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THE POETS OF AYRSHIRE
FROM THE
FOURTEENTH CENTURY TILL THE PRESENT DAY,
Wm; SELECTIONS FROM THEIR WRrrmGs.
JO H N M A C IN TO S H ,
AUTHOR OF
Ayrshire Nights’
Entertainments,” Irvinedale Chimes, ”
Life of Robert Burns, ” 8Lc.
PUBLISHED BY Tnos. HUNTER Co., DUM FRIES,and to be had fromStephen Pollock, Ayr ; Wm. Macdonald 81. Sons,
Galston ; and through all Booksellers.
This work is dedicated as a mark of esteem and regard.
“Theu tl oflabonr aad the volce ol aonglu stmgth eadm lead theme along.
"
FromHy Work, ” 143,
M69492
INTRODUCTORY NOTE .
N no country of the world has the lyrical gift been more
i widely difi‘
used than it has been in Scotland, and to no
Shire of Scotland have its poets brought more glory and
renown.
That Ayrshire owes much of its poetical celebrity to Robert
Burns cannot be gainsaid , but even if his writings were whol ly
eliminated, there stil l would remain much good work wel l
worthy of preservation For upwards of a hundred years the
Star of Robbie Burns has shone with such bril liancy in the
poetic firmament of Caledonia that all lesser l ights have paled
beneath its glance. This is unfortunate for the fame of the
lesser luminaries of Scotland in general , and particu larly so
for theminor bards of Ayrshire. But there are indications that
in the near future a larger share of popu larity wi l l be awarded
such gifted poets as Alexander Montgomerie, Alexander Smith ,James Montgomery , and many others who have permanently
enriched our Scottish minstrelsy .
Love and labour, domestic joys and sorrows, are the
themes to which by far the greater'
number of our Ayrshire
poets have tuned their harp - strings , and for one piece of a
romantic or heroic kind we have a dozen poems of the affections .
In a certain sense this is to be regretted , and the hope is
cherished that a greater number of our modern bards may yet
turn their attention to themes such as were dear to the bal lad
makers of old, since Ayrshire is a land peculiarly rich in bistori
cal associations which would furnish excel lent material for
compositions of this kind .
If in these latter days we have to deplore a lack of origin
al ity in poetical composition, it should be remembered that for
vr. INTRODUCTORY NOTE .
centuries the field Of Poesy has been careful ly gleaned and the
accumu lated harvest Of song is rich and overflowing, the
modern minstrel being pent by all the garnered wealth of ages
of past song, and wemay wel l ponder and ask the question—a
Of What can modern minstrels singThat, poets have not sung before
Still harping on the rusty stringWhich Homer struck in days of yore?
Our modern bards find richest oreIn veins which ancient minstrels mined,
And ring the change,for evermore
,
On worn - out thoughts— re cast, refined.
Nevertheless every age has its poets and‘
rhymers, and it
is hoped that a general survey of the Ayrshire Muse from the
fourteenth century down to the‘
present day‘
will be Of interest
to students, as wel l as to lovers Of Scottish poetry . Our
knowledge Of the early Makars 18 very imperfect, and but
few of their compositions remain to testify their poetic ski l l .
Enough is known, however, to convince us that while a goodly
number Of themmoved in a’ristocratic circles, it is chiefly to
the humbler ranks we owe the fu l l measure Of our lyrical and
bal lad compositions. Many Of those obscure bards,whose workssti l l delight and interest us, were of so humble ongm that not
the slightest clue to their identity is known . Singing the praises
of others, and hoisting friend and foe alike on to the pedestal
of perpetual fame, they themselves went down to the grave
unw'
ept, unhonoured, and unsung .
The unprecedented increase in the number Of Ayrshire
poets and rhymers since the death Of, Robert Burns may be
attributed partly to his influence and partly to better educational
Opportunities. This increase has rendered the work of selection
a very difl‘icult one, and in our desire to represent every shade
and variety Of talent it may be that we have admitted into our
poetical Edenan undue percentage of plants Of the common
INTRODUCTORY NOTE .
garden variety , giving thereby a long handle to the critic whosetruncheon shakes us like the rod divine that shook Olympus.
We feign no apology . If the patient reader shou ld happen to
scowl over an insipid efiusion here and there we beg to remind
him that even the good Homer sometimes nods. On the
other hand it is not denied that names and selections have been
omitted from this work which might have enriched it , the
difficulty Of deal ing in a single volume with all the matter
placed at the disposal of the compiler proving insurmountable.
NO pains have been spared, however, to make the work as
comprehensive and accurate as possib le, and in pursuit of this
object the compiler has passed through his hands an almost
incredib le number Of manusc ripts, newspaper cuttings, and Old
books. Many Of these are now so scarce that to Obtain a copy
one might have to await the chance of a life- time, and but for
the assistance of friends of the departed poets, and the cour
teous response of those sti l l in the flesh , much valuable imfouna
tion must have been denied the reader and not a fewmeritorious
selections withheld . In this connection special aid was given
by the Rev. W . B . R . Wilson, Of Dol lar ; Mr A. B . Todd, of
Cumnock ; Mrs Dr Auld, Of Kilwinning ; the Rev. G . S.
Hendrie, M .A. , Of Dalmel lington ; and several other friends
interested in the work , and to one and all deep indebtedness is
acknowledged.
In a simi lar connection special mention is made Of Mr D.
H. Edwards, of Brechin, for kindly granting permission to
make extracts from his valuab le work on Modern Scottish
Poets .
GALSTON , April , 1910 .
ALPHABETICAL INDEX .
EARLY POETS.
Barclay, Hew Lapraik, JohnBlair, Rev. Robert Montgomerie, Alex.
Boswell, Robert Muirhead, Rev . Dr JamesBoyd, Rev . Zachary Mare, Sir W illiam
Ramsay , A. MichaelEglyntoun , Sir Haw of Schaw, Quintyn
Simeon, WilliamHamilton, W illiam Wallace, WilliamKennedie, Walter
POETS OF KYLE.
Aitken,W illiam Gardiner, Rev. J.
Anderson, MatthewAndrew, DavidAndrew, JohnAndrew, Rev. J.
Blane, W illiamBoswell , AlexanderBoswell, JamesBurns , RobertBurns, Rev. Thomas
Burtt, Rev. JohnCallaghan , J.
Campbell , M. MaxwellClark, Rev. G .
Crawford , J. K.
Crawford, JohnCrawford, Mango
Crawford, J. PaulDykes , ThomasFisher, R. M.
Greene, J. H.
Hendrie, W . G.
Hetterick, RobertHodge, J. M
Hood, FrancisHowat, Rev. James
Ingram, J. G.
Jamieson , AlexanderKillin, ThomasLee, W illiamLockhart, CharlesMacGill , Rev. Dr HamiltonMacIntoeh, JohnMacIAgan, Sir D.
MacPhail, MarionMacPherson, James
M‘Bride, A. C.
M ‘Latchie, JohnM‘Michael, A. C.
x. ALPHABETICAL INDEX .
POETS OF KYLE— Continued.
M ‘Murdo, G .
Mearns, Rev. P.
Neil, GeorgeN immo, HamiltonOrr, A. L.
Paterson, J. C.
Reid, J. R.
Robertson, WilliamSillar, DavidSmith, Ebenezer
CARRICK .
Ainslie, Hew MacKinlay, W .A. B.
Auld, MrsDr M‘Lure, JohnCampbell, Rev. R. Paul, Rev. HamiltonG lass, Andrew Roger, JamesLawson, Rev. R. Taylor, Dr John
POETS
Aitken, AndrewAllan, G. StirratBallantine, Rev. J.
Boyd, GeorgeBrown, HughBrown, JohnBrown , J.Davidson
Bruce, ThomasBuchan , A. W .
M pbell, Rev. Cr.
Campbell, JohnClark , HughCook, JamesCraig, HughCrawford, HenryCuthbertson, David
Stewart , AlexanderStrang, JamesThomson , Mrs
Todd, A. B.
Train, JosephWalker, ThomasWood, David
W ilson, H. C.
Wright, John
OF‘
CUNINGHAME.
Page.
196
259 Dickie, John256 Dunlop, Rev. T.
276 Findlay,Dr William
209 Galt, JohnGemmell, RobertGilmour, JohnHolmes , D. T.
Kelly, JoanKennedy, JohnLamberton, WilliamLaurie, Rev. Dr G. J.
Lawson, Gavin
Levens, Rev. J. T.
Lindsay , DavidLogan, W illiam
ALPHABETICAL INDEX .
POETS OF CUNINGHAME—Continued.
Macqueen,Thomas
Magowen, James
M ‘Fee, Captain R. C.
M‘Kay, ArchibaldM‘Kenzie, HughMontgomery, JamesMorton , Gavin
Nicol , JohnOrr, JohnParkinson, JohnRaeside, David
Ramsay , JohnReid, Rev. W . SomervilleRichardson, ThomasShearer, C. J.
RESTDENT POETS.
Pooc
Adamson, Rev. R. M. 347
Douglas , Mrs S. ParkerDun, Rev. JohnDunlop, Margaret
Fisher, JamesGunnyon ,
W illiamHalbert , WilliamHastings , Lady Flora E.
Hyslop, James
Hys lop, JohnKelly , F. A.
Landsborough, Rev.D.Leek, Jane
Shields, DrW .
Smith, AlexanderSmith
, Rev.HughSmith, W. B.
Steele, JohnStirrat, JamesTarbet, RichardThomson, JamesWatson, AlexanderW ilson, JohnW ilson, Rev.W . B. R.
W ilson, Rev. S.
Wilson, J. B.
W ilson, ArthurYoung
,John
Little, JanetMacLellan, Rev. MalcolmMacLeod, Dr NormanMorgan , James
Muir, Janet KelsoMuir, NeilMurray, Rev. James
Murray, Rev. R. E
Paulin, GeorgePaxton, Rev. GeorgePeebles , Rev. Dr WilliamPettigrew, JohnRobb, D. B.
Robertson, Rev. Dr W . BSmith, TomTerras , R . T.
Tumbull, GavinW ilson, Mrs Margaret
B IBLIOGRAPHICAL INDEX
(CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRAN GED).
EARLY POETS .
Author.
SIR HEW OF EGLYNTOUN.
WALTER KENNEDIE.
QUINTYN SCHAW.
ALEXANDER CUNGlencairn.
Straiton
INCHAME, 5th Earl of
ALEXANDER MONTGOMERIE.
HEW BARCLAY. K ilbirnieREV. ZACHARY BOYD.
MS. Poems.Z ion
’
s Flowers.The Last Battel of the Soul in Death , 1629
REV. ROBERT BLAIR .
SIR WILLIAM MURE.
Latin Verses .
Rowallan Psalter, 1639.Translation of Boyd of Trochrig
’s Heca
tombe Christiania, 1628.Historie and Descent of the House of Rowallan
(prose).The True Crucifixe for True Catholics, 1629.
WILLIAM HAMILTON. K ilwinningModernized Version of Blind Harry’
s
Wallace,” 1722.
ANDREW MICHAEL RAMSAY.
Principles of Natural and Revealed Religion,
2 vols. , 1749 rose).Life of FenelonLife of Viscount
prose).Turenni (prose).
Travels of Cyrus (prose).Poemata Sacra, 1755.
ROBERT CRAWFURD. DundonaldWILLIAM WALLACE.
JOHN LAPRAIK.
Poems.
ROBERT ROSWELL.
ISOBEL PAGAN .
Booklet of Songs.New Cum‘
nock
JAMES MUIRHEAD, D.D. CumnockJEAN GLOVER.
WILLIAM SIMSON.
1665
1727
1740
1741
1758
1377
751
1807
1808
1815
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL INDEX.
POETS OF KYLE.
ROBERT BURNS.
Poems chiefly in the Scottish Dialect,DAVID SILLAR.
THOMAS WALKER.
ROBERT HETTERICK .
Poems and Songs, 1826.
DAVID WOOD.
Poems and Songs, 1828.
ALEXANDER ROSWELL.
Songs chiefly in the Scottish Dialect.JAMES BOSWELL.
JOSEPH TRAIN .
Strains of the Mountain Muse.
ARCHIBALD CRAWFORD.
The Correspondent riodicai).The Gaberiunxie (per al).
ALEXANDER JAMIESON.
REV . PROFESSOR JOHN BURTT.
Boris Poetice , 1816.Transient Murmurs of a Solitary Lyre,
REV. THOMAS BURNS, LL.D.
JOHN GOLDIE.
Poems and Songs , 1822.
JOHN ANDREW.
CHARLES LOCKHART.
Poems. 3rd edition, 1838.
JOHN WRIGHT.
The Retrospect and Other Poems, 1824.JOHN G. INGRAM.
The Angel of Hope and Other Poon a, 1847 .
REV. DR HAMILTON MACGILL.
Songs of the Christian Creed and Life, 1mSIB DOUGLAS MACLAGAN .
Migae Canorae Medicae, 1872.
Life of James Hyslop (prose).The Olive the Vine, and the Palm (prose).Memoir oi Rev. D. WilsonChrist ian Eucharist (prose).
MARION MACPHAIL.
MARY MAXWELL CAMPBELL.
Songs for the Children.
0 0 .
xiv. BIBLIOGRAPHICAL INDEX .
POETS OF KYLE—Continued .
JOHN M‘LATCHIE. Newton- UponFancy on the Rove and Other Poems. Ayr
ADAM B . TODD MauchlineThe Hermit of Westmoreland, 1846 (prose).Poems, Lectures, and M iscellanies, 1876.
The Circling Year; and Other Poems, 1880 .
Homes, Haunts, and Battlefields of the Covenanters, 1886 (prose).
A Lord for a Rival , 1898 (prose).Autobiography and Poems, 1906.
JOHN'
CURLE PATERSON .
A Lay of Life and Other Poems, 1845.JOHN CALLAGHAN. Ayr 2
Mosaics, or Attempts at Rhythmic Thought.JAMES PAUL CRAWFORD.
REV. JOHN ANDREW . OchiltreeThe Pendulograph, 1881 (pThoughts on the Evolution Theory of Creation,
1882 (prose).MUNGO CRAWFORD.
JOHN CRAWFORD.
A. C . M‘MICHAEL. New CumnockWayside Thoughts , 1860.
(Poems )
JOHN KENNEDY CRAWFORD.
DAVID ANDREW . OchiltreeP. P . Bliss, his Life and Song.
EBENEZER SMITH.
Verses by Ebenezer Smith , 1880.
HAMILTON NIMMO. Catrina
JOHN RAMSAY REID. GalstonANTHONY C. M‘
BRIDE. MonktonREV. JOHN GARDINER.
ROBERT MACKENZIE FISHER. PmstwickPoems, Songs, and Sketches, 4th edition,
ALEXANDER STEWART. GalstonBy
- gone Memories and Other Poems, 1888.WILLIAM GIRVAN HENDRIE. Galston
Poems by W . G . Hendrie, 1899JAMES M . HODGE. Muirkirk
Muirland RhymesThrough the Parish of Muirkirk (prose).
HUGH C . WILSON . Old CumnockThe Rustic Harp.Wild Sprays.
REV. J AMES HOWAT. Muirkirk
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL INDEX.
POETS OF KYLE— Continued .
GEORGE M‘MURDO.
Poems by George M‘Mnrdo.
ALEXANDER LAW ORR .
Poems by A. Law Orr, 1875.
WILLIAM ROBERTSON .
Historical Tales and Legends of Ayrshire,The Lords of Cuninghame. 1891 (prosAuld Ayr—A Study in Disappearing Manners,
1901 (prose).The Dule Tree of Cassilis , 1903 (prose).Old Ayrshire Da 3
,1905 rose).
The Annals o’
rumsmu en rose).Ayrshire—Its History and His ric Families,
2 vols (prose).WILLIAM LEE.
Poems and Idylls, 1907 .
THOMAS KILLIN .
JAMES STRANG .
A Less of Len o: (prose).Two Volumes of Verse.
REV. GILBERT CLARK .
Home and Other Poems and Songs. 1888.
THOMAS DYKES. Dundonaldand Poems.
of Scottish Sport (prose).WILLIAM AITKEN.
Rhymes and Readings, 1880.
JOHN MACINTOSH.
Historical Review of Gsh ton and Loudoun,l8m rose and verse).
Ayrsh ire l hts’
EntertainmenIrvinedsle C imes , recs roseLife of Robert Burns. 1 rose).Poets of Ayrsh ire. 1910 (an logy).
WILLIAM BLANE.
Lays of Life and Hope.
The Silent Land and Other Poems. 1mGEORGE NEIL. s:Quivox
MRS THOMSON.
Songs and Poems , 1906.
JAMES MACPHERSON.
Memorial Volume of Poems and Sermons.JOHN H. GREENE. GalstonWhine by the Wayside, 1896 (poems).
MATTHEW ANDERSON.
Poems, 1891 and 18m.
FRANCIS HOOD.
Born.
X VI. BIBLIOGRAPHICAL INDEX.
POETS OF CARRICK .
Au thor.
REV. HAMILTON PAUL.
HEW AINSLIE.
Pilgrimage through the Land of Burns,(prose).
Songs, Ballads, and Poems, 1855.
JOHN TAYLOR, MChristian Lyrics, 1851.
ANDREW GLASS.
Poems and Songs, 1869.Tales and Sketches (prose and verse).
REV. ROBERT CAMPBELL.
Jezebel—A Sacred Drama, 1892.Ivie and Other Poems.
REV. RODERICK LAWSON.
JOHN M‘LURE. ColmonellEchoes from Sunnyland, 1874.By the Cliff ’s Brow, 1887 (prose).
JAMES ROGER.
MRS DR AULD. KirkmichaelSouvenir or Song, 1896.
W . A. B . MACKINLAY. Coylton
POETS OF CUNINGHAME.
REV. GEORGE CAMPBELL.
Poems on Several Occas ions .
JAMES MONTGOMERY.
Prison Amusements, 1797.W anderer of Switzerland, 1806.
World Before the Flood, 1813.Greenland, 1819.
Prose by a Poet, 1824.
The Pelican Island, 1827 .Poet’s Portfolio, 1835.
JAMES THOMSON . KilmarnockAyrshire M iscellan
y, 1817 .
Ayrshire Melodist poems and songs).
JOHN WILSON.
JOHN GALT. IrvineAyrsh ire Legatees (1820) and Other ProseWorks.
Demon of Destiny and Other Poems.ANDREW AITKEN. Beith
Poems, 1875.
JAMES STIRRAT.
Poems.
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL INDEX.
POETS OF CUNINGHAME— Continued.
JOHN DICKIE. .
Words of Faith , Hope, and Love (prose).THOMAS BRUCE.
The Summer Queen (poem).Man
’
s Part in the Chorus of Creation (prose).WILLIAM LAMBERTON .
Poems by an Ayrshire Volunteer, 1878.HUGH M‘
KENZ IE.
JOHN N ICOL.
Poems and Songs, 1880.
ALEXANDER SMITH.
A Life Drama, 1852.City Poems, 1857.Edwin of Deira, 1881.Dreamthorpe, 1863 (prose).
WILLIAM SHIELDS, M .D.
Poems by W illiam Shields.Selection of Poems and Songs by
“ Ventas.
HUGH CLARK .
Poems for the Period by Heone, 1881.RICHARD TARBET.
Loudoun Hill—Its Battle History, 1874.DAVID LINDSAY.
REV. JAMES BALLANTINE.
Poems and Songs, 1885.
ALEXANDER WATSON.
Poems and Songs.
JOHN STEELE.
CRAWFORD STIRRAT ALLAN.
The Dead Prince and Other Poems.A Hopeless Wish and Other Poems.
REV. T. DUNLOP.
John Tamson’
s Bairns and Other Poems.DAVID RAESIDE.
Memorial Volume of Poems.
REV. W . B . R. WILSON .
Notable Men and Women of Ayrshire (prose).,Poems, etc .
GAVIN LAWSON.
WILLIAM FINLAY, MD .
The Epistles of Noah (prose)In my City Garden (prose).Ayrshire Idylls of Other Days, 1896 (prose).Robert Burns and the Medical Profession, 1898
(prose).Shakespeare's Doctors (prose).Carmina Medici (poems), 1902.
Poems of a Physician.
Loudoun
KilmarnockArdrossan
K ilmarnock
Ardrossan
Loudoun
Stevenston
Kilbirnie
Dunlop
Irvine
1829 1867
1865
241
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL INDEX.
POETS OF CUNINGHAME— Continued .
Author.
JOHN CAMPBELL. KilbirnieWayside Warblings , 1874.
THOMAS RICHARDSON.
JAMES COOK. KilbirnieGarnockside Li‘ts.
REV. 8. WILSON IrvineGEORGE BOYD.
C. J. SHEARER.
Poems and Fragments, 1884.
W. B . SMITH.
Life Scenes.
The World Without and Within.
JOHN B . WILSON. IrvineR. C . M‘
FEE.
Random Rhymes .
DAVID CUTHBERTSON. Kilmarnool:Eskside Lyrics .
Rosalyn Lyrics .
Prose Sketches and Tales , 1878JOHN YOUNG. Loudoun
JAMES MAGOWEN. Kflmmock
REV. J . T. LEVENS. ArdrossanProse Sketches, Essays, and Poems.
D. T. HOLMES, D.A IrvineFrench Ran
g:on British Poets (prose).
Outline of each Literature, isos (prose).Lectures on Scottish Literature (prose).Greek Lyrics.Johnson'
s came to the Western Islands ofScoti d. 1 rose).
Liters Tours in t Highlands and Islandsof tland, (prose).
ARTHUR WILSON .
Lays oi the Mine.
GAVIN MORTON.
JOHN BROWN.
REV. W . S. REID.
The Pride of Winter.JOHN PARKINSON.
Lays of Love and War.
Essays on Islamic Philosophy, (prose).Muslim Chivalry, 1m (prose).
xx. BIBLIOGRAPHICAL INDEX.
RESIDENT POETS.
REV. WILLIAM PEEBLES, D.D. AberdeenElegies and Odes , 1810.
JAMES FISHER. GallowayMeditations (prose).
GAVIN TURNBULL. Peebles or RoxPoetical Essays, 1788. burghPoems, 1794.
REV. JOHN DUN.
Sermons, 1790.WILLIAM HALBERT.
Treatise on Arithmetic.JANET LITTLE. Dumfries
Poetical Works of Janet LittleThe Scottish Milkmaid, 1792.
JAMES HYSLOP. DumfriesREV. D. LANDSBOROUGH.
Arran, a Poem, 1828.
REV. G . PAXTON.
The Villager and Other Poems.THOMAS BROWN .
Borgia—A Drama, and Other Poems.LADY FLORA E. HASTINGS. Mid- Lothian
Poems, 1840.
MRS COUSINS. Mid-LothianHymns and Poems.
REV. DR NORMAN MACLEOD. ArgyleTales , Sketches, and Poems.
GEORGE PAULIN. BerwickHallowed Ground and Other Poems.
MARION P. AIRD. Lamar}:The Home of the Heart, 1846.Heart Histories, 1855.Sun and Shade
NEIL MUIR.
REV. JAMES MURRAY.
Elisha, the Tishbite.The Prophet’s Mantle.Songs of the Covenant Times, 1881.
REV. ROBERT E. MURRAY. PeeblesThe Dayspring,
fromon High and Other PoemsREV. DR W . B . ROBERTSON . Stirling
Poems, Lectures, and Sermons.REV. WILLIAM BUCHANAN, B .A. Lanark
Poems.
WILLIAM GUNNYON.
Memoir of Robert Burns.Illustrations of Scottish Life in Song andBallad.
Translations from the Greek Anthology.
Bmu ocm mcar. INDEX .
RESIDENT POETS— Continued.
MRS DOUGLAS.
The Opening of the Sixth Seal (poems).ROBERT ADAMSON .
Lays of Leisure Hours, 1879.
JOHN HYSLOP.
J. KELSO MUIB .
Lyrics and Poems of Nature and Life, 1878.JANE LECK .
Dotty and Other Poems , 1880.
MRS MARGARET WILSON.
JOHN PETTIGREW .
JOHN BOWER. Mid-LothianOut of the Silence and Other Verses,Dives and Lazarus , 1877 .
REV. M. MACLELLAN .
The Permanence of Christianity, was (prose).JAMES MORGAN .
REV. R. M. ADAMSON.
DAVID B . ROBB .
Poems and Essays for the
R. T. TERRAS.
TOM SMITH.
MARGARET J . DUNLOP.Poems, 1891.
FRANK A. KELLY.
POETS OF AYRSHI‘
RE Z
FAST AND PRESENT.
BOOK I.
EARLY FROM SIR HEW or EGLYNTOUN
W ILLIAM SmSON OF OCHILTREE.
2 SIR HEW or EGLYNTOUN .
Susan,”
TheGreit'
Gest of Arthure,”
The Gest Historyale,Gest ef Broytty
’
s Au ld Story .
The. following specimens wil l afford a fair sample of our
earliestmakar ’s style
THE AWNTYRS OF ARTHURE AT THE TERNE
WATHELYNE.
I .
In Kin Arthur tyme ane awntyr by- tydeB the erne Wathelyne, ale the buke telfis
8 he to Carelele was commene, that conqueroure K de,W ith dukes and ducheperes that with that dere dwe ys,For to hunte at the bordys , that lang hase been hyde :And
'
one a day thay tham di hte to the depe delbe.
To felle of the femmalesy in t e foreste wele frythede ,
Faire in the fernysome tyme, by frythis and felflis .
Thus to the wode are thay wente, the wlonkeste in wedys .
Both the Kynge and the qwene,And all the doghety by- dene,Sir Gawane, gayeste, one grene,Dame Gayenoure he ledi-s .
II .
And thus Sir Gawane the gliy dame Gayenoure he ledis ,
In a gleterand gyde that g mit fulle ay :
W ith riche ribbenes rueerrssede, who t at righte redys,Raylede with rubes , one royalle arraye ;Hir hude was of hawe hewe , that hir heade bidyaWroght with peloure, and palle and perrye toSohreudede in a schorte cloke that the rayneSett cure with safyrs , fulle sothely to saye:And thus wondirfully was all the wyghtrs wedys .
Hir sadille semyde of that ilke,Semlely sewede with sylkeOn a.mul e als the milke
,
Gayely 80 o glydis
THE KNIGHTLY TALE OF GOLAGROS AND GAWANE.
In the tyme of Arthur , as trew men me tald,The K ing turnit on ane tyde toward Tuskane,B ym to seik our the sey, that, saiklese w
-es sald,The syre that sendis all seill suthly to sane ;With banrentis , barounis and bernis full bald,B iggast of bane and blude, bred in B ritane .
Thar walit out werryouris with wa pingis to waldThe gayest rumys on grund wit eir that mythgane,Dukes and (figne lordis, douohty an deirSembillit to his summoune,Renkis of grete renoune,
SmHaw or Ecumrorm.
Cum] kyngis with oronneOf go d that was cleir.
Thus the royale can remove, with his Round Tabill,Of all riches maist rike
,in riall array ;
Wes neuer fundun on fold but fenzeing or fabill,Ane farayr fioure on ane feild of fresch men
, in fay,Farand on thair atedia, stout men and stabillMony sterne our the streit stertis on stray .
Thair baneria schane with the acne, of silver and sabillAnd uther
gilemyt as gold and gowlis so gay ;
Of silver an saphir , schirly that schane ;Ane fair batell on breid
,Merkit our ane fair mend,W ith 8 urris spedely thae speid,Our fe is in fane.
>l< >l<
Walter Kennedie, who holds a prominent place among theearly poets of Scotland, is mentioned both by Douglas and
Lyndsay as an eminent contemporary . He is styled by Douglas“the greit Kennedie,
”
but his name is even more prominentlyassociated with that of the poet Dunbar by reason of an episto
lary warfare indulged in between the two famous makars,”and
which is more remarkable for strong and coarse invective thanfor delicate imagery or refined expression . This amusing en
counter of the muses is known as the F lyting between Dunbarand Kennedie.
”
It was first published in 1508, and soon
became the literary diversion of the day.
Walter Kennedie was born at Cassillis House, in the parishof Kirkmichael , and was the son of Gil bert, first Lord Kennedie.
He was educated for the Church , and in 1478 took the degree ofMaster of Arts at G lasgow University . He fil led many honourable appointments, being at one time or the other Parson of
Douglas, Rector of G lasgow University , Depute- Bai lie of
Carrick , and Provost of the Col legiate Church , Maybole. Hisworldly possessions included a mansion - house and extensivelands in G lasgow , where now stands Duke Street prison, besidesplaces of residence in Edinburgh and in Ayrshire. Through themarriage of his grandfather with Lady Mary Stuart, daughter ofKing Robert the Third, the poet claimed royal kinship. It wi l lthus be seen that Douglas had good grounds for styl ing him'
the great Kennedie.
”As to Kennedie
’
s personal appearancewe have little knowledge, but Dunbar humorously describes hisapparel when he pictures him as an Irish cateran, wearing
4 WALTER KENNEDIE .
speckled breeches and rough , hairy shoes made of undressedhides.
Of Kennedie’s poems one of the best is that entitled
THE PRAISE or AGE.
1.
At matin hour , in midis of the night ,W -akened of s leep ,
I saw bes ide me soon
An aged man , seemed s ixty years by sight ,This sentence set, and sun it in good tuneO threefold and eternal Go on throne !To be content and love thee I have cause,That my li ht youth - head is ower assed andHonour wit age to every virtue raws .
Green youth , to age thou must obey and bow,
Thy foolish lusts last scantily ane May ;That which was wit is natural foll now ;Worldl wit , honour , riches , fres array,Defy t e devil , dread death and doomisday,For all shall be accused as thou knows ;Blessed be God my youth - head is away ;Honour with age to every virtue draws .
O bitter youth ! that seemeth so del icious ;O hol age ! that some time seemed sour
,
0 rec less youth ! high hot and vicious ;O honest age ! full fil led with honour ;O froward youth ! fruitles s and fading flower
,
Contraire to conscience, loath to love good laws,Of all vain ory the lantern and the mirror ;Honour wit age to every virtue draws .
This world is set for to deceive us even ,
Pride is the net, and covetousness the train ;For no reward except the joy of heavenWould I be young into th1s world again ,
The ship of faith, tempestuous W inds and rainDr1ving in the sea of Lollerdry her blaws ;My youthjs gane, and I am glad and fain ;Honour W ith age to every virtue draws
Law , love and lawtie, in the grave low lie ;Dissimulance has borrowed conscience claes .
Oaths , writ , wax, seals are nou t set byFlattery is fostered both with riends and face ;The son to et that which his father hasWould see im dead ; Sathanas sic seed saws ,
QUINTYN Sa w.
Youth - head adieu ! ane of my mortal faes ;Honour withage to every virtue draws .
>l<
QUIN’
I’
YN SCHAW .
Quintyn Sohaw was born in the parish of Straiton, and was
not onl y a contemporary of Walter Kennedie but a kinsman as
wel l , and the two poets were probably on terms of c lose intimacy . Schaw died about theyear 1505, and is the last of thedeceased poets made mention of in Dunbar ’s Lament
And he has now ta’en last of aw ,
Good gentle Stobo ,and Quintyn Sohaw,
Of whomaidwightis has pitie ;Timer mortis conturbat me.
The poet’
s father , John Sehaw , was a person of some rankin his day, and was one of the ambassadors sent to Denmark in1469 on business relating to the marriage of James the Third.
Our poet as wel l as his distinguished sire was a Court favourite,and had bestowed on him by James IV . a pension of £10 per
annum. It would appear , however , that in later years he ex
perienced the inconstancy of royal favour , an estrangementtaking place about the year 1504 , when payment of his pensionwas stopped.
As a poet, Quintyn Sehaw was probab ly on an equal footingwith his contemporary Kennedie. Both are referred to byLyndsay in the Complaint of the Papyngo,
” where he sets off
the qualifications of Ballendyne against our two Ayrshirepoets
Ane plant of poets called Ballendyne,Whose ornate works my wit cannot define ;Get he into Court authoritieHe will excel Quintyn and Kennedie.
Quintyn’
s name finds a place also in Gavin Douglas’spoem, The Palace of Honour ,
” where he is mentioned as
formmg with Dunbar and Kennedie a trio of noteworthy Scottishpoets .
We know of one specimen only of Schaw’
s composition. It18 a Vigorous effusion, andmarks its author as nomean versifier.
ADVICE TO A COURTIER .
Sup the court you cheer and treats,An fortune on you shines and beats,I reidl you then ware luff ! ware lee ;2
6 QUINTYN Scru w.
Supp
ose ye sail betwixt twa sheets ;3Ot ers hae sailed as well as ye.
If change the wind on force e mon4Bowline, hookhaik, and shiel hold on,Therefore beware with ane sharp blower ;If ye be wise reflect thereon ;And set your sail a litt le lower .
For if you hold your sail oure strek ,5There may come gusts ye not sus
pect .
There may come contrai r6 e not nawThere may come storms an cause a leak,That ye maun cap by wind and waw.7
And though the air be fair and stormless ,Yet there hold not our sail oure press :8For off hi h lands t ere ma
gcome slags9
11At Saint abbs Head, and chan Ness ,And rive10 your foresail all in rags .
Be thou vex‘
ed, and at under ,Your friends will shun and on on wonder,Therefore beware withour bi
glands
Sic slags may fall, suppose a underWere near to help, they have no hands
Dread this danger , good friend and brother,And take example before of other ;Know courts and winds have oft - times varied ;Keep weel your course and rule your rudder ;And thinkna that wi’ kings you ’re married.
1 Advise. 2 Nautical phrases , to steer warily. 3 With two sails furled.
4 Must. 5 Too close hauled. 6 Adverse winds. 7 Wave. 8 Overpressureof sail. 9 Gusts. 10 Tear.
>i< >l<
ALEXANDER CUN INGHAME.Fifth Earl of Glencaim.
The first Cuninghame of Kilmaurs was a vassa! of DeMorvi l le, the Ayrshire connection of this family dating back tothe days of Malcolmand Macbeth . Alexander, the Fifth Ear lof G lencairn, was the poet of the family, and one of the mostnotable of the long line of Earls . He lived in the turbulentdays of the Reformation, was a supporter of John Knox and hisparty, and possessed the courage to deliver with his own handto the Queen Regent a letter written by Knox with the objectof
“moving her to hear the Word of God.
“The Bishop of
G lasgow was present when Glencaim delivered the prayerfu l
document to the Queen, who, after reading it, turned to theB ishop and said P lease you my lord , to read a pasquil .After this rebufi' Knox thought it prudent to retire for a time,but Glencaim and other reformers subscribed a bond, pledgingthemselves to estab lish the Word of God and renounce “
the
congregation of Satan with all the superstitions, abominations,and idolatry thereof . ”
Glencaim was known in his day as“the good Earl , and
perhaps the deepest shadow resting on hismemory is the ruthlessway in which , immediately after the accomplishment of the
Reformation, be caused to be destroyed themagnificent Abbeysof Ki lwinning , Crossraguel, Fai lford, and other “
places and
monuments of idolatry .
”
As a poet Glencaim is known by a sati rical piece directedagainst the Order of Grey Friars . The fol lowing extract fromthis satire is quoted in Mr Wil liam Robertson’
s History and
Historic Fami lies of Ayrshire,” where we are told the poem so
commended itself to John Knox that the Reformer introducedit in his History of the Reformation
Thomas , hermit in Larite ,
Saint Francis ’ order do heartily greet ,Beseech you with firm intentTo be w ryfe and diligent :For these Lutherians , r isen of new,
it haill intent,
The up- closers of Heaven ’
s yett,dCankered corrupters of the Cree
Hemlock - sewers amongst good seed,Kirkmen that are to Christ unkent,A sect that Satan ’
s self has sent !I dread this doct rine, if it last ,Shall either ar us work or fastTherefore wit a we must provide,And not our pro t cvverslide.
>l< >l<
ALEXANDER MONTGOMBRIE
Of Hasilhcad, Bdtho
Alexander Montgomerie, the greatest of the early poets ofAyrshire, was born, according to certain authorities, at Hasil
8 ALEXANDER MONTGOMERIE .
head Castle, Beith ; others affirming that his birth took place in
Germany . In either case Ayrshire is justified in claiming himas one of her own poets, since his father was a scion of the distinguished Eglyntoun family , and proprietor of Hasilhead, in
the parish of Beith . The poet had relatives who resided inArgyleshire, and part of his early years were spent there and
part of his school education there imparted, but little i s knownor recorded of him unti l he first attracts attention as a poet bycomposing a pageant on the occasion of James the Sixth ’
s firstentry into Edinburgh . This effusion brought him under thefavourable notice of the King , and in 1583 he was awarded a
pension of five hundred merks . In 1586 he obtained a royall icense to travel abroad, and proceeded to the Continent, wherehis experiences proved of a somewhat stirring and romanticcharacter . Through some unexplained misadventure he was
seized and thrown into prison“to his great hurt, h inder, and
prejudice, and as misfortunes usual ly run in double harnesshe chanced about the same time to be deprived of his pension,
which meant likewise the withdrawal of royal favour . Our poet
now for the first time began to feel that Heaven ’s gates are not
so highly arched as princes’
palaces. While basking in the
sun of royalty he appears to have held frequent intercourse withK ing James, who, being himself a poet, would doubtless findmuch pleasure in Montgomerie
’
5 company .
When the K ing published his Essayes of a Prentise 1n the
DivineArt of Poesie ”he had it prefaced with a commendatory
sonnet composed by Montgomerie. The K ing , also in his
treatise, entitled Rewlis and Cautelis of Poesies, honours theAyrshire bard by quoting several of his verses as patterns of
good composition, and it is said that he was greatly amused bythe recitation of the Flyting between Montgomerie and P0 1
wart ’ — a poetical burles ue engaged in by the two makarsafter the style indulgedm y Dunbar and Kennedie.
In the hey day of youth and Court prosperity it may beassumed that the poet sowed his wild oats in the fashioncustomary to persons of his station . As be advanced in yearsand smarted under the bitterness of disappointments, his character suffered a change as shown by the more melancholy and
pious bent of his genius. About this period his verse becomesdeeply tinged with melancholy reflections .
If loss of goods , if greatest grudge and grief,
fipo
r
verty mlprisonment , or pain ,
d- wi ingratitude again .
IfIlfangu ishin in langour without relief ,
If debt,and olour, and to become deaf,
If travel tint, and labour lost in vain ,
Do properly to poets appertain ,
Of all that craft my chance 1s to be chief
10 ALEXANDER MONTGOMERIE.
With stiff mustachis strange.
The hart the hmd, the dae , the am,”
The fufmartl 8 and false foxThe bearded buck clamb up the braeWith bristly bears and brecks .
19
Some feeding , some dreidingThe hunter ’s subtle snares ,W ith skippin and tripping,They played t em all in pa1rs.
The air was sober, soft and sweet,misty vapours wind, ner weet ,
But quiet, calm, and clear ,To foster Flora’
s fragrant flowers,Wher-een A elle’s paramoursHad trin led many a tear ;
The whilk like silver shakers shined,Embroidering beauty
’s bed,
Wherewith thei r heavy heads declined,In May’s rich colours cled.
Some knepping , some dropping,Of balmy hquers sweet,Excelling and smellingThrough Phoebus’ halesome
Metheu ht it heavenly heartsome thing,Where ew like diamonds did hingOurs—twinkling all the trees ,
To s tudy on the blossomed twists,20Admiring Nature’s alchymists,Laborious busy bees ,
Whereof some sweetest honey sought
To stay their lives frae starve,And some the waxy vessels wrought,Their purchase to preserve.
Se heaping
,for keeping,
It in t eir hives they h1de,Precisely and wiselyFor winter they provide.
Te pen the leasures of that park,Hew every b essem, branch , and barkAgainst the sun did shine,I leave to poets to compileIn stately verse and lofty styleIt passes my ingine.
22
But as I mused m1ne alaneI saw ane river rin
Out oure ane craggy rock of staneSyne lighted in ane lin .
23
With tumbling and rumblingAmen the reckis round,Dewal ing24 and fallingInto that pit profound.
To hear these startling streamis clear,Methought it music to my ear,
Where discant did abound ;
ALEXANDER MONTGOMERIE.
With treble sweet and tenor j ust,And aye the echo re rcust25
Her dia ason seunSet with he Ci- sel- fa- uth oleif,Thereby to know the note ,
sounds a mighty semibreifof the elphis
’threat :
Discreetly, mair sweetlyNor crafty Amphion,
Or Muses , that uses,At fountain Helicon .
Wha would have tried to hea r that tuneilk birds corroborate aye abune,26Through shouting of the larks ,
Some flies sae high into the skies ,Ti ll Cu id wakens with the criesOf ature’s cha - clarks ,27
Wha leaving all t e heavens aboveAlighted 1n the eird '28
Le how that litt le Godof LoveBefore me there ap red .
80 mild- like, ang
e
ghild- like,W ith bow three- quarters scant ;Se me
ilie29 and ceylie,
He lee ed like ane sant .
Ane cleanly veil hun oure his eyesHis quiver by his na ed thighsHun in ane silver lace
Of gel betwixt his shoulders grewTwa prett wings Wherewith he flew ;On his eft arm ane brace
This ed,off all his gear he shook
An laid it on the round ;I ran als busy for to 00 kWhere ferlres30 might be found.
Ama I gazé d,To see that gear sae gaPersawing my hawing ,3He counted me his prey .
His outh and stature made me stoutOf eubleness I had nae doubt .
But bourded33 with my boy.
I : Hew call the thee , my child?Cupido, sir,
” quoth e and smiled,Please you me to employ ;
For I can serve you in your suiteIf you please to im yre,34
With wings to fly an shafts to sheet,Or flames to set on fire.
Make choice then of these then,
Or of a thousand thingsB ut crave them and have them.
With that I chose his wings .
12 ALEXANDER MONTGOMERIE .
What would you give, my friend?” quoth he,To have these pretty wings to flee,To 8 ert thee for a while ?Or w at if I should lend thee here
Mgbow and all my sheeting gear,emebody to beguile ?”That gear ,” quoth I , cannot be bought ,Yet I would have it fain .
”
What if, ” quoth he, it cost thee noughtBut rendermg it again ?”
His wings then he brlngs thenAnd bound them on my back ;Go fly now
,
” quoth he nowAnd so my leave I tak.
35
I sprang up on Cupido’s wings ,Who bow and quiver both res ignsTo lend me for ane day ;
As Icarus with borrowed flight,
I mounted higher nor I might ;Oure perilous ane play .
Then forth I drew that deadly dart,Whilk sometime shot his mother,
Wherewith I hurt my wanton heart ,In hope to hurt ane other.
It hurt me, it burt36 me,The oftener I it handle ;Come see new in me now
,
The butterfly and candle .
As she delights into the lewe,37See I was browdin38 in my bow,
As ignorant as scho ;And as she flies till she be fired,
Sae with the dart that I des ired,My hand has hurt me too,
As foolish Phaeton,by suit ,
His father ’s cart obtained,I longed in Levis bow to sheet,But wist not what it meaned.
Mair wilful than skilful ,To fly I was so fond,Des iring
,impyring ;
And see was seen upon .
Too late I know who heaves too high ,The spail39 shall fall into his eye :
Too late I went to schools !Too late I heard the swallow reach ;Too late Experience does teacThe Schoolmaster of fools !
Too late to find the nest I seek ,When all the birds are flown ;
Too late the stable door I steik40When all the steeds are stewn ;41
Too late aye their state aye,All foolish folk espy
ALEXANDER MONTGOMERIE.
Behind so, they find no
Remeid, and so do I.
If I had ripel been advisedI had not rast enterprisedTo soar with borrowed pens ;
Nor yet had’sayed the archer craft,
Nor shot myself with sic a shaft,As reason quite miskens .
Frae willfulness gavememy woundI had nae force to flee
Then came I greanin to the grundFriend welcome ame
,
” quoth e.
Where flew ye, whom s lew ye,Or wha brin
gshame the beeting ?” 42
I see now,
’ quoth he now,
Ye have been at the shooting.
1 Boughs. 2 Geldfinches . 3 Swallow. 4 FromOvid’
s 6th Metamorphosis.5 Wood pigeon. 6 Carrion crow. 7 Pyets . 8 Jackdaws. 9 Deafened.10 Peacock. 11 Mate. 12 FromOvid’
s 3rd Metamorphosis. 13 Hedgehog.14 Creeping crazily. 15 Meal. 16 Rabbit and squirrel. 17 Dee and roe.
18 Polecat. 19 Badgers. 20 Twigs. 21 Starvation. 22 Ingenuity.23 Pool. 24 Descending obliquely. 25 Reverberated. 26 Above. 27 Singing birds . 28 Earth. 29 Mildly. 30 Wonders . 31 Perceiving myhesitation. 32 Bold. 33 Jested. 34 Hold away. 85 Take. 36 Burned. 37 Flame.38 Foolishly fond of. 39 Splinter mote. 40 41 Stolen.
42 Booty.
HEY ! NOW THE DAY DAWS !
Hey ! new the day daws llThe jolly cock craws ;New shrouds the shaws
Through Nature anon
The thrissle-oeck criesOn levers wha lies ;New skails the sk ies ;
The night is near gene.
The fields eureflewWith wans that grow ,
ere lilies like lewe is ,As red as the rowan,
The turt le that true isW ith notes that renewethHer s ittio2 pursueth ,
he night is near gene.
New harts with hindsConform to their kindsHigh tureia their tyndsf”
On round where they groan,New gehog and hares
$1,7e asseth m airs ,hic duly dec area
The n1ght is near gene.
14
Bright amorous ee where Love in ambush liesC lear crystal tear distilled at our depairt
'
;1
secret si h more piercing than a dartfiewitcher of the wisewhose thrust2 my fingers prize,
I challenge you , the causers of my smart,As homicides and murderers of my heart,
Enchanting voiceWhite ivory han
ALEXANDER MONTGOMERIE .
The season excelsThrou h sweetness that smells,Now upid compels
Our hearts each one ;On Venus wha waitsTo muse on our mates,Syne sing for their sakes ,
The night is near gone
All coura ecus knightisA ainst t e day dichtis4
T. e breast-
plate that bricht is,To fight with their fone.5
The ea er steed stamps,Throug curage and cramps,Syne on the land lamps
The night is near gone.
The warriors on fieldsThat Wight weapons wieldWith shining bri ht shields
As Titan on t roneStiff spears in reistsOuer cursoris crests
Are broke on their breasts ,The night is near gone.
80 hard are the hittiaSome swayis an some sittis,And some perforce flittis ,6
On ground till they groan .
Syne grooms that gay isOn blonks"that brayiaWith swords assayis ,
The night'ie near gone.
1 Dawns. 2 Partner. 3 Toss their horns. 4
6 Change places. 7 Neighing horses.
TO HIS MISTRESS.
In Beason’s court to suffer ane assize.
But oh l I fear , yea rather wot I weill ,To be repledged ye plainly will appeal
To Love,whomReason never could command.
But,s ince I ’
canot better mine estate,Yet, whi lie I live, at least I shal l regrate
Ane ee, a tear , a sigh , a voice, a hand.
1 Departure. 2 Pressure.
5 Foes.
ALEXANDER MONTGOMERIE.
SONNETS IN PRAISE OF THE KING’
S URANIA .
Bellona’s son, of Mars the chosen child,Minerva’
s wit and Me rcury ’sgolden tongue,
A llo’s light that ignorance ex1 ed,
romJove in endered and.
from Pallas sprung ;Th
’lvUranie, 0 nd Psalmist ! sun
griumphs oure death, in re ister o fame ;Wherefore th trophy trimly all be hungWith laure green eternizin thy name,
But even as Phoebus’ shining oes ashameDiana, with her borrowed beams , and blind ;
So when I ress thy praises to proclaim,
Thy wei ty words make mine appear but wind,Yet worthy Prince l thou would take in good partMy will for weel : I want but only art .
Of Titan ’s harp sith thou intones the st rings ,
Of ambrose and of nectar so thou feeds ,Not only other ts thou outs ringsBut whiles , a thy ve sel exceeds
Transporting thee as ravis ed, when thou readsThine own invention , wondering at thy wit ,What marvel then though our fordulled headsAnd blunter brains be mair amazed at it ;
To see thy ears and age whilks thou has yet,Inferior ar to thy so grave ingine ,
Wha hazard at so h igh a mark , and hit,In English , as this Urania of thine ;
Wherefore thy name, 0 Prince ! eternal ringsWhose muse, not Jove, but great Jehovah sings.
As bri ht A 110 staineth ever starWit 0 1 en rays when he egins to r ise,
Whose g orious glance yet stoutly skails the skies ,1When with a wink we wonder where they are,
Before his face for fear they fade so far,And vanishes away in such a wise,
That in their spheres they dare not enterpriseFor to a
ppear like planets as they are
Or as the mnix,with her fedrum fair
Excels all fowls in diverse heavenly hues ,Whose nature, contrat nature she renewsAs only but com anion or com air3
0
So quintessenst ofkings ; when t ou compi le,Thou stains my verses with thy stately style.
1 Blots out the stars. 2 Fair feathers. 3 Peer.
16 ALEXANDER MONTGOMERIE.
SONG ON THE LADY MARGARET MONTGOMERIEDAUGHTER OF HUGH, THIRD EARL OF EGLIN
TOUN .
Lu ifaris1 leive of to loif so hieYour ladies ; and them style no mairB ut peir , the eirthlie A per se
,
”
And fiow’r of feminine maist fair
Since there is ane without compare,Sic titles in your sangs delete ;And praise the peerless
fireclair
,2
Montgomerie~maikles3 argareit,
Quhose4 port, and peerless pulchritude,Fair form, and face angelical ,Sua meek , and full of mansuetude,With virtue supernatural ;Makdome, and pro er members all
,
Sa perfect, and wit joy replete,Proves her , but5 peir or peregall,Ofmaids the maikles Margareit .
Sae wise in youth, and virtuousSic reason for to rule the rest ,As in greit age wer marvellousSua mannerly , mild, and modest,Sa grave, sa gracious and digest ;And in all domgs sa discreit,The maist benign ,
and bonniest,M irror of maidens Margareit .
Pigmalyon , that ane
gortratour,
Be painting craft , di sa decoir,Himself therewith in paramour ,Fell sudden ly ; and smert thairfoir,Wer he alive he wad deploirHis folly , andhis love f-orleit ,This fairer patrane to adoir,Of maids the makeless Margareit,
Or had this nymph been in these daysWhen Paris jud ed in Helicon ,
Venus had not o%tained sic praise,She
,and the goddesses ilk one ,
Would have prefert this paragon ,
As marrowit,but matche, mostmeit,
The golden ball to brnik alone ;Marvelling in this Margareit .
Whose noble birth and royal bluid,Her better nature does exceed
,Her native gifts and gram guid,Sua bounteously dec lare indeed.
As waill,and wit of womanheid,
That sa with virtue does ourfleit,Happy is he that sall posseidIn marriage this Margareit l
HEW,BARCLAv.
Spain his busy brain contrived the idea of fortify ing Ailsa Craig ,and using it as a base for the Spanish forces . With this schemein view he returned to Scotland and took possession of Ai lsa,being supported by a number of his friends . The schemeproved a ruinous one for the adventurous poet. The ministerof Paisley becoming aware of the threatened danger , gathered tohimself a party of friends, and secretly set sail for Ailsa Rock .
Barclay ’
s associates chanced to be on another part of the Craigwhen he observed Knox and his party approaching , and thinking them to be friends he awaited their arrival on the shorealone. As they drew nearer he recognised his enemies, and
to avoid the capture and disgrace which seemed inevitable, heplunged into the sea and pledged for
‘Popery no more.
Hew Barclay was a friend and companion of AlexanderMontgomerie, the author of “
The Cherry and the Slae.
”To
Montgomerie he addressed two sonnets which were printed inDr Irving ’
s edition of Montgomerie’
s Poems . One of thosewi l l serve as a specimen of Barclay ’
s muse
My best belovit brother of the craft,God ! gif e knew the state that I am in ;
Though ye e deif I know ye are not daft ,Bot kynd enoughto ane of your ain kin,
If e bot saw me in this winter win ’
ith old bogogers hotching on a sped
Draiglit in dirt , whiles wat even to the skin ,
I trow there should be tears or we twa shed.
Bot maist of all, that hes in bailis bred,To hear how ye on that si e of the moorBirls at the wine, and blythlie goes to bed,For etting me
, poor pleuman,I am sure,
Lo, s i y I , opprest with barmie'
uggs ,Envyis your state, that’s pouing acchus
’luggs .
>l< >l<
THE REV. ZACHARY BOYD.
This scholarly divine was descended from the Boyds of
Penkill, and was born at K i lmarnock , where he received hisschool education, afterwards passing through an academicalcourse in the Col lege of G lasgow . He fol lowed his cousinRobert Boyd to France, where he studied under himfor a time,and was afterwards appointed Regent in the Col lege of Saumur .He also held in France a pastoral charge for about three years,but in consequence of a strong current of opposition to Protestautism setting in Boyd was compel led to return to Scotland,
where he lived for a time under the protecting wing of Sir Wm
Scott of Elie and that of the Marquis of Hamilton. In 1623 he
REV. ROBERT BLAIR .
was ordained minister of the Barony Parish , G lasgow , and wasthree times appointed Rector of the University there. On a
certain Sunday , when preaching in the Cathedral , Oliver Cromwel l and a party of soldiers entered to worship . Boyd fearless ly denounced the Cromwel lian policy , and one of the partyasked leave of his leader to silence the preacher with hismusket,but Cromwel l interposed, and at the close of the service invitedBoyd to dine with him in the evening . When Boyd died in1653 he left a handsome sum to G lasgow Col lege funds, inremembrance of which gift his bust was set up over the entrancegateway of the old Col lege. His poems, written in the Latintongue, are now looked upon as literary curiosities . A manuscript entitled Zion ’
s Flowers is popu larly known as ZacharyBoyd’
s Bib le.
>l<
REV. ROBERT BLAIR.
This celebrated divine was a cadet of the ancient family of
Blair of that Ilk, from which family was descended also hisil lustrious namesake, Robert Blair , author of The Grave,
”in
whom the poetical genius of the family reached its cu lminatingpoint. Robert B lair lived in the stormy days of The Covenant, a period when courage, prayerfu lness , and self - denialwere severely put to the test in the case of all who engaged in theturmoils of the time.
In daily toil , in deadly fight, God’s chosen find their time to
prayAnd st ill He loves the brave and strongWho scorn to s leep, and st rive with wrong,To mend it if they may.
Mr Blair proved himself a brave and strong advocatefor the cause which he strove to maintain and entered energetically into all the embroilments of public life. He was
present with the Scots army at Marston Moor , and was one of
the Commissioners deputed to visit King Charles at Newcastlewith the view of reconciling the fidgetymonarch to PresbyterianChurch government and to the Covenant. The mission was notaltogether a fruitless one, as the K ing was so pleased with Mr
Blair ’s prudent remarks that he appointed himhis Chaplain forScotland and sent the deputation home with at least many fairpromises . Mr B lair was a proficient Latinist, and his poeticalcompositions are nearly all written in the Latin tongue, and are
therefore as a sealed book to all but learned antiquaries.
20 SmWILLIAM MURE.
SIR WILLIAM MURE.
Sir Wil liamMure, the poet and historian of the Rowallan
family, succeeded to his father ’s estates in 1639. He is the
author of “The Historie and Descent of the House of Row
al lan,
”and was born at Rowallan Castle, near Kilmarnock . In
the family history above al luded to the author modestly says of
himsel f This Sir Wil liam was pious and learned, and had
ane excel lent vein in poesie, he delyted much in building and
planting , he builded the new wark on the north syde of the
close, and the battlement of the back wal l , and reformed the
whole house exceedingly .
”
Mure seems to have devoted a con
siderable portion of his time to literary exercises, and early inl ife wrote some Latin verses on the death of his grandfather .His mother was a sister of Alexander Montgomerie, author ofThe Cherry and the Slae, and in one of his pieces SirWil liamMure thus eulogizes the writings of his kinsman
Matchless Montgomerie in his native tongueIn former times to that great Sire hath sung ;And often ravished his harmonious ear
W ith strains fit only for a Prince to hear .My muse which nought doth challen e worthy fameSave fromMontgomerie she her birt
gh doth claim;
Although his Phoenix ashes have sent forthPan for A 0 110 , if compared in worthPretendetlg
)
litt le to supply his place,By right heriditar to serve thy grace.
Sir Wil liam took an active interest in the po litical movements of his time, and was a member of the Parliament held at
Edinburgh in 1643 for the ratification of the Solemn Leagueand Covenant. He was appointed also, in 1644 , one of the
Committee of War, for the Sheriffdom of Ayr, and was on thissame year present at the siege of Newcastle, where he receiveda slight wound with the butt of a musket. Being in sympathywith the Covenanters , he was able on several occasions to protect his tenantry fromthe tyranny of the ruth less troopers, without coming under the ban of the Government. His son and
successor was less lucky, and for this same cause suffered imprisonment on more than one occasion.
>i< >l<
WILLIAM HAMILTON of Gilbertfield.
The ancestors of this poet were a branch of the ducal familyof Hami lton , and owned the lands of Ardoch , near Ki lwinning ,from an ear ly period. About the middle of the seventeenth
WILLIAM HAMILTON .
century Captain Wil liamHamilton , father of the poet, acquiredthe property of Ladyland, near K ilwinning , and shortly afterwards built a new mansion - house to replace the old castle of
Ladyland, which he demolished.
The poet was the youngest of Captain Hamilton ’
s two
sons . He joined the army in early manhood and servedmany years abroad, attaining to the rank of Lieutenantin Lord Hyndford
’
s Regiment. As Apo l lo of the DelianVale was lord alike of the lyre and bow, so Hamilton of Ladyland was lord alike of the lyre and broad- sword. On retiringfrom the army on half - pay he took up residence at Gilbertfield,
in the parish of Cambuslang . Hence he is usual ly styledHamilton of Gilbertfield in contradistinction to Hamilton of
Bangour, who was a contemporary poet, and a scion also, of adistinguished Ayrshire family . In his retirement the poet hadample leisure to pursue his literary studies . With Al lanRamsay , author of
“The Gentle Shepherd,
”
he opened a
poetical correspondence. Three of his epistles, written in 1719,were published in certain editions of Ramsay ’
s works, and are
highly creditable to Hamilton ’
s ski l l as a poet. Towards thec lose of his life he removed from Gilbertfield to Latterick, in
Lanarkshire, where he died in 1751. Hamilton was one of the“ ingenious young gentlemen who contributed pieces to
Ramsay ’
s Tea Tab le Miscel lany .
”
In 1722 he pub lished a
modernized version of Blind Harry ’
s“Wal lace,
” which was
the only version of the b lind minstrel ’s lay known to the
poet Burns . As al ready stated, Wil liamHamilton of Bangour,author of The Braes of Yarrow , was of Ayrshire descent, butas it is conjectured that he was born in Linlithgowshire, theanthologist of that county has given him a questionable placein his work on the poets of Linlithgow .
Al lan Ramsay held Hamilton of Gilbertfield’
s poeticaltalents in high esteem, and admits being aroused to poeticalemotion and emulation by reading a poemwritten by his friendon the death of
“ Bonnie Heck ,
”
a famous F1fesh1re greyhound
When I begoud first to cun verseAnd could your Andry Whins rehearse,Where bonnie Heck ran
ryfast and fierce,
It warmed m breist ;Then emulation d me pierce
Wh ilk s ince ne’er ceased
WILLIE WAS A WANTON WAG .
Hamilton of Gilbertfield is the reputed author of “Wil liewas a Wanton Wag. Stenhouse attributes the authorship to
22 WILLIAM HAMILTON .
Wi l liamWalkinshaw, of that i lk, near Paisley , but as the balance of opinion seems to be in favour of Hamilton being the
author we make no apology for introducing the old favourite toour readers
O, Willie was a wanton lad,
The bl hest lad the e’er I saw ;
At brida 9 still he bore the bragAnd carried aye the gree awe.
”
His doublet was 0’ Zetland sha
And vow l but Willie ’he was raw ;And at his shouther hung a tag ,That pleased the lasses best 0
’a’
He was a man without a clag ,His heart was frank , without a flaw ;
And aye whatever Willie saidIt still was ‘halden as a law.
His boots they were made 0’the
'
ag ;When he gaed to the wea n - s aw
,
U on the green nane durst im brag,
he fient a ane amang them a’.
And wasna Willie weel worth owd,
He wan the love 0’ great an sma’
For after he the bride had kiss ’d,He kiss ’ (1 the lasses halesale a
’ lSae merrily round the rin they row
’d,When by the hand he le them a
’
And smack on smack on them bestow’dBy virtue o
’a standin
’law.
And wasna Willie a great loon ,
As sl re a lick as e’er was seen ;
When e danced wi’ the lasses roun’
,
The bridegroom spiered where he had been .
Quoth W illie,I’ve
‘
been at the ring,Wi’ bobbin ’
; faith my shanks are sair ,Gae ca
’our bride and maidens in ,
For illie he dow do nae mair .
Then rest ye, Willie, I’ll gae out,And for a wee fill up the ring ;
But shame light on his supple snout,He wanted Willie’
s wanton fling .
Then straight he to the bride did fare,SaysBWeel
’s me on your bonnie face ;
Wi’ bo bin W illie’s shanks are sair ,And I’m come out to fill his place.
Bride room,says she
,you ’ ll spoil the dance,
An at the ring you ’ ll aye be lagUnless like W illie you advance(0 W illie has a wanton leg),
For wi’t he learns us a
’to steer ,
And foremost aye bears up the ringWe will find nae sic dancing hereIf we want Willie’
s wanton fling .
ANDREW MICHAEL RAMSAY.
ANDREW MICHAEL RAMSAY.
The literary labours of Andrew Michael Ramsay, whoessayed to c limb the Parnassian uplands near the c lose of hisl ife, were devoted chiefly to prose works . He is known as the
Chevalier de Ramsay— a title bestowed upon him during a
prolonged stay in France. He was born at Ayr, andtrained at the Universities of Edinburgh and St. Andrews. In
his twenty - third year he proceeded to Leyden, where he completed his studies , and afterwards to Cambray , in France, wherehe visited the celebrated Fénelon, who received him into hishouse as an inmate of his family , and appointed him his secretary . Through the influence of Fénelon he u ltimately procuredthe preceptorship to the Duke de Chaten Thiery and the Princede Turenne. FromParis he removed to Rome in 1724 in orderto fulfil the appointment Of tutor to Prince Charles EdwardStuart and his brother Henry . The Chevalier amassed a handsome fortune in this way, and on returning to his native countryit is said that he Offered to settle an annuity on certain of his
relatives , who refused his gift on the grounds that he had te
nounced the Protestant faith and embraced the Catholic whenin the fami ly of Fénelon.
>l<
ROBERT CRAUFURD.
Itmay come as a surprise to students of ancientminstrelsyto find the name Of Robert Craufurd, author Of Tweedsideand The Bush aboon Traquair,
”
among the poets of Ayrshire.
Although he has al ready been claimed by Motherwel l , and thaton the most slender grounds , as a Renfrewshire bard, the evi
dence in favour of his Ayrshire nativity is so strong that it seemsstrange how Motherwell
’
s claimhas seldom been disputed.
Craufurd was a cadet of the house of Auchenames, but itis known that at an early period the Craufurds of Auchenamessettled at Crosbie Tower, near Troon, then in the parish Of
Dundonald, and the probability is that Crosbie, which is now
better known as Ful larton, may be the birthplace of the
poet. According to some accounts his mother was a daughterOf Gordon of Tumberry. If this be correct, he was linked toAyrshire by a doub le tie, and should never have found a placeamong the poets of Renfrewshire. His birth took place in 1690,and he met his death by drowning while returning from Francein 1733. He was a contemporary of Wil liam Hami lton of
Gilbertfield, and both contributed meritorious pieces to
24 ROBERT CRAUFURD.
Al lan Ramsay ’
s“Tea Table Miscel lany. Craufurd
’
s poemsare distinguished by an easy flow of rhythm and by a grace and '
refinement of language which marks themas the very essence of
lyrical composition . Lord Woodhouselee gave it as his Opinionthat we have nothing more perfect in that species of compositionthan Tweedside and one or two other of Craufurd’
s lyricalgems.
TWEEDSIDE.
What beauties does Flora disclose !How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed !
i Yet Mary ’s still sweeter than those,
Both nature and fancy exceed.
Nor daisy nor sweet- blushing roseNot all the ay flowers of the field,
Not Tweed gli ing gently through those,Such beauty and pleasure does yield.
The warblers are heard in the grove,The linnet , the lark , and the thrush ,
The blackbird and sweet- cooing dove,With music enchant every bush .
Come, let us go forth to the mead,Let us see how the primroses sprinWe
’l l lodge in some Vi llage on TweeAnd love while the feather’d folks sing .
How does my love pass the long day?Does Mary not tend a few sheep ?DO THEY never carelessly stray ,While happily SHE lies as leep ?
Should Tweed’s murmurs lull her to rest ,
K ind nature indulging my bliss ,To relieve the soft pains of my breast,I’d steal an ambros ial kiss .
