ratte 
 
 splat mincabanae 
 
 al nents 
 
 c 
 
 nr 
 
 Pre 
 
 atk 
 
 the 
 
 Nidasetide na 
 
 ang 
 
 Se abt 
 
 er 
 
 2 
 
 csalP tenia 
 
 eg et 
 
 ee 
 
 ae 
 
 Seka ei retin aoe GES 
 
 = 
 
 | 
 1 
 
 x 
 
 “ss 
 
 oe 
 
 He 
 pe 
 
 Bie 
 by 
 oe we 
 
 SN 
 
 SOAS 
 
 AN 
 
 SATE * 
 Caechnen SN 
 
 EAA 
 
 SSAA 
 
 ‘ 
 
 <3, 
 .< 
 aS 
 
 ‘ Sea Y 
 SSNS 
 
 . 
 wen 
 
 SER 
 SRO 
 SRE SR 
 ba 
 
 ‘ 
 BAERS 
 \ ~ 
 
 OA 
 orks 
 
 eats FS a8 
 SANS 
 MRA 
 nya . 
 SS Se ‘ SS 
 ay VN 
 SAAR RS 
 NAA RN 
 TARAS RS 
 *y mar 
 
 WAS 
 
 Ss Se 
 ASRS 
 Ly 
 
 
 
 SERS 
 
 oo 
 

 

 

 
ees 
 
 * ike ev a 
 
 
 

 
 Wy iced 
 
 Nf 
 
 AS A 
 
 Photographed by J. ¥. Hunter, Hawick. 
 
 
 
 
 
POEMS AND SONGS 
 ROBERT FAIRLEY, 
 a AVVO OS 
 
 aes a9 ap 
 
 “ Hail, heaven-born song, I love to strike thy lyre, 
 And taste those pleasures which the poet knows; 
 That cheer his very heart and soothe his woes, 
 And light his dull and vacant eye with fire; 
 
 Thy music can the coldest heart inspire. 
 
 To thy voice blended with sweet music’s tone 
 
 I oft have listened, while some fair one 
 
 Sang and played, which o’er my senses stealing, 
 Have made me tremble with intense delight ; 
 
 And fancy angels share a kindred feeling, 
 
 As they chant their anthems in yon land of light.” 
 
 —— a fo 
 
 HAWICK: 
 PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR, BY R. Deans & Co, 
 1881. 
 

 
PREFACE. 
 —==> <——— 
 
 IN presenting this little volume of Poems and Songs to the 
 public, the Author is perfectly conscious that they possess 
 little intrinsic merit, and that errors will be found; but flatters 
 himself with the hope that a generous public will make every 
 allowance for their imperfections. 
 
 They were written to beguile the monotony of leisure hour 
 evenings, and though a good many of them may have ap- 
 peared from time to time in the local journals, the Author, 
 though often urged by many kind friends to bring them out 
 in book form, never until recently, could make up his mind to 
 do so. . 
 
 To those numerous friends who gave him their names so 
 cheerfully as subscribers, and without whose hearty co- 
 operation this little volume could not have appeared, he 
 tenders his most sincere and grateful thanks; and if the 
 perusal of any one of the productions of his muse should add 
 anything to their gratification and delight, it will indeed be 
 ample reward and a sweet satisfaction to the humble Bard, 
 
 R. F. 
 
 Dovemount Priacsr, Hawick, 
 25th March 1881. 
 

 
CONTENTS. 
 
 —oi Soe — 
 
 ; ; POEMS. 
 
 ~The Auld Plum Tree, ae eae ah 
 Stanzas on Burns, 
 Musings, 
 Ode to Spring, 
 Blythe Summer Smiles, 
 Lines on Jedburgh, 
 The Last Link is broken, 
 St. Ronan’s Grand Procession, ... 
 On the Isle of Bute, 
 Stanzas on the death of Thomas Moore, 
 Verses in the manner of Moore, 
 A Romantic Wish, _.. eae Mee 
 On the sudden death of D. C., a aoe 
 Acrostic, oe 
 * Stanzas on the Tay Bridge Calamity, 
 Thoughts, ... ae 
 Thoughts on visiting Parkhall, 
 The Wandering Minstrel, 
 The Village, 
 Love Stanzas, 
 Lines addressed to Miss Anne —— , Edinburgh, 
 Lines on the death of Captain Scott Pann Wes 
 On the death of a Friend, 
 Lines on the death of the late Sir Robert Peel, 
 The Farewell, es russ 
 Lines to Mr. Scott, Selkirk, oe RA co 
 To the memory of Allan Ramsay, ... ie 
 A Wabster’s Address to Hawick Folk, 
 
 Homely Stanzas, Sed vac 
 The Country Fair, _... des dec ee 
 The Wee Bairnie’s Grave, ... nee 
 
 On the Borders, a gp 
 
 Stanzas written at Innerleithen, er 
 Random Thoughts, _... eee 
 
 The Petition of the Auld Kirk of Innerleithen, 
 Satiric Verses, 
 Auld Marion’s Lament for her Cow, 
 
 On a Country Mill, 
 Lonely Musings, ... zee bee 
 Glinger Burn, is ae 
 Verses on Roslin, 
 
 eaiotVannshill ek ae 
 A Short Epistle to the Author, Pe 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 A Night in Auld Reekie, 
 he Rejected Lover, 
 
 ‘The Wee Herd Laddie, has eS Han 
 
 Lucy Ormsby, ane 
 Epistle to R. ». B., "Edinburgh, wee 
 Mr. Fulton’s Epistle to the Author, 
 
 The Answer, 
 
 Stanzas on Langholm, — 
 
 The Lost Heir of Bowhan, 
 
 To W. L. Jedburgh, a 
 
 To a Friend in Galashiels, 
 
 To the Memory of J. F., 
 
 False Friendships, 
 
 Lines from Mr. May, 
 
 The Answer, 
 
 The Retaliation—A Satire, fe 
 Summer Musings among the Bards, . 
 Lines to a Friend in Selkirk, vy 
 
 To our Senators, eee 
 Thoughts in the manner of Byron, 
 
 Lines to a Brother, ns 
 
 Farewell Musings, Fe 
 SONGS. 
 Thou’rt dear to this bosom, 
 
 Fairest flower 0’ a’ that blossom, 
 
 The woods o’ Torwoodlee, 
 
 Kind hearted Mary Davidson, a 
 Farewell thou classic banks o’ Tweed, 
 
 "Tis a’? my delight to roam, Re 
 Since Tannahill and Burns are gane, 
 
 _ Maid of Arniston, 
 
 By Leithen’s bonnie flowery braes, 
 
 How dear were the hours, ‘ 
 
 Oh! come lassie, come, Gat xf 
 In an auld burgh toon, 
 
 Nae mair, lovely Clutha, : 
 
 In glorious June we love to stray, 
 
 Yon thorny tree and bush o’ broom, 
 
 I'll sing you a sang before that I gang, 
 Some folk think they’re fw’ happy, eas 
 You’re welcome hame frae Berwick Law, 
 Maggie farewell, Z; 
 As musing down the banks o” Tweed, 
 You’ve a’ heard tell o’ Jamie Jakes, 
 
 One lovely morning, oa Bee 
 Farewell to the west, sc 
 PROSE. 
 Recollections of Remarkable Women, 
 
 24 
 
‘we i \ 
 
 dorms any Songs. 
 | > 1S} 
 
 THE -AULD PLUM TREE. 
 
 In the rural and secluded village of Killearn, situated in the western 
 
 district of Stirlingshire, there stands, or stood, a venerable Plum Tree; and 
 . “In life’s gay morn,” 
 
 Like mother Eve, we were tempted to taste its forbidden fruit, but an 
 
 admonition of a very convincing kind following, we had good reason to 
 
 consider them “ Sour Plums indeed.” 
 
 The little incidents connected therewith have been so interwoven 
 with our after-walks through life, that we could not but give vent to 
 feelings in the construction of the following verses, as a random offshoot 
 of what we have felt and thought-on the subject. 
 
 Awake then ye muses, my bosom inspire, 
 
 In loves fitful fancy attuning the lyre, 
 
 To sing o’ the scenes that once joy did impart, 
 An hour o’ life’s sunshine may gladden the heart ; 
 For i've seen the lilac rich blossom display, 
 
 The hawthorn and apple in summer array, 
 
 But nane o’ them a’ yet my feelings regard, 
 
 Like the auld plum tree in my granny’s kailyard. 
 
 Far, far hae wandered o’er Scotia I ween, 
 
 And met wi’ strange faces in each varied scene, 
 
 Yet the heart still unchanged aye turns to the place, 
 
 Where memory models of beauty can trace: 
 
 The daisy, the lily, and rosebush are there, 
 
 And hoary auld plum tree stands leafless and bare, 
 - Where in life’s early morn on nature’s green sward, 
 
 I hae danced with delight in granny’s kailyard. 
 
 A 
 @- 
 
THE AULD PLUM TREE. 
 
 There youths o° the village in light hearted glee, | 
 From care’s weary turmoil unfettered and free, 
 
  Gae jinking sleely round the auld haunted thorn, 
 
 That time’s ruthless hand now o’ beauty has shorn. 
 As viewing the plum tree I think on the past, 
 
 Like sweet vernal blossom that’s gane wi’ the blast, 
 E’en granny, puir body, I was wont to regard, — 
 Lies cauld ’mong the mools in the village kirkyard. 
 
 Oh! the heart friendships then were sterling and leal, 
 For candour expressed what true candour can feel; — 
 And deep souled impressions hae pointed the way, 
 From honour and rectitude never to stray. 
 
 This world has its pleasures to dazzle the view, 
 Like the plums on the tree mair tempting than true, 
 And youth by its wiles has been often ensnared, 
 Like simple bit callant wi’ plums in the yard. 
 
 As onward through life it still follows our wake, 
 Youths erring wisdom should wild fancies forsake, 
 And the maxim breathed forth by saint and by sage, 
 A guide as we journey o’er life’s thorny stage. 
 
 Wi delight I first hailed the plums on the tree, 
 
 A heart-cherished emblem inviting to me, 
 
 Till I climbed ’mong the branches, alas, ill starred, 
 As sour as December were plums in the yard. 
 
 Oh! where are the young hearts that once loved to stray, 
 And piped, as we danced on Glengowan’s green brae, 
 
 _ Alas, they have fled to a far distant shore, 
 
 And the home of affection may never see more. 
 
THE AULD PLUM TREE. 
 
 Then thrice happy days this fond memory still 
 
 Will cling aye to the past with heart and goodwill, 
 Though youth’s early pleasures nae langer are shared, 
 I'll treasure remembrance o’ granny’s kailyard. 
 
 Away from the world in yon green mossy bower, _ 
 The aged grandsire o’er his volume did pore, 
 
 Deep in its pages, yet by the arm of faith, 
 
 He conquered man’s nature, though conquered by death, 
 Then blessed be thy valleys fair Endrick and Blane, 
 And Heaven’s graces surround dear classic Killearn ; 
 May thy sons fu’ o’ vigour and honour guard. 
 
 The home o’ their fathers and granny’s kailyard. 
 
 As the gloaming o’ life descends o’er our head, 
 Diffuse its best blessing o’er paths that we tread, 
 Then calm and untroubled our latest hours be, 
 As sun’s rays departing fall gently on me. 
 
 Adieu then, plum tree and the days 0’ my yonth, 
 Still sacred to innocence, virtue, and truth ; 
 
 For virtuous actions aye bring their reward, 
 Mair sweet than the fruit in granny’s kailyard, 
 
STANZAS ON BURNS. — 
 
 All hail thou bard of every heart, 
 
 Thy country’s boast in every clime, 
 Whose glowing page unfolds a text, 
 
 In touching pathos and sublime. 
 
 While gentle Afton’s sacred stream, 
 
 Or Lugan’s waters roll along, 
 
 Thy deathless name, and matchless fame | 
 Shall live immortal in thy song. 
 
 Burns had a mind whose lofty powers, 
 Through stirring strain proud numbers swell, 
 Whose manly spirit kindred claims 
 
 In Bruce, brave Wallace, and in Tell. 
 
 ** Does haughty Gaul invasion threat,” 
 
 He sung, and yet he did bequeath, 
 
 For country’s sake, a patriot’s love, 
 Undying in his song of death. 
 
 Burns had a heart as warm and kind 
 
 As ever beat in mortal breast, 
 
 The image bright fond fancy paints 
 
 In words, how tenderly expressed : 
 
 And, as he turns the spring-clad sod, 
 
 O'er daisy’s fate is sore dismayed, 
 
 Meet emblem of fair woman’s state, 
 
 That first from virtue’s path hath strayed. 
 
 Burns was a lyrist that could sing 
 
 His lays in soul-appealing strain ; 
 Perfection’s nymph and bonnie Jean, 
 Shall stamp his worth where muses reign, 
 
STANZAS ON BURNS. 
 
 The“wanderer} o’er the prairie’s plain, 
 
 As homeward whiles his heart returns, 
 And sighs for hame, the auld hearth-stane, 
 Where first he heard the name of Burns. 
 
 Burns, nature’s independent son, 
 
 Nor stooped to aught servile and low ; 
 He scorned ambition, pride, and power, 
 If founded on a brother’s woe. 
 
 The humbler race he longed to raise, 
 To meet a higher, true position, 
 
 And throw aside the force of pride— 
 
 Avarice, and her twin ambition. 
 
 Burns has a name shall last with time; 
 To Caledonia ever dear ; 
 
 His loving rhymes through varied climes, 
 Proclaim his worth through every year. 
 And as we meet at social board, 
 
 His memory from the chairs be given, 
 And bless the hour when he was sent, 
 
 A soul inspired, straight from Heaven. 
 
MUSINGS. 
 
 Fair gentle muse I court thine aid, 
 
 To sing my verse in humble strain, — 
 
 Of trees made bare, of flowers decayed, 
 As winter sweeps o’er hill and plain. — 
 The river seeks the mighty main, 
 
 Rolling onwards in its motion, 
 
 So we as running down time’s stream, 
 Like bark foundering on the ocean, 
 Breasts the wave ‘midst wild commotion. 
 
 Tell me not of mammon’s greatness, 
 Her worthless wealth and e’en renown; 
 Fly like time, and in their fleetness, 
 Leave phantoms dark that we disown. 
 Let grace and wisdom hence abound, 
 Fulfilling life’s propitious plan ; 
 
 Till reason rightly from her throne, 
 Proclaims true dignity to man. 
 
 Then gentle muse I court thy smile, 
 Thou guide through life’s promiscuous way, 
 Oft cheered my soul, as ‘neath thy spell, 
 Thou lent a charm to my rude lay. 
 Through thou fair virtue led the way, 
 Proving a solace and a friend: 
 
 Now from this cold December day, 
 While snowflakes on the hill descend, 
 Our once kind sympathies must end ; 
 With aching heart and pity’s tear, 
 Close this lay with the dying year. 
 
ODE TO SPRING. 
 
 Hail foretaste sweet of happy days, 
 
 Of verdant banks and flowery braes, 
 And vernal fields ; 
 
 When crystal streams and shady bowers, 
 
 And merry May’s sunshine and showers, 
 Fresh pleasure yields. 
 
 Ye tell me that the wint’ry blast 
 
 Gives place to milder gales at last; 
 
 Haste then with all thy darling train, 
 
 Give forest, mountain, moor, and plain, 
 A spring-like hue ; 
 
 Bid roses blush and violets smile, 
 
 Short-lived, alas, yet bloom awhile, 
 *Mid fragrance new. 
 
 Ye tell me that the rush of floods 
 
 Gives place to music in the woods ; 
 
 Come then ye bounding rills, resume 
 
 The gurgling notes, while sweet perfume 
 Fills earth and air: 
 
 Clear sparkling waters please the eye, 
 
 While rainbow colours paint the sky, 
 So bright and fair. 
 
 Hail, spring, thou mother of the whole, 
 
 Thy cheering voice transports my soul. 
 
BLYTHE SUMMER SMILES. 
 
 Blythe summer smiles, my heart it wiles 
 Awa’ frae this vain town, Peggie ; 
 
 And nature’s scenes are clad in green, 
 That decks the country round, Peggie; 
 The lav’rock soars wi’ lightsome wihg, 
 And linties ‘mang the bushes sing ; 
 
 Our woods and glens in concert ring, 
 And harmonies abound, Peggie. 
 
 The roses bloom in verdant shaw, 
 
 Their fragrance fills the air, Peggie, 
 
 And star-like daisies crown the braes, 
 That aince were lone and bare, Peggie ; 
 The playfu’ goat ascends the steep, _ 
 
 The light hearted shepherd tends his sheep, 
 And youthful lovers pleasures reap, 
 
 And mutual feelings share, Peggie. 
 
 Not fragrant flowers, nor leafy bowers, 
 Could yield a charm to thee, Peggie ; 
 Did thy kind heart nae love impart, 
 
 To share the bliss wi’ me, Peggie ; 
 Though thy pale cheek has lost its hue, 
 And dim those eyes once sparkling blue, 
 
 Yet balmy breeze may youth renew, 
 And health and pleasure gie, Peggie. 
 
 The careworn angler leaves his toil, 
 To breath life's scenes anew, Peggie ; 
 And down the dell, like magic spell, 
 ‘The landscape meets the view, Peggie 
 
| BLYTHE SUMMER SMILES. 
 
 Beside the rock the bonnie broom, 
 Wi gowden locks tell summer’s come, 
 And bee sips nectar frae the bloom, 
 To nature ever true, Peggie. 
 
 By whinny knowes the burnie rows, 
 And seeks the Rookin’ linn, Peggie ; 
 And songsters flee from tree to tree, 
 And hail the sylvan scene, Peggie ; 
 The little wild flower lifts its head 
 To catch the dews upon it spread ; 
 Come, fair one, to the cooling shade, 
 And leave the city’s din, Peggie. 
 
 For soon the rays 0’ summer days 
 
 Will leave our fertile plain, Peggie ; 
 
 And winter’s blast, wi sky o’ercast, 
 
 Shall visit us again, Peggie ; 
 
 Then let us spend the gladsome hours 
 ’Mang Acton’s bonnie leafy bowers, 
 
 When hawthorn hails the fleeting showers, 
 And make the joys our ain, Peggie. 
 
10 
 
 LINES SUGGESTED ON VISITING 
 JEDBURGH, 1879. 
 
 "Twas on a morn in balmy June, 
 
 When summer flowers were fair to see; 
 As wandering forth in musing mood, 
 
 I sought and found the capon tree. 
 
 Thou relic of departed days, 
 Thy hoary trunk yet time defies, 
 And leaning on thy kindred oak, 
 Thou'rt emblem of affections ties. 
 
 Ob! could I fly from city’s din, 
 
 To find a rest beneath thy shade, 
 Resign each care, life’s blessings find 
 Beside thy waters, crystal Jed. | 
 
 As onward o’er thy pebbly bed, 
 
 Thou wimpling seek’st the parent sea; 
 Then lost amidst the briny deep, 
 
 Like time lost in eternity. 
 
 Hail Ferniehirst, thy grey clad tower, 
 Where once a baron did preside, 
 Protected by thy vassals’ power, 
 
 As might was right in lordly pride. 
 
 Alas, here lie those side by side, 
 
 Many a form who fought and bled, 
 
 And sorrow sadly mourns the fate ~ 
 
 Of sons, the unforgotten dead. ’ 
 
 
 
LINES SUGGESTED ON VISITING JEDBURGH. 
 
 And now no more the little band 
 
 Will join in merry holiday, 
 
 Nor flowers bedeck the female form 
 _ In soul-inspiring month of May. 
 
 Nor youngsters lead the happy train, 
 In innocence and artless glee, 
 
 For all is mute and silence reigns 
 Beside the aged capon tree. 
 
 THE LAST LINK IS BROKEN 
 
 The last link is broken, 
 And the Spirit is fled ; 
 The last, words were spoken, 
 Ere he closed with the dead. 
 Ere he closed with the dead, 
 Here no longer to dwell; 
 
 _ And many tears were shed 
 When thus taking farewell. 
 
 This gift that he gave me, 
 I will wear for his sake, 
 Though when it adorns me, 
 My heart’s like to break. 
 My heart’s like to break, 
 As in sorrow.I tell; 
 
 Sad at the scene to take 
 
 A long parting farewell. 
 
 11 
 

 
 12 ah. aR TN ao mS 
 St. RONAN’S GRAND PROCESSION. 
 Written at the special desire of a temperance friend, August, 1860. 
 
 Come join our ranks ye tipplin core, 
 
 And neer partake o’ whisky more, 
 
 Your former freaks I pray give o’er, 
 And join our grand procession. 
 
 
 
 August the fourth, propitious day, 
 
 The bairns ascend the curly brae, 
 
 Dressed in their best, a scene sae gay, » 
 And free frae a’ temptation. 
 
 Now juveniles be firm and true, 
 
 The promised blessing keep in view, 
 
 Then happiness will fall to you, 
 And other generations. 
 
 As for me, I’ve sworn an aith 
 
 To laud the cause while I hae breath— 
 
 Maintain the pledge until my death, 
 Nor break my obligation. 
 
 At night we'll hae a grand soiree, 
 > Wi’ apple tarts, sweet cakes, and tea, 
 And temperance songs in social glee, © 
 “hi To hail the reformation. 
 Ob! what a glorious sight to see, 
 Youths from sins of drunk’ness free, 
 The young man’s best and safest plea, 
 
 On this and each occasion. 
 
