abstinence  Society  in 
1853,  and  when  the  Good  Templar  movement  reached 
Catrine,  in  1870,  he  identified  himself  with  the 
organization,  and  laboured  as  zealously  in  the  "  new 
order  "  as  he  had  done  in  the  old.  Mr  Goldie  was 
also  one  of  those  who  took  the  initiative  step  in  the 
formation  of  a  local  Co-operative  Society,  in  which  he 
for  a  number  of  years  held  important  offices,  and  was 
treasurer  when,  in  1880,  he  left  Catrine  for  a  higher 
sphere  of  labour  in  Newrnilns.  He  also  took  an  active 
interest  in  the  Mutual  Improvement  Society,  and  was 
long  associated  with  the  management  of  the  Public 
Library.  Indeed,  he  is  ever  ready  to  do  all  in  his 
power  for  the  welfare  of  those  around  him,  and  to 
engage  in  the  most  toilsome  and  difficult  task  to 
gratify  the  wishes  of  a  friend.  Before  removing  to 
Newmilns  (where  he  is  now  foreman  of  the  chenille 
department  in  Messrs  Hood,  Morton  &  Go's  Greenholm 
Factory),  he  was  presented  by  the  U.  P.  Congregation 
with  a  handsome  gold  watch  and  chain,  in  recognition 
of  valued  services  in  the  past. 

Mr  Goldie  has  written  much,  both  in  prose  and  verse 
— the  fruits  of  his  leisure  hours.  He  has  for  many 
years  contributed  to  the  Ardrossan  and  Saltcoats 
the  Galston  Supplement)  and  other  news- 


ALEXANDER  OOLDIE.  361 

papers  and  magazines.  All  his  writings  possess  strong 
nalitv  and  iiiucli  "Tfimiiir  humour.  Several  of  his 
songs  have  considerable  depth  of  feeling,  while  his 
character  skctrlir>.  and  poems  about  men  and  things, 
show  clever  touches,  as  well  as  a  vigorous  and  truly 
poetical  mind. 

THE    WEE    THACK    COT. 

Is  there  a  *i>ot  on  a'  the  earth, 

A  place  that's  dearer  far 
Than  in  the  palace  of  a  king, 

Where  wealth  and  beauty  are? 
Oh  !  ye*  thert-  in,  where  true  hearts  dwell, 

Oh  xacred  little  spot  ! 
I  would  not  leave  for  India's  wealth 

Dor  cozy  wee  thmok  cot. 

It's  been  my  shield  when  world'*  cares 

Have  ranked  my  hreatt  with  pain, 
Where  oft  a  parent'-*  (toothing  voice 

Ha*  made  m«  xtnile  again. 
Nae  Wild  i«  like  thy  cozy  hap— 

Beat  Hhelter  e'er  I  got, 
When  <lrr.-,,iim'  rain*  and  Meeting  snows 

Pall  round  <><>r  wee  thack  cot. 

F«>r  wli-n  bleak  winter'-  chilly  blant 

\\Y  frost  an'  snaw  appear, 
We  uevt-r  feel  their  bitter  bite, 

They  daurna  come  Mae  near. 
For  once  beneath  thy  dear  warm  shade 

I  dinna  care  a  groat. 
Though  win. I-  in  angry  pftflsiona  roar 

Around  oor  wee  thack  cot. 

hax  thy  kindly  nhade 
A  hearty  welc 
Kr-'in  HUH. in  i  H  wnrm  and  itcorching  ray* 

The  aulil.  and  frail,  und  orphan  wean, 

got 

\Vi  n.  merkly  lift  the  han.l, 

An1  l.l.-H  the  wee  thack  < 

Nae  won  er  that  my  heart  to  theo 

Clin^'«  lik  --en  ; 

We're  )••>   M.I  t"  ane  inilher. 

As  the  trout  i*  to  the  «tn  ..m. 


362  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

Yet  though  we  part,  in  memory's  page 
Thou'lt  be  a  sunny  spot, 

My  heart  will  firmly  cling  to  thee, 
Oh  sacred  wee  thack  cot. 


HE    CAN    TODDLE    HIS    LANE. 

Oor  wee  baby  brither,  the  pride  o'  his  mither, 
His  daddie's  ain  treasure,  an'  licht  'o  oor  hame, 

Has  filled  us  wi'  pleasure  by  his  brave  endeavour 
To  start  on  life's  journey  an'  toddle  his  lane, 

To  toddle  his  lane,  toddle  his  lane, 

Nae  wonner  we're  prood  he  can  toddle  his  lane. 

Tho'  he  walks  wi'  a  hobble,  an'  speaks  a  queer  gabble, 
Yet  a'  seem  to  ken  what  he's  meanin'  quite  plain  ; 

His  walk's  mair  entrancin'  than  warrior  prancin' 
When  oor  wee  baby  brither  gangs  toddlin'  his  lane, 

Toddlin'  his  lane,  toddlin'  his  lane, 

His  step  will  grow  firm  as  he  toddles  his  lane. 

To  reach  oor  wee  table  the  wee  thing's  no  able, 
Yet  he  rules  like  a  king  in  his  little  domain, 

Ye'd  almost  be  thinking  we  rin  at  his  winkin', 
As  a'  strive  to  serve  oor  wee  toddlin'  wean, 

Oor  wee  toddlin'  wean,  wee  toddlin'  wean, 

There  are  waur  folks  to  please  than  oor  toddlin'  wean. 

Mither  rocks  when  she's  darnin1,  but  washin'  or  ironin' 
I'm  forced  to  sit  still  like  a  callan  o'  stane, 

Exceptin'  the  pookin'  the  string  to  keep  rockin' — 
0  why  werna  bairnies  horn  toddlin'  their  lane, 

Toddlin'  their  lane,  toddlin1  their  lane, 

A  wee  juck  can  rin  the  first  day  a'  its  lane. 

At  climin'  or  creepin'  he  was  gran',  but  at  sleepin' 
He's  nocht  but  a  wee  wauckrif  witch  o'  a  wean  ; 

Noo  by  gangs  the  cradle,  for  th^y  who  are  able 
Should  sleep  withoot  rockin'  that  toddle  their  lane, 

That  toddle  their  lane,  toddle  their  lane, 

An'  like  him,  I'll  get  freedom  to  toddle  my  lane. 

It  was  ne'er  coonted  labour,  but  rather  a  favour, 
As  he  held  by  the  spurtle  we  taught  him  to  gang, 

An'  we  hope  in  life's  journey  he'll  watch  ilka  turnie, 
An'  then  oor  wee  bairnie  will  ne'er  toddle  wrang, 

Will  ne'er  toddle  wrang,  ne'er  toddle  wrang, 

They  that  watch  weel  life's  turuies  will  ne'er  toddle  wrang . 


JOHN    MACINTOSH.  363 

THE    EMIGRANTS'    FAREWELL. 

The  word  farewell  muxt  leave  oar  lips, 

For  we  rou«t  leave  old  Scotia*  shore, 
The  sunny  land  that  gave  as  birth, 

Thy  heathery  hills  we'll  see  no  more. 

The  bnrnie  side,  where  aft  in  glee, 

In  younger  days  we  sported  Tang, 
The  flowery  brae  we  a1  maun  lee', 

Whase  yellow  broom  we've  row'd  amang. 

But  oh  !  that  place  we  lo'e  sae  weel, 
Thou  dear  old  hearth  we  now  most  part, 

Our  memory  still  shall  cling  to  thee — 
A  sacred  thought  within  our  heart. 

'Twas  there  to  lisp  our  youthful  prayer, 

Around  our  loving  parent's  knee, 
Twas  there  we  learned  to  trust  that  God 

Who  girds  ua  both  on  land  and  sea. 

But  a*  that's  dear  we  noo  maun  lee', 
E'en  Ayr'*  sweet  gurgling  stream  adieu, 

The  haunt  of  many  a  happy  day, 
0  sacred  spot  adieu  !  adieu  ! 

Farewell  to  dear  auld  Scotia's  shore, 
Farewell  th<*u  l><>nny  blooming  heather, 

Farewell  sweet  Sabbath  bells,  adieu  ! 
Whose  sacred  sounds  aye  gaed  us  pleasure. 

Adieu  sweet  home,  ami  dear  old  friends, 
Who  proofs  of  friendship  oft  have  given. 

Oh  !  parents,  it's  but  for  a  tin,.-. 
Adieu  !  adieu  !  we'll  meet  in  heaven. 


JOHN    MACINTOSH, 

POE'I                tilt-  p..\\ri>,  for  he  ha*  shown  a 

in:irl,'--i  •  muaic  and 

horn  in  Wi.",  'tUge,   parish 

of  GuUtoii,  011    the   south    h.u»k  of    the    Irviuc,    aud 


364  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

within  gunshot  of  "  London's  bonnie  woods  and  braes." 
His  father,  John  Macintosh,  who  was  a  native  of 
Methven,  Perthshire,  and  carried  on  the  business  of  a 
papermaker  at  Strath  Mill,  Ayrshire,  died  when  the 
subject  of  our  sketch  was  about  six  years  of  age.  His 
mother,  who  is  still  alive,  is  a  native  of  Livingstone, 
Linlithgowshire.  Having  attended  Galston  Parish 
School  for  some  time,  Mr  Macintosh  completed  his 
early  education  at  Kilmarnock  Academy,  and  thereafter 
entered  the  office  of  Mr  Railton,  architect  and  civil 
engineer,  Kilmarnock.  At  the  end  of  three  years' 
service  he  was  advised,  on  account  of  imperfect  health, 
to  seek  a  short  release  from  business  studies,  and  it 
was  during  this  leisure  time  that  his  poetic  faculty 
began  to  ventilate  itself  in  the  form  of  stray  verses. 
Some  of  these  found  a  corner  in  the  Ardrossan  Herald, 
the  Ayr  Advertiser,  and  other  newspapers.  Subse- 
quently he  was  employed  in  an  office  in  Ayr,  and  the 
days  spent  in  the  "auld  toon,"  "wham  ne'er  a  toon 
surpasses,"  were  productive  of  beneficial  results  in  the 
way  of  restoring  him  to  a  sounder  basis  of  health.  For 
the  last  five  years  Mr  Macintosh  has  been  practising  his 
profession  at  Newmilns,  the  centre  of  the  lace  trade 
in  Scotland,  and  several  of  the  mills  in  that  district 
have  been  built  from  his  designs.  Of  late  he  has 
carried  on  the  photographic  business  in  combination 
with  his  other  calling.  We  have  already  mentioned 
that  our  poet  has  also  devoted  some  attention,  and 
with  considerable  success,  to  painting  and  music.  We 
further  learn  that,  on  a  violin  of  his  own  construction, 
he  has  frequently  (accompanied  by  his  brother  Robert 
on  the  concertina),  amused  the  good  folks  of  Galston 
and  Newmilns — in  particular  on  one  occasion,  when 
readings  were  being  given  by  Mr  Walter  Bentley, 
and  at  another  time  by  Mr  Ferguson,  the  well-known 
humorous  elocutionist.  Mr  Macintosh,  in  his  writings, 
has  given  several  valuable  contributions  to  our  Doric 


JOHN   MA.  IN  TOSH.  365 

literature,  mainly  under  the  nom  rfr /?/wm*of  "Rusticus," 
and  we  are  pleased  to  learn  that  lie  has  some  intention 
of  publishing  a  selection  of  his  prose  and  poetry  in 
book  form.  IU-  takrs  a  wide  range  of  themes,  and  his 
poetry  is  marked  by  a  simple  truth,  an  irresistible 
force,  and  a  pleasing  fancy  that  is  calculated  to  reach 
the  heart. 


"BETTER  SMA*   FISH   THAN    NANE." 

Cheer  up.  old  hoy,  it*  a  bad  look  oot 

To  he  l-reakin  your  heart  owre  a  shabby  suit, 

Though  your  earning"  are  barely  a  crown  in  the  day. 

AH  Home  folk  gay, 

You  flhnnldna  look  milky,  or  yaummer  and  irrane, 
But  mind  aye  that  sma'  Hah  are  better  than 


You've  a  tidy  wee  wife  and  a  weel  t  hack  it  boose, 
Wi*  a  cony  fire'en  whaur  ye  »it  ^f  yan  crooae, 
And  while  ye  nit  free  ••'  the  income  tax, 
the  law  exact*, 


Yon  needna  look  urmnMie,  or  yaummer  and  grane, 
But  mind  aye  that  sma'  fish  are  better  than  nane. 

And  what  need  ye  care,  you're  an  honest  chap, 
And  although  you  hae  met  wi'  «  *>air  minhap, 
It'*  an  unc«>  DM  hnir-t  that  i>rinif*  never  a  fheaf 
To  the  fur  ive. 

i..-  -'ilkv,  <T  yatiinmer  an<l  k'rane, 
But  mind  aye  that  siua'  nsh  are  belter  than  nane. 

Though  a  neebor  «et-  up  in  the  war!  no«>  and  then, 
An«l  lookH  diM.n  «  T  Mcorn  <m  hit  puir  fellow  men, 
An<i  tliouk>h  h»r«e*  an<l  Ian'  Minna  grant  ye  a  name 

In  the  t«-inple  «>'  fame, 
<-ilna  be  sulky,  or  yaummer  ami  grane, 
uin.l  aye  that  suia'  Hsh  are  better  than  nane. 

m  angler  twangs  nut  wi'  his  rod  and  his  reel 

.  .»m»'  wi1  a  wallopin'  creel, 
,  he  catchen  but  twa  or  three  truoU  in  a  day. 

As  some  anglers  may, 
:ia  look  sii!  iner  and  uTane. 

that  Hina'  ti«h  are  better  than 


366  MODERN  SCOTTISH 


So  rouse  up  my  lad,  it's  a  bad  look  oot 

To  be  breakin'  your  heart  owre  a  shabby  suit, 

Though  your  earnings  are  only  a  croon  ilka  day, 

As  some  folk  say, 

You  shouldna  look  grumblie,  or  yaummer  and  grane, 
But  mind  aye  that  sma'  fish  are  better  than  nane. 

THE  WEE  CH1CK-CHICKIE. 

Auld  hen,  you're  unco  douce  the  day, 

You're  unco  douce,  but  'deed 
Nae  wonder  is't  you  should  be  sae, 

For  wee  chick-chickie's  deid. 

The  wee  bit  rinnin'  chirpin'  thing, 

That  followed  aye  your  lead, 
Nae  mair  'twill  cour  aneath  your  wing 

For  wee  chick-chickie's  deid. 

'Twas  fun  to  see  it  chase  you,  fain 

To  snatch  the  crumb  o'  breid, 
But  ne'er  'twill  peck  the  crumb  again, 

For  wee  chick-chickie's  deid. 

Come  a'  ye  ither  chickies  roun', 

Distend  the  vocal  reed, 
And  requiem  wi'  solemn  soun' 

For  wee  chick-chickie's  deid. 

And  if  your  language  but  were  mine, 

Or  mine  were  yours  instead, 
I'd  join  you  in  your  requiem 

Owre  wee  chick-chickie  deid. 

TRIAL. 

Is  there  a  spirit  bending  low, 
Beneath  dark  mysteries  of  woe, 

Heart-broken  and  opprest, 
No  need  that  over-burdened  man 
•Should  for  his  welfare  scheme  and  plan, 

God's  way  is  ever  best  ? 

We  may  not  grasp  the  tinselled  toy, 
The  golden  threads  of  hope  and  joy, 

Which  make  our  life  a  dream  ; 
For  He  must  work.  His  grand  design, 
Despite  each  plan  of  thine  or  mine, 

Whose  wisdom  is  supreme. 


J«'HN    MACINTOSH.  367 

Dark  griefs  may  cloud  the  mind  of  man, 
An<l  hide  the  many-coloured  span 

Of  mercy 'H  dazzling  bow  ; 
But  clouds  descend  in  gentle  rain, 
And  storms  are  never  spent  in  vain. 

Much  less  the  tears  of  woe. 

The  time-entangled  web  of  Fate 
Shall  be  unravelled  soon  or  late, 

Each  sorrow,  sigh,  and  tear, 
When  ransomed  spirits  meet  above, 
Shall  in  God's  tapestry  of  love, 

A  rich  design  appear. 


HUME,    HAPPY    HOME. 

Home,  happy  home,  no  words  can  tell 
What  music  lingers  in  thy  name  ; 

When  age  draws  nigh,  thy  magic  spell 
Enchants  UH  like  a  pleasant  dream. 

The  veteran  sire,  on  foreign  shore. 

In  cot  or  hall,  where'er  he  dines 
Still  reads  thy  old  familiar  lore, 

Unwrit,  except  on  memory's  lines. 

He  sees  the  rose-bush,  still  the  same 
Beneath  thy  roof's  projecting  eaves, 

Stretching  athwart  the  window  pane. 
With  sweet  buds  nestling  'mid  its  leave*. 

He  sees  the  cherished  garden  plot, 
Where  mignonette  and  violets  grew. 

Where  still  the  sweet  forget-me-not 
Looks  up  with  eye  of  tender  blue. 

He  marks  the  ivy. tangled  mesh 
Grow  green  upon  thy  wall*  again, 

While  visions  OfpMl  happiness 
Gleam  through  realities  of  pain. 

He  sees  the  wreck  of  tinselled  toys 

Whi.-h  ,till  hi*  ciiildh..-*!-*  heart  endear*, 
The  debris  of  a  thousand  joys 
Seen  through  an  avenue  of  years. 