’Tis she does the virgins excel ,No beauty with her may compare
Love’s graces all round her do dwell,She’s fairest where thousands are fai r .
Sa charmer, where do thy flocks stray ?8h ! tell me at noon where they feed?
Shall I seek them on sweet W inding TayOr the pleasanter banks of the Tweed
>l<
WILLIAM WALLACE of Cairnhill.
The Wal laces of Cairnhill, in the parish Of Craigie, claimdescent fromScotland ’
s hero Of that surname.
Wil liamWal lace, the poet of the Caimhill family , was admitted a member of the Facu lty of Advocates in 1734 , and suc
26 WILLIAM WALLACE.
Bess blunders out with ever thing aloud,And rattles unwithheld andy unwithstoodIn vain the sighing swain implores a truce
,
Nor can his wit one moment’s pause roduce ;She bounds o’
er all and, conscious Of er force,Still pours along the torrent of discourse .
Somet lmes ’tl s true, j ust as her breath she draws
,
W ith watchful eye we catch one moment’s pause,But when that instantaneous moment’s o
’er
,
She rattles on incessant as before.
To which of these two wonders of the town,
Say , shall I trust, to spend an afternoon ?If Betty’s drawing- room should be my choice,Intoxicate with wit, struck down with noise
,
Pleas’d and displeas’d
,I quit the Bedlam scene
,
And Joyful hail my peace of mind again :
But if to gentle Jeanie’s I re air,Regaled on syllabub , and f on air,W ith studied rapture, yawning I commend,Mov’d by no cause
,directed to no end
,
Till half as leep, though flatter’d, not content,I come away as joyless as I went.
>l< >l<
JOHN LAPRAIK.
John Lapraik, contemporary and correspondent of RobertBurns, was born at Laigh Dalfram, in the parish of Muirkirk.
He was a person of considerablemeans, unti l becoming involvedin the wreck of the Ayr Bank, which was termed by Burns “
a
vi l lainous bubble,”he was rendered insolvent, and subsequently
had to endure themiseries of a debtor ’s prison.
The fol lowing poem is one of Lapraik’
s best efl’orts, and heinformed Burns that it was composed one day when his wife wasfretting over their misfortunes
When I upon thy bosom lean ,
Enraptured I do call thee mine ;I lory in those sacred ties
hatmade us one, who once were twainA mutual flame inspires us bothThe tender look, the melting kiss ;
Even years shall ne’er destro our love
But only gi’e us change 0’ liss .
Have I a wish ? ’Tis all for thee ;I know thy wish is me to please ;
Our moments pass so smooth away,That numbers on us look and gaze,
JOHN LAPRAIK .
Wel l pleased to see our happy da s ,
Nor envy ’s sel finds aug t to b am ,
And ay when weary cares ariseThy bosomstill shall be my hame.
I’ll 1a
.
me there and take my rest ;An
.
If that ought disturb my fair ,I’ll bid her laugh her cares away ,And beg her not to drop a tear .
Have I a joy?’tis all her own ;
United st1ll her heart and mine ;Thfi
,re like the woodbine round the tree
,at
’s twined till death shall them dISJOIn.
When the above song became known local ly it was frequently sung at country - rockings, and Robert Burns hearing itwarbled one night addressed a letter on the fol lowing day tothe author
On isatin’e’en we had a rockin’
,
To ca’the cra ck and weave our stockin
’
,
An’there was muckle fun and jokin
’
,
Ye nwdna doubt ;At length we had a hearty yokin ’
At sang about.
There was se sang amang the rest ,Aboon them a
’that pleased me best,
That some kind husband had addrestTo some sweet wife °
It thirl’d the heart st rings through the breastA
’to the life.
”
The intimacy that sprung up in this way between Burns andLapraik brought the two poets together , their firstmeeting beingin Mauch line, where they gave
Ao nicht’s discharge to care ,
And had a swa O rhymin ’ warei ’ ane anither .
Burns afterwards visited Lapraik at Muirsmill, where he
dined, spent a merry evening , and nextmorning took his departure for Mossgiel . These meetings, together with the successof Bums
’
s Kilmarnock volume, doubtless had a good deal to dowith stimu lating Lapraik to continue writing verse ; indeed heprofesses that it never occurred to him to trouble the world withhis dul l , insipid, thowless rhyme.
”
Till Buru s’amuse, wi’ friendly blast,First tooted 11 his fame ,
And sounded lou through a’the wast ,
His lang forgotten name.
28 ROBERT BOSWELL .
Strangely enough , Of all his letters to the Mossgiel bardonly one finds a place in his volume of poems . With the exception of the song al ready quoted, few Of Lapraik
’
s poems displayany approach to poetic merit. The closing years of his life werespent in Muirkirk, where he fol lowed the twofold cal ling of
pub lican and postmaster .
>i<
ROBERT BOSWELL.
Robert Boswel l , of Auchinleck, was a cousin - german Of
James Boswel l , the biographer , and was born at Auchinleck inthe same year as his renowned cousin . He was a Writer to theSignet, and with him and his i l lustrious kinsman begin the
literary traditions of this distinguished Ayrshire family . RobertBoswel l was eminently pious, and his poetical talents he devotedto the composing of hymns, many of which were popu lar in hisday and generation . His literary gifts have been inherited byhis great - grand- daughter, Miss Charlotte Maria Tucker, wellknown by her writings under the nomdeplume of A . L . O. E.
ISOBEL PAGAN .
Isobel Pagan is remembered as the authoress of the sweet
pastoral lyric , Ca’
the yowes to the knowes .
”
She was bornabout fourmiles fromNith - head, in the parish of New Cumnock,where she lived til l about fourteen years of age. Beinglame from infancy , she was unfitted for laborious work of
any kind, and passed the greater part of her life in a
cottage romantical ly situated on the banks of the Garpel Water .She did not live as a recluse, but was at all times ready to receivevisitors, who frequently spent their evenings there singing and
carousing, making her house the favourite“howfl’ of all the
wits and drouthy neighbours in the district. Isobel joined in themirth with the greatest relish , and was neither averse nor shy tosing a song or taste a wee dIOp Of usquebagh. Her own linesare emphatic enough on this point .
When I see merr com anie,I sing a song wit mirt and glee,And sometimes I the whisk pree,But deed it
’s best to let itbe.
ISOBEL PAGAN .
A’ my faults I will not tell .I scarcely ken them a
’ mysel’I’ve come thro’ various scenes 0
’ life,Yet never was a married wife.
”
Isobel ’s chief mode Of existence was stringing rhymestogether and singing them to her votaries . That her vocalismdid credit to the professional platform is beyond doubt for
on one occasion she wrested the palm from a professmnalsinger belonging to a theatrical party in Ayr by her superior rendering of
“The Humours of G len .
”A smal l volume of her
poems was published, to which additional interest was given bythe insertion of a poem, entitled
“The Laird o
’
Glenlee,” from
the pen of James Boswel l , the famous biographer .“Tibbie — as she was cal led by familiar friends— was
accustomed to sing this song frequently to the unbounded delightof her rustic audiences.
She died towards the end of 1821, in the 8oth year of herage, and her remains were interred in the churchyard of Muirkirk , where a tombstone was erected over her grave. Burnscomposed a new version Of her popu lar song, retaining the
original chorus . It begins .
Hark the mavis ’ evenin sang ,Soundin
gClouden
’
s woo s amang lThen a aulding let us gan
g,My bonnie dearie.
’
Isobel Pagan’
s finest contribution to Scottish minstrelsypossesses the true lyrical feeling , and is worthy of perpetuation
Ca’the yowes to the knowes ,
Ca’them where the heather grows,
Ca’them where the burnie rows,My bonnie dearie.
As I gaed down the wate r s ideThere I met my shepherd ladHe row
’d me sweetly in his plaid2Ari
’he ca
’d me his dear1e.
W ill ye gang down the water side
An’see the waves sae sweetly gl ide
Beneath the hazels spreadin W ide ?
The moon it shines u ’ clearly .
Ye shal l et gowns and ribbons meet,Cauf - leatIier shoon to thy wh1te feet ;And in my arms
Iy
iese lie and sleep,
An’
ye s all be my dear1e.
30 ISOBEL PAGAN .
If ye’ ll but stand to what ye’ve said,Ise gang wi’ you my shepherd lad,And ye may row me
'
in your plaid,An
’I shall be your dear1e.
While water wimples to the sea,
While day blinks in the lift sae hie,Till clay - cauld death shall blin’ my e
’e,
Ye shall be my dearie.
Another song of Miss Pagan ’s which merits attention, but
which did not appear in her volume, is :
THE CROOK AND PLAID.
Ilk lassie has a laddie she lo’es aboon the rest,Ilk lassie has a laddie, if she likes to confess
’t ,
That is dear unto her bosomwhatever be his trade ;But my lover ’s aye the laddie that wears the crook and plaid.
Ilkmorn he climbs the mountains, his fleecy flocks to view ,
And hears the lav’rocks chanting,new sprung frae mang the dew
His bonnie wee bit doggie,sae rolicsorne and lad,
Runs aye before the laddie that wears the croo and plaid.
And when that he is wearied, and lies upon the ras s,What if that in his plaidie he hide a bonnie lassNo doubt there’
s a preference due to every trade,But commend to me the laddie that wears the crock and plaid.
And when in summer weather he is upon the hill ,He reads in books of history that learns himmeikleThere’s nae sic joyous leisure to be had at ony trade ,
Save that the laddie follows that wears the crock and plaid.
What though in storms 0’ winter part 0
’his flock should die,
My laddie aye is cheery,and why then should not I ?
The prospect O’the summer can surely mak
’us glad ;
Contented lives the laddie that wears the crock and plaid.
K ing David was a shepherd while in the prime 0’ youth
,
And following the fleecy flocks he pondered upon truthAnd when he came to be a king , and left his former trade,’Twas an honour to the laddie that wears the crock and plaid.
This song should not be confounded with a Scottish lyricby Henry Scott Riddel l bearing the same title and sung to thesamemelody .
>i< >i<
JEAN GLOVER .
JAMES MUIRHEAD. D.D.
James Muirhead was a native of Logan , in the parish of
Cumnock . He studied for the ministry , and was ordainedminister of the parish of Urr in 1770 . He was a scholar ofgreat and varied talents, and was in many ways a remarkableperson, being a mathematician and naturalist, as wel l as a poetof considerable reputation . Dr Muirhead was a makar of
auld Scots sangs, one of his contributions to the Scottish lyrebeing the once popu lar song,
“ Bess the Gawkie.
”
>l< >i<
JEAN GLOVER.
Jean G lover is remembered as the authoress of the oncepopular song , O
’
er the moor among the heather,” which the
Bard of Al loway , according to his own account,“took down
from her singing as she was strol ling through the country witha sleight- of- hand blackguard .
” Burns threw some aspersionson Jean G lover ’s character , which it wou ld be unfair to repeat.Her father was a respectable weaver in Ki lmarnock , who gavehis fami ly such education as he could afford. Jean appears tohave inherited an unsettled and rather wayward disposition, for
early in life she threw in her lot with a party of strol ling players,adopted the stage as a profession, and final ly eloped with one
Of the heroes of the sock and buskin . With the companionof her Choice, whose name was Richard, she toured the
country , giving historic displays , and as she was a person of
remarkable address and beauty,it may be assumed that she
commanded favourable attention wherever she went. That shewas an exceedingly handsome person is vouched for by the
testimony of an old woman who remembered having seen her at
a fair in Irvine, gaily atti red, and playing on a tambourine at
the mouth Of a c lose, in which was the exhibition - room Of her
husband, the conjurer . Weel do I remember her,”
said the
Old woman to an inquirer , and thocht her the brawest leddyI had ever seen step in leather shoon . Added to her beautyshe had the gift of a fine voice, and rendered Scottish songs ingood sty le, her rendering Of Green grow the rashes beingconsidered as amongst her finest vocal efforts. She died at
Letterkenny , in Ireland,when about 43 years Of age, and had
been performing on the stage up ti l l within about two months Ofher death .
The only song known to have been composed by her wascommunicated by Burns to Johnson ’
s Scots Musical Museum.
”
32 JEAN GLOVER .
O’ER THE MOOR AMANG THE HEATHER .
Comin ’thro’
the Craigs 0’Kyle
,
Amang the bonnie blooming heather,
There I met a bonn ie lassieKeeping a
’ her yowes thegither .O
’er the moor , amang the heather ,
O’er the moor
,amang the heather,
There I met a bonnie lassieKeeping a
’her yowes thegither .
Says I,my dearie ,
where’s thy hame,In moor or dale, pray tell me whether ?She says
,I tent the fleecy flocks
That feed amang the blooming heather .O
’er the moor
,etc.
We laid us down upon a bank ,Sae warm and sunny was the weather ,She left her flocks at large to roveAmang the bonnie blooming heather .
O’er the moor, etc.
While thus we lay she sang a sang ,Till echo ran a mile and further ,And aye the burden o
’the sang
Was— O’er the moor amang the heather .O
’er the moor, etc.
She charmed my heart, and aye s in’syne
I couldna think on any ither ;B
15;sea and sky she shall be Iriine,e bonnie lass amang the heather .
O’er the moor amang the heather,
O’er the moor amang the heather ,
There I met a bonnie lassie
Keeping a’ her yowes thegether .
>l< >i<
WILLIAM SIMSON .
With this poet we close our record Of the most importantOf the early bards “
of Ayrshire, born between the year 1315 and
that preceding the birth of Robert Burns .
Wil liam Simson was the eldest son of a farmer in the
vicinity Of Ochiltree, and was educated for the Church , but atan early age turned his attention to
“teaching the young idea
how to shoot. ”
He wrote pieces of very passablemerit, but was possessed of
a natural shyness and a diffidence which would not permit himto sanction the publication of any of his musings. He knew
WILLIAM SIMSON .
Prosperity we downa thole,Adversity is on the whole
Repugnant to our naturesThe first sae feeds inherent
pr ide
,
We clean misken ourselThe last ’s a dark, black rolling tide,
Whose ori in is hell .K ind eaven has givenA life devoid of neither
But mix’(1 them, and fix’dthem
,
In human life together .
Then why should creatures such as
Presume to fret a t heaven’s decree,
Because on poortith’s brink :Sure whether we are great or rich ,Ormean or poor it mak’s u s much,
This life is but a blinkSwift are our days, as shuttles fly,
Impatient of control,Till some auld sexton by and by
Maun hide us in a hole.
Earth’s treasu res , life’s pleasures,Will then avail us little.
Scots rhyme then ,though rime then,
Will no be worth a spitt e.
What signifies the world’s applause,Its iddy shouts and loud huzzas ?
at tho’the vulgar throng
And round our temples bind the bays,For outh- corru ting fulsome lays,
f virtue cal them wrong ?One hour of conscious innocenceYields much more real bliss
Than ears of leasure at expense0 inward appiness .
Now, therefore, Tom, whereforeShould bards devote their skill
Inditing and writingRhymes bordering on ill.
Hence I’ll ab 'ure the fabled N ine,
And gracious y His aid divineI humbly will im lore
0
Who taught old Davi Israel’s K ing,In heaven ly strains to play and sing
Jehovah to adore ;0
Who brought himup from tendIng sheep,His early occupation,
And set himon his throne to.keep
Watch o’er his elect nation.
Attend me,defendane,
BeIng all d1v1ne
me, and fire me,sentiments sublime.
BOOK II.
LATER MODERN POETS OF
AYRSHIRE.
PART I.
THE POETS OF KYLE FROM ROBERT BURNS
TILL THE PRESENT DAY.
ROBERT BURNS .
The life- story Of Robert Burns is now so widely known thatit may be considered common household property . Monuments to his memory have been erected in every land where theBritish language is spoken . Al loway Cottage (his birthplace),Mauchl ine, Ellisland, and Dumfries (the scenes of his earlyand later years), are the shrines to which pilgrims from all
comers Of the world repair in ever - increasing numbers to paytheir respects to the memory of the greatest poetical geniusScotland has yet produced.
The son of a toil - wom, earnest, plodding , and penurystricken , farmer, he became inured at an ear ly age to the hard~ships and struggles of farm l ife. His school education comprised a fairly extensive knowledge of English reading , writing,and arithmetic , to which was added a nodding acquaintancewith mathematics and the French language, and rustic employment being not unfavourab le to self - tuition , he was able on thisgroundwork to build a good ly structure of knowledge and leaming which proved usefu l to him in after life.
After fol lowing the fortunes of his father fromAl loway toMount Oliphant, and thence to Lochlea, near Tarbo lton, heat length settled (after the death of his father in Lochlea) in thefarm of Mossgiel , near Mauchline, a leasehold of which wasgranted to the poet and his brother Gilbert. Whi le in Mossgielhe composed the greater number of his poems which appearedin the first Kilmamock edition of his works , for his mind wasever haunted by mysterious sti rrings of ambition,
” which hedescribes as “
the b lind gropings of Homer’
s Cyclops round thewal ls Of his cave.
”
At this period literary prosperity burstupon him like a meteoric flash and brightened all his prospects,which were, however , speedi ly quenched, through certain misdoings of his own . Love, hOpe, grief, disappointment, and
despair alternately swayed his supersensitive mind, as if theFates had made of hima human shuttlecock to be played withat the bidding of their own capricious whims. But the fire of his
genius could not be quenched, nor the ardour of his passionatenature abated.
With Robert Burns love and poesy went hand in hand, andone flame after another burned in his bosom, fermented in hisbrain, and scintil lated in songs the purest and tenderest everconceived. His genius was too broad and strong, however, tobe confined to one channel , and his fame rests secure not onlyin his incomparab le lyrics , but in such masterpieces as
“Tam
38 ROBERT BURNS .
O’
Shanter,” Death and Dr Hornbook,
”Ode to a Mouse,
and many others of equal merit.The farmdid not prosper, and, love complications ensuing ,
the poet determined to emigrate to Jamaica. To raise meansfor his passage he was advised to pub lish a subscription volumeOf his poems. The first Kilmarnock Edition was the resu lt.It proved successfu l beyond all expectation, and Burns was
prompted to proceed to Edinburgh and superintend the publishing Of a second edition. Thenceforth be abandoned all idea
'
of emigrating , and in place of setting sail for the West Indieshe journeyed on horseback from Mossgiel eastward to Edinburgh . In the capital he was borne along on the breeze Of
popularity , being received with Open arms, admired, flattered,and lionized by all ranks and classes . He prolonged his stayin Edinburgh ti l l his second edition was pub lished. It realizedthe handsome profit of £500 , part Of which sum the poet
advanced to his brother Gi lbert, and with the remainder took a
lease of Ellisland farm, in Dumfriesshire. While in Mossgielhe had contracted a clandestinemarriage with Jean Armour,
‘
but
the union found no favour in the eyes Of Jean ’
s father, whodestroyed the marriage lines. After his famous reception in
Edinburgh his father - in - law relented, and extended to the oncedespised poet the hand of friendship. A re- union between hisdaughter and Burns was eflected, and in due time he had the
gratification of instal ling his Bonnie Jean as mistress of
Ellisland.
The sun of fortune now burst in glorious splendour on
the head of our poet, but it was only a fitful and momentarygleam between the storms . Fearing the probability of beingunable to maintain himself in the farm, he applied for an
appointment in the Excise, and subsequently procured the Officeof exciseman in the district where he resided. It soon becamec lear that he cou ld not attend to the duties of the farmand to
his excise work at the same time, and after a trial of about threeyears and a- half he was forced to abandon the farm and fal lback on the excise. He now removed to the town of Dumfries,and on a salary of £70 per annumcontrived to maintain himselfand those dependent upon him, and with a mind free from the
worries of a farm he‘
settled down to the congenial task Of col
lecting songs and tunes for his friend and correspondent, GeorgeThomson, of Edinburgh . It then appeared that a long life of
Usefu lness was yet before him, but not many years elapsed til lthe shadow of disease overcast his prospects, and his healthslowly but surely declining he gave his last “ good night to
the world on the twenty - first of Ju ly , 1796.
Robert Burns was the embodiment of native chivalry, andnothing of human interest was beneath his notice. His letters
ROBERT BURNS .
are as remarkable as.
his poetical eflusions, and are marked bythe same ferv1d passion and spontaneous humour . His songsare
Sh
matchless In men sparkling purity and'
simplicity . He isIn ort
The hard Of ever age and climeOf gen ius fruitfu and of soul sublime,Who from the flowrng mint of fancy poursNO spurious metal fused from common ores,But gold to matchless urity refined,And stamped with all t e majesty Of mind.
TO A MOUSE,
On turning her up in her nest with the plough , November,
Wee sleekit , cowran , tim’rous beast ie,
at a panic’s in th
ybreastie !
needna start awa sae hastyW i’ bickering bratt le ;1
I wad be laith to rin an’chase thee
Wi’ murd’ring pattle.
2
I’mtrul sor ry man ’s dominion
Has bro en Nature’s social union
An’ justifies that ill OpinionWhich makes thee startle
At me, thy poor , earth - born companion ,
An’ fellow mortal !
I doubtna, whyles but thou may thieve,What then ? poor beastie,
thou maun live !A daimen - icker in a thrave3
’S a sma’request :
I’ll get a bless in
’wi
’the lave,
An’never miss ’t l
Thy wee bit housie, too ,in ruin ;
Its silly wa ’s the W inds are strew1n !
An’naethin now,
to big a new ane
0 ’ fig s 9green ;
An’ bleak Decemfier s winds cusuin’
Baith snell an’ keen !
Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,
An ’wea winter comin’ fast ,
An’cosy aneath the blast ,
Thou thought to dwell ,crash ! the cruel coulter past
Out through thy cel l .
That wee bit heap 0’ leaves an
’stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ;Now thou ’s turn ’d out for a
’thy trouble,
But4 house or hald,To thole the winter‘s sleet dribble
An’cranreuch cau d 15
40 ROBERT BURN S .
But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,In proving fores ight may be vain ;The best laid schemes 0
’ mice an’ men
Gang aft a
gley
,6
An’ lea’us nought ut grief an’
painFor promis
’d joy !
Still thou art blest compar’d wi’ me !
The present only toucheth theeBut o
'
ch ! I backward cast my e’e
On pro'
spects drear !An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,
I gues
1 Short, hurried race. 2 Pattle or pettle-
ploughstafl'
. 3 An ear of cornnow and then. 4 Without house or holding. 5 Cold boar- frost. 6 Wide of
the aim.
ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE RI’
GIDLY
RIGHTEOUS.
My Son these maxims make a rule,And ump them ay thegither ;
The rigid r ighteous is a fool,The rigid wise anither ;
The cleanest corn that e’er was dight1
May hae seme pyles O’caff in ;
SO ne’er a fellow - creature slight
For random fits o’ daffin
’.
Solomon ,Eccles, ch. vn . verse
0 e wha are sae guid yourse l’,
s e pious and sae holy ,Ye’ve nought to do but mark and tellYour neebor’s fauts and folly !
Whase life is like a weel - gaun mill,Supply
’d wi’ store 0’ water :
The hea ed ha per ’s ebbing still ,And stil the c ap plays clatte r .
Hear me, ye venerable Core,As counsel for poor mortals,
That frequent ass douce Wisdom’s door
For gllaikit2 olly ’s portals ;
I, for t eir thoughtless , careles s sakesWould here pro one defences ,
Their donsie3 trio 8 their black mistakes ,Their failings andmischances.
Ye see your state wi’ theirs compar’d,
And shudder at the niffer ,4But cast a moment’s fair regardWhat mak’s the mighty differ ;
Discount What scant occasion gaveThat purity ye pride in
And (what’s aft mair than a’ the lave)5
Your better art 0 ’ hiding .
DAVID SILLAR .
How blythel wad I hide the stoure,A wear
ys ave frae sun to sun,
Could I t e rich reward secureThe lovely Mary Morison !
Yestreen , when to the trembling strinThe dance gaed thro’
the lighted haTo thee my fanc
ytook its wing
,
I sat, but neit er heard nor saw ;
Tho’this was fair , and that was braw,
And yon the toast O’a’the toun
,
I sigh’d and said amang them a
’
,
Ye are na Mary Morison .
0 Mary can’st thou wreck his eace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly ee
Or can’st thou break that heart of his ,
Whase only faut is loving thee?If love for love thou wilt na gi’e,At least be pity to me shown ;
A thou ht ungentle canna beThe t ought 0
’ Mary Morison .
>l< >i<
DAVID SILLAR.
David Si l lar, like his great contemporary Robert Burns,was country- born and country - bred, his father being a farmerin Spittleside, near Tarbolton. Sil lar seems to have enjoyed an
advantage over Burns in that he was not compel led by his fatherto the constant drudgery of farm work, which he speedi lyabandoned for the more congenial occupation Of a schoolteacher.
After fol lowing this cal ling for a few years in the neighbourhood Of Tarbolton he removed to Irvine, and there commencedbusiness as a grocer . About this time he began to write verse,and, stimu lated probably by the success of Burns, he venturedbefore the reading public with a book of poems dedicated to
Hugh Montgomery , Esq. of Skelmorlie, afterwards Earl Of
Egl inton . His poems are not without merit, but whenever heattempted song - writing his muse dropped to earth like a wingedpigeon.
In the accomplishment of violin playing , and in this only,was David Sil lar a match for Robert Burns. He seems to haveacquired a pretty fair execution on this instrument, and his
fiddle was probably the sou l and life ofmany a country kirnat which the great poet was present. Burns did not in afteryears forget those meIIy -makings, as shown in his poetical
DAVID SILLAR .
epistle to his brother -
poet and fel low - fiddler, Of the Tarboltonperiod
Hale be your heart ! hale be your fiddle !Lan may your elbuck j ink an
’diddle ,
To c eer you through the weary widdleO
’ war ’ ly cares :Till bairns’ bairns kindly cuddle
Your auld,grey hairs .
Sil lar ’s grocery business in Irvine proved disastrous . Hismeans vanished, and, getting into debt, a creditor to whom he
owed the paltry sumof five pounds , had him irnprisoned for a
time in the Old Tolbooth . On regaining his freedom he
visited Edinburgh , but returned shortly to Irvine, and had
recourse to his former profession of teacher . He ultimatelyfel l heir to all his brother ’s money , and this windfal l enabledhim to start afresh in life. His remaining years were passedin comparative ease and competency . He served for a time as
a member of Irvine Town Counci l , and in later life his company was much sought after on account of his early intimacywith Burns .
The fol lowing poem is one Of his best eflorts . It was
addressed “to Coila’
s Bard,
”
who responded with effusionnow known as his Second Epistle to Davie
While Beckie’s bards your muse oommen’
,
An’
praise the numbers 0 ’ your pen,
Accept this kindly frae a friend,Your Dainty Davie.
Wha ace 0’ hearts (1o still remain ,
Ye may believe me.
I ne’er was muckle gi’en to rais in’
,
Or else ye might be sure 0’ raisin ’
,
For trouth I think , in solid reason,Your kintra reed,
Plays sweet as Ro bin Fer usson,
Or his on Twe
Your Luath , Caesar bites right sair ;An
’ when ye paint the Holy FairYe draw it to a very hair ,
Or when ye turnAn
’s ing the follies O
’the fair
How sweet ye mourn !
Let Coila ’s plains wi
’ me rejoice,And praise the worthy bard whoseTheir worth and beauty high doth
To lastin fame ;His works , his wort will ever praise
And crown his name.
44 DAVID SILLAR .
Brave Ramsay now and Fergusson ,
Wha ha’e sae lang time filled the throne
0 ’ Poetry, may lay them downQuiet i’ their urns
,
Since fame in(ju
st
ice i’es the crown
To Oila’s urns.
Hail happybard ! ye’re now confest
The king 0 singers i’ the west ;Edina hath the same ex rest
,
Wi’ joy the n’
That ye’re, when trie by Nature’s test,Gude sterling coin.
Sin on my frien’
, your fame’s secured,An still maintain the name 0
’ bard ;But yet tak
’tent and keep a guard,
For Envy ’s tryin’
To blast your name, mair j ust rewardFor the envying .
But tho’ the tout O’ fame may please you,Letna the flatterin ’ ghaist o
’erheeze you,
Ne’er flyte nor fraise tae gar folk roose you,
For men 0’skill
When ye write weel , will always praise youOut 0
’ gude will .
Great numbers on this earthly ba’ ,As soon as death gi’es themthe ca’
,
Permitted are to s lide awa’
,
An ’straight for ot
Forbid that ever this sho d fa’
To be your lot.
I ever had an anxious wish,Forgive me, Heaven ! if ’
twas amiss ,That Fame in life my name would bless ,
An’ kindly saveIt fromthe cruel tyrant ’s crush
Beyond the grave.
Tho’ the fas test liver soonest dies,And length 0
’days should mak’
us wise,Yet haste wi’ speed, to glory rise,
An ’spur your horse
They ’re shortest aye wha gain the prizeUpon the course.
Sae to conclude, auld frien’an
’neebor ,
Your muse forgetna weel to feed her,Then steer through life wi’ birr and Vigour,
TO win a horn,
Whase soun’shal l reach ayont the Tiber
’Mang ears unborn.
>l<
THOMAS WALKER .
THOMAS WALKER.
Thomas Walker, the Ochiltree tai lor, shines as a verysmal l luminary in the constel lation of Ayrshire poets, and thatonly by the reflected lights of Rantin Robin and
“WinsomeWil lie. The tai lor makes the man outwardly , and Thomasthought to reform Robert Burns inwardly , by sending him a
didactic poetical epistle. As saith the comedian :SOUpoets can’t the baize Obtainnless thei r tailors choose,
While grooms and coachmen,not in vain,
Each evening seek the mews .
”
The post has , however, Obtained his bays independent Of
Thomas , the Ochi ltree rhymer , who was cajoled into addressingBurns by his waggish companion and fellow - vil lager DominicSimson, who, as we have already seen, was also a poeticalluminary but of a higher magnitude than Walker . The dominieeffected his waggish purpose bv sending Walker a poem, whichbegins in the fol lowing strain
Ye Muses ! why leave ye TomWalker so long ?His rhymes unconnectedShow he’
s disrespectedBy you—ye inspirers of song
For, to my vexation ,
His vers ification is frequently wrong
With aspectlpropitio
us ye smile upon Burns
His vers'
cation0
G ives strong indicationYe’
re nae way averse to indelicate turns ;Or rather than be] him
Ye surely would skelp im, and shorten his horns .
Taunted in this seditious manner , the tai lor evoked the
muse and wrote a rhyming epistle to Burns, which has been
publ ished in several editions of the poet’
s works . The poemOpens in the fol lowing strain
What waefu ’ news is this I hear ?Frae greetin
’ I can scarce forbear ,Folks tell me ye’ re gaun afi th is year
Out ower the sea,
An’ lasses whamye lo’e sae dear
Will greet for thee.
Weel wad I like were ye.
to stay ,But , Robin , since you
0
wi ll away,I ha
’e a word yet mai r to say,
An’ maybe twa :
May He protect us night an’ day
That made us a
46 ROBERT HETTERICK .
To this effusion, which goes on in an indelicate but friendlenough manner to warn the poet against the error of his ways,
‘
Burns gave no reply , and Simson conceived the idea of replyinghimself, and actual ly palmed off on the tailor a poetical rejoinder purporting to be from Burns, which was so c lever thatit appeared as a genuine Burns composition in some of theearlier editions.
Walker, although a very indifferent rhymer, was respectedin the vi l lage for his sobriety , honesty , and glee.
’
ROBERT HE’
I'
TERICK.
To Robert Hetterick the Scottish lyre was sweeter thanthe anvi l ’s sound, and in the sessions of sweet, si lentthought,
”or with the sonorous ring of the forehammer in his
ear, he was wont ever and at all times to give the Muse a
hearty reception. The musical ring of his father ’s anvi l wasthe melody to which his fertile mind set the rhyt hm of wordswords destined to live long after the sound of the anvi l hadceased to vibrate in the streets of Dalmel lington. As a studentof such works as Addison ’
s Spectator,” “
Robertson ’
s Historyof Scotland,
” “Life of Sir Wil liam Wal lace,
”
and otherc lassical works, he quenched his literary thirst at the pureststreams of Literature.
Such varied studies laid the foundation of a broad, clearstyle, which is characteristic of all his writings .
' His youthfulimagination was inspired and deepened also by the enchantingand romantic scenery of G len Ness, in the neighbourhood of
his native vi l lage, the chief effort of his muse being a descriptive poem having for its theme The Crags of Ness. Saysthe poet
Lei:me lead your fancy back againTo View the beauties of this wondrous glen,Where the hand of Nature everywhere pervadesAnd blends the barren rocks and verdant shades .
And, tru ly, any lover of nature who has visited this romanticglen wil l readily go back in fancy with the poet to view its
beauties and silently contemplate the grandeur and wonders of
Nature.
SONG .
Where Doon pours forth her liquid stores ,And through the glens and caverns roars ,Dashin
fion the thazley shores
An rocks sae steep and eerie O ;
ROBERT HETTERICK .
There on the shelvin river side,Fai r Cather ine dwelfiin virgin pride,Whose beauty decks the countr side,
As roses deck the briery g.
The blossoms spreading on the treeSac fai r and pure could scarcely be
,
Her heart frae uile and malice freeWas ever b ythe and cheery O
0 , were she o’a low degree
To tend the sheep and goats wi’ me,
The cares 0’ life wad l ighter be,
My heart wad never weary O.
The winter winds might rave and blawTheir drifted flakes o
’sleet and snaw,
Fair July wad pervade them a’
In presence 0’ my dearie O
0 , sweet as roses newly blawn ,
And blythe as warblers in the dawnMay Cathe rine range the spreadin lawn
Where Doon rows on see clear 0 .
The above is a fair example of Mr Hetterick’
s songcomposition. We conc lude our notice of him by submitting a
specimen of his patriotic verse
How blest is our country where freedomis growing,Like the pine of the forest perpetually green ;Where the breasts of the brave Caledonians are glowingWith all that ennobles the children ofmen .
They are born to be free as the wind on the mountains,That raves in the tempest and smiles in the gale ;And their hearts are as pure as the clear roll i founta insThat st ream from the rocks to meander the d e.
As for base- hearted t rants , they hate and detest them,
Even though in the eld they were allant and brave ;For their power or dominion ,
who ares to resist themAre doomed to the gibbet , the rack , and the grave.
But Wallace and Bruce, from the battle so
gory
In the cause of their count ry never would ee
The fought for their freedom, their count ry , and glory,To all in the carnage, or stand to be free.
And the brave Caledonians— the wo rth descendantsOf heroes and chieftains that flourishe of yore,W ill never rel inquish the brave inde endenceThat Wallace had strove to inherit
.fore.
Though tyrants may league to deprive them of freedomThe national right that 8 so dear to them a
’
,
They still will have heroes and atriots to lead them,
Like Bruce to reconquer , or allace to fa’ .
Thou h our land is begirt by the cold, storm ocean,
Ourdark , misty mountains are rugged and‘
are,
Yet these dark , misty mountains excite our devotion,The goddess of freedom is worshipped there.
48 DAVID WOOD.
And long may she reign in our mountains and valleys ;And long may our worshi be warmand sincereThen freedomand ri ht, mmthe boor to the palace,Will grow and will ourish perpetually there .
>l< >i<
DAVID WOOD.
Nature showered her poetic favours with as stinted a handon David Wood as she did on the tailor of Ochiltree. Davidwas an unlettered ploughman, with residence in or near NewCumnock. He cal led one day at Paterson ’
s printing Office,in Ki lmarnock, saying he had
“a book to print.
” “And
where’
s your manuscript ?”
said Paterson “D’
ye mean the
writing ? asked the New Cumnock bard. It’
s here,”he con
tinned, pointing to his head , and the publisher advised him to
come back when his poems were in manuscript. Wood wenthome, got a friend to act as his amanuensis, and
“ feth he’ l l
prent it was writ large on the ambitious bard’
s countenance formany days. His verses were in due course published in bookform, and, although they are feeble in the extreme, it is saidthat the author derived a handsome profit from the sale Of his
volume. The story goes that Wood and the Dundonald poet,Charles Lockhart, met one day in Irvine and adjourned to a
tavern for a half - hour Of conviviality. The mountain - dew wentround , and the two worthies made a chal lenge as to which of
them would compose the best extempore stanza of four lines,when Lockhart enraged his
’
companion by thus playing on the
word Wood
When Davie first the muse did court(The base ungrateful limmer),
She swore s e never would impartHer virtue into timmer .
It shou ld be added in favour Of David Wood , the NewCumnock hard, that he submitted his effusions with much diflidence to public notice, and was wel l aware of their imperfections
>i< >l<
ALEXANDER BOSWELL.
The Boswel ls Of Auchinleck came into Great Britain withWi l liam the Conqueror, settled first at Balmuto, in Fifeshire,and afterwards at Auchinleck, in Ayrshire.
50 ALEXANDER BOSWELL.
TO- morrow’s sun shall see me home
To the banks of woody Ayr
Ah ! whither row’st thou
, Lady bright,SO far to the North Countrie?I fly to save m gallant Lord,Who is right ear to me ! ”If you are the Lady Of Auchinleck,
On the banks of the woody Ayr,Your Lord lies low on the farther beach,For his foes have met himthere !
Alas ! vindictive was the wrath,And fatal was the blow
,
Thou ride of Scotia’s chivalry,In eath that laid thee low.
Several of Boswel l ’s songs, from their quaint humour andpawky style, may safely be classed as permanent acquisitions toScottish poesy .
JENNY’S
I met four chaps yon birks amangWi’ hin ing l
figs l and faces lang ;
I speere 2 at eebour Bauldy Strang,Wha’
s they I see ?
Quo’he, ilk cream- faced pawky chiel
Thou ht himself cunnin’as the deil
,
And re they cam’awa
’to steal
Jenny ’s bawbee.5
The first a Captain to his trade,Wi’ skull ill - lined but back weel - clad,March’ (1 round the barn , and by the shed,
And podp(ped on his knee
Quo’he, y no ess , nymph, andqueen,
Your beaut ’s azzled baith my een !
”
But deil a eaut he had seen
But enny ’s bawbee.
A Lawyer neist wi’ blatherin’
$1”
Wha speeches wove like ony wa
In ilk ane’s corn aye took a dab,And a
’ for a fee.
Accounts he owed'
through a’the toun,
And tradesmen’s tongues
‘
nae mair could drown,B ut now he thocht to clout5 his gown
Wi’ Jenny’s bawbee.
A Norland Laird neist trotted up,
Wi’ bowsend nag8 and s iller Whlp,Cried, There’s my beast, lad, hand the grup,7
Or tie’t till a tree 1
ALEXANDER BOSWELL.
What’s god to me? I’ve walth o’ lan
’
Bestow on ans 0’ worth your haun’ l”
He thocht to‘pa
Jy what he was awn9
Wi enny ’s bawbee.
A S ruce frae band- boxes and tubs,A ing cam’
neist (but life has rubs),Foul were the roads and fu’
the dubs ,And jaupitl 0 a
’was he .
He danced up squ intin’through a glass ,
(1 rinned,
1’ faith , a bonnie lass ! ”
He t ocht to win wi’ front 0’ brass,
Jenny ’s bawbee.
She bade the Laird gae kame11 his wig,The soger no’
to st rut sae big,The lawyer no’
to be a priThe fool , he crie TeeMe !
I kenn ’d that I could never fail l”
She preeai’d the dishclout to his tail
And soused him in the water - pail,And kept her bawbee.
l Ears. 2Asked. 3 Halfpenny. 4 Idle or nonsensicalhorse having a white stripe down its face.
9Owing. 10 Mud - splashed. l l Comb.
JENNY DANG THE WEAVER .
At W illie’s wedding 0’the green,
The lasses , bonnie witches ,Were buskit out in aprons cleanAnd anew - white Sunday mutches .
Auld M is bade the lads tak’tent,
B ut ock wad na believe her,But soon the fool his fol kent ,For— Jenny dang the eaver .
In ilka country - dance and reelW i’ her he wad be babbin’
;When she sat doun , then he sat doun,And till her wad be gabbin’
;Whare’
er she aed, or butt or ban,The coof wadnever leave her,
Aye cacklin’
,like a clockin
’ hen,
But—Jenny dang the Weaver .
Quo’he, My lass , to speakmy mind,
Gude haith , I needna.
sw1ther
Ye’ve bonnie een ,and gif y
e’re kind,
I needna court anither .’He bummed and haw ’
d— the lass cried pheugh !And bade the fool no deave her ;
Then crack’
d her thumb and lap, and leugh,And— dang the silly eaver .
5T
52 ALEXANDER BOSWELL .
The fol lowing song is a translation from the German , and
to it the translator appended the fol lowing note —“Trans
lated at Leipsic in 1795 . Several versions of this song havebeen published. If this is the least elegant, it is perhaps themost literal .”
Taste life’s glad momentsWhilst the wasting taper glows ;Pluck, ere it withers ,The uickly fading rose.
Man blin ly follows grief and care,
He seeks for thorns and finds his share,Whilst violets to the pass ing airUnheeded shed their blossoms .
Taste life’s gladmoments, etc.
Though timorous nature veils her form,
And rolling thunder spreads alarm;Yet
,ah ! how soft when lull’d the storm
The sun smiles forth at even !Taste life’s glad moments , etc.
To himwho Spleen and Envy flies ,And meek Contentment well can prize,The humble lant a tree shal l rise
,
Which gol en fruit will yield himTaste life’s glad moments , etc .
Who fosters Faith in upright breast,And freely ives to the distress ’d,There shall ontentment build her nest,And flutter round his bosom.
Taste life’s glad moments ,etc.
And when life’s path rows dark and strait ,And press ing ills on i ls await ,Then Friendship , sorrow to abate,The helping hand wil l offer .Taste life’
s glad moments, etc.
She dries his tears , she st rews his ‘
way,Even to the grave, with flow’rets gay ,
Turns n ight tomorn ,and morn to day,
And pleasure still increases .
Taste life’s glad moments, etc.
Of Life she is the fairest band,
Joins brothers truly hand in handThus onward to a better landMan journeys li ht and cheer ’ly .Taste Life’
s g ad momentsWhilst the wasting taper glows ;Pluck , ere it withers ,The quickly fading rose .
>i< >l<
JOSEPH TRAIN . 53
JAMES BOSWELL.
The name and fame of Boswel l in Ayrshire literature doesnot end with Sir Alexander, whose younger brother James wasalso a noted litterateur and a classical scholar Of high distinction. James Boswel l died in London only a few weeksprevious to the melancholy tragedy at Auchtertool . That hepossessed the lyrical gift in no smal l measure may be gleanedfromthe fol lowing sweetly - flowing l ines
LARGHAN CLANBRASSIL.
Larghan Clanbrassil, how sweet is thy soundTo in tender remembrance as Love’s sacred ground ;For t ere Margaret Caroline first charmed my si ht,And filledmy young heart with a fluttering deli t.
When I thought her my own, ah ! too short seemed the day
For a jaunt to Down strick , or a trip on the sea ;To express what I fe t then all language were vain,’Twas in truth what the pos ts have studied to feign
But too late I found even she could deceive,And noth in was left but to weep, sigh , and rave ;Distracted fled frommy dear native shore,Resolved to see Larghan Clanbrassil no more.
Yet still in some moments enchanted I findA ray of her fondness beam soft on m mind ;
ile thus in bless ’d fancy my angel see,
All the world is a Larghan Clanbrassil to me.
>l< >l<
JOSEPH TRAIN .
Joseph Train is remembered as an antiquary who won the
friendship and esteem Of Sir Walter Scott rather than by virtueof his poetical genius . He it was who furnished much valuable traditional lore to the great novelist, who afterwardsworked the material with a masterly hand into his inimitab leromances. Train was born in Sorn , but spent his early yearsin Ayr. In the Spring - time of l ife he was bal loted for the
Ayrshire Militia, and on getting his discharge was appointedan oflicer Of Excise, a vocation which proved congenial to hisantiquarian tastes, for in his periodical surveys over Gal lowayand “
the borders of Carrick he was ab le to glean from the
country people valuable stores of traditional lore. After his
54 JOSEPH TRAIN .
retiral from the Excise, he took up residence in the neighbourhood of Castle- Douglas, corresponding frequently with Sir
Walter Scott, besides furnishing much matter of antiquarianinterest to Chalmers, the author Of
“Caledonia. It mighttruthfu l ly be said of Joseph Train
“AAmadn
thf'
infiifi ite reme
zr
ii
l
brancla
l
e be ‘was ,h ln ings ore one roug many ages e d
Which he record still as they did passNor suffered them to perish through long eld.
EDCINE DE AGGART .
When in 1588 the Spaniards attempted to invade our
shores, tradition saith that Elcine De Aggart, a reputed witchof Carrick, who had power to raise a tempest at her command,seated hersel f upon a promontory when some of the Spanishships appeared in the F irth of C lyde. Holding a bal l Of blue
yarn'in one of herhands, which was cal led the thread of Fate,
as the vessels bore up the Channel the tempest increased, andthe weird sister chanted the fol lowing song
Why gallops the alfrey with Lady Dunure?Who takes away urnberry
’s kine from the shore?
Go tell it in Carrick , and tellAlthough the proud Dons are now pass ing the Moil"
On this magic clueThat in Fairyland rew,
Old Eloine de A art has ta en in handTo wind up their
'
ves ere they win to our strand.
That heaven may favour this grand armament,Against us poor heretic islanders sent ;F rom altars a thousand, though frank incense fly,Though ten thousand chapel be lls peal in the sky
fiythis m stic clue
ade in lfland when new,
Old Eloine de Aggart will all countermand,And wind up thei r lives ere they win '
to our strand.
They bring with themnobles our castles to fill ;They bring with them ploughshares our J
manors to ti ll ;They likewise bring fetters our barons to bind,Or any whomthey may refractory find ;
But this mighty clue,Of the indigo hue ,
Which few,like de Aggart , could ere understand,
Will baffle their hopes ere they win to our strand.
The Cape of Cantyre.
ARCHIBALD CRAWFORD.
Was ever the sprite of the wind seen to lower ,80 dark o’
er the Clyde as in this fata l hour ?Re joice ev
’ ry onemay to see the waves nowEach sh; ass ing o
’er from the poop to the bow,
ith this ma ic clue,That in Fairy and grew ,
OldElcrne de Aggart has wound to an endThei r thread of existence, though far fromthe strand.
I sigh for their dames , whomay now take the veilFor babes who the loss of their sires may bewailBut while the great death - bell of Toledo tolls
,
fr iars unceasingly pra for their soulsW ith this 111 et ic c ue
M ade when lfland was new.
Who will notgive praise, in her own native land
To Elcine de ggart for guarding the st rand?
Come back on your palfrey , my Lady Dunure,Go brin back old Turnberry ’
s kine to the shore ;And tel it you may over Carr ick and Kyle,The last shi has sunk by our good Lady Isle,
An while such a clueOf the indigo blue ,
Old Elcine de Aggart has at her command,
A foreign foe never shall come to our strand.
>l< >l<
ARCHIBALD CRAWFORD.
The garru lous Doctor Johnson Once expressed the Opinionthat to a Scotsman the most picturesque road was the high roadleading to London. It is doubtfu l if Archibald Crawford heldany such notion when at the age of thirteen he was sent
from his native town of Ayr to learn the bakery trade with a
relative who resided in the English Metropolis. Perhaps a
more picturesque road was discovered by the young doughworker when after the lapse of eight years he turned his facenorthward and headed for “ bonnie Scotland.
”
On returningto his native Ayr be resolved to abandon the bakery business,and removed to Edinburgh , and thereafter to Perth , where heentered the service of Leith Hay, Esq . , M .P. , in whose employment he remained upwards of five years . As the . swal lowreturneth to its old nest, so Crawford gravitated back to Ayr.
Here he entered into business first'
as a grocer, and afterwardsas an auctioneer and dealer in Old furniture. About this timehe formed a close friendship with John Goldie, then editor ofthe
“Ayr and Wigtownshire Courier,
” contributing to thatnewspaper a series of sketches, entitled Tales of My Grandmother,
” which were founded chiefly on traditions familiar in
56 ARCHIBALD CRAWFORD.
the West of Scotland, and which were afterwards pub lished inbook form by Messrs Constable Co .
, Edinburgh . With theassistance of one or two literary friends
,Crawford originated a
weekly periodical in Ayr under the title Of“The Correspon
dent, and subsequently published a periodical on his ownaccount, which he named The Gaberlunzie, and in which a
few Of his own best pieces appeared.
His best known song , Bonnie Mary Hay, was composed as a gratefu l acknow ledgment of the kindness bestowedon himby Keith Hay ’
s daughter at a time when he was sufieringunder a malignant fever . Crawford was no ful l - voiced poet,
”
yet this“one touch of nature on the part of a disinterested
lady drew fromhima song of merit sufficient to keep green thememory of his heroine through all these years .
Bonnie Mary Hay, I will l'o’e thee yet,For thy eye is the slae, thy hair is the jThe snaw is th skin and the rose is thyBonnie Mary ay, f will lo’
e thee yet .
Bonnie Mary Hay, will you gan wi’ meWhen the sun’
s in the west , to t e hawthorn tree ;To the hawthorn tree in the bonnie berry den,
And I ’ll tell you ,Mary, how I lo
’e you then ?
Bonnie Mary Hay, it’s balidey to me
When thou art couthie, kind, and free ;There’s nae clouds in the lift , nor storms in the sky,Bonnie Mary Hay, when thou art nigh .
Bonnie Mary Ha
g, thou mauna say me nay,
But come to the ower by the hawthorn brae lBut come to the bo-w’
r, and I’ll tell you a
’ what’s trueI ne
’er can lo
’e ony ither but you .
SCOTLAND,i HAVE No HOME BUT T HEE !
Scot land, thy mounta valleys , and fountainsAre famous in story thplace of song ;
Th daughters the fairest the sweetest , the rarest,ell may thy pilgrims on for their home.
Trace the whole world o’er, nd me a fairer shore,
The grave of my fathers , the land of the free ;Jo to the rising race Heav
’n send them every grace,
Scotland, dear Scotland, I have no home .but thee !
Glow on , ye southern skies , where fruits wear richerTO pamper the bi ot , assassin , and s lave ;
Scotland, to thee I’ l twine with all thy varied chmeFor the fruits that thou eatest are true hearts andbrave.
Trace the whole world o’er, find me a fai rer shore,
The grave of my fathers, the land of the free ;Jo to the rising race , Heav
’n send them every grace,
Scotland, dear Scotland, I have no home but thee !
58 REV. PROFESSOR JOHN BURTT.
But scarce had the guest in that eaceful seclusionHrs lodging secured, when a con ict arose.
Each feeling was changed, every thou ht was delusion ,
N 0 longer my breast knew the calm o repose.
They say that young Love is a rosy - cheek’d bowyer ,At random the shafts from his silken string fiyBut surely the urchin of peace is destroyerWhose arrows are dipp
’d in the balm of a sigh .
O yes l for he whis er’d, To Beauty ’s shrine hie thee !
There worship to apid, and wait yet a
A cure she can give, with rthe balm can
The wound froma sigh can be cured by a
>i<
Rev. Professor JOHN BURTT.
It has been said that titles do not adorn men, but menadorn their titles . John Burtt was an untitled gentleman, but
nevertheless he adorned his profession, and gave the worldanother example Of how circumstances can be mou lded byScottish grit, industry , and iron wil l . Born in the parish of
Riccarton, the son Of a coachman, he knew nothing of afiluence
in his early years, but struggling manful ly and bravely ,“he
burst his birth ’
s invidious bar, and grappled with his evi l star,”
unti l at length from being a toiler in a Kilmarnock wool lenmi l l he rose to fi l l the Chair of Ecclesiastical History in a Hal lof Divinity in Cincinnati .
One romantic episode of his career cannot be overlooked .
When about sixteen years of age he went to Greenock to visitsome relatives there, when, without the slightest warning, hewas kidnapped and pressed into the service of the Navy , inwhich he was compel led to serve five years before an oppor
tunity was given him Of re- visiting the scenes Of his boyhood .
Previous to emigrating to the United States Of America, wherehe ultimately made his mark as a scholarly divine, he was
engaged as a school teacher in Kilmarnock and afterwards inPaisley . A song from his pen, entitled “
O’
er the MistShiouded C liffs, was for many years attributed to RobertBurns, but is undoubtedly
'
the composition Of John Burtt.
O’ER THE MIST - SHROUDED CLIFFS .
O’er the mist - shrouded cliffs of the low mountain st raying ,Where the wild Winds of winter incessantly rave ;What woes wring my heart while intently surveyingThe storm’
s gloomy path on the breast of the wave?
REV. PROFESSOR JOHN BuRrr .
Ye foam- crested billows allow me to wail ,Ere ye toss me afar fromm
yloved native shore ;
Where theflow’r which bloomd sweetes t in Coila’
s green vale,The pride of my bosom, my Mary ’s no more !
No more b the banks of the st reamlet we’ ll wander,
nd smi e at the moon’s rimpled face in the wave ;
No more shall my arms cl ing with fondness around her,
For the dewdrops of morning fall cold on her grave.
No more shall the soft thrill of love warmmy breast !I haste with the storm to a far distant shore
,
Where unknown , unlamented, my as hes shall rest,
And Joy shall revis it my bosom no more !
DARK IS THE NIGHT .
Dark is the ui t : the wintr blastSings throng the leafless t cm ;
The setting moon far in the westHalf shows her waning horn ;
But lass ie, dearest to my heart,In s ite of wind or rain
We’ll 1 tholy meet and blythely partAnd b ythely meet again .
What though the wintry tempest pourIts fury o
’
er the lea ,
My Mary ’
s hut will shade the show ’ rAnd turn the blast fromme .
Then las s ie, dearest to my heart ,In s ite of w ind or rain ,
We’ ll lythely meet and blythely partAnd blythely meet again.
What though no star with friendly beamLook through the murky skyWhat though no torch ’s ardent gleamDirect me where to fly !
Steered by the im also of my heart,In s ite of win or rain
We’ ll 1 he! meet and blythely partAnd b ythe y meet
>l<
Rev . THOMAS BURN S, LL.D.
Several Of the descendants and relatives of the NationalBard of Scotland gained distinction in professional and commercial circles , and not the least worthy of them is Thomas,son Of Gil bert Burns, who was born at the farm of M ossgiel ,in Mauchline parish , a few months previous to the death of
his celebrated uncle. G il bert Burns subsequently removed
60 REV. THOMAS BURN S , LL .D.
fromAyrshire to Haddingtonshire, where Thomas received his ,early schooling, being for a time the pupil of Edward Irving.
When sixteen years of age he entered the University of Edinburgh , and after the customary theological training was licensedin 1823 by the Presbytery Of Haddington, and subsequently wasappointed to the charge Of Bal lantrae Parish . While ministerof Bal lantrae he married the niece of the Rev. Mr Grant of
Monkton ; and Mr Grant dying shortly afterwards, ThomasBurns succeeded to the charge, in which he laboured for
thirteen years. During his ministry in Monkton a new churchwas erected, and in this living he might have continued to the
end Of his days had he not chosen to throw himsel f into the
struggle which culminated in the Disruption. In loyalty toconscience, he abandoned church and manse, and was fol lowedby a section Of the congregation, to whom he preached for a
time in the stackyard Of a farmhouse. Some four or five yearsafter his separation fromMonkton Church he set sai l for NewZealand , where he was appointed minister of the Free Church ,being the first to occupy a Free Church pulpit in Otago.
Mr Burns was deemed worthy of being honoured with thedegree of Doctor of Laws, and as a preacher , patriot, and poetholds a high place in the estimation Of his countrymen, and
more especial ly Of his fel low - colonists, who have commemoratedhim in Dunedin by a column crowned by a Maltese cross, andwhich is placed c lose to the bronze statue of the national poetof Scotland.
>l< >l<
JOHN GOLDIE.
John Goldie, who adopted the pen- name of Nichol
Nemo,”was the son Of a sea captain, and a native Of Ayr.
His first training in business was in a grocer ’s store, but heleft this employment at the end of a few years, and entered theservice of a china and stoneware merchant in Paisley . Afterbeing a few years in this employment he returned to his nativetown and set up in business there as a china and stonewaremerchant. The business proving unsuccessfu l , he turned his
attention whol ly to literary work , and Obtaining an appointment on the staff Of the Ayr Courier ,
”was at length pro
moted to the position Of chief editor . On the proprietorshipof the paper changing hands, another editor was appointed in
roomof Mr Goldie. Under these circumstances, Goldie madehis way to London in hopes of obtaining a situation on the stafi
Of one or other of the Metropolitan newspapers ; but although
JOHN GOLDrE .
he was courteously received everywhere and his literary talentsduly recognised, he was unab le to gain a footing in the greatnerve and brain centre of our mighty Empire. With a wearyheart, and pressed on by sheer pecuniary distress, the poorOusted provincial editor retraced his steps to Scotland.
What his thoughts were at this interesting period Of his
career can only be conjectured, and if a thousand and one
poets had whispered in his ear, the poet in a golden clime wasborn with golden stars above,
”
he would havemet their insinuations with a look dowered and burning with the agony of
disappointed hopes.
Arrived back in Ayr, he did not l inger long in his nativeshades , but proceeded to Paisley , where after a time he suc
ceeded in establishing the“ Paisley Advertiser ,
”this being
the pioneer newspaper of the town Of poets and bobbin thread.
While in Paisley he found a fast friend in Wil liamMotherwel l ,the poet, who subsequently became an interested party in the
management of the“Advertiser . ” Mr Goldie’
s career wasab ruptly c losed by apoplexy in 1826, at which time he was
editing a work entitled “The Spirit of B ritish Song .
”
LINES ON SEEING THE MONUMENT ERECTING TO
BURNS AT ALLOWAY .
Yes ! raise the proud pile to the hard that is gone,Which his merit so j ustly may claim;
For , has Britain a home where his fame is unknown,
Or a hut that ne’er echoed his name ?
0 , beats there a breast that with freedom e’er glow ’d,
And ne’er thrilled at his wild- sounding lyre ;
Or beams there an eye where the tear never flow’dO
’er the hard who those strains could inspire?
ks of the brave,
shall wave,
No ! corruption has moulder’d his ola in the dust,
O’er his grave the wild winter win blows ;
But his mem’ry shall bloomever green in the breasts
That forget not their friends— nor thei r foes .
And his strains shal l ennoble the land of his birth,And be echoed in mountain and rove
Whilst a pibroch shall swell on the 1113 of the north,Or a heart beat for glory or love.
The fresh - blooming laurel that circles his nameEternity only shall wither ;
0
For t ime,and the bright blazrn torch of his fame
Shall S ink into darkness toget er.
62 JOHN ANDREW.
LINES WRITTEN ON A BRONZED BUST OF VENUS.
I boast no nymph whose graceful neckThe purest snows of winter deck
,
W ith ruby lips and balmy sigh,
W ith rosy chee and sparklin eye°
For'
sweetest flowers that mea ows deck ,’Neath winter ’s frown must with’
ring lie,And age will bli brt the fairest cheek ,And death wil dim the brightest eye.
Not so the maid whom now I sing,W ith cheek as dark as raven ’
s W ing ;No fading charms her face will shewFrom summer ’s sun or winter ’s snow ;If on her cheeks no roses bloom,
Her brows ne’er darkened with a frown ,
And who would not prefer a spouseWith raven cheeks to frowning brows ?What though her eyes seem dark and cold,Her looks are ever sweet and young ;
Her lips are never op’d to scold,For silence dwells upon her tongue.
>l< >i<
JOHN ANDREW.
To have the reputation Of being a talented poet and the
father of two poets as wel l is surely no mean honour. The
Andrews Of Ochiltree, father and two sons, were all gifted withthe divine affiatus in more or less degree. John Andrew was
a native Of Ayr, but settled in Ochiltree, where be distinguishedhimself as a person Of remarkable versatility and rectitude.
To his initial trade Of handloom weaving he added those ofbookbinding , upholstery , and house decoration, all of whichhe carried on successful ly . In literature he earned local fameby sketches and verses contributed to various newspapers underthe nomde plume of Werdna.
”
THE CALL FROM HEAVEN COME AWAY .
I am coming, Father ! coming,I am coming to th throne ;
Soft whispers I am earingAs I sit and muse alone ;
Soft whispers I am hearing,
And they bid me come away .I am coming
,Father ! coming,
For Thy call I would obey .
JOHN ANDREW.
’Tis not that I amwearyOf the life Thou giv’
st me here ;I scarce have had a pain to feel ,And scarce a frown to fear ;
And in my lowly dwellingJoy rei ns both night and day ;
But yet m coming , Father !For Thy call I would obey .
Thou iv’st me sons and daughters ,
An they cling around my heart ;T-hou gav’
et me one yet dearer st ill ,From whom I
’m loath to art ;.
Thoumet me many truth fr iendsTo 0 r life’
s joyous way ;But if it be Th W l ll, I come,Or if Thy wi , I stay.
0 no ! I amnot wearyOf the life Thou giv’et me here,
For there be many joyous thinAll round the roll in
gcar
But is it not Thy call hear ?It bids me come away
A voiceless call it is , and yetI hear it night and day.
I hear it in the streamletAs it passes to the sea
I hear a in the withered leafThat rustles o
’er the lea ;
I hear it in the chime of bellsThat res t the Sabbath da
To me t ey ever seem to calArise ! and come away .
And oh ! why should I linger ,My house to re- arrange,
To set it more in orderBefore the awful change?
Oh ! let my soul but cleansed beFromeve stain of sin,
That to my ather’s house I may
Arms and enter in .
And Father ! I beseech TheeThat Thou would’
st of Thy graceGive me the spotless righteous robeIn which to take my lace
For how can I a proa TheeOr sit bes ide y throne
With garments such as mine are
All soiled, and sin bestrewn ?
Oh ! how can I ap roach ThHow in Thy t a pear ?
Thou who alone art ho y ,I tremble to draw near .
64 CHARLES Locxm r .
M Father , oh, my Father !fiehold my soul ’s distress ,
Look on Thine own anointedThe Lord my R ighteousness .
CHARLES LOCKHART.
The contagious itch for writing and publishing Scottishvernacu lar verse, which set in shortly after the issue of Burns
’
s
first Ki lmarnock edition, seems to have broken out afresh inAyrshire immediately after the death of the great poet. CharlesLockhart ofDundonald was one who fel l a victimto the rhymingdisorder, and issued no fewer than three editions of his musings,the third one being dated at Dundonald, 1838.
We have been unab le to glean any information about thisbard further than is afforded by the few notes attached to his
poems, from which it seems that m early manhood he was fora time in the employment of the contractors for the K ilmarnockand Troon Rai lway . It wou ld appear also that he was engagedfor a time as a teacher of music and as an advertising agentfor the
“Ayr Observer newspaper . He was a contemporary
of David Sil lar, and had the honour of his acquaintance ; buthe must have been a much younger man than his fel low -
poet,as he is stil l remembered by some of the old people in Dundonald. He excels in humorous verse, a great number of
his pieces being in the form of poetical epistles to friends and
acquaintances.
EPISTLE TO A FRIEND, WITH A COPY or BURNS’
SLETTERS .
Dear Sir, - I now return your beuk ;I’ve aften traced it every neuk,
Wi’ persevering care.
Tho’e’er sae aft I
’ve read it ower,
Yet when again on it I lowerI prize it still t e mair.
Aft ha’9 I sat till twal at n ight
Ere I could think to budge,When forc ’
d to quat for want 0’ light,
’Twas always W i’ a grudge.
Tho ’
ifasht whiles, and lasht whiles ,’hardshi s cruel waun ,
I’m ay rightzI’m ay ti ht ,When Rob in’
s in my aun’.
66 JOHN WRIGHT.
time handloom weaving was almost the only trade that ofi’eredsteady employment to the vil lagers . The young poet wasaccordingly sent at an early age to learn all that was worthknowing about heddles and treddles . In those days the knightsof the shuttle were typical of all that was intel lectual in vil lagelife, and John Wright profited by the teaching he got in hismaster ’s weaving shop, which in its way was a miniaturedebating school . At length he acquired so much informationof a general kind that (to use his own words) he determinedto set up thinking for himsel f,
”and when scarce more than
sixteen years of age he began to compose a tragedy, which heentitled Mahomet or the Hegira,
” retaining on his retentivememory upwards of 1500 lines before being induced by hisfriends to abandon it. His next literary composition was TheRetrospect,
” which , by the advice of Professor Wilson, HenryG lassford Bel l , and others, he pub lished in Edinburgh
, and
which passed through two editions, bringing the poet both fameand emolument. His Galston friends looked coldly and
sneeringly on his literary efforts , the iron entered the '
poet’
s
sou l , and thus hemourned
Round his own lovely village centred allHis loves , his hopes , his wishes , till he found
His on of bliss then filled with burning gal lBy nvy
’s squinting horde that gathered round
And o’er his path of fame did foully crawl,
Like hissing adders when his hopes were crown’d.