 
 

 
 ® 
 
 ST. RONAN’S GRAND PROCESSION. 13 
 
 We hope to meet again next year, 
 
 And view thy beauties sweet Traquair, 
 
 And brothers’ blessings kindly share, 
 In healthy aspiration. 
 
 Then farewell friends, when I’m away, 
 
 _ Let temperance habits last for aye ; 
 
 Now bonnets off, huzza, huzza, 
 St. Ronan’s grand procession. 
 
 ON THE ISLE OF BUTE. 
 
 Oh! isle of Bute, or isle of beauty, 
 To sing thy praise a pleasant duty, 
 As wandering by thy rugged shore, 
 What scenes of grandeur we explore. 
 
 Salubrious is thy balmy air, 
 
 Was ever scene so fresh and fair, 
 For health and pleasure here preside, 
 In beauty’s island of the Clyde. 
 
 Had we a cot with pleasant view, 
 And garden neat with acres few ; 
 Companions of a genial kind, 
 
 Of social turn and wit refined : 
 
 Thus moving onward day by day, 
 Till life’s last moments pass away, 
 As some fair stream softly glide, 
 
 In beauty’s island of the Clyde. 
 
14 
 
 STANZAS SUGGESTED ON READING OF 
 THE DEATH OF THOMAS MOORS, 
 Marcu, 1852. 
 
 Thou art gone, thou art gone, poet of Erin, 
 Bereaved i is the circle thou mingled among. 
 
 No more we shall hear thy lays so heart-stirring, 
 Since Erin now hails thee first author of song. 
 
 Who has not glanced at thy smooth flowing verses, 
 And tasted the pleasures thy song does impart ;_ 
 
 The heart’s love and musie gratefully blended, 
 Speak the sad feelings of a true poet's heart. 
 
 We hail yon fair nymph with voice soft, attractive, 
 
 _ Pour forth the soft music thy song does convey, 
 An exile mourning for freedom and Erin. 
 And breathes still a soft wish, though far, far away. 
 
 Courted by great men, applauded by many ; 
 
 Proud toast of the circle, thy friends were not few ; 
 Thy spirit wandered to Erin’s green island ; 
 Though master of sonnets, a patriot too. 
 
 Thy happiest looks when youth’s smiles were beaming, 
 Oft chased, through its sunshine, cold sorrow away ; 
 Thy deep soul seemed fraught with gentle hope teeming, 
 And wit, once reflected, shone lively and gay. 
 
 Bessie, thy life's love, with kind arms extended, 
 
 Oft welcomed the bard from his own native shore ; 
 In depth of that nature, love and trust blended, 
 
 But the pride of her young heart knows her no more. 
 
STANZAS. es Ee 
 
 Albion graced thee with marks: of distinction 
 
 That patriot, lyrist, and artist has won; 
 
 Thy name shall descend to each generation, . 
 
 Since muses proclaim thee, Tom Moore, for her son. 
 
 Thou art gone, thou art gone, poet of Erin, 
 
 No more then to warble thy soul-stirring song : 
 No more the bright guest of beauty and fashion, 
 For silent’s the circle thou mingled among. 
 
 VERSES IN THE MANNER OF MOORE. 
 
 Now Acton’s Woods are ringing, love, 
 Since feathered tribes are singing, love, 
 And lovely May returns to-day, 
 Relews its charms so winning, love. 
 
 To warblers’ notes we'll listen, love, 
 May Heaven add its blessing, love, 
 Through its song birchén trees among, 
 If joy on earth its this one, love. 
 
 Through sylvan scenes thus steering, love, 
 Thy manner, how endearing, love, 
 Beguile the hours ’mong leafy bowers, 
 With radiant joys so cheering, love. 
 
 “ Thine eye of black still pleasing, love, 
 Beaming with wit and reason, love, 
 ‘That when a smile thy features beguile, 
 There’s humour to ply in season, love. 
 
164. 
 
 “i. A ROMANTIC i 
 
 Give me a sweet and rural spot, — 
 
 And on it build a little cot, 
 
 Near to a deep and woody glen, 
 
 Far from the noisy haunts of men; 
 
 Near to a clear and wimplin’ burn, 
 
 That in its course a mill may turn, 
 
 Whose banks 0’ nature’s verdure green 
 Adorns the lovely rural scene, 
 
 No higher wish than linger here, 
 
 By blushing rose and scented brier ; 
 
 Or woodbine bowery sheltered shade, 
 
 A fairy nook for lovers made : 
 
 Enraptured spend the summer hours, 
 When hawthorn blossoms scent the showers ; 
 With leal, light heart the gladsome day, 
 Sing o’er my rude and humble lay: 
 A soothing woman’s tender care, 
 My griefs assuage, my joys to share. 
 If ought on earth can lend a bliss, 
 A paradise below is this. 
 
 Amidst thy scenes sweet rural life, 
 Removed afar from city’s strife, 
 
 The grateful heart alone can know, ~ 
 True pleasures rural life bestow. 
 
 
 
17 
 
 LINES ON THE SUDDEN DEATH OF 
 
 D. C., GALASHIELS. 
 
 Written at the special desire of a few Friends, March, 1872. 
 
 Oh! March, thy cold and surly blast 
 Blows keen adown by Gala’s vale ; 
 But colder far is now the heart 
 
 Laid low by death’s relentless dart, 
 As sorrow sadly tells her tale. 
 
 His work is done, he leaves his toil 
 
 To view yon boiler’s wonderous'size, 
 
 But in an instant there’s a hush, 
 
 Our friend falls victim to the crush, 
 And lingers shortly, then he dies. 
 
 No more by Tweed or Ellwan’s banks, 
 When summer robes the woods in green, 
 He'll lead the merry little band, 
 
 In notes both sweet and softly grand, 
 
 To harmonize the varied scene. 
 
 Companions of his youthful days, 
 Mourn the loss whom we revere, 
 Now in this rueful bitter hour, 
 
 The muse does sighing wish to pour, 
 The simple tribute of a tear. 
 
 In mourning weeds at vesper hours, 
 Kind pity seeks his grave alone, 
 
 _ And musing, leaves the world behind ; 
 
 For Oh! dear friends, bear this in mind, 
 Our brothers fate might be our own. 
 24 
 
18 _ LINES ON THE DEATH OF D. C. 
 
 When lifes last struggles all are sped— 
 Our spirit from its casement flown, 
 
 Great God of love be it ours to meet 
 
 With kindred hearts, ‘mid joys complete, — 
 Where grief and sorrows are unknown. 
 
 ACROSTIC. 
 
 R are thoughts are found in what you write, 
 O n every line I love to pore; 
 B ecause they fill me with delight, 
 E very time I read them o’er. 
 . R enown is yours; all happily see 
 
 T he lasting bloom on your “Auld Plum Tree.’ 
 
 F irm and secure, ’tis put your fame, 
 
 A nd to posterity your honoured name 
 
 I s sure to glide: dear friend you'll be 
 
 R ewarded for poetic skill, 
 
 L ike Robert Burns and Tannahill. 
 
 HK ’en and morn they'll sing with glee 
 
 Y our noblest song, ‘*The Auld Plum Tree.” | 
 
 February 28th, 1881. 
 
 With D. E.’s kindest regards. 
 
 . s 
 
19 
 
 STANZAS ON READING OF THE CALAMITY 
 AT TAY BRIDGE, 28th Ducemprr, 1879. 
 
 The-storm-cloud moves athwart the lift, 
 And the pale moon struggles in the shade, 
 And the tempest blows both loud and swift, 
 Out o'er the landscape sad havoc made. 
 Alas my poor muse thus sore dismayed, 
 
 A sad souvenir would fain bequeath 
 
 To mourn the loss of those hapless sons, 
 Laid low-within the cold arms of death. 
 
 Methinks I see yon gay happy pair, 
 
 With love’s last link in their kind embrace; 
 Their brightest dreams and their prospects fair, 
 To grief and sorrow must give place. 
 
 And yon fair youth with a kindly grace, 
 
 In whom is centred a mother’s fear ; 
 
 In whose cold hand, in death’s firm embrace, 
 A season's gift to a sister dear. 
 
 And fell partner of a husband’s woes, 
 Leaves the village for the distant town 
 
 _ In highest hopes, but ere evening’s close, 
 Feels her neighbour's anguish as her own, 
 No wonder reason forsakes her throne, 
 For beneath that sad and fatal blow; 
 In that ride to death, alas, not one - 
 Is left to tell the sad tale of woe. 
 
20 
 
 = 
 * 
 
 STANZAS ON THE TAY BRIDGE. 
 
 Oh! the dread of that December night ; 
 Warring elements destruction bring ; 
 
 May darker shades still give place to light, 
 And true blessmgs send on mercy’s wing. 
 
 And with faithful hearts our anthems sing, 
 
 As through life’s stormy ocean driven, : 
 Our part played out, oh! great Saviour Kings 
 Triumphant welcome us to Heaven. af 
 
 THOUGHTS. 
 
 Oh! why is it thus that the sensitive mind . 
 
 Is left in life’s vortex to linger behind, 
 
 Whose talents and name in this world are unknown, 
 Denying him bread, then in death give a stone. 
 
 Or why is it thus that in life’s evil hour, 
 
 Class against class are still fighting for power ; 
 Till one selfish being usurps o’er the whole, 
 His ambition to keep you under control. 
 
 Though his hearts dearest object desire after gain, 
 May lull his affections with coldest disdain ; 
 
 In pursuit of lucre, he'll find in the end, 
 
 No passport to Heaven on which to depend. 
 
 Ah! poor foolish man thy ambition and pride 
 Will sweep with the current of popular tide ; 
 And the great God adjust the wrongs that’s been done, 
 And peace and goodwill shall hence reign among men. 
 
te | 21 
 THOUGHTS ON VISITING PARKHALL, 
 
 (Stirlingshire, West), the residence of the late Charles Park, Esq. 
 
 Musing in summer as soft breezes were blowing, 
 O’er Endrick’s bright waters that mingle with Blane ; 
 There the fair landscape in beauty pervading, 
 Enrobed in green verdure adorned the plain ; 
 Amid the scenes around, 
 Wallflower and fern abound, 
 - Home of my fathers, thou art dear to this heart; 
 Here in her childhood hours, 
 Mother oft gathered flowers, 
 And gained first impressions that nature impart. 
 
 Hope of my grandsire, now house of the stranger, 
 Thy walls and thy turrets I pensive survey ; 
 Though lost to my kinsmen, still I could claim thee, 
 Thy shades how salubrious this morning in May. 
 Sacred to friends of mine, 
 Kindred of Cameron line, 
 That ventured Corunna to conquer or fall; * 
 May glory still crown thee, 
 Nor sorrow surround thee, 
 Once hope of thy father’s heart, sons of Parkhall. 
 
 Could youth’s dearest hopes with tender affection, 
 ‘Restore me the place I oft sigh for in vain ; 
 
 There would I recline in sweet meditation, 
 
 Repose in thy sunshade when life’s on the wane ; 
 
 * This allusion has reference to the late Captain Thomas Park, of 
 the 26th Cameronian Regiment, who who was wounded at the Battle of 
 Corunna, in that memorable campaign vlong with Sir Jehn Moore. 
 
 - 
 MDa 
 
a 3 
 ' 
 
 THOUGHTS ON VISITNG PARKHALL. 
 
 For from each sunny spot, 
 Hamlet or little cot, 
 
 Scenes of my sires shall I see you again; 
 Even on distant shore, 
 Where the Atlantic roars, 
 
 The hearts leal affections shall ever remain. 
 
 4 
 _ THE WANDERING MINSTREL. | 
 
 The night was dark, the storm without 
 Raged forth its fury o’er the plain; 
 As round yon cottage hearth, a group, 
 
 ' O’er festive board once met again. é 
 
 The kindly host did there preside, 
 And told sad tales of times gone past, 
 How travellers on the drifted path, 
 Fell victims to the wintry blost. 
 
 That shepherd Malcolm sought the hill, 
 To tend his flock with prudent care; 
 But ere the hour of midnight tolled, 
 
 He sank benumbed in deep dispair. 
 
 They sought him both by hill and cairn, 
 Amid the raging of the storm; ) 
 
 Till faithful collie led the van, 
 
 To view his master’s lifeless form. 
 
 But hark! a rap comes to the door, 
 
 A man in sable hue appears ; 
 
 His modest mein and furrowed brow, 
 Bespeak sad sorrows—deepening years. 
 
Ae ese a" 
 
 ¢ 
 
 THE WANDERING MINSTREL. 
 
 The stranger welcome finds within, 
 A place beside the festive board ; 
 And oft he’s pressed to taste repast, 
 ‘Which season’s dainties can afford. 
 
 Supper o’er, each favourite guest 
 
 In humble voice gives forth a song, 
 And wandering minstrek® softest notes 
 Are lent to cheer the listening throng. 
 
 _ The low, soft sound drawn from his flute, 
 
 Could even draw the silent tears ; 
 As memory floats o’er genial! hours ; 
 He lived and loved in other years. 
 
 + 
 
 He sung a parting farewell dirge, 
 And Mary, subject of his theme ; 
 That once warm heart now cold in death, 
 The hope and stay of life's young dream. 
 
 * 
 
 That life’s form wasted day by day, 
 As sands receding to the wave ; 
 Unconcious droop’d by slow decay, 
 A victim to an early grave. 
 
 As wild bird pants within its cage, 
 For fréedom by fair spring’s return ; 
 He longed to roam o’er hill and dale, 
 To ease a heart with anguish torn. 
 
 Poor minstrel, once dame fortune’s heir, 
 Now crushed in heart, bereaved in mind ; 
 Thy plaintive notes still gain the fare, 
 And shelter from the bitter wind. 
 
 23 
 
24 
 
 THE WANDERING MINSTREL 
 
 Thou’st felt life’s winter lone and bare, 
 And cold the friendship that Was warm ; 
 Thy march, a long and weary road, 
 Without one cheering ray to charm. 
 
 What human nature does endure, 
 In all its wanderings here below ; . 
 The manly breast most surely feels 
 The depth of unrelentless woe. 
 
 So thought the bard with failing strength, 
 From scenes once loved seeks change of place ; 
 
 ' And warmly courts the smile at length, 
 
 Of some beloved familiar face. 
 
 To such holds forth the gospel truth, 
 
 To point the pilgrim on his way, 
 
 And lead his thoughts ’mid life’s pursuits, 
 From earth to Heaven's eternal day. 
 
 ‘This world he proved a world of sighs, 
 
 Where man does merely gaze around ; 
 Where such, alas, were born and died, 
 Nor left it better than they found. 
 
 And as yon bark to windward tacks, 
 And braves the tempest raging main; 
 Returns at last to where it left, 
 Finds shelter in the haven again. 
 
 The minstrel sought his youthful home, 
 The cypress and the lone churchyard ; 
 And there he knelt by Mary’s grave, 
 In pious hope and true regard. 
 
% a 
 
 THE WANDERING MINSTREL. 
 
 He breathed a prayer by her lone grave, 
 The last on earth he’d ever give; 
 
 And through that prayer, in ecstacy 
 
 He hoped they might together live. 
 
 To life’s last scenes he bade adieu, 
 
 Its struggles which he could not brave; 
 And worn and weary, closed his eyes 
 For ever by his Mary’s grave. 
 
 No more we'll hear the sweet, soft note, 
 Nor yet the unconcious gentle sigh ; 
 The heart that felt for human woes, 
 We mourn its fate with tearful eye. 
 
 THE VILLAGE. 
 
 Our village stands upon a mound, 
 Surrounded by a genial clime ; 
 
 Can proudly boast a hero’s fame, 
 Whom annals page unfolds to time; 
 
 With white-washed cots and gardens green : 
 
 A spot so rare is seldom seen. 
 
 On July’s morn, neath sultry sky ; 
 The frugal swain upon the moor, 
 With thrifty hands, the livelong day, 
 Prepares his fuel for winter’s store, 
 And turf, the fruit of labour’s hands, 
 Yields to necessity’s demands. 
 
26 
 
 THE VILLAGE. 
 
 At eve the peasants may be seen, 
 
 From toilsome labour on the wold, 
 Gather upon the village green, 
 Their daily gossip to unfold ; 
 Happily spend each successive day, 
 From city’s bustle far away. 
 
 When autumn’s waving yellow grain, | 
 In cheery prospect cleads the field, 
 
 From hardy peasant’s powerful arm, 
 The harvest to the sickle yields ; 
 
 And village maid, her wish supplied, 
 Has gained the prize of cherished pride. } 
 
 With cheerful heart the labouring swain 
 Forsakes the field, an hour to spend, 
 
 And seeks the mansion o’er the plain, 
 Where host’s goodwill and kindness blend ; 
 Young and old around do gather, 
 Maiden, sons, and happy father. 
 
 Then fiddler Will, in joyous strain, 
 
 Gives mettle to each rustic heel, 
 
 And youngsters crack their brawny thumbs, 
 As circling through the country reel, 
 Enraptured feel a sense of reason, | 
 Grateful for a bounteous season. 
 
 Now rustic labour’s thrown aside, 
 Whence youngsters to the green repair ; 
 And, dressed in fashion’s best attire, 
 Thus welcome autumn’s joyous fair ; 
 Where many a sweet beaming face, 
 Suits her dress with becoming grace. 
 
 — 
 
THE VILLAGE. AT 
 
 Here merry groups in numbers meet, 
 
 To spend’ one day from labour free ; 
 
 In kindest welcome each one greets 
 
 His neighbour, whom they’re glad to see ; 
 Till evening draws her curtain o'er, 
 
 And all has vanished as before. 
 
 \ 4 
 
 Our village has a pleasant look, 
 As dying evening sinks away, 
 And ‘mong the trees, in fairy nook, 
 Stands old church erect and gray, 
 Half lost amidst the parting light, 
 And half grows holy to the sight. 
 
 Within that church fond memory broods, 
 Where once was preaching, prayer, and praise, 
 And pious dame in russet gown, 
 
 Her humble voice to Heaven did raise, 
 
 Soaring above this terrestrial scene, 
 
 Through French's soul inspiring’ strain. 
 
 Since then are years and seasons fled, 
 And gone are childhood’s happy hours ; 
 Each spot a blank where once we trod, 
 ’Mid nature’s choicest, sweetest flowers ; 
 One happy wish, it still was ours, 
 
 That near the tinkling of thy bell, 
 
 We'd close our last and waning hours, 
 And sighing bid old church farewell. 
 
28 
 
 LOVE STANZAS. 
 
 The following love stanzas are from the pen of Miss Anne 
 Edinburgh, a young lady of much promise and fine feeling. As they 
 express in words what lovers feel at heart, with pleasure 1 give them a 
 place in this little volume. 
 
 
 
 I never asked for words of thine to prove 
 
 Thy deep, thy fond devotion unto me; 
 
 I long had marked it, and an answering love 
 
 Slowly awakened in my heart to thee. 
 
 My watchful eye could read it in thy glance, 
 
 That ever brightened up when I came near ; 
 
 And if my hand met thine amid the dance, 
 
 The start, the flushing cheek, have told how dear 
 
 My presence was to thee, and though nought 
 
 Came from thy lips to warrant such belief ; 
 
 Yet my quick ear, unknown to thee, hath caught 
 
 The sacred sigh that gave the heart relief : 
 
 And upon mine its stolen echoes fell, 
 
 Revealing the fond truth thy lips were slow to tell. 
 
 At length it seemed as if a spell was broken, 
 
 And silence from thy lips unloosed its chain ; 
 
 And words arose, such words as there were spoken, 
 ° I ne’er had heard—I ne’er shall hear again ; 
 
 My bosom beat with uncontrolled emotion, 
 
 Whilst thou, in whispers tremulous and low 
 
 As the sofs wind that stirs the aspen bough, 
 
 Breathed forth thy tale of long concealed devotion. 
 
 "Twas only then I knew the depth, the force 
 
 Of that long love that silence could not hide; 
 
 Strong as the mountain torrent in its course, 
 
 And gentle as the flowers upon its side; 
 
 "Twas only then, and only then that thou did’st know _ 
 
 My heart was thine alone and all it could bestow. 
 
 Pe 
 
29 
 LINES 
 
 Addressed to Miss Anne ——, Edinburgh, the authoress of Love Stanzas. 
 
 _ Fair songstress Anne, I pray excuse 
 The random jottings of the muse, 
 I long to tune the lyre ; 
 To sing to thy once honoured name, 
 Prelude at least to future fame, 
 Soul of poetic fire. 
 
 And should it ever be my lot 
 To view fair Roslin’s sacred spot, 
 I’d seek thy lone retreat ; 
 Where Esk’s green banks and towering trees, 
 And flowers are fanned by western breeze, 
 Make paradise complete. 
 
 As yon wild warbler chants its lay, 
 To cheer its mate the summer day, 
 Where broom and bracken 2TOWS ;. 
 To paint thy worth, my muse how fain, 
 Or sing my lay in humble strain, 
 Thy merits to disclose. 
 
 ‘The sighing lover longs to greet 
 The heaven of joys when true hearts meet, 
 If earth has joys below; 
 | Thus magic of thy flowing verse, 
 In kindred feelings but rehearse ° 
 What only levers know. 
 