When  drawing  near  the  yawning  gap 
That  n.ark-  th.  .  i  x I  blU  and  pain, 


368  MODERN  SCOTTISH  POETS. 

Once  more  the  springs  of  youth  to  tap, 
To  tread  his  native  soil  again. 

Should  he  revisit  that  dear  nook, 
What  then,  the  burden  of  his  pain  ? 

Oh  for  a  mother's  tender  look — 
A  father's  welcome  grasp  again. 

Not  where  displays  of  wealth  abound, 
Or  summer  smiles  through  one  long  year, 

But  where  affection  gathers  round 
Those  objects  to  our  hearts  most  dear. 

'Tis  there  we  find  the  sacred  spot 
For  which  our  panting  bosoms  pine, 

An  ever-green  time-trodden  plot, 
Which  hallowe-l  memories  enshrine. 

So  when  our  troubled  bosoms  yearn 
For  buried  hopes  and  trampled  love, 

From  earth's  uncertainties  we  turn, 
And  seek  a  changeless  home  above. 


JAMES     BRAND     CROMBIE, 

COATBRIDGE  has  been  the  residence  of  a  number 
of  our  "  Modern  Scottish  Poets,"  but  we  think 
Mr  Crombie  is  the  only  one  who  can  claim  the  "  Iron 
Town  "  as  the  place  of  his  nativity.  He  is  a  young 
man,  but  his  life  has  not  been  without  its  shadows. 
When  about  seven  years  old,  in  some  boyish  gambol, 
he  so  injured  one  of  his  legs  that  a  long  and  serious 
illness  was  engendered,  his  sufferings  for  long  after- 
wards were  intense,  and  for  some  time  his  life  was 
despaired  of,  but  three  years  after,  he  had  sufficiently 
recovered  to  resume  and  finish,  in  Gartsherrie  Academy, 
his  interrupted  school-life.  It  was  during  his  long 
illness  that  he  made  his  first  efforts  at  composition, 


JAMES  BRAND   CROMBIB.  369 

but  these  he  subsequently  destroyed.  On  leaving 
school  he  was  apprenticed  as  a  clerk  to  the  North 
r.ritNh  llailuav  ( 'oinpaiiv,  and  \\roiight  in  the  District 
SuperintendciH  >  «.ilin-  at  ( 'oatbridge.  At  present  he 
is  in  tlic-  Ci'iu-ral  Goods'  Manager's  office,  Glasgow,  but 
resides  with  his  parents  at  Coatbridge.  Mr  Croinbie 
takes  an  active  part  in  Church  work,  and  warmly 
supports  everv  «  \angelistic  effort  that  may  be 
made  for  winning  the  lapsed  masses.  He  is 
an  earnest  advocate  of  total  abstinence,  and  an 
enthusiastic-  politician,  being  corresponding  secretary 
of  the  Coatbridge  Junior  Liberal  Association.  An 
eloquent  sj>eaker,  and  frequently  tefore  the  public, 
he  is  well-known  and  popular  amongst  his  townsmen. 
Hi-  writings  are  mainly  reflective,  and  though  at 
times  unequal  in  Hnish,  we  find  in  them  many  pleasant 
glances,  an  elevated  feeling,  and  the  evidence  that  they 
are  the  emanations  of  a  pure  and  thoughtful  mind. 


JUST    A    BUTTERFLY 

Just  a  butU-rfly.  bright  ami  «ay, 
Flitting  aye  onward  day  by  day, 
Over  the  field*  <-f  rip  ninx  hay, 
Over  the  spot*  that  fatrent  I  l«>,.i,,. 
:.c  i  ich  and  tweet  perfume. 
Seeking  the  light.  thuDuiug  the  «lo  in. 

a  butterfly  >  that  i«  all- 
Flitting  aye  on  with  rUe  and  fall, 

.•  the  flower*  a  pa/uing  call, 
That  by  tl.  •  ich  and  sw 

That  by  their  beauty  all  complete 
Seem  to  promise  a  dainty  treat. 

Such  U  the  woman— such  it  she 
held  me  in  captivity, 
nee  I  Haw,  as  now  I  see, 

That  Hhe  WJM  but  a  butUsrfh  ; 

A  creature  n  t-e  the  eye— 

•nrn  and  bound  to  die 


370  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

BIRDS. 

Are  birds  in  hat  and  muff  meant  to  profess 

A  love  for  birds?     Are  they  the  outward  mark 

By  which  a  warm  affection's  vital  spark, 

Glowing  in  the  heart,  some  to  the  world,  confess'- 

Or  are  they,  pure  and  simple,  meant  to  dress 

The  wearer,  be  she  fair  or  be  she  dark, 

When  pride  or  vanity  bid  her  embark 

The  heart  of  man  with  beauty  to  impress? 

Those  hearts  that  love  the  birds  will  give  no  plea 

To  heartless  avaricious  men  who  slay 

The  little  songsters  that  they  love,  co  do 

Their  evil  work,  wha'e'er  the  fashion  be, 

By  wearing  birds  and  furnishing  the  pay 

For  which  these  men  God's  little  songsters  slay. 


THE     WIDOW'S    MITE. 

That  He  micht  His  disciples  teach 
A  lesson  they  wad  hae  to  preach, 
Close  to  the  plate,  whaur  he  could  see 
Ilk  ane  to  God  their  giftie  gie, 
Ae  day  por  Saviour  took  his  stan' 
When  fouk  into  the  kitk  were  gaun. 

Fu'  gkjg  o'  e'e  he  looked  ower  a', 
The  puirly  cled  an'  unco  braw  ; 
Some  stappit  in  wi'  loidly  gait 
An'  cast  their  gowd  intae  the  plate, 
As  if  'twere  nocht  that  they  had  gien 
And  could  afford  it  weel,  I  ween. 

Some  carls  cam',  wi'  bodies  bent, 
Wha  were  to  Kirk  by  conscience  sent. 
Twa-three  o'  sic  gaed  slippen  ben 
As  if  o'  plate  they  didna  ken  ; 
Twa-three  a  copper  did  drap  in 
As  if  they  said  "  Forgie  my  sin." 

Some  sturdy  loons,  that  werna  blate, 
Each  flung  a  bawbee  in  the  plate, 
As  if  a  muckle  gift  they'd  gien 
That  sud  by  ither  fouk  be  seen, 
While  they,  the  nicht  afore,  had  wared 
Mony  a  copper  an'  ne'er  cared. 


JAMES    DRAM.    n«»MBIB.  371 

Some  lasm'es  ram',  buskit  hrmwly, 
MI...I  an'  trig,  an'  glaiket  dawly  ; 

•ne  cam'  wi'  face*  lan«  an*  dour 
That  t«lt  o'  speerits  sad  an'  sour  ; 

cam'  wi'  jaunty  Mpringing  stap  ; 

ntf  trauchled  in  fu  like  to  drap. 

The  Maixter  let  them  a'  «ae  by, 

Ower  motiy  breathed  a  mournfu*  sigh, 

Till  ae  pair  body  hirpN'd  in. 

Wha  ha<i  on  earth  nae  kith  nor  kin, 

Then  sweet  he  smiled  a«  i*»t  her  plaid 

Her  haun*  she  stretched,  an'  meekly  laid 

II.  -r  humble  cift  into  the  plate. 

;uiK  the  sma',  amang  the  great  ; 
Though  it  was  xma'eat  <»'  the  sina", 
That  nift  was  greater  than  them  a', 
Sue  Christ  tauld  hi*  .li-.c-ij.len  when 
The  widow  to  the  Kirk  «aed  ben. 

THi:     KKM'ER    AND    THE    FLOWERS. 

Forth  went  an  old  reaper,  *harp  sickle  in  hand, 

The  ^ruin  tn  cut  at  his  M:»-ti-r'«  command  ; 

Hut  thick  in  the  Held  where  his  tfickle  he  plied 

Many  bright  Hower*  the  old  ieap«-r  eitpied. 

Vet  duty  forbad*  him  a  u  ometit  to  stay 

To  lift  from  hi«  blade  the  nwevt  Howerx  away. 

They  fell  'neath  hi*  Mtr.>ke«  with  the  ->ld  braided  urain. 

AH  hin  Mickle  he  u»ed  with  mu'ht  and  main  ; 

They  fell  'neath  1.  with  the  \v.-e-U  tail  an  I  -t. 

AM  onward  he  pa»«ed  with  >*ad  mournful 

The  Ma-ter  looke.l  »n  »«nd  the  flower*  he  *aw  fall  ; 

ServanU  to  cath.-r  them  came  at  hi*  call. 

The  i!  picked  up  and  all  carried  away 

To  garden  »  where  n»n«-  <  an  <-\>-r  decay, 

Hut  remain  fair  atnl  lui^ht  in  unfading  1-1.  »,m 

Where  shadow  of  ni^ht  ne'er  casteth  a  «h.«.m. 


'l'h«-  \la-t-  r  i-  <;...!.      I  lie  <>li|  re»|-  : 

>rded  Krr»»»  »«"•  those  MiinU  who  u  \\ait 
Cath.  riiu-  in  tl.i  pearly  gait. 

•  y  are  thrown. 
The  Huwer-  that  are  M 

,uty  i:-it  down,  while-  fr,»K'rance  they  yield, 
Are  the  -.uU  of  the  >     n 

r  will  grow 


372  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 


HENRY     SHANKS, 

E  gifted  and  widely-esteemed  "  Blind  Poet  of  the 
Deans,"  was  born,  in  1829,  on  the  farm  of 
Meadowhead,  near  Bathgate.  His  father  was  one  of 
the  leading  agriculturists  of  the  district,  whose  inti- 
mate knowledge  of  all  matters  connected  with  his 
calling  was  largely  taken  advantage  of  by  proprietors 
as  a  valuator,  by  the  Sheriff  of  the  county  and  others 
as  referee  in  cases  of  dispute,  and  as  a  judge  of  the 
district  cattle  shows.  The  uncle  of  our  poet,  to  whom 
his  volumes  are  dedicated,  was  his  mother's  younger 
brother,  whose  wife  was  the  only  sister  of  Sir  J.  Y. 
Simpson,  Bart.  This  relative  went  to  Tasmania  in 
1839  to  take  possession  of  estates  left  there  by  an  elder 
brother.  These  he  afterwards  sold,  and  he  then 
migrated  to  the  Portland  District  of  Victoria,  where 
he  died  in  1885.  Henry  was  educated  in  Bathgate 
Academy,  and  in  his  seventeenth  year  was  apprenticed 
to  a  drysalter  in  Leith.  For  a  period  of  eleven  years 
he  followed  mercantile  pursuits,  but  on  the  death  of  his 
father  in  1858  he  returned  to  assist  his  brother  on  the 
farm  of  Dean,  Bathgate,  and  about  this  time  he  began 
to  cultivate  the  muses,  filling  a  corner  frequently  in  the 
local  papers  with  his  poems.  From  a  sketch  in  the 
People  s  Friend  some  years  ago  we  learn  that  in  1862  a 
defect  in  his  left  eye  alarmed  him,  and,  notwithstand- 
ing the  best  treatment  and  advice,  his  sight  gradually 
grew  worse,  till  in  the  following  year  he  became  totally 
blind  through  disease  in  the  optic  nerve.  Under  this 
blighting  calamity  the  poet  showed  a  manly  fortitude 
and  resignation.  His  eyes,  failing  to  look  outward, 
were  now,  he  says,  more  and  more  turned  inward,  and 
in  his  darkness  he  reasoned  thus  with  himself — "  Now 
that  my  hands  are  rendered  incapable  of  earning  a  liveli- 
hood, am  I  to  fold  them  in  despair,  grow  up  mentally 


MKNHY    SHANKS.  373 

like  a  calf  in  the  stall,  and  cat  the  bread  of  idleness  for 

remaining  term  of  my  ,  |     And  tli 

wan,  M.-t  certainly  not,  if  you  can  help  it.  A«:ain,  I 
put  the  question,  ( 'an  my  head  make  up  for  the  enforced 
idleness  of  my  hands?  And  the  reply  was,  To  provide 
you  with  a  livelihood,  no;  but  in  so  far  on  being  a\>\ 
mitigate  the  extent  of  your  calamity,  yes."  And  so, 
like  the  feathered  warbler  with  its  eyes  cruelly  de- 
stroyed to  improve  its  song,  the  blind  bard  has  sun;: 
his  sweetest  strains  from  amid  the  gloom  that 
surrounds  him. 

Ir  is  interesting  to  know  that,  when  Mr  Shanks  first 
began  to  send  his  productions  to  the  Airdrie  Adccrtuer, 
the  leading  contributor  to  its  "Poets'  Corner"  was  the 
much  resected  and  talented  blind  old  poetess — Janet 
Hamilton  of  Langloan,  and  for  several  years  afterwards 
the  readers  of  that  journal  had  the  somewhat  singular 
spectacle  presented  to  them  of  thus  finding  two  of 
chief  and  most  popular  writers  of  poetry,  like  Milton, 
singing    with     "  quenched     orbs."       While    a    j: 
admirer  of  "Janet,"  Mr  Shanks  had  a  very  humble 
opinion  of  his  own  Drifts;    and  we  understand  th  . 
scarcely  ever  sent  away  a  contribution  without 
it  wort-  in  his  j.o\\.  1  it.      On  pondering  it  over 

in  his  mind,  some  improvement  in  turn  of  a  phrax 
better  setting  of  an  idea,  would  be  certain  t« 
him  when  too  late  to  give  effect  to  it. 

At  the  close  of  18K 1  Mr  shanks  left  the  old  li- 
the I).  M:I  .  \\ith  which  i  is  so  closely  ossociat 
and  took  up  his  abode  in  Kirkt  :le  and  a 
quarter  t-«  the  i-aM  ward  of  !                           re  he  has - 

ided  all  alone — his  wants  bein^r  !   to 

of  an  old  Deans   ft  ho  lives  . 

Mili  much  ii<-  ,  has  acted  u> 

1  amain. 

and  respect  of  a  wide  circl 
neighbours  and  friends,  and  although  of  lute  1. 


374  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

has  been  somewhat  dormant,  the  Lodge  being  situated 
within  his  old  walking  radius,  he  has  still  the  inesti- 
mable privilege  of  taking  his  trusty  stick  into  his  hand, 
and  enjoying  a  daily  ramble  along  paths  he  loved  in 
his  early  years,  and  still  dear  to  him  in  his  days  of 
darkness. 

For  some  years  Mr  Shanks'  literary  efforts  were  con- 
fined to  poetic  composition,  as  being  more  easily  re- 
tained on  the  memory.  In  his  large  and  interesting 
volume  entitled  "  The  Peasant  Poets  of  Scotland,  and 
Musings  under  the  Beeches  "  (Bathgate  :  Laurence 
Gilbertson,  1881,)  he  tells  us  in  his  biographical 
sketch  that  the  change  from  verse  to  prose  was  effected 
in  this  wise  : — "  Several  gentlemen  of  my  acquaintance 
belonging  to  Bathgate,  possessed  of  a  literary  turn,  were 
in  the  habit  of  looking  me  up  in  my  retreat,  and  spend- 
ing a  summer  afternoon  with  me,  beneath  the  shade  of 
the  stately  beeches  that  surround  the  farm  steading  of 
Deans.  At  one  of  these  meetings  it  was  resolved  to 
start  a  literary  society  or  club  in  Bathgate  for  the 
purpose  of  cultivating  a  taste  for  poetry  and  general 
literature.  The  office  of  President  was  unanimously 
conferred  upon  me,  and  '  Under  the  Beeches '  fixed 
upon  as  the  title  of  the  society,  in  compliment  to  my 
favourite  musing  ground.  The  acceptance  of  the  office 
of  President  put  upon  me  the  necessity  of  preparing  an 
inaugural  address,  which  was  most  cordially  received 
by  the  members,  and  the  same  having  been  published 
in  full  in  the  local  journals,  attracted  even  more  atten- 
tion than  my  verses.  .  .  .  The  result  convinced 
me  that  the  difficulties  in  the  way  of  preparing,  retain- 
ing, and  delivering  a  prose  oration  entirely  from 
memory,  although  great,  were  not  so  formidable  as  I 
had  anticipated,  and  that  my  memory  was  capable  of 
bearing  a  more  severe  strain  than  any  to  which  it  had 
as  yet  been  subjected.  During  the  four  years  in  suc- 
cession in  which  I  held  the  office  of  President  of  this 


HENRY    SHANKS.  375 

Society,  I  prepared  and  delivered  several  papers  upon 
our  Peasant  Poets  with  such  acceptance  to  ite  members 
that  they  unanimously  requested  me  to  deliver  them 
in  public.  This  I  at  first  refused  to  do,  partly  from  a 
dread  that  the  novelty  of  the  situation  might  came 
my  memory  to  turn  traitor,  and  partly  from  a  doubt 
that  I  possessed  the  requisite  amount  of  self-confidence 
to  make  an  effective  public  speaker ;  but  upon  being 
further  pressed  on  the  subject,  I  ultimately  consented." 