His muse they tried to blight , but she unmarr’dThey fell to work upon himself - the bard l”
In the Street Remarkers, a poemful l of lashing satire, hetakes up the same subject, but in a less exalted strain . FromGalston John Wright removed to Cambuslang, wherehemarried,andworked for a time at the loom; but business being unusual lydu l l , be abandoned the weaving trade a nd led a roving lifethrough the country , sel ling copies of his second edition. Thisperipatetic life ultimately led him into dissipated habits, ruinedhis health , and brought him to an early grave. He died inG lasgow , and there must have been tragic pathos in the spectac le of this unfortunate son of genius, dragged by poverty and
disease to the wards of a city hospital , and there closing hiseyes for ever on the world. Wright’s poems rise far above theaverage of local musings, and abound with passages of strikingbeauty , in which rural images and moral reflections are subtlyblended. Some of his shorter pieces wil l endure as long as
poetry of high excel lence continues to be appreciated.
JOHN WRIGHT. 67
LINES TO A PEBBLE FOUND ON THE GRAVE OF
ROBERT BURNS’
S FATHER .
Lon’neath the green sod, thou bright eyed gem;
TEou ’
st lain ,by no rude hand arrested ;
Long hast thou lain o’er the ashes of him,
The sire of the hard,unmolested.
And thou in thy noontide beauty art stillLike an angel’s eyeball gleaming,
As o’er thy cheek in a tiny rill
The dews of heaven are streaming .
A tear - drop moistened thy lovel dye,While feeling] I hung o
’er t ee
And another etc 9 down as I thought that the eye
Of the bard may’ve bedewed thee before me .
Thou lookest as thou thyself did heaveWith a tide of heaven] feeling ,
So soft so tender , as ea to leaveThy holy and long - hal low ’d dwelling .
DESCRIPTION OF A MOONLIGHT NIGHT IN AUTUMN
(From The Retrospect, Canto I.)
When woods would shower their foli e and the waveRoll dark with summer ’s beauty , for we
’d st ray
O’er rustling ruin to some lonely cave,
And pass w ith pleas ing themes the night away ;Or
,tracing by the moon’
s romantic ray,
The undiscovered charms of haunted scene,Where down the woodlands ey declivityHurled the dear gliding broo
gi that elves did screen
With curving underwood to lave their limbs unseen.
Forever lovely thy deep thoughtful hueSoft autumn eve ; these clouds thy s irit fai r
,
Like necromantic char iots posting t roughThe blue expanse in life and beauty ; thereSerpents seem billowing forth with speckled glare ;Here a hu e mammoth rests upon the snowAbove, andbelches down abrupt through air,A burning fire- flood to the plain below
And o’er an azure deep , where little skids float slow .
Here towers a golden statue , borne in airBypebbly rocks and poised by gentlest wind
T ere witch - forms scamper ’mongst the moonbeamsOr sail alon on hills , their charms unbind,As they wit draw
,relaxing, like the hind,
In overseer ’s wished absence, or removed,An arm from its leader ; now reclinedOn the rizon hills ; and now ,
unmoved,Unnerved, the cold
, pale moon ,less lovely
,
68 JOHN WRIGHT.
As lovers lingering in each other ’s sightThe move apart , more fixed the fettered eye !As Bard the ea le in its upward flightSurveys
,throug air, cleft clouds , and yielding sky ;
As Man ner tossed on ocean , surging high ,His bark o
’erset , hails land, afar unfurl
’d
Thus greet we these fair forms , and still descryEnchantment there— live emblem of the world !Pass ion and poesy by fits to madness whirled.
Though fettered to the spot we life begin
,
We live, and die— the wor ld unknown y sightThe beauty and sublimity therein ;And thou h our hearts ne
’er heaved on Al
pine height,
Nor saile on iceberg throu h the Polar nig t,
Oh ! deem not thou , aloft w ere fortune sh inesOur day- sprin darkness , our en
'
oyments s light,
’M id loveher, Ioftier scenes the ard reclinesThese dread stupendous forms his Alps and Appenines .
K ind Heaven to reimburse the shackled limb,
A world of wonders at our feet lets fall ;As is the light that gilds them as they skimAs is the hand that shaped them— seen by all
Obsequious still to fancy ’s forming call ,The pleasure- ground of Poet ’s boundles s home !S irit of thunder ! and the lightning ’s pallhen dark from ocean
’s bed
,abroad e roam,
With half its waters drenched , o’er eart to fret and foam.
S ring’s verdure fades , and Summer ’s flow’rets die !
et never— Nature st ill keeps watch o’er you ,
M inistrant dele ates of the Most High !Still masked wit joy and ratulation due,Whate’
er our embass or orm or hue,To few a bless ing, an to all a ane
,
Who may avow ? Ye seek not to undoExistence, but primeval life maintain ;
Hope, love, and mercy bear these fire- bolts o’er the plain.
A ain ye rol l in beauty and againy soul mounts onwardwith on as
’twould melt
Into your essence. Who mig t him arraign,
Whose more than childhood o’er such beauty knelt ;
Who would not reckon that the spirit dweltOf Poes within you z— What so grandOf all t at brightest genius ever felt ,And breathed upon the world in whia r bland,
Or loud as ocean’s roar against the roc y strand?
That broken circle of huge forms abrupt,Now most resemble thy infernal band,Creative M ilton ! When with lightnings whipp’
dThrough hell’s unfathomed gulf, they wait commandThe Arch - fiend rears aloft h1s snaky brand !Now , in array of battle, up the steepOf heaven the rush
, as nought might them withstand ;Save one on w ose dark front sits anguish deep
And now he lags behind and now begins to weep.
JOHN WRIGHT. 69
’Tis divination ! round the silvery moonTrans formed are all— this , grown the dome augustOf Monarch on whose head is placed a crownAnd that, an old tower mouldering into dust,Its brazen ortala mantled o
’er W ith rust
Who seem the mightiest towered most high, now shr inksInto a cascade—cur iously embossed.
Its waters , as the moon u n it blinksBut one, of form unchange that from the current drinks .
0 0 Q Q Q Q Q C
ADDRESS TO POVERTY .
(From The Retrospect.
Stern poverty ! how heavy and how hardThe stru
ggling heart down -
pressing even toThou lay st thy icy fin ers on the BardThy daggers poesy di first unsheath,Transfix , p e heavin Ho at every breath ;No voice to soothe— o all t e world even one
Were bliss ; by early friends now deemed beneathThei r hi h- flown love, their kind conso lement one
’Mid the s ill black’ning storm,
unsheltered an alone.
Before thy freez in breath we shrink afar ,And when removed, to stand or By we pause.Thou roll ’st upon us like the rush of war,And down we sink in Ruin’
s earthquake jaws ;And, since ourselves have been the bitter cause,No arm to aid, no eye to pity near ;And what in happier life might find applauseB rin but the rude reproach and vulgar sneer
,
To b t the bleeding heart, and sharpen doom seve
Shower on me all thy plagues ! yet not aghastWill I sink underneath thee ! the wild waveShall sleep beneath thee—tower o
’er- setting blast
Or ere I sink before thee to a slave,Or bend beneath thee to a timeless graveCreation fails not with the bright days gone ;Fair flow’
rs outlive the s r ing ; and in its caveThe diamond wars with arkness ripenin on ;
The tree stands , and thus I,in bloom,
’mi winter lone.
LINES ON SEEING A LOCK OF THE HAIR OF
HIGHLAND MARY.
Key of Remembrance ! ringlet of the heart !In mine thou ’
rt treas ured, never to depart .
Thou bring’st to view the maze with all its turnsThe shade and sunshine in the lot of Burns ;Of hue immortal , blightless as the maidThat once thou didst adorn ,
delightful braid
70 JOHN WRI GHT.
Oft hast thou shaded the Bard’s burning cheek
When all the world of love he could not speakRushed in one fervent sigh ; for either heartIntensely throbbed— too warm to meet or part.Thou speak
’st of love more strong than aught below !
Thou tell’st a tale of song - born bliss and woe !
Though , ere I saw or pressed thee , oft and longI’ve wept o
’er the great M instrel’s sweetest song
0 ! not till Time himself with age grow grayShall be forgotten that soul -meltmg la
y.
Sweet Highland Mary ! ” and, thou ovely gem!Hang ’at o’
er it like a witch - wove diademAnd st ill th glossy hue the soul shall steepIn love, an cause even Envy ’s self to weep !
TO COILA.
Coila ! thou nurse of the mi hty, stern - beaming !On ,
in th ride , like a w d swellingHie to the i l where the broad- swords are
The blent life- blood streaming of freemanClydesdale has crossed the heath ;Avondale, out of breath ,
Has girt on her armour and hied her away ;Cuninghame
’s banners wave,
Galloway wields the laive,Panting with Wallace to join in t e fray .
Thou art up, thou art gone, like the roe of the mountain ;Woe woe to the files of yon bright battle wold,
That thine arm hath encountered, high heaving the fountainOf blood down the - heathy declivity rolled ;
0’er the dread spangd
ed fray,Freedom that m lay,
Lifts her sunk eye, like a star 0 the night,Re- s inews the hoary
,
Fires youth with fresh glory,Enthroned on thy scimitar , Wallace the W ight !
THE WRECKED MARINER .
Stay, proud bird of the shore !Carry my last breath with thee to the cliff,Whe‘re waits our shattered skiffOne that shall mark nor it nor fover more.
Fan with thy plumage bright,Her heaving heart to rest as thou dost mine ;And, gentl to divineThe tearf tale, flap out her beacon light.
again swoop out to sea,
1th lone and lingering wail— then lay thy head,As thou thyself wert dead,Upon her breast, that she may weep for me .
JOHN G . INGRAM .
Now, let her bid false HopeFor ever hide her beam
, nor trust againThe ace- bereaving strainLife as , but still far hence, choice flowers to crop.
Oh ! bid not her repine,And deemmy loss too bitter to be borne,Yet all of
gassion scorn ,
1But the m d, deepening memory of mine.
Thou art away ! sweet wind,Bear the last trickl
'
teard rop on thy wing,And o
’er her bosom
u
fil
i
gng
The love- fraught pearly shower , till rest it find !
>l< >l<
JOHN G . INGRAM.
John G . Ingram, whose father was a forester on Barskimming estate, ear ly showed an aptitude for the fine arts of poesyand painting . The originator of a drawing school in Kilmarnock , he was for a time very successful as an art teacher, buthis social inc linations led him to neglect his profession, whichgradual ly began to dec line, and in the end he removed to
Cumnock , then the centre of the snufl’
box-making industry,where he found profitab le employment in painting and
decorating fancy boxes. Some of Ingram’
s poems were of
sufficientmerit to gain a place in Tait’s Edinburgh Magazine.
"
After the publication of his col lected poems in book form it
would appear that the poet laid aside the lyre, fel l into a moreor less misanthrOpic mood, and became in a manner dead to theworld .
“Sorrow ’
s crown of sorrow is remembering happierdays ,
”and there is a wai l of oppressive sadness in the bard ’
s
retrospective piece entitled
THE DAYS OF OTHER YEARS.
Oh ! the days of other ars ,
When the heart,the art was you
Ere the e s has dimmed withsorrow ’s
Or grie flow’d fromthe tongue.
How lovely seemed creation then ,
By mountain , stream, and plainOmi t I see as once I saw,
An be a child again !
Where are the glowing visionsI had in life’s fair e
ffi ng?
The radiant dreams 0 chi dhoodAll, all have taken wing .
72 REV. DR HAMILTON MACGILL .
Does the stream glide on as softlyBy my father ’s dwelling lone?
Yes ,Nature’
s beauty stil l remains,But the child’
s pure heart is gone .
Once more I see the riverGliding on its gladsome way ;
Do the branches o ’er it quiver
As they did in life’s young day ?
Where are the hap y facesThat oft beside t e stream
I met ere care had shadedThe light of life’
s young dream?
Alas ! they’ re all departed,And that once joyful scene
I should aze on broken - heartedWith t e thoughts of what hath been .
And where, where is the maiden,
The light of whose dark e es,
Caused dreams of blissful denIn my young heart to arise ?
Wh thus doth retrospectionake thoughts of fearful pain ?
God ! what is our affect ion ?
Would I were a child again .
>i< >l<
Rev . Dr HAMILTON MACGILL.
A pu lpit orator of much power and persuasion, the Rev.
Dr Hamilton MacGill wielded a wide influence in the ministryof the churches to which he gave his lifelong services. Aftera successfu l col lege career , he received three cal ls almost simultaneous, deciding to accept the pastorate Of a Glasgow church ,where he ministered successful ly for many years ; but on beingchosen by the Synod to fill the appointment of Home and
Foreign Secretary he demitted his charge and removed to Edinburgh . Failing health eventual ly caused him to seek entirerest, and with this purpose in view he retired to the south of
France, only to live a few weeks from the time of his arrivalthere.
Dr MacGill was born in the vil lage of Catrine, in the
parish of Som. His poetical studies comprise English translations from the Latin hymnology , besides original poems and
songs. He fil led for a time the editorial chair of the Juveni leMissionary Magazine.
”
74 REV . PETER MEARNS .
You ’re safest creepin’on the floor
,
Ye ha’e less chance yer heid to clour ;
It’s true it blacks yer han’
s wi’stour
,
An ’ fyles yer duds ,But that ’l l men ’
wi’ water cureAn’ gude sape
—suds.
Yer faither ’s or yer mither ’s han’
’Ill help ye best to walk or stan’
Look up to them, it’s God’
s comman’
The first wi’ premise ,An’
wha minds this , be’t wean or man,
Reward ’11 no miss .
There’s mony a man ,
gin tales be true,
Could gi’e a lesson gu e to you ,
Wha never wad ha ’e had to rue
A life 0’ ill
,
Gin he had had the sense to doHis faither ’s will .
This day ye are a twalmonth auld,grant that ye grow stout an
’ yauld,Baith strang o
’ limb an’ braid o
’spauld,
An ’ may kind HeavenKeep ye, when in the mools I’m cauld,
Lang ’mang the leevin’
Nse doot ye 1190 are lying cosyWIthin yer cr ib
,wi
’ haffets rosy ,An’
wee fat s irme an’ fatter bosie ;
Oh could I kiss ye !But far awa
’
gran’father owes ye
This prayer God bless ye !
>l<
Rev. PETER MEARNS
Peter Mearns was born at Glenconner, Ochi ltree, but at anearly age removed, along with his parents, to Auldhouseburn,in the parish of Muirkirk , where he was schooled in the threeR
’s . He afterwards proceeded to the University of G lasgow ,
studied for the ministry , and in 1846‘
was ordained col leagueand successor to Dr Adam Thomson, Coldstream, u ltimatelybecoming senior minister Of the West United PresbyterianChurch there. He is the author of a book of poems and severalprose works, noticed in our bibliographical index .
>l< >i<
MARION MACPHAIL (The Blind Poetess).
Marion Macphai l was born at Dundonald of humble butindustrious parents . In early life she contracted a disease fromwhich she recovered, but at the cost of her eyesight, the loss ofwhich made her after - l ife one Of unusual distress and suffering .
Thenceforth her song was that of Janet Hamilton
Nae mai r, alas ! nae mair I’ll seeYoung mornin ’
s owden hairSpread ower the li t the dawning sheenO
’simmer mornin ’ fair .
As she advanced in years deafness and lameness added to heralready heavy afliction, and to sti r up an interest in her forlorncondition Mr Murchland of Irvine published a sma l l vo lume of
her poetical musings , which are pleasing mo re on account of
their childl ike simplicity and trustfulness than for anyoriginality of thought or expression.
EVENING THOUGHTS .
I lay me down to quietDependin on Thy care
0 , throu he s ilent darkness keepMy son from every snare .
Thou knowest Lord I ambut clay ,
Refresh my wea frameAnd if I
’m s
pa to see the day,
I’ll glorify by name.
And may my rest in thee be sweet,M dreams be dreams of heaven
Mg
cart, my life, my every thought,0 Thee O Lord be given .
JESUS.
He is my shepherd, husband, friend,The Saviour I adore,Who b
lyHis daily providence
Hat made my cup run o’er.
He is my light and hearing , too,
My bri ht , my morn in sta r ;And by t glory of His
glight
I see my home afar .
For this is not m rest ing placeWhen earthly ays are done :
There is a home prepared for meBeyond both star and sun .
76 MARY MAXWELL CAMPBELL.
Lord, when at last my hour is comeTo le world of strife,
0 take my feeble, dying handAnd lead me into life.
>l< >l<
MARY MAXWELL CAMPBELL.
The muse of Mary Maxwel l Campbel l , fifth daughter ofDugald John Campbel l of Skerrington , in the parish of
Cumnock , cou ld awake to ecstacy the living lyre with a Ski l land freedom that proclaims her a true poetess. Humble,unassuming , and beautiful , she was the favourite of all who
knew her, and She endeared hersel f especial ly to the young , forwhom She composed a series of poems entitled “
Songs forChi ldren.
”As authoress of
“The March of the Cameron
Men and“Lament for G lencoe she is entitled to a high
place among the fair minstrels of Scotland. A gifted musicianas wel l as a poetess, she composed themusic set to some of her
own pieces, including the martial song and the“Lament ”
abovementioned.
Miss CM pbell held so humble an Opinion of her own
poetical gifts that it was only in consequence of the March of
the Cameron Men being more than once assigned to othersthat she was induced to acknowledge the authorship.
During her later years she resided in St. Andrews with heronly surviving Sister , and while there did much good Christianwork in connection with the Church to which she belonged.
THE MARCH OF THE CAMERON MEN .
There is many a man of the Cameron ClanThat has followed his chief to the field,
That has sworn to support him or die by his side,For a Cameron never can yield.
I hear the pibroch sounding, soundingDeep o
’er the mountain and glen ,
While'
light - sprin ing footsteps are tramphng the heath~’Tis the mare of the Cameron men .
Oh proudly they march but each Cameron knowsHe may tread on the heather no more ;
But boldl he follows his chief to the field,Where is laurels were gathered before.
I hear the pibroch sounding , soundIngDeep o
’er the mountain and glen ,
While light - sprin ing footsteps are trampl ing the heath’Tis the marc of the Cameron men .
78 MARY MAXWELL CAMPBELL.
And next we went to Holland,
But ’twas far too damp for me ;
’Twas all as flat as the crown of your hat,And nothing could we see.
So the Mole and I came back again, etc.
We then set off to German
Where they made us un erstandThat they smoked their
pipe and drank their beer
For the good of their atherland.
So the Mole and I came back again, etc.
We went to Spain and PortugalAnd thought them retty places ;
But ’twould appear t at water ’s dear
,
For they never wash their faces .
So the Mole and I came back again, etc.
Oh l then we came to Italy ,Where be are swarm l ike bees ;
The Mole ha to work like any TurkWhile they sat at their ease.
So the Mole and I came back again,
Then we went 06 to Austria,Where
,much to our surprise,
They tried to shut us up for life,And call
’d us En lish spies .
So the Mo e and I came back again,
And next we got to Russia,Where we tried to look about
But we chanced to stare at the Russian Bear ,And he order
’d us the knout .
So the Mole and I came back again,
We started off to AmericaThe land of the Free andthe Brave ;
But the said the Mole was as black as coal,And t ey
’d sell him for a slave.
So the Mole and I came back again, etc.
We travelled off to Africa,To see a wondrous lakeBut turned our tail andmade all sailWhen we met a rattlesnake .
So the Mole and I came back again,
Then last we went to Scotland,Where we met some pleasant fellows,
But every one wore water roofsAnd carried large umbre las .
So the Mole and I came back again,And satisfied are we
That there’s no place in all the world
So good as our countrie.
>l< >l<
JOHN M‘LATCHIE.
John M‘Latchie, who dated a volume of his poems at
Whiteletts, 1897 , was born in Newton - upon - Ayr, and workedwhen a lad in a nursery , but was subsequently apprenticed tothe shoe -making trade. He lived to the advanced age of
eighty - five years . His book of poems was published someseven years or so before he died. The chief poem in this workrejoices in the somewhat taking title of
"Fancy on the Rove.
”
It is rather an ambitious efiort, and is written in five cantos.Of the shorter pieces, that entitled
“ Poverty Raw is one
of Mr M‘Latchie
’
s happiest efl'
orts :
POVERTY RAW.
I stood by the wayside where crowds passed by ,I looked upon this ane, and that ane did spyThere were some bien and braw , ithers ragged and bare,And what mak ’s the niffer, I said, lies somewhere.
The cause 0’it a
’was— I soon found it out
The braw kept their siller the r did it tout,Till the pub and the landlord t ey maistly got a
’
,
And noo they are livin’in Poverty Raw.
There passed by me crowds o’wee chitt
’rin’ weans ,
Nae class on their backs and use flesh on their banes ,And aye when I spiered whaur they lived they said, Oh lWe live at a place they ca
’ Poverty Raw.
”
When faither kept sober and aye on his feetWe then had guid clas s and p
lenty o’ meat
;her drinks whisky an mither an’a
And that’s why we’re l ivin ’
in Poverty Raw.
”
If that is the case , says I to mysel ’ ,It tak
’s little sense the richt way to tell ;
The best way is never to taste it ava,
And ne’er be a tenant in Poverty Raw.
>l<
ADAM BROWN TODD.
Of the fewest number can it be said they have spent morethan fourscore years in the harness of a busy manual and
intel lectual life. Mr Adam Brown Todd is one of this rarec lass, it being upwards of eighty years since he first saw the
light at Craighal l , in the parish of Mauch l ine. His parents
80 ADAM BROWN Tonn.
removing to Sorn, the lad was there sent to school . Hisschooldays, however, were of brief duration, and as soon as
they were over he was engaged by a neighbouring farmer toherd cattle, and afterwards spent a few years on the farms of
Castlehil l and Burnhouses, where he gainedmuch know ledge of
agriculture and general farm work . A new sphere was eventu
al ly opened up to him, when his parents removed with theirfamily to Low Molmont, near Galston , for in this district therechanced then to be a good trade done in field drain tile-making,and the lad was sent first to Galston and afterwards to Newmilnsto learn the trade.
When attending to his farm duties he neglected no oppor
tunity of reading every book that fel l into his hands, and in
Newmilns he continued his book studies and attended a courseof lectures on geology by the Rev. Norman MacLeod, who
was thenminister of the parish . About this time Holy Fairs,”
as they were styled by Burns, were stil l common in Ayrshire,and Mr Todd attended them frequently, but (in his own words)“never saw anything but the best behaviour at these largely
attendedmeetings .
” Perhaps the satirical lash of Burns helpedto purge these functions of their grosser parts and make themmore becoming the manners of modern times . In 1843 Mr
Todd severed his connection with Galston and Newmilns, and
removed to a tile- work in the parish of Whithom, where heremained as manager for about a year , afterwards transferringhis services to a tile-maker in the hil l - country of New Cumnock .
He soon afterwards engaged in a tile-making business of his ownnear Cumnock, andwas also associated with his brother - in - law in
an extensivework of the same kind at.
D ,alquharran near Straiton .
For a time the business prospered m his hands, but a reversehappening , Mr Todd resigned his lease and abandoned the
business, removing u ltimately to Old Cumnock , where the
greater part of his literary work has been accomplished.
In October, 1903, he was entertained to luncheon in the
Dumfries Arms, Cumnock , in celebration of his diamond jubileeas a journalist, when he was presented with an i l luminatedaddress, bountiful ly augmented by a bank cheque for over onehundred and sixty pounds . Mr Todd is the recipient also of
an annuity from the Royal Bounty Fund.
LINES WRITTEN IN GLAISNOCK GLEN .
Sweet Glaisnock Glen,I love again ,
When Spring - time is advancing,Through thee to stray when day last rayIs on thy streamlets glancing .y
82 ADAM BROWN TODD.
Hear throu h the trees the tuneful breeze,Like ange sweetly singing ;
Then glide once more back to that shoreWhere golden harps are ringing .
AUGUST .
(From The Circling Year .
O joyous Au ust ! treas ure of the year !I love thee, t ough thou tell’st of winter near.
Once more I feel myself a,boy again,
Heaping with yellow sheaves the groaning wain ;A bright girl cooing’ round me like a dove,My heart first fluttering at the touch of love.
That sweet- toned voice e’en now I seem to hear ,
Still sounding sweeter as life’s close draws near,
Her rosy lips , bright cheek, and dimpled chin ;Her small round mouth, with faultless teeth within ;
Her raven tresses round her shining brow,Her bright blue eyes (they beam 11 on me now) ;Her heaving breast, tempting as Eden’
s fruit ;Her s lender waist ; her smal l and pretty foot ;All brou ht a swimming sense upon my bra1n ,
And marle my blood career through every vein.
A boy no more : love - lifted I beganA new life then— in love, a full - grown man l
0 ! first found,deepest, all unequalled - love !
Though long our hves,and widely though we
Though beauty’s fairest daughters flutter roundThe paths we tread, warmin the dull , cold ground ;The soul no more, in their right, dazzling glow,
Flames as when first love’s pulse began to go .
That nameless thrill it sends through all the heartIs ne
’er forgotten ,
nor can quite depart.
The two pieces fol lowing, entitled Extracts from an
Unpub lished Satire,” wil l give readers an idea of our poet
’s
powers as a descriptive writer
A THUNDERSTORM NEAR EDINBURGH.
Satan arose, but sudden, ere he spoke,Along heaven ’
s arch the bellowing thunder brokeFierce lightnings flashing fill’d the middle air,The mountains seemed to shudder at the glareWhich lighten’d every cliff and craggy steepTremblin they totter’d to their centres deep,Clouds ro
’d on clouds , as flashlet follow’d flash ,Thick fell the rain ,
while crash succeeded crash,Gilt by heaven ’
s fires , Edina’s turrets shone,
In distant vales was seen each naked stone ;
JOHN CURLE PATERSON .
The ocean.
waves now beem’d like burnish’d gold,
Now in thick gloom the crested billows roll’d ;
'
ow for a moment all was calm and st illThen in an instant whirlwinds shook the inn.
A MORNING SCENE NEAR EDINBURGH.
Far o’er the ocean break the beams of day,
Gild the glad hills , and chase the night away ;Bright rosy rays upon the mountains gleam,
G lint through each grove, and glitter on each stream.
The gloom of night now flies before the morn ,
And eve murky cloud awa is borne ;A balmy recae 18 steal in o er the earth,Soft sunbeams call the wiFd- flow’
rs into birth ;Above the mountain tops glad songs are heard,Sung in sweet st rains by morning ’s joyous birdsThe blithesome lamb is bleatin in the vale,And up the lone len sounds t e curlew’
s wail ;Along the shore g ad voices greet the car
And gay boats bound across the billows clear ;The horrors of the night have ass
’d awa
And peace and beauty come wit coming ay.
>i<
JOHN CURLE PATERSON .
John Curle Paterson was better known in his day as a
journalist than a poet, although he ear ly gave evidence of
poetical talent by issuing a book of poems while yet onlytwenty - two years of age. While stil l under thirty he left hisnative town of Ayr and settled as a Colonial journalist inVictoria, first as reporter and afterwards as commercial editoron the staff of the Melbourne Argus .
”
In 1874 he retired from the staff of the Argus , afterwhich he edited in succession the
“Melboume Punch , the“Geelong Advertiser,
”
the“Hobart Mai l ,
”
the“Melbourne
Evening Express,”
the Wel l ington Independent, and the
Nelson Colonist. His health broke down at length under thesevere strain, and a stroke of paralysis occurred , which c loudedhis intel lect and eventual ly sunk himto everlasting repose.
THE BELL ’
S FOUR PEALS.
(Written in Dal rymple Churchyard.)
’Twas when in the dark old woodsWas heard the bursting of theshoots
When Spring had sou t the s'
ohtudes,Piping to the bou and roots
84 JOHN CURLE PATERSON .
When Beauty from her cave upsprung,The Bell from out its slumber woke
,
And to the rove with willing tongueIn merr %ones of gladness spoke
For now t e whisper came that filledA mother ’s heart with joyAnd gentle arms received the childThe father ’s first- born boy ;
And kindly lips grew elo nent
W ith wishes for his weaWhen from the belfry blythely sent
Rung out the birth - day peal :Willing swung the tunefulAnd HOpe to fit him well
A seamless garment wove— well rungThat dreamy birth - day bell l
Summer was on the champaign smilingFlowers up- breathing incense rare
Music’s softest sounds beguiling ,Stealin on the list
’ning air
Beauty b ushin in the valleyWhen the Bel awoke againGivin mellowed sounds to dallyIn t e ears of married men :
Floral bows so gay were seen,
Arching o’er each dusty way,
To the li ht feet on the greenTunefu pipes s oke lustily
For lurkin win 8 had heard the vow,
Repeats what the maid would hide ;And the wreath is on a browAt the altar is a bride
Gli‘bly swung the laughing ton ue
Love struck a sounding shelStrong were the hands that sto
The gay youth’s bridal bell .
But when the dreary rains came down ,
And robes of darkness dra ed the earth,And every si
cghing leaf was rown
,And hush’ the village children s mirth
When Autumn dressed in robes of rue
Came breathing on a doleful reed,And every wailing note she drewLay lingering on
‘
a charmless meadWhen Beaut pined in sun and shade,Oh, then 13 9 Bel l broke out again
But not to charm the long - drawn, glade,
Oh, not to please the listeningfi
le
ain
For sadly glints a stone- marks d,From out a drowsy grove of yew ,
And he whom Spring a babe- boy led,In Autumn lay beneath the dew.
Unwilling swung the tremblin tongue,Time’s motley locks could te l
One more gray hair , while faintly rungThe spirit
’s passing - bell !
86 JAMES PAUL CRAWFORD.
A voice as a murmur 0 ’stars
Came down from the weeping sky .
Moaned the trees ; their dream 0’ leaves
Heart- smote, I heard them cry :
Worlds roll ,Hearts break ,Flowers laugh .
My Willie, I said, when pansies come,
And lilies bend in prayer ,You’d lift your darl ing li to mine
,
And now'i‘now they’ve ls t you there.
here Wherepaumes weep,
There where.
ilies faint .
And here , why hereHearts break,B irds s ing
,
Flowers laugh .
>l< >l<
JAMES PAUL CRAWFORD.
James Paul Crawford, who wrote under the pen - name of
Pau l Rookford, was the eldest of three brothers who gaineddistinction in the paths of poesy . His brothers, Mungo Crawford and John Kennedy Crawford, were both talented versifiers,but did not chance to strike the same popular vein as theirbrother, James Paul , who as the composer of temperance songsstruck a chord which vibrated in the common breast of
humanity , and thus gained for himself more than passing popu
A native of Catrine, where his father was respected as a
lOcal poet and vi l lage orator , James Pau l Crawford left thehome of his childhood when only fifteen years of age, betakinghimself to the great city of G lasgow ,
which thenceforth becamethe home of his adoption. For a number of years he fol lowedthe cal ling of amaster tailor, which he subsequently abandoned ,and was engaged as registrar for the parish of Govan, his con
nection with the Govan Parochial Board occupying sometwenty years Of active service. Amongst his friends and
acquaintances Mr Crawford was a great favourite, being the
fortunate possessor of a genial , humorous, and kindly nature,which , independent of his literary gifts , won him many goodfriends. His death took place at Bellahouston, G lasgow , in
1887 . Mr Crawford ’
s best known song ,“The Drunkard’
s
Raggit Wean,
”was, according to his own account, written One
Sabbath afternoon during the service in a Glasgow church .
JAMES PAUL CRAWFORD.
A wee bit raggit laddie gan gs wan’erin
’thro ’
the street ,Wadin
’ ’man the snaw wi ’ his wee hackit feet._
Shiverin ’ i’ the cauld blas t , g reetin’wi
’the pain;
puir wee callan ? He’s the drunkard s ragg it wean.
He stan’s at i lka door , and he keeks wi’ wistfu ’
e’e
To see the crood aroun’the fire a
’lauchin
’ loud wi’ lee.
But he daurna venture ben , tho’ his heart be e
’er sae am,
For he mauna play wi’ ither bairns , the drunkard
’s ragg it wean.
Oh, see the wee bit bairn ie, his heart is unco fu’
,
The s leet is blawin ’cauld, and he
’s drookit thro ’
and thro’ .He’
s s eerin’for his mither , an’
he wonners whaur she’s gane,
But o 1 his mither she forgets her ain wee raggit wean.
He kens nae faither ’s love, an’ he kens nae mither’s care,
To soothe his wee bit sorrows , or kame his tautit hair ,To kiss himwhen he wankens , or smooth his bed at e
’en
An’oh l he fears his faither ’s face, the drunkard
’s ragg
’
it wean.
Oh l pi the puir laddie, sae guileless an’sae young.
The as that leaves the faither ’s MT
’ll settle on his tongue,
An ’sinfu ’ words his mither s eaks , is infant li ’
ll stain ,
oh l there’s nane to gu i e the bairn , the unkard’
s raggitwean .
Then surely we micht try and turn that s in fu ’ mither ’s heart ,An’ strive to get his faither to act a faither ’s part ,An
’ mak’them leave the drunkard’
s cup, an’never taste again,
An’cherish wi’ a parent
’s care their pu i r wee raggit wean.
OUR DEAR OLD VILLAGE HOME.
Recited by the Author at the Re union in G lasgow of thenatives of Catrine, 6th February , 1885 . (W il liamSeaton, Chairman .)
Tho’ warm be our homes here, dear tho’ they be,Ou r hearts ever fondl turn, dear Catrine, to thTho
’far we may wan er, tho
’far we may roam
We ne’er can forget thee ,
our dea r old village home.
Home , Home, dear old HomeThere’
s no place so dear as our old village Home.
Oh Catrine l dear Catrine l so peaceful and sti ll ,Embower’d in the bosom of woodland and hill ;Where’
er I may wander , where’er I may be,
Oh fondly in fancy I flee back to thee.
Home, Home, etc .
Oh couthie the auld folk , an’cheery the young ,
An’
sweet is the soun’0’their auld Ayrshire tongue ;
Oh ive me a seat at their ingle again ,
Wit warm hearts to meet me and welcome .me ben iHome, Home, etc .
88 REV. JOHN ANDREW.
Oh man and dear ones I loved are away ,S leep s
'
ent and sound in the auld Chapel Brae,And many a fond heart is far o
’er the main ,
But they ’re all there with me when my heart dreams againOf Home, Home, dear old Home
There’s no place so dear as our old village Home.
>l<
Rev. JOHN ANDREW.
It does not fol low that the son of a poet shou ld be a poet
any more than the son of a shoemaker shou ld be a cobbler .It is difficu lt to account for the manner in which nature dispenses her gifts, and we have never been able to satisfy our
selves as to the existence of“ hereditary genius.
”It sometimes
happens, however, as in the case of the Crawford and Andrewfamilies, that the poetic gift is transmitted from sire to son.
John Andrew was born at Ochiltree, where he learned first thetrade of muslin weaving, and afterwards that of tailoring . Histhirst for learning dominated his business afl
'
airs, and aftertaking several courses of Theological training and studyingc lassical tongues, he was ordained pastor of an Independent Church in G lasgow , transferring his services sub
sequently to Evangelical Union Churches in Til licou ltry , Barrhead, and Dundee. Through some reversion of theologicaltenets, he final ly severed his connection with this body, andwent over to the Catholic Apostolic Church .
Mr Andrew ’s verse is highly tinged with philosophical
colouring, and shows amind deeply ski l led in scientific subjects .
He is the author of several important philosophical works, whicharementioned in the bibliography attached to this work .
THE TWOFOLD MOVEMENT OF GOD.
In the earth God does no workOut of Zion not forespoken
What the “Wheels ”shal l go to do,
The “ Cherubim” foretokenAl l the destiny of nations ,All this rest and perturbations ;This shall not be broken .
From Zion where Jehovah rests ,Where He st ill delights to dwell ,
He shal l His testimony send,And the nations tell
How they may ex ect their end ;Breaking who wil not attend ;Blessing all who will .
90'
JOHN CRAWFORD.
THE FATE OF A FLOWER .
A little fiow’ r of genus rareBloom’
d in a lonely glen ;NO idle st ranger wandered there,To aze upon its colours fair
,
ar from the haunts Of men .
Within the richly sheltered spotIt lived the summer through ;
The whist ling - woodman saw 1t not,
When loitering homeward to his cot’Neath evenmg
’s sky of blue.
But Time’s untiring
,blighting feet
Had chased the summer 8 green,
And in the fair and castled seat
That flourished near the flower’s retreatLived Britain ’
s honoured Queen .
From royal cares and fact ions st rifeShe sought a brief repose ;
With Scott ish hearts to guard her life,A noble Queen , as worthy a wiA pattern to her foes .
Oft when rich autumn ’s golden beams
Had drank the dews away,
She walk’d by woods and rippling streams ,And fairy nooks , where ancient queensHad not the pow
’r to stray .
Within the glen one sunny mornShe spied the tiny fiow ’r
Thou h fading now with petals torn,
She s em’d it worthy to be borne
TO grace the royal bower .
And, tended wel l with skill and care,It s lept the winter through ;
And with the summer ’s balmy airIt bloomed in bri htest beauty there,Enchanting to t e view .
>l< >t<
JOHN CRAWFORD.
The profession of teaching appears to have a certainfascination for intel ligent minds , otherwise how is that so manypoets have engaged in the delightful task, to rear the tenderthought, to teach the young idea how to shoot, to pour the freshinstruction on the mind, and fix the gen
’rous purpose in the
glowing breast ?”
JOHN CRAWFORD.
John Crawford, who was born at Garlieston, Cumnock,was apprenticed at an early age to the joinery trade, to whichhe subsequently added some knowledge Of architecture. Laterin life he made a study Of the c lassics, and acquainted himsel fwith all the best writers of English and Scottish poetry ; andquitting the trade to which he was apprenticed, he took up the
profession Of a teacher . John Crawford’
s rural training madehim familiar with farm l ife, and while occupied as a dominiehe was very popular with the country people, who frequentlycal led upon him to disburse the Muse and write humorousand sati rical poems on passing events . The schoolmaster ’sinnate modesty , however, prevented much Of his verse everreaching the printing press.
Mr Crawford was awarded the second prize for the fol
lowing poem, written on the hundredth anniversary of the poet
Burns
OMNIA POETAE SERVIUNT .
Thy heroes Scotland, have not borneFor thee alone the fla unfurledThey loved thee, but t ey coined their bloodTo buy the birthright of the world.
Their deeds survive where Freedom lives ;When Truth exp ires their names shall die.
Unfadin garlands bind their brows ,Wreath of their own loved minst relsy .
Thy bards—their names are doubly dearThrough them th
yt riumphs are bequeathed ;
But none of all t y sons of songBeloved as Coila’
s holly wreathed.
The sun but gilds the eastern hei htsThat saw our song - chief take the eld ;Nor shall its len hening shadows fallTi ll Tyranny an Error yield.
A hundred years ! what memories spring ;What ashes gather to their urnsS 1nce rose the star o’
er bonny DoonThat hailed the birth of Robert Burns ?Two hundred ears ! What change awaits ?Our ashes sh have fil led their urnsThen still may nations hail the nameOf Scotland’
s glory - Robert Burns .
The poet. of the labouring poor ,His miss ion given him from above,He came to hallow human toil ,And preach the brotherhood of love ;The workings of that mighty heart
,
Its passion writhin who can tell ,Heaven ordered, On
gls
y Heaven ad’
udge,How fought the hero and how well .
92 ARCHIBALD CAMPBELL M‘Mra EL.
The songs of Burns ! in ever lineWe trace the master minstre ’
s hand ;There is a voice in all he wroteThat speaks the speech of eve landWe
’ve met him in an En lish louse ;He fills the forests of the est ;He whistles in Australian mines ,And beats in every Saxon breast
He burst upon the stage— a man ;
And though he left us in his prime,We canot think of him as dead ;The thoughts of genius challen e time.
He’s with the shepherd on the ills,
He whis ers love ln every glen ;We see im on the busy farm,
1 this man of men.
The land Of .Burns ! we boast his birth ,And lon have owned we dealt himhardTO- day er country ’s sense and worthUnits in homage of her hard :Unite in homage of her bardAnd ever as the circle turnsShall Scotland consecrate the dayThat gave the world a Robert Burns .
>l<
ARCHIBALD CAMPBELL M‘MICHAEL.
Archibald Campbel l M‘Michael was born at South Boig ,
New Cumnock , and ended his days in G lasgow . He fol lowedfor some time the cal l ing Of a drainage contractor, whichoccupation he after a while abandoned for the more congenialbusiness Of a colporteur . Latterly he earned a somewhat precarious living from the sale Of his own books , several editionsof which were pub lished during his lifetime.
The fol lowing verses are cu l led from a volume, entitledWayside Thoughts.
”
His poems, if they do not show much originality Of
thought or treatment, are nevertheless pleasing , and are characterised throughout by a high moral tone. One cannot readthem without feeling a certain amount Of'
satisfaction , and, as
saith themoralist, he is wel l paid that is wel l satisfied.
”
TO A POETESS.
Hail,sister spirit , fair and mild,
That wanders where the muses dwellIn fancy’s lonel track exiledWith one dar thought too deep to tell .
DAVID ANDREW .
are a sight Once seen never to be forgotten . Now- a- days, inthe light Of maturer years , we deem the vil lage more famouson account Of its bards and minstrels . Several Of these haveal ready been noticed in our pages , and John Kennedy Crawford adds one more to the list. He is of the same family as
James Paul and Mungo Crawford, and seems to be endowedwith the same facility for Spinning verse, and although he hasnot devoted any special care to his poetic gift, he has writtensome pieces Of considerable merit. In his lyrical piece entitledScottish Homes Again there is a sprightly freshness and a
picturesqueness which do great credit to his muse
The rocky headlands now are passed,And now the rising gale
See how it bends rthe yieldin mastAnd fills the spreadin sai
Away , away , the bark s fliesUpon the boundless main ,
N 0 more we’ ll rest our eager eyesOn Scottish homes again ;
Or meet around the blazing hearth,Where social joy doth reign ;
Or banish care with maidens fairIn Scottish homes again .
>i< >i<'
DAVID ANDREW.
TO certain minds the acquisition Of knowledge has
attraction more powerful than aught else, and although a
little learning is a dangerous thing,”
a sound c lassical educationgives a person an air Of superiority that cannot be gainsaid.
David Andrew , who was a younger brother by about nineyears Of the Rev. John Andrew , Of Ochi ltree, evidently had
ful l faith in the power of learning , and quitted the trade Of a
handloom weaver in order to take up the study of mathematicsand the classics, with a View Of qualifying for the position Of a
teacher . After a course of training in the Free Church NormalSeminary , he Obtained the post of teacher in Old Kilpatrick,and afterwards the headmastership Of Renton Pub lic School .This engagement he held for about nineteen years, when his
services were transferred to Duntocher School .The earlier efforts of Mr Andrew ’
s muse appeared in the
columns Of provincial newspapers and magazines . His poeticflights are not limited to the bOunds of lyrical composition,venturing at times beyond that line ; but, like the majority Of
Scottish poets, he is happiest when he strikes the lyre On the
chord of the homely Doric , as in the fol lowing piece, entitled
EBENEZER SMITH.
OOR WEE LAMBS.
Twa are ta’en in frae the hills and the glens
Into the lea O’the fold
The win’was ower snel l for the lammies , wha kens
Oh, had they dee ’d in the wold !
B ut into the lown 0’
His heavenly bieldThe Shepherd has ta’
en them awa’
,
Himsel’ there the lammies to tend and to shieldThen why let oor tears doon fa’ ?
Ay weel may ye ask why we sae sab and weep ;I kenna, but this— it’s nae sham
The She herd himsel’ ancefirst sair for a sheep,
An’ w y mayna we for a amb?
Sae blame na oor sorrow , an’chide na oor tears,
Tho’deep an
’tho
’ fast they fa’
,
For the joy an’the love 0
’their innocent years
Is the purest the earth ever saw.
But the twa that are ta ’en are na a
’that are gi ’en,
The lave we maun cosy an’ feed
For the cauld may bite sairer than ever , I weenTo the lown, to the lown let us lead.
Oh Thou wha art Shepherd in shelter an’shield,
In the fold and on fells Thou hast flocks ;Oh timeously take to the heavenly fieldsWha cower ’ma11g the cliffs o’
the rocks .
>l< >i<
EBENEZER SMITH.
Ebenezer Smith was born in Ayr, where in early life hegained the reputation of a versati le poet by contributing verseto the local newspapers . His gift of poesy was such that heneeded not to wait upon any special occasion Of joy or sorrowto set his harp - strings vibrating , for in all seasons his prolificmuse seemed to throw over him the poet
’
s brooding mantle.
It does not appear , however, from his published volumes thatany One poem reaches nearer to the climax of a perfect poeticalcomposition than another , notwithstanding many of his piecesrise superior to the ordinary common garden variety Of verseand do sufficient credit to his facile pen . Doubtless Mr Smithhas frequently found poetry to be a pleasant recreation fromthe cumbrous task of cobbling boots and shoes.
While some on earnest business bentTheir murmuring labours ply
96 EBENEZER SMITH.
’Gainst gravenhours that bring constraintTo sweeten liberty ;
Some bold adventurers disdainThe limits of their little reign,
And unknown regions dare descry ;Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every windAnd snatch a
“ fearful joy .
”
And for Ebenezer Smith , the wind, the sea, the river, thedel l , each had a voice cal l ing him hither and thither whenthe Spirit of Poesy beckoned him into “
unknown regionsthere to snatch a fearfu l joy.
BY THE SEA.
To me, throughout the circling year,Each inland lane and dell is dear ;An ageing angler ’s life- Ion pride,I love the loch and river - si e ;But Heaven ! ten thousand thanks to thee,That I was born beside the sea l
To reverent study Nature givesA look in everything that l ives ;True love delight , and love can gleanFrom all her works in every scene,But what exhaustless stores has sheFor himwhose home is by the sea.
Alwheres the soul with sentient earEternal wisdom’
s words can hear ;The babbling brook and forest loneHave themes and Ian uage all their own ;But sages rey might end the kneeTo learn w en listening by the sea.
The quick, imaginative mindBy prison walls is not confin
’d
It forms a sanctumof the cellWhich dulness dreads and hates as hell ;But oh l what flights can fancy fleeWhen one is wandering by the sea.
In days one by;
as child and boy,This she tered ach has been my joy ;And now to cuth
,with ra tures rare,
My age shallyserve itself so e heir
Till death my dear delight ’twill be
To watch and wander by the sea .
The riches Rotheschild proudly tellsAre here outweighed by weeds and shells ;I’m lord of an estate as wideAs e
’er encompassed princely pride
And monarchs blest mi ht envy meWhen I am wandering y the sea.
98 JOHN RAMSAY REID.
Gin ye ha’e tocher hoose, or Ian’
,
I beg ye no to sp ore
There’s aye a wee bit slip
At ilka body’s door .
If e’er you see your neebor doon,
O dinna let him lie,But act the gude SamaritanAs ye se ass in’
by ;Your nee or s case may be your ain,
Tho’
ye ha’e wealth in store ;
There’s aye a wee bit slippery staneAt ilka body’s door .
It’s a lan lane that has nae turn,
I’ve hear the auld folk say ;There’
s joy to get , an’sae to gi
’e,
To prosper on your way ;An’
some will fa’ , while others rise,Wha ne
’er had wealth before
There’s aye a wee bit slippery staneAt i lka body ’s door .
>l< >i<
JOHN RAMSAY REID.
Not a few of the poetical ponderings of John Ramsayare marked by a prevai ling pensiveness that carries the readerinto the dimdreamland of retrospective imagination. Mr Reid,who many years ago gave his last good - night to the world , wasborn in Galston, where he got a good commercial training in theoffice of the Union Bank of Scotland. Promoted to G lasgow,
he was formany years employed in the company’
s head office inIngram Street, and subsequently was appointed agent of the
Anderston branch in G lasgow.
eid’
s poetical enthusiasmwas awakened by frequentinto the country , andmore especial ly by visits to his
native val ley ; and although his poems never were pub lished inbook form, they appeared frequently in papers and periodicals.
OH, GIVE ME BACK MY INLAND BOWERS.
Oh ive me back my inland bowersere Irvine’s rippling waters play
That I may throb my '
soul awayAmong the golden primrose flowers.
My]listless harp, all idly strungon the stranger ’s dusky wallsight echo through my native halls,
Where long ago its music rung.
village home, yet dear to me,Thy beauty lingers evermore ;Far from the city’s surging roar
Amid the charms of Loudoun lea.
The roll ofmimic thunder swellsAlong the hot and dusty street,Where aching hearts W ith weary beat,
Sigh for the green of verdant del ls.
Oh for one tranquil hour to restWhere flushing blooms of hawthorn snowSeem burnin in the dying glow
Of sunset splen our o’er the west.
Then would I pour a laintive strain,
Sweet as the vir'
n reath of June ;W ith bosomkin ed all atune,
And feel my early joys again.
Rough is the path to fair renownThe boldest spirit oft must fretIn vaul ted looms of care beset ,
Till through c darkness gleams the crown.
Then let me seek my inland bowersWhere Irvine ’
s ri pling waters play ;That I may sing brough all the day
Among the golden primrose flowers .
TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF ROBERT REID,
Late of the Scots Greys. Died 1866.
Ye allant Gre s ! brave, allant Greys !Who charge with deat at Waterloo.
80 te rrible amidthe blazeOf war and carnage- clotted dew
Few of thy daringhearts now beat,
Which throbbe so high in da 8 of yore,As England’
s proud, un rivalled cetWeighed anchor on thy native shore.
But yesterday I marked a rave,W ithin the village buri - ground,
Receive one of thy gallant brave,Devoid of mp and bu sound
One who ha cheered ami the throng,And felt the point of Gallia’
s lance :Who broke the square and raised the songOf triumph
’gainst the might of France.
How strange ! methou ht to see him laidIn such a sweet and allowed s
pot
Where neither drum nor broken lade,Nor banner to rn with foemen’
s shot ,
100 JOHN RAMSAY REID.
Had st rewn the ground, while many a formOf comrade dust on ory plain
La lifeless ’neath the y
o
rant’s storm,
0 hoped to meet thei r loves again
A lonely3sentry on his rounds
(Ere runswick’s chief had boded woe)
He s eed, and caught the troubled soundsO mutter’d thunder come and go.
He mounted with the Scottish ladsIn gallant pomp ,
and rode awayWhere hardy
squares of Highland blades
Stood, roote tigers in the fray .
Stern was the music of that hourTo many a Scottish mountaineer ,
Who lately left his native bowerTo die for British glofy here.
The bivouac fire— a weeping sky,The muffled cloak— their charger ’s flank,Were all the welcome comforts ni
gh
As weary soldiers cheerless san
Ye allant Greys ! brave gallant Greysith Wellington at Waterloo,
Wel l have ou earned your country ’s baysIn laure ed beauty ever new.
And he, too, now in dreamless sleepA soldier with unspotted name
,
Will often bid affect ion wee
And triumph in his hero ame.
I’
M GOING HOME TO DIE.
(Lines written on seeing a youngman in consumption drivenhome in a cab.)
A long farewel l a last farewell to yonder city ’s gloom,
I tread a march, a sickly march, to fil l an early tomb ;Love’
s
Ibeacon light , on memory ’s page, draws from me many a
81gAh me ! so soon the death - eclipse— I
’m going home to die.
The poet’s.
dream—the merr dream of life’s young summer morn,When all Is gay as linnet’s fay , within the flow’
ring thornSweeps o
’er me now, and dims with tears this once glad, lightsome
eye
The scene but pains my sinking heart— I’m going home to die.
The burnie through the hazel dell seems crooning in the light,
Where warblers mix their notes by day , and nestle all the n ight ;The
.
bleatIn lambs on‘
every knowe pour out their plaintive cry,As If they elt With pity stung - I’m going home to die.
GILLIE DHU DHIA.
(The Black Messenger of God.)
I’the
’wa
’- gang o’ loamin ’
, at m ett estreenThe G illie Dhu lic ted an
’tirled
yfSu’ laiig ;
An’ brawly I ettled his messa e did mean ,
See I snodded my saul wi’ t e Gillie to gang .
But the Gillie 0’God art my heart throb sair
When he shenk his eid and gied me to kenThat it
.
wasna for me that he had come there ;My tIme wasna come, and I e
’en said Amen .
Oh ! I coost a glint to his wings o’ gloom,
As the Gillie gaed oot frae my hallan door .Oh ! I coost a glint to the cradle toom,
And my heart was joy - toom’d for evermoreMy1bonn ie we Oe was the ac only linkhat held
.my heart here frae my hame on heich,
And the eerIe mirk cam’wi
’the ootgaun blink ,
That I couldna see yont frae the Here to abeich
The warld was toom’d o’the lives 0
’ my kin ,
And I grat and prayed meikle in stran despair ;But his lug wasna deaf, nor his tentie e blin ’
,
And thus was I answered my wearisome prayerAuld carlin o
’auchty winters and three,
your wud yaumrin’
, hae patience and faith,
your time, and dicht your blurr’d e’e
you ’re ripe I’ll send for ye my GillieDhu—Death.
Oh ! it’s dowie to bide wi’‘
the fremmit ahint,When oor lo’
ed anes afore await uS '
at hameAnd the warld is cauld and the pleasures in’
t
Are wereh and fushionless , awkit and tame.
For my saul langs -fu’sair to e awa
’ frae ’t,
Like the lav’rock in joy to the far shining stars .
Oh ! come Gillie Dhu , thy tryst I await ,To free me frae life’s prison locks , bolts, and bars.
THE REV. JOHN GARDINER.
In every parish of Scotland the bard enwrapt in pensivemood has poured the strain and tuned his artless lyre, but weventure to think that the parish of Ayr has been more prolificof poets than many others of equal size. The Rev. JohnG ardiner adds another to the long rol l ofminor minstrels hailingfrom the
“ancient burgh toon made famous by the Bard of
Al loway . After being some time in the employment of an
Evangelistic Society in G lasgow , Mr Gardiner entered the
University and Free Church Divinity Hal l , and was in due course
licensed as a preacher of the Gospel . Soon after beinglicensed he went out to Australia, where he held a charge forabout four years , which fai ling health ultimately induced himto demit, and make his way back to the mother country .
Returning to G lasgow he was appointed Chaplain to the
Bambill Poorhouse and Hospital .
Robert Mackenzie Fisher, a native of Prestwick , cannotbe c lassed as a creative poet, although he has pub lished severalvolumes of verse of an unpretentious kind. In early manhoodMr Fisher was apprenticed to the weaving trade , and afterwards gained some experience of farm work . From the farmyard he went to the shipyard, and was for a time engaged as a
shipwright. Subsequently he emigrated to Africa, and on
returning some years ago to his native country engaged in
business as a booksel ler , first in Dumfries and afterwards in his
native town . While residing in Dumfries he joined the
membership of Dumfries and Gal loway Antiquarian Society .
His literary work inc ludes prose sketches as wel l as verse.
>l<
ALEXANDER STEWART.
Men of humour are in most cases men of genius . Pathosand humour both being strong in Mr Alexander Stewart’snature, it may be assumed that he is more or less of a genius .
Mr Stewart was born in Galston, where he was apprenticed to
the handloom weaving trade, but left his native town in earlylife, as the ambition grew strong within him to see more of the
world and its manifold mysteries . The cal ling which he
adopted was that of a book deliverer, and in this connectionhe travel led the north of Wales, the Border Counties of Scotland, and part of Ireland, laying in stores of experience which
proved usefu l to himIn after years . He found not his true cal ling, however, until he engaged In the work of a CongregationalMissionary , his spheres of labour In this vocation embracing Man
chester , Birkenhead , Oporto, and G lasgow In succession . In
these centres of population he has laboured upwards of thirty - six
years, and has often been brought face to face with the miseriesfal l ing to the lot of them that are
“ condemned in paths of
104 ALEXANDER STEWART.
penury to roam. His deep and wide experience of humagli fe in its many - sidedness has enab led him to memorize a fun
of anecdote, which makes him a choice companion by theingle - side, on the seashore, on the heather hil ls of Scotia, or
on the Slopes of Helicon.
”
Mr Stewart has been wont to touch the lyre from hisboyhood years, singing life’
s hopes, its joys and sorrows, as
only a true poet can . His poems exhibit a clear, restrained,and polished style, his mos t ambitious effort being a poem i n
blank verse entitled The Prob lems of Life,”
and in it he hasembodied some of his finest thoughts. A lthough a lover ofthe rural shade,
’tis rather
Amid the toilin throng of menHe finds the foodand sustenance of song
,
Spread byhidden hands again and yet again ;Where er he goes by crowded ‘
city streetHe fares through springing fancies sad and sweet.
"
STANZAS ON THE HARP OF LADY FLORA HASTINGS
In the music - room of Loudoun Castle we were shown the
harp of Lady F lora Hastings, some of its strings broken. I
put my fingers among the remaining ones to soundi
them, but
was requested by the housekeeper“not to touch it, as it had
never been played Upon since Lady Flora died .” (Author’
s
Note.)
Harp of the beautiful ! whose fameUntarnished leams on Virtue’s shrine.
Lone bar of F ora ! sweetest nameIn Lou oun
’s long ancestral line.
Harp of the queen ly ! whose bright star ,So full of promise, glisten’d fai r ,
Till hid fromview— too soon by farIt set
’mid clouds of grief and care.
Harp of the good and true ! no moreHer fingers sound thy broken wires ;
The song Is hushed, the ban uet o’er,
And quenched the spirit’s iving fires
Full many a time those halls have run
With the gay tones of love and mirtWhile hearts have heaved and lips have sung,Now cold and s ilent in the earth .
Then beauty trod the mazy dance,
While music swelled from lute and lyre,And chivalry , with ardent lance,Returned the look of fonddesire.
196 ALEXANDER STEWART.
THE WHUSTLIN ’
BOY.
It was onl a barefit ragged boStrave iii ’ alang the street,
y
Wi’ lauc in ’ ‘
een, an
’a sunny face
,
And Oh ! but he whustled sweet .
Ye wadna i’en tip ence for a
’his duds ,
But the addie, w at cared he ?
Tho’ there wasna a farden in his pouch ,Yet he fairly danced wi’ glee.
And there was I , in the best 0 ’ health ,Weel covered frae tap to tae,
Baith bien an’ braw , wi
’s illar an’ gowd
Galore in my purse that day ;Yet in thankless mood I hungmy heidLike a man how’d down w1’ care
,
I couldna ha’e whustled as blithe a note
For the worl’s wealth I’m suir .
An’ what was the reason ? sae far ’s I ken,It was neither sorrow nor sin,
But it seems when a man gets up in yearsThat his whustlin’ days are dune !
Tho ’ indeed there’s eneuch in life at times
To mak’the best 0
’usgrave
,
While clouds ’ll gether, an courage fail ,
Be ye ever see bien an’ brave.
Nae doot we value the needfu ’ear
E’en mair than we whiles wa tell ;
An ’to speak the truth I coul d maybe dae
Wi’ a wee thoucht mair mysel ’But if even in the sma’
est way we tasteWhat worl’y abundance brings
We ha’e learned that the truest wealth in lifeDisna lie in ootward things .
The whustlin’ boy had naething ! Ah wait !
He was maybe no sae puir ;He had love, an hOpe, an ’
the dew 0’ youth,
Wi’ a bosom free frae care .
He had frien ’s an
’comrades like himsel’ ,
An ’a nest in a humble cot ;
So he sang like a laverock i’ the lift,Content wi
’ what he had got .
Oh cheerie lad wi’t
'
he curly pow !’eu whustle as lang’s ye can ,
To mak’
yer hay when the sun shines brichtIs ever the wisest plan ;
For gin ance ye cross the broo o’the hill ,
It’s no the s illar an ’
claesThat’ ll warmyer heart wi’ the warlock lowe,An
’the licht o
’ ither days .
SONG— OUR LAND FOR EVERMORE.
0 bonny sings the laverock wildThrough
gaeen K illarney
’s shades
And sweet cende the gloamin’ mild
In England’s southern lades
,
But dearer still each heat er h i ll ,On Caledonia’
s shore ;Her rowin ’ finds , her wavin’ wuds ,Her vaue
lys , we adore .
hen join the sang,Come join the sang ,
Our land for evermore !
I’ve happy been fu
’ mony an’oor
Byfar- Off windin
’ rill ;I 10 e the sangs o
’Tammy Moore ,
An ’southern bards, but still
My heart aye turn s to Robin Burns,Auld Scotia’
s bard of yore ;He sang oor loves oor native grooves ,Oor green auldHeilans hoar .
Then join the sang ,Come join the sang ,
Our land for evermore !
Dear Scotia cauld shall rin my bluid,
Oh dim shal l be my c’c,
Ere I forget the frien’s I
’ve met,
Or cease to think 0’thee
The hamel joys o’auld langsyne,
The faithfu ’ hearts 0’ yore,
ild- wood dens , thy rocky glens ,waves that wash thy shore .
Then join the sang ,Come join the sang ,
Our land for evermore !
>l< >l<
WILLIAM GIRVAN HENDRIE.
The test of genuine poetry is that it produces in the mindof the reader an msthetical pleasure which can be felt betterthan it can be described . Some such feeling is experiencedwhen perusing the pages of a little memorial volume of poemswritten by Wi l liam Girvan Hendrie. Mr Hendrie was bornin Galston, where his father was a bank - agent and carried on
an extensive law practice. With a view to qual ifying for a
profession he attended the University of G lasgow, but changinghis mind be adopted instead a commercial career . Whileresiding in G lasgow he joined the membership Of Sandyford
108 WILLIAM GIRVAN HENDRIE.
Church Literary Society , and it was in connection therewiththat he made his debut as a poet. After a few years’ commercial training in the city he proceeded on business to Brazi l and theWest Coast of Africa, and on his return to G lasgow entered intoa business partnership. In course of time he removed to Irelandas representative of a G lasgow firm, and while in the EmeraldIsle wrote a series Of articles on the condition of Ireland and
its people, besides composing a number Of poetical pieces,which were published posthumously by his relatives as a tributeto his memory . He died in Dublin , and was buried in MountJerome Cemetery . Although the reverse of copious, Mr
Hendric ’s style is picturesque and high ly imaginative.
AN IRISH FERN FABLE.
Maidenhair she flew with the mist and the windTo Sir Bracken , who dwells on the mountain side,
And she said: Dear lord, so stately and kind,Let me live with thee and be thy bride.
But Laird Bracken replied, with an air auste reWe
’ ll ha’e nane 0’ your foreign madame here.
Maidenhair came down in a pearly rainTo my lad that dwells in the woodland glade,
And she sai Ah ! noble kinswoman deignTo pity and succour a hapless maid.
But her ladyship ordered her man - at- armsTo stifle the creature that threatened her charms.
Then Maidenhair prayed to the roses , the pines ,To every fair daughter of forest and 1am
,
And to blear - eyed beldams in caves an mines ,But ever and always her prayer was in vain ,
Till her tresses were torn by the wintry gales ,And were seen no more in those hills and vales
In a lonely Isle ’mid Atlantic wavesYou will find, if you visit that savage clime,Vas t rock - fields traversed with clefts like gravesHalf filled with the loam of a by - gone time.
There Maidenhair lay in the dust all prone,As a dead thing that utters not gasp nor groan.
The scanty herbage lying there nigh hidWas won at a cost of eas ant power ,nough to ' have reared t e Great Pyramid,Or the Wal l of China , or Babe l ’s Tower ;But nothing could Maidenhair see or say,Till an angel of heaven passed by that way.
It was not the glorious angel of N ight,Whose sweeping wings bear the moon and the stars ;
’Twas a tiny angel of violet light,New flown through the morning sun - lit bars ,Who kissed sweet Maidenhair ’s lips and eyes ,And whispered, Damsel , awake, arise !
”
110 JAMES M . HODGE.
Think of her, 0 heart- broken,Whose love is on the sea ;
Sag
, is she not a tokenf tender care for thee?
And ye who shrink and ponderWhen stormy billows roar
,
Forget not her out yonder,Nursling of sea and shore.
>l< >l<
JAMES M. HODGE.
Among the sons of Vu lcan we find several who haveearnestly and to good purpose devoted their leisure hours tothe cu ltivation of poetry . In the daytime round the red anvi lyou may see them stand
“ like Cyclopses in Vulcan’s sooty
abysm mou lding the fused iron into all curves and shapes,with as much ease as the potter moulds a piece of soft clay.
In the evening you may perchance find them in somnambulismwalking out of their red quarters into the far- away dreamlandof Poesy, and seeing visions unthought of by more ordinarymortals.
Mr James M . Hodge, a native of Muirkirk, wields induty ’
s hour the welding - hammer and in the hour of leisure thepoet
’
s pen . He also finds time to take an active share of
public duties, and as a Sabbath School teacher and superin
tendent, a church manager, and a temperance worker, he hasspared no efforts to make himself a useful member of the
community in which he is so wel l known and high ly respected.
His poems breathe the spirit of simplicity and earnestpiety . Mr Hodge takes a warm interest in all matters con
nected with the history of his parish , and has issued a descriptive work on the subject.
OOR MITHER TONGUE.
My harp gae bring, I’ll try to sing
Ance mair a hamely lay,The theme will be ane dear to meIlk oor o
’ life’s short day.
Fu’ weel I ken that other menIn lofty strains hae sung
About the same dear honour’d themeOor ain Auld M ith-er Tongue.