30 ‘LINES, 
 
 Adieu, sweet nymph, thy sonnets sing, 
 ' Till Roslin’s shades and woodlands ring, 
 An echo to thy song; 
 And may thy life unchequered be, 
 From human ills and sorrows free, 
 As still you move along. 
 
 STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF CAPT. SCOTT. 
 CHISHOLME OF STIRCHKES, January 1868. | 
 
 Death, fell messenger of grief and woe, 
 Thou herald of sorrows rueful tale ;. 
 At thy command the best friend must go, 
 Though a thousand hearts that friend bewail, 
 Has the generous hearted Chisholme gone, 
 Man of honour, rectitude, and werth ; 
 
 . And has that spirit from this world flown 
 To realms of bliss, from mother earth. 
 
 Yes! he’s gone, a thousand tongues proclaim, 
 From a world of sorrow, grief, and care; 
 His memory’s cherished by once dear friends, 
 And grief finds vent in the peasant’s prayer. 
 What are life’s alluring joys at best, 
 
 A rare changing panoramic scene ; 
 
 Where man plays his part, alas, alas, 
 Sighing, bids adieu to what has been. 
 
STANZAS. 31 
 
 That manly form heaved its latest sigh, 
 And affection weeps in mourning weeds ; 
 And thus views the spot where all remains 
 Of him of few words, yet greater deeds. 
 Manly sons that live by Teviot stream, 
 Oft he led you in your proud array ; 
 
 In pride and zenith of earthly fame, 
 
 His manly voice numbers did obey. 
 
 Thou drooping ash wave beside his tomb, 
 Rend thy leaflets in the cold night air; 
 
 And cypress, amidst dark winter’s gloom, 
 Hymn forth thy requiem of deep despair. 
 
 For mournfully the bard of Teviot — 
 
 Now throws aside the tuneful lyre ; 
 
 And prays time may soothe lone hearts grieving 
 And make Heaven centre of hope’s desire. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND, 
 -Who departed this life at Wilton, 3rd January, 1881. 
 
 How sad the task, to write the dirge 
 
 Of him we hold in memory dear ; 
 
 Who bade farewell to earthly scenes, 
 
 Just as there dawned another year. 
 
 Of him who moved throughout this life, 
 
 Whose heart was warm within its core; 
 _ Hen envy could not blot his name, 
 
 Nor want unheeded pass his door: 
 
32, 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. 
 
 Whose voice oft led the sacred song, — 
 As others did their accents raise, 
 
 The heavenward sound that did accord 
 Their gracious Maker’s name to praise, 
 A family did his worth revere, 
 
 As gathering round his dying bed ; 
 And mourning wept with hearts sincere, 
 Hre spirit from this world had fled. 
 
 A consolation still to those, 
 
 A ray of hope to mortals given ; 
 
 That when our pilgrimage is done, 
 Departed friends may meet in Heaven. 
 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OF THE LATE 
 SIR ROBERT PEEL, 
 Who died 29th June, 1850. 
 
 Greatly gifted statesmen of every age 
 
 Have played their parts on lifes eventful stage, 
 And from whom distinguished merits flow, 
 And won the laurels that gratitude bestow. 
 Peel, thy honoured name ever finds a place, 
 
 As benefactor to the humbler race ; 
 
 And regardless of censure or applause, 
 
 Nobly demanded repeal of corn laws. 
 
 Though opposition sought to mar the way, 
 By manhood’s energy gained the hopeful day ; 
 Thy generous nature freed us from our thrall, 
 And large heart yielded to an anxious call. 
 Capital and trade sinking in decay, 
 
 The artizan in sorrow and dismay ; 
 
~ 
 
 LINES ON SIR ROBERT PEEL. j 33 
 
 Who in their own consecrated soil, 
 Thus praying in soothe for leave to toil; 
 Reverse the order which the poet says, 
 Men accumulate as wealth decays. | 
 And many leave their dear native land, 
 To find shelter on a foreign strand ; 
 
 And thus far removed from early home, 
 O’er the wild prairie forced to roam. 
 
 While industry seeks the distant shore, 
 
 Peel checked its progress by dint of power; 
 Gave a country’s boon, though long delayed, 
 Extended commerce and eke free trade. 
 
 _As Fox and Pitt once in glory shone, 
 
 And their fame in British page made known ; 
 Peel as powerful sympathy can claim, 
 
 Nor death conquer his undying name. 
 
 Ill requited talent found in Peel, 
 
 A friend in whom honest worth could feel ; 
 And as patron kind improved their state, 
 
 To a fit position from hardships great ; 
 
 And a nation’s prayer shall henceforth rise, 
 To join those of saints beyond the skies. 
 
 ae on 
 "i 
 
34 | 
 
 THE FAREWELL. (7) 9) 
 
 Oh, fare thee weel my my ain Jean, | 
 Since I maun leave thee now ; ba 
 
 Still for your sake, how fain, Jean, 
 I yet could stay with you. 
 
 Tis true [ wooed ye lang, Jean, 
 But what can mortals do; 
 The sad, the bitter pang, Jean, 
 
 Is felt at leaving you. 
 
 Oh, dae ye mind yon woods, Jean, 
 That we hae roved amang; ~ 
 There listening to the birds, Jean, 
 Sing o’er their wee bit sang. 
 
 Yes, happy were the hours, Jean, 
 When far frae human ken; 
 
 We gathered sweet wild flowers, Jean, 
 Adown the hazel glen. 
 
 And lovers seek the shade, Jean, " % 
 Where rins the wimplin stream ; , : 
 The hawthorn and the birk, Jean, 
 Spread fragrance through the scene. 
 
 All nature's gifts. are true, Jean, 
 By bank and flowery brae; 
 Whence grateful feelings flow, Jean, 
 To hail the summer day. : 
 
 The roses shed their leaves, Jean, 
 To catch the passing shower ; 
 
 And bonnie gowden broom, Jean, 
 The poet's heart allure. 
 
THE FAREWELL. 35 
 
 To think upon our state, Jean, 
 It touches this poor heart; 
 
 May sorrow be my fate, Jean, 
 If e’er again we part. 
 
 LINES ADDRESSED TO Mr. ROBERT SCOTT, 
 SELKIRK, 
 
 On his leaving this country for Philadelphia, March, 1875, 
 
 Dear brother Scott, I write those lines, 
 And hope to find you weel; 
 
 In health o’ body, tone o’ mind, 
 And heart baith true and leal. 
 
 As ye hae been aye heretofore, 
 Mang honest loons and knaves ; 
 God save the poor, for rich folk hae 
 
 Sma’ pity on their slaves. 
 
 This world’s blast when it does blaw 
 On frail human nature ; 
 
 By some mischance, when mortals fa’, 
 The fa’s made aye the greater. 
 
 Of scandal some have got the knack, 
 And yet they canna leave it; 
 
 To make ye black, it is their tact, 
 Though none but those believe it. 
 
 Within a noble, manly breast, 
 Sic thoughts to rise above ; 
 
 We'll cheer the heart when sair oppressed, 
 By kind returning love. 
 
36 
 
 LINES. 
 
 I hear you're bent for western shore, 
 There to improve your state ; 
 
 May kindly winds thus wait ye o’er, 
 Blest be your future fate. 
 
 To leave the land ye loved sae dear, 
 Of mountain, shaw, and glen; ~ 
 
 Your future, an unknown career, 
 Far from the friends ye ken. 
 
 And as ye roam o’er foreign strand, 
 Rare thoughts will oft return ; 
 
 To fancy’s scenes in Scotia’s land, 
 The cairn, and wimplin’ burn. 
 
 Sweet Hagingshaw and Darnick Tower, 
 Harehead, and Fernilee, 
 
 Auld Tibbie’s grave and woods o’ Yair, 
 In fancy thou wilt see. 
 
 When gloaming spreads her cloak o’ mist, 
 O’er Ettrick’s flowety vale; 
 
 Thy heart unconcious still will list 
 To Jeanie’s tender tale. 
 
 Methinks I see the parting scene, 
 Wi’ Jeanie, kind and true; 
 
 For nightly prayers and nightly dreams 
 Are centred a’ in you. 
 
 "Tis sad to leave the land we love, 
 Each earthly treasure here, 
 
 And sad the tender parting proves, 
 When sorrow draws the tear. 
 
 
 
LINES. 37 
 
 And when ye reach yon distant shore, 
 Hae friends at every hand ; 
 
 Who'll kindly share their little store, 
 A filial happy band. 
 
 May health and happiness be thine, 
 And length of happy days ; 
 
 Should fortune smile, return again 
 To Selkirk’s bonnie braes. 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF ALLAN RAMSAY, 
 
 - Author of the Gentle Shepherd, Poems, Tea-Table Miscellany, &c. 
 
 Near where Glengonar seeks the Clyde, 
 A lad was born midst meikle pride, 
 Of yet a/humble name ; 
 Of sterling worth and rich in verse, 
 His sang's in lallans did rehearse, 
 Prelude to future fame. 
 
 
 
 Now far from where Glengonar burn, 
 Wends its way wi’ mony a turn, 
 He sought yon gay city ; 
 And now a change in life is made, 
 He there pursues the barber trade, 
 Hums his homely ditty. 
 
 And wandering oft to Habbie’ 's Howe, 
 Where Pate to Peggie made his vow, 
 ~ Beside the rushing stream ; 
 Or lilting verse to Gilberfield, 
 A rhymster and a sodger chield, 
 Inspired his fancy’s theme. 
 
88 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 How rapt the words, how soft the air, 
 
 *Bout yon fair youth wi’ yellow hair, 
 As Mysie milks her ewes ; 
 
 And winsome Kate in tartan screen, 
 
 Near Pentland meets her jo at een, — 
 Among’ the heathy knowes. 
 
 His fame, as zephyr fans the flowers, 
 
 Is echoed forth on distant shores ; 
 Soul inspired Allan. 
 
 Where pastoral poesy finds a place, 
 
 He there reigns king among his race, 
 Edina’s canty callan’. 
 
 How blest, ye maidens of his time, 
 
 Your joys and loves in measured rhyme, 
 A legacy bequeath ; 
 
 And while the name of Ramsay lives, 
 
 His song rare fascination gives, 
 Immortal as his wreath. _ 
 
 No more we'll hear the shepherd’s reed, 
 In numbers soft o’er hill and mead, 
 In sweet enraptured strain ; 
 For nature weeps now lone and bare, 
 And Scotia’s sons her feelings share, — 
 Since minstrel Ramsay's gane. 
 
 Thou ill starred year of fifty-eight, 
 
 From earth his soul has taen its flight, | 
 To mansions ’yond the sky; 2 
 
 As time does move and pass along, 
 
 Thy ‘‘Gentle Shepherd,” through the throng — 
 Shall soar, and never die. — 
 
39 
 
 A WABSTER’S ADDRESS TO HAWICK FOLK. 
 
 A’ ye wha live by bonnie Teviot, 
 
 And work ‘mang foreign woo and cheviot, 
 
 Those random lines, ye may believe it, 
 Are facts, that’s true ; 
 
 My heart’s been sair and oh, I’m grieved 
 For wabsters noo. 
 
 Kindly chiels, and ance respected, 
 
 In poverty now stand neglected, 
 
 By man’s inventions ill directed, 
 
 Oh ! human nature ; 
 
 Hame comforts now are sair affected, 
 In every feature. 
 
 A race that ance did kindly share 
 
 Wi friendless neighbours humble fare, 
 
 And aye had something still to spare, 
 Where nature touches ; 
 
 We view them now baith toom and bare, 
 Wi empty pouches. 
 
 Honest worth though e’er sae poor, 
 
 Wi feelings keen and temper sour, 
 
 Oh ! wad some great presiding power, 
 But change your fate ; 
 
 And waft ye to some kindlier shore, 
 Frae poortith’s state. 
 
 And ye wha live in higher station, 
 And feel nae want 0’ occupation ; 
 
A WABSTER’S ADDRESS. 
 
 Nor yet the cares o’ world’s vexation, 
 In life’s short span ; 
 Let pride hae less o’ aspiration, 
 Than fellow man. 
 
 Probe suffering’s cause ye men of state, — 
 Remedial measures legislate ; 
 For on thy wisdom hangs the fate 
 O’ honest labour ; 
 Let trade extend her blessings great, 
 A workman’s favour. 
 
 Wee helpless bairns, I pity thee, 
 
 That oft did romp in gladsome glee ; 
 
 Your wee pale face and sunken e’e, 
 By a’ that’s holy, 
 
 Would turn a wiser man than me, 
 To melancholy. 
 
 
 
 Adieu, ye wabsters ane and a’, 
 
 May God aboon some kindness shaw, 
 
 For black’s your fate, and black’s your fa’, 
 You may believe it; 
 
 Now wealth and worth have fled awa’, 
 And left the Teviot. 
 
HOMELY STANZAS. 
 
 There’s nae hame like our ain hame, 
 Humble though that hame may be; © 
 There’s comfort in our ain hame, 
 
 At other folk’s I canna see. 
 
 The smiling wife, and dawted bairn, 
 That’s lispin’ on its mamma's knee ; 
 Wearying waits its dad’s return, 
 
 And fondly hopes his face to see. 
 There’s freedom at our ain hame, 
 
 Ye canna get nae other where ; 
 There’s pleasure in our ain hame, 
 When toddlin’ bairns are a your care. 
 And though of wealth we've nae great share, 
 Yet still we’re happy a’ the same; 
 And musing in the old arm chair, 
 We see nae other place like hame. 
 
 THE COUNTRY FAIR. 
 
 ‘Twas on a lovely autumn day, 
 Some twenty years or mair ; 
 
 We left the cot on Kirkhouse brae, 
 To see the country fair. 
 
 What joyous pleasure each does feel, 
 What hours of bliss in store; . 
 
 And happy dreams steal o’er the mind, 
 We never felt before. 
 
 41 
 
49 
 
 THE COUNTRY FAIR. 
 
 Here ploughmen dressed in hodden coats, 
 And waistcoats o’ plush blue ; 
 
 And lasses dressed in bombazettes, 
 Looked comely to the view. 
 
 Their hearts are flickering fu’ o’ love, 
 To see their country beaus; _ 
 And fain would ask, yet daurna still,. 
 
 To take them to the shows. 
 
 The lads mair sheepish and mair blate, 
 Scarce one word can say ; 
 
 Move onward with a heavy gait, 
 To Tamson’s on the brae. 
 
 Here showman wi’ his drum and fife, 
 Makes a fearfu’ noise ; 
 
 And roley poley and the dice, 
 Divert the village boys. 
 
 And wives at krames now baw] aloud, 
 Keep the rustics staring ; 
 
 While Brangart Meg yokes Finnich Tam 
 About the promised fairing. 
 
 And Finnich Tam aye beats the lave, 
 Takes out a purse o’ siller; 
 
 O’ sweetmeats rare thus gets a pound, 
 Syne hands the present till her. 
 
 Now gloaming fa’s wi’ curtain grey, 
 Some hameward tak’ the gate; 
 
 While ploughmen lads take serving maids 
 ‘To Robin's for a treat. ! 
 
THE COUNTRY FAIR. 43 
 
 Now Burnfoot whisky is brought ben, 
 
 And oh, they’re blythe andjcheerie ; 
 ' The bashfu’ ehields now venture forth, 
 Their arms about their dearie. 
 
 Pate vows his love to Betsy Gow, 
 Declares she’s his fancy ; 
 
 Whilst Carston Will blaws in the lug, 
 ‘And steals the heart o’ Nancy. 
 
 The lasses’ cheeks are flushed wi’ red, 
 Their minds hae less o’ thinking ; 
 For deeply now are a’ in love, 
 ‘Tween courting and ‘tween drinking. 
 
 A happy thought at last succeeds, 
 And honest Jock Strathearn 
 
 Soon returns wi’ auld fiddler Will 
 To Jamie Duncan’s barn. 
 
 **Miss Wedderburn” Will plays wi’ skill, 
 Which please the merry party ; 
 
 While Chirsty wi’ her jug in hand, 
 Pours out the toddy hearty. 
 
 Till twall o’clock began to ring, 
 The lasses thought o’ steering ; 
 The lads they lo’e convoy them hame, 
 Wi hamely sangs sae cheering. 
 
 An hour is spent within the barn, 
 The master’s happily sleeping ; 
 
 Wi’ dawning day they take their way, 
 Resolved again on meeting. 
 
44 THE COUNTRY FAIR. 
 
 Now Maggie, waukrife, scarcely sleeps, 
 Since now the fair is Over; 
 
 And ponders o’er what Tammy said— 
 Confiding, trusting lover. 
 
 Wi’ mony cares her bosom’s filled, 
 In hope, yet whiles dispairing ; 
 
 And oft she shows her neighbour dames 
 Tammy’s welcome fairing. 
 
 The truth of the above sketch I can vouch for. Although years 
 have elapsed since I had the pleasure of being at said country fair, yet 
 the scene and incidents are as vividly impressed upon my hog ee as 
 if the affair but happened yesterday.—R. F. 
 
 THE WEE BAIRNIE’S GRAVE. 
 
 When spring wi its blossoms our woodlands adorn, 
 And the linnet warbles its lays frae the thorn ; 
 
 And nature returning her grandeur displays, 
 
 With robes of green verdure to cover the braes. 
 
 A mind bent wi’ sorrow, a heart filled wi grief, 
 Nae wee laughing lassie can give me relief; 
 
 The crimson tipt gowan and green grass doth wave, 
 Emblems 0’ sadness o’er the wee bairnie’s grave. 
 Oh! why should I mourn when nae comfort is here, 
 Or why thus in anguish now drop the saut tear ; 
 The flaxen haired lassie lies cauld in the clay, 
 
 The dream 0’ my future, the pride o’ her day: 
 
 And lonely and lorn at the gloaming I gang, 
 There’s nae music now in the wee birdies’ sang ; 
 To leave the world’s bustle, a wish we still crave, 
 To silently nuse o’er the wee bairnie’s grave. 
 
THE WEE BAIRNIE’'S GRAVE. 45 
 
 Alas! thou vain world, what joys can you give, 
 Thy best blessings lure us each day that we live ; 
 The bliss that we cherish oft steals o’er the mind, 
 Then flees frae the vision, leaves phantom behind. 
 But there is a theme consolation imparts, 
 
 A balm that can soothe even grief stricken hearts— 
 Words spoken by one who died children to save, 
 And welcomes their spirits in peace ‘yond the grave. 
 
 ON THE BORDERS. 
 
 “Again my harp’s neglected tone, 
 
 In all its pristine glee and glory; 
 
 Would come like summer sunshine thrown 
 O’er border land and border story. 
 Though winter’s cold and icy reign 
 
 May robe in white yon mountain masses ; 
 The leal kind bosom still remains, 
 
 O’ border men and bonnie lasses.” 
 
 DALGLEISH. 
 
 Oh ! let us leave the city’s din, 
 Its bustle and disorder ; 
 
 And breathe ance mair, the balmy air, 
 O’ Scotland’s ancient Border, 
 
 Edina’s toon can boast a crown, 
 Bedecked in regal splendour ; 
 
 I love to stray o’er bank and brae, 
 Midst nature’s wildest grandeur. 
 
 Lasswade, among thy birken shades, 
 Hsk’s river seeks the ocean ; 
 
 Tis here each scene 0’ brown and green, 
 Inspires my heart’s devotion. 
 
AG 
 
 ON THE BORDERS. 
 
 Romantic Stow, through heath-clad knowes, 
 The shepherd lilts his border song’; 
 
 _ And Gala’s stream, ‘neath sunny beams, 
 
 By dark Torsonce moves along. ; 
 
 Famed Galashiels, wi’ spinning wheels, 
 Braw.lads and bonnie lasses; 
 
 In tweeds and plaids, thy staple trade, 
 Kach other toon surpasses. 
 
 In flowers arrayed, sweet Leithen shade, 
 Thy praise let other bardies sing ; 
 
 In leafy June, the tourist roams, 
 Drink from thy water's caller spring. 
 
 And as I muse, o’er Abbotsford, 
 
 Memory hails golden hours; __ 
 Where Wordsworth, Moore, and Shepherd Hoge, 
 Shed forth brightest glowing powers. 
 Fair Gattonside. our country’s pride, 
 For plums and gowden apples ; 
 And sweet Melrose, ’midst calm repose, 
 Fancy’s miniature of Naples. 
 
 At Smailholm’s Tower, Scott’s youthful hours 
 Were nursed in song and story ; 
 
 ’Mong woods and braes, the pilgrim strays, 
 
 To lone Dryburgh’s chapel hoary. 
 Thou Kelso blest ’mong all the rest, 
 With charming scenes by flowing Tweed , 
 And Ednam’s bowers in genial hours, 
 Thomson tuned his rural reed. 
 
 Oh! Hawick rare, beyond compare, 
 Thy streets uniform in order; 
 
sa 
 
 (ON THE BORDERS. 47 
 
 May lift thy head fu’ weel indeed, 
 Standing first upon the Border. 
 For thou art pride on Teviot side, 
 For strappin’ blythe blooming lasses ; 
 Each female form can lovers charm, 
 W hen decked in their silken dresses. 
 
 Thou silent Jed, by birks o’erspread, 
 Here amidst thy leafy grandeur, 
 Tis my delight, in fancy’s flight, 
 Down thy banks to muse and wander. 
 And.as I leave thy sacred scenes, 
 Thy birds, flowers, and little burnie, 
 May soon the happy hours return, 
 To taste the bliss o’ border journey. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 Written at Innerleithen, Peeblesshire, June, 1860. 
 