He  afterwards  delivered  a  number  of  lectures  in 
Bathgate,  Airdrie,  and  in  other  neighbouring  towns, 
and  wherever  he  went  he  was  enthusiastically  received. 
Well  might  he  add  : — "  Some  idea  of  the  severe  strain 
on  the  memory  which  these  public  deliverances  caused 
me  may  be  gathered  from  the  fact  that  they  occupied 
close  upon  two  hours  in  delivery,  and  this  feat  of 
memory,  of  which  I  feel  not  a  little  proud,  I  am  happy 
to  say  was  accomplished  without  a  single  hitch,  thus 
proving  that  we  little  know  of  what  we  are  capable 
until  we  actually  try.  .  .  .  Although  my  life  has 
been  blasted  in  mid-career,  and  my  hopes  of  becoming 
a  successful  competitor  in  the  race  of  life  have  I 
blighted,  I  hold  on  to  the  even  tenor  of  ray  quiet  and 
humble  way,  satisfied  with  the  gifts  that  God  has  given 
me, — reconciled  to  my  fate,  and  content  with  tin* 
exercise  of  the  limit.-l  means  and  opportunities  that 
yet  remain  to  me  of  rendering  a  modicum  of  service  to 
society,  and  of  redeeming  my  life  from  the  char- 
utter  indolence.  Thanks  to  the  -,.,.,!  \\ishea  and 
many  fr  inks  also  to  my  violin, 

a'n'l  to  that  trust?  and  handy  companion — my  st». -k,  I 
am  now  enabled  to  extract  from  life  an  average 
amount  of  mjoyment." 

We  have  >  -urselven  much  space  in  v.l, 

refer  to    Mr  Shanks'  volumes,  or  to  give  a 

uute  of  1.  n     !!<•  ha-   now  been  so   1 

;in.i    M    unlely    and    favourably  known  that  this  is 


376  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

hardly  necessary.  His  first  work  was  published  in 
1868  by  Messrs  Seton  &  Mackenzie,  Edinburgh,  under 
the  advice  of  the  late  Mr  Ballantyne,  author  of 
<f  Ilka  Blade  o'  Grass."  So  favourable  was  its  reception 
that,  in  1872,  he  was  encouraged  to  prepare'  another 
and  more  ambitious  work,  the  publishers  being  Messrs 
Baird  &  Hamilton,  Airdrie— a  first,  and  a  second 
edition  being  speedily  disposed  of.  This  was  followed 
by  the  large  and  handsome  volume  of  lectures, 
sketches,  and  verse  referred  to  at  the  outset.  As  a 
prose-writer,  Mr  Shanks  shows  that  he  possesses  sound 
judgment,  and  a  wide  and  thorough  knowledge  of 
every  subject  he  takes  in  hand.  In  both  his  prose 
and  verse  there  is  scarcely  a  page  but  what  bears  the 
stamp  not  only  of  the  preacher,  the  teacher,  and  the 
philosopher,  but  also  the  evidence  of  genuine  in- 
spiration. He  is  ever  beautiful  and  pleasing,  and  all 
his  utterances  are  elegantly  expressed,  and  fraught 
with  poetic  merit. 


MUSIC. 

Music,  music,  heart-stirring  music  ! 

Oh,  what  a  power  hast  thou  over  the  soul ! 
Plaintively  dwelling,  or  martially  swelling, — 

O'er  gayest  and  saddest  alike  thy  control. 
At  sound  of  thy  stirring  strain,  drooping  hearts  rise  amain  ; 

Higher  the  bosom -swell,  bolder  the  eye  ; 
Strong  and  determined  men  tread  the  firm  earth  again, 

Onward  to  conquer,  or  nobly  to  die. 

Music,  music,  mirth-making  music  ! 

Welcome,  thrice  welcome,  twin  sister  of  song ; 
The  pipe  and  the  tabor  will  sweeten  our  labour, 

And  send  the  life-bios  d  gaily  coursing  along. 
Then,  hail  !  mirth  and  pleasure,  come  tread  in  the  measure  ; 

The  bow  ever  bent  will  be  broken  at  last ; 
Some  dark  cloud  of  sorrow  may  find  us  to-morrow, — 

And  life's  gladdest  moments  are  fleeting  and  fast. 

Music,  music,  soul-melting  music  ! 

The  heart's  deepest  pafhos  is  heard  in  thy  flow. 


HENRY   SHANKS.  377 

Thou  sweet  voice  of  feeling,  enchanting,  revealing 

The  strength  <«f  our  love  or  the  depth  of  our  woe  ! 

Foinl  hearts  a<l«re  thee,  MM!  heart*  implore  thee. 
Thrilling  each  rU<rf  of  lif.-  to  the  core. 

Child  of  the  nnrt<ing  knee,  i-radled  in  melody. 

The  whiMpering  of  angel*  thy  slnrober*  restore. 

Music,  music,  heavenly  mimic  ! 

Wonder  ami  gratitude  bunting  in  song  ! 
Earth-incense,  a-cemlin;,'.  to  heaven  thou  art  wending, 

And  choruxiim  worlds  swell  the  cadence  along. 
Strike,  then,  the  sacred  lyre,  join  with  the  angel-choir, 

Hiwanna  !  hnxanna  !  the  anthem  to  raiae  : — 
No  greater  beauty,  then,  no  higher  duty,  then. — 

Thr  creature  his  God  and  Creator  to  praise  ! 


CURLING    80NO. 

Old  England  may  her  cricket  boast, 

Her  wicket*.  baU,  and  a*  that ; 
And  proudly  her  Eleven  toast, 

Wir right  good  will  and  af  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

It's  but  bairn*'  play  for  a*  that ; 
The  channel  stane  on  icy  plain 

10  king  o'  game*  for  a  tnat. 

And  Erin's  sonii  at  wake  and  fair, 

Wi'  roar  and  yell  and  a'  that, 
May  to«ui  shillelahH  in  the  air, 

And  crack  their  croons,  and  a*  that ; 
Fora'  that,  and  a'  that, 

And  better  far  than  a'  that. 
Our  roaring  came  aye  keeps  the  flame 

O'  friemUhip  hri^lr  for  a'  that. 

When  biting  Boreas,  keen  and  »nell. 

Wi'  ity  breath,  «nd  a'  that, 
Lays  on  the  loch*  t>i-  mauic  n|>ell. 

I  MtillH  the  HtreamH,  and  a'  that : 
For  «'  that,  and  a'  that, 

-  iinaw,  and  a'  that. 
mi  tlu-  t«M-,  v»i'  mirth  ami  «Ie», 
r  a*  that 

•  »>il.lrif»  ooof, 
th.  and  a'  that. 

In  no. ill.  r.  <-..i«t.  «n-i  |  •  I'tof 

I r»p  at  *•  DOM  for  u*  that ; 


378  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

As  warm's  a  pie,  and  a'  that, 

The  hardy  Scot  will  cast  his  coat, 
And  play  his  game  for  a'  that. 

As  in  the  serious  game  o'  life, 

Mischances  aft  befa'  that, 
So  we  must  guard  in  curling  strife 

The  winning  stane,  and  a'  that ; 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Up  through  the  port  for  a'  that, 
Some  cunning  hand,  t<>  skip's  command, 

May  wick  her  out  for  a'  that. 

When  bluicl-red  sets  the  winter  sun, 

Three  ringing  cheers,  an'  a  that, 
Proclaim  the  honspiel  play  is  won 

By  dint  o'  skill,  and  a'  that ; 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Wi'  better  luck,  and  a'  that, 
Opponents  may,  some  ither  day, 

Clean  turn  the  banks,  for  a'  that. 

Now  to  the  "howff  "  the  curlers  throng, 

For  beef  and  greens,  and  a;  that, 
And  spend  the  night  wi'  toast  and  song, 

Tho'  Templars  gibe  at  a'  that  ; 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

We'll  pledge  the  toast  for  a'  that, 
Auld  Scotland's  name,  and  Scotland's  fame, 

And  Scotland's  game,  for  a'  that. 

And  when  the  score  o'  life  is  made, 

As  made  'twill  be,  for  a'  that, 
When  hin-han  death's  last  shot  is  played, 

And  time's  a  hog,  and  a'  that ; 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Our  besom  friends  for  a'  that, 
We'll  joyful  meet,  each  rink  complete, 

Kound  higher  tee  for  a'  that. 


THE     WAYSIDE    WANDERER. 

The  wind  blew  keen  ; 

The  snow  fell  fast  ; 
Loud  howled  the  fierce 

And  biting  blast ; 


HENRY    SHANKS.  379 

And  shrieked  the  atorm-fiends  as  they  swept 

The  bleak  and  barren  moor  :  — 
'  \V   <    t     th-  wil<lere<l,  wandering  wi^'ht  ' 
Woe  to  the  houseleM  poor  ! " 

On  lonely  seat. 

By  lonely  way, 
A  mother  sat 

In  sore  dismay. 
Her  infant  t<>  her  breast  she  strained 

To  hush  it*  plaintive  cry  ; 
But  nourishment  had  none  to  give, — 
The  mother's  fount  wan  dry. 

Yet  nv»re  to  fend 
Its  feeble  form 
From  cruel  cold 

And  surly  storm, 
Within  hi-r  garment*'  xcanty  folds 

(Worn  thin,  ala*  !  and  bare) 
She  wrapped  its  tender  form  ;— but  all 
In  vain  her  loving  care. 

She  honed,  «he  prayed 
There  miK'ht  appear 
Some  one  to  help — 

No  one  came  near. 

"  Great  God  !  have  mercy  <>n  mv  babe, 
If  not  on  me  !  "  ch»-  <  ' 

•on  was  h'lHhed  it-*  plaint  :  the  child 
./.. _-d  in  her  face  -  and  died. 

Bereft,  forlorn. 

She  fondly  prest 
Its  lifeleKM  form 

To  childleuM  breast. 

I.if.-'<  lai-t  f..nd  tir  ha*l  nnap|N-d  :  t«»  ill* 
Ut-r  only  wi-h  wa» 

tle«l,— and  k'*-.nt  Denpair  nat  throned 

I  ;..  ii  htr  j.alli-i  ; 

No  frnnti 

••Mcd  her  (rrief  ; 
'ifmtiiiik'  tear* 

.chafed  relief. 
All  BotkmJftM  ab«  •  «t.     l'.»y  w. 

ni^ht  unheedeil  cam*-  ; 
lint  -till  t|.«f  .now  mid  howling  *t<.rm 
beat  ou  hot  rigid  fraiue. 


380  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

In  pity  moved, 

To  end  her  woe, 
Death  kindly  dealt 

His  welcome  blow. 
Howl  on  yf-i  winds  !  that  mother  now 

Heeds  not  the  tempest's  roar. 
One  gaze — one  last  and  fond  embrace  ; 
One  kiss — and  all  was  o'er. 

A  shepherd's  dog 
At  dawn  of  day 
Its  master  drew 

To  where  they  lay 
Half  buried  in  a  wreath  of  snow  ; — 

But  all  too  late  to  save. 
In  lonely  churchyard  they  were  laid 
Within  a  pauper's  grave. 

Though  marks  their  last 

Lone  place  of  rest 
No  marble  stone 

With  sculptured  crest  ; 
Yet  there,  on  Sundays,  often  do 

The  village  maidens  go, 
And  strew  with  flowers  the  mother's  grave 
Who  perished  in  the  snow. 


THE    STURDY    WHIN. 

Oh,  a  rare  old  bush  is  the  sturdy  whin, 

He  is  king  of  the  grassy  lea  ; 
How  bravely  he  grows,  h->w  stoutly  he  shows 

His  spear-points  to  the  enemy  ; 
Yet  he  rivals  the  broom,  in  golden  bloom, 

In  the  bright  merry  month  of  May  : 
And  the  linnet  knows  where  the  whin  bush  blo\ 

And  there  safely  he  sings  away  ; 
Smiling  at  their  joyful  din, 
Oh,  a  rare  old  bush  is  the  sturdy  whin  ! 

He  returns  with  a  scowl  the  whirlwind's  howl, 

That  uproots  the  tall  forest  tree  ; 
And  bravely  and  bold  he  clings  to  his  hold 

Of  the  green  and  the  grassy  lea. 
He  defies  the  storm,  and  he  laughs  with  scorn 

At  the  royal  oak  lying  low  ; 
And  hearty  and  green,  in  winter  he's  seen, 

Slyly  peeping  from  under  the  snow  ; 
Blow  high,  blow  low,  he  cares  not  a  pin, — 
Oh,  a  brave  old  bush  is  the  sturdy  whiu  ! 


HKNHY    SHANK&  381 

Though  surly  and  grim  look*  the  sturdy  whin. 

Yet  a  kindly  nl<l  heart  ha-  he  ; 
Bythe  might  of  hi*  arm,  he  shields  from  harm 

TV  lowly  and  weak  on  the  lea  ; 
The  wily  hawk  fe»r*  hi<  damp  of  aharp  spears 

I  hat  brittle  ,,M  every  twig  ; 
An«l  the  l.affled  hound  recoilii  with  a  boun«l 

An  he  bowl*  ..ii  the  green  lea  rig  ; 
Refuse  tin.1*  the  hare  within 
The  citadel  rare  of  the  sturdy  whin  ! 


-----  Jare,"  in  the  bold  motto  rare 

I  hat  he  bean*  on  the  graiuiy  lea  ; 

ben  long  may  the  whin,  where  the  linnets  sing. 

Be  the  home  of  true  liberty. 
Though  the  farmer  may  frown,  and  mark  him  down 

troii.  hiA  green  Held*  HO  trig  and  trim, 
In  vigour  and  pri.le,  on  the  mountain  side, 

He  doth  tlouritih  in  Mpite  of  him  : 
Securely  there,  with  gleenome  grin. 
Disdainfully  chuckles  tbe  sturdy  whin  ! 


THE    SKYLARK. 

See  !  the  scouts  of  dawn  are  peeping 
CautiotiH  o'er  the  ea*t«rn  wave*  ; 

An.l  the  Hhade*  of  ni^ht  are  creeping 
Stealthy  back  to  gloomy  cave*. 

Like  a  lovely  bride  adorning, 
Smiling  hopeful  through  her  team, 

Earth  thrown  ofT  her  w  «>•<!,<  of  mourning', 
Ami  in  veil  of  lace  appear*. 

Borne  upon  the  laughing  billows. 

Comes  the  bridegroom.  King  of  day, 
Radiant  from  hi*  r..,y  pillows, 

Kissing  all  earth's  tears  away. 

Song*  of  praise  and  welcome  ringing 
Are  blithe  throats  from  wo,*|  and  lea  ; 

An.i  earth  M  letn|>lc-.i  tug 

With  a  gli.riou- 


Over  meadow,  moor  and  mountain 

lirvl-  .  -l.-ilr  and  dell, 
il  <tinl  fountain, 
.  !  the  lark  I  love  so  well  J 


382  MODERti   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

O'er  the  mist  that  shrouds  the  valley, 

Lightly  on  love's  pinions  bornf, 
Thou  art  sounding  thy  reveille", 

Cloud-capped  trumpeter  of  morn. 

Listening  to  thy  song  of  beauty, 

Leader  of  the  tuneful  train, 
Sweetly  blending  love  and  duty 

Seemed  the  spirits  of  thy  strain — 

Morn  is  advancing,  and  gleaming  and  glancing — 
Leaping  and  dancing — the  waves  of  the  sea  ; 

The  grey  dawn  is  breaking  — awaking,  thou'rt  shaking 
The  dew  from  thy  grey  wing,  sweet  lark  of  the  lea. 

Lightly  up-springing,  now  gaily  thou'rt  winging, 

Lovingly  hymning  thy  matinal  prayer  ; 
Fluttering,  muttering,  joyfully  uttering 

Thy  welcome,  dear  light-loving  sun-bird  in  air. 

Bright  with  dew  glist'ning,  the  pleased  earth  is  list'ning 
Day's  tuneful  christ'ning,  from  meadow  aud  LTOVC  ; 

Heaven's  praises  ascending— earth's  blessing  descending — 
How  sweet  is  thy  blending  of  duty  and  love  ! 


\ 


JOHN     PAUL, 

HPOET  whose  productions  evince  much  beauty, 
pathos,  and  simplicity,  was  born  at  Woodside, 
St  Madoes,  Carse  of  Gowrie,  in  1853.  His  father  was 
then  a  ploughman,  but  being  a  man  of  considerable 
intelligence,  he  ultimately  became  a  farm  greive.  His 
mother  frequently  betook  herself  to  "outwork"  on 
the  farm  so  that  she  might  earn  a  little  to  help  to 
feed,  clothe,  and  educate  her  children.  In  harvest 
she  was  wont  to  shear  with  the  hook,  while  her  infant 
would  be  lying  sleeping,  or  kicking  by  the  side  of  a 
stook. 

When  the  subject  of  our  sketch  was  three  years  of 
age,  his  parents  removed  to  the  little  village  of  Long- 
f organ,  and  at  the  Parish  School  there  he  received  the 


JOHN    PAUL  383 

best  education  the  honest  dominie  could  afford.  Leav- 
ing school  in  the  spring  of  1869,  he  apprenticed  him- 
self to  the  trade  of  a  joiner  in  the  village  of  Aberuyte. 
Busy  during  the  day  in  his  calling,  his  evenings  were 
spent  either  in  examining  the  natural  beauty  of  his 
surroundings  or  trying  to  frame  his  thoughts  into  good 
form  through  the  vehicle  of  verse.  John  Paul  never 
fails  to  speak  of  the  early  influences  for  good  which 
his  home  exerted  on  him,  and  doubtless  his  love  of 
reading  was  fostered  by  the  kindly  encouragement  of 
his  parents.  At  this  period  he  wrote  a  large  number 
of  juvenile  verses,  which  early  effusions  have,  we  be- 
lieve, been  duly  consigned  to  the  flames. 