Wi’ them I’ll try, as time speeds byTo add anither stane
To swell that cairn,that stately cairn,
Bear ’d high in days by- gane
HUGH C . WILSON .
By men whose names stand high in fame,
Whose deeds has aften sprung)Frae counsel gu id i’en in car raid
And dear Auld Ither Tongue.
’Tis said this tongue ’s the ane that rung
In Edin’s bowers at e
’en,
When Adamwooed his bonnie brideTo be his ain heart ’s queen .
Be this the case or not, there’s trace
That it has aften rungIn mony an car in
places queer ,
Oor ain Auld M it er Tongue
Abroad or hame, ’tis aye the same,
It mak ’s the heart strings dirl ;Itasfi
eaks o’ hame an
’frien
’ship
’s flame,
roughout the wide, wide worl’The exi le frae auld Scotia’
s shore ,Let himbe auld or young
,
Lo’cs best 0
’a’ when far awa
’
To hear Oor M ither Tongue.
O weel I min’the days langsyne,
When on my faither ’s kneeI sat
,as kin and heard hims ing
Guid auldficotch sangs to me ;Mihea rt wi’ wild child- jo
ywas fi lled,
ife’s chords were sweet
hstru ng
Frae then till noo or deat ensue,I’ll lo
’e Oor Mither Tongue.
>i<
HUGH C. WILSON .
We should imagine that of all the occupations which fal lto the lot ofman that of landscape gardening must be themostexhilarating and pleasant, as wel l as the best adapted for
fostering a taste for poetry . What so stimu lating and delightful as a wel l laid- out garden, and what scene so tranquil ,sweet, and gratifying to our higher sense :
So fresh , so pure, the woods , the sky , the air,It seems a lace where angels mi t repair ,And tune t eir harps beneath t ose tran
guil shades
To morning songs or moonlight serenades .
Hugh C . Wilson, who was born in Old Cumnock , beganthe toils of life as a herd laddie, afterwards blossomed into a
woodsman, and final ly a la ndscape gardener , which vocation hefol lowed formany years in the great city of London.
The laudable aspiration of this poet to write.
verse thatwil l help forward and cheer his fel low voyagers In life 15 a
112 HUGH C . WILSON .
commendable one. Several of his poems, as The Cobbleand Creel , have a happy -
go- easy swing about them that is
at once refreshing and inspiring . Others of more sombre hueare marked by a not unpleasing tenderness and pathos. To
whatever page of his writings we turn we find something thatis worthy of perusal .
THE PIBROCH IS SOUNDING .
The pibroch is sounding far up in the heather,The rock - splintered peaks are re eating the cal l ;Wives , maidens, and mothers are c usterln together,And clansmen are belting
bin cottage andi all.
The partings are over , the anners are streaming,And feet treading time to the beat of the straw ,
But many march forth to the pipes that are screamingWho ne
’er will respond to thei r wild call again.
The storm clouds hang low on the dark hills ofMorvenAnd torrents are seethin in caverns below ;
The night winds bring wai ing to widow and orphanThe coronach mourns not the death of a foe.
A handful of heroes return from the foray ,The chief comes not back at the head of his men.
The cairn shall be raised and the bards tell the storyThe pibroch shall ne’
er wake the chfeftain again .
THE COBBLE AND CREEL .
When white waves are climbing the dark, shaven rock,Sin hey for the cobble and creel !
And alling and riein with shock upon shock,Sing ho for the cob le and creel .
When lads are at sea when the north winds arise,And over the tumbling waste yeasty spray flies ,Oh, then may the boatie row weel .
When seafowl fl screaming fromwater to turf,S ing hey for t e cobble and creel !
And brave lads are wabblin far out in the surf,S ing ho for the cobble an creel !When wives , maids , and mothers are list
’ning the roar,
As wave upon wave wildly lashes the shore,Oh, then may the boatie row weel .
But life’s not to any a fair - lighted street,Sin
‘
hey for the cobble and creel !We a et a taste of the sour and the sweet,Sing go for the cobble and creel !
The fishers havemoments when storms they forget,Then here’
s to the lads of the cobble and net,And long may the boatie row weel .
114 GEORGE M ’MURDO.‘
I see a lassie ’mang the stocks ,The lass I lo’
ed In early days ;And fond love ever draws me hameTo meet wi’ her on Lunan Braes .
O lass ie fair mair dear to meThan a
’the honours earth displa 8 ;
Heaven grant to me In dearest wish,
To ca’thee mine on unan Braes .
A DREAM OF THE NORTH COUNTRIE.
Sometimes in the busy city amid the din of the millsM thought takes win to the old home far off in the Norlan’ hills ;I hear the bee in the sather and the bleating of the flocks,And the sound of running waters among the reeds and the rocksI pla with brothers and s isters out on the green hill - side,And meet again with Mysie— with Mysis , my love and pride.
We ather around the fires ide ; father comes in from the hil l ;The ook is read, we kneel in prayer , in the loamin ’
cool and still.And when the mist and the mirkness shrou 8 every hill and cairnMother comes in like an angel , and kisses each sleeping bairn .
Morr
ll
zing dawns on Mount Battock ; the mist creeps mp Mounteen
°
I stand chee more on Dalbrach bridge, but “the auld hoose
isna seen .
The old folks s leep in the kirkyard— in the kirkyard by the LeeBrothers and sisters parted wide, far from the North Countrie.
Two went out to fi ht our battles— ah ! ’tis thus the world goes !
One sleeps among t e Zulu grass,and one
’neath th
’
,Afghan snows ;
And Mfysie, my pride and my treasure ,
that was to have been myW I 9 ,
Sleeps by the side of the old folks— she holds the half of my life.
The snow lies deep on Battock,and deeper on lofty K een ;
And a mist comes up the valley, and a mist comes owre my e’en
’
.
I stand in the lonely kir ard,and I think of da s to come,
And dream of a distant ity, and the heavenly ather’s home.
Far above the snowy hill - tops , and the clouds so dull and grey,Where joy is a joy unmingled, and day aye a summer da
0
Still the mill - wheels keep on g rinding , but the evening our wrllcome,
Then a short sleep, and the waking , to fimdmyself safe at ho'
me.
>l<
GEORGE M‘MURDO.
Quite a number of our Ayrshire bards have belonged to
that usefu l and hardy'
class of toilers whom Tennant in his“Anster Fair describes as
“poor human mou ldwarps,
doomed to scrape in Earth ,"
Cimmerian people,'
strangers to the
sun,gloomy as soot with faces grim and swarth .
”
George
GEORGE M‘MURDO .
M‘Murdo has earned his living in the coal mines since he wasa lad of about twelve, and he is now past the meridian of life.
He was born'
near Lugar , where first’
he entered the mines,afterwards spending some seventeen years at Waterside, nearDalmel lington . At the end of that time he drifted back to
Muirkirk , final ly settl ing down some twenty - three years ago in
Catrine, where he presently holds the post of Schoo l BoardOfficer for the parish of Sorn .
His talent for verse has been stimulated chiefly by a con
stant study of the poems of Robert Burns . His verses are simplein the extreme but they have a sincere ring .
Mr M‘Murdo was the winner of a prize in a song -makingcompetition, held January 2l st, 1882, under the auspices of the
proprietors and pub lishers of the Kilmamock Standard. ”
The author has forwarded for use in this work the song whichcarried off the palm.
BLAWEARIE, I’M WAE l
B lawearie,I’mwae when around thee I wander
And silently sigh o’
er the daivs that are gane ;
But st ill you has charms , for ever get fonderAt gloamin
’ bes ide thee to ponder alane.
There white is the gowan and green is the bracken ,
When fann’d by the
gladdenm breezes 0
’ May ;Alas ! amid beauty you an
gu ish forsaken ,
To gaze on your ruin B lawearie,I’m was .
I hear the glad about 0’the bairns as they gambolUpon the green sward ’neath thy shelter ing wing
,
I see lovers meeting in rapture to rambleO
’er Wellwood
’s ga heights ’mid the
dglories 0
’Spring .
At eve roun '
th in e the youthfu’an hoary
S it subjects a lea to affection’s calm sway ,
The W inter nicht asses wi’
sang and wi’ story ;That oucht shou d divide them B lawearie, I
’mwae.
But oh l they are gane like the mist frae Cairntable ,
When Sol adds his ra to the fresh rising breezeWith Death some are 5 seping , while Fortune unstableMakes Ithers to wander far over the seas
And lowly ye lie , broken down and deserted,All silent and cheerless that ance was sae gay ;
But dest Iny’s mandate—oh ! whae can avert it ?
That time makes sic changes B lawearie, I’mwas .
"
I cl ingto
ion still , tho’ your glory is ended,
An ran grows the nett le where stood the bi chair,W ith sweetest of mem’
ries your name ’s ever b ended
,The dream of the past is a shield frae despair ;
The lark in.
the lift sings as sweetly as ever,
The mavis as blythe at the close 0’the day.
Oan lov’d ones thus parted e
’er meet me? oh
, never,And sad Is my heart at B lawearie, sae wae .
”
116 WILLIAM ROBERTSON .
ALEXANDER LAW ORR.
Things are achieved, says a noted novelist, when theyare wel l begun— the perfect archer cal ls the deer his own whileyet the shaft is whistling .
”A lexander Law Orr made a good
start in life, and had achieved at least partial success when hewas cut off by an unfortunate accident in the twenty- sixth yearof his age. He was a native of Hurlford, his father being a
coal -mine manager , whose position enab led him to give his
fami ly a good education . Alexander , after engaging for aboutfour years as a pupi l teacher in Hurlford Academy , formed a
wish to qualify for the ministry , and whi le attending courses atthe Universities of G lasgow and Edinburgh he began to compose occasional poetical pieces. His musings cannot fairly bejudged by the pieces left behind. Had years been spared himwe know not to what higher levels hemight have reached. As
it is we can detect in his verses
A strain of pity for the weak ,The poor that fall without a cry,
The shrouded hearts that never speak ,But break beneath life’s press - and die.
>l< >l<
WILLIAM ROBERTSON .
Although Wi l liam Robertson occupies a definite place
amongst the romancers of Ayrshire, his attentions to the musehave been so casual that he almost shrinks from acknowledginghimsel f tobe aworshipper of the Tuneful Nine.
”
Ifhehas beena somewhat dilatory worker on themeadow 510 pes ofHelicon , he
has been unusual ly active in other departments of literature.
Besides being a contributor of stories in serial form to Dundeeand G lasgow newspapers, he is the author of several romances ,dealing chiefly with the traditions and historical associations of
his native county . The manner in which one work fromhis penis fol lowed in rapids uccession by another is reminiscent of thefacile 'manner of John Galt, of Irvine, whomMr Robertson alsoemulates in his wealth of local colouring and delineation of
native characteristics . Mr Robertson is responsib le, too, forweekly articles of an introspective and quasi - critical nature, contributed to several Ayrshire newspapers, and which on accountof the fair -minded and generous spirit displayed have won
the writer not a few staunch friends . As to poetry , be con
118 WILLIAM ROBERTSON .
I’ll wait if I can til l the new earth’s made,T
’will be heaven enough for me.
Oh,the thund
frin
’sang there will be on it
’s shore ;
The dreadfu’
peal 0 ’its tern st t oar l
An’the hills —what a heic t they will be !
S carr ’d an’ riven wi’ mountain streams,
I can see their cataracts in my dreams,An
’their wh ite foamflyin
’ free.
An’ I’d like to hear the bagpi es shrill
Come soughin’ doon frae the eather hill
,
The seabird’s cry an
’the lark in the lift
,
A s ingin
’speck In a cloudland rift ;
An’I d like to see the yellow corn
In the soft sweet haze O’the autumn ‘
morn .
Yes , yes , the new earth will dae forme,Just
gi’e me that
,an
’let me be,
An’ I ll leave by Its shores through eternity.
THE FLYING DUT'CHMAN .
We were Off thepitch of the Cape, d’
ye see?The day was a ind Of hazy“
,
There wasn’t much wind, and we jogged along
Feeling a sort of lazy.But you never knew just what it’s up to,Down there, in that southern sea,
And before we could reach a halliardThe wind came away quite free.
The skipper he shouts for all hands on deck ,We let go the staysails ri ht smart,
And in came the royals an top- gallant sails,
We had only enough of a start ;For, before we had passed the gasketsRound themain top- gallant sail,
A southerly ‘burster was blowin ’
The worst sort of southern gale.
We pulled up the clews of the mamsa
And the buntlines as fast as we‘
could,And then we lay out on the yard‘
armsAnd stowed it
,hard down on the wood.
Why, you ought to have heard thatgale pipIng,
And j ust seen how dark grew the c ouds,The wind whistled worse than a bo’
sinThrough the blocks, and the gear , and the shrouds .
With one to sail and a ra
gOf a staysail
,
We head right into t at sea ;A look - out was sent 11 to the lower masthead,And he peered out roIn under its lee.
It took two men to hold the wheel straightThe ship plunged so sore and so deepWhy, every wave was a mountain ,
And its trough was a regular steep.
WILLIAM ROBERTSON .
It went on like this till the evenin’
,
I can tell ye, not much to our likin’
,
The gale reached its head in the dog - watchJust as seven bells was a- strikin
g.
I was watching the man who was seping look - out ,And I saw hIm a-
pointing ahead ;Quite scared- like he was , and he brandished his arms ,And his face was as pale as the dead.
I jum d for the foremast riggin ’
,
An in spite of the sea an he ale,I managed to clamber r ight over e topNo wonder the look - out was pale.
For a cable’s - len h almost ahead of usWas a ship wit a full press of sail ,
Not a stitch but was set , frommain royal down,
From the truck to the weather rail .
She careened as she came , she plunged and she dived,
But she started not sheet, nor a tack,
Behind her the breakers came tearing ,
BIt
madea‘ure S
he’
shebe caugh
dt flaggim
back,
ed,u no. hough straine an uiverAnd bur ied her nose in the sea ,
q
She rose like a duck on the water ,And threw it to weather and lee .
cu know me, be —I’mnot easily scared,But I felt my all of a creeping ,
And I slapped my legs , and pinched my arms,To make quite sure I wasn’
t sleeping .
There was never a sound came from her,
Though she plunged , she was still as the grave ;Though she to re throu h the sea like a grampus ,Not a swish , not a whisper she gave.
That ale would have burst any canvasTha ever was bent on jack - stays
But she minded the storm, I can tell ye,NO more than a ship on the ways .
Her crew , every man at his quarters ,Agang on the forecastle head
On t e maindeck, the waist, andthe quarterMy God ! every man of them— dead
There was li ht in their eyes though , I tell ye,And they ooked at our hard- st rain
'
craftAs she plunged and she dived in the b
'
owsWh ile the seas swept us right fore and aft.
On the 0 0 was the skipper , as sure as I breathe,He li te his hand up to beckon ,
And a death~meaningsmile l ighted up the set face
Of that man—Phi Ip Vanderdecken
I couldn’t but look at that ship , boys ,
Though the wild sea seemed all in the sky,And the ates of the storm were wide open
As the lying Dutchman went by .
119
120 WILLIAM ROBERTSON .
But the vividest flash Of lightning ,And the crash Of the thunder roll
,
Made me shrink to the lee of the foremast,And Struck terror right intomy soul .
And though I looked back in an instantThe Dutchman had vanished and one
,
Where she had gone to, the Lord on y knows,But we sailed the wild ocean alone.
I left that craft in AustraliaShe sailed off for home without me ;
But she ne’er reached the port she was bound for,
With all hands she went down in the
And I never cross the Leguillas bank,When the winter storms are high ,
But I think Of the Flying DutchmanAnd his angry sea and sky.
Till the last great day of the JudgmentHe
’ ll sail with the stormy blastSo he’
s far more time to go , boys,Than the time he’s gone in the past.
OTE.—The legend of the Flying Dutchman is as weird as it
is we known . Beset by a succession of head winds and storms OKthe Cape of Good HOpe the skipper , Philip Vanderdecken, wasimpious enough to curse his Maker , and to swear that no wer inheaven or in earth would prevent him beating round t e Cape.
He would get round it , he affirmed, if he beat till the Day ofJudgment . SO there he is heating at this day, and there he willremain till the sea shall be no more ]
THE GREY OLD TOWN .
Between the rivers and the sounding sea
Sits the grey Old town.
Centuries long the rivers have run by it.Centuries long the ocean has sung to itCradled to song Of its many waters .
Myriad children, sons and daughters,Have come and spedWhile the centur ies fled,O
’er the grey old town .
In the unseen vast a Good Spirit broodsO
’er the grey Old town .
A Spirit that lives while the people die,M an a year it has heard their cry,Has nown their care ,
their sorrow, their strife,Love in Legion ,
and death in life,And all abroadIt watches for God,O
’er the grey Old to
There’s an endless song of the mother seaTo the grey Oldtown .
And what it is singing there’s none can say,
But the song is new with each dawning day.
122 WILLIAM LEE.
Mr Lee, who is a'
native of Damhead, in the parish ofCraigie, is a person of deep and wide sympathies and of variedattainments, A man so various that he seems tobe not one,
but all mankind’
s epitome.
” He is wel l known (and thatfarther afield than Ayrshire) as a Freemason, a bow ler , an
angler, and a poet, and his fluent speech makes hima welcomecompanion by the fireside, on the green, or by the eddyingedge of the salmon pool .
Removing with his parents at an early age to Kilmamockhe there received a rudimentary education, and at the age of
ten began to work for a smal l pittance in a tobacco factory .
But the fragrant weed could not long restrain him, and leavingthis employment he entered that of a china merchant as shopassistant. While here the muse first shed its benign influenceover him, but he had yet to find the. true vocation of his life,and retaining the muse but leaving the chinaware to
‘
the careof another, he started on his career as a baker, toiling and
striving and poetizing ti l l he built up a good business of his ownin Galston, where he stil l engages in the trade. Previous tosettling in Galston as a master baker , Mr Lee spent a few yearsin Tarbolton, and being one of the Masonic craft, he was
appointed secretary of St. James ’ Lodge, an oflice held forsome time by Robert Burns, and his brother Gilbert. While inOffice Mr Lee frequently wore the jewels that had adorned thebreast of our national poet.
TH'E SONG OF THE ANGLER .
Themorning is cloudy , the wind from the west,Is kissing the wild flow’
rs and ruffling‘the breast
Of the dark, shady poo ls , where the speckled trout lies,So eagerly watching and waiting for files .
Chorus.
Then ive memy rod, my l ine, and m reel ,A fly rom the storm- cock, a fly from t e teal,The licht o’
a hare lug , and hackle 0’ black ,
My piece in my pouch andmy creel On my back .
Let the huntsman halloo as he bounds o’er the hill ,
Tracking the foxhounds , all eager to kill .Let the game- killing sportsman delight in his gun,
And boast of his bag when the day’s work’
is done.
ChorusBut give memy line, my rod, and my reel, etc .
I envy them not their sport on the hill ,So long’s I’ve a rod and a fly that will kill ;The do - fox may bark and the moorcock may scream,
While appy I fish o’er some clear winding stream.
WILLIAM LEE .
ChorusThengive me my rod, m line, and my reel ,
A fly rom the storm- cock, a fly from the teal ,The o
’a hare lug , and hackle 0
’ black,When evening comes roun’
I’ll be hame wi’ a tak’
.
LINES TO A DEAD MAVIS FOUND IN LOUDOUNWOODS .
Cauld, hea rtless wretch— for such thou art,That whizzing sent this fatal dart ,‘Vl ’ lightnin speed right through the heart
0’t is wee sin er ;
’Twad been thy rice i trigger smartHad bra thy finger .
Nae mair, sweet bird, at close 0’ day,
The cottar , trudgin o’er the way,
Shall rest to hear t hinmost layFloat thro’
t e lade ;mair thou ’ lt eet t e break 0
’day,
For low t ou ’ rt laid
And never mair thy thril ling sangShal l echo Loudoun’
s woods amang ,mair adown yon burnie gang
A d ahTo mee
fithy n
li
l
ate il k ln e uir t i ,t o t in ing ang,
fifens nae
n
t‘liy fate.
But maybe some one 0’thy feathe r ,
That oft has seen ye s rt the ither ,Kennin
’fu
’ weel you o’ed eac ither ,
The news will carrOh may he break it like a grither,
And wi’ her tarry
Till ance thy young hae ta’en the wing ,
And Nature taught them how to sing ,
As sweet as e ’er thou did’
st in SpringOr Summer day ;
And mak’ the leafy plantain ringWi’ gladsome lay
THE BAILIE AND THE SPIDERS.
oh wae’s me for the spiders
The blanket rack ’s ta’en doon ;
Like horses wantin’ ridersThey ’ re rinnin
’ roun ’an
’ roun’.
The ’re coursing o
’er the ceiling ,
ey ’ re cours rng o’
er the floor,
And some are sitt ing nealingAbune the sanctum oor.
124 WILLIAM LEE .
The Bailie’s crying, Vermin ,
I’ll mak’
ye shift your looms ;Too long your tribe’s been swarmin’
Within my business rooms .
”
At this an auld grey chap isCooked out his head an saidFor lang we’ve here been happyThrang working at our trade.
Our forbears started spinningWithin this very room,
I’m tauld that their beginningWas as wee corner loom.
B dint o’
perseveranceWe’ve looms in every hole ;To think you ’ ll talk 0
’clearance
Is mair than we can thole.
I spoke to you this morningAs you cam’ in the door ,
W ithout a moment’s warningYou swept me to the floor .
It ill becomes a BailieTo hunt a neebor’s gear ;You ’ve done as much as jail yeIf it were proven clear .”
The Bailie mused in silenceBeside the blanket rack ;
Then said Forgive myvi
You ’ ll ‘get another tac
Don’t look for me repairin
Your heddles oryour trea s ;
Be thankfu ’that I m sparin
gYour best and newest stea 9.
Ca’ a’ your tribe together ,
And tell themwe’ve agreedAnd while you talk through itherI’ll just soop up the
‘
deid
>l<
JAMES STRANG .
James Strang was born in Ayr, but spent'his early years
in the Vale of Leven, c lose to the bonnie, bonnie banks 0’
Loch Lomond. He began his career in G lasgow , but
migrated to London in 1889, having then already made hismark in the literary world as a writer of magazine articles and
126 JAMES STRANG .
a leading and varied part in the public life of the town in whichhis lot has been cast. He has been Chief of the Kroonstad"
Caledonian Society for the last Six years, in addition to whichhe is Chairman Of the Sick and Provident Society , Chairmanand stage manager of the Amateur Operatic Society , Chairmanof the K roonstad Ath letic Club , Chairman of the Cycling and
Harriers Club , and member of the Church Council'
and LibraryCommittee. He took an active part in themovement for SouthAfrican Union, and was vice -
president of the K roonstad CloserUnion Society , and a member Of the Union Conference whichmet in Johannesburg early in 1909.
Mr Strang proved a, vigorous Opponent of General
Hertzog ’s Education Act, and was one of the twenty gentlemen
invited by General Hertzog from all over the Orange RiverColony to meet him at B loemfontein in November , 1909, to
discuss the difficulties and disagreements in connection with theAct, and to endeavour to arrive at a settlement.
LIFE PICTURES .
A babygirl on mother ’s knee,
W it eaven’s own azure in her eyes
,
Who rattles in her infant glee,An knows not yet the sound of sighs .
A little lass thaft singing goesAdown the narrow villa e st reet ,
As free as any wind that lows ,With merry laugh and dancing feet.
A maiden singing in the choirW ith modest eyes and face demure,
Unvex ’d b any vain desire
,Because her simple heart 18 pure
A woman waitin by the wood,
W ith soul as w its and chaste as snowThe fairest flow’
r of maidenhoodOf all that in God’s garden blow .
A mother weeping o’er the child
Whose father never saw its face.
Oh ! weary eyes,so wan and wild !
0 h heart quick breaking with disgrace !
A wanderer in the cruel town ,
Whose face as an dead is white,Whose womanhood as lost its crown
,
Who haunts the shadows of the night.
A woman ’s wild despairin scream
,
A burden on the rIver’s reast
Borne seaward on the swirlin streamNo more— God only knows t e rest .
REV. GILBERT CLARK.
A genius in the reverend gown , must ever keep its ownerdown , saith the poet, but the fire Of genius cannot be quenchedso easi ly, nor has it been subdued in the case of the poet
preacher Gilbert Clark , who was born at the farmhouse of
Auchenlongford, in the parish of Som, and on the borders of
Airdsmoss .
Mr C lark received his early school ing at Catrine and at
Som, being engaged for a time in Sorn as a pupil teacher .After training for the ministry at Scottish and Continental
Universities he was engaged as assistant to several divines, andwas cal led eventual ly to a charge of his own at Haywood, in the
parish of Camwath .
MORNING .
Fresh 8 rings the morn fromout the saffron east,And hke a
And sparkles on each blade of grass the dew,
As countlem pearls upon the youthfu l breastOf fainest lady on a couch of rest ,While flow’
rs awake to greet the morn anew ;And hark ! within the have are heard the notesOf myriad choristers w liquid throatsPour forth a flood of song . The peasant hearsWhen, fresh from sleep, for labour he appears.
THOMAS KILLIN .
Circumstances may mould a man or a man may mouldcircumstances, as in the case of Thomas K il l in , who, in his
enthusiastic endeavours to raise funds for the erection of the
Mauchline Burns Memorial , evolved a turn of circumstanceswhich in turn made of him a poet. By moral suasion , letterand rhyme, he worked indefatigably from the earliest inceptionto the ful l realisation Of themost laudable scheme that has everbeen carried out in honour Of our National Poet.
Mr Kil lin was born and bred in a Burns atmosphere, hisnative place being Mauchline. After trying his ’
prentice handat one or two occupations in the vil lage he entered the service
128 THOMAS KILLIN .
of Messrs Wil liamBaird Co . , Ironmasters, Lugar, who, perceiving his integrity and ability , promoted him after four and a
half years ’ service to the post of out door manager . Thisnecessitated his removal to G lasgow , where he 15 now located,and where he stil l retains all the good qualifications which hecarried thither .
Mr K il lin is a person of versatile talent, and has gainedcol legiate honours for chemistry and metal lurgy . Besidesindulging in verse he has contributed interesting prose articlesto various magazines . The articles from his pen in volumes15 and 16 of Burns Chronicle are ab le and elucidating , andcontain much valuab le lore relating to Burns and the Tennantsof Glenconner.
THE BURNS ’
MEMORIAL AT MAUCHLINE.
Messrs W . T . Samson, Nurserymen, Kilmarnock(descendants of the Tam Samson of Burns ’ famous elegy)gave a valuable donation to the National Burns Memorial andCottage Homes, Mauch line, their gift taking the form of a
privet hedge to enclose the grounds and ornamental trees and
shrubbery to adorn it. The work of planting was delayedlonger than was expected owing to the grounds not being ready .
On the day they commenced to plant the hedge and shrubberyMr Ki l lin
,the honorary treasurer , unaware that Operations had
begun, delivered himself of the fol lowing , the per contra of
which is now a reality
Glasgow , 7th April , 1899.
Tam Samson’s requiem Burns did wribe,
how death nir Tamdid smite ;But latterly he beored quite
His story scrievin ,
An’these,
his last words,cam’
to lightTamSamson’
s livin ’I”
That Burns was wrang there’s little doubt,For beech or thorn
,nae kind o
’ rootWil l e’
er by him ’gain be sent out
To shaw or mead ;For death has gi’en the chiel a clout
Tam Samson ’8 dead !
He promised weel to lant a hedgeO’
privet nioely noun the edge0
’our bit grun’
,inside the ledge
,
An’saw some seed ;
But death has firmly(got the sage
Tam Samson’s ead !
130 THOMAS KILLIN .
Ye little ken, ye canna dream,
The aye ootflowmg courseThat like an ever steady streamComes frae my kyteless purse
The bias 0’ my heart is aye
TT
h)
iio whate
l
’
oerd can
0 e p upon I e s weary waA stru glin ’ fellow - man ;
y
To ocht t at’sguid I likewIse gIve,
I .E.,whan I vs the cash ;
When scant 0’this it is to me
An unco mental fash .
Wi’ Christmas gifts and Ne’sr- day ploys
My purse is tu ’O’ gloom;
Noo void 0’ gowd or siller Joys,
’Tis like a blether toom.
I canna send e ocht the noo
For Burns emorial HallanShould fortune’
s favours fa’ anew,Ye’ l l hear frae Wm. Allan.
Thomas K illin,Esq.
, Glasgow .
”
Mr Kil lin replied , addressing the envelope as fol lows
Awa’ l awa’ l to Sunderland,An
’speir for WilliamAllan ;
He’s ane o
’ Scotland’s poets , and
A braw, big buirdly callan .
’Twi11no be ill to fin ’himoot,
Tho’I don’
t ken his callin ’
That he’s an M .P . there’s nae doot,
An’ Scotland Hoose his dwellin
’
The reply letter
The‘post brocht in yer note
dyestreen,
A Scotch Thistle painte on itA sicht sae dear to my twa een,
I maist took aff my bannet.Thinks I noo that’s frae Scot land Hoose,Frae that bi sturdy callan’
,
Wha’ aye for cotia craws sae croose,That M .P . W illiamAllan.
Wi’ haste the envelope I oped,An’
syne I keekit In it ,An" lukit for the cheque I hopedWad be contained within it.
But nae sic’
rileasure met my S Icht
A fule was that thocht itFor naething like ane cam’
to l icht,The paper for
’t’s no wrocht yet .
An’then the letter oot I took;
An’ glanced at the first page o
’t,
An’sees it
’s written like a book
0’
poems , by the g’age o
’t.
I rea it s lowly ower and ower ,An ’
yet again I read it ,An
’ wadnagie
’t for ony fower
Re fusals hae had yet.
It’s fill
’t wi
’ gems fu ’ rich an’
As e’er were steal ’t or bocht , na’
Its wishes are as gu id, I’m sure,As ever yet were thocht o’
.
But promises ne’er raised a fundFor ony undertakin
’
,
An ’ better is a bird in handThan twa among the bracken.
Howe’er , I’m sure ye’ ll keep(ye’r word,
Tho’it should be a towmon
We’ ll yet get somethin frae theTo help s wi
’the en owment .
An’ when it comes I’ll tak
’ my aith,’Twill be nae altry shillin
’
,
But something t at will please, or faithMy name’
s no Thomas K illin
On asking Mr Al lan ’s consent to read his letter at the
Mauch line conversazione in G lasgow , Mr Al lan replied as
fol lowsHouse of Commons , Feb. l 6th
,1898.
Dear Tammas K illin,
I’mharl willin ’
That you 8 ould read the letter,Sae liIn an
’s rauchlin
’
,
To chie frae auchlin’
Wha could hae dune far better ;But should ye do itI winna rue it
,
Nor distin’anger fall in.
See do it cleanly ,An
’awfu ’ freenly,
For the sake 0 ’ Wm. Allan.
After the lapse of a year Mr Kil l in made a second appealwhich bled the bank .
LETTER TO MR WILLIAM ALLAN , M .P.
Dear frien’ l I trouble ye againAbout our Burns MemorIal
,
An’thou
gh herewith a list I sen
’
,
I’mno the least censorial .
132 THOMAS KILLIN .
Still , tho’
ye read frae en’to en
’
It surely needsYe(’ ll see as yet , an
’ fine e ken’
There’s nocht frae Wil iamAll
When Fortune cam’again your way,
Ye said we’d gain your favour,
An ’ loth'
amI to think or say,That this was j ust a haver .
You romised fair to gie’s a han
’
Wli’ Burns Memorial Hallan ;
It’s mair than I can understan’
,
Wi’ nocht frae W illiamAl lan .
It’s j ust a year this very nichtSin
’ I got your first letter ,Pledgin
’ yoursel’ to mak’things richt,
When wark was doing better .But whist ! what noise Is this I hearThat’s soundin’
through the dwaliin’l
’Tis this that’s ringin ’in my ear,
“ There’s nocht frae William Al lan !”
Doun Ayrshire way they seemto thinkThe fickle jad is jokin
’
,
Or else that she’s Ien ye the jInk,Or what ’s as bad, just mockin’
.
On Opening Day, on Concert Day,Deaved was I wi’ their hawlin ’
,
Be sure an’ let’s ken when ye has
That word frae Poet Allan.
”
Aye since our screeds got into rent,The folks has been sae watch u’
For news 0’something bein?
sent ,That, faith ! I’m gettin’
bashfu’.
For east it’s sae
,when west it ’s sae,
When north , or when I’m lallan ,
It’s aye the same , an
’every day,
Ony word frae WilliamAl lan ?
Our 8 ree comes aff in twa- three weeks ,An then they ’ ll a ’ be spierin
’
If Gateshead has drawn up his breeks ;If no, I
’ll get a hearin’l
For ilka ane‘ will swear it ’s me,
’s been mim- mou ’d wi’ the callan’
,
But fain I houp ere then there’ ll beSome word frae WilliamAllan .
Now,if the Dame ’
s still in the huff,At what that ye’ve ex ended,
On “ Ne’erday ploys an Christmas stuff,
May her spleen soon be ended.
This earnest wish to her I sen’
,
May she on you be cal lin ’
Sune may she tak’a thocht an’
An’ favour WilliamAllan .
134 WILLIAM AITKEN .
So tremulously , so pleadingly,So winning was his way ,
So bent he o’er her saddle low
,
She could not answer nay.
So tenderly be pressed her lips,The light gleamed in his e
’e.
Its ’ware ye 0’that kiss so sweet,
And ’ware that dark blue e’e,
And ’ware ye no that kiss so sweetA bridal there will be.
With careless rein and loving mienTheylthrough the valley rode ;
Wit careless rein and loving mienThey ’re halted ’
neath the glade.
0 happy hearts , 0 happy hours ,Of ne
’er forgetful day,
For there amid the woodlands green,And mid the hawthorn spray ,He
’s spoke the word, she hangs her head
What answer make can she?And he
’s wooed her ’
neath the saddle,And he
’s won her
’neath the tree ,
And ’ware e no,or care ye noY
A bridal there will be.
>l<
WILLIAM AITKEN .
We have been told to weariness that there is nothing likeleather, and stil l we are doubtfu l in presence
'
of a branderedsteak . Wil liam Aitken, a native of Sorn, began to earn his
living by making leather into boots and shoes under the tuitionof his father, who was a worthy son of St. Crispin. YoungAitken did not believe in the idiom above quoted , and came tothe finding, whi le yet in his teens, that leather cou ld be beaten.
He accordingly abandoned the trade of vi l lage shoemaker andentered the service of the G lasgow and South - Western RailwayCompany. In this service he proved himsel f a faithfu l and
trustworthy person, and u ltimately obtained the important postof traffic inspector on the G lasgow and Greenock section of the
company’s system.
His taste for learning was made manifest before leavinghis native vi l lage, and his early efforts in poetry
'
were encour
aged and stimulated bythe minister of his parish , who was oneof the first to perceive the young poet
’
s latent talent.Mr Aitken all through life has maintained a warmaffection
for his native shades , and in one of his latest pieces has chosenfor a theme
'
the old road near the vi l lage of Catrine, and his
WILLIAM AITKEN . 135
muse is seldom happier than when describing some old vil lageworthies such as we find in
JEAN AND GEORDIE.
Twa blg‘ther bodies pair
’d the warl ’ never knewThan ordie wi’ hi s kail - yaird and grannie wi’ her 000
,Contentedly and atientl their summons hame they bIdeWithin their hum le dwe lin
’ by the wimplin’ burnsIdeLife’s brae they ’ve spiel
’d up han
’in han ’
, past the allotted spanAn
’auld, auld woman and an auld, auld man .
In his more solemn moods Mr Aitken can give forcefulexpression to deeper thought.
THE SONG OF DEATH.
I come, and the children’s mi rth is hushed,
And a gloom like the night cree s on ,
For the fairest of ho a are brui and crushed,And the li ht in t at home is
gone.
I sfiare not t e
’maid in her beau ifnl bloom,
or the man in his martial low ,
Though a des I come as a riend to some,WhIle to ct ers I come as a foe ;
And many a poor , frail , bruised thingWhom the world has affl icted sc re
I take l ike a ch icken beneath my wingWhere no one dare harm it more .
Myharvest I gathe r from far and wide,n arret and turreted dome
And t e r finds a place by the pauper’s side
I lay t emdown as they come .
And though thousands st rongI can count m throngThe cry is stil they come !Come ! come ! come !I have always a place for some.
The journey is short and thepath is clear,
And there never came one bu was welcome here,So be not afraid to come.
Since sin in the world at first began,
My gates I have closed to none ;Let them come as they can— child, woman , or manI receive themevery one .
I reck not the throbs of the burst ing heart ,Or
,the sorrow of them that mourn ;
For is it not written that dust thou art,And to dust thou shalt return !
And a man ma boast of his strength and skill,And exhibit is wer of limb ,
Yet boast as he wi he will find I’mstillPatiently waiting for him,
136 JOHN MACINTOSH.
And though swift as a dart his bark may skimO
’er the waves of the boundless foam,
Like a demon grim I pounce on himTen thousand miles from home.
And though stern my callOn some may fall,None dare refuse to come
,
Come ! come ! come !I am always in search for some,In the morning bright, in the soft twilight,In the sombre shades of the silent night,
Or the noontide’s bustle and hum.
By the churchyard ate I have placed in waitThe grey - eyed ol sexton grim,
And the sombrous knel l of the funeral bel lHas a musical sound to him.
His hair is cris and short,and thick ,
And is tinged)
like the graveyard mould,And the lance of his eye is keen and quickFor a eing so withered and old
Of the countless forms in the churchyard laid,Where no marble or stone ap ears,
He can point out each grave an the time it wasFor the most of a hundred years :
But the warmest heart must In time grow cold,And the merriest voice grow dumb ;
And the sexton old in his own loved mouldAt last finds his own long home.
While the years roll on ,
As in ages gone,And for ages yet to comeCome ! come ! come !
Each day must I call u on some ;It may be soon or it may e lateTo a young mind teeming with projects g
reat,Or an old mind chilled and num
>l< >l<
JOHN MACINTOSH.
The pride felt by a muser in his poetic ponderings suchthat it all too frequently drives him in unpreparedness to the
printer’
s office, and there be few scribb lers who on lookingbackward do not regret their hasty steps, and wou ld gladlyrecal l at least part of the produce of their inferti le invention,and hide it forever froma scrutinizing world.
John Maclntosh is one who has often experienced feelingsof this kind, and when he compares his lispings with the deepvoiced Homeric tones of the giants of song hemoralizes thus ze—e
M%V
’
prentice m‘use is all unfit
1th bards like these to sup,A trivial song or two is allThat I can muster up .
”
138 JOHN MACINTOSH.
will not deem his beaut marredWhose brow is free of wrin led care
Gre locks with reverence all regard,I’ 1 see you ’re neither tanned nor tarred
My first grey hair .
TO A BROTHER BARD
On his recovery from a dangerous illness.
Hail l brother and hard, I greet thee as one
Returned from the land of the setting sun .
The white steeds were yoked to the chariots of fireThat waft sainted souls to their goal of desire.
The horsemen were ready the sun - wheels to moveAnd carry thee hence to the K ingdom of Love,
Where beauty of holiness,friendship and truth,
Bathe immortals anew in the essence of youth .
But the steeds are unyoked, and the horsemen all bright,Have left thee awhile in the Land of Twilight .
Hail l brother and bard I greet thee as one
Returned fromthe landof the setting sun .
BREAK , o HEART !
Break 0 heart, in this breastWithtrouble and anguish thrilled !Break, and be thine the rest,The Healer of hearts hath willed.
Break,0 heart , in this breast
,
Grown weary with lapse of years !With Ian our of hopes repressedThe sea ing of unwept tears .
Break , 0 heart, in this breast,Break
,fromearth ’s chains away ;
As dawn by the night hard-
pressedLeaps into the arms of day.
Break , 0 heart, in this breast,Break, be His plan fulfilled
Who, tossed on the billows crest,Said Peace, and the waves were stilled.
THE JOY OF HARVEST .
What if the year no longer gladWith scented rose and hon ied bell
Steps on its journey tired and sad
As to a death - doomed century ’s knell ?
WILLIAM BLANE .
What if the balmy warmth is gone,And shiverin
g)herds the change declare,
While summer irds have early flownTo seek ausprcrous skies elsewhere ?
New joys await th’ industrious swainWhen ,
harvest’s swelterin labours o’er,
He views with pride the big - stack’d gram
That swells his garner to the door ;Such gen’
rous bounties of the yearRejoice his heart as summer ram
Makes lad the brook , and in his ear
Hoar inter twangs his trump in vain .
When Time the harvest of our deeds
Shall reckon up , how will it stand?
Withprecious grain ,
or worthless weeds,Wil toilsome st riving fil l his hand?
If fruitfu l labour we expend,
Though work seems tangled threads and thrums ,Our hearts shall know what joys attend
The harvest when the reckoning comes .
>l<
WILLIAM BLANE.
To be born with Bohemian blood in one’
s veins may be a
blessing or the reverse of a b lessing , much depending upon thedisposition of the possessor and the power of his wi l l to mouldcircumstances and compel them to become the instruments of
self - promotion. Wil liam Blane, who was born in Greenholm,
Newmilns, in the parish of Galston, acknow ledges having a
spark or two of Bohemian fire in his veins , inasmuch as he has
been no weakly stay - at- home, but a hardy , industrious, and
unflinching pioneer , the field of his labours being chiefly inSouth Africa, where success has so c losely fol lowed his footsteps that in his case Bohemianism must be accounted an
unqual ified blessing . Mr Blane’
s parents removed to Galstonwhen hewas five years of age, and all his early associations beingwith this place he ranks himsel f a Galstonian . He received a
sound , if elementary , education in Galston , but being the eldestson of a large fami ly was early put to work . His father taughthim engineering , while from his mother he imbibed a love forpoetry . At the same time he attended two night c lasses. One
was conducted by Mr M‘Donald at Barr School , where he wasmuch influenced by that c lassical scholar , and so intenselyinterested that he carried his books to the col liery where heworked, and was often caught poring over them when he
should have been attending to other things . The other classwas that of Mr Wil l iam Ireland, who put mathematics before
140 WILLIAM BLANE.
everything else, and often rated him sound ly for worrying overunprofitab le classics to the neglect of more practical subjects.
In this way, both at home and in school , influences were at
work which produced the poet- engineer, for Mr B lane is
an engineer of note as wel l as an accomplished verse- writer,and to- day he sti l l loves equal ly his profession and his art.
Through a long and arduous career he has never ceased to
be a contributor to various journals in Britain and South Africa,while carrying out large engineering works . His first volume,Lays of Life and Hope (now out of print), was published
some twenty years ago, and his latest, The Silent Land and
Other Poems,”
in 1906, by El liot Stock , London.
Mr Blane’
s poems are remarkable for fecundity and richness of thought, flowing in easy, fluent language and every lineis weighed in the balance with painstaking carefu lness. His
poementitled Creation was undertaken at the dying requestof his mother, who saw part of the first book, but died before hehad finished the second. After her death he had no heart tocontinue the work— the inspiration being lost with her.
In the c losing lines of Book II. he thus mournfu l lysoliloquizes on the sad event that paralysed his sorrow - smittenlyre
Weep , lovely Eden ! scenes Elysian, wee lYe seraphs, guard up
on my sorrow keepYe zephyrs languish and ye rivers flowIn muflied muslo to the throb of woe !Ye birds of Paradise forbear to sing,And droo awhile with me the radlant wing !Lament , 8Earth ! and ye surrounding spheresDistil through aching space celestial tears !Sun , moon
;and stars
,in pity o
’er me bend
And B eav 11 itself a mortal’s grief attend !And t
‘hou , my loved, my sorrow - smitten lyre,Let anguish sweep thy cords and quench thy fire !Ye pitym Muses
, ever sweet and kind,My throbfiing brows with cypress gently bind,And lead me hence. I who with hope elateCame pressed by time, erstwhile to yonderg
ate ,
Would now retrace my steps in grief and ear,
For human sorrow may not linger here.
Yet bear me witness , O ye Powers Above !How hard I tried in filial faith and loveMy task to compass and my work complete,That I might lay it roudly at her feet,Hope holdin
gout t e sweet reward the while
A mother ’s b essin and a proving smile.
O gentle spirit , flegbeyond)
the skies ,To which my grief - embittered prayers arise !Thy tender pity I in sorrow crave,t 116 I lay these fragments on thy grave.
142 WILLIAM BLANE.
B ut leave me not, for Erin’s Isle
Would be no longer fair and reen ,
Nor bright the heavens without t y smile,My loved, my beautiful K athleen ! ”
Tears to her deep - fringed eyelids clungTrembling from Beauty ’s self to fall
,
While on her dreaded answer hungHis happiness, his life, his all.
Too late ! ” she said, alas, too late !I am a woman, thou a man :
I too am weak and passionate,And love as woman only can .
And never can a brother ’s partBe his who hath a lover been !
The Cross will soothe my brokenGo thou, be brave— forget K athleen !
One kiss, one tear one hand- clasp more,And each , grief - laden ,
turned awayShe to the Christ her sorrow bore,He his unto the aching day.
Nor veil nor beads, nor book nor cellNor pray
ers nor tears in cloisters dimNot e
’en t e Cross— can wholl
yquell
The ling’ring, loving thoug t of him.
And as that cloudlet of the westWhich basked upon the lucid scene
Hanggblack
’ning now on ocean
’s breast,
So roods he of the lost K athleen ,
NOTE —T he foregoing is another version of the loves ofK evin and Kathleen to that told by the nide books and enshrinedin Moore ’
s poem,By that lake whose g
hoomy shore,” and reflects
fireater credit on both the lady and t e Saint of Glendalough.
Ivek is Kevin reversed.]
LOVE’
S MAGIC SPELL .
Oft I recall the moment whenLove’s magic
'
s
lpell first thrilled my soul
Entranced was al my being thenThou the supreme, the one Control .
To music all my pulses beat,And throbbed my heart in joyous glee ;
The world lay conquered at my feet,For life was only full of thee.
The earth was decked with fairer flowers,And bri hter shone the heaven above ,
Enchantedg were the heedless hours ,While all the universe breathed love.
I moved a prince, a king , 9. godUnconscious of all power but thine
Tbswill , like Joves ’ almighty nod,outrolling and directing mine
MY WORK.
Save only one, and that alone divine,Of all the ifta which, being man , are mine.
The first, t 6 best the highest place is thine,My work .
The call of labour and the voice of songIn strength and sweetness lead the life alongSuch is thy gospel pure, serene and strong,
My work .
An aimless youth , it found and taught me thenTo labour honestly W ith spade or pen ,
And led me forth to be a man with men,
My work .
"I‘is this hath yielded me my daily bread,
And often calmed my heart and cooled my head,Yea, made a plank at times an easy bed,
My work.
Passion is quickly sated, pleasures cloy,And love is often but a sorry ployLi fe still is bearable when I enjoy
My work .
When light and gladness favouring Fortunes send,Or when to stern Advers ity I bend,I find my truest , most substantial friend
My work .
If every earthly good before me layAnd I must choose which one alone should stay ;’Twere many a wrench , but I would firmly say,
My work .
If t in so is love itself at times ;If di on t , so often are my rhymes ;If hard, no base dishonesty begrimes
My work.
When pleasant , to the winds all else I fling,
And o’er m task for very adness sing
Nor would Iput aside, to E33 3 king,My work .
When at the last my earthly sands have run,
Whatever may be doubtful lost or won,
I shall be well content if I have doneMy work.
144 WILLIAM BLANE .
By labour, those who mould the world are made,Be theirs the sceptre, sabre, pen or spa
’
de,
Their genius this— to heart and hand is laidTheir work .
I hold that usefulness is more than fame,That duty has the first and final claim,
That only knaves and cowards couple shameW ith work .
SCENES OF YOUTH .
Fond Memor ever . with unerrin truth ,Cherishes an recalls the scenes 0 youth,And every day we rove or league we roamStrengthens her hold 11 11 our Childhood’
s home.
I’ve wandered long an far, but every yearHas made that sacred spot of earth more dear ,And every distance which is placed betweenThat spot and me but vivifies the scene.
When at the last mine e es must close in deathAnd thou would’
st spee with cheer my fleeting breath ,Remember where I s ent my boyhood days,And speak of Lou cun’
s bonn Ie woods and brassAnd Irvine’s banks : brin in my sister ’s name,For wanting her it coul not be the same.
And, when you point me to the Home above,Eternal pleasure and unchanging love,Think that I easiest will understandThe images drawn frommy native land.
SPIRIT - LOVE.
I met her first in the morning brightHer heart was young and her footstep lightAs we strolled along the flowery lawnOur souls were strangely together drawn,
And a speechless love like a s irit- spellOn my boyish bosom calmly fe I
,
For I knew she was mine,as I know it now,
By a bond too ure for an earthly vow !In that sacred our, though our lips were dumb,Our lives were knit for the world to comeAnd I longed in parting; I knew not whyI longed in that morning hour to die.
I met her next when the”
clouded sun
Full half of his weary course had run .
The maiden had donned the matron ’s grace
And hers was a mother ’s thoughtful face ;I too had chan cd— but her girlhood nameTo my bearded ips unbidden came !Then a holy silence o
’er us stole,
And a greedy yearning soul to soul .’Twas but for an hour - how soon it fled !And never a word of love was said ;
14 6
Nora —The above linesExcalibur ,
WILLIAM BLANE.
MY SISTER .
Her maiden name was Jeanie Blane,Her formwas tall and slender
,
Her face had made a princess vain ,
Her eyes were blue and tender ;But she has long been M rs Baird,And had three pretty boys ,Four years ago
— when last we heardIn Braidwood, Ill inois .
’T1s but ten years, yet it ap rs
An age since last I kiese her :For I must bear the growing fearsOf having lost a sister .
How oft in childhood’s happy days,W ith all a brother ’s pride,
I’ve crown-ed her queen on Loudoun’
s braceWith wreaths from Irvine’
s side !There Spring oher dais ied carpet spread,And tripping o
’er the lea
,
Fair SFor sister Jean and me.
Oh ! if you know her, tel l her, please,That I have sadly missed her ;
Help ,all ye scribes across the seas,
To find a scribbler ’s s ister !
Ye editors of IllinoisAnd all the western clime,
If e ’er ye knew a brother ’s joys,
Take over this short rhyme,For now the summers come and goNot blythely as of old ;
ummer came with laughing tread
Their days are joyless, dull and slow,
E’en Afric’s suns are cold,
And cheerless are its bri htest skies,It
’s diamonds do not g ister ,
Nor are its goldfields rich to eyesThat fill for a lost sister .
the British and American newspapers .
gained.
AUTUMN TINTS.
were published about 1887 ina Cape journal , and were re roduced by many of
e desired end was
The gladness of Spring held a tear for usThe fulness of Summer a fear for us ;
But Autumn , serenely,Sedately and queenly,
Comes calminlgo
and crown ing the year for us .
Now Spring, ve, and Summer, so sweet in you,
Wnanuu BLANE.
Blend, smiling, fair Autumn to greet in you,
While assion reposesWhere dimples and roses
Sti ll linger with beauty complete in you.
The S rin and the Summer were ga with us
They rolic ed and Ian bed in their p ay with us ;B ut Autumn
,so t- stealing
,
Comes wooing, appealing,Like a love too entrancing to stay with us !0 Love of the autumn tints cling to meYou are more than both summer and spring to me !
The sweet of all sweetness ,Fruition
, completeness,In peerless perfection you bring to me.
SONNET : AN APRIL DAY.
Again good- bye— there’s nothing more to say !Tis well the loves of Ion ago are dead.
The heart- ache dulled, t e tear no longer shedThat pride and passion yield to reason ’
s sway ,And l ife’
s no longer like an April daOf changing shade and shine, but une, insteadSheds roses round, with constant skies o
’erhead,
To while dispassionate, the hours away .80 said f— but that love of long ago
Came rushing back a moment , and those yearsStood forth from all the others , till the glowOf my false June suffused itself in tears !
That April day was heaven, wel l I know,
For al l its/iciclefaith and faithless tea rs.
THE FIRST SABBATH MORNING .
(Selection from Creation.
Thou fairest brightest, first nd best of days !Angels with harps aeolian hai led thy rays ;Pr imeval flowers awoke from dewy dreamsTo swing their fragrant censors in thy beams ;The forests murmured praise ; rivers and rillsB abbled their gladness to the ladd
’nin hil ls.
W inged warblers met thee tri ing fort their songOf happy welcome, full andsweet and strong ;And every creature of the teeming earthHailed wrth unconscious praise thy comin forthG reat Ocean hushed his voice, and at thy eet
Rolled awful worship ,vast , profound and sweet,
While, side b side 11 n his heaving breast,His reat an small t y loveliness confessed.
And e, the first of men , with wond’
ring eyes,Beheld thy blushes breaking on the skies
147
48 WILLIAM BLANE .
A myriad glinting lories paved the way,Flitting about thy est in
gladsome pla
ile wing - vei led seraphs ed thee fortlito blessCreation’
s universal loveliness.
THE FINAL PAGE.
With wear hand he laid the penBeside t e finished final page,
And wondered if the eyes of menWould read it in some future age ;
Or if , forgotten and unread,The volume would oblivious lie,
Like some lost memory of the deadWho lone and unremembered die
But inly conscious of their worth ,Though conscious of their weakness too,
He sent the humble pages forth ,And slept as weary toilers do !
Sweet is his rest— no pen , no voiceHis slumbering heart and ear can thrill
But God and Time havemade their choice,For, being dead he speaketh still .”
THEY ’
LL COME AGAIN .
The ’11come again— the children of our sorrowho so
'
ourn now be ond our mortal kenSure as t e promised awn of God
’s to-morrow,
In song and sunshine, they will come again.
They’ ll come again ! They’re safe in Love’s own keeping ;And, thou h unknowing how or where or when ,
The voice onachel for her children weepingIs pledge andpromise they will come again .
The ’ll come again ! Untiring aeons
,solving
T e myst’ries of the universe and men
,
For ever fuller , sweeter life evolving ,Immortal fold them— they will come again
They’ ll come again ! On this the soul rel ingJoins , grief - Impasswned,
Nature’s gran Amen,Which
,harmonized by faith and hope undying
Heav’n hearing, answers, “ They shall come again.
>l< >l<
GEORGE NEIL.
To some the day of life is onemonotonous round of dutiesperformed day in and day out with the regularity of an electricc lock . Rising every morning within half a minute of the same
150 MRS THOMSON .
MRS THOMSON . NEE MARY BOYD.
This aspirant after poetical honours is descended from a
literary stock, her grandmother, whose maiden name was
Margaret Howie, being the great - grand- daughter of John Howieof Lochgoin, the distinguished author of the Scots Worthies .
”
Mrs Thomson was born in Mauchline, and lived part of herchildhood in the house where Robert Burns began his marriedl ife with Jean Armour . When nine years of age she removedto Newmilns with hermother, where she resided til l the time of
her death .
Her latent poetical talents lay dormant ti l l She was aboutsixteen years of age, at which time she began to write occasional
verse ; but themost of her work was accomplished within the lastsix or seven years . Her poems and songs are the spontaneousoutflow of a warm and feeling nature, her themes being chieflyof a homely and pious kind. While her writings are not
entirely free of blemish , several of her pieces have been con
Sidered worthy of award by competent judges, and on more thanone occasion have secured for her the much coveted prizeoffered in competition by a G lasgow weekly newspaper .
THE MINER LAD.
Down in the dark , with flickering gleam,
The miner lad gs away,!With ne’
er a blin of a M r ht sunbeamTo lighten the toilsome ay.
Week in ,week out, frommorn till noon
He works in the cold, damp earth,’er a cheery lilt of a tune
From the wild bird in its mirth ;Down
,down
,far below in the ground
He’s toiling for all he is worth .
Biddingfarewell to the light of day,
He 0 eeril enters the cageThat drops im down to his living tomb ,His dangerous war to wage ;
Hewing the gem of ebony hueFrom the rock- bound wall below,
Facindg fire- dam that lurks unseen
An the treac erous flood’s o
’erflow ;
Down , down far below in the round,
He’s the hravest lad that I now.
By the ingle fire with ruddy glowWe sit In the pleasant heat,With ne
’e'
i' a thought of praise for himWhose hands our wants thus meet ;
JAMES MACPHERSON . 151
While the humble miner , fathoms down ,
Toils hard in the bowels of loom,
And the light of the hearth wit its riceless worthIs the gem brou ht out of the tom
Down,down ,
far elow in the groundLet his praise through the land resound.
>l< >l<
JAMES MACPHERSON .
There is always something regretful ly sad in the prematuredecay of genius, and to this more readi ly almost than aughtelse we pay the moumful tribute of our tears .
”
James Ma herson was born in Greenholm,Newmi lns ,
in the Parish of Galston, and had entered on a most promisingcareer when he fel l a prey to consumption and was carried 0 5
in the twenty - sixth year of his age.
When laid aside by disease from his Divinity studies hesoothed his so litary and ofttimes painfu l hours by the practiceof Music , and by exercising his talents in the fields of Poesy .
In the former he was held to be about as proficient as can be
expected of any amateur musician . His serious verses are
tinged with pathetic beauty and deep reflections.
A selection of his sermons and other writings was published as a memorial volume a short time after his death .
VOICE OF THE ROSE.
(Sent with a rose to three invalid brothers, helpless frombirth owing to a spinal defect.)
Afllicted brothers , unto you I sendA sim le flower— accept it froma friendWho nows the cross of frailty you ’ve to bear,And in afflict ion ,
too,has had a share.
Plucked from its parent stem,this fragrant rose
Is swiftly basting to its brief life’s close
To heart that heeds the message that it breathes,Rich is the legacy a dying flower bequeaths ,Attend, and ere it
’s transient bloom departs ,
Learn , while it lives , the lesson it imparts :
I’mbut a flower , but this I knowThough born to bloom, and fade, and die,
”Twas heavenly wisdommade me so,
It is not mine to uest Ion why .
God mi ht have made me great in power,And igher lot to me ass igned,
But since He willed me for a flower,My will was unto His resigned.
JOHN H. GREENE .
THE LOVE OF LONG AGO.
The wiatr sky is flushed,
The dul discordant humOf busy life is hushed,The s ilent hours have come ;
And gleaming from afar ,Be ond this world of sin,
One o nely little starMy window pane peeps in
Like some remembered dream,
A long forgotten thou ht,From some unfinished t eme,On which of Old I wrought ;
With footfall soft and lightWith measured tread an slow,
Steals o’er my soul to- night
,
My love of long ago.
TO- night my soul holds swayYet dreamful as my mood,
One chord alone will playHere in my solitude
The spring- tide song of birds,The streamlet ’s murmur low,
The fond and foolish wordsOf love’s sweet long ago.
Again the thril l of bliss,The ardent vow of youth ;
A ain the raptured kiss,rom lips of stainless truth
,
I seem to feel her breathGlow warm upon m cheek
I seem, unrobbed b eathTo - I
‘
Iight to‘hear er speak
From out the shattered past ,With all its bitter tears,
M soul to- night holds fasthe love of other years .
O’er memory’s twilight fieldsW ith thoughts the heart may know,
Like incense sweet it stealsMy love of long ago.
A NEW - YEAR ’
S HYMN .
Another short year has departed,And another already be nu ;
Ah how many old faces w 0 started,The woof of their weaving have spun ?And the weaver ’s cold fingers are done
JOHN H. GREENE . 155
Im ll’d by those ho es we all cherish0 make the worl better for men,
Or seeking the riches that perish ,The re dro ped fromour sight and our ken,
Andylife wil ne’er know them again
Ah ! who can foretel what’s before us,
What ’s hid in futurity ’s womb ?For He alone knoweth who’
s o’er us ,
If sunshine,or shadow , or gloom
If marching to joy .or the tomb .
A car with its sunshine and sorrowyou ever stare life in the face ?
With Its simple to- day and to - morrow ,
And death drawing nearer each paceSome onemissed each day in the race.
What makes up the span of existence?Brief moments unmask’
d in their flight,Brave deeds and unswerving res istanceTo all that’s obscurin the li htDevotion to truth an the rig t .
Look back on the year and its sinningAnd thus when your thoughts have n
Make better the year now beginning,By shunning the follies of last ;For we may not recal l what is past .
See ! beckoning onward and ever,
The days that shall number the year ;There are many kind words to del iverAnd many sad hearts we may cheerGod makes duty ’s path ever clear .
For yester - year ’s only true pleasu resAre noble deeds faithfully done ;
Something the conscience may treasure,Some good work in earnest begunSome victory worthily won .
THE CHARMER FROM THE HYDROPATHIC .
Enamoured with a passing glanceBestowed, I thought, so ve kindly ,
I asked the charming girl to ance,
And oh, the creature danced divinelyWe tri
pped across the polished floor ,
Her and in mine— ’twas bliss ecstatic ;
I’ve loved her now a week and moreThat charmer fromthe Hydropathic.
I’ve written sonnets to herey
es ,
And burned for her the mi night taper ;In fact I’ve told the usual lies ,And vow
’d ete rnal love—on paper .
156 MATTHEW ANDERSON .
And should perchance love’s tender glowBegin to sputter in its socket,
’Tis consolatron sweet to knowI’ve got her photo in my pocket.
Ah ! W itching girl what would Igive?
Though here I own my fortune a slender ;Just one more week again to liveA captive to thy lances tender .
It may not be, for ate’s unkind,
But still I swear it most em haticI’ll love you till - well
,till I (I
Some other at theHydropathic.
>l< >l<
MATTHEW ANDERSON .
It wil l be obvious to all students of poetry that the Museis no respecter of trades or professions, but showers her favourson whomsoever she wi l ls, no matter what their cal ling may be.
It wou ld seem, however, that she does favour certaincal lings more than others, the school teachers and handloomweavers of Ayrshire coming in for an extra large share of her
bounties, while to policemen and ploughmen she only stoops
once in a while, as in the case of Matthew Anderson, the policeman -
poet of Symington, and Robert Burns, the ploughman -
poet
of Mossgiel .Mr Anderson, like the great Ayrshire lyrist, began his
work - a- day life as a farm hand. He abandoned farm work at
an early age, however, and engaged in the Scotch draperytrade, which in turn he abandoned and threw in his lot withthe Royal Marines
, putting in a termof three years as a gunner .About twenty - five years ago he joined the Ayrshire Constabulary , so that from the day when he first saw the light inWaterside— the vil lage of his birth— til l the present time hehas reaped a fairly broad and sympathetic knowledge of the
world, as manifested in some Of the b est of his poems and
lyrics .
NUMBER NINE.
thing, thou art sae fine
Com red wi’this rough form 0
’ mine,
Fr frae the Hands 0’the Divine
Thou com’et to me ;
Then welcome hame,wee Number Nine ;
I’mprood o
’thee.
158 FRAN CIS Hoop .
And now when men for freedom yearn,’neath a tyrant’s yoke.
of heart and mind they turnand his shade invoke.
That night when fast fromAyr he fled,And made his foes has vengeance fee l
,
He ha lted here, locked downg and saidYe Barns o
’Ayr , burn weel ] burn weel !
What scenes those days of Wallac e yield,What blood and tea
yrs
,and what despa
Am gon these lovely ferti'le fieldsBetween K ilmarnock and auld Ayr.
Again beho ld that lofty Tower,g
And think of himwho faltered not,
Till o’er thy sou l there falls a shower
Of Scottish feelings— burning hot.
Here stood the man who stemmed the flood,The purest patriot e
’er drew breath
,
Who set on fire our fathers ’ blood,
And sealed our freedom with his death .
>i< >i<
FRANCIS HOOD.
There are three aristocracies, says Schopenhauer,the first of birth and rank , the second of wealth , the third,
and real ly the most honoured, of intel lect.Francis Hood, who IS a native of Ayr, can boast neither of
rank nor wealth , and we therefore class bimin themost honouredaristocracy which is that of intel lect. His opportunities of schooleducation were such as are common to persons in his stationof life, and after leaving the care of the dominie he served a
term of instruction to'
the trade of carpet weaving, first in Ayr,and afterwards in Paisley . This cal ling he abandoned after afew years ’ trial , and returning to Ayr, set about learning the
trade of shoemaking , at which he wrought for a time in Ayr,and subsequently in Maybole. Outdoor work being , however,more to his liking, he afterwards entered the service of the
G lasgow and South - Western Railway Company , in due timebecame a stoker, and at length passed the examination at Kil
marnock for an engine- driver . During his term of service withthe rai lway company the great strike took place, and althoughreinstated afterwards, Mr Hood remained only about a yearlonger m the service, the Ayr Electric Corporation Works beingthe next scene of his labours. Final ly , he reverted to his old
trade of shoemaking , and is presently in the employment of
Messrs A. Cuthbert Sons, Ayr.
FRANCIS Hoop . 159
The lineage fromwhich our poet descends is deserving ofsome comment. His great grandfather, F rancis
.Hood, was not
only an ardent admirer of Burns, but one of the best expositorsof Scotland ’
s National Poet. He was, moreover, Thom’
s modelfor Souter Johnnie, and, in company with Mr Au ld, travel ledthrough England, Scotland, and Ireland exhibiting the statuesof Tam o
’
Shanter and Souter Johnnie and reciting the poemsof Burns. In this capacity he had the honour of appearingbefore K ing George in London, and he and his friend had thesatisfaction of raising about £5000 towards the fund for
erecting Al loway Monument, of which Hood was afterwardsappointed the first caretaker. We transcribe the two fol lowingpieces by Francis Hood as fair samples of the untutored art.