 On the banks of a river a neat little cot, 
 Delightfully pleasant health-giving spot ; 
 
 A garden of roses, primroses, and thyme, 
 A hedgerow of beeches, and rare jessamine. 
 
 Zephyr blows gently scarce a leaf to unfurl, 
 I happily live in a beautiful world ; 
 
 No care to annoy me, I fret not nor fume, 
 And life passes on like a morning in June. 
 
 Thus grateful for mercies each day that we live, 
 Acknowledge the bounties that providence gives ; 
 Till life’s seasons close, and the spirit has fled, 
 ‘And name forgotten in the land of the dead. 
 
48 
 
 RANDOM THOUGHTS. 
 
 Oh! angry fate, thou’st tossed me sair, 
 
 - From north to south, from east to west ;_ 
 
 Yet ’midst thy tossings still declare 
 There’s ae sweet spot I lo’e the best. 
 
 By nature’s hand how neatly dressed 
 With opening flowers and plantin’s green ; 
 By strangers all it is confessed, 
 
 A sweeter spot is seldom seen. 
 
 A fertile vale, clear running rill, 
 Bridge that leads to ready station ; 
 Besides an ancient, grey meal mill, 
 To grind corn its occupation. | 
 Then what bliss and consolation, 
 Pastors plead with human nature ; 
 To rise above sin’s temptation, 
 Thus become a new born creature, 
 
 Through verdant shades I love to stray, 
 View the lofty hills surrounding ; 
 
 And gratefully my homage pay 
 
 For mercies every day abounding. 
 
 Throw self aside, pride astounding, 
 
 Thus renewed with true emotion ; 
 Happily seek the Heavenly fountain, 
 With a Christian's warm devotion. 
 
 I’ve seen the rose forsake the bush, 
 The sombre leaves forsake the trees ; 
 I’ve seen the maid of loves first blush, 
 Whose every aim was still to please. 
 
 a 
 
HUMBLE PETITION. - 49 
 
 But oh, by Heaven’s high decrees, 
 She vanished from her own sphere ; 
 Methinks a voice speaks from the breeze, 
 Oh, sad one why thus linger here. 
 
 THE HUMBLE PETITION OF THE AULD 
 | KIRK OF INNERLEITHEN, 1860. 
 
 Ye manly sons o’ famed Saint Ronan, 
 
 And daughters fair, baith blythe and blooming, 
 My plaintive case I lay before ye, 
 
 In simple, plain, unvarnished story. 
 
 I’ve stood the blast for near a century, 
 
 My age will find in kirk-book entry ; 
 
 And wi’ God’s blessing, in this year 0’ grace, 
 I’m a temple still in sacred place. 
 
 Though now, alas! I am auld and frail, 
 
 Yet oft twas said I stood the wale, 
 
 Among others as a country kirk, — 
 
 A fair model o’ guid masons’ wark. 
 
 Which neighbours came frae far and near, 
 . The once dauntless Robertson to hear ; 
 
 God rest his soul—brave, honest man— 
 
 Who showed the gospel’s saving plan, 
 
 For he was just a wondrous preacher, 
 
 A God-appointed truthfu’ teacher ; 
 
 And happy are the truly fervent, 
 
 Whom God will crown as his ain servant ; 
 
 And lead them to the sacred throne, | 
 
 Where cares and sorrows are unknown. 
 
 D 
 
THE HUMBLE PETITION OF THE 
 
 As fond mother hae a mother’s cares, 
 
 .I weep for sons sitting on my stairs ; 
 
 ' And pity oft that cheerless mortal, 
 
 Who seeks his hame and leaves my “portal. 
 While some mair zealous, do determine 
 
 To hear the finish o’ the sermon ; 
 
 And, like true disciples o’ John Knox, 
 Lend a copper to my ladle box. 
 
 May heaven its blessings aye bestow 
 To those sons that ’tend the kirk below. 
 
 Changed are things since I was young, 
 Now men unlearned and glib o’ tongue, 
 By some rare belief, amaist can tell 
 Wha'll be saved, wha’ll gang to h—1: 
 And mark their flocks in cauk and keel, 
 That now stands scatheless o’ the deil. 
 Such changes surely will take place, 
 
 I hope their work is crowned wi’ grace; . 
 But Pll stand fast by our Confession, 
 The second best book in creation ; 
 Lang may each member in my wa’s, 
 
 Be guided by wisdom and its laws. 
 
 But to my grievance here may mention, 
 Commands respect and your attention ; 
 
 For friends I hae that still defend me, 
 
 Nine feet by six would thus extend me: 
 
 Renew my wa’s with lathe and plaster, 
 
 Which weel may please baith flock and pastor ; 
 Nae waste o’ cash nor ostentation, 
 
 Plain facts for ony congregation ; 
 
AULD KIRK OF INNERLEITHEN. 51 
 
 And then the cheering consolation, 
 ’"T would meet the wants of each one's station. 
 
 But lost is now our proposition, 
 
 And thrown aside is our petition ; 
 
 €ince gentry folk within our parish, 
 
 New ideas do fondly cherish. 
 
 Hrect a kirk beside the feus, 
 
 With ceiling high and painted pews ; 
 Windows stained baith green and blue, 
 Keep thoughtless mind from outward view, 
 Two pillars and oak painted door, 
 
 That members may enter by the score. 
 
 Besides a graceful shaped steeple, 
 
 Whose bell is heard by a’ the people ; 
 
 And meadows decked wi’ flowers sae fair, 
 That in summer showers may scent the air. 
 Autumn trees baith sere and yellow, 
 
 The drooping ash and weeping willow ; 
 
 W here age may find a shelter there, 
 Remote from scenes o’ toil and care. 
 
 Should this take place, perhaps it may, 
 
 I'll step aside, I have served my day ; 
 
 One favour wi’ my parting breath, 
 
 Revere God’s word and book o’ faith: 
 
 Till life's last struggling fever’s o’er, 
 
 And you're wafted to a happy shore; 
 Receive in Heaven your best reward," 
 
 What God bestowed on Israel’s chosen bard, 
 
52 
 
 SATIRIC VERSES. 
 
 In burgh toon, a place o’ fame, 
 
 There lives rany a bitter dame ; 
 
 Who tries each best and inmost scheme, 
 
 To mak’ ye black ; . 
 
 For moral worth ye'll hae sma’ claim, 
 Ahint yer back. 
 
 On neighbours’ fauts, how prone to dwell, 
 For tongues gae clanking like a bell; 
 Ilk sad mistake, how fain to tell, 
 And ten times mair ; 
 In scandal’s school they can excel, 
 For clashing ware. 
 
 At Randies Raw when they convene 
 
 Wi polished face and pious mein; 
 
 Then woe betide baith foe or freen’, 
 When thus they gather ; 
 
 Their wholesale jargon’s fu’ o’ spleen, 
 As stang o’ ether. 
 
 And ill befa’ that luckless maid, 
 From virtues path who may have strayed ; 
 For that new gown, by them ’tis said— 
 O fie upon her— 
 She got it frae some rantin’ blade, 
 Through her dishonour. 
 
 Yon favourite priest with looks sae bland, 
 With eloquence at his command ; 
 
oe 
 
 ie 
 
 SATIRIC VERSES, 
 
 ¢ 
 By them stands first within our land, 
 As they conjecture ; 
 In deep thought sermon, lofty, grand, | 
 Or lucid lecture. 
 
 And as they pass within the gate, 
 
 Bestow sma siller to the plate ; 
 
 Then moving onward, slow, sedate, 
 Wi serious face ; . 
 
 They bless their lot and curse thy fate, 
 Unchosen race. 
 
 At stately meetings mark yon pair, 
 That join in fellowship and prayer ; 
 Prevailing thoughts, I must declare, 
 Do what they can; 
 Show pious front is but a snare 
 To catch a man. 
 
 Oh, would the fates some kindness shaw, 
 
 And husbands send to please them a’ 
 
 Sic’ earthly angels ne’er could thraw 
 Their husband’s wish ; 
 
 Their crape veil mask they’d throw awa’, 
 For wedded bliss. 
 
54 ; : : 
 AULD MARIONS LAMENT FOR HER COW. 
 
 Come honest frien’s attend to me, 
 And mark the news I’m gaun to gie; 4 
 It brings the tear down frae my e’e, 
 And gars me mane; 
 In sorrows pangs, I’m wae to see, 
 Poor Fleckie’s gane. 
 
 She’d ne’er attempt to break a dyke, 
 Nor in the byre to fidge and fyke ; 
 But aye sae kind affection like, 
 She ken’d us a’. 
 That noo I think my heart will break, 
 Since she’s awa’. 
 
 That waesome morn they took the road, 
 My wind was cast in sorrow’s cloud ; — 
 To hear her rowte baith aft and loud, 
 By Castle Graham. 
 She turned syne up Blairessin pad, 
 And soon was hame. 
 
 The wily chield soon paid her for't, 
 
 He gat a rape and tied it short, 
 
 Then aft he gaed wi’ deevilish sport, 
 Our Fleckie wi’ him ; 
 
 Nae wonder that I’m in the dort, 
 And wae to see them. 
 
 Alas, its nae Blairessin now, 
 Since we hae lost our favourite cow, 
 In pensive mood I often view 
 
 The days gane by ; 
 
AULD MARION’S LAMENT FOR HER COW. 5 
 
 our 
 
 When she came foremost hame, I trow, 
 ‘Mang sixteen kye. 
 
 Oh! waesocks me, when brute gets auld, 
 
 Compassion then turns lank and cauld ; 
 
 Now driven out frae house or hauld, 
 Maun Fleckie gang’; 
 
 As thus I’m lilting through the fauld, 
 My waefu’ sang. 
 
 But hope sheds forth her cheering. ray, 
 And lifts the soul frae dool and wae, 
 Then welcome the propitious day, 
 Some ane’s bocht her ; 
 And Pate brings hame our stripling quey, 
 Auld Fleckie’s daughter. 
 
 ON A COUNTRY MILL. 
 
 Attend to me each tramping loon, 
 That loves to rove frae toon tae toon; 
 Beware before ye settle doon, 
 
 At yon wauk mill o’ hunger-him-out. 
 
 The spinning jacks are wonderous rare, 
 
 0’ wood and rapes frae horse’s hair ; 
 Famed Captain Grosse would prize the pair, 
 And immortalize hunger-him-out. 
 
 The shuttles drag, can scarcely rin, 
 The yarn will neither weave nor spin ; 
 Sad task indeed, bairns’ bread to win, 
 Within the wa's 0’ hunger-him-out. 
 
56 
 
 ON A COUNTRY MILL. 
 
 ’Tis lang lang: since the press was made, 
 And coffin string drives yankee blade ; 
 Bad fortune warstles wi’ the trade, 
 Within the wa’s o’ hunger-him-out. 
 
 Mock pity wi’ a serious face, 
 
 Will sympathising meet your case ; 
 
 Whilst indignation spurns the place 
 Of woe and wail at hunger-him-out. 
 
 Avaunt frae me ye servile crew, 
 That lacks the heart or head to do; 
 
 _ May brose and brochan be your due, 
 
 That fawn the smile o’ hunger-him-out. 
 
 Farewell ye cauld unplastered wa’s, 
 Through which the wind unheeded blaws ; 
 Kind pity her veil she wisely draws 
 O’er a’ the woes o’ hunger-him-out. 
 
 LONELY MUSINGS. 
 
 In the hour of deepest sadness, 
 
 Or lonely walk by willow tree ; 
 
 Or at times amidst thy gladness, 
 
 Will yet thy thoughts fall back on me. 
 
 In the calm of summer evening, . 
 When hearts pour forth their deepest sigh ; 
 Where sweet flowers in beauty teeming, . 
 There think on friendships thus gone by.. 
 
LONELY MUSINGS. 57 
 
 When night winds are gently sighing, 
 Echo my name within its tone ; 
 
 In its softest cadence dying, 
 
 Weep for the being that is gone. 
 
 Its chords on thine ear when stealing, 
 Repeat its sweetest, softest tone ; 
 Amidst life’s scenes breathe a feeling, 
 For him, the warmest friend, that’s gone. 
 
 And should mirth give place to mourning, 
 When in thy soul enthralling strain ;. 
 
 Sad thoughts find thy bosom yearning, 
 Weep for the absent one again. 
 
 While the pang thy soft heart rending, 
 Sinks deeply jin that breast. of thine ; 
 Starting in each mood when thinking, - 
 Unto a voice that’s like to mine. 
 
 Sacred are the ties of friendship, 
 Which truth and honour does fulfil; 
 Pleasures thus when truly. blended, 
 Maintain their bearing o’er us still. 
 
 "Mong the haunts where dead are lying, 
 Nameless, within their lonely grave ; 
 Born in grief, and left life sighing, 
 
 O’er temptation they could not brave. 
 
 Unseen violet may be trod on, 
 Half hidden in the verdure green ; 
 Type of life, to us forboding 
 Change from this terrestrial scene. 
 
GLINGER BURN. 
 
 Many still may share the sorrow, 
 Relic of friendship’s heart sincere; 
 And muse o’er thy fate dear brother, 
 W hose memory yet commands a tear. 
 
 Dearest friends, we may forget them, 
 As grief finds vent in heaving sigh ; 
 Like the flowers we plant at even, — 
 Our sorrow withers but to die. 
 
 Pride must bend unto the summons, 
 
 Thy mandate, death, who can withstand ; 
 Let us meekly wait thy coming, 
 
 For who can stay thy dread command. 
 
 lf we've erred, our course pursuing, 
 For this we surely would atone ; 
 
 And ask mercy, God of Heaven, 
 
 Still granted through Thy precious Son. 
 
 GLINGER BURN. 
 
 ’Twas doon where bonnie Glinger burn, 
 Through leafy shaws, wi’ mony a turn, 
 Winding, strays ’mid gladsome din, 
 Then lost, and falling o’er the linn. 
 
 *T was on its banks in woodbine cot, 
 Lived matchless fairy, Phemie Scott, 
 Whom suitors mair than half a score, 
 Each night had gathered round her door. 
 
' GLINGER BURN. 
 
 Amongst the rest were Wat and Will, 
 Twa neebour herds frae Haxley hill; 
 Twa lads indeed wi’ nae pretence, 
 Beyond kind nature’s common sense. 
 
 And thus beset in deepest love, 
 
 By Glinger burn did nightly rove; 
 To get a blink o’ Phemie’s e’e, 
 
 The dearest joy that life could gie. 
 
 They sought her baith at kirk and fair, 
 But soon they saw their folly there ; 
 For wabster Jock frae Nethertoon, 
 Young Phemie’s seruples got aboon. 
 
 His winning ways and wiling tongue, 
 
 Thus gained her heart baith soft and young; 
 Wi blushing looks and glowing charms, 
 She’s faulded in her lover's arms. 
 
 His heart’s desire, his greatest wish, 
 Her hand thus gains wi’ trembling blush ; 
 And sire and dame gie their consent, 
 Wi’ blessings to their hearts’ content. 
 
 And now they’re paired for Gretna Green, 
 And left each love endearing scene ; 
 Where once was spent their youthfu’ days, 
 _’Mang Glinger’s bonnie broomy braes. 
 
 Whilst Wat and Will aft wend their way, 
 Wi hearts, alas, baith sad and wae, 
 Wandering doon by Glinger burn, 
 
 The faithless Phemie’s case to mourn. 
 
. 60 
 
 VERSES 
 
 Written after visiting Roslin, June, 1852. 
 
 As down the banks of Esk I strayed, 
 Whose rocky steeps were clad with broom; — 
 And nature’s robes the woods arrayed, 
 As zephyr fanned her sweet perfume. — 
 Esk river wimplin gently by, 
 
 And blossom graced the waving trees, 
 In concert woodland warblers sang, 
 
 As if their ditties were to please. 
 
 Oh! happy birds—oh ! happy time, 
 
 As I reflect on worldly change ; 
 
 The hours though fled a lustre shed, 
 Which later years can ne’er estrange. 
 The gayest flower that decks the field, 
 The fragrant blossom on the thorn; 
 Their beauties to the blast must yield, 
 
 Whence all their wonted charms are torn. 
 
 ODE TO TANNAHILL. 
 
 Oh! who can sing Gleniffer braes, 
 In simple, feeling, Scottish lays, 
 Paint nature at his will; 
 Or who delight the youthful swain, 
 In melting, soft, pathetic strain, 
 But songster Tannabill. 
 
 Or who can sing o’ Stanley shaw, 
 Auld Crookston’s lonely castle wa’; 
 Or bonnie Levernside ; 
 
ODE TO TANNAHILL. 61 
 
 Or who with open, honest heart, 
 Show each generous kindly part, 
 His pleasure and his pride. 
 
 Each tender flower it was his theme, 
 Ik cowering bird he kenned its name, 
 And oft their lone retreat ; 
 Through Newton’s wood or Craigielea, 
 He viewed them wi a poet’s e’e, 
 And tasted nature sweet. 
 
 As musing oft by Jenny’s well, 
 
 The hawthorn blossom in the dell, 
 Did beautify the scene ; 
 
 He sang o’ Mary’s faithless love, 
 
 Her broken vows his heart did move, 
 With injured feelings keen. 
 
 His lyric lays, where’er they’re sung, 
 
 Delight the heart o’ auld and young, 
 At hame and o’er the sea; 
 
 And Cartha’s sons on distant shore, 
 
 Where wild Atlantic waters roar, 
 Oft sigh for Ferguslie. 
 
 Confiding, gentle Tannahill, 
 Though ’gainst thee aimed was critic skill, 
 To crush thee in thy bloom ; 
 Thy name shall live when their’s recoil, 
 And flourish o’er thy native soil, 
 And rise beyond the tomb. 
 
62 | 
 A SHORT EPISTLE TO THE AUTHOR. 
 
 On reading in one of the local Newspapers a letter drawing the atten- 
 tion of lovers of song to the centenary of Paisley’s minstrel, Tannahill. 
 
 Dear Fairley, ever faithful still 
 
 To long neglected Tannahill, 
 Accept thanks sincerely ; 
 
 In wielding the poetic pen, 
 
 To laud the wale and king o’ men, 
 Whose sangs we lo’e dearly. 
 
 Let Paisley claim him as a son, 
 And proud is she of such an one, 
 
 O’ worth and sterling merit ; 
 Hail, brother Scots, now sound his fame, 
 For Tannahill’s a deathless name, . 
 
 His memory we revere it. 
 
 Gleniffer braes, how sweet to sing, 
 
 Balquither gars our plantin’s ring, 
 Peerless black-e’ed Jeanie ; 
 
 Thy praise he sung in strains sublime, 
 
 Thy name shall live to latest time, 
 Maid of Arranteenie. 
 
 His bonnie woods o’ Craigielee, 
 His sleeping Maggie bauld and slee, 
 His plaintive Ellen More ; 
 The soldier welcome back again, 
 His lovely Jessie 0’ Dunblane, 
 Are sung the world o'er. 
 
A SHORT EPISTLE TO THE AUTHOR. 63 
 
 His gloomy winter’s now awa’, 
 
 And London’s woods rare merit shaw, 
 His bonnie Kate Tyrell ; 
 
 And Johnny trysting by the wood, 
 
 Where Crookston’s lonely castle stood, - 
 ‘Near Stanley’s dewy dell. 
 
 His Wallace wight’s right sair lament, 
 O’er bloody Falkirk’s dire event, 
 Scotchmen let us ponder ; 
 Patriotism in each line, 
 Around his heart it did entwine, 
 Nane loe’d his country fonder. 
 
 Then brethren swell his praises high, 
 . His songs are potent, ne’er can die, 
 Few like him’s sae gifted ; 
 And eratefully your voices raise, 
 To Paisley’s bard wha sung sic lays, 
 Scotia’s sair uplifted. 
 
 _ Then strike the harp in joyful tune, 
 ‘And welcome third of bonnie June, 
 Day of his nativity ; 
 Though short with mortals was his stay, 
 His songs shall never know decay, 
 Through time’s declivity. 
 
 Innerleithen, 2nd June, 1874. JAMES PRINGLE. 
 
64 
 * A NIGHT IN AULD REEKIE. 
 
 Ye sons o’ Auld Reekie. since we're gathered here, 
 I can give you but little or add to your cheer ; 
 
 . But list’ to your crack, and good feeling to share, 
 For ae night in our life to banish dull care. 
 
 The first on the list is honest friend Mack, 
 
 Who tickles our fancy wi’ auld fashioned crack ; 
 
 Or singing a song fu’ o’ humour and glee, ' 
 His brogue being rich as his manner is free. 
 
 Then our friend Mr. Dunn, in plaid, kilt, and hose, 
 Aye makes an impression wherever he goes, 
 
 In cutting or dancing the famed highland fling. 
 He’s the boast o’ Auld Reekie and first in the ring. 
 
 John Glen with his pipes, when his chanter he blaws, 
 Keeps aye true to nature nor breaks through her laws ;. 
 Awake drunken mortals as they slumbering sleep, 
 
 O’er strains o’ Lochaber in ecstacy weep. 
 