In  1873  Mr  Paul  removed  to  Dundee,  where  he 
presently  holds  a  position  of  trust  under  the  well- 
known  Hrm  of  Messrs  Baxter  Brothers  <fe  Co.  From 
Mr  Ford's  "  Poets'  Album,"  in  the  Wwkly  New*,  we 
learn  that  our  poet  is  quite  the  centre  of  a  little  coterie 
of  working  men  with  literary  and  theological  leanings. 
His  quiet,  unassuming  manner,  his  geniality,  and  the 
sterling  transparency  of  his  character  make  him  largely 
esteemed  by  a  wide  circle  <»f  friends.  For  a  working 
man  his  range  of  reading  is  extensive.  While  drawing 
up  this  sketch  told  that  In-  has,  with  "ston 

coat,    !><•  from    the    mill   deep   in 

the  intricacies  of  Plat..'>  A'//,,//,//-.  II,  i>  an  elder  in 
Clepington  Parish  Church,  but  jn-rhaps  in  no  connec- 
tion is  he  tatter  known  in  I  hinder  than  with  those 
Sabbath  forenoon  :  .  held  week  by  week  for  the 

poorer  classes  of  children,  at    \\hich  gatherings  a  \ 
from  John  I'anl  creates  <]uite  a  sensation.     In  addition 
to   excellent    lit.--  ,    he   possesses  a  peculiar 

talent  for  d.-alin-..'  with  the  bairns,  and  it  does  one's 
•  see  how  eagerly  the  wee  eyes  glisten 
and   »h.-  young    heads  lean  forward  to  listen  to  th. 
"«.1«1,  i. Id  ly  told  by  our  poetic  fri« -n«l. 

Tin-  u"ik  i-  M T\  ip-.ir  in,  heart,  and  <lni  you  take  the 


384  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

liberty  of  upbraiding  him  with  giving  thus  the  cold 
shoulder  to  his  first  love  of  poetry,  he  would  not  be 
slow  in  answering  that  the  bairns  had  stolen  his  heart 
away,  and  what  was  in  him"  of  the  poet  is  giving  place 
to  the  Children's  Missionary.  Quite  recently  he  was 
successful  in  carrying  off  the  first  prize  medal  at  Edin- 
burgh which  the  Church  of  Scotland  Young  Men's 
Guilds  had  offered  for  essays.  The  subject  of  his  essay 
was  "  The  Poetry  of  the  Bible." 

In  Mr  Paul's  muse,  contributed  mainly  to  the  local 
press,  we  find  many  sweet  and  touching  home  pictures, 
evidently  written  by  a  man  of  wholesome  taste  and 
loving  spirit.  He  has  the  faculty  of  delicately  touch- 
ing little  things,  and  the  scenes  he  depicts  are  emi- 
nently natural. 

MY    FATHER    AN'     MY    MIT  HER. 

A  joy  surpassin'  feeble  praise 

Brings  tears  aft  to  my  e'en, 
When  pictures  o'  my  laddie  days 

Appear  on  memory's  screen. 
Wi'  fitfu'  flash  they  come  an'  go, 

Each  following  up  the  ither  ; 
An'  aye  I  see  in  sunny  glow 

My  father  an'  my  mither. 

My  father  an'  my  mither,  lads, 
They've  trauchled  lang  thegether  ; 

May  blessin's  fa'  upon  the  twa — 
My  father  an'  my  mither. 

They  struggled  hard  to  gi'e  us  lear, 

That  we  micht  a'  obtain 
A  higher  place,  an'  burdens  bear 

Less  heavy  than  their  ain. 
I  bless  them  noo  for  what  they've  dune, 

An'  while  life's  storm  they  weather 
My  heartfelt  prayer  shall  rise  abune 

For  father  an'  for  mither. 

I  mind  we  made  the  kettle  sing, 

To  cheer  them,  tired  and  lame  ; 
An'  cheerie  did  our  voices  ring 

To  gi:e  them  welcome  hame. 


JOHN   PAUL.  385 

At  ilka  cheek  we  set  their  chain, 

While  circled  round  we'd  gather, 
An'  tell  oor  little  griefs  an*  care* 

To  father  an*  to  wither. 

When  <iwer  the  earth  nicht's  mantle  fell, 

An'  joined  us  a'  at  e'en— 
The  picture  mak's  my  bosom  swell, 

I'll  ne'er  forget  the  scene— 
Oor  laddie  cares  awa'  we  hurled 

When  rompin'  a'  thegithcr, 
An'  kin*  an1  queen  o'  our  siua'  world 

Was  father  aye  an*  raither. 

Ye  stirrin*  pictures  o'  the  past, 

I'm  wae  when  ye  depart  ; 
I  lore  to  be  thus  backward  cast 

To  laddiehood  in  heart. 
Come  aft  an*  guide  my  thochts  awa' 

Frae  earth's  cauld  heartiest  swither, 
To  childhood's  acenes  sae  artless  a'— 

To  father  an'  to  mltber. 

My  father  an'  my  mither,  lads. 
They  trauchled  Ung  thegither  ; 

May  blessin's  fa'  upon  the  twa— 
My  father  an'  my  mitber. 


WHEN     WE    ARE    FAR    AWA', 

The  bonnie  place,  the  dear  aul  1  hame, 

Maun  noo  be  left  by  a'  ; 
A  sacred  memory  an'  a  name 

Is  a*  we  bear  awa'. 

'Hie  feathered  i>.»«tn  o'  the  gn>v0 
Will  o,*  their  heart!**  sma'. 

But  ither  earn  will  lUt  their  love, 
When  we  are  far  awa'. 

The  bloom  in'  Hoo'rt  will  aye  b«  there 

Bedeck  in,  i»w. 

Hut  ither  e'en  ttiuir  joy  will  share 

When  we  are  far  awa'. 

Well  hear  the  bir.ls  'neath  Ither  skies 

«e  the  floo'reU  blaw  ; 
Bat.  <>h,  a  clay-caul  I  IU-K.I  no^  lie* 
\\  .ii;in  the  kirkyaird  wa. 


386  MODEfcN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

Where'er  we  gang  a  memory  dear 
0'  scenes  beyond  reca' — 

A  livin'  past — will  aye  be  near 
To  cheer  us  for  awa'. 


BE    A    MAN. 

Forward  at  the  call  of  duty, 

Like  a  hero  in  the  van  ; 
Firmly  tread  the  upward  journey, 
Rough  the  path  may  be  and  thorny, 

Onward  still,  and  be  a  man. 

Forward  at  the  call  of  honour, 

Plac^  all  evil  under  ban  ; 
Rout  the  vile  with  deeds  of  daring, 
Meet  the  world  with  noble  bearing, 
Head  erect,  and  be  a  man. 

Forward  at  the  call  of  justice, 

Truth  and  right  thy  noble  plan  ; 
Bravely  meet  the  foul  transgressors, 
Boldly  face  the  base  oppressors, 
Live  in  truth,  and  be  a  man. 

Forward  at  the  call  of  mercy, 

Help  the  helpless  while  you  can  ; 
Bear  to  all  a  kindly  feeling, 
With  the  erring  gently  dealing, 
Cheer  the  sad,  and  be  a  man. 

Forward  at  the  call  of  Heaven, 
And  the  heights  of  glory  scan  ; 

No  surrender,  no  abating  ; 

See,  perfection's  crown  is  waiting, 
Love  thy  God,  and  be  a  man. 


JAMIE. 

See  him  on  the  smiddy  floor, 

Swingin*  roond  the  heavy  hammer, 
Beatin'  doon  the  iron  dour, 

Ne'er  a  miss,  an'  ne'er  a  stammer  ; 
Ready  aye  to  do  his  duty  ; 

Ready  aye  wi'  helpin'  hand  ; 
Ready  aye  to  joke  and  banter, 

Quick  to  see  and  understand. 


JAMBS   PAUL.  387 

Big  an'  little,  great  an'  sma', 
Find  him  honest  an'  ootapoken  ; 

Richt  he  lats  fir  crousely  craw, 
Wrang  gets  aye  its  croonie  broken. 

\N  ae  betide  a'  fata  pretence*  ; 
Wae  betide  a'  foreign  aira  ; 

Wae  betide  ilk  trait  eccentric- 
Mimic  Jamie  never  spares. 

Come  ye  wi'  a  story  queer, 

Jamie  aye  can  tell  »  queerer  ; 
Questions  <lr»ll  he  has  to  speir, 

An'  ye'll  no  lauch  d..,,n  the  speirer. 
Muckle  kens  he  'boHt  a'  fishes ; 

Muckle  kens  'hout  hints  an*  swine  ; 
Muckle  kens  'about  things  uncommon, 

Never  seen  in  printed  line. 

Roguish  e'en  an'  ro«y  face  ; 

short  o'  stature,  unco  sturdy  ; 
Fu  o  true  'irauiutic  crace. 

Action  tittin'ilka  wordie. 
Fu'  o*  mirth-provokin'  caper*. 

Acted  ower  art*  ower  again  ; 
Clever,  kind,  and  true  is  Jamie  — 

Ane  o'  nature's  gentlemen. 


JAMES     PAUL, 

[ROTHKK  of  the  subject  of  the  previous  > 

was  l-.ni  at  I  in,  a  village  at  the  eastern 

extremity  of  Perthhhirc,  in  1859.  As  a  boj  he  was 
full  of  pranks  and  mischief.  On  one  occasion  he  held 
a  lighted  match  to  a  h«»|.  m  th<  |.-^t«ri<ir  of  a  com* 
panion's  trousers,  from  which  part  of  the  under  cl 
was  protruding,  the  result  being  that  he  all  but  set  the 
poor  fellow's  garments  on  fire.  In  houi'  ploys  * 

begot  his  hand  so  -d  that  threo 

finger*  injured  no  only 


388  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

being  noticed  when  it  was  too  late  to  remedy  the 
matter,  though  an  effort  was  made  to  straighten  the 
crooked  fingers  by  strapping  a  board  across  the  palm, 
which  secured  for  him  the  nickname  of  "  Boardie." 
The  "  spae-vvives "  of  the  village  predicted,  however, 
that  he  was  to  be  "  the  minister  "  member  of  the 
family.  At  this  time  his  father  removed  to  the  farm 
of  Flocklones,  in  the  same  parish,  and  James,  at  the 
age  of  seven,  was,  along  with  several  brothers,  sent  to 
Longforgan  parish  school.  The  ravenous  hunger  they 
often  felt  on  reaching  home  in  the  evening  was  once 
well  illustrated  by  the  salute  of  one  of  his  brothers  : 
— "  Ony  cauld  porridge,  auld  scones,  or  ony thing  ?'' 
They  had  tea  and  loaf-bread  only  once  a  year — at 
Hansel  Monday,  at  which  festive  season  they  each 
contributed  their  long-hoarded  penny,  bought  a  loaf, 
and  had  a  much-relished  treat  of  tea  and  toast. 
Although  he  frequently  gathered  the  cottar  bairns  into 
a  wooden  shed,  and  "  addressed  "  them  from  the  top 
of  a  barrel,  his  inconsistency  continued  to  manifest 
itself  iu  "  wicked  deeds,"  until  he  was  ten  years  of  age, 
when  he  was  sent  to  herd  cows  at  Mylnefield,  by  the 
side  of  the  Tay,  in  which  he  often  "docket"  three 
times  a-day.  He  had  many  hair-breadth  escapes  and 
adventures — the  cows,  on  such  occasions,  being  left  to 
look  after  themselves. 

Having  attended  school  during  three  winters,  and 
reached  his  thirteenth  year,  he  was  sent  to  farm  work, 
at  which  he  remained  till  he  was  sixteen.  On  account 
of  his  deformed  hand,  he  had  to  seek  other  employ- 
ment. Accordingly  he  was  apprenticed  to  a  shoemaker 
in  the  parish  of  Tealing,  but  he  had  not  been 
many  months  at  the  trade  when  he  began  to  feel  a 
deep  interest  in  religion,  which  resulted  in  spiritual 
renewal.  Intellectual  regeneration  began,  and  he  be- 
came possessed  of  a  perfect  passion  for  learning. 
He  longed  to  go  to  college,  and  to  become  a 


JAMBS  PAUL.  389 

minister  ;  but,  alas  !  he  had  neither  the  necessary 
preparatory  training  nor  the  means  of  support  His 
friends  were  also  opposed  to  the  step,  but  nL'lit  ami 
day  his  mind  was  filled  with  the  purpose  of  hi-  i. 
and  his  master  having  agreed  to  "let  him  off,"  he 
quitted  Hillside,  and  went  to  Dundee,  where  an  ac- 
quaintance had  promised  to  give  him  lessons  in  classics 
and  mathematics.  While  continuing  to  pursue  the 
craft  sacred  to  St  Crispin,  he  began  to  "chew"  his  Latin 
roots  during  all  his  spare  hours.  Seeing  that  he  was 
thoroughly  in  earnest,  and  making  good  progress,  his 
friends  "  came  round,"  and  enabled  him,  ere  entering 
the  University,  to  attend  a  session  at  the  Dundee  High 
School,  where  he  succeeded  in  gaining  four  prizes. 

In  1878  Mr  Paul  went  to  Edinburgh  University, 
where,  after  a  hard  pull  of  two  yean,  he  took  a  bursary. 
He  had  highest  honours  in  the  Class  of  Moral  Philo- 
sophy, and  in  the  Class  of  Logic  and  Metaphysics  he 
was  amongst  the  few  whom  Professor  Fraser  enjoined 
to  continue  in  after  years  the  study  of  mental  philo- 
sophy. Professor  Masson,  of  the  class  of  Rhetoric  and 
English  Literature  complimented  him  on  his  power  of 
conceiving  a  subject  or  work,  and  spoke  of  his  literary 
style  as  characterised  by  clear  and  fine  expression. 
His  persevering  struggles  and  close  application,  how- 
ever, began  to  tell  on  him,  and  when  the  period  came 
ntering  the  Hall,  tie  was  unfortunately  laid  aside 
overwork.  He  entered  the  Free  Church 


Divinity  Hall,  Edinburgh,  in  1883,  and  every  year  he 
'  l  is  also 


has  IM-I-'M  :,i.l.-  to  obtain  a  scholarship.     Mr  Paul 
an  active   member  of  the   Temperance,   Missionary, 
Del)  1    Musical   societies.      After  completing 

of  iiis  theological  course,  he  was  severely 
injinv.l  while  rendering  assistance  in  removing 
furniture  ;  i  --real  fire  at  Balru  i 

legs  were  broken,  his 
y  crushed,    and  he   was    conveyed   to    tho 


390  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

Dundee  Royal  Infirmary,  where  he  was  confined  for 
seventeen  weeks.  Although  the  long  period  of  weakness 
which  thus  supervened  threw  him  behind,  he  bore  his 
sufferings  cheerfully,  and  looked  forward  hopefully  to  the 
future. 

Mr  Paul  began  to  write  poetry  when  about  sixteen, 
and  from  that  age  on  till  he  reached  his  twentieth 
year,  he  composed  a  great  many  pieces,  all  of  which, 
however,  he  destroyed.  He  found  that  poetic  com- 
position was  the  means  of  giving  him  command  of 
language  and  precision  of  thought,  eliciting  powers  of 
observation,  and  training  sympathetic  feelings.  He 
has  been  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  Dundee  news- 
papers, the  Fifeshire  Journal,  to  which  he  for  a  time 
wrote  its  "Edinburgh  Letter,"  in  the  form  of  racy  and 
vigorous  notes,  entitled  "Echoes  from  Edina,"  and 
afterwards  contributed  to  the  same  journal  a  series  of 
clever  and  humorous  papers — "  Havers  frae  Hoolit- 
neuk."  He  has  also  written  for  several  Christmas 
Annuals — notably  "Strathearn  Chimes,"  a  capital  book 
of  story  and  song,  edited  by  Mr  A.  B.  Bell,  in  which 
he  has  a  vigorous  prose  sketch  above  the  nom-de-plume 
of  "  White  Tie,"  a  name  which,  we  understand,  he  has 
frequently  used.  Articles  and  poems  from  his  pen 
have  also  appeared  in  the  columns  of  the  Glasgow  Weekly 
Citizen,  the  Ladies1  Journal,  and  other  magazines  and 
papers.  An  admirer  of  his  lines  sent  "  The  Poor  Man 
Dying  "  to  Mr  Sankey,  and  received  the  reply — "  Well 
done,  James  Paul ;  long  may  he  live  to  write  such 
admirable  verses."  We  heartily  endorse  the  opinion 
of  such  a  competent  judge.  Mr  Paul's  poetry  shows 
both  pathos  and  humour  of  no  common  kind.  He  has 
the  faculty  of  writing  vigorous  and  healthy  verse  ;  and 
his  command  of  "  oor  mither  tongue"  proves  that, 
though  with  many  it  may  be  dying  as  a  spoken 
language,  it  is  still  kept  alive  in  its  most  vital  form — 
that  of  poetry. 


JAMES   PAUL.  391 

MY    GRANNIE'S    BIBLE. 

Tve  glowered  aroond  museums  fu'  o'  ancient  art  an'  lore. 
An'  rummaged  wizard  relics  •'  the  sage  an*  skilled  o*  yore. 
But  what  ha*  richer  charrm  for  me,  an'  far  excels  them  a', 
It  grannie'-  Gaelic  Bible  in  the  crevice  o'  the  wa'. 