HOMEWARD BOUND.
With joke and song o’er the sparkling foam
Our gallant barque we steer ;Each knot we make brings us nearer homeAnd friends we love so dear .
Our hearts aglow with pleasant dreams ,Such scenes to meet our view ;
What yarns we ’ ll spin of what we’ve done,what we mean to do .
Ye ho ! my jolly tars , ye ho !
Now e’er yon sun has sunk below
Our barque that well is manned,
gimme c lear and fair winds blow
,
h touch our native land.
Then s lack each reef if reef there be,
Let loose to ever swell,
And tack with skilfthe foamin sea,
Throu love for home and ell.e ho ! my jolly tars , ye ho !
Hop
e’s golden beacon ides the tar,
11d love his bosom llsAs new with joy he views afarHis native ris ing hills .
Once safe within the harbour bar,Our bar ue in berth hung tight
,
We’ ll drin a health ’mid ro and ar
To home and beauty bright}?
8p
Ye ho ! my jolly tars, ye ho !
LINES SUGGESTED ON THE OCCASION OF MAJORGENERAL SIR ARCHIBALD HUNTER LEAVINGSCOTLAND.
B ri t the glare of martial glory.
at su rrounds th noble name ;ations echo forth t at storyAs they mark thy rising fame.
160 FRANCIS HOOD.
Scot land looks with pride upon you ,
Proud of such a noble son
Well you ’ve won a country ’s honourDear to her by what you’ve done.
Home again to bonnie ScotlandCrown
’d with honour and success !
Ma the work that lies before youPihver fail— to make it less .
Health promote its great advancements ,God be with you where you be ;
And in batt le’s ste rn engagements
you safe on land or sea .
country’s wish, go with ya country ’s hope and aim
Home again to bonnie Scotland,etc.
s . HAMILTON PAUL . 163
REV. HAMILTON PAUL.
The Carrick Division of Ayrshire, which lies south Of the
Banks and brass O’ bonnie Doon,
” ‘
is much more sparselypopulated than either Ky le or Cuninghame. Hence the poets
Of Carrick are a smal l minority in comparison with the numbers who hail from the two latter divisions . Nevertheless ,Carrick, which is, perhaps, the most romantic portion of Ayr
shire, has not been entirely forsaken Of the muses. Its few
minstrels have acquitted themselves admirably , and have therebyadded fresh evergreens to the poetic laurels Of
Ayrshire. First
in po int Of time among the poets Of Carrick is amilton Pau l ,who was born in a cottage, now removed, but which occupied a
site on the“ Butler ’s Brae,
”
near to the mansion - house Of
Bargany , in the parish Of Dail ly . Hami lton Paul was educatedfor the Church , and while attending the col lege classes had thegood fortune to be a fel low - student of Thomas Cam bel l , the
poet. At this point Of his career it seemed a doubtful)
questionwhether the Carrick bard or his fel low -
poet would win the mostenduring laurels , for Hami lton Paul , even then, attracted the
favourable notice of the professorial staff by reason of his poeticeffusions . Unfortunately for the credit of Carrick , his Pegasusproved short - winded, and his rival eventual ly carried Off the
palm Of victory . Mr Paul ’s first pu lpit appointment was as
assistant to a parish minister in Ayr, and while thus engaged hedevoted part Of his time to newspaper work on the staff Of the
Ayr Advertiser,”
Of which paper he was some time editor andjoint'
proprietor.
About this period he contributed many poetical efi'
usions
to the press and became widely known as a ready- wit and an
extempore poet. He was ordained eventual ly to the charge Of
Broughton parish , in Peebles - shire, and as a sample Of his wittyways it is recorded that when he had resolved to leave Ayr forgood and all he intimated a farewel l evening sermon to the
young ladies Of Ayr, choosing for his text the words , And theyall wept sore and fel l upon Paul
’
s neck .
”
In everything pertaining to Robert Burns the reverendgentleman took a warm and active interest. He was poet
laureate Of the fi rst Burns club , which met annual ly at Al lowayCottage, and for eighteen years in succession he composedanniversary odes, which were recited at the annual gatherings ofthe c lub .
On a certain occasion, when the destruction Of the Au ldBrig O
’ Doon was threatened by the Road Trustees, thereverend poet penned a poetical petition which was presented
164 REV. HAMILTON PAUL .
to the authorities, and by this timely intervention the c lassicOld structure was saved from destruction . For this servicealone the Rev. Hami lton Pau l ’s memory shou ld be revered byall true admirers Of our National Poet.
The fol lowing verses are fromOne OfMr Pau l ’s AnniversaryOdes, and wil l give readers some idea of his poetic skil l z
i i G
Ye sacred groves ye silver streams ,That glitte r to the suns y beams ,Your lov’d retreats we choose :
To sin of himwho bids you showA bri verdure, as you blow,
A sweeter mu rmu r,as you flow,
In his enchanting muse .
Ye woods that grace his Coila’s plain,
Ye bloom and fade ,and bloom agam
But in his deathless verse portray’d,
Ye blossom never more to fade.
Still Spring, with hyac inthine bell ,Shall grace the green groves of Ro zelle
,
And Summer,W ith bewitching
Bloom round the borders of B eAnd that lov
’d stream
, bless’d by his song,
In soft meanders glide,
The Braes of Allowa’among
Or woodlands of Doonscide .
Still honest men and maidens fairShal l thread the bonnie banks of Ayr,And th
’annua l tributary lay,
wfllin hearts to him we’ ll ay,Whose ar nt sou l and polished
pmind
Who bade the youthful Scottish swainBreathe from his soul a purer strain,
Expressive of love’s joy or woe,
Than ever yet was heard to flowFrom slhe erd on Arcadian plain !Who tau t the ruddy ru ral lassWhen May-morn gems the dewy grass
,
As,bending o
’er her milkin pail ,
To pour her soft notes on t e galoNotes that a Vesta l well might hear ,And notes that would have oharm’
d theAnd claim’
d the pathetic tearOf Petrarch in aucluse
’s vale !
Happy could I ascend on equal wing ,
An soan high with equa l vigour sing,
Then Doon should ro l l more rapidly his floods,
Ayr more majestic wander through his~woods .
166 REV. HAMILTON PAUL .
You see in Helen’s face so mild,
And in her bashful mien ,
The winning softness of the child,The blushes of fifteen .
Her’witching smile,
when prone toAr rests me, bids me stay ;
Nor'
oy ,nor comfort, can I know
When reft of Helen Gray.
May never Envy’s venom’d breathBlight thee, thou tender flower !
And may- thy head ne’er droop
Affliction ’s chilling shower !
Though I the victim of distressMust wander far away ;
11my dyiili
fhour I’ll bless
elen dray .
THE BONNIE LASS OF BARR .
Of streams that down the valley run,
Or through the meadow glide,Or glitter to the summer sun
,
The Stinshar is the pride.
"Pis not his banks of verdant hue,Though famed they be afar ;
Nor rassy hill , nor mountain blue,Nor orw
’r bedropt with diamond dew ;
chiefly charmsLass of Barr .
5
e Lark on ea rly wing,
tide to hail,When dais ies deck’
d the breas t of spring,
The beam that gilds the evening sky,And brighter mo rn in
fiastar
,
That tells the king of y is nigh,
Writh mimic lendour vain ly tryTo reach the ustre of thine
Her bosom swel'l’d with gent le woe,
Mine strove with tender warOn Stinshar
’s banks while wild woods grow lto the ocean flow,
With love of thee my heart shal l glow,
ie Lass of Barr .
>i< >i<
HEW AINSLIE.
When Hamilton Paul first arrived in the little cottage nearBargany it was scarcely expected that he would b lossom into a
poet with a voice tuned to the praises of Robert Burns. Muchless was it expected that ere twenty years should elapse a secondand greater than he would be born in the same cottage. Bysingu lar coincidence this actual ly took place. Hew Ainslie isone of the few Carrick poets who have added enduring laurelsto the muse of Ayrshire. His education was begun at homeand continued at Bal lantrae parish schoo l and at Ayr Academy .
As he grew up a somewhat delicate lad he was first put to learnoutdoor work as assistant nur
’
seryman in the Bargany gardens,but while stil l in his teens he removed with his father to Rosl in,
near Edinburgh , and in the Scottish Metropolis young Ainsliefound employment as c lerk in the Register Oflice, and actedalso for a short time as amanuensis to Professor Dugald Stewart .
In 1822 he emigrated to America , having previouslymarried a cousin of his own , Janet Ains lie by name. In
America he launched out into several commercial concerns,trying in turn farming , bui lding , and brewing, but withoutattaining to any great measure of success .
Before leaving his native country he made a tour throughCarrick with a companion, and an account of this trip he
pub lished under the title of“A Pilgrimage to the Land of
Burns,” incorporating into it some of his best poetical eflusions .
After revisiting his native land he returned to America, and diedat Louisvil le, where some of his fami ly u ltimately estab lished a
lucrative business in the iron trade.
Ainslie ’
s poems exhibit striking originality and picturesqueness, pawky Scottish humour, and touching pathos. One of
his songs , The Rover of Loch Ryan ,
”has been adjudged by
zompetent critics to be one of the finest sea songs ever written.
THE ROVER O’LOCHRYAN .
The Rover 0 ’Lochryan he
’s gane
Wi’ his merry men sac brave ;Their hearts are o
’steel an
’a better keel
Ne’er bowled owre the back 0
’a wave.
It’s no
’ when the loch lies dead in its trough,When naething disturbs it ava
’
,
But the rack an ’the ride o
’the restless tide,
Or the splash o’the grey sea- maw ;
16 HEW AIN SLIE .
It’s no
’ when the yawl an’the light skii‘fs crawl
Owns the breist o’the siller sea
That I look to the west For the barkI lo’e best ,
An’the Rover that ’s dear to me.
But when that the elud lays its cheek to the flood,An
’the sea lays its shouther to the shore
,
When the win ’sings high an
’the sea- whaups cry,
As they miss frae the whitening roar
It’s then that I look thrrmgh the thickening nook,An’ watch b the midui t tide ;
I ken the win brings my.
ver hameOn the sea that he gleams to r
O merry he s its’mang his
'
ovial erew ,
Wi’ the helm- heft in his and,
An’he sings aloud to his boys in blue,
As his s’e
’s upon Galloway ’s land.
Unstint an’slack each reef an’
tack,
Gi’e her sail, boys , while it may sitShe has rcar ’d through a heavier sea afore,An
’she’ll roar through a heavier ye
When landsmen s leep ,or wake an
’c reep,
tempest’s angry moan
through the dri ft , and sing to theO
’
the wave that heaves us on .
It’s brave boys
, to see the morn’s bl he e
’e,
When the night ’s been dark and rea r ;But it
’s bette r far to lie, wi’ our storm- locks dry,
In the bosom 0’her that is dear .
Gd’e her sail
,
"9 her sail
,till she buries her wale ;
Gi’e her sail ys , while it may sit?
She has roaredthrough a heavier sea afore,
An’she’
ll roar through a heavier yet.”
It’s dowie in the hint o
’ hairstAt the wa
’
gang 0’the swallow,
When the W inds grow cauld, when the burns grow bauld,
An’the wuds are hingin’ yellow ;
But,oh l it
’s dowier far to see
The wa’ gang 0
’her the heart gangs wr’
The deadset o’a shining e
’e
That darkens the weary warl’ on thee.
There was meikle love atween us twa
An’
the thing on'
yird was never »madeThat could ha’
e gar ’d us sander ;
170 HEW AIN SLIE.
An’ bear this to Dunelly’s towers,Where my love Ann ie
’s gane ;
It is a lock 0’ my brown hair,
Girt wi’ the di amond stane
Dunellie’ he has dochters‘
five,An ’
some 0’them are fair ;
Sae how will I ken thy true loveAmang sae mony there ?”
Ye’ll ken her by the statelyAs abe aes up the ha
’
;Ye'
ll ken r by the look 0’love
That peers out owre them a’.
Ye’l l ken her by the braid o’ goud
That Spreads o’er her s
’e- bree °
Ye’ ll ken her by the red,red cheek
,
When ye name the name 0’ me
That hame should be my ha ’
;Our tree is how’
d,our flow’
r is‘
dow ’dSir Arthu r ’s an out law.
”
He sigh’d an
’turn
’d him right about,
Where the sea la braid an’ wide ;
It’s no
’to see his nie boat,
But a watery cheek to hide.
The page has doff’
d his feather’d cap,
Put off“
his raven hair ;An’
o
orut there cam’the yellow locks
l e swir ls o’the gouden wair .
Syne he’s undone his doublet clasp’Twas o
’the gras s - green hue
An’ like a 1 i frae the pod,A lady burst in view .
Tell out thy errand now, Sir Knight ,
Wi’ t’
hy love- tokens a’
If I e’er rin aga ins t my will ,
It shall be at a lover ’s
Sir Arthur turned him round about ,E
’en as the lad
y)’ spak’ ,
An’thrice he dig ted his dim e
’e,
An’thrice he stepped back .
But as blink 0’ her bonnie e
’e,
Out spake his Lady Anne !An ’
he’s catqh
’d her by the waist
'W1’the gripe o
’a drowning man .
0 ! Lady Anne thy bed’s been hard
,
When I thought it the down !0 ! Lady Anne
,thy love’s been deep,
When I thought it Was flown .
JOHN TAYLOR, MD .171
But ne’er met wi’ aught before
I liked sae weel— an ill.
0 ! I could mak’a queen o
’thee,
An’it would be
.
my pride ;B Lady Anne, it
’s no
’for thee
be an outlaw ’s bride.
”
Ha’e I left kith an
’ kin Sir Knight,To turn about an
’rue
Ha’e I shar ’d win
’an
’ weet w1’ theeThat I maun leave thee now ?
There’s goud an’
siller inWil l buy us mony a rig ;
There’s pearlings in this other han’
A state ly tower to big .
Though thou’rt an out law frae this lan’
,
The warld’s braid an
’ wideMake room,
make room,m mer
For young Sir Arthur ’s ride l’
Some one has described man as
An infant crying in the nightinfant crying for the l ight,And with no language but a cry ,
and we sometimes have thought this description especial lyapplicable to the c lass of persons known as Reformers ,
”
but
with this difference that reformers of the right radical sort notonly cry louder than most other babies but kick and wriggle forall they are worth til l old Mother Jog- along - ih - the- same- old
style yields to their vociferous entreaties and soothes themwitha draught from the wished for sucking bottle. John Taylor,who was born at Newark Castle, in the parish of Maybole, wasa reformer fi rst and a poet afterwards . As a reformer he wasone of the ablest kickers and wrigglers of his time, and stood
before all comers as a lighter of the torch of liberty , a boldchampion , and a staunch upholder of the civic rights and
privileges of the people of Ayr. For his pub lic services the
inhabitants of Ayr rewarded him, posthumously , by erecting a
statue to his memory in the Wal lacetown Cemetery . After retiring from the po litical field Dr Taylor devoted his leisurehours to the composition of Christian Lyrics ,
” which were
172 ANDREW GLASS .
published by M‘Glashan, Dub lin, in 1851. The lyrics do
credit to the author ’s heart, but do not add any lustre to the
Ayrshiremuse.
BEAUTY IN NATURE.
Vain morta l ! though the smile of Nature bringsTo thee no pleasure ; sti-ll in every face,
In every floweret in the vale that springs ,In every little warbler there that sings ,God
’s mighty hand you trace .
And would’st thou other songs than Nature’s song,Swell
'
in thousand notes amongthe trees ;
Go join t e heartless,despicable t rong
From infancy to crime who sweep along,
And dwell with these .
For me though broken - hearted,I could find
One pleasure in the broken mountainLeaving earth’s grovelling hopes and feaAndborne on fancy ’s wing, the immortal mindW ith God can speak .
Heaven’s wildest notes are music to my ear,
The rushing tempest and the roaringThe fiery lightning darting through theThe thundering voice that others trembHave charms for me.
>t<
ANDREW GLASS.
Just as the twig is bent the tree ’s incl ined.
When Andrew G lass was a sapling the educational Opportunities ofiered to young people were few and inadequate, and
the tree was al lowed to grow up pretty much according to its
own inclination . Young G lass was fortunate, however, ingetting access to a circulating library in his native town, otherwise it is doubtful if ever he wou ld have b lossomed into a poet
or e ssayist. Mr G lass, who was born in Girvan, began his
literary career by contributing poetical pieces to the Ayrshirenewspapers. Some of his effusions were favourab ly noticed byHugh Macdonald, and in course of time the Girvan bard ob
tained an appointment on the staff of the Ayr Observer,”
and
in later life was engaged on one of the G lasgow weekly news
papers .
The poet’s deep love for nature is freely expressed in the
fol lowing lines
174 REV. ROBERT CAMPBELL .
The poet-
preacher wields a ready and fluent pen. His.
muse is not only luminous but voluminous, and he fu l ly justifies'
his title of Bard to the C lan Campbel l Society . His chiefpoetical work is a sacred drama, entitled “ Jezebel , but his
subjects are many and various . The fol lowing pieces i were
kindly placed at our disposal by the author for use in thiswork .
THE'
KING’
S CUP - BEARER .
“ For I was the K ing’s Cup - bearer .” - Neh. i . 2.
Not in hal ls of regal splendour,the rich and great recline ;
Not arrayed in costly vesture,Handing up the ruby wine ;
Not where music breathes its sofO
’er the fairest in the land
,
Saw I this noble servant ,The K ing’s Cup- bearer stand !Where the smner conscience- stricken,
Where the weary feet were bleeding,On the rough highways of life
Where the wear heart was breaking,In the unav
°
i1ng strife .
Where the brow was wet with anguish,
From the never ceasing pain ;Where disease had seized its victim
,
And the bealin art was vain .
There I saw t e King’s Cup- hesGod’
s messenger of grace !As he stept out from the palace,With its light upon his face ;
Hope was wr itten on his forehead,
Love was beaming from his eye,
As he moved among the hapless ,And the stricken
, soon to die ;As he opened up his treasures,And produced the Living Bread ;
And Water from the fountain,‘
Of Christ the Church’s head ;And preciou s leaves of healing
,
From life’s eternal tree,
And the ancient Balm of GAnd flowers from Galilee.
THREESCORE YEARS AND TEN .
A hazy,.
snow- c lad mountain peak,. far off !
In early boyish days I’ve seen you stand.
And , as I gazed through inte rvening years ,I often marvelled how the old must feel
,
REV. ROBERT CAMPBELL . 175
as hoary as thegustak
s themselves ,gOn the lone heightsts of that h altitude !
But now I know ! for here I stand to - day,With my threesoore and ten years fully told
Thankful,I stand to day 1 and backward look,
To see the Winding, toilsome ,upward road,
On which through harpn
rs ,
pI’ve struggled here
By humble cottages onely farms ,And brooks that habahble on in so litude ;By soldiers’ tents ,
through crowded cityBy sho res where summer waters ripple in ,
And scenes as fair as mortal eyes can see !
Filled to its very brim is my r heart ,With gratitude to God a man !see tfiie
lugk abyss
,whose yawning hs ,
ped fordlame like tlie laws of some w beast !
The peril-ode‘p
recipice, upon whose verge
y undeci feet were prone to stan
The hand of God in that strange providence,That snatched me as a brand from out the fire ;And angel visits in Gethsemane !
O divine ! Etern ity itself,E
’
en w n my mind has ct immo rtal strength ,Shall not give scope for my grgrateful praiseAnd you, my fellow travellers beloved,
Somehose
sIeep in dust , and some are far awaycourage oft has been my st imulus
d msfiration in my hours of need
To you owe a debt I cannot pay !
And now I turn ,and there above me high
Are other aks upon whose summits loneSome few 8 all stand,
whoireate r strength receive.
Shall I be there ? Ali who t God can te ll !What matters a? for higher stil l 1 see,
Not mountain peaks alone, but hills and valesThe bette r country whic h the ancients soughtWhere stands our Father’s House ! And even nowSweet odours from the fairest flowers that bloom,
Within that radiant Paradise of God,
Make glad the heart of him,who often dreams
,
Of that great life, the future has in store !
COME UNTO ME.
And him that cometh unto Me I will in no wise cast out.JOHN vi., 37 .
Jesus , I hear Thy vo ice so sweetSay, Come as you are to Me ;
And all I am and have I seek to nender,
O Lord of love to Thee.
176 REV. RODERICK LAWSON .
So vile am I,so utterly undone
,
Unfit to see Thy face ;And this poo r heart Thou perfectlyBy Thy sweet words of grace.
From hands unclean Thou feelest no revuls ion,But takest them in Thine ;
With gentle press ure and with sweetI feel yours laid in mine.
And not to sin ful me alone Thou tu
But to each contrite s’
oul ;Hisprayer of peni tence Thou ne
'
ver spurnest,W o wants to be made whole.
0 Lord ! m Lord, what present can I bring Thee
For all hy grace to me ?Oh ! let that grace trans formmy very being,Till! I’m not I, but Thee !
>l< >l<
REV. RODERICK LAWSON .
The Rev. Roderick Lawson began his clerical careeras assistant to the Rev. John M‘
Leod, of Govan, who then wasminister Of the parish of Newton - upon - Ayr. Mr Lawson wassubsequently ordained to theministry Of the parish of Maybole,in which charge he laboured strenuously til l near the c lose of
his life. He is better known as a writer of local history than a
poet, and it cannot be said that any Of his musings add to the
literary laurels he has won by his prose- writings .
The fol lowing piece wi l l suflice to give readers some ideaof his poetic powers
THE WELLTREES SPOUT.
The Welltrees Spout comes bursting out
From its bed of silent stone,Like the Smitten Rock of old that flowedIn Horeb’
s desert lone.
And its waters cool from the bubbling poo lLeap up to the light of day,
As glad to look on the face of manAnd cheer him on his way.
Full many a scene of the Past , I ween,
IS linked with that quiet spot,And many a face once knew that placeWhom earth now knoweth not .
Yet still the big Ash lifts its head,
And sings to the pass ing breeze,While the children gay about at their playRound the steps of the old Welltrees .
MRS DR AULD.
Thou adversities surround thee,S press onward do not fear ;
And tho vanqui shed in thy sorrow,
God w Wipe the falling tear
Oh ! l ook upwards , ever heavenwards ,L isten to His racione word ;
are bleSt, crever blest,
wait and rest upon the Lord.
i:
.MRS DR AULD.
On our list of Carrick minstrels Mrs Dr Au ld, of Kil
winning , comes last but one in point of time, but by no meansin point of merit. Agnes Wel lwood, for such is her maidenname, was born at Kirkmichael , and educated at Ardrossaii
and Edinburgh . At the early age Of twenty years she was
appointed a Government certificated teacher , and while fol lowing this cal ling in Dumfriesshire and in Ayrshire she studiedmusic both vocal and instrumental . To these congenial pursuits she eventual ly added poesy , several of her poems appearing from time to time in the G lasgow and Ayrshire Weeklies .
She subsequently issued a col lection of her poems under thetitle of Souvenir of Song,
” Copies of which were accepted and
acknowledged by her late Majesty Queen Victoria and by QueenAlexandra. As becomes one who is a musician as wel l as a
poetess, the verses a in this volume are tuneful and melodiousthroughout, and flow with gracefu l case from the pen of our
gifted writer, whose song - gush is as pure and sparkling as the
fountains of Helicon. Although our authoress sings of manyScottish themes and scenes , her muse, says a reviewer,
“is
neither provincial nor local . Heroism, virtue, truth , and
beauty are not themonopoly of any particular clime or country ,and therefore our authoress, being wise as wel l as warm of
heart, selects her subjects froma wider area.
”In 1872 Agnes
Wel lwood was married to Dr Auld, of K i lwinning , and sincethen has resided in the ancient abbey town.
SCOTLAND.
Scotland ! tiliou’rt dear to me
Howe’er I ponder .
Mas DR’
AULD. 179
Oh ! when 14 5t of thee
Fait h, and Tweed so dear ,hills meandering ;
Meade sweet and flow’reta fair ,
’Mong them I’m wandering .
Th lonely tar-
us whereglands her quiet dwell
In thy sweet woodlandBlackbird’
s
U through the Highland glenr bound fan tast ic ;
Far from the haunts of men
TrueTo foes unbending.
SAINT WINNING .
liebarlr had br‘aved the western gale,
This pioneer for Christ was bold.
MRS DR AULD.
By Garnock’s dunes and hills Of bent,
In Segton sha ll my life be nt ;To found a church my no lest aim
,
To tell of Christ and spread His namei
Saint Winnin cast his wrap as ide ;He drew his 8 iii from out the tide.
With eager eyes he scanned the plain ,
And thou t of home not seen againHe Illook for nook
,for cell retreat
,
He looked around for kindly seat
And, baffled by the dearth of foodRound Garnock’
s dunes and solitude,
He was not s low to blame the spriteWho had defrauded him of right ;And
,cursing Garnock’
s finny creatures ,An angry frown stole o
’er his features .
‘l ' 4? it
Truth dawu’d,and seasons came and went,
While all the while his life was spentIn teaching chur'ls the homely arts
,
While sowmg God’s Word in their hearts .
The chief he ta ht to love his c lan,
And prove bimse f a kinder man ;He won the love of yeoman bo ld,
And read that “story never old ;”
He won the children,tender
,fair
,
And told them of a“ Shepherd’
s care ;The maiden ’
s heart he e’en would
By Martha’s zeal and Mary’
s love.
4} if
relentless sweepfain would keep
N igh have fledSince he was numbered with the dead.
HARMONY.
With the weft and the woof the fair web of our life God is weaving ,Altho’
to our vision the threads may seem tangled and tornAnd the glor ified sainrts are adoring (which mortals are grievingiThe bliss that has beamed o
’er their path from the murk to the
morn .
All through our island— its cities , its hills , and its valley,The Press , or the Pulpit , or Platform the fortress of Error assails :
All throu nthe toils , and the wants ,
and the woes of the weak inour a ys ,
Strong with Might of the Right, the triumph of Goodness prevails .
Through seeming wrangle and gangle, the singers are sounding theirpseons
The triiim h of B i ht over M ight , great deeds unselfishly done,Are wait ed ro
’cyc es of Time on—onward thro ’
aeons and aeons ,For goodness is beauty - the song of the xstars and the seraphs is
one.
LATER AND MODERN POETS OF
AYRSHIRE.
Boox II. —CONCLUDED.
PART III. —THE POETS or CUNINGHAME FROM THE
REV. GEORGE CAMPBELL TILL THE PRESENT
DAY.
186 JAMES MONTGOMERY.
Or can the Muse with pleasant song,The much - wishedhap lnoss proloStill cause the cheer 111 numbersNor utter one sad strain of woe?
Can noisy mirth or flowing bowls,
The chief solace of°
ovia1 souls ,Cause every cloud 0 sorrow flyAnd not be followed with a sigh?
Is love, though happy, always .freeFrom anxious thoughts of jealousy ?Or does it yield a lasting joyA sweetness that can never cloy ?
These with united voice replyIn us the bliss did never lie.
We know the flush of transient mirth ,But this you seek grows not on earth .
Fromheaven the bliss must be obtainedThe happy man
.
with guilt unstainedWho treads relig ion’
s sacred ways,
To him it comes,with him it stays.
>i<
James Montgomery, whose style of composition bears someresemblance to that of the English poet Cowper, was born inIrvine, but on his parents removing to Ireland and afterwardsto the West Indies on missionary work , he was sent to be edu
cated at Fulneck Seminary, near Leeds. His association withAyrshire was therefore cut off almost in infancy . After leavingFulneck Seminary he was put to learn the grocery trade, butdid not continue long at the work, which to a mind Of his bentwas sheer drudgery .
About this time his Muse pruned her wings for flight, andcol lecting some of his juvenile verses he proceeded to Londonwith the view of submitting them for pub lication. At first hemet with the customary rebuffs, but eventual ly a pub lishernamed Harrison, in Paternoster Row, perceiving some glimmesof genius in the lad, encouraged himto persevere, and althoughunwi l ling to risk the publishing of his poems, he treated himkindly and took him into his employment.
After a time Montgomery returned to Yorkshire, and was
fortunate in being appointed assistant manager of a newspapercal led the Sheffield Register,
” conducted by a Mr Gales.
While in this situation Montgomery endeared himself to a
JAMES MONTGOMERY. 187
circle of warm- hearted friends , by whose assistance he was able,on the retiral of Mr Gales, to estab lish a weekly newspaper,entitled The Sheffield Iris.
Montgomery ’
s strongly pronounced Radicalism very soon
brought him under the jealous eyes of political opponents , andfor printing and sel ling to a street- hawker a political squib ,entitled “
The Fal l of the Basti l le, he cal led down on his
editorial head the vengeance of the ru ling powers, who had himcommitted to York Castle for three months and mu lcted in a
fine of twenty pounds . Soon after liberation he was condemnedto a second imprisonment of six months for inserting in his
paper an account of a riot, which , it was al leged, reflected seriously on the character of one of the Sheffield Magistrates .
Such in “the good old times was the precarious cal ling of a
newspaper editor . Du ring his confinement our poet diverted hismind by writing poems and songs , which he publ ished in 1797
under the title of“ Prison Amusements .
”The harsh treat
mentmeted out to Montgomery in the early days of the Iriswas in strange contrast to the reception given himwhen, on his
retiral in 1825 from the staff of this newspaper , he was enterv
tained by his fel low - townsmen to a pub lic dinner . Aftervacating the editorial chair he lived in a suburban house knownas
“The Mount,
” where he was visited by many eminentpersons.
TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF ROBERT BURNS.
What bird in beauty , flight, or songCan with the hard compare,
Who sang as sweet and soared as strongAs ever child of air?
His plume, his note, his form could BURNS,For whim or pleasure , change ;
Hewas not one, but all by turns ,
With transmigration strange :
The blackbird oracle of Spring ,When flowedhis moral lay ;
The swallow wheeling on the wing,
Capriciously at play ;
The humming bird, from bloomto bloom,
Inhaling heavenly balmThe raven in the tempest
’s gloom;
The halcyon in the calm;
In auld K irk Alloway the owl,At W i tchin time of night ;By bonnie oon the earliest fowlThat carolled to the light.
188 JAMES MONTGOMERY.
He was the wren amidst the grove,
When in his homely vein ;At Bannockburn the bird of Jove,With thunder in his train ;
The woodlark , in his mournful hours ;The goldfinch, in his mirth ,
The thrush , a s endthrift of his powers,Enrapturing eeven and earth .
The swan , in majest and grace,
Contemplative an still ;But roused— no falcon in the chaseCould
,like his satire, kill ;
The linnet in simplicity ;
In tenderness t e dove ;But , more than all beside, was heThe nightingale in love.
Oh ! had he never stooped to shame,Nor lent a charm to vice,
How had devotion loved to nameThat bird of Paradise?
Peace to the dead ! In Scotia’s choir
Of minstrels , great and small,
He sprang from his spontaneous fireThe Phoenix of them all !
HOME.
There i s a land of every land the pride ,
Beloved by heaven o’er all the world beside ;
Where br ighter suns dispense serener light,And milder moons emparadise the night ;A land of beauty , virtue, valour , truth ,Time- tutored age, and love- exalted youth ;The wandering mariner , whose eye exploresThe wealthiest isles , the most enchanting shores,Views not a realm so bountiful and fair ,Nor breathes the spirit of a urer air.
In every clime the magnet 0 his soul,
Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole ;For in this land of heaven ’
s peculiar grace,The heritage of Natu re’s noblest race,There is a spot of earth supremely blest ,A dearer
,sweeter spot than all the rest ,
Where man, cre ation’s tyrant , casts aside
His sword and sceptre, pageantry ,and pride,
While in his softened looks benignly blendThe sire, the son , the husband,
brother , friend ;There woman reigns ; the mother , daughter , wife,Strew with fresh flow’
rs the narrow way of life ;In the clear heaven of her delightful eye,An angel guard of loves and graces lie ;Around her knees domestic duties meet ,And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet.
190 JAMES THOMSON .
JAMES THOMSON.
The name of this litteraleur occupies a unique place in theliterary annals of Kilmarnock, Thomson being editor and publisbet of the first weekly periodical emanating from the Kilmarnock Press. It was Cal led the “
Ayrshire Miscel lany or Kilmar~nock Literary Expositor,
”
and came into being in 1817 , expiringin 1822. Its successor, the Kilmarnock Mirror or LiteraryG leaner, existed only about sixmonths .
James Thomson ’
s father was proprietor of a tan work inKi lmarnock . When the poet reached manhood he began to
take an active interest inmilitary affairs , and for a time held thecommand of a corps known as the Kilmarnock Sharpshooters .
In the equipment of this corps he spent a large sumof money ,which greatly reduced his fortune and was themeans of breakingup a business partnership which he held with his brother . He
then turned his attention to literary work , but on obtaining a
commission in the Argyleshire Militia he embarked with hisregiment for Ireland, where his health gave way and compel ledhimto return to his native town.
MUSINGS IN OCTOBER .
October winds blow sharp and strong,The clouds veer thro’ an angry sky,
The muddy torrent rolls alonAnd scarce a bird is seen to y
Yet on the s ray sweet Robin sings,His cheer ul notes give fancy ra
He shakes the rain - drops from his wmgsAnd lilts insensible to change.
0 , could I.
careless hear the blast,
Or placid, see the torrent rol l ;Could I
O
but smile when sky ’s o’ercast
And lightnings dart frompo le to po e !
O’er Nature’s wreck I ceaseless mournHerbli hted scenes I love to trace ;
Too l ike t is bosom,wounded, torn ,
This frame robbed of its manly grace.
Betimes the darkest sky will ' clear ;The
_
leafless tree wil l bud again ;The W ith’
ring flowers new bloomshall wear,And p lants and shrubs adorn the plain.
JOHN WILSON .
But when shall 8 ring return to me?Ah ! never on t is earth below !
Hail ! land of immortality !Where storms of time shall cease to blow .
Be these my hopes and these my joys,Anticipation’s.
vis ions sweet ;Far from ambition ’
s madd’ning noise,
Till death shall sound the grand retreat.
Then farewell change, and farewell tears ,Ye ne
’er shall wound this breast again
And farewell doubts, and farewel l fears ,My spirit treats you with disdain .
The rich man ’s sneer , the haughty scorn ,
The vulgar taunts of low and mean ,
In this strange region have I borne,And long companionless have been .
Not so in yonder bright abode !Where rich and poor t other meet,
And humbly bend before t eir God,
W ith hymns and songs divinely sweet
Th is task be mine through endless years ,I’ll patient bear the storms of time ;
And°
oyful leave this vale of tearsTo reathe a mild celestial clime.
>l<
JOHN WILSON .
Fragment supposed to be written by a lover on seeingexpected bride c lothed i n the robes of death .
In thee celestial beauty bloom’d ;
A fragrant evergreenWhich st ill thy countenance illumed,Thy manners graced— thy speech perfumed,
And kept thy soul serene.
Hope whisper’d thou wouldst be my bride,
And fair the future smiled ;But Death did soon that
.
hopederide,Soon swept thee into Ruin
’s tide
,
And my gay prospects spOil’d.
191
John Wilson was a contemporary and fel low - townsman of
the poet James Thomson, of Ki lmarnock . Whi le sti l l a youngman he contributed pleasing little pieces of prose and verse toThomson ’
s“Ayrshire Miscel lany .
a time to Ireland, where he pursued the cal ling of a phrenologist .
His verse is marked by fluency , and is not devoid of poeticimagination as Shown by the fol lowing l ines
Mr Wilson removed after
192 JOHN GALT.
Yet still that lovely look of thineThe last thou ever gave ;
That angel glance— that smi le divineAround my ravished heart W i ll twrne,
And bind it to thy grave.
There may I soon be lowly laid,To mingle with the clay ;
Though through the chambers of my head,W
'here love has oft his ambols play’d
,
The worm will fin its way.
There we from woe will both be free,And to oblivion given ;
stay— sweet saint ! that is not thee."I‘is but thy former chains I see :
Thou now art free— ih Heaven .
Thou now hast tasted life’s pure stream,
That glides the bowers above ;Where God’
s best gifts unnumber’d team,
Where saints in br ightest beauty beam,And sing the song of love.
>l<
JOHN GALT.
John Galt may be regarded as the pioneer of the so - cal ledKailyard School of Scottish Literature.
” He was born in
Irvine, and lived there until the tenth year of his age, when hewas sent to Greenock to join his father, who,
being a Shipcaptain, had a residence there. Galt attended Greenock School ,and was no precocious youth , his health in early life being ratherunstab le, but he Showed an unmistakab le talent for mechanicsand music , besides making occasional excursions into the fieldsof literature. His early poetic flights included a tragedyfounded on the fortunes of Mary Queen of Scots, and a poemon
the Battle of Largs . Having completed his school educationhe was engaged first in the C ustom- house as a clerk and afterwards in a merchant’s office
,but taking offence at some of his
superiors he left this employment and made, his way to London,
Spending a short period in the southern metropolis , during whichhe engaged unsucc essfu l ly in a mercantile venture. He afterwards resolved to study for the legal profession, but beingattacked by a nervous malady he made little progress in his
studies, and after a few years quitted England with the solepurpose of re- estab lishing his health . Travel ling to the Mediterranean, he had the good luck to make the acquaintance of
194 JOHN GALT.
CANADIAN REFLECTIONS.
From a posthumous volume entitled The Demon of
and Other Poems.
At pensive eve what time the sun
Peeped throu hthe trees , his Journey done ;I loved to wait the greenwood sti ll ,Where gloom seems silence visible,And note the fading hues of l ight,My heart partaking too of n ight.
When flowers that in the noonbeam shoneWith colours , like my hopes, were gone ;Oft in the twilight of the woodI view’
d that awed prophetic mood,Which sees the future as a dreamAnd life a shadow
’d woodland stream.
through the boughs I chanced to see
The heavenly orb ’s bright revelry .And felt assured however late,That time wouldbe my advocate,
And make my aims, despite my fear,
As stars fromdarkness come, appear .
NIGHT STORM IN THE TROPICS.
And as the moon her solemn beauty shedF rom the dark ram arts of the orient hill,A sulphurous warmt oppress
’d the livin air,
And in the zenith where in phalanx brig tThe starr host move brightest , dismal spreadAn omen hlack, the herald of a storm:
And suddenly as if Jehovah drewHis sword of vengeance, lightning flashed amain ;Then as an , earthquake, hungry as the grave,Gorging the pom of some great capital,R olled the vast t under , cataracts of dreadWhile fiercest bissin rose, as if the treesWere all exasperate as of oldWas the pest Hydra in its Lern ian bed,When wounded by the iron of Hercules.The waters rushed, with headlong passion wild,
From steep and clifl, and bosk precipice,And deluge, with her hundre voices hoarse
,
Gave hideous warnin that rebellowing wrathM ight yet again in cean trample earth .
it i it a. 5
Meanwhile, without the storm had ceased : the airWas all - as moonlight— pure, yet visible ;And in the dome and concave of the welkin,The vapours vanishing, melted away
,
Exultingly sweet from their choirs around
The holy nightingales an anthem hymned,And all was ca lm, as if Tranqu i llityCame from the starry azure of the skyTo soothe vex
’d Nature to her wont again.
Extract from original poem entitled
IRVINE WATER .
Well I remember all the golden pr ime 0
When sleep and joy were n ight and day in timeThat to be drowsy on my mother ’s kneeWas almost sweeter than blest l iberty .
Oh ! how my heart enjoyed the lov’d caress ,
The patted cheek , the fond maternalness ;And that soft blessin
g,Heaven could not but hear ,
While on my neck fe l the del i htful tear .Oft in the trances of my won r ing youth ,When life was li ht and hope believ’d as truth,On the reen hilgl lov’
d to muse alone,When go d- eyed daises bri
ght around me shone,
And th ink in innocence o boyhood, then ,
How all was lovely that was made for men .
That youn conceit in Fortune’s darkest hour,
Has been ghe candle of my midnight bower ;And still , while ills on wrongs increasing come,It is the torch that lights me on to home.
Wel l do I mind the thrillin gush of blissW ith which the energy of c eerfulnessFirst came upon me in those simple days ,When discontent could but the boy amazeA Sabbath stillness sweetened all the air,The fra
grant sunshine of the summer glare,
Visible lessedness , felicity ,Was , as if Goodness could partake of glee,Boundless afar the shining ocean spread,The azure infinite was overhead,
And in her robes Maternal Nature smiledAs if the world and heaven were reconciled.
In that calm noon as on the rass I lay,
Methought I heardsome gentlge spirit say
Man caged in finitude can never knowThe happ iness of full rfection
’s glow ;
B ut he may taste, an ever more and more,Someth ing of what the future has in store 1’Ever s ince then by Compensating HeavenFor all of sufl’ering ,
recompense was given .
But tho’the thought, as boyhood’
s thought , was crude,I glow’
d W ith it, as if the sense of good
Was first o
experienced then . Oh, many a time,
Amidst dismay has it a peared sublime,
Serene and clear , beyon the hurrying st rifeOf stormand clouds that awed the scene of life ;Oft it has
.
seemed, o
’er st reamers glaring red
,
The morn ing’s harbinger,forbidding dread.
E ’en yet , thank Heaven , tho
’all be dark and drear
Around in path , and Reason beck on Fear,
The cheer ul dream that visited my youth
196 ANDREW AITKEN .
Smiles beautiful , oh beautiful as Truth .
But why is it that in this solemn hourI can but think of boyhood’
s nest and bowerAround but scenes of love I see. Alas !All that I see is but in Memory ’s lass ;Oh ! never more must I again beho (1Such sunny days as were so bri ht of old,When she that’s dust embraced er wayward own
,
And all the claims upon me were unknown .
My native burgh— its window- eyes so brightBasks in the noon and pu
-
rrs as with delight :Sweet is the thought as
‘in that hour of ease,
When all of life was but to play or please.
M sterious Nature ! Why should he complain ,
0 plays a chi ld in Memory ’s hall again ,
Who sees around him ever bright and fair ,The hopes of life, though but a picture’s there ;And W ith the past , when griefs and cares annoy,May be again a happy - hearted boy.
”
>l<
ANDREW AITKEN .
Andrew Aitken was in his day a noted farmer in Overton,
near Beith , where he laboured industriously unti l threescoreyears had gone over his head, maintaining all through life thegood friendship of a large number of respectab le and influentialneighbours. In 1845 his friends and acquaintances presentedhim with a purse of sovereigns and an antique arm- chair inrecognition of his private worth and literary talents. As a poet
he was wel l - known local ly , many of his effusions appearing inperiodicals of his time, and stil l more of them being familiarlyknown and recited at the firesides of the Ayrshire peasantry .
Strangely enough , Mr Aitken never attended school , his motherteaching him the use of the alphabet, after which he soon
learned to read parts of the Bible, ,and by transcribing songs and
scraps of poetry he learned to spel l , punctuate, and compose.
He was much indebted~in early life to Miss Patrick of Trearne,who supplied himwith books out of the family library .
THE AULD FLECKIT COW.
Frae the well we get water , frae the heugh 'we get fuel ,Frae the rigs we get barley , frae the shee we get woo
’
;Free the bees we get hinny , an
’e s frae t e chuckie
,
An"plenty 0’ mi lk frae our aul fleckit cow
An 0 my dear lassie, be uid to auld fleckie,Wi’ the best 0
’ hay- fo der
, an’ rips frae the mow ;
Boil’d meat in a,
bakie, warm, mix’(1 up in bean meal,
For it’s a
’ weel bestowed on the auld fleckit cow.
98 JAMES STIRRAT.
An’ 0 my dear Peggy , we’re thankfu' for mulloch,
Sad care an’ distrust ne’er shall d our brow ;
An’ I wish a’the housekeepin
’ folk in the nationCould sup the pure milk 0
’their ain’ fleckit cow.
>l< >l<
JAMES STIRRAT.
The postmaster in a smal l vil lage ‘is respected almost as
much as the minister and doctor . Coming into frequent touchwith all
'
classes, there is a flow and return of sympathies and
courtesies on his part and on that of the pub lic which inducesa friendship closer , than that of a mere casual acquaintanceship.
When the man of postage chances to add to his other goodqual ifications that of a poet, the sympathetic tie is then at its
strongest. Dal ry was fortunate in having such a postmaster inthe person of James Stirrat, who was, moreover , a son of the
vi l lage. At a very early age his love for poetry was stimulatedby the writings of Robert Burns, whose praises he sounded so
admirably in later years . The fol lowing song is that by whichhis name wi ll in all probabi lity be longest remembered. It was
Written for the Burns Anniversary of 1829
There’s nae hard to charm us now,
Nae bard ava,
Can s ing a sang to Nature true,Since Coila’
s bard’s awa
’.
The simple harp o’earlier days
In silence s lumbers now ;And modern art w i
’timeless lays ,
Presumes the Nine to woo.
But nae bard in a’our Isle,
N ae bard ava ,
Frae pawky Coila wons a smileSince Robin gaed awa
’
His hamely style let Fashion s urn
She wants baith taste and s ill ;And wiser shou ld she ever turn ,
She’ l l s ing his sangs hersel’ .For nae sang sic pathos speaks,Nae sang ava
And Fashion’s foreign rants and squeaks
Should a’ be drumm’
d awa’.
Her far- fetch’d figures aye maun Jail
_
To t ouch the fee ing heart ;S implicity ’s direct appealExcels sic
,learned art.
jams Srmaar .
And use modern ininstrel’s lay,Nae lay ava
,
Sae powerfully the heart can swayAs Robin ’
s that’s awa.
For o’er his numbers Coila’s musemagic influence breathed,
And round her darlin poet’s brow
A serless crown ha wreath’d.
d nae wreath that e’er was seen,
Nae wreath ava,
Will bloom sae lang’s the holly green0
’Robin ’
s that’s awa’.
Let Erin’s minstrel , Tommy Moore,
His lyrics sweetly s ing’Twould lend his harp a igherWould Coila add a string .
For nae harp has yet been kent,Nae ha ava,
To matchr
ihe harp that Coila lentTo Robin that’s awa
’.
And though our shedherd, Jamie Hogg ,
His pipe fu’sweet y lays
,
It ne’er will charm auld
)
Scotland’s lug
Like Plougho
man Rob in ’s lays .
For nae p ipe will Jamie tune,Nae p ipe ava
,
Like that which breath’d by bonnie Doon
Ere Robin gaed awa’.
Even Scotland’s pride , Sir Walter Scott,Who boldly str ikes the lyre,
Mann yield to Robin ’s sweet love- note
His native wit and fire .
For nae bard hath ever sung,Nae bard ava ,
In hamely or in foreign tongue,Like Robin that’s awa
’.
Frae feelin heart TomCampbell ’s laysIn classic auty flow ,
But Robin ’s artless san displays
The sou l’s impassion ’
glow.
For us e hard by classmlore,Nae bard ava,
Has thrilled the bosom’s inmost core
Like Robin that’s awa’.
A werfu ’ harp didut not wi
’ happyAnd though his tones were strong and deep,He ne
’
er could change the key.
For use bard beneath the lift,
Nae bard ava ,
Wi’ master - skill the keys could shiftLike Robin that’s awa
’.
199
200 JOHN KENNEDY.
He needs nae monumental stanesTo keep alive his fame
Auld G ranny Scotland andher weansWill ever sing his name.
For nae name does Fame record,
Nae name ava,
By Caledonia mair adoredThan Robin’
s that’s awa’
>l<
JOHN KENNEDY.
That the knights of the shuttle were in the days of handloomweaving a tunefu l community can be judged by the manypoets who graced their ranks . John Kennedy, who was a
native of Kilmarnock, was apprenticed to the weaving trade, atwhich he worked ti l l about eighteen years of age, when, yearning for a wider experience of the world, he enlisted in the RoyalAyrshire Militia, and served a term of about eight years. On
obtaining his discharge he returned to Ki lmarnock , and afterspending a short time at the handloom, stepped into the pedagogic shoes of his fel low -
poet, John Burtt, who kept a flourishing school in the town , but who removed to Paisley shortly afterKennedy ’
s return to Kilmarnock .
Kennedy about this time entered heart and sou l into the
political prob lems of the day, and threw in his lot with the
advanced reformers, delivering a lecture at a public meeting on
the subject ofmilitary flogging . From that day he was strictlywatched by the Government authorities as a disaffected person,
and some three or four years later , instructions were given to
search his house for papers of a seditious character . The
search took place, but no incriminating evidence was found ;nevertheless the dominie was put under arrest and conveyed toAyr to undergo examination. He was shortly liberated on bail ,but some few weeks later was again arrested, and in the company of several other advocates of reform conveyed to Ayr, butnothing of a treasonab le nature was found against him.
In 1820 he entered a new sphere of labour at ChapelGreen, near Ki lsyth , where he spent the
'
last thirteen years of
his life as in a quiet haven .
Kennedy stands wel l in the front rank of Ayrshire authors,not only as a poet, but as a prose writer, his humorous storyentitled “
Geordie Chalmers being of itself sufficient to winthe author merited fame.
i202 REV. GEORGE JAMES LAURIE , D.D.
HUGH CRAIG.
Hugh Craig was the son of a farmer in the parish ofDunlop, but his tastes lay in the direction of a town life, andafter serving an apprenticeship to the drapery trade in Kilmarnock he removed to London, where he succeeded in findingemployment with one of the first drapery firms in the city . Mr
Craig eventual ly returned to K i lmarnock and opened a draperyestab lishment of his own, which he carried on with success til lnear the sunset of life.
He wrote prose sketches as wel l as verse, but both are
lacking in delicacy of literary perception. Perhaps he was tooable a man of business to be a success in literature.
>l< >l<
REV. GEORGE JAMES LAURIE. D.D.
If the mark of a‘
true lyrical poet is the favour in whichhis verses are held by the musical fraternity , then Dr GeorgeLaurie by virtue of his one song ,
“Lang , Lang Syne,
”is
entitled to the honour of being classed a true lyrical poet.George James Laurie belongs to a historical fami ly of Ayrshireministers, who for three generations occupied the pulpit of theChurch of Scotland. In the old Manse of Loudoun,
Newmilns,ti l l within a few years ago, might have been seen in situ a
smal l window sash on which Robert Burns, the poet, scratchedthe words,
“Lovely Mrs Laurie, she is all c harms .
”The
minister of Loudoun who so graciously entertained Burns whenon the eve of emigrating to Jamaica was the grandfather of
George James Laurie, author of“Lang, Lang Syne.
” DrLaurieministered for the long period of thirty - four years to theparishioners of Monkton, where he was familiarly known as
the dear old doctor,”
and by his Open- heartedness and genial
disposition, especial ly towards the young , secured for hirnselfa warm corner of their hearts .
The doctor has been described as a fine, big man , with a
healthy red face, long curly white hair hanging down his back ,
and a c lear, nervous b lue eye.
On demitting his charge at Monkton he removed to Kent,there to spend the brief remainder of his days in quietude.
A mural brass of handsome design was erected by hisrelatives some years ago in the Parish Church of Monkton and
Prestwick .
REY. GEORGE JAMES LAURIE, D.D. 203
LANG ,LANG SYNE.
Ha’e ye mind 0
’ lang , lang syne,When the summer days were fine,
An’the sun shone brighter far
Than he’
s ever dune S ince syne ;Do ye mind the Hag Br ig turn ,
Whaur we guddled in the burnAnd were late for the schule in the mornin P
Do you mind the sunny braes ,Whar we gathered hi 8 and slaes ,And fel l am the ramble busses ,
Tearin’a’oor c aes ;
And for fear theywad be seen
We gaed slippin hame at e’en,
But were lickit for oor pains in the mornin’ ?
Do ye mind the miller’s dam,
When the frosty winter cam’
,
Hoo we s lade alang the curlers ’ rinks ,And made their game a sham;When the chased us through the snaw ,
We took eg- bail ane and a
But we did it o’er again in the mora is P
What famous fun was there,W i’ our game at houn’
and hare,
When we played the truant frae the schule,Because it was the fairAnd we ran frae Patie’
s M illTo the woods at Windy Hill ,
But were fear’d for the tawse in the morain’
Where are those bright hearts nooThat were then sae leal and truefOh ! some ha’
e left life’s troubled scene ;
Some still are struggling through ;And some ha’
e r isen h ighIn life’
s changcful destiny,
For they rose wr’ the lark in the mornin ’.
Now l ife’
s sweet Spring is ast,And our Autumn’
s come a las t ;’
Oor Summer day has passed away ;L ife’s W inter’s comin ’ fast ;But thou
glh lang its night may seem,
.
We sha sleep without a dream,
Till we wauken on you bright Sabbath mornin’.
The Hag Burn fal ls into the River Irvine about half a milewest of the Manse of Loudoun, the early home of Dr Laurie.
204 REV. GEORGE JAMES LAURIE, D.D.
THE HOME OF MEMORY .
I have found a home in many a land,O
’er many a distant sea
But Love has touched withhis magic wandThe home of infancy .
There first I heard the voice of prayer,Bent at my mother ’s knee,
And the hallowing pow’r of my father ’s care
Were life and strength to me.
0 , there themom of youth first dawnedO’er childhood’
8 setting star ,And the ushing joys of youthful heartsNo eart ly cares could mar.
That hallowed s ot was ne’er forgot,
Nor the love t at blessed me there,Nor the trembling notes of my father ’s voiceAs he sang at evening prayer .
I was left alone of that ha py band,Hushed is the mirth an glee
Of the loving hearts who, hand in hand,San home’
s sweet minstrelsy .
Some s eep beside their father ’s grave,Some lie beneath the sea,
And one fair boy rests with the braveOn the field of victory .
Come back ! ye spirits of the blest,And whisper hope to me !
Oh ! take me where the weary rest,From life’
s dark sorrows free.
Come teach my lonely heart to bearo
The weary weird I dree,Ti ll I Joln the gathered wanderers thereFrom the home of memory
As a nursery - song writer Dr '
Lai'
irie comes wel l up with theauthors of
“Wee Wi l lie Winkie,” Cuddle Doon,
”
and othercelebrated writers who made childhood the theme of their wonderfully fascinating lays. A good specimen of the doctor ’slighter vein is that entitled
A SANG TO THE BAIRN .
hisky doggie !y ! cheety uss !
Come awa ’to arry’s room
And catch a wee mouse.
Look below the bed first,And syne u on the shelf
See ! there ’s t e wee beasty,
Glow’rin’ like an elf.
206 ARCHIBALD M‘KAY.
litterateur , who writes under the nom de plume of GeorgeUmber. Mr M‘
Kay was a bookbinder to trade, and kept a
smal l stationery shop, which was a rendezvous for the localliterary lights of the period ;
BE KIND TO AULD GRANNIE.
Be kind to auld grannie, for noo she is frail,As a time- shattered tree bending low in the gale ;When ye were wee bairnies, tot totting about,She watched ye when in and she watched ye when ! out ;And aye when ye chanced in your daflin ’
and fun
To dunt your wee heads on the cauld staney grun ’
,
She lifted ye up, and she kissed ye tu ’ fain,Till a’ your bit cares were forgotten again .
Then be kind to auld grannie, for noo she is frai l,As a time- shattered tree bending low in the gale.
When first in our breasts rose the feeling divine,That’s wakedby the tales and the sangs o
’ lang syne,Wi’ auld warl’ cracks she would pleasure inspire,In the lang W inter nichts as she sat by the fire ;Or melt the young hearts wi’ some sweet Scottish lay,L ike the Flowers 0
’the Forest ”
or Auld Robin GrayThough eerie the wind blew around the bit cot,Grim winter and a
’ its wild blasts were forgot.
Then be kind to auld grannie for noo she is frail,As a time- shattered tree bending low in the gale.
And mind though the blythe day 0’ youth noo is
yours,
Time will W ither its joys, as Wild W inter the flow rs ;And your step that
’s noo licht as the bound of the roe
W i'
cheerless auld age may be feeble and slow ;And the frien’
s 0’ your
'
youth to the grave may be gane,And ye on its brink may be totterin’
alaneOh think how consolin some frien’ would be then,
When the loamin’o’ ife comes like mist owre the
Then he 1nd to auld grannie for noo she is frail,
As a time- shattered tree bending low in the gale.
LUATH’
S ELEGY.
On the author burying his little favouritedog, Luath , June 3,1867 .
My wee bit dog, it mak ’s one waeTo lay thee in the silent clay ;For ne
’er again thy prank and playWill cheer my bield,
Or gladden me when forth I strayBy wood or field.
ARCHIBALD M‘KAY.
Thy heart , as thy blithe features tauld,Though j ust a kennin ’ rather bauld,Was ne
’er , I trow,
unkind or cauld,But a e displayed
A generous ove for young and auld,Whare e
’er thou gaed.
”
When trouble cam’to mine or me,
And loss of fr ien ’s I had to dree,
Thou look’d wi
’sympathetic s
’e,
And seemed to say0 ,maister dear , I’m grieved to see
Thy heart sae was .
But frae thy cheek oh, chase the tear ;Thou still hast me thy hame to cheer ;And I, when nights are lang and drear ,
Will sit beside thee,
And ever be thy frien’s incere
Whate’er betide thee.
And aften yet in simmer days ,Wh en Nature wears her brawest claes ,Wi’ thee I’ ll spoil the Craigie braes ,
Nor ever weary ,But frisk about thy jo to raise
And keep thee c eery .
Or when to muse on some sweet theme ,
Thou wand'
rest out by Irvine’s stream;
Then,while thy thou ts a - soaring seemHi h as the lar
I’ll qu iet y trot, nor break thy dreamWi’ youf or bark.
”
Yes Luath, in thy honest face,Suchwords in fanc I could trace,But little thocht t at thy bit race
Soon closed would be,
And that ’twad be in waefu’
To mourn for t ee.
But words would fail to tell the meritThat thy wee breast ie did inherit °
To whin e or steal thou couldna hear itang great or sma’
For a e thou show ’
d a noble spirit0 ans and a
’.
And then come pleasure or come pain,
Contentment aye in thee did reign ;For tho
’thy meal at times was plain ,
And somewhat humble,At morn or e
’en
’twas ever ta’en
Without a grumble.
207
208 ARCHIBALD M‘KAY.
And aft when at my humble ha’
Some social cronies chanced to ca’
,
Thy ta r’d tail, as jet
’s the crew,
Tfiou ’d cock fu ’
janty,And j ump wi
’ ‘
joy to see us a’
Sae hale and canty .
’Tis true when out by glen or lea
Thou whiles in some sma faut would beBut when rebuked, wi’ thochtfu ’
e’e,
Thou’d near me draw,
And in repentance offer meThy wee bit paw.
Methinks I hear some soulless loon ,
a ne’
er was moved by pity ’s soun ’
,
Exclaim -
“ Why breathe this dolein’croon
Th £t a a r k de ye in t ing a ea s ruc oun
Was%iut a dog .
”
A dog ! yes , just a dog ; but then ,
Dogs wiser are than mony men ,
And has mair sense (as a’ micht ken),
And less presumptionThan some wha tr w i tongue or pen
To show t eir gumption
And what ’s the friendship men display ?Ah ! truth compels me this to say’Tis often feign
’d and fades away
Like morning dew ;But
,Luath
,thine frae day to day
Was ever true .
Then tho’ unfeeling hearts should sneer ,Thy memory I’ll aye revere ;And when to this sweet spot I steer
,
Whar green boughs wave,
I’ll mind thy worth , and drap a tearOwre thy wee grave.
THE LAD‘
s WI’ THE KILT AND THE PLAID.
Hurrah for the lads wi’ the kilt and the plaid !Hurrah for the lads wi’ the kilt and the plaid !When bloody and dark rolls the battle’
s rou h tide,How gallant the lads wi’ the kilt and the p aid !
I trow they weremiss’d ’mang the hills and the plains,theg lorious spirit of Liberty reigns ;
W here thei r young hearts were fired wi’ the patriot flameThat blazes and burns round a Wallace’s name .
When comes the fierce onset , and dangers are rife,True bold- hearted heroes they rush to the strife ;The cauld sturdy steel they indignantly draw
,
The foemen they flee, or in thousands they fa’.
210 HUGH BROWN .
gained a decisive victory over Graham Of C laverhouse and histroopers. From this school he removed to Barr School ,Galston, in which , some years later , the celebrated Dr Taylor ,Of New York , was also for a short time teacher . While inGalston the poet completed his long poem on “
The Covemanters,
”a composition by which his literary fame wil l long be
sustained .
After conducting the school in Galston for a few years hewas promoted to the charge of a
'
parish school in Lana'
rk , butat the Disruption he fearlessly threw in his lot with the FreeChurch body , and in consequence lost his appointment.
'A new
school was, however, built for him in Lanark , and this he con
tinued to conduct for a time, but eventual ly retired from the
profession and took up residence in G lasgow , where, unfortu
hately , penury overtook him, and he spent the closing years ofa protracted life in seclusion and poverty .
TO THE MEMORY OF LORD BYRON .
harp of the minstrel is hung in theAnd his fleeting existence is o’
er ;And still are its strings , as it sleeps on the wall ,Like the fingers that swept it before.
His eye, once so bright, has been robbed Of its fire,
His bosom once W i ld as the wave,Which the shrill note of libert ’
s trum could inspire,Or the heart- thrilling tones O the we] - swept lyre,Is silent and still as the grave.
He had evil within him —we mark the dark shadeWhen his bosom’
s deep secrets we scan ;Yet his armwas still lifted the freeman to aid,And his deeds shed a lustre on man .
If the black cloud of hate o’er his bosomdid low’r,
If he wished to the desert to flee,He was only the foe of the minion of pow
’r,
Who fiend- like stalks over the earth for an hour ,But was ever the friend Of the free.
The soft scenes Of nature for him had no charms ,The riv
’let and fast- fading flow’ r
Awaked not his soul, like the horrid alarmsWhen a nation is wreck
’d in an hour .
In the dark sweepinglestorm,
by Omnipotence driven,In the flash and t long pealing roll ;
In the rocking of earth , in the frownin Of heavenWhen the illars of natu re seemed tum ling and r
"I‘was a amOf 'delight to his soul.
2
As he wandered, 0 Greece ! o’er thy once hallowed ground,And stood o
’er the warrior ’s grave,
He heard but the voice of Op ression around, ~And saw but the home of t slave
HUGH BROWN . 211
As he ased through the vista of es gone by,
In t e glory an pride of the wor d
As he gazed on the ruins that roundo
him‘did lie,
It drew from his bosom a sorrowful Slgh,Where Tyranny ’s flag was unfurl
’d.
He tuned his W ild harp o’er the ruins of Greece,
His strains were impass ioned and strong ;The solaced his heart like a seraph of peace,
ile her freedom arose like a song .
And when the bright sun of thei r li berty rose,
His heart full 0 rapture adored ;The morning had dawned on their fatal repose,Their slumbers were broken , they rushed on thei rTo shiver the chains they abhorr
’d.
Did he fall iii the struggle when Greece would be free?’Twas a star blotted out on their shore ;
B ut his hovering spirit yet trium hs with thee,Though his brave arm can aid ee nomore.
He expired as the torch of thy glory grew bright,
In t e glorious noon of the day ;His triumph was short , like the meteor of ni
ght,
As it flashes o’
er heav’n with its long train 0 light
For like it he vanished away .
You have seen the bright summer - sun sink in the west ,And the lories that shrouded him there,
Like the sp endours that dwell on the heav’n of the blest ,
Immortal , unclouded, and fair .So the halo of ory shall circ le his name ,
Th e wreath 8.
all eternally bloom;And Br itain trium
pihant her Byron shall claim,
As he sh ines with t e great in the temple of Fame,The triumph of man o
’er the tomb !
EX TRACT FROM “THE COVENANTERS.
Apostrophe to Loudoun Hil l .
Where Loudoun Hill lifts high its conic form,
And bares its rocky bosom to the storm,
Time'
s varying change has come o’
er man ; but thouStand
’
st W ith immortal nature on thy brow lAs when the Roman soldier gazed on thee,Abrupt , and frownin in thy majesty ,There Caesar ’s sentine his Vigil kept ,And Rome’
s proud legions in thy shadow slept ;’
There the tired eagle, like a gu i lt less thing ,Paused in its flight and drooped its wearyBeneath thy brow their flag of death was fWhose life was war, whose empire was the
In earlier times the remains of a Roman Camp were to beseen in the vicinity of Loudoun Hi ll.
212 HUGH BROWN .
Around thee are the hallowed fields Of fame,That shed a lus tre on the Scottish name :Around thee Wallace raised his battle- cryThy rocky echoes thundered in reply !Free as the eagle on his native hi lls
,Indi nant saw, and felt his country s 1118 ,Rus ed with ,an angel ’s might, W ith spear and shield,And rea ed the sword’s red harvest of the field.