 When Vance o’er his fiddle draws the magic bow, 
 Rusticity wonders still wherefore and how, — 
 
 That powers o’ the fingers and powers o’ the brain, 
 
 Are happily united in each melting strain. f 
 
 Then Mr. Cockburn in fine finished speeches, 
 
 From ear to the heart each sentiment reaches ; 
 
 Were the world as good as Robbie would: have it, 
 Then millions of toil were no longer enslavéd. 
 
 * Regarding the above stanzas, a few friends met at the house of 
 a Mr. Ross, Edinburgh, whereupon the author was kindly invited to join 
 the party ; and in doing so read over, to the amusement of the company, 
 those verses extempore, as a true delineation of what was likely to take 
 place on the occasion. August, 1849. 
 
 45 
 
 2 a 
 gyno + 
 ia 
 
THE REJECTED LOVER. 65 
 
 Then minstrel Graham wi’ his song and his sonnet, 
 Puts pathos, power, and music aye in it ; 
 
 Till each song rendered with the singer’s best skill, 
 O’ west country lyrics frae bard Tannahill. 
 
 Rhyming friend Fairley in happy oration, 
 
 Lauds honest worth, hates distinction in station ; 
 And though labouring under great physical pain, 
 When he meets with such fellows, is Fairley again. 
 
 THE REJECTED LOVER. 
 
 A’ ye that follow crazed ambition, 
 
 Come listen to my artless tale ; 
 Contentment heighten your condition, 
 
 As journeying through life's thorny vale, 
 
 Let honest love unfold its treasure, 
 Let kindly hearts its blessings share ; 
 Each growing day renew its pleasure, 
 Make those we love our special care. 
 
 For who was once like Jessy Johnson ? 
 The pride and boast o’-yon gay toon ; 
 
 Or who was like to Sandy Tamson? 
 Respected aye by neebours roun’. 
 
 Young Sandy loved her with an ardour . 
 None but faithful lovers know; 
 Yet still his love could find nae favour, 
 Nor e’en a smile would she bestow. 
 E 
 
66 | 
 
 THE REJECTED LOVER, 
 
 True lovers’ tokens, he had given them, 
 His best friendship thus to prove ; 
 
 All his tokens, she received them, 
 Anything save Sandy’s love. 
 
 a 
 
 Now Jessie dréssed in many colours, 
 For dress, they say, oft takes the e’e; 
 
 And then she had such winning manners, 
 Made her fair queen of Ferguslie. 
 
 The scene is changed, by invitation, 
 She now repairs to fairy den; 
 
 A party meets with the intention 
 To spend a day at Campsie Glen. 
 
 The warblers sing their sweetest ditties, 
 And trees are clad in verdure green ; 
 The primrose and the modest lily, 
 Lend a charm to bless the scene. 
 
 -2T was here a youth in princely fashion, | 
 
 A model to young Jessie’s mind ; 
 Long had she dreamt of such attraction, 
 But now reality does find. 
 
 A waggish friend informs young Harry, 
 That Jessie’s father was a laird, 
 
 And she an heiress, thus to marry, — at 
 The best 0” wisdom did regard. 
 
 Thus by words both soft and winning, 
 Gained at last fair Jessie’s heart ; 
 
 A country house he had to live in, 
 Adorned by nature and by art. 
 
THE REJECTED LOVER. 67 
 
 Young Jessie thought, oh, what a treasure. 
 This Harkness then would be to me; 
 
 A country house to loll at pleasure, 
 Was ever maiden blessed like she. 
 
 Ah! witless fickle Jessie Johnson, 
 Ye little ken the wiles o’ men; 
 
 Your future destiny is clouded, 
 Ne’er can taste life's Joys agaim 
 
 A few weeks hence, and now they’re wedded, 
 Living in a furnished room; 
 
 ‘Things partly paid, and part on credit, 
 With brighter prospects yet to come. 
 
 Alas, an end to his finances, 
 Now what can Harry Harkness do; 
 Then must he start with best 0’ graces, 
 And last the tailor trade pursue. 
 
 Since now the mask is flung behind them, 
 Young Jessie pleads with woman's tears; 
 That Harry Harkness might abandon 
 The lap-board, thimble, and the shears, 
 
 Past companions thus would rail her, 
 For pity’s sake some mercy have; 
 
 Oh! had’ I known you were a tailor, 
 Thrice welcome then had been a grave, 
 
 Now Harry, deep in affectation, — 
 Glossed o’er the matter with his wife; 
 
 Says though we live in humble station, 
 Ours yet may be a happy life. 
 
68 
 
 THE REJECTED LOVER.. 
 
 He gained by this her good: opinion, 
 For now resolved are both to go, 
 
 Acquaint her parents of the union, 
 And father’s property would show. 
 
 Alas, alas, could he believe it, 
 A thackit house wi’ but and ben; 
 A pig stye, and a loom for weaving, 
 A bantam cock and laying hen. 
 
 He fumed, he raged, he stamped in fury, | 
 And left next morning by the train, 
 Repented courting in a hurry, 
 And left poor Jessie sad and lane. 
 
 Oh, had our youths but mair discretion, 
 Could wisdom teach, each enterprise 
 
 Might feel a happy consolation, : 
 To act the part where prudence lies. 
 
 Now Sandy’s love had been directed, 
 To Bess, the lass o’ Arranthrew; 
 A thrifty maid right rarely gifted, 
 Who could both bake and shape and sew. 
 
 Rejected Sandy gained in siller, 
 Has a shop and doing weel; 
 
 And at the kirk, respected elder, 
 Whose every action grace reveals. 
 
 With heart o’ grief for Jessie Johnson, 
 Whiles gies a gift to her wee bairn, 
 Though once the slighted Sandy Tamson, 
 His feelings are mair soft than’stern. 
 
THE WEE HERD LADDIE. 69 
 
 Oh, what is wealth e’en at the best, 
 If heart’s affections centre there ; 
 
 It robs us of true peace and rest, 
 Of woman’s love and tender care. 
 
 Now frae this tale their is a lesson, 
 Which teaches maidens how to acts 1 
 Ne’er court a stranger’s soft caressing, 
 Though dressed in boots and dandy hat. 
 
 THE WEE HERD LADDIE. 
 
 Our readers must know that we had a granny who has been intro- 
 duced into more than one of these sketches, from whom we doubtless 
 inherit that kind of superstitious reverence for old songs and old stories 
 of a certain kind; indeed a treasure trove to us, rubbing up as it did 
 “many of our earliest associations, and reviving many recollections, that 
 have for long been laid up, as it were, in the lumber house of memory. 
 
 Oh, blessed be the hours in the year thirty-nine, 
 . Fond fancy lingers o’er the scenes 0’ langsyne ; 
 
 Where lang luggit laddie in coat o’ rough blue, 
 
 Was rapt in musings herding auld granny’s cow. 
 
 What weird like auld stories did granny narrate, 
 And proved by her doctrine man fixed to his fate ; 
 Unless special blessings were showered on his pow, 
 His doom seemed a mystery as herding the cow. 
 
 By the banks o’ the Blane, as musing the while, 
 Looks up to Heaven then with a sweet smile ; 
 In deep meditation did his bible review, 
 
 For a phase in its pages, thus herding the cow. 
 
70 
 
 THE WEE HERD LADDIE, 
 
 As he lay on the banks 0’ that moss coloured stream, . 
 
 How strange were the images full in his dream, 
 Men reviling each other who should brothers be true, 
 Oft puzzled his young mind whilst herding the cow. 
 
 Amidst a’ his dreamings he couldna foresee, - 
 The changes o’ fortune has had since to dree, 
 Through life’s journey kept this maxim in view, 
 The leal, kind instruction whilst herding the cow. 
 
 In innocent bliss the wee herd laddie’s mind, 
 Kens na the wiles o’ life’s deep vices refined ; 
 
 By traditions, witch stories, songs, not a few, 
 His mind’s turned big herding auld granny’s cow. 
 
 Though great little men in authority stride, 
 Commanding minions wi’ imperious pride, 
 
 His boundless ambition, and a’ carried through, 
 Lacks life’s enjoyment herding auld granny’s cow. — 
 
 Then oh, for the hours and that sacred spot, 
 Remembrance clings to thee thou fair Kittlegoat, 
 Where lang luggit laddie in coat o’ rough blue, 
 Ate bread o’ contentment thus herding the cow. 
 
LUCY ORMSBY. 
 
 A tale of the Clyde. | 
 
 “The heart that once truly loves never forgets, 
 But as truly loves on to the close.” 
 
 Moors. 
 
 Oh, once the gentle Lucy lived 
 Upon the banks of Clyde, 
 
 Meet offspring of a mother’s love, 
 A father’s boast and pride. 
 
 In yon cot in fair Glengyle, 
 Remote from every care ; 
 
 The kindly heart and cheering smile, 
 The family friendship share. 
 
 "Twas there, in hours of innocence, 
 Mid youths gay pleasures then ; 
 
 Our youngsters roamed ‘mong heathy hills, 
 Each wild and woody glen. 
 
 But later years have changed the scene, 
 Yet lovers still are true; 
 
 Sherwood was a manly youth, 
 And Lucy loved him too. 
 
 His words, how soft, inspires the theme, 
 Thus sped gay happy hours ; 
 
 As each revealed romantic dreams, 
 Among the wild spring flowers. 
 
 Young Sherwood, gay hearted youth, 
 With mutual love in view ; 
 Disclosed the secret of his heart, 
 In language warm and true. 
 
 71 
 
72 
 
 LUCY ORMSBY. 
 
 His peace and rest, alas, were gone, et 
 
 Her pity would command ; 
 Oh, Lucy grant the dearest wish, 
 With heart and willing hand. 
 
 The thought affects my trembling heart, 
 Young Lucy thus replied: 
 
 This fleeting world I’d dauntless brave, 
 With Sherwood by my side. 
 
 How blest that young and happy pair, ¥ 
 From care and sorrow free; 
 The future, though they can’t divine, 
 Will share its destiny. 
 
 The happy day at last arrives, 
 
 And on the village green; 
 The joyous party with their friends, 
 - In harmony convene. 
 
 Where skilful music’s lively strain, - 
 Beguile the lightsome hours ; 
 
 The smiling pair in waltzing train, 
 Proclaim, the dance is ours. 
 
 The wedding o’er, the happy pair — 
 Find in a sheltered spot, 
 
 A home to spend the bridal hours, 
 Within a highland cot. 
 
 - Transporting hours of love’s best hope, 
 
 Thou canst not last for aye; 
 Like cooing of the turtle dove, 
 Or summer pass away. 
 
LUCY ORMSBY. 73 
 
 Hours flew past and years rolled on, 
 Yet still they happier grew ; 
 
 For in each other’s hearts they lived, 
 Nor guile nor malice knew. 
 
 But when brown autumn’s season came, 
 They sought a change of scene ; 
 
 Once more to wiew the highland hills, 
 And castles decked in green. 
 
 Ah, soon November’s sad brown leaf, 
 Brought desolation here ; 
 
 And now that fair and lovely face 
 A thoughtful aspect wears. 
 
 The hectic flush, the hollow cough, 
 Tell true she’s goiug fast ; 
 
 A few months more, yea, by the spring, 
 Her earthly joys are past, 
 
 "T'was true, for on an April morn, 
 Poor Lucy’s spirit fled ; 
 
 Those eyes that once in lustre shone, 
 Are closed among the dead. 
 
 And as she sleeps the sleep of death, 
 In yon churchyard drear ; 
 
 Etranger should’st thou seek her grave, 
 To her memory drop a tear. 
 
7h 
 
 FRIENDLY EPISTLE TO Mr. R. P. B., 
 EDINBURGH. mae 
 
 Dear friend, I have at last got time 
 
 To write a verse or twa o’ rhyme, 
 Frae Teviot’s bonnie banks ; — 
 
 And for past favours on your part, 
 
 I pray accept from grateful heart, 
 
 My humble warmest thanks. 
 
 Be aye a friend through friendships dear,- — 
 In candour speak thy thoughts sincere, 
 
 Throughout life's bustling scene ; 
 And midst misfortune’s sullen blow, ~* 
 Still stoop to feel for others’ woe, 
 
 To feckless ever lean. 
 
 Since last we met, would you believe 
 That oft at times I lonely grieve, 
 O’er cronies that are gane ; 
 Ance happy o’er their baps and jill, 
 As for their sangs I hear them still, 
 The soft pathetic strain. 
 
 Hawick mourns their loss richt weel ye ken, 
 For they were wale o’ honest men, 
 With feelings leal and true; 
 ' Who could our fancy draw at will, — 
 As if by some rare magic skill, _ 
 Sic sterling friends are few. 
 
 Auld Hawick toon in beauty drest, 
 Throughout the border ’tis confessed, 
 Scarce can find a marrow; 
 
FRIENDLY EPISTLE. 
 
 For manly sons and daughters fair, 
 There’s few wi her can now compare, 
 "Tween the Esk and Yarrow. 
 
 Hach spot within our border land, 
 
 Our admiration can-ccommand, 
 Which Scottish annals tell; 
 
 May honoured festival each year, 
 
 Be sacred to each ‘*‘Callant” dear, 
 Who’s sires fought and fell. 
 
 Now dear friend to change the theme, 
 Oh, for a day by Esk’s clear stream, 
 Or Wearie’s lonely well; 
 Where the primrose and the lily fair, 
 Their fragrance yield to balmy air, 
 In fancy’s painted dell. 
 
 Or roam out oer the Pentland hill, 
 Hear music frae each gentle rill, 
 From cascade descending ; 
 The wailing note of wild curlew, 
 That heavenward doe its course pursue, 
 Its lightsome wing extending. 
 
 I covet not, nor riches want, 
 
 Would Heaven one wish but kindly grant, 
 A mind both pure and free; 
 
 With passions still unmixed with pride, — 
 
 The wants of nature thus supplied, 
 Ambition’s nought to me. 
 
 Rare blessings to us mortals sent, 
 In meditation and content, 
 Those blessings we will prize ; 
 
 (6 
 
76 
 
 FRIENDLY EPISTLE. 
 
 nee 3 
 
 Vain man possessions may display, 
 
 Yet my eye rare objects can survey, — 
 
 Works of the truly wise. 
 
 In nature’s looks we there behold, 
 The blue sky tinted o’er with gold, 
 Inspires my humble lay ; 
 According io ereation’s plan, — | 
 To please the eye.and heart of man, 
 And cheer us on our way. 
 
 Though each a varied course pursue, 
 Yet one blest aim still keep in view, 
 Our heart love to employ ; 
 
 And though we meet with cankered strife, | 
 Yet all that’s truly good in life - 
 
 Is what all may enjoy. 
 
 So now, dear friend, I’ll drop the pen, 
 And wish you weel at your fire-en’, 
 Including wife and wean; 
 
 Heaven shower blessings on your pow, 
 
 Through this your pilgrimage below, 
 I'll close, and say amen. — 
 
 ° e 
 
 - nee 
 Sy vee ee 
 
’ | , (7 
 Mr. FULTON’S EPISTLE TO THE AUTHOR. 
 Kelvinside, Glasgow, May, 1870. 
 
 Frae Mungo’s toon I send this letter, 
 And hope and trust to find you better ; 
 <A verse or twa o’ rhyming matter, 
 i Herewith I send ye; 
 In honest phrase I winna flatter, 
 May grace attend ye. 
 
 Then Robie, frien’ to me you'll be, 
 Although your face I neer should see, 
 The sure cement 0 poetry 
 Shall join us twa ; 
 In fancy I shake hands with thee, 
 Though far awa’. 
 
 Oh, could I climb Parnassus height, 
 Wy vigorous strides o’ fancy’s flight, 
 I try it oft wi a’ my might, 
 But often stumble ; 
 What then, I’m but a rhyming wight, 
 And should be humble. 
 
 Or could I paint the scenes like Burns, 
 
 And gie my rhymes his natural turns, 
 
 Frae the daisy sweet to waving ferns, 
 Id sing their praise ; 
 
 Oh, how my inmost nature yearns, 
 For lyric lays. 
 
 Or had I Shakespeare’s ready wit, 
 There are some things I’d boldly hit ; 
 
EPISTLE TO THE AUTHOR. 
 
 A selfish class I’d shift a bit, 
 
 There wad be spaces ; 
 But what if sterling men mair fit, 
 Did fill their places. 
 
 The pen’s mair powerful than the sword, 
 On that same fact I'll stake my word; 
 Tis little time I can afford, 
 
 To try its might ; 
 0’ cares we need to cut the cord, 
 
 To do things right. ~ 
 
 Then, honest Rob, may peace attend, 
 And providence aye plenty send, 
 And may hae something still to lend, 
 To them wha need; 
 And blessings on your head descend, 
 For ilk good deed. 
 
 And may your friends aye happy be, 
 
 Luxuriant bloom the family tree, 
 
 And ilka branch mair pleasure gie, 
 With cheering rays ; 
 
 And happy blest your hearth may be, 
 To latest days. 
 
 Then may ye act upon life’s stage, 
 
 Until ye reach a good auld age, 
 
 And then your lays in printed page 
 Be handed doon; 
 
 The heart’s best feelings thus engage, 
 To mony a tune. 
 
 
 
THE ANSWER. 
 
 ‘Summer Smiles” and ‘Auld Plum Tree” 
 
 Are tauld by you right faithfully ; 
 
 And “ Bairnie’s Grave” sae pensively, 
 Midst sorrows feeling, 
 
 Aft brings the tear frae Martha's e’e, 
 Plain truth revealing. 
 
 Then Robie dinna quit the quill, 
 
 But use it with a poet's skill; 
 
 And may your lines hae power to thrill, 
 Like some by Milton; 
 
 I sigu myself wi’ right goodwill, 
 Your friend, Sam Fulton. 
 
 THE ANSWER. 
 
 June, 1870. 
 
 Dear friend, I got your welcome letter, 
 And must confess I stand your debtor ; 
 Yon poem fu’ o’ rhyming matter, 
 
 Is worth preserving ; 
 But oh, I fear you really flatter 
 
 Your humble servant. 
 
 In humming o’er my simple sang, 
 
 AS passions powers aye move alang ; 
 
 I try it whiles, be’t right or wrang, 
 Prompted by nature ; 
 
 And hail such friend this world amang, 
 O’ kindred feature. 
 
80 
 
 THE ANSWER. 
 
 Oft fancy westward takes its flight, 
 
 To spend with you a social night, 
 
 With crack or sang, rare image bright, 
 In yon gay city; 
 
 Where splendour dazzles plebian wight, 
 Midst sights sae pretty. 
 
 Oh. waesocks me how life’s divided, 
 Some hae wealth that canna guide it, 
 And sic as me are ill provided 
 To warstle through, 
 By some ill fate, we must abide it, 
 Seems just our due. 
 
 The shuttle plys with earnest speed, . 
 
 To win our little bairns’ bread ; 
 
 And oh, ye ken there's nae remede, 
 But work and toil; 
 
 A parent's cares are great indeed, 
 Tae mak’ porridge boil. 
 
 Oft hae I thought and think it still, 
 
 As trudging up life’s weary hill, 
 
 Some great wise purpose to fulfil, 
 Fa’s to our lot ; 
 
 Though I must own for lack o’ skill, 
 Wear threadbare coat. 
 
 Though gifts and comforts are but few, 
 Let friendship still her course pursue, 
 In Heavenly aspirations true, 
 
 Thus brightly shine ; 
 And future years our trust renew, 
 
 And hearts entwine. 
 
STANZAS. 81 
 
 When flowers adorn the mountain side, 
 Where Endrick’s waters softly glide, 
 Or aiblins by the banks o’ Clyde, 
 Some day or other, 
 I'll shake your hand in manly pride, 
 Frien’, bard, or brother. 
 
 May He who guides the stars aboon, 
 
 Provide you health, and claes, and shoon,. 
 
 And Martha aye new fashion’s gown, 
 To deck her braw, 
 
 Is the heart-felt wish o’ Muse’s son, 
 That's far awa’, 
 
 STANZAS, 
 
 On visiting Langholm and its surroundings, June, 1878. 
 
 The day was dark, our hopes forlorn, 
 The wind in fitful gusts was borne, 
 The mist did spread o’er Cowie’s thorn, 
 Its mantle grey ; 
 To Jamie's ha’ we did adjourn, 
 To spend the day. 
 
 Kindest welcome Jamie gies us, 
 And in each strait tries to please us ; 
 Should the cauld or ague seize us, 
 Brings bottle ben ; 
 Generous feelings which amaze us, 
 Scarce found in men. 
 
 The mirth and music in the room, 
 - Dispels the sullen hours 0’ gloom ; 
 F 
 
$2 
 
 ~ And Davie gets his whip in hand, a 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 The day gets clear, the time is come, 
 We must prepare 
 
 To taste life's treasures in their bloom— 
 Pure health and air. 
 
 
 
 Draws forth the drosky frae its stand, 
 Then off we gae a jovial band, 
 To Woodhouselea ; 
 To view the scenes both rich and grand, 
 In fair Canonbie. 
 
 We pass each cot and scented thorn, 
 Whose fragrance to the Heavens is borne, 
 Our drosky speeds wi’ mony a turn, 
 O’er banks and braes ; 
 Until we reach where Glinger Burn 
 Meandering strays. 
 
 Old friendships are renewed again, 
 
 And warm affections herewith reign ; 
 
 For those whom death has snatched and ta’en, 
 Frae Glinger Burn, 
 
 Alas, alas, we mourn in vain, 
 They’ll ne’er return. 
 