They  tell's,  atweel,  my  grandsire's  earthly  day  wa*  early  done ; 
The  aold  book  was  a  lamp  to  licht  his  road  to  realms  abune  ; 
Wi'  weetit  een  I've  heard  aboot  his  gracioua  rede  an*  wise  ; 
His  gloamin'  prayers  ahent  the  hoose,  an'  hallowed  times  he'd 
prize. 

It  wants  a  brod,  an'  if  ye  touch 't,  it  near  hand  sindry  comet ; 
Its  leaves  are  strung  thegither  slack  wi'  strengthless  threeds  an' 

thrums  ; 

It's  a'  sae  stained  wi'  stour,  ye  scarce  can  scan  a  verse  ava  ; 
It  ochtna  to  be  ban'led  o'er,  but  hod  aye  in  the  wa'. 

It's  easy  seen  it  bears  the  blurs  o'  sant  repentant  tears ; 
They're  brawl y  kent  f rae  damp  an'  dust,  an'  a*  the  scathe  o'  years ; 
The  sacred  draps  that  drenched  the  page  thae  round  It  flecks 

maun  be— 
There's  ane  just  richt  abune  the  text— Ha'e  mercy,  Lord,  on  me. 

A  tawny  tattered  leaf  at  ween  the  Auld  Will  an*  the  New 
Contains  the  family  register,  wi'  care  an*  rev'rence  due ; 
The  crispit  rim  an'  welkit  write  preclude  the  anxious  e'e 
Frae  facts  o'  life  an*  death,  an'  what  my  grannie's  age  may  be. 

Though  far  f  rae  hame  I  sune  may  )*,  ower  alien  tilth  an*  tide. 
Whare  savage  hirsels  ramp  an*  roar,  an'  dun  barbarian*  bide, 
I'll  aye  revere  an'  bear  in  min<l,  whare'er  my  lines  may  fa', 
My  grannie's  Gaelic  Bible  in  the  crevice  o'  the  wa'. 


THE    POOR    MAN    DYING.* 

I've  trauchled  lang,  I've  trauchled  salr, 

An'  noo  I'm  fairly  dune  ; 
But  death,  my  dearest  freend,  will  corn*. 

He's  onmin  ,  onmin*  sune 
To  choke  my  breath,  to  glaze  my  e'e, 
bring  relief  an'  rest  to  me. 

God  kens  I've  no  been  o'  the  best— 

I'm  fu'  o  fauu  an'  sins  ; 
Ah  me,  nae  wonder  aftea  owe* 


392  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

My  cheek  the  saut  tear  rins. 
Ma'am,  sing,  oh  !  sing  afore  I  dee — 
"  The  gate— the  gate  ajar  for  me." 

Lang  oot  o' wark,  half-cled,  half-dead 

Wi'  hunger  sharp  and  grim, 
Up  to  the  Breakfast  Hall  I  gaed, 

An'  heard  that  bonnie  hymn — 
"  Oh  !  depth  of  mercy,  can  it  be, 
That  gate  was  left  ajar  for  me  ?  " 

"For  me— for  me,"  they  slowly  sang  : 

For  me,  for  me  ?  thought  I. 
"  Mercy  for  you,  for  me,  for  all," 

I  heard  the  preacher  cry. 
O  mates,  I  tell  ye  ere  I  dee 
That  made  me  gled  as  gled  could  be. 

I'm  wae  to  leave  my  wife  an'  bairns, 

Mair  wae,  mair  wae  by  far 
To  think  they're  starvin',  starvin'  stark, 

An'  I  kenna  whare  they  are  ; 
Tell  them  gin  ere  their  face  ye  see, 
The  gate  was  left  ajar  for  me. 

My  hands  an'  feet  are  growin'  cauld, 

My  heart  dunts  faint  an'  slow  ; 
Shak'  hands,  shak'  hands  afore  I  quit 

A  life,  a  world  o'  woe. 
Farewell,  farewell,  for  noo  I  see 
The  gate  o'  heaven  ajar  for  me. 

*  Near  Edinburgh,  in  a  barn  among  straw,  a  poor  man  lay  dying.  He 
sent  for  the  farmer's  wife,  and  as  she  stooped  over  him  he  said,  "  Oh, 
sing— 

1  Depth  of  mercy  can  it  be, 
That  gate  was  left  ajar  for  me  ! '  " 

Not  knowing  the  hymn,  she  asked  what  he  meant.  He  explained — 
"  They  sing  it  at  the  breakfast."— The  Story  of  the  Drill  Hall  Breakfast, 
June,  1888. 

THE    DAUGHTER'S     LAMENT. 

She's  awa',  she's  awa'  frae  the  Heelant  ha', 

And  awa'  frae  the  sorrow  and  pain  ; 
And  I'm  doited  to  think  hoo  I'll  manage  ava 

To  live  in  my  shealin'  alane. 

She's  awa'  frae  me  noo,  and  oh  !  what  a  trouble 

She's  been,  the  Lord  only  can  ken  ; 
But  e'en  though  the  care  and  the  trauchle  were  double, 

I'd  thole  them  to  get  her  again. 


JAMES   PAUL.  393 


Freends  say  she  WM  auld,  and  the  auld  folk  roaan  dee- 

She  was  gaen  in  her  hon-lreth  year— 
*  hat  comfort   what  comfort  can  that  bring  to  me, 

What  cordial  my  spirit  to  cheer? 


-   *'»h*'«  **"!?,  and  »y  hearts  ooo  in  twa  ; 
A    i  *f°Jir  Father  ln  Heaven'*  aye  the  same  ; 

u    n    i  f^nt  the  *nKeI  that  took  hw  »**'. 
He'll  gladden  my.  desolate  hame. 

HAPPY    BAIRNS. 

The  crystal -crispit  bnrnie  winds 

An'  dances  doon  the  den  ; 
The  bonnie  wavin'  wild  flowers 

Are  bricht  wi'  bloom  again  ; 
The  gratefu'  birds  are  singin1  forth 

Their  soul-enchantinf  lays ; 
An',  best  o'  a',  the  blowzy  bairns 

Are  boundin'  on  the  braes. 

It's  fine  to  doze  an*  dream  within 

A  COST  sheltered  nook. 
Or  watch  the  greetin'  lambies  rin 

Alang  a  brattlin'  brook  ; 
But  nocht  ban  cheered  me  half  sae  weel, 

In  a*  my  w*nderin'  ways, 
As  the  lauchin'  an'  the  loupin'  o' 

The  bairaies  on  the  braes. 

I've  lihteneil  to  a  lady's  sang 

Until  my  een  were  weet, 
An'  aft  in  bosky  bowers  enjoyed 

•:imuni»!i  Nest  and  sweet, 
But  a'  the  blindin'  joys  o'  love 

Gould  ne'er  my  heart  upraise 
Like  the  singin'  an'  the  springio'  o' 

The  Uirniea  on  the  braes. 

Farewet  1,  ye  cheery,  chubby  elves, 

I  ooo  maun  hie  me  hame  ; 
Lam;  may  ye  live  to  spurt  yourselves 

Exempt  from  bane  ami  blame. 
The  day  I  flint:  ye  hearty  thanks. 

The  morn  I'll  print  yer  praise— 
At  weel,  I'll  toll  the  world  ye-  pranks 

Upon  the  bonoie  brat*. 


394  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

UNDER    THE    CYPRESS. 

"  What  mak's  ye  sae  absent  an  dreamy  ?  " 

I  said  to  her  saftly  a'e  day. 
She  replied,  "  Little  Kittie  and  Jamie 

Are  noo  a'  the  comfort  I  ha'e  ; 
My  thochts  are  awa  wi'  their  father, 

An*  fain  would  I  drap  doon  an'  dee  ; 
For  half  o'  my  heart  is  buried 

Deep  under  the  cypress  tree." 

We  loved,  oh  !  we  loved  ane  anither, 

And  ance  in  the  gloamin'  I  said, 
"We're  far  ower  happy  thegither  ; 

This  winna  last  lang,  dear,  I  dread." 
I  didna  think  what  I  was  sayin', 

I  didna  dream  what  was  to  be  ; 
For  half  o'  my  heart  is  buried 

Deep  under  the  cypress  tree." 

I  saw  her  outstretched  and  chilly 

In  the  hush  o'  her  lang,  lang  rest, 
An'  wearin'  a  bonnie  fresh  lily 

Abloom  on  her  marble  breast. 
Fair  emblem  it  seemed  o'  her  candour, 

Fair  type  o'  her  sweetness  to  me — 
Ah  !  half  o'  my  heart  is  buried 

Deep  under  the  cypress  tree. 

An'  puir  little  Jamie  and  Kittie 

Are  cast  on  the  cauld  world  noo, 
Wi'  nane  to  protect  or  to  pity, 

And  naething  to  fill  their  wee  mou', 
0,  God  o'  the  hameless  orphan, 

May  they  ha'e  a  parent  in  Thee, 
Sin'  their  father  an*  mother  are  buried 

Deep  under  the  cypress  tree. 


JAMES     PETER     WHITTET 

born  in  Balhousie  Castle,  near  Perth,  in 
1834.  His  father  was  a  merchant  and  ship- 
owner of  the  port,  which,  before  the  introduction  of 
railways,  was  a  thriving  and  busy  place.  He  received 


JAMBS    PETER    WHITTBT.  395 

his  education  at  the  Academy  of  Perth.  From  his 
frequent  visits  to  the  harbour,  his  early  predilections 
were  to  follow  "  a  life  on  the  rolling  \\a~ve,"  but  young 
Whittet  was  sent  to  the  counting-house  of  a  firm,  of 
which  a  friend  of  the  family  was  the  principal.  In  the 
circumstances  he  was  a  frequent  guest  at  his  master's 
table,  where  he  met  many  of  the  rising  artists 
and  literary  men  of  the  time. 

Mr  Whittet  resided  in  Edinburgh  for  nearly  eight 
years,  mostly  under  the  roof  of  the  cashier  of  the 
firm,  Mr  Hume,  son  of  Alexander  Hume,  the  well- 
known  composer  of  the  music  of  "Flow  gently,  sweet 
Afton,"  "  The  Emigrant's  Farewell,"  Ac.  The  Hume 
family  all  inherited  the  musical  talents  of  their  father, 
and,  while  naturally  extremely  fond  of  music,  no  doubt 
tli is  connection  had  something  to  do  with  the  develop- 
ing of  a  taste  which  led  Mr  Whittet  to  give 
pression  in  music  to  a  variety  of  sonnets  he  from  time 
to  time  composed.  In  1858  he  returned  to  his  native 
city,  to  assist  his  father  in  his  business.  He  was  then 
one  of  the  first  to  espouse  the  volunteer  movement, 
being  secretary  of  the  original  corps  formed  in  Perth. 
He  continued  one  of  its  m<mt  enthusiastic  members  for 
(KM.  in  conjunction  with  his  younger 
brother,  he  succeeded  to  the  old-established  business 
of  his  uncle,  who  retired  in  favour  of  his 
nephews.  On  the  death  of  his  father  both  businesses 
were  conjoined,  and  are  now  conducted  by  the  firm,  of 
which  Mr. I.  V.  \\hitt.  .>le  survivor.  During 

tin-  pant  tweh  Mr  Whittet  has  been  a  promi- 

nent member  of  the  Town  Council  of  Perth.  He  oc- 
cupied a  Ma  <  hair  1W  four  years,  and. 

c  wan  elevated  to  the  highest  posit  ion 

Lord 

ii  ho  now 

hol,|>   uith  en-flit  to  himself  and  satisfaction  U» 
community.     He  has  a  decided  literary  taste,  inherited 


396  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

doubtless  from  his  mother,  who  was  descended  from 
the  same  M'Kenzies  as  the  author  of  "  The  Man 
of  Feeling."  His  poetry  is  marked  by  keen 
and  tender  feeling,  with  occasional  light  and  airy 
fancies,  while  his  children's  songs  and  sacred  pieces  are 
such  as  appeal  to  the  heart,  and  show  a  thoughtful 
and  elevated  mind. 

OH    WHY    DOST   THOU   DISTURB    MY    DREAM? 

Oh  why  dost  thou  disturb  my  dreams, 

Alike  by  night  and  day, 
Why  haunt  me  with  thy  presence,  love, 

And  thou  so  far  away  ? 
I  fain  would  banish  thoughts  of  thee, 

Forget  the  blissful  past, 
And  in  a  dark  oblivion 

Thy  memory  would  cast. 

Why  didst  thou  cross  my  pilgrim's  path, 

Like  flash  of  sunbeam  bright, 
And  leave  me  then  to  pine  and  mourn, 

As  in  the  gloom  of  night  ? 
With  thee  my  fondest  hopes  have  fled  ; 

Deserted  and  alone 
I  feel  a  weary  wanderer, 

Left  in  this  world  to  roam. 

And  yet,  methinks  some  mystic  bond 

Trne  loving  souls  unite — 
A  chord  connecting  heart  to  heart, 

Where  love  oft  wings  its  flight : 
Then  on  this  eilvery  chord  of  faith 

Oh  waft  some  hope  to  me, — 
A  cheering  word,  too'  breathed  in  sigh, 

Is  all  I  ask  from  thee. 


DOWN  IN  THE  MIGHTY  DEEP. 

Soundly  he  slumbers,  down  in  the  mighty  deep, 
No  stormy  tempest  disturbs  his  tranquil  sleep, 
The  wild  dashing  waves  may  in  their  fury  rise, 
But  calm  is  the  spot  where  the  sailor  boy  lies. 

Oft  thro'  the  h'erce  main  the  gallant  ship  bore  him, 
And  the  sacred  "Jack"  floated  proudly  o'er  him  ; 


JAMR8   PETER   WHITTET.  .5'J7 

Ah  !  now  he's  at  peace,  his  slumbers  are  holy, 
Tbo'  down  in  the  deep  the  sailor  lie*  lowly. 

No  beaten  pathway  leads  o'er  the  trackless  sea 
To  the  ocean  bed  of  the  brave  and  the  free  ; 
No  fond  mother  weeps  o'er  his  lonely  pillow, 
As  gently  he  sleeps  'neath  the  foaming  billow. 

The  sea-pull  now  glides  o'er  the  home  of  the  brave, 
As  silent  he  rests  in  his  lone  ocean  grave  ; 
And  now  the  sad  waves,  as  they  roll  o'er  the  sea, 
Chant  a  mournful  dirge  for  the  brave  and  the  free. 

THE  HAPPY  HOURS  OF  CHILDHOOD'S  DREAMS. 

The  happy  hours  of  childhood's  dreams 

Oh  !  how  I  cherish  yet, 
Those  hours  of  purest  thought*  and  joys 

I  never  shall  forget ; 
Still  meiu'ry  oft  in  fancy's  flight 

Revisits  days  gone  by. 
Recalling  friendships  long  dissolv'd— 

Days  pass'd  without  a  sigh. 

Twas  then  my  mother's  gentle  voice- 
As  yesterday  it  seems. 

Her  counsels  whispered  in  my  ear, 
And  Oush'd  my  childhood's  dreams. 

My  youth's  fond  f riends,  where  are  they  now  1 
And  I  left  thus  alone  ! 

Ah  !  some  repose  in  tranquil  sleep 
Where  sorrows  are  unknown. 

Still,  bov'ring  round  in  vision's  tight, 

Methinks  lov'd  onea  I  see, 
How  sacred  is  the  memory 

Of  forms  so  dear  to  me. 
Tho*  years  roll  o'er  in  rapid  flight, 

Yet  still  I'll  ling'ring  gaze 
Back  on  those  scenes  of  youthful  joys, 
cherish  bygone  days. 

CHRISTMAS    BVB. 

A  CAROL. 

Come  let  us,  now  adoring, 

i  in  the  Angel's  song. 

the  herald  s  anthem, 
Let  us  iU  strains  prolong. 


398  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

Behold  !  lo,  in  the  heavens, 
A  glorious  host  appearing, 

Sing  praises,  sweetest  praises, 
To  Christ,  our  Saviour  King — 

Sing  praises,  sweetest  praises, 
To  Christ,  our  Saviour  King. 

Oh  !  come  on  this  blest  evening 

With  rapture  and  delight, 
And  with  the  ancient  shepherds, 

In  faith,  behold  the  sight 
Of  Jesus  in  the  manger — 

The  babe  of  unborn  days  ; 
In  holy  adoration 

His  glorious  advent  praise — 
In  holy  adoration 

His  glorious  advent  praise. 

He  came  from  highest  heaven, 

From  realms  of  glory  bright, 
Down  to  our  sin-stained  world, 

To  shed  eternal  light. 
He  came  for  our  salvation, 

From  sin  to  set  us  free. 
Oh  !  blessed,  blessed  Jesus, 

Our  thanks  we  give  to  Thee — 
Oh  !  blessed,  blessed  Jesus, 

Our  thanks  we  give  to  Thee. 

Then  with  the  vast  creation — 

With  men  and  seraphs  bright, 
With  suns  of  shining  glory, 

And  stars  with  flick'ring  light — 
Join  in  the  heavenly  chorus, 

The  joyful  anthem  sing: 
In  Bethlehem's  stable  manger 

Was  born  our  Saviour  King — 
In  Bethlehem's  lowly  manger 
Was  born  our  Saviour  King. 