Where t e rude cairn , the time- worn altar ? whereThe wanderer knelt as Freedom’
s worsh ipperThe cairn more sacred than the marble bust,Or pompous pile that hides the tyrant
’s dust
There ruthless hearts, and ruder hands have been,
And assed the ploughshare o’er the hallowed scene ;
And eft no relic, not a ovesti e near,To claim the sacred offering 0 a tear !
Around thee, Bruce, with flashing helm and plumeWho won his throne throu
gh battle’s storm and gloom
Ranged his proud bannere host upon the plainAgainst the might of England’
s steel - clad menThe freeman’
s arm is strong, his heart is trueAnd this the chivalry of En land knew ;The Bruce’s sword, the sol ier
’s trusty spear ,
Fell like the lightning in its full careerThe patriot K ing , with rapture- kindledeye,Triumphant saw the rulin phalanx fly ;And Victory ’s beacon light
gbegin to burn ,
The glorious prelude to his Bannockburn .
Around thee met at morning’s dawning hour ,While night - dews sparkled on the summer flower,Our Covenanting S l I
‘eS l where calm and sweet,
They found religion in their wild retreat !The still small voice of mercy, sweet, yet loud,Rose o
’er the terrors of the bursting cloud ;
But when the tyrant stands on high to crushAnd knowledge, freedom’
s faintest whispers hush,It is
‘
no false and fabled Argus standsHis hundred eyes are in his s leepless bands ;Restless as day, to n ight no slumber given ;They sleepless sti ll outwatch the fires of heaven.
On John Knox preaching in the Old Baronia! Tower (BarrCastle) at Galston .
The owl may fla his sullen wing,
And all his tune ess sorrows singAround thy feudal walls ;
The winds 11 on their trackless wayHeaven’
s wi d aerial minstrels, playAmid thy ruined halls .
Rude fragment of a former ageA breath on history ’s fleeting page
Thy day of glory’s gone ;
Where the bard’s strains were proud and
Where valour knelt ’neath beauty ’s eye
Now tenantless and lone.
214 JOHN RAMSAY .
ON SEEING A REDBREAST SHOT.
All ruddy glow ’d the dark
’nin west,
In azure were the mountains rest,Her veil of mist had evening cast
O’er all the p lain,
And slowly home the reapers pasa’dA weary train.
On old Dundonald’s hill I layAnd watch ’d the landscape fade awayThe owl come from the turret gray
And skim the del l,While leaves from Autumn’
s sapless sprayDown rustling fel l .
K1!
And on a thorn that widal spreadIts moss - grown
,lowly - hen ing head,
Where long the Winter storm had shedIts baneful power ,
And oft returning summer cladIn leaf and flower
A redbreast sang of sunshine gone,
And dreary winter coming on
What though his strains had never knownThe rules of art ?
They woke to notes of sweetest toneThe trembling heart ;
Bade days return for ever fled,
And hopes Ion laid among the dead,And forms ‘
in airy colours clad,Confused appear ;
Whi le melting Feeling kindly shedHer warmest tear .
When,lo ! a
'
flash, a thund’ring knell,That startled Echo in her cell ,Di ssolv ’
d the sweet the pleas ing spell ,And hush’d the son
The little warbler lifeless isThe leaves among .
Thus theyoung hard, in someRemote from learningé
s lofty seat,The critic, owling , aps to meet ,
An strikes the blow,That lays him,
W ith his prospects sweet,For ever low.
>l<
THOMAS MACQUEEN . 215
THOMAS MACQUEEN .
Thomas MacQueen, by virtue of superior talent, is entitledto be styled the poet
- laureate of Kil birnie. He fol lowed the
cal ling Of a stonemason, and resided in early manhood at
Barkip, in the parish ofDal ry . In mid- life he emigrated withhis family to Canada, and after various wanderings settled at
Goderich , on Lake Huron— one of the two Canadian townsfounded by his fel low - countryman and fel low -
poet, the unfortu o
nate John Galt, of Irvine .
At Goderich MacQueen was encouraged to start a
periodical , which he cal led The Signal ,”
and throwing asidethe trowel , he thenceforth devoted his whole energies to the
management of this paper , taking up a strong position as the
advocate of the people’
s rights , which gained him the applauseof King “Demos,
”and in 1854 he was nominated candidate
for the Canadian Parliament in the interests Of the ReformParty , but sufi
'
ered defeat. Subsequently he removed to
Toronto, where he was for a time engaged on the staflOf The
Canadian.
”
MacQueen’
s poems are reflective and melodious , and weremuch prized in earlier times , three separate volumes which wereissued between the years 1836 and 1850 finding a ready sale.
The publication of his second volume, entitled “The
Exile,” drew forth the fol lowing amusing criticism from a
reviewer in Tait’s Magazine Here is another rustic songster—Thomas MacQueen , mason, Barkip
— who writes as wel l orbetter than the Ettrick Shepherd when he first boldly took upthe trade of rhyme, without, as he tel ls us , the least idea of his
own incapacity , and floundered on until he final ly emerged a
poet. If Mr M‘
Queen were either much better or a few degreesworse at his outset we shou ld have better hOpes of his futureeminence. It is but fair to give an extract from a new aspirant ;and we select the fol lowing as amiable in feeling , and as amongthe best pieces in the volume
VERSES ON THE DEATH OF WILLIAMMOTHERWELL , ESQ .
Strike Minst rel , st rike the plaintive lyre,Wi solita ry tones and low ;With trembli hand fromeach wireThe mournfu melody woe.
216 THOMAS MACQUEEN .
Pour thy lone numbers o’er the dead
Sad is the tale thy harp must tel lThe 0 press wreath waves o
’er the head
Of cotia’s poet, Motherwell.
Weep,M instrel weep : that heart is still
That once in boyhood’s early day
Scanned o’er with sym athetic thrill
Thy little, wild, unpo ished lay ;And with a gently glowing soulHe stoop
’d to lure thy muse along
Where rose the minstrel’s vivid goal,
On dizzy heights of nobler song.
Plead,M instrel , plead that no rude blast,
With scowling fury sere his fame ;Enshr ine his fa i lings in the past ,As thin s the world forgot to name.
All have t eir foibles— and few wearTheir hearts outside their breast to showWhat keen remorse— what angs severeThe owners Of the foibles now.
Pause, M instrel , pause— the solemn toneThat bears his rueful fun ’
ral knell .Pour on the soul the wailings loneOf fri endship ’
s c‘hillin last farewell
It sa s.
the p oet’s little ayIs t
o
] ht and fleeting as a dream;And sti l the brighter is the ray ,The sooner must it cease to gleam
THE MARCH OF INTELLECT .
From the Moorland Minstrel “
(published
It came— and its ste was as light as the breathOf the gentlest zep yr that fawns on the even
It came with a stillness as silent as death,But it breath’d a benignity soothing as heaven ;
It started— it gazed, as by ste alth, far abroad,It mark’
d the deep bondage of vassiliz’d man
It shrunk and recoiled, and it marvelled if GodHad sketched such a doom in the primitive plan .
It came— there were whisp’rings abroad in the earth,
Deep mutter’d. to deep in a mystified tone,
Frowns, curses , and threats were heard issuing forth ,And tortures and shackles were for ing anon
It smiled on the fetters— it triumphs in scorn ,
It spurned the frail arm rear’d only to bind,
Its march - hymn afar on the echoes was borne,Proclaiming the has t’ning redemption of mind !
218 HENRY CRAWFORD.
Tom,Dick, and Harry seem to please,
And always cut a dashI wonder if it is becauseI have not a moustache.
I’ve done my best to make it sprout ,But find it all in vain ;
Instead ofmaking hair to grow,
It only gives me pain .
The plans I’ve tried,did people know ,
It would me quite abash ;For tho’ I’ve rubbed and scrubbed each day,I yet have no moustache.
A friend of mine the other day(At least I thought him so)
Said he would put me on a planTo make m moustache grow.
He said hen Luna’s at the full,
Quit using patent wash ,And draw your thumb across your lip,And three times shout moustache.
”
I went to see M iss Jones one night,One of our pretty irls
She seemed to me as santy’e queenEnwreath
’d with auburn curls .
I bowed and offered her my handWith an indignant flash ,
And full of rage,
O my 1”
she cried,Why, child, you ’ve no moustache i
I went to see another girl ,She was a lovely maid,
And seemed to me ’twould
Should I her serenade.
But j ust as I began to s ingUp flew the window sashGo home she cried, ou silly fool,Till you have a moustache.
”
What awful mise ry I’ve borne,Near driven to despair
A thousand times I stroke my lip,
But find there ’s nothing there.
Talk of distress from broken banks,Or a commercial crash,
The are but playthings when comparedWyith minus a moustache !
I feel as if I cannot liveAnd suffer as I do
It seems to me I willin lyCould bid the world a ien.
JOHN GILMOUR .219
M friends must keep an eye on me,I do somethin rash ,
For life to me a bur en 13
Without a nice moustache.
PRETTY LITTLE ALICE.
Pretty little dau ter fair,Thou
’rt a rosebu hanging where
Honey’d sweets and nectars
o
rare
Fill each flow’ry chal ice ;
But among the flowers I see,
Sweetly scented tho’they be,
No sweet flower can equal thee,Pretty little Al ice .
Litt le birds with plumage fine,Sweetly s ing from oak and
Anne ,
Or from bowers where ten rils tw ine,Byour hills and valleys ;
B ut tho decked in plumage bright,Cheering garden,
lawn , and height ,None like thee can
give delight,
Pretty little 09 .
From the mine the recious gemSparkles on the dis em,
And the gorgeous robes of themThroned in re al palace ;
But the gem from ndia’s mine ,
Star - like thou h its beaut ies shine,
Pales before t at face of thine,Pretty little Alice.
Heaven protect thee from all ill ,Teach thy heart to know His will ,And never suffer thee to feel
Other ’s scorn or malice ;Ma sweet wisdom fil l thy breas t,Til among the spirits bk stThou wilt enter i nto rest,
Pretty little Alice.
>l<
JOHN GILMOUR.
The season of song in the natural world is brief , and the
silent Reaper has as little compunction for the loss of a tunefu lminstrel as for a croaking frog . John Gilmour, who was the
son of a farmer in C lerkland, near Stewarton, died before hehad reached his twentieth year , but he was a scholar and a bornpoet, who left behind him sufficient evidence that had he been
220 JOHN GILMOUR .
spared to reach the crown of life’
s hil l , the noon - day sun of hisgenius wou ld have shed a lustre over the scenes and haunts of
his boyhood. His poems are the outpouring of an originalmind, and shew much fertility of invention as wel l as strengthand beauty of expression . Several of his translations from the
G reek and Latin tongues are excel lent and emulate the effortsof themost ski lful translator .
In October , 1824 , he entered the University of G lasgow,
where he prosecuted his studies for three succeeding sessions,but was compel led to abandon themwhile attending his fourthsession, and leaving G lasgow he returned to his father ’s home,where he expired within a fewmonths.
TO THE MEMORY OF MICHAEL BRUCE.
Ill- fated votary of the luckless lay l_Behind a cloud thy dawn ing genius rose,
Ho e dimly smiled and promised br ighter day,ut fate was envious and would interpose.
A limmering ray pervades the cloud,and soon
all blaze in splendour— the meridian scene
Ah no ! eternal night involves thy noon,
And what thou wert shews what thou wouldst have been.
A knell to genius and a knell to pride,That rising in ependen
‘
t Bruce i s gone !A knell to giddy youth , that death may rideHis ploughshare o
’er the bloom of twenty - one !
Let himwho never saw a flattering skyDelude the presa e of the sagest swain ;
Let himwho never saved a singleFrom unexpected woe, nor hoped in vain ;
Let him inquire and wonder how it wasThat he was doomed to perish in the shadeFrost often nips the sweetest flower , alas lFor such when sweetest rears the tenderest blade.
Transported early to a ha pier sphere,Hemight have flourishe long, and flourished fair,
But overt attends and want 18 near ,0 0 d
,col and barren , who can flourish there?
He saw consumption haste his life away,Nor did he vainly fret, re
pine, or weep
While ruthless death secured im for his prey,Resigned and calm,
‘
he sung his soul to sleep .
‘l ' 1°
Ah l never shall I read his simple tale,Or con the plaintive magic of his line,
B ut such a W ish shall mingle with my wail,That Bruce’s resignation may be mine !
222 JOHN ORR .
tions, Offered him themastership Of a school iii Halfway, whichhe maintained from 1838 ti l l 1843, when he was promoted to
G lasgow as headmaster Of St. James ’s Parish School . Thisschool he conducted for fifteen years with so much ability thatit became known as one Of the best educational institutions inthe city . His professional career as a teacher was continuedsome time after his severance from this school , during whichhe conducted a private academy in West Regent Street. He
ultimately retired from active life, and settled in Saltcoats,where he spent the remainder Of his days. Devotion to truthis the dominant note Of Mr Buchan ’
s effusions.
OUR DEAR SCOTTISH THISTLE.
Dedicated to G lasgow Saint Andrew ’
s Society.
Come fill up your glasses, and,drink to the '
toastOf Scotland, our dear native land,
In the van of the nations may’t still be her bFor honour
, truth , freedom, to stand.
And stand there she will if her name and her fameRest with us— as in part they must do
For within us is burning the patriot flame,And we swear to the death to be
0 ,theRose, Thistle, Shamrock , are lovely entwined,And each has a grace of its own ;
In the Shamrock let Erin her green 8 mbol find,Let the sweet Rose be En land’
s a one
But ours is the Thistle , fres hardy, andbold,
The emblem Of freedom an love.
0 say, shall it stand less erect than of Old?Shall it ere cease our bosoms tomove?
NO Scotland, no, never ; but true to the trustOf thy glory we ever shall be ;
Though re'
oicing that peace leaves thy claymore to rust,We wouid draw it for freedom and thee.
O, the Forth shall refuse to the ocean to flow,
And the Abbey Crai sink in the plain,
Ere our dear Thistle roo Rose or Shamrock below,And forget her proud p ace to maintain.
>l<
JOHN ORR
] Ohn Orr, a native Of Ki lbirnie, had attained the sixtiethyear Of his age ere the fruits Of his muse were given to the
public in booklet form. Although his poems are not Of a veryhigh order, they were appreciated in local circles, where as a
HUGH KERR . 223
skil led ornithologist as wel l as a writer Of verse he was wel lknown. In his contributions to the peasant literature of Ayr
shire he invariab ly sought for inspiration in local scenes and
subjects, which may account for the hearty reception given to
his musings by friends and neighbours. His col lection of birds,all stuffed and preserved by his own ski lful manipulation, was
at one time the wonder Of Kilbimie.
>l< >l<
REV, MATTHEW DICKIE.
Matthew Dickie, who was an aspirant after poeticalhonours and had some pieces pub lished in Mr Edwards ’
Modern Scottish Poets,”was the son Of a farmer in East Raws,
parish Of Kilmarnock , but spent the greater part Of his childhood on the farm Of P loughland, near Dundonald , where for atime he engaged in farm work and also learned the trade Of a
tilemoulder . The bent Of his mind, however , was towardhigher and better work , and he adopted the cal ling Of a citymissionary , eventual ly qualifying himsel f for the ministry , hisfirst pastoral charge being
'
in Old Cumnock, where heministeredfor about nine years , and at the end Of that time accepted a callfrom a congregation in Bristol . Mr Dickie was an intimatefriend Of the Rev. Dr Taylor , Of New York , who published a
memoir Of his l ife with selections fromhis writings.
HUGH KERR .
The sons Of St. Crispin have ever been a studious and
intel ligent fami ly, and doubtless wil l continue so unti l the lastone has said farewel l to his last last. We wonder how many Of
themever have considered
How much a man is like his shoes ,For instance both a soul ma lose
,
Both have been tanned, bot are madeBy cobblers. Both g
bet left and r ight.
Both need a mate to complete ,
And both are made to go on feet .
The both need healing , Oft are sold,
both in time will turn to mould.
The are both trod upon and bothW il tread on others nothing loth .
Both have their ties , and both inclineWhen polished in the world to shine.
”
224 JOAN K ELLY.
Hugh Kerr may have reaped honour On account Of hislyrical gift, but none the less did he win it as a member of the“ gentle craft,
”
for as a shoemaker he is said to have had fewequals in the trade. When his first booklet Of verse was published it was favourably noticed by George Gilfillan, the oncefamous critic ; a second volume Of Kerr ’s poems being also wel lreceived by the reviewers. Mr Kerr upholds with John Gilmour the poetical traditions of Stewarton.
>i< >l<
JOAN KELLY.
This authoress adds another to the long list of lowly minstrels belonging to Ayrshire. She was born in Irvine, and livedthere with her widowed mother unti l the latter was eighty- fouryears Of age, when the ruth less breaker of love’
s more thanmortal ties divided them, and the brightest star Of poor Joan
’
s
l ife was extinguished forever . Left friendless and in a mannerhelpless, the parish autho rities found it necessary to remove herto their Combination Palace near her native town, but she
longed to breathe what she cal led “the sweet, pure air Of
liberty , and took unkindly to her new home. With the ViewOf raising funds for her self - support, a smal l volume of her
poems was published, but the proceeds did little more thancover publishing expenses, and the hope maintained by the
poetess that she might by these means regain her independencewas forever blasted.
IN MEMORY OF THE LATE COUNTESS OF EGLINTONAND WINTON .
I’ve seen the beauteous king of dayIn splendid glory rise,
Chas ing the darker clouds awayAnd dazzling eager eyes .
All felt his ure enlivening beams ;The wealt y and the poor ;
The monarch in his gi lded halls ;The peasant at his door.
And as I gazed with upturnedI’ve marked the threat’ning
Come sweeping on W ith sudden force,And wrap him in its shroud.
226 JOHN DAVIDSON BROWN .
His literary work attracted favourab le notice, and obtained a
post for himon the staff Of the Ayr Observer,”
but a volumeOf bal lads which he subsequently issued was knocked on the
head by the critic ’s truncheon . This greatly disheartened the
bard, and was probably the means Of causing him to leave thecountry a second time. At anyrate he again yielded to his
besetting temptation, and as al l trace Of his later career hasbeen lost it is assumed that he u ltimately returned to the UnitedStates and died there. His bal lad compositions are diffusiveand unequal , but some of his shorter pieces have a certainmerit of their own .
The fol lowing piece shou ld appeal to the Optimist, evenif he is no poet
’TIS FOLLY TO BE SAD.
O singa song of gladness and let us merry be
We ne er will droo in sadness , tho’ fortune fickle be !
Be blythesome andlhe cheery , to sigh in rief, ’
tis mad ;Ne
’er let the heart grow weary— ’
tis fol y to be sad.
Tho’ fortune may deny us her favours for a while,
We never will be envious of those who win her smi le.
’Gainst fate ne’er feel resentment, with lightsome heart be glad,
There’s richness in contentment — ’
tis fol ly to be sad.
Let poverty ne’er grieve us,our pleasures to destroy ;
Though dearest friends deceive us,ne
’er let it cloud our joy.
B e blythesome aye and cheery, to s igh in grief ’
tis mad ;Ne’er let the heart grow weary—J tis folly to be
JOHN BARLEYCORN .
John Barleycorn,thou warst O’ deils,
Ere met by rantin’
,rovin’
chiels ,Aft thou hast driven me owre the fiel’s
O’ luckless folly ,Then plunged me deep, head over heels ,
In melancholy.
Though ills on ills thou aft hast sent me,And they were always mair than plenty ;1 dinna now misrepresent thee,
The truth I tell :.
I sai rly rue I ever kent thee,Thou demon fell.
Aye, thou h thy praises hae been sungBymony ards in Scottish tongue,Ti ll far and near thy ' name has rung
In sangs o’ glee ;
Thou art a foe to auld and youngWha mell wi’ thee.
WILLIAM LOGAN . 227
When fashed wi’ care or carkin’ rief,Or crossed in love , 0
’cares the 0 ref,
Fools aft run to thee for reliefIn luckless hour .
Thou steals their senses like a thiefWhen in thy power .
For though they drain thee frae the pot,In hopes their cares may beforgot,Thou makes ilk ane a trpplmg sot
Soon by degreesThe remedy is worse, Iwot,
Than the disease.
Soon want , disease , and crime assailsTheir health and const itution fails ;Thou thrusts them off fair virtue’s rails,
That line sublime,To rot in poorhouses and jails ,
Debased in crime.
Yea ! thou ’rt a thief to health and purse ;
To fel l disease a faithful nurse ;Crime’
s instigator ; virtue’s curse ;
A traitor foul ;A life destroy er— what is worse
Thou slays the soul .
Fareweel l fareweel l John Barleycorn,
No more at noon , at eve, at mornI’ll quafi thee frae a on or horn
Frae glass or bott e ;To war against thee I has sworn
I’ll be teetotal .
>i<
WILLIAM LOGAN .
Wil liam Logan . one of the best known of the Kilbirniebards, was born at Kilbirnie in 1821, and died there in the 48thyear Of his age. For some time his cal ling was that Of a
teacher, but later in life he occupied the honourable positionof cashier in the firm of Messrs W . J . Knox . TO his poeticgifts was added a fondness for antiquarian studies , which gainedhimthe friendship of a few eminent kindred spirits, all of whomhave now, like our bard, passed into the Silent Land . Mr
Logan’
s muse delighted to sing of the commonplaces Of liferather than soar among high ideals in the third or fourthfirmament.
Several of his lyrical pieces are worthy of perpetuation, but
perhaps his best efiort is that entitled “ Jeanie Gow,
” which
228 ROBERT GEMMELL .
appeared original ly in the fourth volume of“The Ayrshire
Wreath , pub l ished by M‘Kie, of Burnsiana fame.
JEANIE cow.
Ye hameless glens and waving woodsWhere Garnock winds alan
How aft in youth’s unclouds mornYour wilds I’ve raved amang ;
.
There ha’e I heard the wanton b1rdsSing blithe on every bou
gh
There first I met and woos the heart0 ’ bonnie Jeanie Gow.
Dear Jeanie then was fair and young,And bloom’d as sweet a flower
As ever deck’d the garden gay,Or lonely wild- wood bower ;
The warbhng lark at early dawn,
The lamb on mountain brow,
Had ne’er a purer , lighter heart
Than bonn ie Jeanie Grow .
Her faither ’s lowly, clay - built cot.
Rose by Glengarnock s ide ;And Jeanie was his only stayHis darling and his pride.
Aft ha’e I fled the dinsome town ,
The vain heart’s gaudy show,
And strayed among the ferny knowesWi
’ bonnie Jean ie Gow.
But ah ! these blithesome blinks 0’
joyere soon w1
’ gloom o’ercast
,
For Jeanie dear was torn awa’
By death’s untimely blast.Ye woods , ye wilds, and songsters sweet,Ye canna cheer me now,
Since a’ my cherished hopes ha’
e ganeW1
’ bonnie Jeanie GOW .
>t< >l<
ROBERT GEMMELL.
Robert Gemmel l , who occupies no i nsignificant placeamong the past poets of Cuninghame, was born in Irvine, and
after a moderate schooling was apprenticed to the shipbuildingtrade, but in early manhood enlisted as a soldier of the Queen.
At the end of four years ’ service he was induced to purchase hisdischarge from the army , and returning home he obtained a
situation as c lerk to a railway contractor . When his serviceswere
'
no longer required, he repaired once more to his native
JOHN Drcrcrs .
In dreamy mood Old scenes ariseAnd present recollect ions cheer ,
While suddenly in sweet surpr iserThe cuckoo’s voice enchants the ear.
This pleasing bird has rovedo
the themeFor many a rich an thr i lling lay ,
Whose note when beard,.
like love’s fai r dream,
Exerts in youth a magic sway ;And even age enjoyment feelsAt this br ight season of the year,
While high ’mong all that Spr ing revealsThe cuckoo’s voice enchants the ear.
0 time when all is bright romance,And happiness hath banished care,While love, each vision to enhance ,
Makes life a thousand- fold more fair ;What bliss beneath the hawthorn shadeTo hear the tale of love sincere,While sweetly from the distant gladeThe cuckoo’
s voice enchants the ear.
0,many a thrilling sound is heardThroughout fair Nature’
s vast domain,
Which soul and sense alike have stirredAnd memory charmed will still retain
But nothing hath such wondrous power ,Or comes in tones so rich and clear ,
As when in some sweet woodland bowerThe cuckoo’
s voice enchants the ear
While life to some is fair and brightWith lov and hope alike supreme,
To others i is dark as night ,Replete with woe— a troubled stream
And yet while Ills their shadows cast,
Green spots amid the waste appear ;And when we dream of joys lon past,The cuckoo’
s voice enchants t e ear.
Delightful bird ! no sombre loomHath for a moment chille thy
'
oy ;Thy path
.
is still where flow’rets b com
And winter ’s blast can ne’er annoy .
And whi le bright skies refuse to fadeThou wilt not seek another sphereWhere warmth and beauty are displayedThe cuckoo’
s voice enchants the ear.
>i< >i<
JOHN DICKIE.
John Dickie, author of a prose volume, entitled“Words of
Faith , Hope, and Love,”was borri in Irvine, and studied for
THOMAS BRUCE. 231
the ministry , but, being Of a delicate constitution, his healthbroke down, and, after seeking the best medical advice obtain s
able in G lasgow and in London, he decided to abandon hiscollege courses . Returning to his native town, he entered intoa grocery business, which had belonged to his father, but incourse of time his strong bias towards mission work led him to
adopt the cal l ing of a missionary , first in his native town , and
afterwards in Ki lmarnock , in which latter town he laboured forabout twenty years , subsequently returning to Irvine, where hespent the closing period of his l ife.
HYMN— THE GARMENT OF PRAISE.
I heard a litt le bird upon a leafy s
prayPour such a gush of son as if ’
twon d sing its life away ;No fear of prowling haw no dread of coming wrong,No prudent, anxious , manlike cares could sporl that Joyous song .
Learn from this happ bird a lesson, downcast soul ;For ceaseless mercies t the stream of ceaseless praises roll ;S ing when thy strength is firm, and s in when it decays ;When comforts come, or comforts go, for th give equal praise.
FromGod’s unchanging love they both al ike proceed,
HIS perfect wisdomfits them all exactly to thy need ;No creature
_
of His hand He loveth more than thee ;Let no one s ing its tr ibute song with heart more glad and free.
Then sing His countless°
fts , and sing for s ins forgiven ;Si n that the HIGHEST ca 8 thee SON and sealeth thee for Heaven.An. ever at the Cross , where Jesus ought thee dear
,0 1 let the tenderest notes of praise pour forth thy heart ’s deep
Then learn thy lesson we and practise now to raise,Inmy and sorrow, storm and calm, thy thankfn raptures raise .
>i< >i<
THOMAS BRUCE.
voice in the Scottish pulpit, and knew him to be one of thethoughtfu l wooers of the Tuneful N ine,
”who frequent lonely
places in quest of Poesy . Mr B ruce eventual ly abandoned the
232 THOMAS BRUCE .
c lerical profession, and about forty years ago set sail forAustralia, where he engaged chiefly in agricultural pursuits .
While a preacher M r Bruce published a long poem, entitled“The Summer Queen, and a prose volume, entitled “Man
’s
Part in the Chorus of Creation.
”
One of his latest publishedpieces, entitled treats Of the familiar scenes of
the author ’s youth . In the opening verses he Sings the charmsof Irvine Water, which , notwithstanding he is an octogenarian,stil l hold his heart in bondage.
O entle R iver ! At the coref this great Southern Sea
Thy true- born child of full fourscoreS till fondly dreams of thee ;~E’en of the rugged crag that towersHigh o
’er thy fountain - head,
And of the shady~woodland bowersLow bending o
’er thy bed ;
Of banks where from the golden broomFull spring- tide splendour
‘flows,Toned by the mellow ruby bloomOf the wild wayside rose.
i i Q
0 ,Irwin, thine the tracks that gaveFirst steps of life free scope,
l a s imple heart might craveOf careless joy and hope !
Would God my feet - once more might pressThe turf thy waters lave,
And that my ear again mi ht hearThe murmur of thy waveI”
The fol lowing lines by Mr B ruce are reminiscent of thedays when handloom weaving was the staple industry of Newmilns and of almost every other vi l lage in Ayrshire.
REED NOTES.
A weaver sat upon his loomAs dark December day,
Sad thoughts o’ercast his face with gloom,
An’slow he plied the lay.
His cheek was wan , his s’e was dim
,
f He was 111 waefu ’ fettle ;Q 0 O
Li fe s burden it sat sai r on him,
An’slow he ca
’ed the shuttle.
Sad an’slow the shots he threw
,
An ’slow he trod the treadles
,
An’s low the harness - flow’
rs they grew,
As see - saw gaed the heddles.
THOMAS BRUCE.
He thought u on the reedy ledsThat rook t e puir or pro t ;
An’ wee l might wust for them het bedsIn that ill place ca
’d Tophet.
That last, I wot, cam’ frae the Deil,
Or some ans 0’ his clan ,
Aye fain to stir u thoughts no lealW
'ithin the hear 0’ man .
Noo that his wits are crazed wi’ was ,I’ll lay for him a snare ;
An’ I’ll make sure, sae thought the fae,
To girn him like a hare.
Thus sad_
sat he upon his loomThat d rear December day,
In waefu’ mood an’ fretfu’ fume,
Slow ca’in’
at the lay.
The weaver sat upon his loom,
That mirk an’ drear day ;
But noo frae aff his face the gloomBegan to pass away .
Sic pinin’couldna dae him gude,
Or help his grief to scare ;But syne cam’
on a better moodThat took him unaware.
I ween not 0’ his ain intent
Cam’on that happy tide
For weel I wot or e’er he kent,
It cam’ by help 0’Gude.
As through a cloud breaks forth the light ,There cam’
a gleam o’ grace
That cheer’d him in his waefu’ plight
An’eased his sair distress .
Now better thoughts he ca’d to mind,
Thoughts 0’that M ighty One
Wha on the puir in heart looks kindFrae His high place aboon
thought he 0’the ways 0
’God
to his creature man ;Wha gars us tread a rugged roadTo tak
’us by the han’
.
Syne thought he on the wab 0’ life,
How swift its shots are cast ;How a
’its flow’
rs , or scant, or rife,Are woven out '
at last.
THOMAS BRUCE. 235
He thought upon the warp an’ woof,
Serv’
d by a righteous han ’
That maun be wrought to stan’the proof
0’ mair than mortal man.
He thought upon the mystic threadsThat we are weavin
’ever,
For Him wha watches weel , an ’ heedsThe pattern we endeavour .
He thought upon the grand designSketched out by One unseen ;
H w it should rise baith fair an’
ill the last shot’s ca’ed in .
And now he saw’twas nae puir stroke
That God had sent to himIf at life’
s wab he didna boke,Nor wrought it slack an
’slim
The warp an’ woof were spun wi’ sleight
Surpassin’ human skill ;
The pattern weel might stan’the light ,
Fa ir woven to the keel .
The wab cam’ frae a maister whaWill fairly try each weaver ,
Nor mak’the waist o
’scob or gaw,
But pay without a swither .
Thus better thought he 0’the matter ,
An’ buckled his sark sleeve,To drive the lay wi’ cheerfu
’clatter,
An’
gar the shutt le scrieve.
Fu’ blithel now his armhe swang,An ’ fast e t rod the treadles ,
An ’ fair the curtain flow’rs they sprang ,
As lichtly danced the heddles .
The waftO
mair freely left the pirn ,
As in 810 mood he wove ;Less fashions were the threads 0
’ yarnAn ’
no’w e frush the rave.
As his sair heart threw aff its wasIlk thin changed clean its nature ;
The vera A“ ,that bird 0
’
prey,Beem’
d no’see ill a cratur .
For now a’things in fairer light ,
The light 0’ love were seen ;
An’ he wove on wi’ a’ his might,
Weel strengthen’d frae abune.
For the benefit of those not initiated in hand - loomweavers ’
236 THOMAS BRUCE.
nomenclature the author appends the fol lowing notes to the
above poem
Agents— Men who transact between manufacturer and weaver.Corks— Masters .
Cut— Piece of cloth .
Gaw—A ap in theG las ses— Small lenses used to examine the web.
Harness— A species of flowered mus lin.
Hawk—Not that of natural history .Heddles—Threads by means of which the warp is cloven to receive
the weft .Keel - o—A red or blue mark on the warp shewing where the piece
should end.
Lay— Frame b which the weft is drivenRove—Weft w ich forms the patternSoob— A flaw,
weft not interwoven W ith warShot— A thread of weft thrown by the shutt e.
Step ages—Deduction on account ‘
of damages.Stro e—Term applied by the weaver to his web.
Treadles—Wooden shafts by which with his feet the weaver movesthe heddles.
WHAT OF THE TRIDENT ?
Long live Britannia’s ocean—sway,
Heroic and humane,Full freedom of the world’
s seawayStill onward to maintain .
And to secure Earth’s peaceful shoresFrom grievous daily~dread
Of hostile feet , of measured beat,Or fierce and ruthless tread.
Since with a price our fathers boughtThe ancient regal sign
,
Shal l now its virtue come to naught,
Poured out like stale, sour_ _
wine ?
If need he, shall we not once moreRepeat the fearless past,When .
“ hearts of oak met desperate oddsWith flag nailed to the mast ?
Think shall we not of life- blood shedOn every tear - washed sea?
Shal l countless graves of deathless deadBy us forgotten be?
Of valiant deeds at no light costBytheir brave grandsires done
She l not their children proudly boastAs ages onward run ?
238 HUGH M‘Ksrvzm.
some seven or eight years, but eventual ly entered u n a courseof study with a view to qualifying for the clerica profession.
He found, however, some difficulties in the way of attaining hisobject, and drifted into the cal ling of a lay
-
preacher, in whichcapacity he was long and favourab ly known . Mr Lambertonwas associated for about fifteen of the best years ofhis life withthe Ki lmarnock Arti l lery Volunteers .
5? >t<
HUGH M‘KEN Z IE.
It is remarkab le how somany of our Ayrshire bards escapedbeing born with a silver spoon in theirmouths, and had to be content with the smal lest possib le share of rudimentary schooling ,their poverty - stricken parents setting themto learn a trade whenscarcely emerged from chi ldhood. Hugh M‘
Kenzie, who was
born in Kilmarnock long before the era of School Boards, wasset to learn the trade of shoemaking at the age of eleven, and,although he had to toil fromearly morning til l eight o ’c lock , andas frequently ten in the evening, he contrived somehow to find.
leisure for cultivating his literary tastes . In 1859 he was
awarded second prize for a Burns centenary song, which added
not a little to his rising reputation as a devotee of the ruralmuse. He is the author of several other Burnsiana poems whichdo credit to his poetical talents.
BURNS CENTENARY PRIZE SONG .
Ye ask a san in Burne’s praise !I fear ’
twad ing my harpTo sin 0
’him or yet his lays
i’ half the fire 0’Robin .
For Robin ’s harp was
‘
strung wi’ glee ;Its every note was poesy,That filled wi’ wildest ecstacyThe matchless sangs 0 Robin.
Nae theme cam’ wran to Robin’s lyre,
B e’t Satire’s dart, or atriot
’s fire
,Or soothing Love— ‘
twould rievent i re’Twas a
’
the same to Rob in .
The Muse she left her seat abuneAnd Coila’
s har she took him doon ;”Twas a
’ in fett e and in tuneWhen it was gi’en to Robin .
JOHN Nrcor.
And watching she stood by his side,When first his notes our bardie tried ;She heard its tones and smilin cried
They ’ll a’be proud o
’ bin .
She bade him sing in Scott ish phraseAuld Scotland’
s dells and broomy braes,
Till Scots unborn the san wad raiseIn praises 0
’their bin.
That harp our bard aye kept in tune,Sac true to Nature was its soun ’
,
The Muse wi’.
holly did him croonThe Prince 0
’ Pos ts , Robin.
0 Q 0 Q 0 Q 0 0
Auld Scot land’s waes he sairly mourn ’d,
And for her wrangs his bosom burn’d,
Whi le lordling ’s smiles he proudly spurnedA man’
s a man,
”said Robin .
Hypocrisy he sairly lash’d
Grim Superstit ion stood aghast,
And B igotry was sair abash’d,
In presence 0’our Robin
Then let us toast our poet’s name
The highest on the roll of fame !Althou
gha hundred years ha’
e aen
11106 first we saw our R0 in.
To Scotland’s bairns his name is dear
The loughman bard they ’ ll aye revere ;Till ime winds n his hindmost year
We’ ll sing he sangs 0
’Robin.
>l< >l<
JOHN NICOL.
John Nicol , who was born at a farmhouse in the parish of
Ardrossan, entered in boyhood the service of Messrs MerryCunningham, with whom he remained for the long period of
forty - five years . During this time he was emfloyed suc
cessively at Ardrossan, Ardeer, Inkerman, and G lengarnock.
In Glengarnock he passed the greater part of his life, and on
retiring from office in 1892 was appropriately rewarded by hisemployers for long and signal ly faithful services . His numerousfriends and acquaintances likewise memorized the event bypresenting him with a purse of sovereigns and sundry othergifts . Mr Nicol spent the last few years of his life in Beith at
the residence of his daughter, Mrs Daly .
240 JOHN NrceL.
His poems embrace a very wide variety of subjects, and
show the author to have had - a good command of the EnglishDictionary . Several of his themes are aught but conventional ,and embrace subjects which the fewest number of poets couldsuccessful ly transmute into genuine poetic coin.
The fol lowing stanzas were suggested by seeing a frogtaken alive froma deep ironstone pit
Thou are not beautiful , but interesting ,And it is curious how we two have m
This interview is not at thy requesting,And evidently matter of regret.
I heard ou squeak : say, how then could you getEntom ed W ithin this solid iron rib ,ive hundred feet from daylight neatly set,A living kernel in thy antique crib ?
No fissure vein or geologic jumble,But j ust a space where you could hardly tumble.
ave you in the great ferny forest addledAnd been o
’erlaid with folds of gat erin clay ;
Some era long before Eve’s babes were cra led
When Behemoth held undisputed sway ?And if you had existence far awayEre man had habitation or a name,
Wh not live on till that eventful day“Then all the world shall be engulphed in flame
Had not the mattock ’s abrupt resurrectionYou brought to light and critical inspection ?
Say, did you find existence long and - dreary,Or was it all a long and happy dream?
How could you live there? is the solemn query,And to some ears a fable it will seem.
Let them indulge their strictures ; but I deemYour sage experience tells another tale ;
Tel l them the years s ince you have stemmed the streamAnd blent your creaking with the evening gale !
I fancy you are not inclined to lecture,So I mus t rest content with bold conjecture.
TWINE THE GAY ROSE.
I sat in my bower as the Warm day was closing ;The bonnie young moon was just coming to view ;
The bird in its nest by my side was reposing ;The lamb laid its head on the breast of the ewe ;
The brier shed its fragrance to charm the wee gowan ;The bee sung its hymn in the bloom of the bean ;
The first drops of dew were refreshing the rowanThat hung o
’er the brae with its purple and green
,
When sweetly , oh, sweetly, a voice to me spoke :Twrne the gay rose With the young royal oak.
ALEXANDER SMITH.
pieces, and hesitated not to proclaim Alexander Smith a trueson of genius, and himself the enthusiastic discoverer of a newstar in the poetic firmament. This Mr Gilfillan accomplishedby writing artic les in the Eclectic Review ”
and The
Critic ,”
submitting extracts from Smith ’
s poems, and in thisway the young author was brought under favourable notice, andsubsequently made the acquaintance of such literary giants as
Hugh Macdonald and Professor N ichol .Thus encouraged our poet settled down to work on his first
long poem, A Life Drama,”working frequently at it far into
the hours of departing night, and rising early in the mornings,til l at length in 1852 the volume was pub lished by Bogue, ofLondon, who paid £ 100 for the copyright. The work achievedsudden fame,
.
and thousands of copies were sold In the BritishIsles, appreciative notices appearing in several American and
Australian papers . The result of all this was that our poet fora time abandoned pattern designing and resolved on having a
holiday. In company with his friend, John Nichol, he set out
for London, and, passing through the Lake Country , visitedMissMartineau , and afterwards
,at Nettmgham made the acquaint~
ance of Philip Bailey, the author of “ Festus In London he
was everywhere taken by the hand, and his holiday had the
effect of stimu lating and encouraging himin the entrancing paths.
of literature.
Returning to Scotland, he spent a week at Inveraray Castleas the guest of the Duke of Argyle, being there introduced toLord Dufferin. Thereafter he bade farewel l for a time to“trailing showers and breezy downs ”
and settled down to
acquaint himself more ful ly with “the tragic hearts of towns ’
Turning his attention whol ly to literary work , he edited for a
time The G lasgow Miscel lany ,”but this periodical had a brief
existence, and it new became necessary to find a fresh field of
labour. Through the influence of a few friends and In recogni
tion of his literary talents, he was appointed secretary to the
University of Edinburgh , and in 1854 removed from the-sea- bom city, and took over the responsibilities of his new
position. The salary was only £ 150 per annum, but the work ,excepting at stated intervals , left him time in the evenings forliterary exercise. To this post was added some few years afterwards the appointment of Registrar to the University Council ,by which he gained an additional £40 to his emoluments.
In the new sphere of his labours Alexander Smith soon
came into touch with the literati and others moving in art
circ les, and became the central figure of a select coterie knownas
“The Raleigh C lub .
”About this time he made the
acquaintance of Sydney Dobel l , in co operation with whominteresting volume was produced, consisting of a selection of
ALEXANDER SMITH. 243
songs and sonnets on topics dealing with the war in Crimea.
The year 1857 saw the pub lication of City Poems,” by Messrs
Macmi l lan , who paid £200 for the book .
Alexander Smith had now reached the zenith of his fame,and planted his standard on one of the highest peaks of
Parnassus . Thenceforward his course— as a writer of poemswas a downward one. Not so, however, his career as a prosewriter, for in 1863 Dreamthorp appeared, and at once tookreaders by storm, placing our author in a foremost place amongwriters of English prose.
In the Spring of 1857 the poet married Miss F lora Mac
donald, a descendant of the heroine of Scottish romance and a
native of 0 rd, in Skye, and shortly afterwards removed to
Wardie, on the seashore, where he resided until his death in1867 .
On the publication of City Poems certain critics raisedan altogether unwarrantab le charge of plagiarismagainst theauthor, which greatly damaged his poetical reputation, so muchso that when “
Edwin of Deira, an historical poem,was
pub lished in 1861 the whole pecuniary benefit he derived fromit was £15 55 3d. His best known and most popular work , A
Summer in Skye, was issued in 1865, and is reminiscent of
holidays spent by the author in the island of misty peaks.
About this same time he edited the Poetical Works of Burnsfor Macmil lan ’
s G lobe Edition, contributing an admirablememoir . His first and only novel , “
Al fred Hagart’
s Household,
”
appeared in serial form in“Good Words, and was
repub lished in book form in 1866.
About this time his health began to show symptoms of
breaking down , and in the fol lowing year , on returning froma
holiday spent in the neighbourhood of Dingwal l , he was laiddown by typhoid, under which he sank on the 5th of January ,1867 . A Runic cross marks the spot where his remains lie inWarriston Cemetery .
TWO SONNETS.
Beauty still walketh on the ea rth and air ;Our present sunsets are as rich in old
As e’er the Iliad’
s music was out re ed ;The roses of the Spring are ever faIr’Mon branches green still ring- doves coo andAnd he deep sea still foams Its music old.
So,if we are at all divinely souled,
This beauty will un loose our bonds of care .
’Tis pleasant when blue skies are o’er
Within old starry - gated Poesy,
ALEX ANDER SMITH.
'
To meet a“
soul 'set to no worldly tune,.Like thine, sweet Friend ! Oh, dearer th e tomeThan are the dewy trees , the sun , theOr noble -mus ic W ith a golden ending
Last night my check was wetted with warm tears ,Each worth a world. They fell 'from eyes divine.
Last night a lovin lip Was pressed to mine,And at its touch ed all the barren years.And softly couched upon a bosom white,Which came and went beneath me like a sea,
As emperorLord of theLove- WordsK ind Love,R icher this check with thoseThan the vast midnight with its learning spheres,Leander toiling through the moon ight br ine,K ingdomless Anthony, were scarce my peers.
EX TRA-CT FROM A LIFE DRAMA.
Scene IX .-
'
A Lawn— Sunset— Walter lying at Violet’s Feet.
You loved, then, very much this friend of thine?
of his voice did warmmy heart like wine.
ince dead ; but if there Is a heavenof bliss
VIOLET.
“
How did you live?
WALTER .
We read and wrote together slept together ;We dwelt on s lopes a must t e mernin sun ,
We dwelt in crowde street, and love to walkWhile Labour s lept, for, in the ghas tly dawn,
The wildered cit seemed a demon ’s brain,
The children of t e pi t its evil thoughts .
Sometimes we sat Who e afternoons, and watchedThe sunset build a. city frail as a dream,
With bridges , streets of splendour , towers ; and sawThe fabrics crunible into res ruins,And then grow grey as heat But our chief jOyWas to draw images from everything ;And images
'
lay‘
thlck u 11 our talkAs shells on ocean san
246 ALEXANDER SMITH.
VIOLET.
Great friends of yours ; you love them over much .
WALTER .
I love the stars too much ! The tameless sea
8 reads itself out beneath them, smooth as glass .
flu cannot love them,lady , til l you dwell
In mighty towns ; immured in their black hearts,The stars are nearer to you than the fields .
I’d grow an Atheist in these towns of tradeWer ’t not for stars . The smoke puts heaven out
I meet sin - bloated faces in the streets,And shrink as from a blow . I hear wild oaths,And curses s ilt from li s that once were sweet,And sealed or Heaven y a mother ’s kiss .
I mix with men whose hearts of human flesh,
Beneath the petrifying touch of old,
Have grown as stony as the trod en ways .
I see no trace of God till in the DI ht ,While the vast cit lies in dreams 0 gain ,
He doth reveal imself to me in Heaven .
My heart swells to Him as the sea‘
to the moon ;Therefore it is I love the midnight stars.
VIOLET.
I would I had a lover who could giveSuch ample reasons for his loving me,
you for lovmg stars ! But to your task .
GLASGOW.
Sing,Poet, ’
tis a merry world ;That cottage smoke is rolled and curled
In sport, that every mossIs happy, every inch of soilBefore me runs a road of toil
With my grave cut across .
S Ing, trailing showers and breezy downsI know the tragic hearts of towns
City ! I am true son of thine ;Ne
’er dwelt I where great mornings shineAround the bleating pens ;
Ne’er by the rivulets I strayed,
And ne er u on my childhood weighedThe si ence of the glens .
Instead of shores where '
ocean beats,I hear the ebb and flow of streets .
Black Labour draws his weary wavesInto their secret—moaning caves ;
But with the morning light,That s ea again will overflow
ALExANDER SMITH. 247
With a long weary sound of woe,
Again to faint in night .
Wave, am I in that sea of weesWhich
, night and morning, ebbs and flows ?
I dwelt within a gloomy court ,Wherein did never sunbeam sport ;
Yet there In heart was stirr’d
My very blood di dance and thri ll,When on my narrow window - sill
Spring lighted like a bird.
Poor flowers— I watched them ine for weeks ,W ith leaves as pale as human 0 eeks
Afar,one summer , I was borne,
Throu h golden va ours of the morn,
heard the ills of sheep ;I trod with a wild ecstasyThe bright fringe of the living sea ;
And on a ruined keegl)
I sat, and watched an en ess plainBlacken beneath the gloom of ram.
0 fair the lightly sprinkled wasteO
’er which a laughing shower has raced !
0 fair the Apr i l sheets ;0 fair the woods on summer daysWhile a blue hyacinthine haze
Is dreamin round the roots !In thee, 0 C ity ! discernAnother beauty
, sad and stern.
Draw thy fierce streams of blinding ore,
Smite on a thousand anvils , roarDown to the harbour - bars ;
Smoulder in smoky sunsets , flareOn rainy nights , while street and square
L ie empty to the stars .
From terrace proud to alley baseI know thee as my mother ’s face .
When sunset bathes thee in his gold,In wreaths of bronze th sides are rolled
,
Thy smoke is dus fire ;And from the glory round theeA sunbeam like an angel’s swor
Shivers upon a spire .
Thus have I watched thee . Terror ! Dream!While the blue N ight crept up the stream.
The wild Train plunges in the hills ,He shrieks across the midui ht ril ls ;
Streams thro’the shI ing glare
The rear and flap of foundry fires,
That shake with light the sIee ing shiresAnd on the moorlands are,
He sees afar a crown of li htHang o
’er thee in the hol ow night .
248 ALEXANDER SMITH.
At midnight when thy suburbs liesilent as a noon - da sky ,
When larks wit heat are mute, .
I love to linger on thy.brid‘g
e,
All lonely as a mountain ri ge,Di sturbed but by my foot !
While the black lazy stream beneathSteals from its far- oil wilds of heath.
And throu h thy heart as through a dreamFlows on t at black disdainful stream;
Al l scornfull it flows,Between the hudd ed gloom of masts ,Silent as pines unvexed by blasts
’Tween lamps in streamingrows.
0 wondrous sight ! 0 stream 0 dread !0 long, dark river of the dead !
Afar,the banner of the year
Unfurls but dimly prisoned here,”fie onl when I greet
A dro t rose ymgin my way,
A bu rfly that utters gaythwart the noisy street,
I know the ha py summer smiles.
Around thy su urbs , miles on miles
"I‘ween neither
Ewan now, nor dirge,
i l‘he flash and t under of the surge
On flat sands wide and bare ;No haunting
1joy of anguish dwells
In the green ight of sunny dells,Or in the starry air.
Alike to me the desert flower,
The rainbow laughing o’er the shower.
While o’er thy walls the darkness
I lean against the churchyard rails ;U in the midnight towers
The bel ried spire, the street is dead,I hear m silence overhead
The clang of iron hours ;It moves me not— I know her tombIs yonder in the shapeless gloom.
All raptures of this mortal breath,Solemnities of life and death ,
Dwell in t noise alone ;Of me thou hast me a partSome kindred with my human heart
Lives in thy streets of stone !For we have been familiar moreThan galley - s lave and weary oar.
The beech is dipped in wine ; the showerIs burmshed ; on the swinging flower
The latest bee doth sit .The low sun stares through dust of gold,
HUGH CLARK .
the most momentous kind, and a resu lt, which is all too
common,fol lowed his unwise choice of a city rather than a
country life. Unab le to withstand the temptations of the greatcity , he gradual ly but surely fel l into dissipated habits, and wasforced to relinquish situation after situation, til l he was leftstranded on the tide of commerce, a hopeless social wreck .
Hugh C lark in early manhood was gifted with a fine
presence and address, to which was added a richly imaginativepoetic fancy . In later years his mind became more or lessclouded.
And here the rural Muse might aptly sayAs sober evening sweetly siles along
, ,
How once she chased black ignorance awayAnd warmed his artless song with feelings strong
To teach his reed to warble forth a song ;And how it echoed on the evening gale
All'
by the brook the pasture flow’rs among !
But ah ! what do such trifles now avail ?There’s few to notice him, or hear his simple tale.
THE SPIRIT OF LOVE.
Spirit of Love, 0 wave thy lofty wings,And waft me to that clime serene and fairWhere no base thought clouds the celestial air,Nor false fruits tempt, nor breathe unhallow
’d things,
But joy for ever soars,and scars and sings !
Lift , lift me out this miserable lair !Pluck frommy heart the scorpions nestling there,Whose venom- dart my inmost being stingsTo agony unspeakable ! O cleaveFrom these poor bleeding hands so weak and slenderThe self - bound fetters sm and folly weave !From foes without that loudly call Surrender !And fears within that would my soul deceive
,
Save me ! Spirit of. Love, Thou true and tender !
PAN’
S DREAM .
Prom Echoes from our Olympus .
Veiled in the aery woof the sunlighFair Venus rose out of the sapphire sea ;And, light as dew - fal l on the violet leaves,With rosy footsteps stole along the lea.
Love led her on, in purple pinions lumedA tr0 0 p of amilin graces follows after ;The flower buds
,eeming it Was summer bloom’d
As they passed by with songs and silvery laughter .
HUGH CLARK . 251
Vanishing,like sunset, in a wood ! Here
Hidin in the st illy forest’s‘
dee green gloom,
A pooElike liquid diamond, col and clear ,Lay blossom
’d o
’er with lotus - lily bloom.
its guardian Naiad, singing clear ,.
vely Venus say what her sweet wil l is ?Replied Love’s Queen : Sire Ne tune sent us hereTo beg a bouquet of your virgin i lies .
”
Soon forth they issued,ocean - ward returning,
Each nymph a sheaf of full - blown blossoms br inging ;So soft and snowy pure, ’
twere hard discerningThe lilies from the white arms round them clinging !
Upon the beach Old Neptune, wet and flowing,Re ceived Queen Venus and her laden train,
Well pleased on her co cheek a kiss bestowing ;Then to his Emerald alls the
ysped amain,
In
sink and azure early scal Ops rowin
gBy yren led, on tu dy seas hel ls , bugles lowing .
ARDROSSAN : A RETROSPECT .
Frompoementitled An Excursion from the City to the Sea.
In a cottage I was cradled by the mar in of the sea
And my feather - footed boyhood , sped t e silver- sanded shore ;Ah
,the broom in golden blossoms and the daisy - jewelled lea ,
I remember , I remember , tho’I see them never more.
’Mid the dim and solemn shadows , by n
ayfaintly glowing fire,
I sit and wake the memo ries of those go en days of yore ;And my fancy in the embers rears a well - known church and spireBy a hill with storied column and a cast le high and boar.
Andtgi?
the loud- lipped cannon and the grey time- hallowedm
7
Whegg
the kine are ca lmly browsing , and the light - limbed lambkin1
Far bellds
w them lies a Crescent dropt in odour - breathing bloomsAnd a red town clasp ing in her arms a forest dim of ships .
Dark loomin in the distance tower proud Arran’s urple tops ,
W ith the Ho y Island lying like an emerald in the ea ;
8,the glory and the
(gloom of gulfy glens and sunny slopes,
or the shimmer an the glimmer of the silver - glancmg sea !
00 Q Q Q Q l 0 Q Q
Hark ! the wind howls at my lattice, and the s wift- descending
Is fluttering like a wounded dove against my window pane ;Yes ! ’
tis W inte r , and I only dream of summers long ago ;Yet methinks I hear the music of the melancholy main.
252 RICHARD.TARBET.
A Mid- Summer Day ’
s Dream.
A kin lier form did ne’er ascehd a throne ;
A kin ier hand came never from above ;Heart- conqueror of the world he walks alone,The living Hero of the dreams of Love.
Rose- orb crown’d Emperor of the eye and ear
He stands a statue- moves a victor - K ing ;He stands and Nature holds her breath to hear:He sings as none except a god can sing.
The incarnate pageant- glory of his treadImagination domes with triumph - towers ;Before him,
Strength bows down his haughty head ;Beneath his proud feet Beauty scatters flowers.
Nobly achieving duties hi h and low,
The zone- height of his son is still to pray,To turn to jo this wailing world of woeAs Heaven’
s lest sun turns Darkness into Day !
Through the wide flashing of his deep soul - spheresS treams the far glimmer of a coming light,As from
.
his exile of six thousand years ,A star sings t’ward his long - lost brethren bright.
The lion and the lamb are linked in him!Love is the light that doth his soul illume !And, like the soft flame in a lanthorn dim,
G lows through his frame the clear celestial bloom!
>l< >l<
RICHARD TARBET.
Richard Tarbet, who laboured for the long period of fiftyyears as a schoolmaster in Darvel , c laims notice in these
pages as a local historian as wel l as a poet. On retiring fromhis long term of active services as a teacher , his worth and
ability were du ly recognised by old pupils and ether friends,who presented him with a handsome i l luminated address . Mr
Tarbet is an intense lover of Nature, with a strong bias forgeological and botanical pursuits. He is the author of numerous artic les on historical and scientific subjects.
254 DAVID LINDSAY .
DAVID LINDSAY.
David Lindsay was born in Ki lmarnock , where he was
apprenticed to the trade of b lock printing , but after servingfour years he relinquished the work , and crossing
'
over to the
Emerald Isle, joined the Irish Constabulary , and rose to the
position of commanding officer . He also held the appointmentof ship inspector, an office which he continued to hold after hisretiral from the constabular
'
y in 1880 . He contributed prosesketches and poems to various newspapers and magazines, and
which are proof of considerab le literary power.
AUTUMN REFLECTIONS.
The athways thick are strewn with browned leaves,An bright autumnal skies emblend with grey ;
The reapers toil a nd the golden sheaves ;S low drags the clattering team along the way.
I linger , and with gli st’n lng eye survey
The stubble plains that now are swept so bare,Feeling as if sublimin sorrow layO
’er all I see— some s adowed reflex there
Of M an ! emblem of changing seasons ev’rywhere.
Sear - leaved decline does o’er the woodlands steal,
The faded flow’rs lie with
’rin at my feet
Their robes of beauty one ; no 0 arms reveaBy bank or field-
pat or by hedge- row sweet ;No vernal perfume scents the lone retreat,The summer ’s shimmer from the fields has fled ;
Nature awaits the hours that shall completeThe lasting year— with sympathy I treadThe wreaths of fallen grass that greenless are and dead.
The autumn lingers,but how sadd
’ningly
The earth ap ars pall’d o
’er by wan decay
Yet in that sa ness immortalityIs whispered, and the living seem to saySpr ing shall again return— each leafless spray
S all wave in Nature’s sheen of summer dress,For W Inter
’s surly storms shall pass away,
And the warm zephyrs shall again caressThe flow’
rs that wait her smile to bloom in loveliness !
The landscape’s sparsely dotted still with old,
Not flashing now ,though still in glory rest,
The ferns have rusted like the iron when old,
And russet is the beech by stern behest ;
DAVID LINDSAY.
The mountain ash, like sunset in the west,With clust
’ring scarlet berries all aglow ,
Dee is the qu Ietude bes aking restT ere’
s grandeur in eac paling t int ; but, 10 !Deep in my heart a sadness I but too well know .
The birds , preparatory to their flight ,Make noisy circuits round the old church vane,
Or swiftly dart through air and then alight,And W l ll not with us longer now remain ;But leave for warmer latitudes again .
The thrush and blackbird silent long have been ,
The redbreast’s notes but speak of dark’ning rain ,
The lark at intervals is heard, I ween ,
But migrate visitants no longer now are seen .
The flocks of fleecy clouds move surely past ,And from beneath each shade a linting ray
Flickers an instant and its beam oth cast
On field and woods along through which I stray ,
Caus in alternate gleam and loom to layOn t e glad colours waving behold !
p
The tinges deepen as I turn awayFromerst rich garniture of vale and woldThat Cornucopia’
s stores profusely now unfold.
The amber sunset tops the distant woodThat forms a compact bank against this light,
The restless rocks return in clam’rous mood
From foraging , and sett le for the night ;The rising moon peeps over yonder hei htOf stilled trees that throw their dar shades deep
Across the streamunruflied. All is quiet ,Save drooping leaves and chestnut fronds that keepFall ing at Inte rvals
,and waken birds froms leep .
The years move round, familiar to us all,By s low gradations , scarce we note each change ;
The evening shadows swiftly round us fall,
The days row short , and on you mountain rangeThe crisp w ite snow we see
, nor think it strangeThe li hted eves should us a ain invite
To socia joys within the home y grange,
Where pleasant tales be ile the winter’s nightAnd pure domestic com orts minister delight.
Man has his seasons . Spring - tide paths ope fair ,And dazzling ho bespells the youthful mind
Enchantment ! Ad)
?how exqu isitely rare !His summer comes and yet deceived may find
Him led by thou hts ambitious and inclinedTo crest that hi 1 on which so few shall stand !
His autumn finds all false and more unkindDimm’
d eyes , blanched hair : the winter’s icy hand,Sequence of all, bids death lead to the unseen land.
>l<
255
REV. JAMES BALLANTINE.
REV. JAMES BALLANTINE.
It is a relief sometimes to consult the pages of a Spiritualpoet who can strike the major as wel l as the minor mode, andproduce something better than “
plebeian pathos.” James
Bal lantine, who was born in Irvine, gives evidence in his bookof poems that he could tune his lyre to variant moods andmeasures. After receiving a rudimentary schooling at IrvineAcademy , Mr Bal lantine engaged as an assistant teacher inG lasgow , attending at the same time the University classes.His health breaking down, he was compel led to seek a .moresalubrious climate, and in 1861 he emigrated to Jamaica.
Soon after arriving there he was appointed missionary of the
United Presbyterian Church , a charge which he held for abouttwelve years, at the end of which period he transferred his ser
vices to Canada, settling in Canada West as a Presbyterianminister . After a time he demitted this charge and returnedto Jamaica, engaging in missionary work
'
at Hampden .
Mr Bal lantine’
s poems are pervaded with a patriotic lovefor the scenes of homeland and the hal lowed memories which.c ling to almost every footbreadth of his native country .
A voICE FROM THE MOORS .
They say the fire is low to- day that burned so high of old,And that the Martyrs died in vain , on mountain,
moor, and woldTheybe
s
t
ay that harps thro’ Scotland ring, that charm whi le theyray.
And that her roudest memories are .fadin fast away .The say her venanting age now reads 11 e any story ,An that a thousand Hun ike hands are on her ark
,of glory .
And is the land no more that won my heart in life’s sprIng day,
The land that on its crest of yore caught Truth ’s eternal ray ?My Country ! can I then no more thine ancient honour trustAnd must I see thee creep through Time discrown’
d and in thedust?
I reck not of the s trict harps that wake to charm thee there ;The rose of Free om pines away in Truth’s dishevelled hair.
Theyo
say that Scotsmen feed the moth with the banner of theirsi res
,
And that the wind isgone that fanned the old heroic fires
The say that h igh - sou ed genius s urns the peasant ’s simple creed,An br
alnds him fool that poure his blood in Scotland’
s darkestnee
But no ! I dream —it cannot be— ye dreadful spells away !I see a light on themoorland yet and a crownon the mountain grey.I see the dear old land of youth— once more I call it mine:I see a thousand cataracts adown its gorges shine
258 JOHN STEELE.
Good- night, comrades we shall beTrue to Queen and LibertTrue to these Old heath - Ola hillsDeep .furrowed by a thousand rills.Defence and not Defiance beOur motto ; let the nations see
That British hearts link right with might.Good- n ight comrades all, good- nightGood- night, comrades all, good- night
>l< >l<
JOHN STEELE.
The township of Ki lbirnie has been noted for its minstrelssince Thomas MacQueen waked the harp which for so manyyears hung silent on the cottage hal ls of G len Garnock.
Although none of the Ki lbirnie bards has reached the poeticalaltitudes attained by MacQueen, several Of them have composed verses of average good quality , and among them is Mr
John Steele, who, although he left Kilbirnie upwards of
twenty - five years ago, is sti l l remembered by many of the Olderinhabitants of the town . Mr Steele is presently engaged as
foreman in a large l inen thread mil l in New York State,America. He has kind ly forwarded one or two of his musings,from which we select the fol lowing as a fair sample of his
poetical composition
BE A MAN .
lies the aching head so lowe ye was wont to glow
palsied shakes with trembling throeThe nervous hand?
And why oh, why reels to and froGod’s image grand?
When first I met thee fair and young,With truth and virtue on th
While sterlin worth aroundBy t ee was raced ;
At human faults thy sart—strings rungNor frailties traced.
Then on thy manly, youthful heartHigh hopes and aims impatient start,While quick as thought through every
Expedient ready ;Ambition soared o
’er human art
To heights unsteady.
CRAWFORD STIRRAT ALLAN . 259
’Twas this that brought thee to the dustFor this thy noblest efforts rustThe bacchanalian fiend accurst
Has dragged thee down.
Both to thyself and God unjust,How wretched grown.
R ise, rise, and fling the cup awaLook on on sun and this fair ay,And reso ute ascend the brae
Of independenceNo longer under Bacchusz sway
Dance thou attendan
Arise, assert thy manhood’s ri t
,Gird thy resolves with reason 8 11 t
Smooth liding down at last to- nfgl
htife’s battle o
’er
Will find thee free fromevery blightFor evermore.
>l< >i<
Every being so endowed— says the philosopher— wil l findhis fitting vocation. Crawford Sti rrat Al lan , who is a nativeof Dalry , began to search for a fitting vocation when a merelad, first as a shoemaker ’s apprentice, and afterwards as a
votary of one of the building trades , finding eventual ly as a
successful business man in Wigan the true sphere of his labours .
Several booklets of Mr Al lan ’
s verse have been issued fromthe
press , more for private circulation than with any view on the
part of the author to catering for public applause, as his innatemodesty debars him from claiming any outstanding merit in theoutpourings of his muse.
Mr Al lan might very appropriately adopt as his motto thefol lowing words
Have little care that life is brief,And less that art is long !
SUCCESS is in the silences ,Though FAME is in the
’
song .
M . W. PEACE.
"I‘was on a bleak , November dThe fleece upon our pathway ay,
And all around was still and drear ,When Brothe r Peace lay on his bier.
REV. THOMAS DUNLOP.
He meant‘ to join an outbound shipThat sailed from Britain’
s shore;Ho eful his contemplated tripWould his lost health restore.