 From thence we reach Gilnockie’s tower, 
 Where Armstrong once in pride and power, 
 The Borderland did nightly scour, 
 In search of cattle; 
 Where riever chiefs oft paid the score, 
 Through dint of battle. 
 
THE LOST HEIR, 
 
 Next find the Shouther’s cozy den, 
 Three Robies meet an hour to spend, 
 Glen Tarras inspiration lends 
 To song and story ; 
 - What desertations pass on men, 
 | Baith whig and Lory. 
 
 Ye scenes 0’ Tarras, Esk, and Ewes, 
 True subjects meet for ony muse, 
 A sweet retreat for some recluse 
 From city’s din; 
 In future walks I'll think on those, 
 And Jamie’s inn. 
 
 And should I meet you once again, 
 Though life were sinking in the wane, 
 From dark’ning sky or drizzling rain, 
 | Hae better luck ; 
 A kindly welcome still maintain, 
 Within the Buck. 
 
 THE LOST HEIR OF BOWHAN. 
 
 Let poets choose some happy theme, 
 *Bout spreading birks and roses; . 
 And follow flight in fancy’s whim, 
 Where nature soft reposes. 
 
 And as they sing of nature’s sweets, 
 Of hawthorn blossoms hoary ; 
 
 The heart in rapture seems to greet 
 Those scenes in pristine glory. 
 

 
 THE LOST HEIR. 
 
 The subject which I here narrate, 
 Upon fair truth is founded ; 
 
 Which in my youth may freely state, 
 Were by facts surrounded. 
 
 Miss Flora had got wed, ’twas said, 
 Beneath the family station, 
 
 And lost her interest in Bowhan, ~ 
 A grief to each relation. 
 
 Her husband died, she lonely lived 
 Near St. Leonard’s by the sea ; 
 
 In widowed weeds she pined and grieved, 
 
 Till death changed her destiny. 
 
 She had one son, a manly youth, 
 Once object of a mother’s care ; 
 
 Ambitious still for future fame, — 
 Highest honours wished to share. 
 
 With this in view, had gone abroad, 
 To serve his country and his king ; 
 
 In lightsome heart and full of hope, 
 Hours flew pas on rapid wing. 
 
 He fought beneath a sultry: sky, 
 In war field on the plain; 7!" 
 
 And well could tell of saddening ‘sights, 
 Among wounded and the slain. 
 
 And through each scene and din of war, 
 His feelings sought happy home; 
 
 Sweet Endrick vale and Craigton shaw, 
 Where fancy delights to roam. 
 
 = x 
 és ae ors 
 oe ee 
 
THE LOST HEIR. 85 
 
 And tired at last of foreign strand, 
 
 - Returned to fair Scotia’s shore ; 
 
 And bade farewell to sunny climes, 
 Bustling camp and cannon’s roar. 
 
 And thus the captaincy sold out, 
 Retired to fair Clutha’s vale ; 
 And in seclusion passed the hours, 
 
 In a cottage in the dell. 
 
 Amidst the quiet of rural life, 
 Sad news had reached his ear; 
 
 A maternal aunt had ceased to live, 
 And now changed is his career. 
 
 Miss Betty once held queenly sway, 
 With her ‘servants at command ; 
 And ranked as charming lady gay, 
 
 And loved mistress of Bowhan. 
 
 Thus to the social scenes of life, 
 And to each friend bade farewell ; 
 And calmly closed her eyes in death, 
 No more with those friends to dwell. 
 
 But ere she parted from this life, 
 A lawyer he made a willl, 
 
 That one De Grieve, a merchant prince, 
 Duties of a squire should fill. 
 
 This stranger sues for the domain, 
 Its woods, walks, and fertile land ; 
 
 Usurping seeks for to maintain 
 Rights and privilege of Bowhan. 
 
86 
 
 THE LOST HEIR. 
 
 Now lawyers o’er each case grow fat, 
 Whilst their clients now turn poor ; - 
 
 One day succes looks fairly bright, 
 Another, looks quite obseure. 
 
 Days, weeks, and even months roll on, 
 And in litigation still ; 
 
 And though the heir was sister’s son, 
 The merchant can show the will. 
 
 From lower to the higher courts, 
 The case slowly makes its way ; 
 
 And by the lapse of years they had 
 Heavy ransoms each to pay. 
 
 And young Sir James, now heir-at-law, 
 Through kind fortune leads the van ; 
 
 And by instructions from the court, 
 Takes possession of Bowhan. 
 
 And to abide within the hall, 
 Till all things were made square; + 
 Nor injure ought within the walls, 
 There to live with frugal care. 
 
 Alas ! temptation crossed his path, 
 To gain funds conceived a plan; 
 
 A woodman brought with skill and a 
 To cut the elms of Bowhan. 
 
 Now far and wide the news had spread, 
 And the minions of the law | 
 
 Thus marched Sir James to Stirling jail, 
 -As if he were some outlaw. 
 
 ag 
 
 
 
i A eoe 
 
 TO W—. L—., JEDBURGH. 87 
 
 His spirit sank, his head bowed down, 
 Hach day drooped in slow decay ; 
 His highest wish, his brightest dreams, 
 
 Like his life did pass away. 
 
 Typhoid fever seized his frame, ! 
 A few months hence brought life’s close, 
 And there beside the grey clad tower, 
 The lost heir finds calm repose. 
 
 [o.W-. L——, JEDBURGH, 
 
 Here, may health and friendship, wan 
 And a’ that’ s guid attend ye; 
 Nor dool nor’ sorrow enter, Wat, 
 The hame/that fate does lend ye. 
 May the powers wisdom send ye, 
 Gie ye flash o’ wit galore, 
 To cure frail suffering mania, 
 When hirpling round yer door. 
 
 And may some hizzie be yer lot, 
 Joy o’ life, a family treasure, 
 
 To tend the interest o’ yer cot, 
 In love’s true contented pleasure ; 
 
 Till your happiness in measure, 
 Thus be fully running o’er ; 
 
 And pass latest years in pleasure, 
 Till ye reach ayont three-score. 
 
 And as ye journey on through life, 
 With haifets lean and hair turned hoar, 
 
88 
 
 LINES 
 
 LINES TO A FRIEND. 
 
 May never ought engender strife, 
 But happily court poetic lore. 
 
 Should honest poortith reach yer door, — 
 Hae aye a something for to spare ; 
 
 Then when life’s done, aloft to soar 
 To where there’s neither grief nor care. 
 
 TO A FRIEND IN GALASHIELS. 
 
 Dear friend, now listen while I sing, 
 Those few verses rough and rude; 
 A solace whiles sic verses bring, 
 To cheer the hours o’ solitude. 
 
 We've bards at last, plain truth to tell, 
 Wi sparks o’ wit beneath their bonnet ; 
 An hour or twa they oft times kill 
 In rhyming o’er a Scottish sonnet. 
 
 Scotia now may boast indeed, 
 
 O’ mony ‘sons weel versed in rhyme ; 
 While other lands she far exceeds 
 In tender pathos and sublime. 
 
 For me, I’m but a wabster poor, 
 Sma’ pretence to reach Parnassus ; 
 Cauld poverty maun still endure, 
 And plod my way ’mong the masses. 
 
 Then blessings on the darling muse, 
 Lang may local bards defend her ; 
 She sympathises with our race, 
 
 And keeps the heart soft and tender. 
 
 
 
TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE J. F. 
 
 Methinks I ken a poet’s love, 
 
 And warm wish for human nature ; 
 Hach generous action seems to prove 
 Kindred feeling with the creature. 
 
 Now I maun close my rhyming theme, 
 Wish ye every joy and pleasure ; 
 May she the mistress 0’ yer hame, 
 
 Be a sacred household treasure. 
 
 And should we meet on Gala’s banks, 
 To spend an-hour wi’ each other ; 
 
 I'll shake thy hands in friendly grasp, 
 Accept my thanks, worthy brother. 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE J. F. 
 
 Once lived in this terrestrial scene, 
 
 The indulging parent ever kind ; 
 
 And he who writes the painful dirge, 
 Lacked wisdom and his wit refined. 
 
 As from its source, yon mountain stream, 
 Pure and unsullied, onward flows ; 
 
 So his kind nature in its every aim, 
 
 True friendship’s sympathies disclose. 
 
 He wished man in a fit position, 
 In social science to find a place ; 
 He had one true and great ambition, 
 To regenerate the human race.. 
 
90 
 
 FALSE FRIENDSHIPS. 
 
 His was a meek and gentle mind, 
 No pomp nor ostentatious show; 
 
 Rare talents bad, and might have shone, 
 Modesty forbade the world to know. 
 
 FALSE FRIENDSHIPS. 
 
 My faithful muse, pray condescend 
 
 To. aid our powers, thy council lend, 
 
 That sense and reason both may blend 
 In humble verse, 
 
 Facts, though few minds may comprehend, 
 And even rehearse. 
 
 Amid the varied scenes of life, _ 
 We find false friendship ever rife; 
 Concocter fell of secret strife, 
 Vile course pursuing, 
 Oft severs ties ‘tween man and wife— 
 A family ruin. 
 
 I’ve seen the fop with opera glass, 
 Disdain your presence as you pass, 
 A brainless coxcomb—’mong his class, 
 By them thought clever ; 
 In deep-set schemes, alas! alas ! 
 An arch deceiver. 
 
 With yellow kids and cane in hand, 
 
 And ready smile at your command ; 
 
 With air both dignified and grand, 
 In fashion drest, 
 
 5 
 oe 
 G 
 a 
 te 
 Pe. 
 
 
 
FALSE FRIENDSHIPS. — 91 
 
 How slow indeed to understand— 
 A worm at best. 
 
 And she, fair maid of sweet eighteen, 
 
 The luring world had never seen, . 
 
 From mother’s home had scarcely been 
 One gay summer ;, | 
 
 Nor dreamt of mankind’s wilés I ween, 
 Nor artful glamour. 
 
 Fair object of a mother’s prayer, 
 Whose kindred sympathy does share ; 
 Once cradled, nursed, with tender care, 
 To a mother’s song ; 
 Now victim to seducer’s snare, 
 And/ artful tongue. 
 
 Ah! little did that mother ken 
 
 The future fate of maids and men; 
 
 A happy family once of ten 
 Tossed here and there— 
 
 Far from the joyous ingle end, 
 And father’s prayer. 
 
 May Heaven’s bliss that mother shield, 
 Whose offspring fell in battle field; 
 His life a sacrifice did yield 
 Where cannons roar ; 
 No more he'll warlike weapons wield 
 On Afric’s shore. 
 
 “T’ve seen the friend in holy zeal 
 To your best nature thus appeal, 
 
92 
 
 FALSE FRIENDSHIPS. 
 
 Whose heart's affections seemed sae leal, 
 Both true and kind ; 
 
 Some sinister motive turns the scale— 
 He’s false you'll find. 
 
 Or should’st. thou bask in fortune’s rays, — 
 
 You'll friendship find in every phase, __ 
 
 That will your every foible praise, _ 
 Nor ought deride ye; 
 
 But should misfortune change the ai 
 Then woe betide ye. 
 
 Perchance there’s one among the rest, 
 That still stands true to honour’s test, 
 Within an honest, manly breast 
 | The heart sincere 
 Can feel for those by care oppressed, 
 With pity’s tear. 
 
 May he, the bard whose rustic lay, 
 
 Our varied moods would thus portray, 
 
 From rectitude nor honour stray, 
 Applause to gain ; 
 
 Thus seek new mercies day by day), 
 Nor seek in vain. 
 
93 
 
 LINES 
 
 From’,Mr. May, Music Teacher, Glasgow. 
 
 From Laurieston where I reside, 
 
 In modern Florence on the Clyde, 
 Respected friend, here at once sir, 
 
 Send this ready rhyming answer ; 
 
 In which Miss Thomson and Miss Steel 
 Send compliments and wish you weel ; 
 Lang spared with joyous, happy days 
 
 _ Amang Glengowan’s broomy braes, 
 And wish you may still inherit 
 
 *Mong blest things rare sparks 0’ merit ; 
 Command esteem and due regard, | 
 The poet's best and true reward. 
 
 Of concert’s, need I state the fact 
 
 That Templeton, by genuine tact, 
 
 Can draw a house and make it ring ; 
 You'd gang a mile to hear him sing. 
 And Wilson, minstrel of the north, 
 
 His name and fame shall aye go forth ; 
 Whose matchless powers record the man 
 As king among the songster clan. 
 
 And lastly, with best wishes true, 
 
 May Heavenly blessings be yer due; 
 Where’er yer wandering footstep strays, 
 Your future bright with happy days. 
 And now dear friend those lines excuse, 
 As I’m nae offspring of the muse ; 
 Should chance direct your steps this way, 
 You'll find a friend in brother May. 
 
94 
 
 THE ANSWER. 
 
 Hail! honest friendly Jamie May, 
 How sweet to spend a summer day 
 By verdant vale or flowery brae, 
 Or wimplin’ burn ; 
 Where blackbird tunes its gratefu’ lay 
 Frae aged thorn. 
 
 With strappin’ damsel by your side, 
 
 To walk erect in manly pride ; 
 
 Yon matchless fair one 0’ the Clyde, 
 In stature queenly ; 
 
 Ina yer walks a Heavenly guide 
 
 That smiles serenely. 
 
 ‘Life’s fleeting joys to memory dear, 
 
 As when love tales fa’ on the ear ; 
 
 There with the maid in love sincere, 
 Hours pass along ; 
 
 To sing their charms I yet can spare 
 A simple sang. 
 
 Yon happy night, I mind it -weel, 
 
 Along with you and brother Beal, 
 
 And Miss Robina Clara Steel, 
 Blessings on it ; 
 
 Your servant yet in rapture feels 
 Song and sonnet. 
 
 “‘ Within Edina’s toon a mile” 
 Was sung in sic bewitching style, 
 
THE ANSWER. 95 
 
 That art and nature seemed the while 
 Rarely blended ; 
 
 Appollo with his gracious smile 
 Did befriend it. 
 
 I thank you for your rhyming lay, 
 A sense of worth it does convey ; 
 A souvenir from brother May ; 
 To memory dear ; 
 My homage thus I fain would pay 
 With) heart sincere. 
 
 I long to touch the Heavenly lyre, 
 Wi’ sparks 0’ nature’s living fire ; 
 Happily blest wi’ true desire 
 For others’ weal ; 
 Thus nature’s best noblest hire, 
 Pure thoughts to feel. 
 
 And should we meet in your proud city, 
 To hear your crack or some love ditty, 
 Wi wondrous words, wise and witty, 
 As we forgather ; 
 I'll pledge your health in aqua vite, 
 «. My trusty brither. 
 
 Then, Jamie, lastly, in conclusion, 
 
 I trust those lines are no intrusion ; 
 
 May peace and joy be no illusion, 
 But facts that’s true ; 
 
 I hasten sign amid confusion, 
 Your friead—adieu, 
 
96 
 
 THE RETALIATION—A SATIRE. 
 
 The bee’s defence lies in its sting, 
 The poet’s in his pen ; 
 
 Bulls do stick and horses fling, 
 When they’re assailed by men. 
 
 Hail! chieftan of the mighty clan, 
 Hech how, Geordie; . 
 
 Thou wondrous clever little man, 
 Hech how, Geordie ; 
 
 , Whom billy Jock and twa three mair, 
 
 Bestow on you their friendly care, 
 
 O’ sic fause friendships then beware ; 
 Hech how, Geordie. 
 
 You do your best wi mony a whid, 
 Hech how, Geordie ; 
 Your jokes are stale and often rude, 
 Hech how, Geordie ; 
 With fiendish mind and subtle tongue, 
 You stand umpire wi’ auld and young; 
 Great hero thus to live unsung, 
 Hech how, Geornie. 
 
 Of Jeffrey's powers, aud those of Swift, 
 Hech how, Geordie ; 
 In self esteem you hae some gift, 
 Hech how, George ; 
 To raise some wight to future fame, 
 Who but for thee had ne’er a name ; 
 Ye critics censure not nor blame 
 Our friend Geordie. 
 
THE RETALIATION. my 0 97 32) 
 
 Oh, list the magic o’ your strain, 
 Hech how, Geordie ; 
 Make feckless bodies fidge and fain, 
 Hech how, Geordie ; 
 Yon rustic wight who courts the lyre 
 Enraptured feels his soul inspired, 
 Though verses lack poetic fire ; 
 Hech how, Geordie. 
 
 Your generous service to your race, 
 Hech how, Geordie, 
 
 Is labour lost fraught wi’ disgrace, 
 Hech how, Geordie ; 
 
 With aspirations to be great, 
 
 I see your summons, read your fate, 
 
 Auld Nick is waiting at your gate, 
 Hech how, Geordie. 
 
 And when ye reach auld Clootie’s den, 
 Hech how, Geordie ; 
 
 You'll hae some chance to wield the pen, 
 Hech how, Geordie ; 
 
 Scribble to the deil’s dictation, 
 
 Vaunting o’er your h—h station, 
 
 Amidst roars 0’ wild d n; 
 Hech how, Geordie. 
 
 
 
 Farewell, my unrelentless lay, 
 Hech how, Geordie ; 
 ’Tis said each dog lives but his day, 
 Hech how, Geordie ; 
 G 
 
98 SUMMER MUSINGS. 
 
 And when you bid farewell to time, 
 Who'll sing thy dirge in broken rhyme; 
 Mystery ridiculous and sublime, 
 
 Hech how, Geordie. 
 
 SUMMER MUSINGS AMONG THE BARDS. 
 
 The modest primrose on mossy bank 
 
 Lent forth sweetness to its native air, — 
 
 And honeysuckle and sweet briar bush 
 Bloomed gay to enhance a scene so fair. 
 
 By fair Leven’s banks those joys to share, 
 Where sweet Rothas formed a verdant glade ; 
 Beneath Sol’s beams in bright sunny rays, 
 Thus a bard sought shelter in the shade. 
 
 ’T was here, pensive, in a musing mood, 
 
 His dreamy thoughts still fall back on those 
 Country’s wrongs, and ill requited sons— 
 On them his imagination rose. 
 
 And thus pondering o’er departed sons, 
 Men of genius and time honoured worth ; 
 As inspired, and in a genial mood, 
 Soliloquising, the bard broke forth. 
 
 Caledonia, theme of many a muse, 
 
 To many a muse thou hast been cold, 
 Thy stern reproach and withering look 
 Still falls sad on those outside thy fold. 
 
SUMMER MUSINGS. 99 
 
 How blest are those whom rare fortune guards, 
 And protected by a patron’s name ; 
 
 Whilst fame delayed, yet may fall to those 
 Whom death’s cold hand does kindly claim. 
 
 And thou Bruce, Kinnesswood's pious bard, 
 Oft as I think, musing o’er thy fate, 
 
 This cold world knew not one half thy worth, 
 Thy glowing genius nor mind so great. 
 
 And as yon lightning’s pale glaring flash 
 
 Oft precedes the midnight tempest’s roar, 
 
 Thy powers dazzle each succeeding race, 
 
 > . And now Scotia mourns—can she do more? 
 
 Ferguson, Edina’s rare gifted son, 
 
 Once bard of hope, and of many fears ; 
 Hapless youth, amidst life’s social scenes, 
 Could thy heart still brave a mother’s tears ? 
 I sigh for a tribute to thy muse, 
 
 Thus to. sing thy worth and lowly fate, 
 
 H’en pastoral Ramsay must give place, 
 
 And bow before Ferguson the great. 
 
 Confiding Goldsmith, generous and kind, 
 
 Thy large heart shared fellow creatures’ woes ; 
 Oft pale misery’s sad and bitter plaint 
 
 Claimed thy faith and friendship till life’s close, 
 With pleasing eye oft times scan the page 
 Where sweet virtue blooms and vice does fail, 
 When thy fancy did exalt its flight, 
 
 Conldst paint in verse or adorn a tale, 
 
100 
 
 SUMMER MUSINGS. 
 
 Thou soul entrancing immortal Burns, 
 Prince potent among the rhyming race ; 
 Thou shouldst had niche in yonder hall, 
 Where the first of genius finds a place. 
 Thy vigorous and independent mind, 
 
 Thy pith of sense and rare power of rhyme 
 Show forth thy great and presaging power ; 
 Thou lived’st a century before thy time. 
 
 Oh, could my muse but exalt her flight, 
 
 Thus to sing of Byron and of Greece ; 
 
 Whose fervoured soul and each warm impulse, 
 Still to raise the wretched neer did cease. __ 
 Thus to reflect on thy happy home, 
 
 For thy Ada still did thee adore ; . 
 And the fate of which thou could’st, not brook 
 Gave place to pride on a distant shore. 
 
 Tom Moore, thy verses chaste and graceful, 
 Still softly steal o’er the well strung ear ; 
 
 Thy sonnets rich in power and pathos, 
 
 Might suit the peasant, the prince, or peer. 
 Thy country hails thee bard of Hrin, 
 
 Shall deck thy bust by fair virtue’s queen; 
 Thy name shall find an acclamation 
 
 Through Phoenix Park or St. Stephen’s Green. 
 
 Could I command both wealth and power, - 
 Or man’s best efforts pure thoughts succeed ; — 
 I should ne’er neglect the humble bard, 
 
 But feel heart respond unto the deed, 
 
LINES. | | ee, (hee. 
 