DAVID  RAB. 

DAVID    RAE 

TTTIAS  born  at  Dumfries  in  1853.  A  few  yean 
VLVH  after,  his  parents  removed  to  Dalbeattic, 
where  David  was  educated.  His  father,  who  was  a 
baker  in  Dalbeattie,  built  up  a  good  provincial  trade, 
now  carried  on  by  his  mother  under  the  management 
of  his  brothers.  The  scenery  of  the  valley  of  the 
Urr  had  a  decided  influence  over  our  poet,  and  in 
satisfying  a  natural  taste  for  drawing,  he  got  into  a 
habit  of  rhyming.  Longing  to  see  more  of  the  world, 
he  visited  India,  New  Zealand,  South  America,  the 
United  States,  and  the  better  known  of  the  Medi- 
terranean ports.  Returning  again  to  his  native  land, 
he  settled  down  in  Glasgow  in  connection  with  a 
manufactory  that  did  a  large  export  trade.  He  had 
for  some  time  the  management  of  the  whole  business, 
but,  owing  to  ill-health,  he  was  reluctantly  compelled 
to  give  up  this  situation.  At  present  Mr  Rae  is 
secretary  of  the  "  Glass  Stainers'  Company,"  Glasgow. 
He  has  written  a  good  deal  of  very  thoughtful  prose 
and  poetry,  and  many  of  his  "bits'7  have  appeared  in 
the  columns  of  the  A'irkcudbrighUhir*  Adcertitir  and 
other  newspapers.  Recently  he  published  a  vigorous 
and  well-sustained  dramatic  poem,  entitled  "  Dun- 
drennan  Abbey."  Some  of  his  sonnets  are  neat  and 
suggestive,  while  all  his  productions  are  of  a  reflective 
nature.  A  substance  of  thought  pervades  them,  and 
the  sentiment  is  always  elevating  and  hopeful 

THINK-THINK-THINK/ 

Tblnk-think-think- 

With  never  a  day's  reapite  ; 
Think-think— think  - 

With  oramptd  wrUt  I  write. 

•Sir   Walter  Scott  bitterly   lamented  the  lo»(of  bte  Sabbath*,  and 
,  amid  the  teemta*  oreatkme  of  Me  voadraw  mipd,  "o.thail 


400  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

Think  and  write — write  and  think — 

Forging  links  for  a  plot, 
And  throwing  a  chain  o'er  my  burden 'd  brain, 

And  the  dungeon-hold  of  Thought. 

Think— think— think— 

A  page  is  filled  so  slow  ; 
Think— think -think— 

And  the  days  they  come  and  go  ; 
While  so  little  is  seen 

Of  the  work  that  I  do, 
That  1  lose  the  thread  of  my  tale  in  dread 

Of  the  failure  looming  in  view. 

Think— write— think— 

Till  clasped  by  kindly  sleep  ; 
I  think  and  write  with  ease, 

With  a  pen  that  seems  to  leap. 
O  !  to  wake  and  find  it  false, 

Is  a  rivet  in  the  chain 
That  I  wear  till  night  shuts  out  daylight, 

To  dream  it  o'er  again. 

Think— think— think— 

O  !  for  a  single  day 
Beside  some  river's  brink, 

Like  a  simple  child  at  play  ; 
To  feel  as  once  I  felt, 

When  Thought  was  life's  sunshine, 
And  not  a  stone  that  drags  me  down 

To  age  before  my  time. 


TAKEN    AWAY.* 

Wretched  his  fallen  state, 

Welcoming  Death  ! 
Utterly  desolate, 

Painful  his  breath. 

At  the  grim  monster's  dart 
Wells  from  his  shrivell'd  heart 
Thoughts  that  more  gall  impart 

Into  his  moan — 
Gloomy  futurity, 
Weight  to  his  agony, 

Dying  alone  ! 

*  "  Last  night  an  old  man  was  admitted  after  hours,  and  was  found  dead 
in  the  morning."— Workhouse  Report. 


DAVID   HAS.  401 

Wretch 'd  bis  present  state— 

Painful  the  strife— 
Utterly  desolate. 

Battling  for  life  ! 

With  not  a  mortal  near, 

With  not  a  voice  to  cheer, 

Nothing  to  stifle  fear- 
Solitude's  Own ! 

Deep  depth  of  loneliness, 

Chaos  of  wretchedness— 
Dying  alone  I 

Utterly  desolate, 

Painful  his  breath — 
Glad  at  his  coining  fate. 

Welcoming  Death  ! 

Think  of  his  closing  eyes  1 
Oh  !  how  he  vainly  tries 
His  swimming  head  to  rise, 

Gasping  for  breath  ! 
What  of  the  soul  that  Hie- 
Up  to  it*  native  xkie*. 

Ne'er  to  know  Death? 
Hu»h  !  hush,  y»ur  whi*|>eriug  tongue 
Dare  not  to  talk  of  doom, 

Seal'd  now  his  fate  :— 
Sooner  should  help  have  c  >me 
Into  the  silent  room — 

Now,  'tis  too  late  ! 

Naught  but  the  clay  God  gar*, 

Never  a  moan  ; 
Write  o'er  the  pauper's  grave, 
i  le  died  alone!" 

Say  that  ye  knew  not 
He  lay  in  hi*  death-out. 

.  piug  hi*  last ! 
Oh  !  'tis  a  horrid  thought- 
No  woman's  hand  brought 
Water,  to  c«*>l  hi*  thmat 

:  -  life  was  pant, 
F.>r  had  but  a  single  •  y« 
Seen  hU  great  agony— 

Tearfully  seen  him— 
He  intent,  midst  his  blind  ru**, 
il»ve  thought  of  the  kiudns-s 
Of  G<xl,  »caiidlMg  S 
2 


402  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

Dark,  black  futurity, 
Weight  to  his  agony, 
Wilder  his  mutiny, 

Dying  alone  ! 

Back  to  the  God  who  gave — 
Hush'd  now  his  groan — 
Carve  o'er  his  pauper  grave, 
"  He  died  alone  !" 
Utterly  desolate, 

Painful  his  breath- 
Glad  at  his  coming  fate, 

Welcoming  Death  ! 


PER    RAIL. 


Through  the  woods,  and  over  streams, 

Flashing  like  a  gleam  of  light, 
Through  the  cleft  and  rugged  ravines, 

Crashing  on  with  thunderous  might 
Past  the  crossing  where  the  children 

Wave  their  arms  and  lustily  cheer  ; 
Thro'  the  meadow,  where  the  filly 

Scampers  off  as  we  draw  near. 

O'er  the  viaduct,  now  rolling 

With  the  river  far  below, 
Where  the  angler,  I  see  strolling, 

Wary  where  his  line  to  throw, 
Round  a  curve  with  sinuous  motion 

What  a  sight  salutes  the  eye  ! 
Yonder  lies  the  heaving  ocean, 

Bounded,  westward  by  the  sky  ! 

But  the  gladden'd  eye  scarce  sees  it 

Till  the  darkness  of  the  tomb 
And  the  noise  reverberating 

Swells  the  tunnel's  sombre  gloom, 
'Midst  a  web  of  ^listening  metals 

Daylight  lights  on  us  once  more 
Clanking  past  the  signal  boxes — 

Soon  our  journey  will  be  o'er. 

Then  a  sense  of  gradual  slowness, 

Then  a  feeling  of  release — 
As-  we  glide  into  the  station, 

' '  Ticket  r    ' '  Yes  sir,  if  you  .please  *" 


DAVID   RAE.  403 

SWEET  MAY  HATH  DONN'D  HER  VIRGIN  D1 

Sweet  May  hath  dunn'd  her  virgin  dress 

Of  blossom  and  sunshine  ; 
And  flowers,  charoied  by  her  lovelinens, 

Ope'  all  their  wealth  sublime. 

The  tender  foliar-  of  each  tree 

Is  jubilant  with  song, 
Sweet  noiiK'8ter*  making  melody 

Their  verdant  depth*  among. 

(So  sings  the  bird  of  Hope  in  us, 

With  warbling*  sweet  and  true. 
Till  joy  supplant*  our  wvarineM 

'Mong  leaves  wet  with  grief's  dew.) 

Umbrageous  billows  brown  each  hill — 

A  garniture  of  green — 
From  whence  is  heard,  when  all  U  still, 

The  falling  murmuring  stream. 

And  early  swallows  dart  athwart 

The  ever-changing  sky, 
While  from  the  wood's  secluded  part 

There  floats  the  cuckoo's  cry. 

The  river  with  its  gravelly  bed— 

With  charm*  the  anglers  know— 
Attract-*  the  golden  sun  o'er 

And  rob*  it  of  its  glow. 

Th*  air  i«  full  of  insect  life 

.  Kinall  for  -itfht  like  •ur»), 
With  all  lif«'«  strange  mel«>dimui  strife 
To  serenade  the  flower*. 

Bat  dearer  than  the  beamy  strewn 

So  prodigal  around  ; 
Far  sweeter  than  the  river's  tune, 

Or  woody  twittering  band  ; 

The  viewleu  charm  that  fillet !•  all. 

The  token  of  God's  oare  — 
The  voiceless  praise  that  mutely  calls 

The  thankful  heart  to  prayer. 


404  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 


MRS   FLORA  MAITLAND   MACRAE 

S  a  daughter  of  the  late  Mr  William  Colquhoun, 
well  known  as  the  author  of  the  famous  work 
entitled  "The  Moor  and  the  Loch."  Mr  Colquhoun 
was  immediate  younger  brother  of  the  late  Sir  James 
Colquhoun  of  Luss,  who  was  drowned  in  Loch  Lomond 
some  ten  or  twelve  years  ago.  Mrs  Macrae's  grand- 
mother was  Lady  Colquhoun  of  Luss,  whose 
"  Memoir,"  by  the  late  Rev.  Dr.  Hamilton,  has  been 
so  widely  read  and  greatly  prized.  The  Christian 
Leader  of  June  4,  1885,  speaking  of  the  death  of  the 
last  of  the  sons  of  "  the  good  Lady  Colquhoun," 
who  died  in  his  eighty-first  year,  informs  us  that 
his  wife,  who  pre-deceased  him,  was,  like  her 
husband,  "  gifted  as  a  writer  and  the  authoress 
of  at  least  one  volume  of  poems,  '  Rhymes  and 
Chimes,'  published  by  Macmillan  in  1876.  A 
sample  of  Mrs  Colquhoun's  verse  closes  her  husband's 
description  of  the  Pass  of  Glencroe  in  his  great  book. 
The  daughters  have  inherited  the  literary  taste  and 
power  of  their  parents,  three  of  them  at  least  having 
distinguished  themselves  in  the  field  of  authorship. 
Mrs  L.  B.  Walford  is  one  of  our  most  brilliant  writers 
of  fiction ;  from  Mrs  Macrae,  the  wife  of  a  respected 
writer  to  the  signet  in  Edinburgh,  we  have  received 
several  precious  volumes  of  a  devotional  character; 
and  the  slighter  efforts  of  a  third  daughter  of  John 
Colquhoun  we  have  more  than  once  had  the  pleasure 
of  commending  to  our  readers.  A  fourth  daughter  is 
the  wife  of  Dr.  Macleod,  minister  of  St.  Stephen's 
parish,  Edinburgh." 

Mrs  Macrae's  works  include  "True  Stories  of  the 
Loving-kindness  of  the  Lord,"  "  Heaven's  Messengers  ; 
or,  Tract  Distributing,"  and  a  volume  of  poems 
recently  issued  from  Drummond's  Tract  Depot,  Stir- 


FLORA    MAITI.ANP    MACRAE.  405 

linjr,  entitled  "  The  Private  Note-Book  Opened  ;  or,  a 
Broken  Heart  Bound  Up,"  from  which  we  give  several 
extracts.  These  are  marked  by  deep  feeling,  descrip- 
tive power,  and  poetic  tenderness.  Indeed,  Mrs 
Macrae's  verse  manifests  high-souled  earnestness,  a 
knowledge  of  human  nature,  and  a  warm  desire  to 
comfort  the  afflicted,  and  to  lead  the  weak  and  the 
erring  into  the  paths  of  rectitude. 

THE    COTTAGB    BY    THE    SEA. 

Heavily  beat  the  load  sea-wave 

Atfaituit  the  sailor's  cottage  door, 
Loudly  rounded  the  sleet  and  rain, 

And  the  tempest's  awakened  roar. 

The  Bailor  sate  within  his  hut, 

His  little  child  upon  his  knee, 
Hearing  the  win-i  ami  busy  rain. 

And  cry  of  the  birds  of  the  sea. 

He  started  from  his  seat,  and  then 
He  quickly  sate  him  down  again  :— 
"  Hear'st  thou  a  voice,  my  child  T"  he  said, 
44  Not  of  the  living  but  of  the  dead, 
That  ever,  amid  th«  tempest's  din. 
Seeineth  to  say,  '  Oh,  take  roe  in  !' 
It  Hounds  to  me  like  the  voice  of  one 
That  well  1  knew  in  the  days  that  are  gone  : 
It  Hounds  to  me  like  that  gentle  voice 
.  That  once  bade  thi*  withered  heart  rejoice, 
It  sound*  like  hers  who  to  me  was  given 
An  the  HKht  of  light*  on  my  way  to  heaven  ! 
How  lonir  I  have  prayed  that  God  would  rertort 
My  «eniV  wife  to  iny  boeom  once  more, 
If  the  «till  in  the  land  of  the  living  .hould  be, 
wrishe'l  not  on  the  far-off  sea  ; 


vr  its  tone 
Min  with  the  tea*  wave*'  mnaa  ? 

•4  1  hear  It,  father,  I  hear  it  now, 

plaintive  it  wmndeth,  how  •*•«•*,  bow  low  ; 
J;ear  mother  in  the  far-off  ocean 

r  anxel  from  para.  Hi*.  ** 

••  Be  still,  my  •  jiear  it  again," 

And  a  gentle  U;«  at  the  window  pan* 


406  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

Made  the  sailor  rise  and  move  to  the  door  ; 

He  opened  it  'mid  the  tempest's  roar, — 

He  knew  not  on  such  a  boisterous  night 

What  form  in  distress  should  burst  on  his  sight ; 

Oh  !  what  felt  he  then  when  the  torchlight  fell 

On  a  face  he  was  wont  to  know  so  well  ! 

In  terror  he  turned  and  shook  his  head, — 

"  Has  the  sea  already  given  up  its  dead  ? 

Though  my  heart  for  her  long  has  prayed  and  wept, 

Ever  fearing  beneath  its  waves  she  slept, 

Yet  the  feeble  strength  of  this  human  breast 

Cannot  bear  the  sight  of  a  spiritual  guest." 

No  spirit  was  she,  for  her  tale  she  told, 
The  mystery  dark  her  lips  did  unfold  ; 
And  the  sailor  clasped  her  unto  his  heart : 
They  met,  never  more  on  earth  to  part ! 

What  heeded  they  then  that  the  wind  was  high, 
That  the  ocean  groaned  out  its  minstrelsy, 
That  the  cry  of  the  sea-birds  was  loud  and  shrill, 
That  the  rain  crept  in  on  the  window  sill, 
For  within  that  cottage  were  hearts  so  light 
As  defied  the  dark  armies  of  the  night ; 
The  sailor's  prayers  had  been  heard  on  high, 
And  in  time  came  the  answer  so  gloriously, 
That  at  first  he  could  scarcely  believe  it  true, 
Though  the  fortn  before  him  so  well  he  knew  ; 
In  doubt  and  weakness  he  prayed  to  heaven, 
But  in  glorious  power  was  the  answer  given  ! 


THE   YOUNG    LIGHTHOUSE-KEEPER, 

The  night  was  wild,  and  rough  the  sea  ; 

The  waves,  blown  rudely  by  the  blast, 

Hurried  about  in  eager  haste, 
Determined  to  be  more  than  free. 

The  white  foam  dashed  the  cold  hard  cheek 
Of  many  a  rock  that  bound  the  shore, 
And  crept  in  at  the  open  door 

Of  many  a  little  bay  and  creek.  . 

Within  the  lighthouse  window  pane, 

All  was  so  cheerful— all  so  bright ; 

Forth  streamed  a  shining  world  of  light, 
Defying  storm  and  wind  and  rain. 


FLORA    MAITLAND  MACRAE.  407 

Bat  where  the  lighthouse-keeper  thent 

He  lighted  not  his  lamp*  that  night, 

Another  hand  had  made  them  bright, 
Queens  of  the  stormy  sea  again. 

His  daughter  -  his  young  daughter  fair, 

Twas  she  whose  hand  so  merrily 

Had  lit  the  lamps  above  the  sea. 
And  oh  !  with  what  a  world  of  care. 

Her  work  all  don*,  she  rested  then, 

And  sweet  her  little  song  she  sung, 

That  high  above  the  wild  waves  rung. 
And  mocked  the  saucy  wind  and  rain  :— 

BONO. 

I  have  lighted  my  lamps,  and  the  midnight  damps 

Cannot  enter  to  dim  their  light. 
The  sailor  afar  will  call  them  his  star. 

So  grand  do  they  shine  in  the  night ; 
They  shine  o'er  the  »ea  like  the  lights  from  on  high 

On  this  life  so  troubled  with  care. 
To  the  tossing  ship  on  the  rolling  deep 

A  message  of  hope  they  bear." 