But as the da wore slow] on
And eventi e drew nigA radiant light around him shoneThe Angel Death stood by
And now his earthl race is_
o’er,
The battle’s fou t and won ;
Now landed safe on Canaan’s shore
,He hears with joy, Well done 1’
That empty shell, that tongue once deft,No dut now perform;
Most nob e sire : ’tis all that’s left
Of that once manly form.
Yet, once that active brain did 'moveAye foremost in the fight ;
A heart that ever flowed with love,Pulsating for the right.
His body moulders in the dustBeneath the cold, green sod ;
His spirit rests.
in solemn trustWith his Almighty God.
Awaydull sceptics— sons of N ight,
W o dare to doubt the plan ,
That Christ, the Son of God— our LightWas s lain for fallen man !
>l< >l<
REV. THOMAS DUNLOP.
.Thomas Dunlop, author of a handsome volume entitled
“John Tamson ’
s Bairns and Other Poems,”
was born at Kil
marnock, and was the only brother of the late Mr GeorgeDunlop, editor of the
“K ilmarnock Standard.
” He studiedfor the ministry , his
‘
first pastorate charge being that Of the
United Presbyterian Church , Balfron . Subsequently he was
appointed co-
pastor with Dr Peddie of the Bristo congregation,Edinburgh , but after a time severed his connection with thischurch , and accepted a cal l to the Emmanuel CongregationalChurch of Bootle, near Birkenhead, where he continued to
labour ti l l near the close of his life. His poems are as variedin style as in the choice Of subjects, some of his happiest effortsbeing written in the homely vernacu lar Of his native country .
262 REV. THOMAS DUNLOP .
Wee bit sturdy , stacherin’chappie,
G leg wee man as e’er was seen ,
Ken e why the“
big saut drappie,No
’ i l 8 nt,nor yet unhappy ,
Fa’s oun frae yer faither ’s een?
Th iwee roun’cheek ; saft and cal low
Thy wee pow o’sunny hair ;
His is gettin’ grey , puir fallow !
Andfhrs”
face grows thin and sallowWi’ the bitter olym 0
’care.
Shal l he ever live to see theeHale and strong on life’s brae- tap,
Glad in a’the warl ’ can gi
’e thee
Or in was misfortune dree theeTo the grave, thy mither
’s lap ?
Speak nae mair the word 0’sorrow !
Bring nae mair the feckless t ear !Foolish wark it is to borrowFrae the torn pouch o
’ To—morrowGod is guid— To- day is here !
MTwee Tam, should ill befa’ thee,hole it weel till a’
be dune ;S lander ’s ton
gue may oft misca’
thee ;Pleasure’
s gi ed toys withdraw theeInto s limy paths 0
’sin ;
But the Shepherd kind and tender,Ance a wee bit lamb like thee,
Kens fu’ weel what hel to render
A’the frail fo lks ’ ain ender
staunch as He.
Soon will cease thy childish prattleSoon to sterner things give
Spinning top , and trump , andGang th
ggate and fight
Gard t as weel and win
Here not lon we bide thBut we a
’all gether
Unco blithe wi’ ane anitherWee bairns _
wi’ their faither—mitherIn the lang, lang evermair.
A BIRTHDAY OFFERING .
If Love her hwt can yield when least ‘is said,And be her kindliest when thought is still
,Earn ing her highest boon by mere sweet W111,
And thrive on trust as on her daily bread,Then would I like a rose whose leaves are shed,Some little space within the memory fillW ith balm, which never cankering care would kill,
-DAVID RAESIDE. 2
A fra rance when the flower is long s ince dead ;For ot er ift fromme, a las ! is none
With f heart only and with empty hands,Walking between thee and the evening sun
Adown the misty way of Ho’s waste lands ,
£Vgreet thee, dearest soul of a that live,ith Love’
s poor self when Love naught else can gi ve t
>l<
DAVID RAESIDE
David Raeside, who was born in the parish Of Dunlop,
was one whomight have waked to ecstacy the l iving lyre had
he not been cut Off in the bloom of early manhood . Of a
grave, thoughtfu l , and pious nature, his inclination lay towardsthe work of the ministry , and with this purpose in view he
studied at the University of G lasgow until fail ing health compelled him to rel inquish his studies . He subsequently retiredto Paisley , where he died whi le yet in the prime -Of manhood .
Mr Raeside cu ltivated poetry from his earliest student years,and continued so doing ti l l near his end. About a year afterhis death a smal l memorial volume of his pieces was published,and these Show that he was gifted with true poetic gemus, being,evidently , the outpourings of a tender and compassionate heart—the heart of one who knew “
the generous fel lowship of joy,the sympathy of grief
DAWN .
Stars hung like tear.drops in the eye of nightIn solemn loom:
The world lay aw beneath their mournful light,As voiceless as the tomb
The forests stood like silent spirit bandsOn hill and dale,
And in the darkness waved their outstretched hands ,Moved by the gentle gale.
The din of trade the city ’s tunelessWas hushed and dead ;
And Slee had wreath’d m rions dreamland °
o
lgound many anmhead.
J n
The world was still , as silent as a cloudThat hangs in air ;
And heaven with all her thousand tear - drops, bowedAndwept, o
’er human ca re.
264 DAVID RAESIDE.
When far away, where the’
blue folds of spaceHang round the world ;
And the dim cloudlets on the mountain’s face
In shadowy wreaths are curled.
A slowly brightening blush illumed the airAnd grew more dee
Till the bri ht sun , refreshes:rose clear and fair,
An clomb the starry steep.
N ight dried her lingering tear - drops one by one
Till all were one,
And darkness fled be ore the ris ing sun
To where no sunlight shone.
The mer sunbeams ran to kiss the hillsfi st waked from sleep
And hasten ’d to the little laughing rills
And danced upon the deep
The city woke, her traflic heart beganTo pant and swel l ;
But the changes earth had felt ’neath M idnight’s span
One tongue alone may tell .
Some ma have woke to find the moments creepWithout a changeB ut ah ! how many may have waked to weep
Within the world’s wide range.
Some ma have waked to hail the infant mornAnd bless the light ;
To catch the leasures on life’s
pinions borne
And rink them with de ight.
Morn heeds them not, she stops not on her wayFor joy or am,
But hastens to proc aim the coming day,And leaves the world again.
LITTLE FLORENCE.
Little Florence, fond and free,
Playing by the apple tree,Laughing on her mother ’s knee
Sunbeams slanting on her hair,Flowing wreaths Of flow’
rets fair,
Dangling fromher in the air.
Fas t and faster go her feetWhere the grass and sunshine meet :Joyful Florence : Life is sweet.
Florence,mild and weak,
Trouble lookin from her cheek,
Scarcely can s e move or speak
266 Rsv. WILLIAM B . ROBERTSON WILSON .
writer, as wel l as a poet Of unquestionab le merit. Being a
keen student Of Scottish historya nd biography he has enrichedthis particular field Of literature by many ab le magazine and
newspaper articles, and as one of Dr Murray ’s sub- editors ,
had a Share in compiling the New English Dictionary. In
poetical composition Mr Wilson appears to have a predeliction
for sacred themes. The manuscript Of the fol lowing pieceswas kindly forwarded to us for use in this work
BE OF GOOD CHEER ,
OR
CHRIST’
S MOST CHARACTERISTIC MESSAGE TO
MEN .
I.
0 men by sin and shame undoneWho feel ou r pals ied nature’
s need,Nor dare efore God
’s awful throne
One word in your defence to pleadTake heart of grace
,for still , as when
The word He speaks you all may hearChrist’s message kin ’Tis sinful menLike you I save. Be of good cheer ! ”
II .
Saints,too
,‘rejoice ! Because your K ing,
Seen as Of old in Jesus ’ form,
Doth now to you salvation bringIn every time of stress and storm,
And’mid earth’s tempests still draws near
TO calm your spirits sore dismayed,
With the Old words : Be of ood cheer !Fear not ; ’
tis I, be not afrai
And thou, too, heavy laden one,
Whose heart is faint , whose joys are few,
E’en though th faith be almost gone,
A like appeal 1 ring to you .
G ive ear to Christ, and thou shalt seeThat
, as of Old, thy Saviour dearStill gently whispers : Come to meAnd be at rest. Be of good cheer ! ”
IV.
So brethren all, I pray ou heedYour Master ’s voice so rave and true,That aye to cheer your souls in need
speaks : These things I say to you,That so in Me you Peace may find ;Tr ials , indeed, await you hereYet dread them not. I leave hehindA vanquished world. Be of good cheer 1”
GAVIN LAWSON .267
MAGNE DI, REDDI LUCEM !”
Spirit Divine, arise and shineIn this doubt- darkened soul ofmine.Thus bring me back the oy
ous l ightThat to my eager boyh s sightThe Christ, as Saviour - God, revealed.
Next, bid me see Love
’s Fount unsealed
In Jesus ’ breast , whence free lyflowsA stream Of grace to heal Life 9 woesBeholding this , next makeme learnOnce mo re the beauty to discernI saw of old in Jesus
’ face.Thus quickened by revealing grace,Oh ! may my faith still stro er grow ,
Till each doubt- kindled fear s all go ,And God
’s own peace assures my soul
Christ makes the wounded irit.whole.
Come then .with thy tranfigu ring lightOn Jesus ’ face sh ine full and bright ,Then shall I all God’
s ness proveAnd banquet da ily on Is Love.
>l< >i<
GAVIN LAWSON .
A few minutes ’
conversation with Gavin Lawson affordsconvincing proof that he holds a high opinion Of the poet
’
s art,
and is Of the firm conviction that the poet’
s true miss wn shouldever be in the direction Of ameliorating and elevating the
human race. Born in Darvel at a period when educationalOpportunities were rare, Mr Lawson is to a large extent sel ftaught. When only nine years Of age he was sent to be a herdladdie, and at this calling was occupied for about five years,thereafter serving an apprenticeship to the handloom weavingtrade. At the expiration of his indenture he abandoned the
loom and removed to G lasgow , where he learned the trade Ofsteam-
pipe covering, in which l ine he conducted a business of
his own for fifteen years. When the lace- curtain industry wasinaugurated in Darvel and further down the Irvine val l Mr
Lawson returned to his native shades, settl ing first in rvel
and afterwards in Newmilns, where he presently resides . The
fol lowing specimens Of his muse are froma manuscript volumeofmeritorious verse
268 GAVIN LAWSON .
A VISION OF BURNS.
The Departed Spirit Speaks .
Awake from sleep, and pen some lines for me,Though chained by Death, my spi r it
.
sti l l is free,In many a home, in many a heart I l ive,And all my carpin cr itics freely I forgive.
None knew my fai ings better than myself,My greatest drawback was the want of. health.
Half -mad with toothache and rheumat ic gout,I own to kicking stools and chai rs about.No doubt, at times I acted like a fool,But through it all I kept the golden rule,Pure in resolve and formed W ith passmns strong,But weak in will, my mind was not my own . J
Led by the Muse, no matte r where she strayed,I meant no wrong to either man or
.
maid ;Was slow to censure, ready to forgive ;For self alone I knew not how to live.
Hy ocrisy I did my best to ki ll, 0
AndJ
tyranny denounced with rustic ski ll ;On purse-
proud entry and thei r haughty broodMy satire rain ’ unti l it raised a floodOf Hatred and Revenge a mighty waveThat swept me Off to fill an early rave.
Although quite young, with hOpe undertookThe labour of recording in a bookM scatter
’d thoughts in good Old Doric rhyme,
Agordin me much pleasure at the time.
Some too me serious when I meant it fun,
And could have shot me with a loaded gun ;While many men with broader minds and freeCould see the joke and laugh like you and me.
May God forgiveme if at times I swore.
I did my best, the best can do no more ;And if in person I should come again,
Back to Old Scotland free from racking pain,
The same Old course I doubly would pursue,Uprooting W rong that Right might spring anew. .
And I would s ing in Her immortal nameA son of praise that might increase Her fame ,
Her ighland hills and Lowland dales so greenDeserve a tribute that we have not seen .
Her sons so brave, and daughters still so fair,Command my love and my unceasing pray’
r,
Thato
they may live in peace and sweet content,Leading the world in song and sentiment.These are the wishes Of a brother’s heart ,The cocks are crowing, and I must d epart
“Then I awoke the Vis ion quickly fled,
And left me lyinglone , amazed in bed °
I rose and dress ’ took paper , pen, and ink,And wrote my dream,
but what wil l “ Robin think?
270 WILLIAM FINDLAY, M .D.
And in the Sprin time.
o’the year ,
When making ove sincerely,The saddest souls thei r songs will cheerThey sing so sweet and clearly .
On Sunday morn , when all is st ill,If you are weak or wear
Seek Stoneyha’or Windyh
The birds will make you cheerWhen Nature’
s in. a joyous mooLeave every street and alley
And come with me to Cessnock Wood ;There’
s music in the valley.
The lark while soaring to the skyMakes you forget your sorrow .
And wish that you would never dieSO come with me to- morrow .
I’ll take(you where you ’l l rapture hear,
A hun red voices nearly ;All warbling notes so sweet and cfearThat you will love them dearly.
Those little son sters of the woodAre part of d
’a creation ;
One hour with them will do you good,And may be your salvation .
When you are tossing to and froOn life’
s engulfing billows ,Oh , seek some haven that you know,Where you can hear tit- willows.
>t< >l< .
WILLIAM FINDLAY. M.D.
The town or vi l lage doctor may be a much beloved or
widely scandalized person, but he is always granted the hand of
good fel lowship in the homes where he makes a» bold and faithfu l stand- up fight against the grisly spectre of disease, and themarvel is how anyone engaged in the oft- times harassing and
arduous duties Of a medical practitioner can find leisure to turnhis thoughts to the cultivation of poetry . Yet we havemedicalmen with us to - day who are not only Skil led in their professionbut equal ly ski l led in the literary arts, and of such is DrWil liamFindlay, wel l known in literary circles by the pen nameof George Umber .”
Doctor Findlay is a native of Kilmarnock, and in his
twentieth year entered himself a student in the Old Col lege,High Street, G lasgow, where he graduated in 1870 . Afterpractising medicine for a few months as locumteams at Ratho,near Edinburgh , he returned
'
to G lasgow and established in the
WILLIAM FINDLAY, M .D.
Dennistoun district a successful and constantl y inc reasingpractice, from which he retired owing to fail ing health onlysome two years ago.
Doctor Findlay’
s chief literary works are a series.
Of prosesketches and essays published in book form, and which havewon for himthe not inappropriate title Of the Scottish CharlesLamb .
” He has made his mark also as a poet Of undoubtedability , and is amember of the Bal lad C lub . Doctor Find lay isa nephew of the late Archibald M ‘
Kay, poet and historian ofKi lmarnock , and he has recently edited and supervised a new
edition of Mr M‘Kay
’s wel l - known histo ry of Kilmarnock .
HENRY VAUGHAN , M .D.
A Seventeenth Century Country Doctor and Poet.
I.
As boy, and youth , and vi llage doctor rave,Amid those scenes where first he saw t e li ht,His span of l ife, to honoured age, and nighWherein no man can work , was 8 nt to saveMen
’s lives . Out of his love and s ill he gave
His best striving to heal , with all his might,Both rich and poor ; for in his doctor ’s s ightAll equal were—the squire and parish knave.
And so amon at the s ick from year to year,
By his belov Usk, the hills and dales ,And beauteous country lanes of his clear WalesHe rode with reverence and Godly fear ;While Nature, well leased,
blabbed her sweetestInto his rapt and lie
’ning poet
’
s ear.
fu ll two hundred years have come and goneinto
.
the world of light did pass ,And his p rescr iptions are as last year ’s grass
,
His patients naught but dust and crumbling bone ;Yet sti ll his &
oesy, the riper grownW ith Time at all else withereth
, alas !Is more enduring than if graved on brass
,
Or scu lptured dee on monumental stone ;As fu ll of blessed ling are to- day,
For minds diseased with morbid selfish care,And hearts bereft of all that made life fair
,The thou hts that breathe and s ak in each ure laMore medicinal than a good manPs
e
pray’r
p y
To chase in shame our grosser selves away .
On reading Dr Dougal l ’s little book of Angl ing Songs
B i rds ’ wood- notes wild, the insect’s hum
, the bee’s,And noise of tinklingbrooks and running st reams ,I hear , as one who 0 his boyhood dreams .
The S ight of W i ld- flow’rs , grass, the dew, and trees
WILLIAM FINDLAY, MD .
I catch in ever line ; the very breezeFans fresh rgy city cheek ; and blessed gleamsOf earth and sk and W itching pale moonbea
To- night my ravis ed mind’
s eye only sees ,
As home the angle r plods hi s weary way,”
With basket full of trout, whose silver mailIs rich bedropped with spots of crimson hail,
To live in dreamland o’er again this day
By river bank , and wood, and bi ll, and daleWhi le through his brain the singing waters play .
THE WADDIN’O
’ HULLIBALEE.
I aft heard the auld wife in the days 0’ langsyne,
When there hap’d in the toun a ram- stamkm’
0’spree,
Whare the guests an’their wa s werena Owre superfine,
Say’Twas j ust like the we din
’O’ Hullibalee.
Sae I asked her ae da what she meant, j ust in sport ,An
’ for answer , he story ,” she said, was nae lee ;For it fel l that dr simmer the corn was sae short,Did this won’
er u’ waddin’O’ Hullibalee.
In the wast side 0’ Kyle ance a farmer did bide,
An’
the name 0’ his mailin was Hullibalee
,
Wha was gaun to be wed to a braw strap in’
o
bride
His guid neebour’s auld dochter , blithe uSie M ‘Cree .
On the day 0’the bridal they cam’ frae a
’
partsFnae K ilmarnock , Tarbouten ,
an’Troon by the sea
On shanks - naigie, on horseback , in
gigs an
’ in carts ,The gran ’ weddin’
to haud O’ bo d Hullibalee.
There was whisky an’ale, whangs O’ bread an
’0’cheese,
Whilk as soon’s the arrived ’
gan the y aup guests to pree,That a wheen were ha f fou an
’ richt snugat their ease,
iEre Mess - John had the lass wed to Hul bales .
But the knot ance weel tied, in rare style then beganSiccan fea-stin’
an’ fun , an
’sic daflin ’
an’ glee
,
Roun’the table
,that groaned wi
’the fat 0
’the lan
’
,
Whare the young W i fe sat smirkin ’by Hullibalee.
There were bannocks an’scones , wi
’a routh 0
’thick kail ;
Reekin’ haggis an’tatties , forby barley bree ;
3.0 t o’ mutton an
’ beef, wi’ fO-u cogs O’
guid ale,The rich bridal to slokin o
’ Hullibalee.
Therewere fish an’ wild fowl, an’
twa muckle steak pies ,An’ wh ite uddin
’s an
’ black that played spout i’ your c ’cThere were um olin
’s an
’tarts o
’a’sha es an
’ ilk size,At the throng ither waddin’
O’ Hulliba se.
Siccan catin’an
’ drinkin’
, loud jokes an’daft play,
Ne’er before did the like o
’t the parish e
’er see ;
An’Sic Iaughin
’
, ilk lass ye could tie wi’ a strae,As was seen at the weddin ’
O’ Hullibalee.
274 JOHN CAMPBELL.
But the°
oy is short- lived, like'
most pleasures belowSoon t e sun ins to set and its beams fade away
,
And the snell nor and Wind all the keener to blowO’
er the woods and the fields now so pensive and gray,
As We brood on our own and on nature’s decay .
Then how welcome is home and its warm chimney nookWhere the season
’s first fire has ‘been lit iin the grate
With a ipe and a friend, or alone with a book,
We de y the jade, care, and the bodin s Of fate,Though the scamper of leaves sounds Ii e ghosts round the gates
>l<
JOHN CAMPBELL.
Human life very much resembles a tiny stream, the courseof which the displacing or planting of a tiny pebb le can turnaside and cause it to flow in another channel . John Campbel l ,a native of Ki lbirnie, was apprenticed when about thirteen yearsof age to the trade of a compositor, and his latent powers Of
poesy might have remained undiscovered but that fortunechanced to tum the current Of his life in this direction. In
the course of his apprenticeship it was his good luck to have thework assigned him of setting up the poems of a master lyrist,and stirred to metrical emotion by the strains of Hugh Mac
donald, Mr Campbel l u ltimately b lossomed into the author ofa selection of poems and songs, entitled Wayside Warblings,
”
which passed through two editions.
The fol lowing love lilt wil l recal l to those who havereached the crown of l ife’
s brae the days when the
juvenescent heart“ lightly turns to thoughts Of love.
”
0 giveme the gloaming, the saft simmer loamingWhen shadows dance licht frae the bong s 0
’each tree !
Thou bri ht is day ’s dawning, O gi’e me its waning
,
For”
tis t hour,love
, that takes me to thee !
Though fair be the rising, the beauty sur rising,O’ Phoebus ’ first smi le as it spreads o
’er t e lea ;
Mair prized is the treasure an’sweeter the pleasure
Which comes wi’ the hour, love, that'
takes me to thee.
The day may be dreary, Wi’ heart sair and weary,And heavy the cares since morn
.
op’d my e
’e ;
Theyflee at the wiling, sae witchin beguil ing,Which breathes in the hour, love, t at takes me to thee.
Though full be the measure of gladness and pleasureHappy moment of life ilka heart lo ’
es to ree ;TOO soon these may perish , but aye I will c erishThe bliss 0
’that hour , love, the hour I meet thee.
REV. SAMUEL WILSON . 275
Then give me day ’s ending , when freedom is blendingWi’ love’s gowden sun lints on life’
s restless sea,0 then there comes stea i love’s holiest feelingA bliss mais t divine, love, t e hour I meet thee.
>l< >i<
THOMAS RICHARDSON .
Thomas Richardson is a native of Ki lmarnock, where inearly manhood he was known as a talented singer . His vocalgifts brought himthe reward of a precentorship first in a Galston
church and afterwards in a church in Ayr, where for a time healso held the appointment of organist. He holds a Diploma of
Music from the Tonic Sol - fa Col lege, London. In Ayr, wherehe presently resides, he was engaged as a rural postman for thelong term of thirty - one years . Artless simplicity is the chiefcharacteristic of his poetical l ispings .
>l<
JAMES COOK.
The humorist who can turn a weeping world to laughterwil l be tendered the hand of good fel lowship wherever he goes,for a good laugh is as medicine to the sou l , and every good soulneeds it betirnes . James Cook , who belongs to the wel l - knownmusical fami ly of that name in Kilbirnie, has the knack of
writing humorous lilts and can trig out his thoughts in the
funniest and most whimsical array . On reading his light versewe recal l the words of another bard who says
I’ve criticised some mortals in my time,An’
some 0’themwas reat an ’
some was not ;There was some as co du
’t j ingle worth a dime,
There was ’Omer , Billy Shakespeare, Watty Scott ;
But for knockin’fun and po
’t into one
It’s certa in sure you easy take
r
t’
he bun .
”
Our poet presently fol lows the trade of a heckler in theworks of W. J . Knox, Kilbirnie.
>l<
REV . SAMUEL WILSON .
The Rev. Samuel Wilson,who is a native of Irvine, and
brother Of the Rev. W. B . Robertson Wilson , of Dollar, makesno pretensions to the high - sounding title of poet. Mr Wilson
27 6 C. J . SHEARER .
was trained for the clerical profession in G lasgow Universityand in theDivinity Hal l of the United Presbyterian ’Chur
’
ch, and
was eventual ly licensed to preach by the Presbytery of Ayr.
After a year on the probation list he accepted the appointmentof chaplain to Cuninghame Combination Poorhouse, and has
devoted his whole energies to the spiritual welfare of thatinstitution for the past twenty years.
Mr Wilson’
s pen-
picture of the late Rev. Dr Robertson, of
Irvine, wi l l be read with interest by all who knew the fluentpoet
-
preacher in the early days of his ministry .
LINES ON SEEING DR ROBERTSON ’S PORTRAIT .
Whose portrait this, the artist well portrays ?’Tis far- famed Robertson of earlier days !Ye who love pictures gaze u on that face,O
’er which rare genius she s immortal grace ;
The dew of youth sits on the lofty browRound which dark , curling locks luxuriant flow
,
Thought in the clear - cut Grecian features lowsThus marble lives beneath the sculptor ’s b owsHis cheeks and chin a feminine beauty show ;His large , full eyes all de ths of feeling know ;Those curved li s s eak e oquenee divine ;The tapering s oul ers , figure
, all combineTo mark the Poet- Preacher as he wooedTo paths divine the Christ- drawn multitude.
>l< >l<
GEORGE BOYD.
Some one has likened education to a paint which does notimprove the nature of the wood that is under it, but only
proves its appearance a little. While this may be true to a
certain extent, education and paint are here to stay , and the
housewife and coachpainter will each remain confirmed in the
Opinion that paint at anyrate can work marvels . In the handsof George Boyd, a native of K i lmarnock , it has indeed workedwonders, for M r Boyd is not only a house decorator but a
painter of landscapes as wel l . He has devoted some leisurel ikewise to the sister art of poesy without, however, so far as weknow,
committing himsel f to the sin of publishing a book .
>l<
c. j. SHEARER.
Undermany divergent conditions and varied'
circumstancesdo we find the plant of poesy putting forth blossomand bearing
278 JOHN BLAIR WILSON .
WILLIAM BROWN SMITH.
Wil liam Brown Smith was a devoted student Of the threesister arts, poetry , painting , and music , all Of which he cu ltivated with more or less success. His talent for music found a
profitab le exercise in his cal ling as leader Of psalmody in the
Free Church of his native town, Saltcoats. His poetical pieceswere issued from the Ardrossan Press in two volumes, entitled‘fLife Scenes and
“The World Without and Within.
” We
have not seen these volumes, but one or two extracts convinceus that hismuse does not soar very far into the vei led empyreanof loftiest imagination.
>l< >l<
JOHN BLAIR WILSON .
Let the soldier be abroad if he wi l l , said a great statesman
,
“he can do nothing in this age. There is another per
somage— the schoolmaster is abroad, and I trust ‘
to him, armedwith his primer, against the soldier in fu l l mi litary array .
”
On
these grounds John Blair Wi lson belongs to the professionwhich is mOremilitant than themilitary , and which has enabledthe pen to rise superior to the sword .
Mr Wilson has written a goodly number of fugitive pieces,but he makes no claim to be other than an occasional votary Of
the Tunefu l Nine. His muse is strictly lyrical , and some Of his
songs have been set to music . Mr Wilson was born in Irvine,and is a cousin of the Rev. Samuel Wi lson and of the Rev. W .
B . Robertson Wi lson, Of~DOllar. He is presently engaged as
headmaster of Garallan ‘School , Old Cumnock .
AYE TAK’TENT AND DINNA FA
’.
(Music by John H. .M‘Millan, Cumnock .)
Tak’
ye tent my wee bit bairnie,Staun’
yer lane noo aft the wa’
,
Come ‘in safe to mither ’s armie,
‘
Toddle weel and dinna fa’.
Hand thy wee haun’s weel before ye ;
Blythest wean that e’er I saw ;
Steady noo, and dinna fearAye tak
’tent and dinna fa
~DAVID CUTHBERTSON . 279
Weel you’ve dune yer wee bit toddle,And thy gleesome.
lauchs oouse a’
;
Ance richt stertit dmna fear ye ;Steady aye,
and ye ’ ll na fa’
And when fechtin’throu life’
s battle,Don ’
t gang aft the ava’
Aye st raucht forrit and keep steady,Tak’ ye tent and dinna fa
And be honest and straucht forrit ,Tak
’the Bible for yer law ;
.
Canny aye ,and no
’too hurrIt,
Or ye ma be apt to fa’.
Mind noo w at yer mither te lls yeDon’
t forget when she’s awa
’
A e tak’tent—ask Guid to guide ye,
yer sure ye winna fa ’.
>l<
ROBERT CUMMIN G M‘FEE. R.N .R .
Robert Cumming M‘Fee was aminstrel who tuned his songs
to the beat Of the off - shore wind , and the thrash Of the deepsea rain. Early in life he left his native town Of Saltcoats and
engaged in a sea - faring life, rising to be captain of one Of the
Anchor Line ships , and in 1880 was appomted shore superintendent Of the l ine. Some seven years later the Lords Of
Admi ralty conferred on him the titu lar honour of HonoraryCommander Of the Royal Naval Reserve. Captain M
‘Fee was
wel l known in social and literary circles in G lasgow , and was
for a time a member of the Pen and Pencil C lub .
>l< is
David Cuthbertson, whose lyrical gifts have formany yearsbeen wel l known and appreciated, adds another name to the
long rol l of poets who claimKilmarnock as the town Of theirnativity . Mr Cuthbertson spentmuch Of his time in and aroundEdinburgh , where he received a good commercial training, firstin a drapery establishment and afterwards as clerk to a firmOf
rubber manufacturers, whose employment he left on account Ofhis health , and was eventual ly appointed assistant librarian inthe Philosophical Institute.
He is the author of several volumes of verse which the
Fates have not yet permitted us to see, but from the fol lowing
280 DAVID CUTHBERTSON .
homely strain readers wi l l be satisfied that his harp has a lyrical“38
THE AULD FOLK .
The kind auld fo lk I kent langsyneAre deein
’ fast awa’
;An
’s lidin
’
gentl doon the brae,Wi’ hair as w
'
te as snaw .
to hear them crack awa’
,
Eu’couthy
,frank and free
,
An’tell about their former days
Wi’ half a boyish glee.
Ay l ay l the auld folk quickly gangAn
’fade frae cot cor sich't lgude eu-ld—farrant tongues nae
We hear them wag at nicht .An ’ bonnie weans wi’ curly hairWha lo ’
ed their grandpa weel;Each learn the frost 0
’early ring
First sorrows when they fee
The dear auld folk wha sat forenentThe ingleside at e
’en ;
Hoo mony lie beneath the sod lHoo mony graves are green !
Oor hearts 3. stoun’in pain aft feel
,
To think nae mair we’ ll hearThe honest hearty phrase O
’truth
,
An’ kindzly word 0
’cheer.
We wander but and ben the hoose,Fu
’dowie, doon -wi
’care
For oh !w e miss the dear auld folk ,We see the empty chair .
Ay l there’s theB ook they lo’
ed sae weel,An’
axften used to read ;An
’there’
s the stick— a trusty ifrien’
Which never mair they’ll need .
We gang besideWe kent in d
An’ wander upAh me ! how time doth fly lFami liar forms how few we meetBes ide the ripplin
’ burnIt
’s strange hoo mony folk we mim
,
Whichever way we turn .
The wind moans o’er the grassy graves
With plaintive, moan ing sigh .
The bairns aft pluck the gowans sweetFrae aff their juicy stem
The auld folk are a’ wede awa
’
To grace His diadem.
282
There is a liquor brewed by God,not in a simmering still
JOHN YOUNG.
Far away our thou hts may wanderTo you other wor d more fair ,Where the bright scenes are unfading
,
Where there s neither sin nor care.
All around us here is fleeting,All life’
s varied scenes so strangeSeem to whisper forth the echoThere is nothing here but change.
Now the cold winds seem to tel l us,
Time is speeding swirftly on
Season afte r season pawes,
With the happy days no-w gone.
Think,then , on the homes of sorrow
We might brighten with sweet cheer,As the time goes rol'lin o
’er us
,
Swiftly o ’er us
,year y year.
Cold and cheerless , some are struggling’Neath the world’
s chilling frownSome, whose burdens we mi t lighten
,
Ere the bear them harsh down .
Long ami life’s gloomy sh ows
,
Some have struggled unbemoaned,
With few loving ones to help themTo the better land beyond.
Ah how many precious jewelsMight be brightened up to shine,
Sparkling gems of purest lustretReflexes of the Ray Divine .
Silently they seem to whisperW i ll you help us
, too,to share
Some of those delightful foretastesOf the bright home over there?’
Sweet and happy are the momentsSpent in he lping pilgrims on ;
The will form un fading g reen - spots ,B coming in the ages gone.
Ever may our foots teps wanderIn the path our Master trod
,
As we dai ly journey onwardhome
,and nearer God
i t Q
WATER .
Where poisonous gases freely flow fromsmoky fires at wi ll ;"Dis not surrounded with the stench of a stifling ,
sickening aiFor you will find where it is brewed there ’
s nought butthere .
rbeauty
Then hear where God is brewing it , the water clear and pure,The drink prepared for all mankind, of that we may be sure.
It forms the essence of our life , prepared by Him on high ,To que
gelii
r
the thirst of travellers when their tongues are parchedan y .
JOHN YOUNG .283
He brews it in the green glade ,and in the gras y dell ,
the well - known wild flowers , the gowan and bluebell ,catt le wander the lea- long summer day,
And where the children ramble forth in love and joy to play.And low down in the valleys we hear the water
’s song ,
While listening to the breeze which bears the dai ly sound alongHe brews it where the fountains and 11 118 so sweetly s ing ,And high upon the mountain tops He makes it , too, to spring
Where the rocks are bravely towering their heads up to the sky,Where the loud wind howls its 11111810 as it fiercely passes by
He brews it in the waves which form the 88 110 13”watery road,
Wheézd
th’ey loudly swell the chorus ,
“ Sweeping the march of
"rs there He makes the water , that beverage of life,
Which drags no pilgrimdownward,nor can an nder st ri fe,
And everywhere we see it a thing of beauty bri t ,
As o’er the beauteous landscape we look wrth sweet dehght.
We see it in the dewdrop, so sweetlynfileamin there ,
That it seems like a precious diamo of vegie r ich and rare ;We hear it sweetly singing in the summer ’s gentle rain ,
And how we love to lis ten then to hear its sweet low strain.
We see it brightly shinin too, in the ice- gems so c lear ,When all around seems rren ,
and the landsca looks so drear ;It beams fromthe leafy woodland , like jewels spar ling fair ,Forming to all admiring eyes a scene of beauty rare .
And brightly o ’
er the setting sun it spreads a golden veil ,Or round the midnight moon to wake the moonlight sweet though
pa 9 .
It calml s leeps in glac iers , and sports in the wate rfal l ,And t n it seems to sing
, I come , as a friend to one and all.It dances in the ha ilshowers , or with snow curtains bright ,It folds this wintry wo rld of ours in a matchless robe of white ,
It weaves the.
coloured iris , that spans at times the sky,
des ign is sketc hed by Himwho rules both earth and sky.
The warp is but the rain of earth , the woof comes fromabove ,’Tis chequered with celestia l flowers by a mystic Hand in love ;
We see its beauty everywhere,above us and around ,
Thengladly let us use it , and its advocate be found.
U n.
lts brmk we’ ll never see the poison bubbling there1ch dra
gs poor weary pilgrim down to sadness anddespair ;
And, ah, no loodstains can be seen upon its liquid glass ,
Then safe ly from are hands the water pure may pass .
IN WINTER REMEMBER THE PUIR .
Oh the s immer is gane , an’the flco’
rs are awa’
,
An ’
the lilt 0’each bird’
s a refrain ,
Sounding low ’mang the branches sae leafless an’
For the lang days to come back again ;But the caq cauld snaws o
’the winter will come
,
An’the fields will hae food then nae mair ,
While the weans wi’ their daddies wil l play roun’the fire
,
Safely shield’ frae the keen frosty air.
284 JAMES MAGOWEN .
But oh ! there are hames whar the winter ’s mair drear ,Whar the cauld win ’
s o’
poverty blaw,Whar the lang s immer days bringbut dark clouds 0
’care
,
Wi’ nae sweet silver edgin’
ava
An’the sough o ’
the snell eerie win’is sae chill
On the puir folk sae hungry and bare :
Wha wadna be touched when their wan face is turned ?For the glance 0
’ their c ’c is a prayer.
Nae wonner their hearts are oft tired wi’ the road,
For the load is sae heavy they bear ,An ’
the puir mither hugs her wee bairn to her breist,While the faither sits weary and sair
But oh ! when their thochts to the GuidBook are turned,
There’s a glimmer o ’ licht through it a’
,
An’they tell ane anither it’s but for a wee
,
Then a hame in the land far awa’
Whar the darkness and chill 0 ’ black winter ne’er comes,
For the life there’s ae lang simmer day,
An ’there’
s aye plenty there, whare the heart’s never sair,In the hameland whar floo ’
rs ne’er decay.
Oh ye wha ha’e plenty, look frae ye aroon
,
An ’ bobten the cares 0’some brither
,
For the Maister Himsel’ bids us mind an’tak
’care
An ’ be helpfu’the ane to the ither .
>l< >l<
JAMES MAGOWEN .
It appears that if a person has the innate facu lty forwriting verse, no circumstance or turning key of fate wi l l tapthe muse more readily than bidding a long farewel l to the landof one
’s birth . Mr James Magowen hai ls original ly fromKil
marnock, but left that Old town before he was age enough torealize the pleasures -
Oi a and settled in Galston,where he began to earn a . pittance as piece boy in the
blanket-mi l l . Finding this work uncongenial he entered the
services of the late Mr James Torrance, printer, Galston, and
eventual ly established a good stationery and printing businessOf his own,
which he conducted until a partial breakdown inhealth compel led him to seek a sunnier c lime, and he choseCape Town as the city of his adoption. Within a few monthsOf his arrival there he discovered within himself a wel l of poesy,and having once tapped the fount of Helicon it continues toflow a perennial stream of deep heart - felt yeamings for the
friends and scenes which he left '
behind him in“ bonnie Scot
land. Mr Magowen removed a few years ago to Pretoria,where he now conducts a flourishing printing trade of his own.
Since settling there he has been appointed Poet Laureate of the
286 Rev. JOHN THOMSON LEVEN S ,
I hear in the autumn cornfields
The harvesters all day long,And the sound of the constant reaper,Like a tireless giant’s song.
I hear the woodland songstersAt the early dawn of day,
And in the heat of the noontideTrillmg their tuneful lay.
At night when gathersOver the hill a
I hear the call ofWith its weird and eerie wail.
In the summer glad and free ;I hear the murmur of streamletsOn their way to the mighty sea.
I hear the loving voicesOf friends on the distant shore ;
Alas ! I hea r the voicesOf friends 1 shall see no more.
And so, in the rapid twilight,
Neath the stars of the southern sky,Those sounds that are wafted to meB -rlng the Homeland very nigh .
REV. JOHN THOMSON LEVENS'
.
John Thomson Levens was born in Saltcoats, and at an
early age learned what it is to be sent adrift on the precarioussea of life without the guiding counsel of a father or the tenderdevotion of a mother . In his fourteenth year he proceeded toLondon, where he finished his school education, and subse
quently became a
'
pupi l teacher under the School Board of
London.
In course of time he was appointed assistant teacher at
Barrow- in - Furness . Leaving this place m 1882, he proceededto St. Andrews, attended the United Col lege for a session , and
afterwards enrol led himself as a student at G lasgow University,where he distinguished himsel f as an essayist and a poet. His
poemon Ailsa Craig was adjudged by Professor Nichol to bethe best poetical composition of the class. Mr Levens waseventual ly appointed to a pastoral charge. He is the author ofscholarly prose sketches, essays, and criticisms which haveappeared from time to time in educational journals and newspapers . We append a specimen of Mr Levens ’ translations,
D. T. HOLMES , B .A. 287
from which it wi l l be found that Horace sti ll charms with
pleasing negl igence and without method talks us into sense.”
TO THE LUTE OF LYRIC POETRY.
Translation fromHorace— Book I. , Ode
They summon us . If e’er
’neath leafy shade
Thou at my touch hast sportive lyrics played,Whose notes may live th is
year and many more,
Prompt, O my lute, a lay o Latium’s shore.
Thou first attuned byhim of Lesbia’
s is le,
Whose dauntless sou at war’s alarms could smile,And when his bark by wave and storm toss
’d lon
lgWas safely moored, would cheer his heart wit song.
And hymn the praise of Bacchus , god of wine,
Of lovely Venus and the Muses nine ;Of Cupid ever by his mother ’s side ,
And Lycus , young and fair, dark- tressed, dark - eyed.
0 , shell , the ornament of t bus l meetTo grace the feasts of Jove. O
,solace sweet
Of care and trouble—unto me we ear,
When duly calling thee, be kin and hear l
LOVE LASTS FOR AYE.
Though the ocean, deep and braid,
Re s atween us , dinna thinkThat the chain our love has madeCan be broken,
link frae link .
Dinna think our love maun dee,
Tho’in different lands we bide
Love is braider than the sea,
Love is deeper than the tide.
Thought is swifter than the wind,An my thou hts a e fly to thee,
For I left my earthehjndAn
’ where the heart , the,
thought will be.
D. T. HOLMES. B.A.
It is not every poet who takes the trouble to search fortruth , imagination, and poetic beauty in Academic groves, withthe same laborious care as Mr D. T . Holmes, for whom thebeauties of the Grecian lyre possess a fascination so thril ling
288 D. T. HOLMES, B .A.
and intense that he seems to have caught the pure inspiration ofthe classic bards, as Shown in his volume of t ranslationsentitled Greek Lyrics .
”In this little work the reader wi l l
find much aesthetical pleasure which wil l perhaps recal l thewords of another post
What presence fromthe heavenly heightsTo those of earth stoo down ?
Not vainly Hellas dreamt),5
of godsOn Ida
’s
‘
snowy crown .
”
Mr Holmes adds another to the long list of poets hailingfrom Irvine. He is a cu ltured and scholarly writer, as wi l l beseen not only from his poetical pieces, but also fromhis proseworks, a list of which wi l l be found in the Bibliography attachedto this work . In 1891 he gained the degree of B .A . at London
University, and in the fol lowing year was appointed assistantmaster in Greenock Academy, from which he was afterwardspromoted to Paisley Grammar School as headmaster of the
English department. He subsequently visited the Continent,residing for about three years in Paris and Geneva, where hestudied the language and literature Of France. Since returningto Scotland he has devoted some time to giving lectures on Scotstish Literature and Poets , his lecture on Robert Burns beingdescribed by Dr J . M . Barrie as the finest and most impressivehe has ever listened to on the subject. Since the year 1904 Mr
Holmes has been engaged looking after the interests of the
l ibrary scheme founded by Mr James Coats, of Paisley, a workfor which his natural abi lities qualify him in an eminent way.
POETICAL PREFACE TO LITERARY TOURS IN THEHIGHLANDS AND ISLANDS OF SCOTLAND.
White stands the longK ilpatrick row
Of hills with deep an dazzling snow,
And eastward in a
glimmering haze
Stretch to the Fort the Oampsre Br
But see ! beyond the Clyde a stainOf smoke that runs across the plainAnd flecks for miles the vivid gleamIt is the tireless steed of steam;
An old a uaintance ! Ben and strathDaily beho (1 his thunderous path ,That ceases not until he feelsThe breeze of Mallaig cool his wheels.
And Memory , fondly gazing backOn , many a journey by that trackOf splendour , would, at home, retraceThe charms and lore of every place
290; D. T. HOLMES , B .A. .
AMERICAN TOURIST LOQUITUR .
(At Berridale,, Caithnessz)
If I had wealth of Vanderbilt,Or some such mil lionaire
I’d live in Scotland; don a kilt,And pay to prove my forbears spiltTheir blood in forays there.
I’d buy a icturesque estate
Bes ide t e ocean 5 flow,
W ith knolls of heather at my gate,And pine- clad hills to dominateThe ferny dells below.
I’d be a father to the folkThat laboured on the soil ,
W ith old and young I’d crack my joke,Drink with them in their, thirst, and smokeThe pipe that lightens toil .
For hens I’d have a s pecial run,
For ducks a s ial pool ;My calves shoul frolic in the sun ,
M sheep should be surpassed by nonehose backs are clothed with wool.
Although I’m not a ,Walton quite,Between whiles I should
To lure the finny tribe to .
(At the riglht time, in the right 'light)
My simu ated fly.
When winter heaped his r attling hailHigh on the window sill,
With pipe and wassail rime and tale,I’d never miss the ni htingaleOr cuckoo on the In
a%,.
mus ing by the in ls - lowe,ith summer in my ram,
I’d: clothe W ith leaves the frozen~bough,And all the ice- bound brooks endow~With tinkling ‘ life again.
THE PROLOGUE OF PERSEUS.
(Erom Greek Lyrics. ’
I never quafiwetic draughts fromthe 'Winged Courser’s fount ,Nor
.
laid;my dle down to dream on that ins iring~mountWhich rears its twin-
peaks in the air, that so, hereafter , IMight s
piru
igupon.
the ra tured town some stylishdullabyI leave t e ehcoman max and pale Pirone too,To get thei r high- faluting praise from that poetic crew
D. T . HOLMES , B .A. 291
Whose noble faces , cut in stone, with ivy - tendr ils w‘
reathed,Attest the grandeur of the lines their mi
ghty souls have breathed.
My’
pren-tice mu mis all unfit with bards ike these to sup,A trivial song or two is all that I can muster up.
Consider,friends
,how pretty Poll can screech hls ’
f‘How d’ye do ?
”
And how the magpie W ith her beak can talk our hngo too ;The belly is their teacher , sirs , and thereby do I proveThere’
s no im diment so great.
that hunger wont remove ;.
That teaches ards as well as bi rds , and once let money shineAnd ive a hint to starveling wits Of the to dine
,
Then usky poets clear their thr’oats and o lays,And litt le poetesses
TO M . E. H.
(From Greek Lyrics ”
)
0 ,do ye mind, my lass , the days0 ’ bright and sunny weather ,
When ower the heathery Hielan ’
We roamed for hours thegither ?The sun was ne
’
er before sae bright,The air sae glaucin ’ free,
The world was heaven to our sight,Made j ust for you and me.
We travelled north,we travelled south,
And blithesome s i
ghts did see,
But the bonniest sigt was the fire 0
’ youth ,And the love- ligb in your e’
e.
I dinna ask for acres braid,
Norgowden gu ineas fine,
Nor, l l e a merchant gatheringTo tempt the roar ing brine.
Ah no ! my lass , far better here,Wi’ you I love to st ray ,Along these Old roman tic shoSinging the hours away.
AN INVOCATION TO BACCHUS}
(From Greek
Come, O Bacchus tutela 0d of Thebes ,Come to this thy town an ive its grief W ay.
0 Bacchus , rich in titled pride,
Semele’s son with Zeus for sire
(She was a radiant Theban maidAnd he, the lord of the levinItalia’
s vales are thy del ightAnd fair Eleusis ’ world- famed rite.
Amid thy frantic votaress- band,’Tis thy deli ht , O prince, to stayHere where smenus soaks the sandAlon his winding water - wage
,Thy aithful subjects, migh ndued,Do boast a race of dragon- breed.
292 GAVIN MORTON ..
And‘
gleaming through its murky wreathOf .smoke, the leaping torch - light flameBurns in thine honour , while beneath,Parnassus hears the loud acclaimCorykian maidens, moving , sing,Bes ide the famed Castalian spr ing .
AndOn the ivied mountain - knolls,v And shores that ring Euboea ’
s is leWith verdant vines , thy footste falls
,
Hasting to thy dear town the w ile ;she whomZeus with splendour s lew,
Thy mother , companies with thee too.
Thy healing'
hand we eager crave,A plague has smit thy darling townThy presence, lord, is strong to save,0 swi ftly succour us cast- down :
Come o’er the fair Parnass ian haunt,
Or murmuring firth of Negropont .
Hail ! leader of the twinkling lightOf torches borne by Naxian maids ,Who voice thy praise with mad delight,And nimbly
'foot it in the lades ;Shine on us , mover of the ance,The bright light of thy countenance.
>l< >l<
ARTHUR WILSON .
When a young man Of some twenty summers has thetude to come before the pub lic with a volume Of verse, we donot as a rule Open the pages in expectation of finding themfil led with ripe and polished productions of the mind, moreespecial ly if ,we .know the author to be a working man with nomore than an ordinary vi l lage- school education. ArthurWi lson, Of Dal ry , who issued Lays of the Mine,
”was appren
ticed to the trades Of weaving and spinning, but changed hiscal ling and eventual ly became a coalminer . !His innate facu ltyfor weaving and Spinning rhymes began with his apprenticeshipto the other trades, and his lispings were eventual ly publishedby James M‘
Kie, Kilmarnock .
>l< >l<
The innate facu lty— says Huxley— for science, art, or
poesy needs only to be touched in some minds to spring into
£94 GAVIN MORTON .
CALM IS THE WOOD.
Calm is thewoodOf .Sohtude
With n one but softest sounds ;0 sweet retreatFromhigh - day heat
And noisy rounds !
Alway .
We eat to liveNot live to eat ,We live to giveLife savour sweetWe
’ve frames to fillWe
’ve ground to till,We
’ve seed to sow,
We’ve souls to grow.
SHADOWS.
Face the sun, your shadows fallBehind your backs ;
Turn, as spectres rim and tallThey
.
haunt your tracks ;Sidelings go, you umt as lant
As orses shy ;Then onward, though ou sweltering pant,
And 0 or die !
WHEN MADAME BELLE COLE SANG .
Where comes it from,that
80 pure, so mellow, and so
If of this earth, then how divineEarth ’s Vessels, full of heavenly wine lOr are those opening lips a chinkFO{ h
eaven to pass to earth a linkA ink of love- and earth to raiseThereby to heaven our bond of praise?
G i Q l 0
Essence of thrush and ui htin ale,Of flutin .OWl, and all t e va e
Of liqui sounds ; like varying streamRushing along from gloom to g leam;Like hum of wind in willow tree,Like echoes dee in caves of sea °
Cheering from c astened heightsPouring from wondrous wells of
A flood of fluid soothing OilI saw before it storms recoilCrusted reserve fled melted hot,And pride its
'
littleness forgot ;
d
Gae M ORTON .
A flood of sunli reen good- twillTo love’s fu ll flirt saw it fill ;And large—e love more soft andWith joy thrilled too intense to cheer ;I felt my heart rush out to men ,
My soul shake free her wings again ;At home I’ve given a deeper kissAnd breathed anew life ’
s settled blissQ Q 0 Q Q Q 0
LINES FOR THE SEASON .
Shali Christmas come and New Year goAnd no sweet thou
ghts between us flow,
No thoughts as c
No thoughts as pure as Christmas snow ,
Shall custom’s gracious hand he lost?
Thl s answers , No l
0 0 0 O 0
Whoe’er hath harp for chastened taste ,
Whoe’er can make the dancers haste ,
Whoe’er hath balm for a and woe,
W‘hoe’er the path wasteCome bless in bending low
nnlacegi
The season’s wish : Be there no want
Which plenty , out of reach , may tauntFor winte r ’s cold may all have heat,a daily hunger no one haunt ,izrst'
social order these thing meetEre grandeur flaunt !
Though but a day, think of a nat ionIn one unbroken JubilationThough but a day ,
there’s endless hopeWhen each hath touched the other ’s station ,
We’ ll cease to slight , .we
’ll cease to mope,
Cease agitation.
Think of a land, or earth’s whole sphereIn Heaven’
s appomted course career ;Straight as a ship let pilot guide,
And less men tend the lesser gear ,All bold in love, no shame, no pride ,
Each , each revere l
This time is for beginnings new,
A ause to breathe and scan the view ;rant we may see how fair is all,
Or c lear or veiled in mist and dew ;That fruit is sweet , though bud was gall ,
If growth be true !
295
296 JOHN BROWN .
Beginnings new ! fling back the past,Let all impressrons be recast ;Nurse not reproach for ills of Old,
Nor joys, as though we’d seen the lastErect, eyes on , slip baby ’s hold ;
Into the vast !
>i< >i<
JOHN BROWN .
John Brown was born at Greenhil l farm, near Darvel , inthe parish of Loudoun, and attendedDarvel Public School , afterwards entering the warehouse of Messrs Alexander MortonCo.,
Darvel , where he remained eight years, and during whichperiod all his leisure hours Were assiduously devoted to readingand self - irnprovement. When twenty - seven years of age he transferred his services to a commercial house in G lasgow, wherehe acted as correspondent. A year later he removed to
London, where he remained four years with a fine art publishingfirm in New Bond Street, leaving to take a voyage to SouthAmerica for reasons of health . In the Argentine, at the foot ofthe Andes, he was occupied for a few years in the oflice of the
Great Western Rai lway Company , and subsequently as secretaryto the resident engineer Of the Paraguay Central Railway , andhe is now in the counting house of this company , with residencein Asuncion. In 1909 he married Gertrude, eldest daughter ofthe Rev. J . P . Britton, vicar of Lee, Bucks , England . Mr
Brown ’s poems possess the elusive and al luring touch of the
true genius. A manuscript volume of his best pieces is now inthe hands of a publishing firm, and the author hopes to havethem“ issued to a waiting world before the c lose of anotheryear.
MORNING .
L0 , in the East the eagle sun
Breaks th rough the paging bars of m ht,And mocking clouds W inged black and nu ,
Drop in the s ilvern shafted light.
With Open breast and flying ‘hairThe young sea wind comes singing in,
And 11 the mornin ’s crystal stair
Thegark goes wit his violin .
The daisies pearly lids unfold,And blush to feel the gras ses press,
Their dewdrops million mirrors ho ldDeep visions of pure loveliness .
298 REV. WILLIAMSOMERVILLE REID.
whom it was named at the time of the Union . Mr Reid hasbeen a regular contributor for several years to m azines and
press journals, and is author Of a booklet, .entitlWinter,
” which had a successful sale.
ELEGY.
Pride of
On reading of the death of Mr Alexander Anderson,better
known as Surfaceman,
”the well - known Scottish poet.
A sigh comes frae the sobbin’ morn ,
And ilka ‘daisy hangs its heid ;The he’
rt 0’Nature seems forlorn ,
As though she kent a frien’was
A’ waefu ’— she may richtfu ’ weepLike a true mithe r ower her bairn ;
His name in faul‘ds o’ mem’
ry keep,And big for him some lofty cairn.
A lover true—he lo’ed her langAnd sang her praises sweet and clear ,
An’noo the gaet we a
’ maun ganHe
’s gaen, and wi
’ himsimmer 8 cheer
The air is balmy wi’ the rose,An’
sweet wi’ scent o’new-mown hay ;
But sweeter is the deep reposeOf himwe crown wi leaves 0’ bay.
As when the lark at heaven’s gate,
Lost in the dazzlinghdepths of blue,
Charms those who on is sin ing wait,Though he himself is hid rom view
SO Death cannot his name effaceStill floats on air his song sublime.
Thouglll
i lowly- born,he has a place
Wit the immortals of our time.
A SONG OF EMPIRE.
(Empire Day— May
people cradled in our island home,ose rocky coasts are braided with the roaring breakers’ foam
But the sea, our kindly mother , suckled us upon her breast,For, of all the isles she bore, she loved our own the best.
Chorus.Run up the flag of Em ire— let it flutterOn turret—to
gon ma
'
and on our ships whichwith brave blood shed, and.white,
W ith strip of blue, the sea’s own hue—Britannia
It is dyed re
seas ;
REV. WILLIAM SOMERVILLE REID. 399
We were fondled in her arms , and we were dandled on her knee,
And scourged and weather - beaten when the wmds blew W l ld andfree ;
So we grew to manly vigour , and lored the unknown world,
And on continents and Islands our nion Jack unfurled.
has -l inked us close together with a chain of ha py waves ;mother .and the children with encircling arm8
Among peoples past our reckoning , many - colotongue.
Beneath the flag of Union,is our Brit ish Anthemsung .
A SCOTTISH DOOMSDAY.
(28th December, 1879
A SUNDAY EVENING REVERTE.
I saw the chariots of GodIn s lendid pom appear ;
Thundgrin from the ir dread abode,They to earth drew near.
The foremost steeds were snowy white ,
their own chariots -ensith meteor whip and reins of light ,His coursers , each one steers .
Earthquivered like a go lden gong ,
For hey had reached her rim;And echoed with the mirth and songOf gladsome seraphim.
But other steeds like blood were red,
Their hoofs were shod with doom;For in their wake were iled the deadAnd mourners sat in
Agai
n I marked the glittering hostplo and homeward bound ;
And sou s that earth deplored as lost,Were in their chariots found.
On set the outmost stars, they sped,
ere s lendours veil the throne ;(Life’s dar est riddles there are readWe know as we are known).
And lo ! a voice was heard to as
Doubt not that God is Love,
Though st range the time and dark theHe summons some above.
300 JOHN PARKIN SON .
JOHN PARKINSON.
John Parkinson is of Irish descent, but was born In Kil
winning, and worked for a number of years in Busby SpinningMil ls. He is not only a student of poetry and writer of serialarticles, but has dipped also into the abstruse and problematicwaters of mathematics and astronomy. Nature has endowedMr Parkinson with intel lectual gifts of a high order, his successas a poet being in some measure due to Dr Mi lroy , of Kilwinning , who, perceiving his talents, encouraged him in his studies,and from this (as the poet tel ls us in his preface to Lays of
Love and W ar“his literary efforts received their strongest
impu lse. Mr Parkinson is the author of a series of twelvearticles, entitled the Sword of Islam,
” which appeared in the
Ardrossan and Saltcoats Herald,”
and which were re publishedin the
“ Crescent and other Islamic journals. Shortly afterthe publication of this series the author had the pleasure of
meeting Abdul lah Qui l liam Bey, the Sheikh - ul - Islam of the
B ritish Isles. This meeting resu lted in Mr Parkinson joiningthe Muslim community at Liverpool and Offering the services ofhis pen to the cause of Islam. Mr Parkinson is the author alsoof a series of articles on popu lar astronomy , which appeared inthe Ardrossan Herald under the nomdeplumeof Ingomar.”
When only twenty years of age he was elected a member of theB ritish Astronomical Association, and in 1905, in recognition of
his literary services, he was created an officer of the ImperialOrder of the Medjidieh by His Imperial Majesty Ghazi AbdulHamid Khan, Sultan of Turkey.
W. E. HENLEY .
orb of day a
and death, has passed, in dark eclipsebrood of earth . The sunli t gone,
encumber’d by his ms,
Beyond the weste rn bar,where, da suns
Go down,and from the glaring fields of day
Plunge into night,his sun has dipped,
And left behind a sky, lit with the glory of the afterglow.
The world has lost a man,
Whose mighty bosom,fil led with love, awoke
A chord in every sentient heart,and sent
Vibrations puls ing deep through all the realms
Henley is dead ! no more the noondaiyglow.
y,
302 JOHN PARKINSON ;
I'
can see the Moorish blood dr iftShinin thro’ each dark’nin vein ;
Dyeing ep each languid eye id,
Oh ! Senora,child of S in.~
Wake, my love, the myrt e’s waving
In the court of Albacin ;Wake
,my love, my dark - e ed maiden 9
,
Oh ! awake, thou Gra c l
Shall the buds upon thy bowmFairest fruit in secret shed?
Where the Cyprem stands in gloryAnd the Orange blowomblows .
EX TRACT FROM THE “SONS OF ISLAM ;
Sing Tarie’s name
,
His spotless fame,Of Is lam’
s chiva lry the boast ;On sunny plain,
Of Southern Spain,
He overthrew the Gothic host
They stood at bayTill seven th day,
Both k'
and knight ln armou r bright,n thro’ their hands
,
flowing sands ,'
The glowmg sands of life and light .
The swinging und’nng shock ;
TheThe
‘
The ba
When set the sun that stormy day.
306 REV. WILLIAM PEEBLES , D.D.
THE FORSAKEN SHEPHERD.
Hail kindred looms ! Ye sable shades of night !Shroud every eauty frommy aching s ight ;Ye silent groves ! no more the sound retainTo soothe the sorrows of the pensive swain !
And ye, my sheep ! who oft en aged my care,
Go,bleat wild music to the mi night air !
Ye silver waters , as ye ro-ll along,Bear the sad burden of my mournful song !Ye gentle breezes as ye louder rise,Watt far and wide the whisper of my sighs !Ye seats of pasto ral innocence and ease
Where a ll was smiling joy, if/aught could pleaseAnd ye
o
sweet fields and lawns of verdant hue,My native home
,and every hope ,
adieu !
I’ll seek some distant , solitary shore,And there to flinty rocks my loss de lore ;The roaring winds shall aid my hope ess strain ,
While foaming sur es swell the soundingmainThere oft to calm e sorrows ofmymind,Mem’
ry shall haunt these scenes I left behind,
And oft to lul l my wearied soul to rest ,Shall love recall her image to my breast .
In stronger measure than the above lines the good Doctorsignifies his displeasure of the state of affairs existing in his
country when the High landers were being driven out of theirshiel ings and compel led ! to emigrate to foreign lands. Caledonia —“ a female form supremely bright —unveils her
grandeur , and as she beholds the clansmen hunted from theirglens and straths she thus complains
From their dear fields and verdant val leys torn,
Seek the mean shelter of a distant home?
Shall they, the offspring of a warlike race,
Endure the pangs the wretched on ly know ;And folded c lose in penury’
s embrace,
Feel all the sad variety of woe ?
ls plain P
in vain P
Wil l no kind Patriot stem the threat’ning tide,Restore my honours and espousemy cause ;
Check the cure’d reign of insolence and pride
,
And nobly free them fromoppression s laws ?
GAVIN TURNBULL. 307
If no kind Patriot , with a hero’s zeal,The injur
’d rights of Liberty restore ;
Ah me ! I too must bid these plains farewell,And Caledoma ’
s name be known no more.
>i<
JAMES FISHER.
James Fisher was a blind fiddler who belonged to the
Borders of Gal loway and livedmany years in Ochiltree. He is
remembered on account of several poetic eflusions which headdressed to TomWalker, the rhyming tailor of Ochiltree, andin which Burns comes in for a fair share of caustic criticism.
The fol lowing specimen verses wi l l sumos— thus Fisher to
Walker
c ,man ! ye
I heard some things ye sent to BurnsIn whilzk e gie himgey ill purns
0 red, I th1nk ;
But what thb
e
gwere my muse adjourns
To 1distinct .
Ye’re no like some that I could name,
To please the wicked mak’their theme ;
But Tam what tho ’they ra
Amang.
that race ?They in the main are unco lame
When scant o’ grace.
To this eflusion Walker replied in a long poetical epistle,which he wound up as fol lows
Saints now- a- days may weep an’ mourn,
To,
th1uk how.
ages yet unborn ,
Wi ll see reli n‘
turned to scornBy b1n ’
s hooks ,An’
a’the Bible reft an
’torn
By c lergy folks .
.Fisher was author of two prose booklets, noticed in our
B1bhographica1 Index .
>l<
The poetical sflusions of Gavin Turnbu l l , who was born on
the banks of Silver Tweed, attracted the notice of RobertBurns, and the two poets subsequently became fast friends.
8 GAVIN TURNBULL..
Turnbu l l ’s early years were spent in Kilmarnock , where heworked for a time at the trade of carpet weaving. Later in lifebe embraced the stage as a profession, and was playing in Dum~fries Theatre on several occasions at the time when Burnsfol lowed the cal l ing of exciseman there.
Turnbu l l issued two volumes of his own musings, whichgive evidence of considerable lyrical power.
MYRA .
The forests aremantled in een,
The hawthorn in blossom coka gay,The primrose and daisy are seen
,
And birds carol sweet on the spray’Tis now the gay season of love,Soft raptures inspire ev’ry heart ,
Come,Myra
,retire to the grove,
While I my fond passion Impart .
You say that you doubt if I love ;From whence can such fancies arise ?
If words are too languid to prove,’Tis seen in the
glance of mine eyes .
Believe me thou c armer divine,
Those valleys can witness my pain ;The streams join the ir murmurs with mineAnd the echoes have learn ’
d to complain.
I’myoung and too simple to lie,To call thee a goddess or queen ;
M flame is revealed in that sigh,
{Ty blushes explain what I mean .
My passion’s so mild
,and sincere,
And chaste as the innocent dove ;I call thee not false nor severe,
’T1s sure the completest of love.
the spray ;
That mirth seems'
unpleasant to me ;I’d leave the fond thought with
‘regretOf mdu lging a passion for thee.
I lie by the verge of the stream,
Whose murmurs oft lull me to rest ;I court the kind
,flattering dream
,
To lay me eu ine on thy breastI wake, and I fo d thee in vain ,
The.
shade is too subtle to keep ;I foohshly dots on my pain ,
And find it a pleasure to weep .
810 WILLIAM HALBERT.
Thou does as weel’s could be0
’ane wha
’s wit lay lang neg
Some odly folk your rhyme I trowa’ worthless blether ;
But be na fear’t , ye
’s get your due
'
When we forgether .
Sae tear ’t I’m for the gospel gunTo w emy frien ’
s I canna win ;But tell sic chiels as you ,
myI’ll see them soon
,
An’thee
, an’ me’
s hae curious funEre a
’be done.
The Endor Witch wha liv’d lang syneWas a richt honest freen o
’ mine,
An’ Haman
,wha in tale shall shine
For zeal an’spite ;
But nane o’them did feats
In black and white .
As Judas,too, richt bauld an
’ lealWha served wi’ perfect heart theDeil,An
’
play’d his part I’msure as weel
As ony breathing ;Till ance he hanged himsel’ puir chiel,
But that was naething .