 And thou sweet minstrel, famed Tannahill, 
 Scotia knew thee not till thou wert gone; 
 And now pensive kneels and owns her fault, 
 For past neglect gives her son a stone. 
 
 Then farewell ye bards, a long farewell, 
 For the sun’s receding from my sight. 
 Ye mossy bowers and sweet leafy flowers, 
 
 IT now bid you all good night, good night. 
 Nature wearied seeks her calm repose, 
 And woodland songsters have found their nest ; 
 With measured footsteps as homeward goes, 
 The Bard sought solace in a night of rest. 
 
 ' LINES TO A FRIEND IN SELKIRK. 
 
 Now Jamie, my friend, good counsel attend, 
 And listen to what I will say ; 
 
 "Tis better far to leave publican’s bar, 
 And doon by the Yarrow to stray. 
 
 Or seek the lone shade where minstrel is laid. 
 Remote from great bustle and din ; 
 
 Enlighten the mind in thoughts still refined, 
 Above selfishness, sorrow, or sin. 
 
 Yon clear running rill descends from the hill, 
 * So cool and refreshing to nature, 
 
 True pleasures are found and kindness abounds, 
 From the Giver of good to the creature. 
 
 From each wiling snare, Jamie beware, 
 For this world’s a puzzle to some, 
 
 On book or on friend on whom to depend, 
 Gives comfort and pleasure at home. 
 
 4 
 
102 
 
 THE FORSAKEN GRAVE, 
 
 Loud howls the wind o'er yon green grave, 
 To mea sacred lonely spot, 
 
 Where lowly lies the dear remains 
 
 Of one who ne’er can be forgot. 
 
 As musing by the lonely spot, : 
 
 Fancy paints the flowery lea. 
 
 The blackbird’s sweet and thrilling note, 
 But all seems dull and sad to me. 
 
 No more the winning voice I’ll hear, — 
 
 Like music floating on the air. 
 
 Methinks a voice falls on mine ear, 
 And tells the bliss that thou dost share. 
 
 Then why thus mourn departed friends ? 
 Life's but a shadow at the best. 
 
 I'll follow on to brighter scenes, 
 
 Where weary find a home of rest. 
 
 TO OUR SENATORS. 
 
 Great Shakspeare says this world’s a stage, 
 On which life’s actors play their part, 
 Whose names shall find a deathless page 
 
 In Science, Literature, and Art. . 
 ’Mongst men who guide the bark of State, 
 And legislate for human weal, 
 
 We find vast powers and genius great 
 
 In Bright, in Gladstone, and in Peel. 
 
THOUGHTS IN THE MANNER OF BYRON. 
 
 Those were men of strong resolve, 
 Whom party never could condemn, 
 Caused enterprise and trade to move, 
 And stamped their worth to latest fame. 
 While this world on its axis moves, 
 
 A grateful race will ever feel 
 
 They but honour true genius great, 
 
 In Bright, in Gladstone, and in Peel. 
 
 103 
 
 THOUGHTS IN THE MANNER OF BYRON. 
 
 - 
 
 When mankind boast how much they know, 
 
 And yet confess they know but little 
 Beyond their being here below— 
 
 A question reason cannot settle. 
 Arguments obtuse and kittle, 
 
 Which in their very leanings show 
 Such theory oft times proves fatal, 
 Assumptions such receive their blow, 
 For rejection of the Gospel’s call, 
 
 Is like tumbling o'er Niagara's Fall. 
 
 Yet men of science try to reason 
 
 On effects and cause and so on. 
 
 They find the task not always pleasing, 
 A task indeed at least a slow one, 
 
 Which lear and logic fail to show one 
 More than rustic accute mind can see. 
 For here we are, thus born of woman, 
 
 To fill a place by Heaven’s decree ; 
 Though the future’s hid, yet what matter, 
 Our chart is Hope, o’er Jordan’s water. 
 
104 . 
 LINES TO A BROTHER, 
 
 In memory of his deceased child, ANDREW WaLTER Carrick FaiRr.iz, 
 who died at Wellbourne Cottage, Meikleriggs, Paisley, 14th sani: 1879, 
 Aged 10 months. 
 
 The picture of thy ruddy child, 
 I see as clear as day; - 
 
 I hear his playful cheery laugh, 
 As on thy kness he lay. 
 
 "Tis hard to think of aught but life ; 
 Even now, I think I see 
 
 His eyes so full of sprightliness, 
 His lips so full of glee. 
 
 But sadder thoughts bring more sad scenes, 
 And change the mental view; - 
 
 A scene appears on which I look 
 Through tears like pearly dew. 
 
 The room is dark, there stillness reigns, 
 . All hushed; within, around— 
 « Mid quietness is grief best borne— 
 Is silent sorrow found. 
 
 A woman, mother, there she stands, ~ 7 : 
 With looks of love and fear, 
 
 So pale and haggard; while she weeps, 
 Stoops o’er the little bier. 
 
 With care she raised the pure white shroud, 
 One last long look to take, . 
 While tears are trickling down her cheeks, | 
 
 And heart as if ’twould break. 
 
 
 
LINES TO A BROTHER. 
 
 ** My child” she says unconsciously, 
 ‘* Where is thy life, thy breath, 
 
 Smile on me sweetest darling now ; 
 Surely it is not death ? ” 
 
 Light hearted footsteps enter then, 
 ‘** Mamma, what makes you weep ? 
 You told me he might wake again, 
 Baby is just asleep.” 
 
 *¢ Papa says baby’s gone to Heaven, 
 Where the bright angels are ; 
 
 That gentle Jesus needs him there, 
 Up in the sky so far.” 
 
 *¢] wish from brother not to part, 
 I'll go to Jesus too; 
 
 With you mamma, papa as well, 
 Away in yon bright blue. 
 
 ** My child you know not what you say ; ” 
 
 She kissed her darling boy ; 
 ** Some day I hope we all shall share 
 Dear baby brother's joy.” 
 
 Another light step enters in, 
 
 . And there stands by their side, 
 
 A form, whose noble manly face 
 Shows-grief that cannot hide. 
 
 His heart speaks for his silent tongue, 
 ‘Says, ** Ghild:I loved thee dear, 
 I dreamed’ of happiness to come, 
 “TT worshipped ‘thee I fear.” 
 
 105 
 
106 
 
 FAREWELL MUSINGS. . 
 
 “But thou hast found a better home, 
 
 A home we hope to’ see, - 
 
 You cannot come to us again, 
 
 But we may go to thee.” 
 
 & 
 
 
 
 FAREWELL MUSINGS. 
 
 ’Tis now a long long time indeed 
 Since first I tuned the rural reed, 
 
 Or tried my hand at rhyme; 
 I had a wish, I mind it weel, 7 
 That I Parnassus hill might speel, 
 
 By pathos and sublime. 
 
 All nature seemed a glorious field, 
 That in her season treasures yield, 
 By lone glen or common; 
 The blushing rosebud’s opening form 
 In blissful rapture lent a charm, 
 Emblem meet of woman. 
 
 For woman’s art and magic spell 
 Can reach the heart ere we can tell, 
 Blandest smiles assuming ; 
 The jaunty air and dark black eye 
 Make philosophic wisdom fly 
 Toward gentle woman. 
 
 All hail ! thou tried and sterling friend, 
 May Heaven’s blessings thee attend ; 
 For thou art friend indeed ; 
 
PAREWELL MUSINGS. 
 
 - That scorns to leave us in our plight, 
 But stands or falls supporting right, 
 © Our trust in hour o’ need. 
 
 The ides once my muse’s theme, 
 
 “but for thee life were a dream, 
 
 © Void of inspiration ; 
 
 Our solace when oppressed with care, 
 
 That oft our joys and sorrows share, 
 In each phase or station. 
 
 
 
 
 And Cleghorn, mistress of the muse, 
 
 Thy glowing verse at times infuse 
 Fresh vigour to the heart ; 
 
 Thy ‘¢ Woman’s Mission” here below, 
 
 Thus guard our paths in weal or woe, 
 And’ sympathy impart. 
 
 Our early mates, alas! are fled, 
 
 Whose stirring stanzas once had shed 
 Glory round the ingle ; 
 
 As song or sonnet was the theme, 
 
 In leal light heart we joined wi’ them, 
 Fellowship to mingle. 
 
 Ye bards ambitious yet to rhyme, 
 
 Still weighing words to make them chime, 
 
 I pity much your state ; 
 The airy phantoms of the brain 
 Are labours lost and projects vain— 
 How oft the poet’s fate 
 
 And as ye wield the poets pen, 
 Gain plaudits frae your fellow men, 
 ‘Tis but an empty boast ; 
 
 107 
 
108 
 
 FAREWELL MUSINGS. _ 
 
 Your presence sought to spend an hour, © 
 Amidst the din of tavern’s roar, 
 Next morning tells the cost. 
 
 No doubt it is your highest aim, 
 
 Through poverty to soar for fame, = 
 
 Beyond the passing hour; 
 The high souled independent worth, 
 Whence generous sentiments come forth, © 
 
 Thus show the poet’s power. 
 
 As tourist seeks the Alpiné range, 
 With misty clouds and vapours strange, — 
 Lost in wild confusion ; 
 So he who climbs Parnassus hill 
 Will find, despite poetic skill, 
 A will-o-wisp delusion. — 
 
 Oh! Thou all wise, whose mighty plan, 
 In creating thus the creature man, 
 His destiny to fill ; 
 Be our guide as we sojourn here, 
 That we thy holy laws may fear, 
 Subservient to thy will. 
 
 And as we sail life’s rapid stream, 
 May hope shed her brightest beam, 
 Hach vapour to dispel ; 
 Corroding care and prospects drear, — 
 Companions of life’s past career, 
 I bid you all farewell. 
 

 

 
AMUYS. 
 
 0 DP SS} H—- OC — 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Arr—Lochnagar. 
 
 Thou'rt dear to this bosom as springs from the mountain, 
 Refresh the ‘lorn shepherd and lighten his care ; ; 
 As the bee seeks the roses, or plover the fountain, 
 I love thee, for oh, thou art gentle and fair. 
 
 That kind trusting heart with warmth of emotion, 
 And soft tender passion which virtue approves, 
 
 As the lover that sighs in his ardent devotion, 
 And finds a response in the bosom he loves. 
 
 Thou’rt dear to this bosom, as thoughts gently stealing 
 O’er the young mind gives relief to the heart ; 
 
 As patriots welcome each wild burst of feeling, 
 I love thee, but oh, they have doomed us to part. 
 
 The sympathies gather as woodbine and ivy, 
 ‘Or hearts’ affections to each other entwine 3 
 
 By the stars that surround me I could not deceive thee, 
 For that guileless heart beats responsive to mine. 
 
 Thou'rt dear to this bosom midst cloud of misfortune, 
 ' When fate’s angry frown descends on my head ; 
 Pll bear the reproach, for still in thy bosom 
 Are thoughts as pure as thy waters, fair Jed. 
 
112 SONGS. 
 
 Still shall I love thee, one pledge hath been given, — 
 For well thou’rt worthy to become a young bride ; 
 The vows once I made are treasured in Heaven, 
 And soon shall I linger again by thy side. 
 
 MY FIRST SONG, 
 
 Founded on my first love. 
 Arr—Roy’s Wife. 
 
 Fairest flower of a’ that blossom, 
 Gayest flower of a’ that blossom, 
 <i Emblem o' young Jeanie fair, 
 a The gentle lassie 0’ this bosom. 
 
 Now Acton’s woods are clad in green, 
 And Birkwood shaws inspire my bosom ; 
 Amidst the bonnie sylvan scenes, 
 
 I view the flowers begin to blossom. 
 
 Fairest flower, &c. 
 
 The blushing rosebud on its stem 
 Keps the dews o’ early morning ; 
 And balm and brier adown the glen, 
 Yield their sweets to May’s returning. 
 
 Fairest flower, &c. 
 
 Each modest tender little flower 
 
 Loves to greet thee, blythe new comer; 
 In sunshine and in genial shower, 
 
 Ye hail the balmy breeze 0’ summer. 
 
 Fairest flower, &c. 
 
 we 
 
ve -. 
 
 
 
 SONGS. / 
 
 The roaming bee frae flower to flower, 
 Loves to sip the honied treasure ; 
 
 And lintie’s sang frae mossy bower 
 Gie youth and age a thrill o’ pleasure. 
 
 Fairest flower, &c. 
 
 For now beneath yon sacred shade, 
 A lonely swain I oft do wander; 
 Since a’ our cherished hopes hae fled, 
 And left a void in nature’s grandeur. 
 
 Fairest flower, &c. 
 
 still as I rove through Acton’s grove, 
 Or down thy banks, sweet Coquet river ; 
 
 _ [ll ne’er forget where once we met, 
 Though now our vows are broke for ever. 
 
 Fairest flower, &c, 
 
 THE WOODS O’ TORWOODLEE. 
 
 Arr—Braes aboon Bonaw, 
 
 Oh! Maggie leave this dinsome toon, 
 To roam through woods wi’ me lassie ; 
 And spend the hours where leafy bowers 
 Adorn sweet Torwoodlee, lassie. 
 
 Yon hazel glen and thorny den, 
 The bracken on the brae, lassie, 
 Are scenes sae fair ; its joys to share, 
 Oh, haste and come wi me, lassie. 
 H 
 
 113 
 
 , Sas 
 A we 
 
114 
 
 SONGS. 
 
 - Midst gentle din the Gala rins, 
 ~ And seeks the distant sea, lassie ; 
 
 And Boswells Green wi’ sylvan scenes, 
 Hae joys for you and me, lassie. 
 
 In Rhymer’s Glen the daisy blooms, 
 The violet lifts its head, lassie ; 
 And Ellwan burn, wi’ mony a turn, 
 Runs gently to the Tweed, lassie. 
 
 - The Minstrel’s ha’, its turrets shaw, 
 
 The dark green woods amang, lassie ; 
 Now lone’s the ha’ and mute’s the tongue 
 That border beauties sang, lassie. 
 
 Sae joyously we’ll seek the scenes, 
 Though fortune on us lour, lassie; 
 Our destiny, though half complete, 
 May yet hae joys in store, lassie. 
 
 Then, Maggie leave this dinsome toon, 
 Fair nature’s charms to see, lassie ; 
 And bid fareweel to rock and reel, 
 And haste to Torwoodlee, lassie. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Arr—Annie Laurie. 
 
 Kind hearted Mary Davidson, 
 When your young love was mine; — 
 My heart, and all it could bestow, 
 Was pledged to thee as thine. 
 
tabs! | 
 
 SONGS. 115 
 
 Within the shades of Acton grove, 
 Lll ne’er forget the hour ; 
 
 The mutual bliss when we two met 
 Beside fair Acton’s tower. 
 
 My heart’s been oftentimes enthralled 
 With many a charming face, 
 
 But thou, fair Mary Davidson, 
 In my heart has found a place. 
 
 The Warkworth dames are neat and trim, 
 And Felton maids genteel ; 
 
 But Mary, maid of Bedlington, 
 Thy heart is kind and leal. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 A1ir—The Emigrant’s Fareweel. 
 
 Farewell thou classic banks o’ Tweed, 
 A last adieu to thee. Mary; ~ 
 And gowden broom that waves its plume 
 Out o’er the verdant lea, Mary. 
 The change o’ years may change the scene, 
 And you forget where we hae been; 
 The happy hours I spent yestreen. 
 Shall aye remain wi’ me, Mary. 
 
 Farewell auld Fawdon’s lanely woods 
 And bonnie Thornielee, Mary, 
 
 And Hildon towering to the clouds, 
 Enshrined in love and thee, Mary. 
 
 The autumn winds may sighing sing, 
 And ilk wee bird may droop its wing, 
 
 Each gentle flower its head may hing, 
 Then withering fade and dee, Mary. 
 
116 
 
 SONGS. 
 
 When summer scenes return again, 
 - And flowers spring o’er the lea, Mary ; 
 Will happy hours your dreams awake, 
 When we were young and free, Mary. 
 Though Autumn’s leaves hae fled, 
 And flowers forsake their mossy bed ; 
 We feel as some dear friend was dead, 
 That aince could pleasure gie, Mary. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 "Tis a’ my delight to roam at the gloaming, 
 Leave din o’ the city, its bustle and care ; 
 
 And view the wild scenes o’ nature abounding 
 Amang the lone woods o’ bonnie Traquair. 
 
 How blythe when the voice 0’ summer does welcome 
 The cowslip, the daisy, and lily sae fair. 
 
 We'll climb up the face 0’ yon heath covered mountain, 
 And look on thy beauties, bonnie Traquair. ; 
 
 Tis pleasant to see the rich broom and bracken, 
 The hills covered green once lonely and bare ; 
 
 And hear the grey linnet sing o’er its bit sonnet, _ 
 Among the lone woods o’ bonnie Traquair. 
 
 Here we'll sojourn aye by birk, bush, and burnie, 
 Where nature presides wi’ blessings sae rare ; 
 
 The wee birds will cheer us, there is naething to fear us, 
 With health and contentment at bonnie Traquair. 
 
 at Bie ey 
 
SONG. 
 
 Air—The Boatie Rows. 
 
 Since Tannahill and Burns are gane, 
 Nae poets we hae now 
 
 To sing o’ Scotland’s bonnie glens 
 And lofty mountains blue. 
 
 But I will sing ae sang at least, 
 Though licht that sang may be; 
 
 And the burden 0’ my simple sang 
 Sweet Clyde, shall be to thee. 
 
 CHORUE. 
 Then farewell a’ ye hallowed scenes, 
 Where happy I hae been, 
 And spent sae mony blissful hours 
 Wi’ Marion and my Jean. 
 
 Can I forget the gladsome hours 
 And licht heart youthfu days,’ 
 When our young hearts beat fu’ o’ love, 
 On bonnie Cathkin braes. 
 My fancy still does paint the scene, 
 That ne’er forget can be; 
 Before I bid adieu to friends, 
 Sweet Clyde, I’ll sing to thee. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Then farewell a’ ye sacred scenes 
 Where happy I hae been, 
 
 And spent, sae mony cheery nichts 
 Wi Marion and my Jean. 
 
 LEG 
 
118 . . SONGS. 
 
 Though now I seek a change o’ scene, 
 And leave thy verdant banks ; 
 I dedicate this sang to thee, 
 Accept my humble thanks. 
 And as I roam in other lands, 
 And far from thee must be ; 
 In latest hours [ll breathe a wish 
 To end my days near thee. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Then farewell a’ ye flowery scenes 
 Where happy I hae been, 
 
 And spent sae mony blissful hours _ 
 
 Wi’ Marion and my Jean. 
 
 SONG—MAID OF ARNISTON. 
 
 Arr—Annié Laurie. 
 
 Thou lovely maid of Arniston, 
 When our twa hearts were young ; 
 In hallowed bliss, at gloaming hours, 
 Sweet were the songs ye sung. 
 The sweet saft sound o’ ilka sang 
 Yet fa’s upon mine ear, 
 I treasure siill each sacred spot, 
 To fond memory ever dear. 
 
 Thou lovely maid of Arniston, 
 Though doomed by fate’s decree 
 
 To seek a hame ayont the Tweed, 
 Far frae love and thee. 
 
SONGS. | 
 
 The lowan flame o’ langsyne love 
 Through time alone can die; 
 Yet for Jean and bonnie Arniston 
 
 Ill heave my latest sigh. 
 
 SONG. 
 Air—Donald Caird. 
 
 By Leithen’s bonnie flowery braes, 
 Where young Jessie she does dwell ; 
 For peerless modesty the lass 
 
 Her neebour maids around excel. 
 
 Her gracefu’ looks, majestic form, 
 Manners open, frank and free ; 
 There’s nae deceit nor haughty scorn, 
 But laughing love blinks in her e’e. 
 
 I often seek the lonely shade, 
 
 When nature, wearied, gangs to rest, . 
 
 To muse upon the many charms 
 O’ her, the lassie I loe best. 
 
 Such rapt’rous bliss at gloaming grey, 
 When misty clouds shroud Lea Pen; 
 As lingering by yon birchen tree, 
 Thus welcome Jessie frae the glen, 
 
 119 
 
120 - 
 SONG. 
 
 Arr—The Meeting of the Waters. Ati? 
 
 
 
 How dear were the hours in the lone shady glen, 
 Where wee burnie wimples through yon flowery den ; 
 And where the wild rose bloomed sae late on the tree, 
 Alas! the scene’s changed and left sadness to me. © 
 
 How lightsome the days when the woods were in song, 
 Where Endrick’s bright waters moved gently along ; 
 Amidst those gay scenes, oh, how happy was she, 
 For the love of my young heart was solace to me. 
 
 Now life’s cheery summer has fled wi’ the past, 
 
 And winter’s returned with his cold icy blast; 
 
 And the pale face o’ nature chastens the scene, | 
 And leaves but remembrance of things that have been. 
 
 And the noise of the streamlet as gushing along, 
 Has lost now its music the woodlands among; 
 
 Yet the heart’s lone forbodings a lesson may find — 
 From wreck of the landscape that lingers behind. 
 
 Though winter’s white covering descends on the hill, 
 And the voice we once loved for ever is still; 
 
 The sound of whose voice as it falls on the ear, 
 
 But echoes the past, still to memory dear. 
 