THE    PRISONER'S    SLEEP. 

She  lies  upon  the  prison  floor 
Beside  the  prisoner's  iron  door, 
Her  lung,  dark  hair  the  pillow  makes 
Where  rest*  her  tired  he*  I  till  she 
Ht/r  pale  hands  folded  o'er  her  breast 
Seem  waiting  for  a  bettor  rest. 
Then  who  shall  go  to  summon  her  ? 
Ah  !  vho  shall  wake  the  prisoner  T 
Wake  her  to  die  !    The  sands  are  ran, 

ittle  day  on  earth  is  don*. 
Wake  her  !  th<*e  eye*  with  tears  to  »to«p. 
Wake  her  !  away  with  dream,  and  sleep  ! 
Wake  her  to  hlu«h  o'er  sins  forgiven  '• 
Wake  her  to  s«md  her  prayer*  to  heaven  I 
Wake  her  l»  draw  her  parting  breath. 
Wake  her  to  di«  a  felon's  death  ! 
Perchance  she  dream*  that  she  once  nor* 
Is  playing  by  the  cottage  door 
Thatti.  -  fooUUps  knew  ; 

Or  swinging  uu  the  old,  loved  yew, 


408  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

Basking  beneath  the  summer  sun  ; 

Or  chatting  when  the  day  was  done — 

Singing  the  cattle  home  at  night, 

Or  telling  tales  when  dim  the  light. 

Dreams  she  her  mother's  voice  she  hears, 

Bidding  her  dry  her  childhood's  tears  ? 

Her  father's  step,  her  sister's  smile — 

Her  brother's  merry  laugh  the  while — 

They  all  are  gone— in  dreams  alone 

"Return  the  davs  whose  light  is  gone. 

Wake  her  to  die  !  the  dismal  sound 

Her  prison  wall  has  rung  around, 

And  must  she  hear  its  mournful  tone  ? 

Let  the  poor  prisoner  dream  on  ! 

Oh  !  must  we  wake  her  when  her  dreams 

Are  all  of  better  days  ?    She  seems 

In  sleep  to  turn  her  large,  dark  eyes 

For  help  and  pardon  to  the  skies. 

Yes  !  she  has  craved  of  Heaven  to  be 

Forgiven  through  eternity. 

Wake  her  to  die  !  no  grief,  no  pain 

Can  make  the  captive  free  again. 

The  day  is  come  when  she  must  die, 

No  hope  for  her  but  in  the  sky. 

O  ye  who  bear  the  Christian  name, 

Deal  kindly  with  the  child  of  shame  ; 

With  those  whom  crime  has  brought  so  low 

Be  Christ-like,  win  them  in  their  woe. 


WILLIAM    DOUGALL, 

TIT]!  ELL-KNOWN  in  the  political,  literary,  and 
VL\H  social  circles  of  Edinburgh,  was  born  at  Dun- 
keld  in  1829.  The  son  of  a  cabinet  maker,  he  was 
educated  at  Perth  Academy,  where  he  took  first  prizes 
in  most  of  his  classes.  He  was  intended  for  the 
teaching  profession,  but  ultimately  chose  a  mercan- 
tile life,  and  was  accordingly,  at  the  age  of  sixteen, 
apprenticed  to  Mr  D.  R.  Macgregor,  a  Leith  merchant, 
who  became  M.P.  for  these  Burghs.  After  thirty-five 


WILLIAM    DOUOALL,  409 

years'  connection  with  the  firm  of  John  Bowes  Esquire 
<fe  Partners,  of  Newcastle-on-Tyne,  one  of  the  largest 
colliery  owning  firms  in  England,  for  whom  he  waa 
agent  for  Scotland,  he  retired,  and  now  occupies  his 
time  by  interesting  himself  in  various  public  insti- 
tutions. For  ten  years  he  has  been  hon. -secretary 
of  the  Leith  Sailors'  Home,  which  is  one  of  the  finent 
in  the  world,  as  is  testified  by  some  of  Her  Majesty's 
oldest  naval  officers.  He  is  a  Fellow  of  the  Royal 
Scottish  Society  of  Arts,  Captain  of  the  Royal  Mussel- 
burgh  Golf  Club,  and  holds  office  in  a  number  of 
political,  musical,  scientific,  and  other  societies  in 
Edinburgh  and  Leith. 

Mr  Dougall's  first  poetical  effusion  was  printed  in 
the  Scotsman  thirty  yean  ago,  and  since  then  he  has 
contributed  to  many  journals,  magazines,  and  news- 
papers. His  poem  on  "  Tel-el-Kebir,"  dedicated  by 
special  permission  to  Lord  Wolseley,  was  selected  out 
of  fifty-one  for  publication  in  Ch*mb*r»»  Journal  in 
1882.  He  wrote  an  ode  on  "  The  Tay  "  for  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Edinburgh  Perthshire  Association,  which 
was  warmly  received.  The  Rev.  James  Macgregor, 
D.D.,  of  St  Cuthbert's,  wrote  the  preface  to  this 
booklet,  and  mentioned  that  "the  admirable  ode" 
was  practically  the  result  of  a  single  sitting.  On 
three  different  occasions  Mr  Dougall  has  received 
thanks  from  the  Queen  for  his  poems— an  acrostic 
he  wrote  on  Her  Majesty's  name  being  most 
graciously  received.  Hi*  golfing  songs  are  racv  and 
popular,  and  n.:my  of  his  rM'u*i..ns  on  "stones  of 
the  times,"  whil-  ibowiog  to  detect 

:.usica1t  evincing  a  high 
i  possessing  a 
n»ixt  \ky  fun  and  sound  philosoj ! 


410  MODNER   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

OUR    AMERICAN    CRITIC. 

A  Yankee  D.D.  came  to  town, 

And  looked  on  us  in  pity  ; 
His  wise  remarks  he  noted  down 

And  sent  to  Pittsburgh  city. 
Auld  Reekie  is  an  ancient  seat 

Of  learned  occupation, 
Yet  every  second  face  you  meet 

Shows  marks  of  dissipation. 

Teetotallers,  'tis  true,  abound, 

But  not  in  fitting  number 
To  keet)  the  drunkards  off  our  ground, 

Where  on  each  day  they  slumber. 
Edina's  kirks  and  parsons  are 

In  helpless  situation, 
They  need  a  bright  and  guiding  star 

To  kill  inebriation. 

One  who  can  trace  each  rosy  tint 

Unfailing  to  its  sources, 
And  sniff  the  breath  of  peppermint 

At  Sabbath  day  discourses. 
The  Scotch  all  o'er  like  grog  and  ale 

In  matters  of  libation, 
Perchance  the  Pittsburg  folks  look  pale 

Through  gross  gormandisation. 

This  hero  of  a  high-toned  creed 

Betrays  a  vulgar  craving 
For  being  "  unco  guid,"  indeed, 

When  he  is  only  raving. 
Auld  Reekie's  ruddy  faces  tell 

Of  health  and  sanitation  ; 
Their  candid  critic  would  do  well 

To  flee  prevarication. 


THE  ROYAL  GAME  OF  GOLF, 

Our  first  King  James  was  fond  of  games, 

But  Gowff  he  liked  the  best, 
And  aye  since  then  our  wisest  men 

Its  virtues  hae  confessed. 
For  far  and  near  fresh  greens  appear, 

Increasing  day  by  day  ; 
New  clubs  arise  and  greatly  prize 

Our  Royal  Game  to  play. 


WILLIAM    DOUOALL,  411 

There'i  nocht  I  ken  Me  gold  for  men 

As  exercise  an*  air. 
An*  GowfiTs  the  game  that  gi'ea  that  same— 

A'  sports  beyond  compare. 
Then  tee  your  ba'  and  drive  awa 

Whene'er  a  chance  ye  hae, 
Twill  gie  ye  health-mair  worth  than  wealth— 

Our  Royal  Game  to  play. 

A  foursome  set  o*  lads  weel  met 

Has  pleasures  nane  can  feel. 
Except  the  few  'gainst  foemen  true 

Quite  worthy  o*  their  steel. 
For  nane  e'er  thinks  when  on  the  Links 

0*  rares  that  on  us  weigh  ; 
We  travel  miles  wi'  cheery  smiles 

Our  Royal  Game  to  play. 

Ilk  ither  club  should  bae  a  rub 

Against  its  neebor  men  ; 
An'  though  ance  beat  the  match  repeat. 

An'  fecht  it  <>wer  again. 
Twill  gie  new  zest  to  do  oar  beat. 

Bring  freendshins  hy  the  way, 
Sae  let  us  mix  and  matches  fix, 

Our  Royal  Game  to  play. 


TEL-E1..KEBIR. 

September  IS,  1881 

Our  forces  were  massed  in  the  dead  of  the  night, 
Each  man  carried  nought  but  was  needful  in  fight ; 
Accoutred  and  ready,  they  sought  some  repo*e. 
Two  hours  were  thus  spent,  when  they  silently  rose. 

No  bogle-notes  rang  on  the  calm,  doodles*  air  ; 

A  whisper  was  passed  for  the  march  to  prepare  : 

In  silence  they  moved  o'er  the  dark,  trackless  sand, 

Took  their  coarse  fr-tn  the  stars,  and  with  compass  In  hand. 

Esch  regiment  AA'  for  the  neighbouring  line. 
And  kept  it-  position  v  ilgn  ; 

Thu*  weird-likr  t)i.  arn.y  -till  t.'ld  on  its  way. 
Till  halte.i  •  iie  orrak  of  the  day. 

The  order  was  given—"  Let  no  m*n  fir«  a  shot, 

!»•••.  the  first  line  has  got : 

Then  r-u-h  with  a  i-l.ecr  sn-1  th«-  Id, 

The  Islamite  horde  most  then  sp*«!ily  yield," 


412  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

Sir  Garnet's  design  was  a  consummate  plan, 

His  soldiers  he  knew  he  could  trust  to  a  man  ; 

And  thus  when  thn  muttered  command  passed  around, 

His  heroes  dashed  forward,  with  joy  at  the  sound. 

Though  met  with  a  shower  of  bullets  like  hail, 

No  obstacle  could  o'er  their  ardour  prevail  ; 

They  leapt  o'er  the  ditches  and  swarmed  up  the  slope, 

Dropped  inside  the  works,  with  the  rebels  to  cope. 

No  race  of  the  East  but  must  stagger  and  reel 

When  charged  hand  to  hand  with  the  British  cold  steel  ; 

Few  minutes  sufficed  from  the  first  of  the  rush, 

The  strength  of  proud  Arabi's  legions  to  crush. 

The  Highland  Brigade  bore  the  brunt  of  the  fray — 
Their  ranks  were  more  thinned  than  the  rest  on  that  day  ; 
While  the  cavalry  swept  o'er  the  mass  in  retreat, 
And  cut  down  their  hundreds  the  rout  to  complete. 

The  Indian  contingent  went  straight  on  ahead, 
Till  Tantah's  old  thoroughfares  echoed  their  tread  ; — 
The  campaign  was  won,  and  ere  next  sun  had  set, 
In  Cairo  the  victors  triumphantly  met. 

All  arms  of  the  service  have  valiantly  fought — 
Fresh  laurels  to  History's  pages  are  brought  ; 
Enshrined  on  our  flag,  a  new  name  shall  appear, 
Recalling  the  glory  of  "  TEL-EL- KEBIR." 


JOHN     IMRIE, 

H  VIGOROUS,  yet  deeply  pathetic  Scottish- 
American  poet,  was  born  in  Glasgow  about 
1847.  He  emigrated  to  Canada  in  1871,  and  is  now 
a  member  of  the  widely-esteemed  firm  of  Imrie  & 
Graham,  book  and  music  printers,  Toronto.  Although 
a  firm  believer  in  a  great  future  for  Canada,  he,  in  all 
his  utterances,  gives  evidence  of  his  warm  love  of  "  Auld 
Scotia,"  and  affords  yet  another  proof  of  the  fact  that 


JOHN    IMKIK.  413 

the  farther  away  Scotsmen  go  from  their  "native 
harae,"  the  more  enthusiastic  and  patriotic  they  get 
over  Scotland  and  everything  Scott i-.h. 

In  addition  to  the  publication  of  a  great  number  of 
songs  set  to  music  by  various  gentlemen,  whose  names 
stand  high  in  the  scale  of  musicul  authorship,  Mr 
Imrie,  in  1886,  published  a  beautifully-gut-up  and 
richly  illustrated  volume,  entitled  "Sacred  Songs, 
Sonnets,  and  Miscellaneous  Pieces."  These  songs, 
with  very  appropriate  musical  setting,  have  met  with 
wide  favour,  while  his  volume  has  been  so  favourably 
received  by  the  public,  as  well  as  the  press  at  home 
and  abroad,  that  it  has  already  reached  a  second 
edition.  It  is  the  fruit  of  intellectual  recreation — his 
leisure  hours,  all  too  few — and  published  by  him 
with  much  diffidence,  and  only  after  the  earnest 
solicitation  of  many  competent  authorities.  Mr 
Imrie  has  also  given  to  the  world  a  most  artistically 
arranged  "  Bouquet  of  Sonnets  for  Thou. 
Moments,"  and  these,  too,  have  been  well  received. 
Mr  G.  Mercer  Adam  contributes  an  able  introduction 
to  the  volume  of  "Songs,"  already  referred  • 
which  he  tersely  brings  out  the  characteristics  of  our 
poet,  showing  his  power  of  illustrating  the  honest, 
unaffected  love  of  home  and  home  pleasures.  Mr 
Adam  says : — •'  The  craving  for  excitement  has  made 
us  impatieut  with  home;  and  the  fireside  and  domestic 
shrines  have  in  large  measure  lost  their  attr.i 
In  their  place  have  come  the  club  and  the  society  hall, 
the  tavern  and  the  divorce  court  We  are  DO  longer 
satisfied  with  the  novel,  with  the  song,  or  with  the 
play,  that  used  to  delight  our  forefathers.  Nothm- 
so  simple  and  innocent  would  now  content  us. 
Innocent  delights,  restful  pleasures,  and  the  blissful 
contentment  of  a  well-ordered,  comfortable  hom< 
>u.  h  in;.:*  ml  recreation  as  these  Edens  afford, 
must  be  the  necessities,  we  should  think,  of  those  At 


414  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

least  whose  lot  is  a  ceaseless  round  of  toil.  To  such 
our  author  comes  with  his  tuneful  lyre,  and  sings  us 
the  gladsome  lays  of  the  home  and  the  fireside. 
Benefactor  is  he  not,  to  you  and  to  me,  if  he  beguiles 
us  from  our  distractions  and  cares,  and  leads  us  to  realize 
that,  after  all,  the  world's  happiness  lies  in  the  quiet 
comfort  and  the  refining  influences  of  home  ? " 

For  ourselves,  it  is  seldom  that  we  have  seen  a 
volume  of  poetry  of  so  uniformly  good  quality.  He 
furnishes  us  with  real  home  pictures,  full  of  interest, 
and  admirably  told.  Ever  graceful,  and  sometimes 
playful,  Mr  Imrie  possesses  the  true  poetic  faculty, 
and  he  writes  with  earnest  patriotic  passion,  as  well 
as  with  delicate  and  touching  pathos. 


TELL    ME— OF    WHAT    SHALL    I    SING? 

Sing  a  merry,  happy  lay, 
Bright  as  Summer's  golden  day, 
When  the  hours  fly  swift  away, 
Oh  !  sing  of  these  to  me  ! 

Sing  of  birds,  and  bees,  and  flowers, 
Sing  of  Flora's  lovely  bowers, 
Sing  of  early  childhood's  hours, 
Oh  !  sing  of  these  to  me  ! 

Sing  the  songs  that  touch  the  heart, 
Causing  tears  of  joy  to  start, — 
Sing  of  friends  that  never  part, 
Oh  !  sing  of  these  to  me  ! 

Wooing  like  the  gentle  dove, 
Sing  of  happiness  and  love, 
Sing  of  brighter  joys  above, 

Oh  !  sing  of  these  to  me  ! 

Sing  of  these,  and  I  'shall  sing, 
As  if  borne  on  angel's  wing, 
To  the  presence  of  the  King, 
There  evermore  to  be  ! 


JOHN    IMRIB.  415 

OUR    JOHNNIE. 

We  hae  had  a  happy  time. 

Since  haioe  cum  Johnnie  ; 
Wi'  a  face  like  angel  sweet, 
Steal  in'  a'  oor  kisses  neat, 
Creepin'  roun  on  haana  an*  feet, 

Was  oor  wet?  Johnnie  '. 

Langest  day  maun  hae  it*  clo**. 

Alas  !  puir  Johnnie  ; 
Death  cam  in  sac  grim  an'  cauld. 
Chill  ii  the  lammie  in  the  fauld. 
Ta'en  the  young  and  left  the  auld. 

Pair  deed  wee  Johnnie. 

Ta'en  awa*  in  life's  spring-time. 

Oor  ain  dear  Johnnie  ; 
Mither'M  heart  in  anguish  wild, 
Faither  grudges  sair  his  child, 
Tet  to  God  baith  recondl'd  ; 

We'll  gang  to  Johnnie. 