In Hell when I read owre your sang ,
Where rhymes cam’thund
’rin
’WI
’a bang,
Quoth I, trouth I’s see Rab or lang,
An’that ’s be seen
,
Griff N ick should on me ride the stangTo Aberdeen .
Now Rab, m lad,cheer up thy saul
,
In Gioschen t on sha lt tent thy .faul,
An’ giff thou’s aye as stout an
’ baulAs I’ma Deil,
up till thou ’
thee weel .
Mr Dun was a native of Dumfriesshire, and was presentedin the year 1751 to the charge of Auchinleck parish by Alexander Boswel l , Lord Auchinleck, in whose family he previouslyhad been a tutor.
>l<
WILLIAM HALBERT.
It wou ld appear that the Dominic Samsons of the
eighteenth century were very much addicted to the misdeed of
making poetry , and in their leisure hours to wander in Nature’s
JANET LITTLE . 311
garden fair and pick up blooms of beauty here and there.
Wil liamHalbert was the parish schoolmaster ofAuchinleck, andwas not only a poet but in many other ways a most remarkab leman. He was the author of a very ingenious treatise on arithmetic , which he published, and which contained a number ofcurious, original , and most abstruse prob lems, a number of
them in rhyme. This treatise continued in use in some of the
schools for a number of years after the author ’s death .
Mr Halbert was the composer of a rather lengthy adulatorypoemon the death of Lord Auchinleck in 1782.
>l< >l<
JANET LITTLE.
Janet Little, known as the Scottish Milkmaid, was the
daughter of a cottar in Nether Bogside, near Ecc lefechan. In
early life she entered the service of the Rev. Mr Johnstone, inwhose family she remained several years . On leaving his
service she was engaged by Mrs Dunlop of Dunlop, the
patroness and correspondent of Burns . Whilst servmg at
Dunlop House she had access to a copy of Burns’
s book of
poems, and the perusal of same seems to have fanned ha
poetic flame, for on removing subsequently to Loudoun Castle,as dai rymaid to Mrs Hendrie, daughter of Mrs Dunlop, sheaddressed a poetic letter to Burns, who about this time hadremoved to Ellisland. Burns mentioned the circumstance in a
letter to M rs Dun lop, where he styles the epistle“a very ln
genious but modest composition, part poetic and part prosaic ,"
adding that he had heard of Janet Little in Dumfriesshire.
Janet eventual ly became the wife of John Richmond, butas she had no family she continued to work as dai rymaid at
Loudoun Castle til l almost the day of her death , which occurredafter twenty - four hours ’ il lness. She was interred in the oldburying - ground at Loudoun Kirk .
When on a visit at one time to her parents at Ecclefechanshe cal led at Ellisland, and there learned that the Poet hadsustained a broken arm on account of his horse stumbl ing whenreturning froman excise excursion . This incident she recordedin the fol lowing strain
ON A VISIT TO MR BURNS.
Is’t t rue ? or does some ma spellMy wond
’ring e es
Is this the place w re deigns to dwel lThe honour of our is le ?
312 JANET e '
rw .
The cha rming Bu rns , the Muses ’ care,Of all her sons the pride
This pleasure oft I’ve sought to share,
But been as oft denied.
Oft have my thoughts at midnight hourTo him excursion made ;
This bliss in dreams was premature,And with my slumbers fled.
heart .
Hark ! now he comes,a dire alarm
Re - echoes through his hall ;Pe asus kneeled
,his rider ’s armWas bro-ken by a fall.
The do leful tidings to my ears
Were in harsh notes convey’d
His lovely wife stood drown’d in
While thus I pondering said
No cheerin draught , with ills unmix ’d,Can morta taste below ;
All human fate by Heaven is fix’d,
Alternate Joy and
With bsatin breast I view’d the Bard ;All tremb ing did hi-m greet ,
With sighs bewail’d his fate so hardWhose notes were ever sweet .
As it may interest many to know what the Scottishmaid thought of Burns, as a poet, we transcribe the poeticalpart of her epistle to the Bard of Ellisland.
Fair fa’the honest rustic swain,
The pride 0’a’our Scottish plain ;
Tho -u gies us joy to hear thy st rain,And notes
Old Ramsay’s shadeIn thee we greet .
Loved Thalia,that delightful muse,
Beem’d shut up as a rec luse ;
To all she id her aid refuseSince Allan’
s day,Till Burns arose
,then did she choose
To grace his lay.
To hear thy san all ranks desire ,
Sae weel ye str’
e the dormant lyre ;Apollo with poetic fire
Thy breast does warm,
And critics silently admireThy art to charm.
REV. DAVID LANDSBOROUGH.
Cameron and other covenanters encountered and were capturedby the red- handed troopers. Hyslop is thus known as
“The
Muirkirk Shepherd.
” He was born in Crawick G len, nearSanquhar, and after the pub lication of the poem by which hisname is best remembered he was offered and accepted an
appointment as tutor on board the man - of- war vessel Doris.
”
On completing a three years’ cruise he visited London, andmade
the acquaintance of several literary magnates, who instal led himas a reporter on the staff of the London Times,
”and after »
wards as headmaster of an Academy in the vicinity of London.
In the twenty - ninth year of his age he once more acceptedappointment as tutor on board of a man - of- warship, and
sailed with it for the Cape of Good Hope, but on the voyage hecontracted a malignant fever, which carried him Off, and thusthe harp of James Hyslop, the Muirkirk Shepherd, was for eversi lenced. An edition of his works was pub lished a few yearsago with biography fromthe pen of the Rev. Peter Meams, of
Coldstream.
>l< >l<
REV. DAVID LANDSBOROUGH.
For the Rev. David Landsborough , natural grandeur andwild romantic scenery such as is to be seen in his native parishof Dal ry , Gal loway, had a never - failing attraction, and not
infrequently roused him to poetical emotion . Whi le studyingfor the ministry he held the appointment of tutor in the fami lyof Lord G lenluce, and eventual ly was ordained to the charge of
Stevenston Parish . Fromhis manse windows in Stevenston hiseye could sweep the Firth of C lyde and rest on the sun - gi ldedpeaks of Arran, and this magnificent seascape, together withfrequent visits which he made to Arran, were doubtless theinductive sources of his lengthy blank - verse poemon the beauti'ful western isle which dominates the Firth of C lyde. Mr
Landsborough also contributed poetical pieces to the pages of
the“Scottish Christian Herald and other periodicals .
A SABBATH MORNING IN ARRAN .
With cheerful li ht shone forth the smiling sun,When came the abbath morn of holy rest .
All Nature rested on that blessed morn ;Not with the listlessness of torpid sloth ,But beaming peace as if that morn restoredPart of that Joy which brightened Nature’s faceWhen the Creator cast upon his worksA look benignant, and pronounced them good.
REV. GEORGE Paxron. 315
sea— yet did the seaproclaimHer tranquil bliss , as she return d the smi le
Diffused on her .fromHeaven ’
s pro ltious
Rested the winds— and yet the zep yrs blandWhis r
’d their happiness in accents sweet ;
Or he d soft converse with the peaceful wavesWhich play’
d in gent lest rippl ings on the shore.
Rested the fleecy clouds on mountain topsAnd et the clouds prepared to fade away ,And cave in s otless purity the sky .
Rested the vil age neat ; and all aroundThe humble house of God was calm repose,The sweet tranquillity of Sabbath morn .
>l< >i<
REV. GEORGE PAXTON .
The Rev. George Paxton, author of a volume entitledThe Vi l lager and Other Poems , was Secession Church mini
ster of Kilmaurs from 1789 ti l l 1807 . In 1808 he was
appointed Professor of Divinity in Edinburgh . In Ki lmaurshe succeeded Father Smeaton,
”who is referred to by Bums
in a letter to Miss Chalmers .
A popular tradition of how Rowallan Castle derived itsname is made the subject of Mr Paxton ’
s muse in versesaddressed to the Carmel Water
A Scott ish chief in days Of old,
As hoary - headed si res have to ld,
Was tossed upon the mainSmal l was the skiff, the tempest blew ,
The tremblingchieftain urged the crew
The istant shore to gain .
Row ! Allan, row l”the baron cried,
High on the foaming surges rideAnd bear me safe to shore
A rich domain on Carmel sideO
’er hill and dale extending wide,
18 there for evermore.
”
The quiverinfioar bold Allan st retched,
The solid Ian the Baron reached,
And Allan won the prize ;Adorned with ro of twisted stoneLong on thy ban Rowallan shone
And st ill the storm defies .
>l<
316 THOMAS BROWN .
THOMAS BROWN .
Thomas Brown, sometime proprietor of Lanfine estate in
the parish Of Galston, was the son Of a medical practitioner inG lasgow, and a nephew Of the celebrated Lord Jeffrey . He
had the advantages Of a University education, and studied forthe Scottish Bar, but never engaged in legal practice. Mr
Brown ’s muse is not Of the homely order, as he was fond Of
dressing his thoughts in c lassical garments. Although living inc lose retirement at Lanfine, he and his sisters were neverthelessmindfu l Of the needs Of their less fortune- favoured neighbours,and performed many charitab le deeds in a quiet way. Theyfounded for the benefit Of those residing in Galston, Newmilns,and Darvel a Reading and Recreation Institute in each Of the
three towns.
THE LEGEND OF ST. ROSALIE.
!Rosalie was the niece of W illiam the Good, who reigned inS icily in the Pontificate of Celestine III. She mysterious ly dis,appeared from a convent , where, though not a professed nun , sheresided. Three hundred years afterwards remains , believed to behers
,were found on Mount Pelegrino near Palermo, Of which city
she is the patron saint. The scene is aid in the nunnery Of Cefalu,on the northern coast of Sicily. Mon Gibello is the popular nameOf Etna.]
ceased the vesper bell,anthem died away ,
And Rosalie ‘has sought her cell,TO watch , to weep, to pray .
She slept, she dreamt : Palermo’s shore
All torchlit seemed to be °
And galleys rode in triumpho’er
The blue Sicilian sea.
By Rome’s high Pontiff sent to thee,This rO al crown is thine ;
He hails hee Queen Of.
S lCl ly,And Queen Of Palestine.
Wake Princess , rise ! relinquish all,Andquit this vestal shrine,
Should cloister’d Cefalu enthral
T’hat captive soul Of thine ?”
And Baron bold and lady brightKnelt ; but the sued ln vain .
0 why ,” she crie should fiends of nightAssume an angel strain ?”
318 LADY FLORA ELIZABETH HASTINGS .
LADY FLORA"
ELIZABETH HASTINGS.
Ayrshire cannot claim the gifted Lady Flora Hastingsas a native ; neither can the mere trickery Of chance debarus from cherishing her memory as such , for in respect Of
fami ly ties and life long associations her interests were everclosely identified with Ayrshire. She was the eldest daughterOf Lord Moira, afterwards created Viscount Loudoun, Ear lof Rawdon, and Marquis Of Hastings, who was in succession a Privy Counci l lor, Master Of the Ordnance, Constab le Of
the Tower , and Governor - General Of Bengal and Commanderin - Chief Of the Forces in India. He and his Countess werethe hero and heroine Of Tannahill
’
s famous song, Loudoun’
s
Bonnie Woods and Braes .
”
Their daughter Flora was born at
Edinburgh , February , 1806, and spent her early years at
Loudoun Castle. She was appointed Lady Of the Bedchamberto the Duchess Of Kent, mother Of the late Queen Victoria, andthis position she held til l her untimely death at BuckinghamPalace on the 5th Of Ju ly , 1839.
A volume Of her poems was pub lished by Messrs Blackwoodin 1840
, edited by her sister, Lady Sophia, who afterwardsbecame the Marchioness of Bute, the proceeds Of the volumebeing devoted to the erection Of a girls’ school in Newmilns as
a memorial Of her lamented sister, the poetess Of the Loudounfami ly .
Lady Flora was a giftedmusician as wel l as a poetess, andher harp, although long unstrung , is stil l preserved in LoudounCastle. As a poetess she ranks high among the minstrels Of
Ayrshire, her style being accomplished and dignified.
Her apostrOphe to Loudoun Hil l has been frequentlyquoted . It forms part Of a poem entitled “ Farewel l , myHome,
”in which the al lusions to local scenes show that Lady
Flora never forgot the home Of her early childhood.
APOSTROPHE TO LOUDOUN HILL.
And thou , dark hil l and hoar,That broodest like a cuius o
’er
Pass ionless witness O the lapse Of ages
And monument , by nature’s and uprear
’d,Of the stern struggles Of an earnest time
Even so thou stood’st, when winding round thy base,
Through the wild forests over - arching loom,
The Roman led his legions. Thus thy row
Raised from the misty clouds its awful form,
When Bruce and Scotland stemm’d the warlike prideOf the first Edward’
s southern chivalry.
LADY FLORA ELIZABETH HASTINGS . 319
And there was et an hour more deeply fraughtW ith fervid fee ing —on thy storm- r ived crest
d they who turn ’d the sickle to a sword,And grasp
’d,with hands to pastoral to1ls Inured,
Th’ unwonted wea on in the holiest causeFor which man hat stood forth a combatantThe cause Of conscience and of liberty .
Smile not , 0 sons Of these pacific times !When
,free to worship even as ye l ist ,
Ye think u n the motleymusterIng
Of those w 0,for the ho y Covenant ,
The Church by Scotland sanct ion’d and approved,
Even from th1s rock descending with one vO IOe
Raised to the Lord Of Armies one loud psalm,
And on the bloody heather Of Drumclog.
Pour’d forth their blood to seal their faith thereby .
STANZAS— WRITTEN FOR MUSIC .
Thou speakest in thun'
ders , and Thy throneIs girt with ser
tlegions , On whose w ings
Thou fiyest , Lor O ning the sweet springs
Of the vas t ocean : t e pestilence goes fortWasting the nations : and at thy command,The as tonished earth trembles from zone to zone ;The treasuries of the everlastin northCast forth the ice of ages : M i ty God !Who may ab ide the chas tenin Of Thy rod?
0 Thou Most HO y !
Thou speakest , Father , to the contrite soulIn the still night and l ike soft falling dewThe voice Of par on s inks upon the ear ;For thou didst once, to ransom and renewThe spirits sunk beneath the fiend’
s controlLeave Thy bless
’d seat above the starry sphere,
0 Thou Most Merciful !
Lord ! Thou shalt come— the nations shal l adore thee,Triumphant vict im victor sacrifice !Sin and the
glutted grave shall bend before thee ;
The dead sha hear—Th people shall ariseWhen Thou shalt bind y sheaves in that Thy day.
Cast not , 0 Lord ! our tremblin souls away ,Thou hast susta ined our faith t rough eve
In Thine own hour he Thou our Refuge st'
0 Thou Most Faithful .
820 MRS COUSIN .
THE SWAN SONG .
Grieve not that I dieIyoun
g. Is it not well
TOsass awa
yere life
.
ath Ost its brightness ?B in me no onger srs ters , with the spel l
and our l and words . List ye to me,Here I am b essed— but I would be more freeI would
figforth in all my spirit
’s lightness .
t me depart !
Ah ! who would linger til l bright eyes grow dim,
Kind VOIOes mute, and faithful bosoms cold?Till carkin care and toil, and anguish grim,
Cast their rk shadows o ’er this fairy world ;
Till fancy ’s many - coloured wings are furledAnd all
,save the proud spirit, waxeth Old?I would depart.
Thus would Ipass away— yieldin my soul
A joyous than Offering to Him w 0 gaveThat soul to be, those starr orbs to rollThus—thus exultingly would I depart ,Song on my lips, ecstacy in my heart .
Sisters— sweet s isters, bear me to my gravedepart
>i< >l<
MRS COUSIN .
Mrs Cousin, whose maiden name was Anne Ross Cundell,wi l l long be remembered as the authoress Of the beautifu l hymn,The sands of time are sinking .
” Her father, Dr David RossCundell, was a medical Officer in the army , who, after his
retiral from this position, settled in Leith , and carried on a
private practice there. In 1849 Miss Cundell became the wifeOf the Rev. Wil liam Cousin, minister Of a Scottish congregationat Chelsea, and afterwards of the Free Church in Irvine.During her residence Of about ten years in Irvine Mrs Cousinwrotemany Of hermost popu lar hymns, and among others thatworld- wide favourite,
“The sands Of time are sinking,
” whichwas suggested by the last words Of Samuel Rutherford.
This piece appeared along with some other Of her poemsin a smal l volume Of verse printed for private circulation. In
1849Mr Cousin accepted a cal l to the Free Church Of Melrose,where he ministered successful ly for about 18 years, at the end
of which time he retired with his wife and family to Edinburgh .
Mrs Cousin holds a high and honourable place among theresident poets Of Ayrshire.
322 RH . DR NORMAN MACLEOD.
The moon roams like a pilgrimLocked in a trance divme ,
Who on a trackless waste has lostHer pathway to the shrine.
Beneath s reads fair mysterious light,Earth 8 immers like a dream
The white soul Of the daylight worldAll things so hallowed seem.
And earth and I are sailing eastOver a sea unknown ,
Among the myriad barks of light.Watched from God’
s unseen throne.
>l< >l<
REV. DR NORMAN MACLEOD.
Norman Macleod, the wel l - known editor and founder Of
Good Words,”was a resident Of Ayrshire for about five years.
his first pastoral charge being the parish Of Loudoun. Whilstresiding in the manse Of Loudoun, Newmilns ( historical also on
account Of its association with Robert Burns and the Rev. DrLawrie), he composedmany Of the tales and sketches which firstappeared from his pen in
“Good Words and afterwards in
book form. His political leanings being Conservative he gloriedin arguing politics with the red- hot Radical weavers Of New~milns, and had at times good- naturedly to own himself worstedin the argument. Dr Mac leod’
s various appointments aftersevering his connection with the parish Of Loudoun are wel l
an
a poet, but there is ample evidence that he possessed the gift Ofa ski lled lyrist, pathos being the master chord Of his harp.
“OH,
IT’
S HARD TO DIE FRAE HAME.
(From Good Words,
The evening sun is shrnmg noo
On lbonnie Lochans ide,
And to the byre are creepingThe kye, my mither
’s pride ;
The weans are sporting on the green,
I see thing just the sameAs if amang them a
’.mysel’
Oh, it
’s hard to die frae hame !
I see the house—the loch— the burnThe boat lying on the shore ;
Midfaither workin in the yaird
,
y mither noun the door ;
GEORGE PAULIN .323
The cradle rocking by the fire,That burns a bleez in flame ,
And Jeanie singing to e baIrn
Oh,it
’s hard to die frae hams !
TO kee my faither in his craft1 le to win a
.
fee,And many a tear It cost us baith,
For I was young and wee ;I’m fear
’d he ’ll break his tender
And think he was to blame,Gin I could only grip his hal l
’
Oh,it
’s hard to die frae hame !
M ain dear mither little kenser Mary is sae ill,
or’tween us there’s a weary gate ,
0’stormy sea and hill ;
And will I never see her face,Or hear her speak my name,
Or c lasp my arms about her neckOh
,it
’
s hard to die frae hame
I thank ye a’beside me here
For the love ye ’ve shown to me ,
Ye’ve gi’en me meat , ye’ve gi’en me class ,And
"en a gentle fee !
To thin o’
t mak ’
s my heart grow grit,And mak’s me feel like shame ;
But yet— forgi’e me if I say’tOh, it
’s hard to die frae heme !
And when ye write to tell our folkHow Ma ry awa
’
,
Be su re ye te them how I thochtAnd thocht about them a
’
;And tell them, too I
lgssd 1n peace,
Because I kent the ameO
’a Faither and a Brothe r dearFarewell ! I’m noo gaun hame !
>l< >l<
GEORGE PAULIN .
George Paulin ,who for upwards Of thirty years held the
appointment Of Rector Of Irvine Academy , was gifted with no
common measure Of the divine afiiatus . Shortly before reti ringfrom the Profession Of which he was a distinguishedmember heissued a volume Of musings , entitled Hal lowed Ground , and
other Poems ,”
and in which are not a few gems Of verse.
The fol lowing exquisite lines , written shortly after the deathOf the Rev. Dr Robertson, Trinity Church , Irvine, appeared inthe Christian Leader
MARION PAUL AIRD.
W . B . R
A tale has been told and a life - son sung ,A lifes battle fought on the hills Of ime,
A ha of rich music on earth unstrunHat left its last note to an echoeu lime
And the soul that was soothed by Its magIO WeepsIn the shade where the spirit of melody‘
sleeps .
The wounded dove Of the terebinth treeHath p lained its last plaint in the starhght lone ;
The hone of Hybla forsaken,the bee
TO g es of a sweeter contentment hath flown ;Sweet irit of song that dids t hallow the shellBy the
s
aooks of the willows we hid thee farewellFarewel l to the deep mellow tones— to the eye
Illumined by thought— to the eloquent face ;To the heart on the lip- quiver seemmg to
o
lie ;To the rainbow - like gleamings of genIus andFarewell to the and, schemn glory of thought ,Like a wave to ime’
s from Etermty brought .
THE POET ’
S EDUCATION .
He watc hed w the brightening tints uponThe rich blue g upon the Violet’s lovel breast,The opening the pink , his mother
’s avourite lily
And— sweetest pledge of summer hours— the smiling daffodilly ;He gazed upon the dancing leaves as mute but living things ,In breeze and sunshine fluttering, with glorious glancing wm
gzFor thepale young snowdrop’
s early death he felt young frien hip’s
n e
And mourned an Old ac uaintance in sere Autumn’s faded leaf.
The robin knew his gent e step, and feared no dan er nigh,
rateful‘leveret looked on himwith mild a fearless eye,
The k rd and the linnet came obedient to his callHe loved the brIght, gay fluttering things , and he was loved by all,Then woke the echoes of his heart and impulse high and strong
,
Burst from the fount of glorious t"
ought in wild me lodious song,He sung not—for he scarce had heard—Of conquests and Of warsHe21
3g of woods, and flowers , and streams
,of sunshine and of
re.
MARION PAUL AIRD.
This authoress was descended froman Ayrshire fami ly, hermother being a niece Of the Rev. Hamilton Pau l , the Barganypoet. She was born in G lasgow, but at an early age removedto Ki lmarnock, where she resided the remainder Of her years,
326 NEIL MUIR .
NEIL MUIR.
Nei l Muir was the last descendant of the Muils of LugtonRidge, in the parish of Dunlop, which up ti l l the lime of his
father had been in their possession from time irnmemorial. Hewas born in Kintyre in 1815, and was educated in Ki lbirnie,where he held on the even tenor of his way ti l l death supervened. He learned the trade of cabinetmaker , but relinquishedthis cal ling , and was for many years in the employment of
Messrs Merry Cuninghame. He was a fluent speaker, and
his taste for literature m general , and for poetry in particular,was wel l known in the district where he lived. His versesappeared from time to time in fugitive form. The fol lowingmay be regarded as one of his best compositions
THERE IS NO DEATH.
There is no death , Creation’s records have revealed
That living atoms through the universe abound ;Throu countless a
ges that may lie concealed,
Life’s pirit moves t rough all the vas t profound.
There is no death .
There is no death , ’tis but mysterious change
That varying moves through sea and air and earth ;The Creator still life’
s ashes doth arrange,And death is but a new creation’
s birth.There is no death .
There is no death , the tide of life rolls on,
Strange, yet grand,
mysterious , and sublimeRolls back again within the dread unknown
,
Yet marks its tread upon the shores of time .
There is no death .
There is no death, life’s tremulous tidal waveStill on the"
shores of time doth su rge and breakWhere ancient life hath long time found a graveNew forms arise from that great ocean’
s wreckThere is no death .
There is no death, the Creator still doth keepWithin His hand the ashes of deca
y,Again to rise from out their death ess s leepLife’
s spirit cannot fade nor pass away .
There is no death .
There is no death, God’s voice through nature calls
With solemn voice upon decay’s cold ear
A voice that on life’s s lumbering ashes fallsAn Angel’s velce that all who s leep must hear,
There is no death .
REVERENDS JAMES AND ROBERT E. MURRAY . 327
There is no death , creative skill is tracedU n the living atoms fashioned by His hand,
ese through all time His thought and care embracedSince first creation rose at His command.
There is no death .
There is no death , resounds frompole to pole,
And from the entombed past new form a pears ,As down the course of time life’
s tide sti rollsAnd wakes the s lumbers of ten thousand years .
There is no death .
>l< >l<
REVERENDS JAMES AND ROBERT E MURRAY.
The Reverend James Murray , who was for thirty yearsminister Of the parish Of Old Cumnock, and the Rev. Robert E.
Murray were brothers, who hailed Original ly from Peeblesshire.
The former was wel l acquainted with James Hogg , the EttrickShepherd, and as a contributor to the pages of Whistlebinkieearly in life secured for himself a favourable place amongthe sweet harpers of Scotia. He issued several volumes Of his
own writings , but is perhaps best known by his Songs. of the
Covenant Times , which , as the title indicates, treats of incidents enacted during the dark days Of peasant ersecution.
The opening poem is entitled, The Hil l Preacher , and dealswith incidents in the life Of Alexander Peden, the Prophet Of
the Covenant.The Rev. Robert E. Murray was also a poet, and issued
a dainty volume of verse, entitled “The Dayspring from on
High and other Poems .
”
The fol lowing verses are from Songs Of the Covenantand the succeeding ones from The Dayspring
WILLIAM ADAM , THE MARTYR OF MIDWELLWOOD.
Tread lightly on ‘his ashes,for he fell
Heart- full of love to God and allLitt le it needs the Muse his fate should tell
,
In lofty ode or elegy refined,
To touch the soul and muse th’ ingenious mind .
His chosen was to fix the bridal morn ;Her fleet
,light s te already traced the dew,
As to the moorlan trysting place she drewBlythe as a lark sprung from the brairded cornTo hst his voice
, and low- breathed vows renewTO himwhose love and troth full well she knew.
328 REV. DR WILLIAM B . ROBERTSON .
spoiler came before her, and she foundHer lover stark and cold— the fell deed doneHis 8 irit fled, his blood upon the ground,
ible next his heart ' for he was one
Who feared his God and bore a grudge to none.
Far thence the slayers all unmoved in aught,To other deeds accursedstruck their way ;The while poor soul ! with angulsh deep o
’er fraught
Prone by her lover’s side she sank to pray
Wl ld waverings, unrevealed ti ll the great Judgment
REVEIL.
Thoughts are like clouds— as sunshine on the hills ,They come and go ; though we court their presenceE’
er so much , they will not stay to bless us
Recollection strives to recall their hues ,And
,bafled much , would still restore their light.
Vain effort ! See yon stream amid the copse,What gladness does it pour upon the wood !’Mid shade and sunshine
,its voice like laughter
Of a child roaming ’mong fragrant flowersFalls ever softl on the listenin ear
,
As music hear afar at even ti e ;Yet leave its brink, recall its melody,And memory, when it limns the past you loved,Is faint in its detail of circumstance.
’Tis thus that often on the soul of manA golden thou ht will shine—most beautifulBut if some s OckMade
'
by the world without— it dies away,
Refusrtnhgat
tclv
)
return and fill your soul
>l< >l<
REV. DR WILLIAM B. ROBERTSON .
This gifted preacher, poet, and lecturer, was born at
Greenhi l l , near Stir ling , and was early recognised as a person
of no ordinary talents. After studying theology at Scottish andContinental universities he accepted a cal l to the United Presbyterian Church , Irvine, where he ministered almost continuouslyfor about twenty - eight years, at the end of which time failinghealth compel led him to seek absolute rest, and he retired tothe residence of his sister at Bridge of Al lan, where he died.
Dr Robertson was a fluent speaker, and eloquent al ike as a
preacher and lecturer. 'Few strangers who saw him enter thepu lpit and noted his slim figure and smal l stature could haverealized the powers Of oration that lay dormant in such an
insignificant looking casket, had they not been attracted by the
330 REV. WILLIAM BUCHANAN, B .A.
favourable notice as a poet by composing a Burns CentenaryOde, which is considered one Of the finest Odes ever written on
this over - hackneyed theme.
ROBERT BURNS- CENTENARY ODE.
We hail to- day his glorious birthOne hundred years ago,
Who taught his brothers o’er the earth
TO think , to feel , to glow ;Whose independent spirit firesIn countless thousands now,
Ay , and will burn til l Truth expiresThat Roman of the plough !
Who spurned the falsehood of pretence,The Insolence of pride,Who measured men by worth and sense,
And not by more outside ;Who from the mob that worship state,Turned to the sterling few,
That honour— what alone is greatThe Good, the Just , the True .
ThX
story,Burns , a tale unfolds,
s thrl lling as thy song ;Oh, that the a e which now beholdsMight hate t y crying wrong
The cold neglect , contemptuous airs ,The crue l, callous sneersProud Dulness towards Genius bears ;And worse, mayhap, the tears
The maudlin tears which o
‘nly fal l
As soon as men are dead,And flow full - cours ing down the pallOf bards who wanted bread ;
The hypocritic tears accurst,So like their ways and doom,
Who used to kill the prophets first,And
‘
g arnished next their tomb .
it
His lyrics stir our British bloodWherever Britons toil
They fell the far Canadian wood,Dig the Austra lian soil ;
Where Northern winters hold theiAnd Eastern summers long ,
They bind our sons in one strong chainOf sentiment and song .
Hail Scotia’s Bard ! Long shall be felt
Thy I re so many - strin ed ;To soot to madden , an to melt,What words like thine are w1ng
’d?
WILLIAM GUNNYON . 331
One age— and do we deem it hard
That but one Burns appears ?Nag
,men were bless’d W ith such a hard
nce in a thousand years .
For he shall live, and shall live on ,
When all those years are past ;While harvests wave and rivers run,
While pan and passions last ;He
’l l be till Nature’s final hourLooks wan in Nature’s face ,
A name, a p resence,and a power ,
To move the human race.
>l<
WILLIAM GUNNYON .
Many of the Older generation of the good people of
marnock wi l l remember Wil l iamGunnyon, the schoolmaster ofthe New Academy in Princes Street, and some Of themcan eventel l how his reputation for strap - wielding made roots respected .
The success of his pupils at the universities was for years
phenomenal . Mr Gunnyon devoted a large share of his sparetime to general literature besides writing a considerable numberof poetical pieces, which appeared in various magazines and
newspapers of the period . His chief contributions to literature are a biographical memoir written for Nimmo
’
s Edition Of
Burns , and Il lustrations of Scottish Life and History in Songand Bal lad . Translations from the Greek Anthology and
from German Hymnology also occupied his attention, andseveral of these are reckoned superior .
Mr Gunnyon was born in Lauriston, Kirkcudbright, andwas brought to Kilmarnock when a child. For many years hehad a successfu l career as a teacher there, and held for a timethe presidency Of Ki lmarnock Burns C lub . In later years heremoved to Edinburgh and subsequently to G lasgow ,
where, inaddition to general literature, he engaged in encyc lopaedic work .
TRANSLATION FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY.
Not Hymen , but the BridegroomDeath ,Fair Clearista found,
When she upon the bridal nightHer virgin zone unbound.
Now at her gate the mus ic sweetOf the evenin flutes arose,
Now heard a- cl ing as the doorsOf the nuptial chamber close.
382 WILLIAM GUNNYON .
At morn the hymeneal straiIn gushing ladness flow ;
But , quickly 0 anged, they die away“
In wailing notes of woe ;And the same torches that had litThe way to the bridal bed
With mournful lust re now illumedHer pas sage to the Dead.
THE HEAVENLY FRIEND.
(Translated from the“German Hymnologyf
Forbear ye worldly wise to say,That none but equals can o be friends
,
And that the Heavenly MajestyTo human fellowship ne
’er bends ;
For I amnought, whi le God is all ;He stil l so great, I still so small ;I still so weak somighty He ;A sinner I He purity ;A shadow 1
,He light divineYet I’mmy friend 6 and He is mine.
M Goel,mine Emmanuel
,
y Middleman,to whomwas given
To raise my sins tained soul from hell,Though it has drawn Himdown fromHeaven
The Lamb of God,and David’
s Son,
My - Lord and God and S use in one,
To earth , from heaven hol home,Came down my soul- friend to me,My flesh and bone, a man 1His friend am I
,my friend
God,who his blessed Son me gave
Confirms each blessing in the n,
As well his sorrows,cross , and grave,
As his bright crown and heaven ly throne.Yes
,what he says , does , has of good,
His word and spiri flesh and blood ;What he hath striven for and won,
What he hath suffered and hath doneThat yea all that shall now be mine,For ou
’rt my friend, and I am Thine
His gracious love can richly feedThe sou l of every Christian brother .We dare not, therefore, grudge this meed,
This highest meed, to one another .
Through our most large enjoyment shallHis rich abundance never fail :So I
’ll forbid that love to none,
Yet use it as ’twere all mine own ;
Here’s no dispute of mine and thine
I ammy friendis , and He is mine.
334 MRS DOUGLAS .
SONNET— TO THE ROSE.
Sweet summer - blowing flower, are perfumepurple leaves upon the winds diffuse,n bathed in showers , or moist with twilight dews ;
How dee thy7 blushes and how rich thy bloom;
Within t se ies , as in some sacred tomb,
A sou l of ho ly modesty that woosThe lover
’s 'dear regard
,the poet
’s muse
Thou best and brightest growth of Flora’s womb !
Pure emblem of a maiden in the rideOf morning beauty and unsulli name ;
Whose priceless dower it is , whate’er betide,That she chaste Dian ’
s favouring smile can claim;For Beauty when unfenced by Virtue’s powerIs but a scentless rose—a poor, unhonoured ower.
>l< >i<
MRS DOUGLAS, NEE SARAH PARKER.
Sarah Parker was a native of Newry , Ireland, and was wel lknown in Ayrshire and the West of Scotland by her pen name,The Irish Girl . ” She left her native district at an early age
and settled with her parents in Ayr, where hermusings attractedthe notice of the literati , and they assisted her to publish a
volume of her poems, which soon after it appeared gained hermuch fame. As she grew up to womanhood her habits becamesomewhat unsettled, but eventual ly she was married to a
country school teacher named Douglas, whom she survived .
After the death of her husband she resided with her sister in a
mean abode in G lasgow , and there she died amid gloom and
depression, almost broken - hearted and bowed down with povertyand all its attendant evils . In view
'
of her chequered careerand sad ending a pathetic interest attaches to her poementitled
THE STREAM OF'
LIFE.
Life’s infant stream, how calmand fairAnd beautiful it lies ,
Its silvery surf reflectin clearYoung mornin ’
s clou ess skiesHow smooth our ittle bark gl ides onUpon the sunny stream
How everything we gaze u on
Looks bright as poet’s ream!
Unrufled by one breezeb f careThe waters onward glide,
Unbittered b one woe- fraught tearFlows on t e lucid tide :
ROBERT ADAMSON . 385
Or if a tear should chance to fallIn childish sorrowing ,
’Tis lighter than the dewyShook from the skylark
0 Q Q
The stream is deeper , wider now,
And fitful ales arise ;Deep whirlpoo s grumble far below,
And darker seem the skies .
We’re launched on manhood’
s wat ’ry was teWe drink of manhood’
s cup’Tis gall and acid to the tasteAh ! where ’
s the honied drop ?
like a phantom, but al luresway from wave to wave
W ith joys that never can be oursThis side the darksome grave.
As little wanton schoolboys tryTheir shadows to outrun ,
So we pursue the fleeting joy.
And end as we began .
>l<
ROBERT ADAMSON .
Robert Adamson, who has been described as a poet of
homely but true talent, was born near Dunfermline, and beingput early to field work received a very scant school education.
In Muirkirk , where he has spent the greater part of his life as
engine- keeper at the Ironworks , he is much respected and is
looked on as a splendid type of the honest, hardy , and independent sons of toi l indigenous to Scottish soil . His verse issmooth and flowing , and themoral tone is high and healthy .
Not an altogether unworthy specimen of the class of poetryexcel led in by Bal lantine, Crawford, Mil ler, and Anderson, isMr Adamson ’
s nursery song , entitled
WEE DAVIE.
Wee Davie,wi’ his rosy cheeks ,
Sparklin een and curl pow,
Hose and knickerbocker reeks ,Is a dainty man , I trow.
Sportive as the little lammie,Friskin’ fu
’o’ Nature’s fun ;
Dancin’ fondly round its mammy’M.id the smilin’
simmer sun.
336 JOHN HYSLOP .
No’ a care nor grief to wrinkleHis wee silken , sunny broo
Nor to dim the starry twinkle0
’his een , sae bonnie blue.
Yet a moment never idle,Rompin
’
,trampm
’
,up and doun ;
Heedless o’ baith bit and bridle
Little, lanchin’
, lordie loon.
There he’s on thepoker ridin’
Races but an’ban the hoose ;
Noc oiuto a corner bidin ’
,
M im as ony little moose.
Keepin’ his wee sisy seckin’
Lang an’ weary
,high an
’ low,
Til l the little rogie, keekin’
Round the corner, cries Keek - bo l
What a tirrivee o’ lanchin’
,
Strivin’the last tig
”to gie !
Dinna flyte ! their dinsome daflin’
Sweetest music is to me.
>i< >l<
JOHN HYSLOP.
Many people wil l remember John Hyslop, the postmanpoet, whose figure was for a number of years a fami liar one on
the streets of Ki lmarnock . Mr Hyl p was born in Dumfriesshire, but early in life removed with his parents to Kilmarnock ,Where, previous to entering the Post Office service, he learnedthe trade of an engineer . His poetry is eflusive, sou lful , and
earnest.
THE WAUNERT WEAN .
O halp himup kindly and him hame,The addie lies soun’
in a
ForDeath’s baney fingersAn’
sealed themup firm in a cauld icyWee
o
Wullie gaed oot as sweet mornin ’In epr
As 1118 fondmither thought,j ust to sport and
But a dark cloud fell down on her sad,When he didna come hame at the close
An’ for twa lang days and three cauld weary nichtsThey sought far and near for the puir waunert weanBut to feed the dee
dp oom— the sad ho deferred
For nae word ooul t ey get 0’the roag
e
he had gane
338 JANE LECK .
GOOD- NIGHT.
Good- night, my love, good- night,One kiss of lips so sweet,
One clas of soft white hands so small ,And t en the whisper meet ,
From lips with smiles enwreathed bright,In tones of love, good- night , good- night.
Good- night, In love, good- ui ht ,Cease
, pratt er, from thy p ay lThfibr ief, briglht day of busy thoughtath Swi ftl
ypassed away .
Now fold thy ands and close thine eye,And rest sweet one, the night is nigh.
Good- night, my love, good- night,
But first t'hine even in pra er,
The common care of chil ish eartsTo the same Father ’s care
Then let thy lips at length be dumb ;Sleep, darling , sleep , the night has come.
Good- night, my love,good- night,
Good angels guard tfybed
,
With golden dreams 0 fairer worlds ,Like sunshine o
’er thee shed :
And be thy waking as the lightWhen morning dawns , good- night, good- night.
Good- u i ht, my love, good- night,
A fon good- night to thee.
is breakin clear and briWhen shall thy wa in be ?
Are those dear lips still ushed and dumb,Or dreamwe that the night is come?
Good- night, my love, good- night,A l-on good- ni
ght to thee .
Th wa in shal be fairer farhan we ad dreamt to see :
.
But oh ! our joy— our s irit’a li litWent out with thee. d- nig t !
>l< >l<
JANE LECK
The family to which this poetess belongs is wel l - known inAyrshire, and has for many years been settled at Holybush.
Miss Leck spent her childhood and girlhood years in G lasgow ,
where she received a good school education, to which was addeda finishing touch in Germany . Her lyre is tuned to manymoods, and alternates between the grave and the gay in a
MRS MARGARET WILSON . 339°
manner that gives evidence of considerab le mastery over the
Much sympathetic insight is revealed in the verses entitledA Word for Children.
”
0 Mother, when a rosy faceTear - stained looks u in yours,
Be swift to kiss away t e griefThe baby heart endures .
It may be but a broken toy,A childish wish denied,
That makes the little bosombeAnd brings him to your aide.
What you re ard as trifling thingsAre real gri
gefs to him.
A few drops in a tin cupW ill fill it to the rim.
Whate’
er it be, he looks to you
As strongest wisest, best ;Where should he seek for comfort ingBut on his mother ’s breas t ?
You may be busy lay as ideThe needle book, or
Fen ;
For childish trust repel ed,may die,
Nor spring to life again.
Then keep intact the child’s first faith ,
That so the boy, the youth ,May never doubt , whate
’
er betide,A mother ’s love and truth .
That , looking back the man'
may feelGod
’
s meaning when He earth ,
And I will comfort you as one
His mother comforteth .
”
>l<
MRS MARGARET WILSON .
Mrs Margaret Wilson, who was born in Govan, has a verymoderate Opinion of her own efiusions, which she cal ls“Echoes . Indeed, she lays no claim to the title of poetess,
especial ly in Ayrshire, where, according to her expressedopinion,
“the only poet of note is Robert Burns . It wou ld be
a pity , nevertheless , were all the warblers of the grove to sit
mute because they cannot approach the perfection of the nightingale or the skylark .
340 JOHN Ps rricnsw.
Mrs Wilson was turned quite forty years of age ere she
committed any of her lyrical pieces to paper, although fromearliest childhood she was accustomed to compose words to anysweet melody that caught her musical fancy . For upwards of
ten years she has resided in Dundonald, and although “the
gloamin’0
’ l ife is casting its shadow o’
er her she has that
light within her which ever makes for peace and happiness.
COME IN , BONNIE ROBIN .
Come in , bonnie Robin , come in,An’
shelter a wee frae the snaw,
The bairns are no hame frae the schule,An
’there’s naebody in but us twa.
We heard ye
238 chirping outside,
An’ kent ye h nae meat ava,
For midges an
’ worms they are deadOr burie deep doon in the snaw
Come in, bonnie Robin , come in,
Just hep a wee nearer the bed,In sicht o’
a wee wae aun faceThat ’s watching to see obin fed.
He has broken a hale biscuit doon,
An’says that it will be a feast,
An’a’that he wants in return
18 a sicht o’
yer bonnie red breast .
Come in , bonnie Robin , come in ,
Ye ken oor weeman’s gaun awa
’
He wonders if Robins will come
Nipwhere there is ne’
er an snaw .
y bairn,if they ’ re need for thee,
Your happiness there to complete,Their bonnie red breasts you will see,And oh ! but their sang will be sweet .
Come back , bonnie Robin, the morn ,
An’cheer u
gthis wee wae—gaun he’rt ;
We’ ll keep im t ill then if we can ,
For oh ! we are loth,loth to part
Come back though the '
snaw gangs awa’
,
For desolate then I wil l be ;The angels will then hae mv bairn,
He winna be watching for thee
>l<
JOHN PETTIGREW
John Pettigrew, who was known in Ayrshire as the rovinggardener, adds another to the long list of Scotland’
s minor
342 REV. MALCOLM MACLELLAN .
appointment Of' head clerk to the Bank Coal Company there.
In the c lassic district Of G len Avon, sung into fame by thegenius of Robert Burns, Mr Bower became inspired to melodious outpourings, and his effusions fi l l three volumes, whichgivc
l
a
1
evidence Of considerable poetic power on the part of theiraut or.
OUT OF THE SILENCE.
Out of the Silence ! ” The night .has fled ;The sun has risen— the east is gay ;
And fair , like a maiden garmentedFon loving es ousal, comes the day ;
Song i s before er, and sound behindR ip le of river, and swel l of sea ;
Son 3 rs, adoring , pour on the wind0 orus of infinite melody .
Out of the.
Silence 1’ The hours are fleet.
And time i s a torrent none can stay ;Manhood and youth with feverish heartLaugh for a l ittle and pass away .
So for a summer I seek to soar,
S ing through the seasons the roses r eignAh l I will listen to doubt no ;more,
One must adventure if one must gain.
Out of the Silence l”
For weal or woe,Robed in the raiment of modest trust ;
Nobler tos trive with - a stronger foeThan rest in a slothful ease and rust.
So for the day ; and I kneel and prayThe fates would favour my early flight,
Sweeten the wa ‘
for a first essay,Out of the s i ence to sound and light .
>l< >l<
MalcolmMacLellan was born in G reenock , but when onlya few months Old was transferred to the banks of the Garnock
Water, where he spent his boyhood years, and was educated inG lengamock Public School . He is now minister of St. Peter ’sChurch , Glasgow, to which charge he was ordained in 1886.
Although long ago inured to the bustle and strain Of a busy‘
citylife, his remembrance of boyhood days has not faded, and
.as Thomas MacQueen, of Barkip, in his exiled musingssmourned the irrevocable scenes of youth , so. the Rev. MalcolmMacLellan sti l l remembers how
REV . MALCOLM MACLELLAN . 343
The sacred ties of life’s young dayWere lon since forced to sever ,
And the ho y sounds of love’s sweet lay,
Youth’s melody and mirth so gay,Are silent now for ever .”
Mr MacLellan has Often been urged by members of his
congregation to issue a selection of his poems, and hopes someday to meet their wishes . He has contributed at regu larintervals to the pages Of the
“Scottish Church ,
” “Ayrshire
Weekly News,” Weekly Herald,
”
and other journals . He is
the author of a smal l volume of sermons, entitled The Permanence Of Christianity ,
” which was most favourably criticised bythe late Dr Matheson, of Innel lan, and other distinguishedministers of the Church Of Scotland.
Mr MacLellan’s sermons are no less practical than
thoughtfu l , and his language in frequent passages gives evidenceof his innate leaning towards poetic expression . He is amasterOf pathos, as anyone who has read his truly beautiful l ines,My Mary Sleeps,
” wil l be constrained to acknowledge.
THE CHANGES OF TIME.
Decay will mark all th in that growIn forest , en , or ganggu plot ;
And fairest owers ’neath W inter ’s snow
Lie dead like dreams remembered not.
The castellated towers of ore,
Whose ve ruins are su lime,
Are crumble now from roof to floorBeneath the silent tread of time.
The stately dames and lordly knightsAnd ladyes fair of high degree,
Whose loves and hates , whose scams and sl ights ,Are sung in Scott ish minst relsy .
Ah me ! they too are passed away,As if in life they ne
’er had been ;
O’er walls that rung with laughter gayThe grass is growmg lank and green.
’Tis still the same. We enter lifeAnd pla our litt le arts , and then
We leave hind the in and st rifeAnd all the busy haunts of men.
Sa&is there aught that , free fromchange,ll last throughout eternity ,
Within the widest , furthest rangeOf our sad, frail humanity ?
344 Rsv. MALCOLM MACLELLAN .
There comes within my doubting heartAn an el- whis er from above,
Which te ls me at when worlds departOne thing remains— Immortal Love.
We know not what the years will findTo show us in life’
s h idden stream;We only know that God was kindTo bless the world with such a dream.
SHE SLEEPS— A DIRGE.
The snow enrobes the groundDeep
stillness reigns aroundMy ove sweet rest has found,
She s leeps—my Mary sleeps.
The mourners come and go,With footsteps soft and lowHer robes are like the snow ,
She s leeps—my Mary sleeps.
Methinks my heart will breakShe never more will wake :She feels not pain nor ache
She s leeps—my Mary sleeps.
Her lips are cold and whiteHer eyes have lost their li htIn death’s dark lonely nig t
She s leeps - my Mary sleeps.
They hide my love fromme,Her face I cannot see :
Oh l sad, strange mystery !She s leeps—my Mary sleeps.
My tears in silen fallI see the Old churc wallThe rave the funeral pall ;
he sleeps—my Mary sleeps.
Theylay her
’neath the clay ;
S e will not wake, they say,Until the last great Day,
She sleeps—my Mary
THE BANKS O ’
GARNOCK .
There are burnies far bigger and broader , I ween,Wi’ banks buskit braw in their g
larments 0
’ green,But dearer and fairer than a
’se seen
Are the sweet, bonnie banks 0’the Garnock.
JAMES MORGAN .
THE .CRIPPLE BO‘
Y TO HIS .PET‘CANARY.
Oh l dickie bird you sing so sweetYour song of sun and sky
Though but tiny gleams an glimpses greetYour cunnin litt le eye.
My pretty bir I’m caged too,
B ut I cannot— cannot sing like you .
For I lon to be like other boysStrong
'
mbed and joyous and free,But thei r merry games and boisterous joysAre all denied to me
And often with tears my eyes row dimWhen I think how useless my ife doth seem.
Oh dickie bird, come tell me true,Iflyou were me what would you do,
Won (1you then sing merrily ?For I s igh and fret, and fret and feaWhen I th ink how long I may suffer
Or dickie, sa would you happier beIf I 0 en the window pane,
And ba e you fly o’er field and tree
To face the W lnd and rain ?No, you’d ine and die for the kinder climeOf your sa e, warm cage at this winter time.
So God mayhap hath caged me here
That life 8 storms may past me roll ,That the chills and frosts of the outer sphereMay not destroy my soul
And that I may be free in the fairer climeOf Heaven above in His own good time.
MERRY GANGS THE MILL WHEN THE LADERINS FU ’
.
Whate’er ye be cot in the war] wi
’a’its toil and strife
Age cairr
y7 hame a cheery he’rt to bless the weans and wi fe
O there 8 nae room for sulky gloom whaur he’rts are warm andtrue
For it’s lnerry gangs the mill when the lade rins fu
’.
Whan your bit wife’s oppressed wi’ work , oh dinna sit an
’ glower ,She never wi’ twa willin’ han’
s can dae the wark o’fewer ;
Then help your wife to thole the strife, ’twill mak’ her dearer lo’e,
An’ its merry gangs the mill when the lade rins fu’.
dinna curb the bairns owre much , let them their freedomhae,noo
’s their time !for happiness— the future brings them wae ;
Say let themstray, by burn an’ brae, ’mang sunshine that they lo’
e,
For it’s merry gangs the mill when the lade rins fu’
.
REV. ROBERT M . ADAMSON . 347
Eu’ mony a he’rt in life’s sair strife wad ne
’er be hauf sae sad,
If but ae kindl frien’wad speak a word to mak
’itglad
Wad lauch to ey its cares awa’
- Oh, let that frien’
you ,
For it’s merry gangs the mil l when the lade rins fu’
.
Then up an’speak the cheerin
’ word,an
’sing an ’ lauch wi’ me ;
R ise up an’dicht awa
’the bitter tear frae sorrow
’s e
’e ;
Oh, dinna wrang my wee bit san by wearin ’ gloom’
s bent broo ,
For it’s merry gangs the mill w en the lade rins fu ’
T-HEN AND NOW .
’Twas in a sun lit garden— roses blossomed round our feet,But the roses on your pretty cheek were more entrancing sweet ;The blackbirds in the orchard trilled their anthems glad and free,But themus ic of your gentle voice was sweeter far to me .
Then your step was light and gracefu l , and your brow was smoothand fair ,
Andhthe sunbeams flashed a radiance from your crown of goldenarr ;
Then earth didseema golden dreamof Paradise to meAs we stood W ithin the garden and I to ld my love to t ee .
Then the spirit of love’s summer wrou
ght a spell within our bosoms ,
A 11whose mystic glory made our arts together glow,
Bat ed us in sunlit ecstasy just like the starry blossomsThat glowed with bright , gay colours in that summer long ago.
To -daywith failing steps we walk the garden as of old,
And si lver gleams among your hair once bright with yellow gold"I‘ls autumn t ime, and tarnished all is Nature’
s flow’ry crown ,
While fromthe trees the withered leaves drop s lowly , sadly down
The swallow leaves the sheltering eaves , for chilly breathes the air,
And spreads his m g to seek the ring in sunny south lands fair ;But we may not return to youth, t ringtime bright and free,When our eyes shone bright with e mystic light that
enc ated me.
REV. ROBERT M. ADAMSON .
A writer of versati le talent and a proficient scholar, Mr
Adamson, after a very successfu l col lege career, begun at theUniversities of Edinburgh and Dundee and completed at
348 DAVID B . Ross .
Leipzig and Jena, was appointed assistant pastor of a FreeChurch at Aberdeen,
and subsequently received a cal l to the
Free Church , Ardrossan . His literary work comprises contributions to
“The People
’
s Friend,” “ Cassel l ’s Magazine,
”
and
several Reviews,”
and his dramatic poems have been recitedwith success by several professional elocutionists.
LINES TO BEETHOVEN .
O mighty master of a glorious art
Where’er thy soul divine may chance to dwel l,Take thou this tribute Of a grac eful heart
,
My heart that loves thee more than words can tell .Ah ! how much richer are ou r souls since thouHast made us hear the heavenly harmony
Of those eterna l melodies , which nowAnd ever roll through God’
s infinity !Majestic manhood ,
wondrous genius come,
And smite our spirits into livmg fire,Our being flags , and our poor lips are dumb
,Send our hearts singing ,
tune life’s fainting lyre,
Oh, godlike soul,deep stricken
, yet so strong,Monarch of sound and king of deathless song l
>l<
DAVID B. ROBB.
David B . Robb , whose thirty - year connection with Ayrshireceased in 1902
, when he left Scotland for America, was bornat Burslem,
in Stafiordshire, whither his parents had removedfrom Ayrshire a short time previous to his advent. By thisunfortunate treck of his parents
“over the borders our poet
was deprived of the honour Of being a Scotsman born .
” His
parents did not settle long in England, and on his return to
the“Land Of Burns David was sent to school at Muirkirk,
and afterwards at Dreghom, Newmi lns , and Galston in succession. His school - days over, he found employment in the
col lieries , and being thrown idle by the prolonged strike Of 1894 ,he travel led on foot to Dumfries, Carlisle, and Newcastle, hisfirst poetical composition being the resu lt Of a visit paid to
Bums’
s Mausoleum while on his way thither . Returning to
Ayrshire, he was appointed agent and col lector to the M iners ’
Union, a post which he creditably fi l led up to the time of his
leaving for America. Since settling in the United States hehas on several occasions been deputed to represent the minersat special conventions held to formulate regu lations and
important bye- laws affecting miners and organised labour.
350 TOM SM ITH.
Ten million hearts beat fast and firm for universal love,
And thrice ten mi llion nurse the germ inhaled with every move ;And pr ress now goes marchin on to free the human race
,
While caven ’s approving smi c has shown that man may reach
his place.
>i<
TOM SMITH.
Tom Smith , although born in Govan, has long been a
resident of the upper val ley of Irvine. He is a sympatheticstudent of Nature, and, like Ruskin, wou ld rather have a wood
walk than a city street, rather see a seagu l l fly than shoot it,and hear a thrush sing than eat it.
” Byron, Shel ley, Burns,and Keats are his favourite poets, in emu lating whom he has
col lected poetical manuscripts sufficient to make a fair volumeof occasional pieces, epistles, and satires . Whi le his harp is
mu lti - strung, satire is perhaps its strongest cord, but his
effusiveness is such that all moods and measures seem alikeeasy to him, possessing as he does the gift of rhyme and
rhythm in an astonishing degree.
Mr Smith believes that there is ample cause for much Of
the derision thrown at amateur poets, but, on the other hand,deems that a great deal of it is quite unwarrantable. Thisposition has led him to defend the minor poet from the slingsand arrows of would- be critics who find it much easier to croaklike a frog than warb le like a mavis. His sympathy with theaspiring bard finds expression in the fol lowing lines
If some should think my mu se Is
My untrained song condemn,This
,this shal l be In attitude,
And my repl to t emWhy should t e mavis sea l his throatWithin our own dear vales ,
Although he cannot match the noteOf southern nightingales
TO A FRIEND IN M INOR MOOD.
Thanks thanks,my friend, for this deserved arraignment,
But do not deemwhile there’s light in the sun
That our two spirits will admit es tran ement,
For,at the core
,our hearts are reafly one.
In life’s big battle we must strive and tuss le,
And never stop nor falter in the race °
And though our natures were not born for bustle,To drop out early would be called disgrace.
TOM SMITH. 351
Here where men fight and tumble o’er each other ,
Here where they scramble till they’re hoarse and blind0 ! it is rare ; a message from a brotherWho deems that matter is less worth than mind.
Here where theprize is given to the winner ,
Small matte r y what method he has won ;A chosen soul
,less valued than a sinner ,
And his rewards are very few,or none.
But never mind ! In secret we wil l cherishAnd keep before us what is clean and true.
Bette r to seem to fail , aye, seem to perish ,Than take rewards that never were our due .
Bette r to choose the thorny path and lonely,
Than to be ha iled with empt cheap succesBet ter despised,
misundersto od,than only
To rise on waves of vain ungrac iousness .
If then,dear brother , I have seemed neglectful,
Put It , at worst, that c ircumstance is strong ;Do not imagine I am less res tfu l
,
Do not believe it is a stu red wrong
Da of the past ! Ah es , friend, they were goldenggys when our friendship could stand anyWhen they are in life’
s memory beho ldenSma ll wonder is it that we think them blest.
And yet , to -da I am not found complaining ;Why should be? enjoying and enjoyed ;
I have my own, increasing and remaininTo keep my love unrweariedly employ
Harvests I’ve reaped that were of others ’ sowing,
K indness received that shames and Ice my own ;Even now I see the waves of yellow b owing ,R ich
,ripe, and waiting only to be mown.
And so can you ! The old friends still are loyal ;Nor have you found,
I think , in recent yearsThat only in the past were natures royal ,Not always has your cup been one of tears .
thegreat , fight bravely in the resent
,
Hope in t e future many joys to finSmile in the face of fate, make it look pleasant,Know at least one remaineth true and kind.
ESTRANGED.
All that’s I oble let us ban,
But let us c erish lovinglyThe brighter things
,as still we can.
TOM SMITH .
Surely ! in all the time that’s pastAll was not impotent and mean,
There grew some lilies 111 the vast,Wide stretch of life’
s unfru itful green .
And if in folly sometimes wePlucked flowers of porson, pain and grief,And gave to others thoughtlesslyThe nightshade and the nettle leafLet us remember what was bestAnd think on the sweet scented flowersLet us forget now all the restBut cherish stil l the golden hours .
LINES ON A LITTLE NEW -
'COMER .
Gav-in my friend,another litt le stranger
Within our home has recently had birth,
Another man to fight in face of danger ,Another heir to sorrow and to mirth .
Welcome and Hail !” we say to this wee laddie,
Ma he be fragrant as a day in spring,May he excel by far his wayward daddyAnd have greater cause than even he to sing.
Maglife for him be fu ll and well appointed,ay nothing mar his vision or his View
And if he finds this scheme of things ” disjointed,Still to what ’s best let him remain aye true .
Greath wealth I crave not shall become his portion ;Talents enough to fit him for his part ,
Great in those things that never cause distortion ;Proud
, proud possessor of a true and quiet heart.
U dizzy heights I would not have him scaling,or in the sight of men his lot be cast
What are these Often anyway but nailingFast fading colours to a falling mast.
“
Yet would I have him never shirk his duty,
But meet it gladly as it comes along,
Deeming that courage is the truest beautyAnd answering mis fortune with a song .
A trusted friend o r.
two to stand beside him,
Whom he has gamed by golden actions doneThese are the things that I would have to '
de him,
These are the best of life, my tender litt e son.
>l<
354 ROBERT THOMSON TERRAS .
Christmas bells proc laim the story over continent snd islandHow the mighty K ing of Heaven laid as ide Hiskingly crown
To become an infant lowl —He,the great, the 111 the ho ly
And in meekness bow is spirit to a harsh wor ’s bitter frown
Christmas bells peal forth their music from the northland to thesouthJand,
Whilst the ple blend their voices in a mighty hymn of praise ;And the ange faces glisten as they to the echo listenOf the song they sang to shepherds kneeling wrapt in deep amaze.
AFTER MANY YEARS .
Does she regret the early sacrificeFrom which a dull , grey, weary l ife hath grown ?
Ah no ! for she hath pierced the depths which elseIiIer tender loving soul could ne
’er have
Does she regret her youth ’s reat sac rifice
Its van-iehed joys ; the fair uxurious home,
The life of romise as a summer dayUnmar by c loud athwart the azure dome
Does she regret—sad heart— the sacrificeSometimes when life is dark , and friends are few,
And memor spans the intervening yearsTo one w cut of all the world was true ?
If then, perchance, regret doth mar the calm,
There comes the vision of .a dear dead face,
For whom the sacrifice was made complete ;And in her soul regret can find no place.
Can she regret the morning sacrificeThat now,
at eventide brings light divine,
And day by day as life draws near its c loseMakes shafts of glory round each footstep shineP
Dare she regret that tear - dimmed sacrifice ?Not so ! for self is lost . A wider love
Amighty love for God ’s great human host
Has swept 'her soul like music from above.
Can she regret the lifelong sacrificeThat God has willed to be n,
When o’er her brow the shadows gent all
,
And she, in bliss , shall lay the grey down ?
>l< >i<
ROBERT THOMSON TERRAS.
Robert Thomson Terras toils amid the grime and Babelnorses
.
of an engine- shop nevertheless, when the Muse deignsto Visit him amid such uncongenial surroundings he listens to
ROBERT THOMSON TERRAS . 355
her Witching persuasiveness and dons the mantle of the bard.
Mr Terras was born near Airdrie, but his parents belonged to
Kilmarnock , and removed thither when Robert was little morethan a year old. After receiving a fairly good education,partly in Ki lmarnock and partly in Springburn , he entered theoffice of Hydepark Locomotive Works as a c lerk, but a few
years later began a termof apprenticeship as engine- fitter, whichhe finished in the Rai lway Company
’
s shops at Kilmarnock .
From this service he entered the employment of the Glenfield
Company , Kilmarnock , afterwards removing to Ayr, and engaging as a mechanic in the railway engine sheds. Mr Terras is a
member of Newton - upon - Ayr Burns C lub , and has signalizedhimself in connection therewith by composing Bumsiana verse.
BURNS, THE TOILERS’
FRIEN’
.
When Spring comes in and birdies sing ,And sweet wee flowerets blaw,
Then I delicht to view ilk sichtAt Nature ’
s welcome ca’
;But when the sun tak ’s doon the west ,And darkness veils the scene
,
I b&the cheer ingle resti’ Burns , e toilers ’ frien’
.
In simmer , where the roses bendIn blushes o
’er the stream
,
Whe re lovers stray at close 0’
dayTo dream Love’
s owden dream.
Wi’ honest Nature converse’Mid fairy - haunted scenes
,
And find that Burns in Nature’s ve
Mak ’s man and Nature frien’
s.
When mist - eyed rich Autumn peepsO
’
er fie of gowden grain ,
Miljoyous heart the bounty reaps,
Tby)Boicfw
ills to the strain
i‘e Rar e l”or sweet
“a ig
At e’
eznin’yI rgearser
I carena for the warld 3. figWhen blest wi’ Rabbie’
s verse
When wintry showers sweep o’er the plain,
And howls the bitte r blastInlzpensi
ve mood I oft compfainor those by Fate outcast .
To cheer the heart then wife and weansDraw roun ’
and sing.
by turns ,And soon the heart its 10 regams ,
Made licht wi’ Rabbie I3urus .
356 FRANK A . KELLY .
FRANK A. KELLY
Frank A . Kel ly has appeared frequently in the local andprovincial press as a poet, the daily routine. of a pawnbroker
’
s
office being found powerless to scare away the sweet spirit of
Poesy from his mind. Mr Kel ly is a native Of G lasgow , but
has been in residence for some years in K ilmarnock , beingemployed as an assistant pawnbroker . Of Auld Kil lie, saysour poet,
“I am as proud as a
‘shire man born ,
’
and the
beauties Of Queenly Ayrshire I count it a privi lege to moveamong .
” When in G lasgow Mr Kel ly was a member of Cowcaddens Ward Committee, and held for a time the Vice- Chairmanship of G lasgow Assistant Pawnbrokers ’ Association. He is
described as a good speaker and a keen debater , and his ser
vices have frequently been in demand as a secretary for variousorganizations. Without the use Of notes Mr Kel ly , when onlysixteen years of age, addressed a political meeting for upwardsOf an hour , proving himself to be the happy possessor of whatScotsmen cal l a guid gift 0 ’
the gab.
” He has been composingpoetry since the days Of his boyhood, poems and short sketchesfromhis pen appearing at intervals under the nomde plume ofKelvin C lyde, and as frequently under his own name.
LITTLE BABY BLUE EYES.
Little '
baby blue eyes , 'with the roguis‘h smile,Dancing in your mother ’s arms
,cooin al l the while
,
You have been our tyrant,and reig fins second year ,
Stil l we love your government,merry little dear .
Little baby blue eyes , soft and rounded arm,
Velvet dimpled cheeks— ah ! there’s no other charm
L1ke our c linging, cuddling, sweetest - infant girl ;0 h l we wouldn ’
t give you ,not for wealth of pearl.
Little baby blue eyes,angel art and grace
Show the trace of Heaven shining in your face ;Damty little maiden ,
full of every wile ;Oh !
’tis sweet to watch you , playing all the while.
Litt le baby blue eyes , running all aboutNow you ’re into mischief there’
s a romp and shout ;A'h l you
’ve
o
lost your .dolly, search beneath the chair ;Why, you l1ttle prattler, “where
’s the dolly’s hair
Little baby blue eyes,when ou ’re in your
Fai ry whispers stir you , smiles are coming hot ;Mother takes an anxious look even as she sings
,
For God’s angels sometimes take babies on their wings.