Ainoe  the  licht  o'  a'  oor  hotwe, 

Oor  ain  wee  Johnnie  ; 
Noo  the  Hoht  U  ta'en  awa'. 
Darkness  seems  to  cover  a', 
Nane  can  comfort  as  ava 

But  oor  wee  Johnnie  '• 

'Neath  the  souchan  willow  tree 

Lies  oor  we*  Johnnie  ; 
Just  beneath  a  hillock  green. 
Whaur  the  daisies  maybe  seen, 
Wi'  the  buttercups  atween, 

Sleep*  oor  wee  Johnnie, 

Aft  we  shed  the  bitter  tear 

For  oor  wee  Johnnie  ; 
Then  lookt  op  wi'  faith  abone, 
Whaur  nae  sorrow  oreepeth  in. 
There,  secure  frae  death  an*  sin, 

Bidet  oor  WM  Johnnie ! 


A    KISS    THROUGH    THE    TELEPHONE. 

The  telephone. 
Rang  ••TinkeltyTtinkeJty.tink  !" 


416  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 


I  put  my  ear 
Close  up  to  hear, 
And  what  did  I  hear,  do  you  think  ? 

"Papa,  hello! 

Tis  me  you  know  !" 
The  voice  of  my  own  little  Miss  ; 

"  You  went  away 

From  home  to-day, 
But  you  never  gave  me — a  kiss  ! 

"  It  was  a  mistake, 

I  was  not  awake, 
Before  you  went  out  of  the  house  ; 

I  think  that  a  kiss 

Will  not  be  amiss 
If  I  give  it — sly  as  a  mouse  ! 

"  So  here  goes,  Papa, 

And  one  from  Mamma, 
And  another  when  you  can  come  home  ; 

Just  answer  me  this, 

Is  it  nice  to  kiss 
When  you  want  through  the  dear  telefome  ?" 

"  Hello  ?"  I  replied, 

With  fatherly  pride, 
"  I've  got  them  as  snug  as  can  be  ; 

I'll  give  them  all  back, 

With  many  a  smack, 
As  soon  as  I  come  home  to  tea  !" 


MY    HEART   IS    SCOTLAND'S    YET! 

Oh,  weel  I  lo'e  the  Scottish  tongue, 

The  language  o'  my  hame  ; 
An'  weel  I  lo'e  a  sang  that's  sung 

In  praise  o'  Scotland's  fame. 
It  mak's  me  think  o'  happy  days, 

An'  scenes  o'  beauty  rare  ; 
There's  something  in  my  heart  that  says  : 
There's  nae  Ian'  half  sae  fair  ! 

CHORUS  : — My  heart  is  Scotland's  yet, 

Though  I  bide  ower  the  sea  ; 
I  never  can  forget 
The  Ian'  aae  dear  to  me  ! 


ARTHUR  WKIR..  417 

When  tmvellin'  in  A  foreign  Ian* 

I  hear  a  Sc<»tti«h  *oioe, 
InRtinctively  I  gie  my  han', 

An'  baith  •>'  u*  n-;.iice  ; 
An*  tbea  we  crack  <•'  Scotland's  fame. 

Recite  her  battle*  <>'er, 
An*  feel  we  yet  could  danr  the  same 

Oar  faithers  daor'd  before  ! 
CHOBDB—  My  heart  u  Scotland1!  yet : 

Ob.  ScotUnd  b  a  bonnie  place, 

Wi'  scenery  sublime  ; 
Whaur  Nature  smiles  wi'  fairent  face 

That  stan's  the  tent  o'  time  ! 
Each  mountain,  river,  loch,  or  glen 

Are  fa'  o*  storied  fame, 
Wh«  reads  the  history  o'  her  men 

Will  ne'er  forget  their  name ! 
CHORUS— My  heart  b  Scotland's  yet  I 

In  every  Ian*  roan'  a*  the  earth 

Are  leal  hearts  true  to  thee  ; 
An'  prood  are  they  to  own  their  birth 

Ayont  the  wide  saut  sea, 
Whaur  towers  the  mountain*  IxtM  an'  gran* 

Like  Kuardi-tn*  «>  the  free, — 
Oh,  here's  my  heart,  an*  there's  my  ban'. 

Dear  Scotland,  aye  to  thee  ! 
C'HOBUB-My  heart  b  Scotland's  yet ! 


-^    ARTHUR     WEIR. 

yilVR  WILLIAM    WKIli,  fatluT  ..f    tin-   subject   uf 
X IU     our    hketch,    was    I  <  ireenilcn. 

Brechin,  Forfarshiro.       lie  removed  to  Canada  about 
1842,    has  been   a   private  banker   nince    184 
is  at  present  the  leading  one  in  Montreal,  if  nut  in 


418  MODERN    SCOTTISH    t>OETS. 

Canada.  He  also  wields  a  graphic  pen,  and  is  well- 
known  and  esteemed  in  literary  circles.  Arthur  was 
born  in  Montreal  in  1864.  He  received  his  early 
education  at  the  High  School,  and,  at  first,  was  by  no 
means  a  diligent  or  promising  pupil.  During  his  last 
two  years  there,  however,  he  made  rapid  progress,  and 
excelled  in  the  study  of  science.  From  the  sixth  form 
of  the  school  he  graduated  in  1882,  and  by  pas- 
sing this  examination  he  secured  the  degree  of 
Associate  in  Arts  in  the  M'Gill  University — equivalent 
to  matriculation.  In  1886  he  graduated,  after  a  four 
years'  course  in  Applied  Science,  as  B.  A.  Sc.  While 
at  college,  Mr  Weir  was  fond  of  sports — particularly 
football  and  hockey.  He  captained  the  team  of  the 
latter  in  1885-86,  though  pushed  in  his  studies.  An 
injury  to  his  knee  had  before  then  put  him  perman- 
ently off  the  football  field.  He  was  not  lamed,  how- 
ever, and  managed  to  secure  the  220  yard  champion- 
ship of  the  college  in  the  same  year.  This  record, 
with  the  fact  that  he  is  a  member  of  the  Montreal 
Bicycle  Club  and  of  the  Athletic  Association,  in  general, 
finishes  Mr  Weir's  physical  career  "  up  to  date." 
Regarding  his  mental  record  at  college,  in  his  second 
year  he  took  the  "  Barland  Exhibition  "  of  £25,  and 
on  graduating  he  won  the  Lansdowne  Medal  in  the 
advanced  course,  iri  which,  to  this  date,  he  is  the  sole 
graduate.  He  was  for  some  years  editor  of  the 
"College  Journal."  On  leaving  the  university  he  joined 
the  staff  of  the  Star — becoming  assistant  editor  of  the 
weekly  issue,  and  after  eighteen  months'  experience  in 
journalism,  he  was  appointed  commercial  editor  of  the 
Daily  and  Weekly  Star,  which  position  he  still  holds. 

Mr  Weir  began  to  write  verse  before  he  was  fifteen 
years  of  age,  but  he  did  not  publish  anything  till 
1884.  He  had  previously  written,  also  under  assumed 
names,  a  good  deal  of  excellent  prose,  including  a  tale 
and  several  scientific  essays.  His  handsome  volume, 


ARTHUR    WEIR.  419 

"  Fleurs  de  Lys  and  other  Poems,"  [Montreal :  E.  M. 
Eenoufl  was  published  in  1887.  In  the  preface  he 
states  that  the  name  Flenrs  de  Lys  has  been  chosen 
for  the  Canadian  Poems  in  the  earlv 
book,  because  the  scenes  and  incidents  thev  .1. 
belong  to  the  Moimrchial,  or  Fleur  de  Lys,  peri.nl  ,,f 
France  in  Canada.  Some  of  the  poems  being  written 
at  twenty,  and  the  latest  at  twenty-three,  "the  author 
hopes  the  critics  will  consider  this  volume  rather  aa  a 
bud  than  as  a  flower,  and  will  criticize  it  with  the 
view  to  aiding  him  to  avoid  faults  in  the  future  rather 
than  to  censuring  him  for  errors  of  the  present  and 
f<:i~t."  The  work  contains  many  valuable  notes  on 
the  poems,  and  altogether  is  one  of  much  interest 
He  evidently  wishes  us  to  remember,  however,  that, 
though  there  is  Scotch  blood  in  his  veins,  he  is  a 
Canadian,  and  "looks  for  a  Canadian  nation."  In 
every  respect  it  fulfils  the  promise  held  out  in  his 
motto  verse — 

He  only  U  *  poet  who  can  find 
In  Borrow  happine**,  in  darknem  light, 

Love  everywhere,  ami  lead  hi*  fellow-kind 
By  flowery  path*  toward*  life's  canny  height. 

Mr  Weir's  thoughts  are  beautifully  imaginative  and 
truly  elevating.  lie  has  a  rich  gift  of  fancy,  a  deep 
contemplative  mind,  and  a  fine  command  of  lync 
measure. 


THE    SEA    SHELL. 

Tit  a  dainty  •hell,  tl*  a  fragile  .hell 

At  my  feet  that  the  wild  waves  threw. 
\i..l  I  iend  it  the«,  that  iu  line  may  tell 
lu  thine  ear  that  my  heart  I*  true. 

It  will  tell  the*  how  by  the  ranlit  MA 
Pa**  the  hnur*  we  were  wont  to  *hare, 

On  iu  pe.rl.pink  Up*  !•  a  ki*.  for  thee 
That  my  own  loving  lip*  placed  there. 


420  MODERN   SCOTTISH   POETS. 

In  a  lady's  hand  it  will  snugly  lie, 
Tis  as  thin  as  a  red  rose-leaf, 

Yet  it  holds  the  seagull's  sorrowing  cry, 
And  the  roar  of  the  tide-lashed  reef. 

In  its  ivory  cave,  though  the  mighty  sea 
May  find  room,  and  to  spare,  to  move, 

Yet  this  same  sea  shell  that  I  send  to  thee 
Is  too  small  to  contain  my  love. 


EQUALITY. 

Mad  fools  !    To  think  that  men  can  be 

Made  equal  all,  when  God 
Made  one  well  nigh  divinity 
And  one  a  soulless  clod. 

Nowhere  in  Nature  can  we  find 

Things  equal,  save  in  death, 
One  man  must  rule  with  thoughtful  mind, 

One  serve  with  panting  breath. 

The  maples  spread  their  foliage  green 

To  shade  the  grass  below, 
Hills  rise  the  lowly  vales  between 

Or  streams  would  never  flow. 

A  million  creatures  find  a  home 

Within  a  droplet's  sphere, 
And  giants  through  the  woodlands  roam 

While  quakes  the  land  in  fear. 

A  tiny  fall  in  music  breaks 

Against  the  mountain's  base, 
While  roars  an  avalanche  and  shakes 

The  whole  world  in  its  race 

One  must  be  weak  and  one  be  strong, 

One  huge,  another  small, 
To  help  this  teeming  world  along, 

And  make  a  home  for  all. 

Equality  is  death,  not  life, 

In  Nature  and  with  man, 
And  progress  is  but  upward  strife 

With  some  one  iu  the  van. 


ABTHUB   WHB. 

MY    TREASURE. 

"  What  do  you  gather  f  the  maiden  said, 
Shaking  her  minlit  curls  at  roe— 
"See,  theee  flowers  I  plucke<l  are  dead. 

Ah  !  misery." 

"  What  dojou  gather  r  the  miner  said, 

Clinking  his  gold,  an  he  tpoke  to  m 
44 1  cannot  sleep  at  night  for  dread 

Of  thieves, "said  he, 

44  What  do  you  gather  ?"  the  dreamer  said. 

I  dream  dream*  of  what  U  to  be ; 
Daylight  come*,  and  my  dreams  are  fled. 
Ah  !  woe  Is  me." 

"  What  do  TOO  gather  r  the  young  man  said 

"  I  seek  fame  for  eternity. 
"Toiling  on  while  the  world's  abed. 

Alone.-  aaid  he. 

44  What  do  I  (rather  T  I  laughing  said, 

"  Nothing  at  all  nave  memory. 
Sweet  M  flowers,  but  never  dead, 

LikethlM, 


44 1  have  no  fear  of  thieve*,"  I  aald, 

44  Daylight  kills  not  my  reverie. 
Fame  will  find  I  am  snug  abed. 

That  comes  to  ir.e." 

4 '  The  past  in  my  treasure,  friends,"  I  aaid, 
"  Time  but  adds  to  my  treasury, 
Happy  moments  are  never  fled 

Away  from  me," 

44  All  one  need-  to  be  rich."  I  amid, 

"I-  to  live  that  his  past  shall  be 
Sweet  in  hi-  u. ought*,  as  a  wild  rose  red. 
Eternally.  " 


HOPE    AND    DI8PAIR. 


You  love  the  nun  ami  the-  languid 
That  gently  ki*»e*  the  rosebud's  lip*, 
And  delight  to  see 
How  the  dainty  bee, 


422  MODERN    SCOTTISH    POETS. 

Stilling  his  gauze-winged  melodies 
Into  the  lily's  chalice  dips. 

I  love  the  wind  that  unceasing  roars, 

While  cringe  the  trees  from  its  wrath  in  vain, 
And  the  lightning-flash, 
And  the  thunder-crash, 

And  skies,  from  whose  Erebus  depths  outpours 
In  slanting  drifts  the  autumnal  rain. 

You  sigh  to  find  that  the  time  is  here 
When  leaves  ar«  falling  from  bush  and  tree  ; 
When  the  flowerets  sweet 
Die  beneath  our  feet, 
And  feebly  totters  the  dying  year 
Into  the  mists  of  eternity. 

To  me  the  autumn  is  never  drear, 
It  bears  the  glory  of  hopes  faltilled. 
Though  the  flowers  be  dead, 
There  are  seeds  instead, 
That,  with  the  spring  of  the  dawning  year, 
With  life  will  find  all  their  being  thrilled. 

You  tread  the  wood,  and  the  wind  behold 
Tear  down  the  leaves  from  the  crackling  bough 
Till  they  make  a  pall, 
As  they  thickly  fall, 

To  hide  dead  flowers.     The  air  seems  cold, 
No  summer  gladdens  the  forest  now. 

I  tread  the  maze  of  the  changing  wood, 
And  though  no  light  through  the  maples  plays, 
Yet  they  glow  each  one, 
Like  a  rose-red  sun, 

And  drop  their  leaves,  like  a  glittering  flood 
Of  warm  sunbeams,  in  the  woodland  ways. 

Poor  human  heart,  in  the  year  of  life 
All  seasons  are,  and  it  rests  with  thee 
To  enjoy  them  all, 
Or  to  drape  a  pall 

O'er  withered  hopes,  and  to  be  at  strife 
With  things  that  are,  and  no  brightness  see. 


ARTHUR   WEIR. 
THREE    SONNETS. 

TUB  MAIDEN. 

The  melody  of  bifls  in  in  her  vole*. 

The  lake  i*  nut  inure  crystal  than  her  eye*. 

In  whose  brown  depth*  her  soul  still  sleeping  |sj^ 
With  her  «>ft  curb  the  passionate  zephyr  toys. 
And  whispers  in  her  ear  of  coming  Joy*. 

Upon  her  breast  red  rosebuds  fall  and  rise, 

Kixsing  her  snowy  throat,  and,  lover-wist, 
Breathing  forth  sweetness  Ull  the  fragrance  cloys. 

Sometimes  »he  thinks  of  love,  bat.  oftener  yet, 
Wooing  but  wearies  her,  and  love's  warm  phrase 
Repels  and  frightens  her.    Then,  like  the  too 
At  misty  dawn,  amid  the  fear  and  fret 

There  rises  in  her  heart  at  last  some  One, 
And  all  save  love  is  \    ilitli  If  his  rays. 


There  stands  a  cottage  by  a  river  side, 
With  rustic  benches  sloping  caves  beneath. 
Amid  a  scene  of  mountain,  stream  and  heath. 

A  dainty  garden,  watered  by  the  tide. 

On  whme  calm  brea»t  the  queenly  lilies  ride. 
Is  bright  with  many  a  purple  pan.y  wreath. 
While  here  and  then,  forbidden  lion  •  teeth 

Uprear  their  golden  crown*  with  stubborn  pride 

See  !  there  the  lean-  upon  the  little  gate. 

Unchanged  save  that  her  onrK  ooce  flowing  foe, 
Are  closely  coiled  upon  her  sbapelv  bead. 

And  that  h-r  eye*  look  forth  nore  tboaghtjully. 
Hark  to  her  sigh  !  "  Why  tarries  be  so  Uur 
But  mark  her  smile  !  She  hears  his  well  known  tn*d. 

THE  MOTHBB. 

Beneath  the  eave*  there  is  another  chair, 

And  a  bruised  lily  lies  upon  the  walk. 

With  the  brik'ht  drops  .till  clinging  to  its  .talk. 
Whose  cureless  hand  ha-  dropped  Its >  treasure  there? 
And  whose  .mall  form  does  that  f rail  settee  bear  ? 

Whose  are  that  w»o.1en  shepherdess  and  flock. 

That  noble  o»ach  with  steeds  thai  never  balky 
And  why  the  gate  that  tops  the  ooUage'stalrt 


424  MODERN  SCOTTISH  POETS. 

Ah  !  he  has  now  a  rival  for  her  love, 

A  chubby-cheeked,  soft-fiated  Don  Juan, 

Who  rules  with  iron  hand  in  velvet  glove 
Mother  and  sire,  as  only  Baby  can. 

See  !  there  they  romp,  the  mother  and  her  boy, 

He  on  her  shoulders  perched  and  wild  with  joy. 


Edwards,   David  Herschell 
8657        *  Modern  Scottish  poets 

E4 
ser.ll 


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