 For the hearts true affections only can prove, 
 
 - Through life’s upland journey one object can love; 
 In the sunshine of gladness its image maintain, 
 And feel but the transport of pleasure again. 
 
 * 
 
121 
 SONG. 
 Air—Braes 0’ Balquither. 
 
 Oh! come,assie, come 
 
 To the vale o’ the Leithen, 
 And taste the caller spring, 
 That ladies hae sic faith in. 
 
 Here you'll see the Pirn Craig, 
 The siller Tweed sae bonnie, 
 The bush aboon Traquair, 
 And braes ayont Cardrona. 
 
 For summer noo has come 
 Wi? life refreshing weather ; 
 O’er the lofty mountain’s brow 
 Let us wander together. 
 
 For bright beams the sun 
 O’er the dark woods o’ Plora; 
 And sweet the rural scenes 
 On the banks o’ the Yarrow. 
 
 For, oh, those mountain scenes 
 Hae charms to the lover, 
 
 That the cauld thoughtless mind 
 Its joys can ne’er discover. 
 
 Then come, oh, lassie come 
 To the vale o’ the Leithen, 
 
 And taste the caller spring 
 That ladies hae sic faith in, 
 
122 
 
 HUMOROUS SONG. 
 
 Air—Kate Dalrymple. 
 
 In an auld burgh toon on the banks 0’ the Clyde 
 
 Lives an auld worthy wi’ mony pretensions ; 
 
 The neebours a’ said he was in league wi’ the deil, 
 
 For nane but a deil had sae mony inventions. 
 
 Chief among them a’ was auld Will Morrison, 
 
 A reference to law stood auld Will Morrison, 
 
 WY his limping and his lilting, his fechting and fonehite 
 I think they’ll mak’ a deacon o’ our auld Will Morrison. 
 
 Sae couthie and kind o’er a speech or comic sang, 
 
 A rare fund o’ wit and auld farrant story ; 
 
 The lang winter nichts when youths gathered roun’, 
 
 His eye sparkled bright, being then in his glory. 
 
 Deep in history’s pages was auld Will Morrison, 
 Acquainted wi’ past ages was auld Will Morrison, 
 
 Wi his limping and his lilting, his fechting and flourishing, 
 
 I think they’ll mak a deacon o’ our auld Will Morrison. 
 
 There’s no an auld cairn through the hale country side, 
 But he can explain its age and its history ; 
 
 By stratum, superstratum, through magic o’ his mell, 
 Like A B C can unravel the mystery. 
 
 Taught at nature’s school was auld Will Morrison, 
 
 A persevering will had auld Will Morrison, 
 
 WY his limping and his lilting, his fechting and flourishing, — 
 
 I think they’ll mak’ a deacon o’ our auld Will Morrison. 
 
 At our loaning end, harangues his country men. 
 Expressed his opinion 0’ baith Radical and Tory, 
 
SONGS. $25 
 
 And to lessen the burden when taxes feel strong, 
 
 By dint o’ fair laws maintain England’s glory. 
 
 He still longed to see, did auld Will Morrison, 
 
 The toiling millions free, did auld Will Morrison, 
 
 Wi? his limping and his lilting, his fechting and flourishing, 
 I think they’ll mak’ a deacon o’ our auld Will Morrison. 
 
 SONG—MY ROBIN’S AWA’. 
 
 Arr—Blaeberry Courtship. 
 
 Nae mair, lovely Clutha, I'll wander alang 
 
 Thy banks o’ green verdure, nor woodlands amang’ ; 
 For the trees are now bare and the brown leaf does fa’, 
 Meet emblem o’ Jeanie since Robin’s awa’. 
 
 How oft by the Rookin we wandered at e’en, 
 
 Where he vowed he lo’ed me and ca‘d me his Jean; 
 Our love aye the greatest when prospects were sma, 
 Now naething can cheer me since Robins’ awa’. 
 
 Weel do I mind the sacred spot in the dell, 
 
 Where we met but to bid each other farewell ; 
 
 EKach flower was then blooming, noo fades in the shaw, 
 And a’ nature seems mourning since Robin’s awa’, 
 
 Thy scenes, lovely Clutha, are still dear to me, 
 Though doon the wan cheek the tear fa’s frae my e’e; 
 The cauld winter wind unheeded may blaw, 
 
 There’s nae bield to shield me since Robin’s awa’. 
 
124 
 SONG. 
 
 Written on Tannahill’s Centenary, 3rd June, 1874. 
 
 Arr—Scots Wha Hae. 
 
 In glorious June we love to stray 
 
 O’er famed Gleniffer’s sunny brae, 
 
 And join the throng o’ proud array, 
 At our bard’s centenary. 
 
 Wave the flag on Stanley’s tower, 
 And sound his fame the world o’er; 
 Hail with joy the festive hour 
 
 O’ Robin’s great centenary. 
 
 Swell the air with music’s sound, 
 
 Walk in ranks with looks profound ; 
 
 Let love and brotherhood abound ~ 
 At the grand centenary. 
 
 Though he was reared in humble ha’, 
 
 His name attraction now can draw; 
 
 To other lands this day we’ll shaw 
 We're proud o’ his centenary. 
 
 The bugle sounds now in the wast, 
 
 And worth has found a place at last; 
 
 Though long neglected in the past, 
 We hail the grand centenary. 
 
SONG. 
 
 A1r—J’m ower young to marry yet. 
 
 Yon thorny tree and bush o’ broom 
 
 That blooms on Cawdon’s flowery lea, 
 Hae charms still there mair sweet and fair 
 Than a’ Tweedside could gie to me. 
 "T'was there an artless lassie lived, 
 
 In heart sae licht in hope sae hie ; 
 
 The flower o’ a’ through glen or shaw, 
 Was bonnie Bess o’ Caddonlee. 
 
 The fragrant hours o’ balmy June 
 
 Invite our warblers for to sing ; 
 
 And many a maid leaves Ed’na’s toon 
 To taste St. Ronans ealler spring. 
 
 What though they dress in silks sae fine, 
 
 And speak a tongue scarce kenned by me; | 
 
 They lack the grace and smiling face 
 O’ bonnie Bess o’ Caddonlee. 
 
 Change o’ time makes change o’ scene, 
 
 And bonnie Bess has left us a’; 
 
 That waesome morn she crossed the Tweed 
 I thought my heart would gang in twa. 
 The joyous hours o’ langsyne love 
 
 Can ne’er come back again to me; 
 
 Can I forbear to drop a tear 
 
 O’er bygone scenes on Caddonlee. 
 
126 
 
 SONG. 
 
 A1tr—-Ower the Water to Charlie. 
 
 I'll sing you a sang before that I gang, 
 
 And hope it will make ye a’ canty ; 
 
 About a young chiel’ my bosom loes weel, 
 The singing o’t canna affront ye. 
 
 He can dance, he can sing, the fiddle can tune, 
 Play o’er the water to Chairlie ; 
 
 As lichtsome a cove as eer woman did love, 
 For courting and sporting’s Bob Cairney. 
 
 Had I a wee house, a wee house 0 my ain, 
 
 And health, were it granted, oh, spare me, 
 There's nane that I ken ’mang the hale race 0’ men, 
 Could please me like honest Bob Cairney. 
 
 How oft I hae seen him wi’ frien’s o’er a glass, 
 Wy flashes 0’ wit aye sae ready ; 
 
 In gaining a heart or stealing a kiss, 
 
 He wins the fair wish o’ the ladies. 
 
 His hat thrown aside, his hand through his hair, 
 Commences some flowery oration ; 
 
 Till neighbours a’ round in wonder do stare 
 
 At his nonsense and sly botheration. 
 
 Had I a wee house, a wee house o’ my ain, 
 And health were it granted, oh, spare me; 
 There’s naething could gie sic’ pleasure to me 
 As the winning address 0’ Bob Cairney. 
 
 -Woud he propose and bring things to a close, 
 
 And some nicht come doon wi’ the ring, sirs 
 
SONGS. 
 
 WY joy I would dance at such an advance, 
 For women’s minds are aye on sic things, sirs. 
 Then I would do what lay in my power 
 
 To furnish a wee house sae canty ; 
 
 For you may depend I dont wish to offend, 
 I'm tired being so long wi’ my aunty. 
 
 Had I a wee house, a wee house 0’ my ain, 
 And health, were it granted, oh, spare me ; 
 How happy I'd be when folk speaking to me, 
 Says how do you do, Mrs. Cairney. 
 
 HUMOROUS SONG. 
 Air—WMy name it is Donald Macdonald. 
 
 Some folk think they’re fu’ happy 
 In the change house o’er a bit gill, 
 Spending the penny intended for Jenny 
 O’er whisky, porter, and yill. 
 But I hope we'll escape the, temptation, 
 In the flavour o’ Hyson’s best tea ; 
 Besides there’s beauty and fashion 
 At Dobson’s grand soiree. 
 
 I'm sure you'll get worth for your siller, 
 If wisdom can bring you a’ here; 
 There’s songs, addresses, and speeches, 
 And stories baith comic and queer. 
 Besides there’s braw cups and braw saucers, 
 W hich enhances the value o’ tea ; 
 Served out by the rosy cheeked lasses, 
 At Dobson’s grand soiree. 
 
128 
 
 ~ ‘gee Be : 
 raat ; i 
 
 SONGS. 
 
 Oh, what a fine thing in our station, 
 When parties meet once a year ; 
 
 In ties 0’ honour and friendship, 
 _W7 hearts leal and sincere. — 
 
 Nae bawling, nae swearing, nae jeering, 
 Awa’ frae sic vices we'll flee ; 
 
 And drink frae the cup that refreshes, 
 At Dobson’s grand soiree. 
 
 Now my song it is done, honest neebours, 
 Then gie us a hip hip hurray, 
 
 To the callants sae handy and clever, 
 Wi? teapot, tea-kettle, and tray. 
 
 Success to the trade o’ our country, 
 Extend it by land and by sea ; 
 
 And three cheers to strangers and pout 3: 
 That visit our grand soiree. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Air—Dainty Davie. 
 
 You're welcome hame frae Berwick Law, 
 
 Bonnie Mary, faithfw Mary ; 
 
 And wow, but you were lang awa’, 
 
 My bonnie faithfu’ Mary ; 
 
 To gaze upon thy cheek sae fair, 
 Thy sparkling eyes which now declare 
 O’ blissfu health you’ ve got a share, 
 
 My bonnie faithfu’ Mary. 
 
SONGS. — 129 
 
 - Oft as I stray by Teviot’s stream, 
 Bonnie Mary, faithfu’ Mary ; 
 Your future weel is aye my theme, 
 My bonnie faithfw’ Mary. 
 My heart’s dear wish is for a ha’, 
 By some lone glen or birchen shaw ; 
 There reign supreme among them a’, 
 My bonnie faithfw Mary. 
 
 _As years roll on may love increase, 
 
 Bonnie Mary, faithfu’ Mary; 
 - For, oh, this life's a short, short lease, 
 
 My bonnie faithfu’ Mary. 
 
 Till then, earth’s comforts on thee flow, 
 
 Nor cankered care come near thee, jo; 
 
 My heart’s best blessings aye bestow 
 Upon my faithfu’ Mary. 
 
 SONG—MAGGIE FAREWELL. 
 
 Airn— Bonnie Dundee. 
 
 How can I think to leave thee, young lassie, 
 Or how can I think to bid thee adieu ; 
 My heart it is sair, though laith to confess it, 
 My happiest hours were aye spent wi’ you. 
 “Tis true that I wooed wi’ a lover’s devotion, 
 As scenes 0’ the past may cheerfully tell ; 
 Thou maid of affection and youthfu’ emotion, . 
 Fare thee well Maggie—dear Maggie farewell. 
 ‘ I 
 
180 | ae Suey SONGS. 
 
 Yon auld castle wa’ o’erlooks the grey cairnie, 
 
 And the lone willow tree, weel kenned to us twa, 
 Are ever entwined around this fond memory, 
 
 When far from thee, Maggie, many miles ’m awa’. 
 
 Then cheer up thy heart frae dool and sad sorrow, 
 As ye wander sae lanely by Wearie’s cauld well ; 
 Though noo I maun leave thee, yet still I may see thee, 
 Fare thee well Maggie, dear Maggie farewell. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Air—Jock o° Hazeldean. 
 
 As musing down the banks o’ Tweed, 
 
 In youth’s gay happy hours, 
 ~ I sought the joys that nature yields, 
 
 Amang the leafy bowers. | 
 
 The cooling breeze frae ’mang the trees, 
 Gave fragrance to the vale; 
 
 "Twas there beneath the spreading birk, 
 We told our artless tale. ‘ 
 
 And as I seek the plantin’ shade, 
 Where stands the aged tree ; 
 Each favourite walk I yet can trace, 7 
 Once blest to love and me. 3 o 
 The power of art could ne’er adorn: 
 A scene more pure and fair; 
 That smiling face, like sweet May morn, 
 Heart’s innocence declare. | 
 
SONGS. 
 
 The gowden chain that graced her neck, 
 Vain show she couldna bear ; 
 
 And simple token once I gave, 
 
 _ Her favour seemed to share. 
 
 Amidst the changing scenes 0’ life, 
 How trusting and sincere ; 
 
 As offering to departed worth, 
 Accept the gratefu’ tear. 
 
 SONG. - 
 Air—Tam Frew. 
 
 You've a’ heard tell o’ Jamie Jakes, . 
 A rhyming harum scarum falla’ ; 
 Guid morals Jamie fain would teach, 
 And thus improve the sons 0’ Gala. 
 But Jamie being a bachelor loon, 
 Resolved at last to hae a wife; 
 
 And bade adieu to our auld toon, 
 
 To wed a hizzie o’er in Fife. - 
 
 You'll think it queer, the lassies here 
 Ne’er could win young Jamie's love ; 
 His fickle mind is sae designed. 
 
 Frae flower tae flower he likes to rove. 
 When o’er a glass, 1 must confess 
 This honest hearted Jamie Jakes 
 
 In glowing language whiles portrays 
 And paints the frailties of our sex. 
 
132 
 
 SONGS. 
 
 Will Shakespeare says this world of ours 
 Is nothing but a common stage ; 
 
 Where men and maids, in life’s short hour, 
 To play their parts are a’ engaged. 
 
 But Jamie’s maxim aye is this, 
 
 Just let the world gae richt or wrang, 
 We'll hae a glass o’ Luckie's best, 
 
 Syne rant us o’er a comic sang. 
 
 His manly form has aye a charm, 
 Which takes the taste 0 woman’s e’e; 
 Bewitching smile their hearts beguile, 
 His manner is sae frank and free. 
 
 His ready wit oft makes a hit, 
 
 Wi happy knack fa’s on the ear ; 
 
 The hale nicht lang gies comic sangs, 
 In cheery mood, o’er glass o’ beer. 
 
 Although his riches are’na great, 
 
 And whiles has hardships to endure ; 
 
 He laughs the mair and thus grows fat, 
 Nor does his temper e’er turn sour. 
 
 His humorous style lone hours beguile. 
 To cheer the heart rare pleasure takes ; 
 Then wha can charm the sinking saul, 
 
 - Since we hae lost frien’ Jamie Jakes. 
 
133 
 
 SONG. 
 Arr—The Flowers o’ the Forest. 
 
 One lovely morning, when spring was adorning 
 The banks o’ the Kelvin sae pleasant and fair ; 
 
 The wee flowers were blooming, the air thus perfuming, 
 As musing I wandered in sadness and care. 
 
 Bereft now o’ pleasure since I lost my treasure, 
 There’s nae consolation as onwards I mourn; 
 The gay flow’ret’s blossom, sae dear to this bosom, 
 
 Has now left the Kelvin—can never return. 
 
 Oh, dear may the cot be, and sweet trysting spot be, 
 Where oft my young lassie I hae met her at een; 
 Though a’ standing there now, ilk birk tree is bare now, 
 
 As changed my condition, sae changed is the scene. 
 
 Then adieu, dearest river, thou’rt dear to me ever, 
 Nae mair I will wander sae sad and forlorn ; ; 
 But leave this world’s sadness, its glee and its gladness, 
 Since the bright hopes o’ youth can never return. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Airn—My Lodging is on the cold ground. 
 
 Farewell tothe west, thou land I love best, 
 Where youths purest pleasures in fancy did glow; 
 Farewell woodlands in your green mantles drest, 
 And rich fertile valleys where Endrick does flow. 
 Farewell dearest scenes ‘mid life’s happy dreams, 
 The heart it is sair at thus parting with you; 
 
184 
 
 SONGS. 
 
 Farewell young mates and the friends of my youth, 
 In sadness I bid you a long, long adieu. _ 
 
 _ Farewell rocky dens in Finach’s steep glen, 
 
 Where nature’s wild grandeur in wonders abound, 
 Where o'er the moss craigs the streamlet descends, 
 
 . And the noise of its waters spread music around. 
 
 Farewell Glenfalloch and homesteads 0’ Balloch, | 
 Wherever I wander I’ll think on thy charms ; 
 
 Thy lake and thy river ’neath sunny rays sparkling, 
 Thy flocks and thy herds and green sheltered farms. 
 Farewell fair Cowal and kind Glenderowel, . 
 Where mind that’s romantic delights for to roam ; 
 Amid those wild scenes so rude and majestic, — 
 The heart of the stranger aye finds a home, 
 Farewell to the west, thou land I love best, 
 
 Where youth’s purest pleasures in fancy did glow, 
 And farewell woodlands by nature’s hand drest, 
 And rich fertile valleys where Endrick does flow. 
 
 1 2 ENE pee 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF REMARKABLE 
 WOMEN. 
 By ROBERT FAIRLEY. 
 
 A VISIT TO THE DAUGHTER OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 sy SURING the summer of 1848, whilst on a visit to the city of 
 2D Glasgow, it was suggested by a friend to pay a visit to 
 ae ee Bess, the veritable and intelligent daughter of Robert 
 - Burns. Proceeding to Pollockshaws we found Mrs. T., 
 a person, we should say, rather over sixty years of age. 
 From her sallow complexion and melancholy black eyes, we needed 
 no further proof as to her being a true representative of the Burns 
 family. Our conversation was rather varied than otherwise, but 
 we got enough to satisfy us as to her recollections of the closing 
 scenes of the bard’s earthly pilgrimage. In speaking of his likeness, 
 ‘the portrait done by Naysmith she considered a good thing and true 
 to nature. Touching upon his fatherly affection, she said when a 
 child sitting on his knee, she had seen the big tear trickle down his 
 cheek, the cause, doubtless, being his own destiny, and a kind con- 
 sideration for her future welfare. 
 
 In speaking of his works, there was one song, “ The Posie,” 
 which was a great favourite with her, and with the discrimination of 
 a Burns, she gave as effective and truly poetic, the following 
 stanza :— 
 
 The woodbine I will pu’, 
 
 When the e’ening star is near, 
 And the diamond draps o’ dew 
 Shall be her een sae clear ; 
 
 The violets for modesty, 
 
 Which well she fa’s to wear. 
 And a’ to be a posie for my ain dear May. 
 
 I have heard it said that in her day she could sing some of her 
 father’s songs with taste and feeling. 
 
136 
 
 In reference to Sir Walter Scott’s works, she shops her in- 
 terest in them by giving quotations from the “Lay of’the Las 
 Minstrel,” ‘“*‘ Marmion,” “Guy Manneriug,” and the “‘ Heart of Mid- 
 Lothian,” and she said she felt quite sure, had her father been living, 
 he would have appreciated the writings of the great Border Minstrel. 
 
 Mrs. T——n was married at the house of Mrs. Burns, Dumfries, 
 and the person to whom she gave her hand was a sprightly sergeant 
 belonging to the Stirlingshire militia. 
 
 . But Time in his onward march makes changes, and since the 
 period referred to, Mrs. T——n has departed this life, leaving be- 
 hind a numerous family, who can honestly claim their descent from 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 FLORA CAMPBELL—HIGHLAND MARY’s COUSIN. 
 
 Somewhere about the time we visited Mrs. T——n, a little party . 
 was made up and a trip to Gourock by the steamer “ Sultan” was 
 carried out. Leaving the Broomielaw about eight o’clock in the 
 morning, we proceeded down the Clyde, where our eyes were de- 
 lighted and our reason gratified with the varied landscape that 
 stretched before us. After a couple of hours’ sailing, we reach the 
 attractive village of Gourock and travel two miles to the Cloch light- 
 
 house, where we enter the humble abode of Flora Campbell. After 
 a few preliminary observations, we at last touched upon the object 
 of our visit, viz:—to hear details concerning Highland Mary. We 
 should here mention that Flora, whom we had the pleasure of 
 speaking to, was pretty well advanced in years, suffering, we should 
 say, from asthma, and other bodily ailments. To our question, 
 What sort of person was Mary? she answered—A braw strapping 
 quean, fair complexioned, and faultless as to shape and form. She 
 had gone to Argyleshire to see her parents, and after residing there 
 for a few months, returned to Greenock, intending to remain a few 
 days at our house, then at the Minister’s Close, Dalrymple Street. 
 But at this time a young cousin of ours took fever, who subsequently 
 recovered; but alas! Mary, in her affectionate attentions towards 
 him, caught the same, and after fifteen days’ illness, died; and was 
 buried in a layer belonging to our uncle, one Macpherson, a native 
 of the Highlands, and a ship carpenter to trade. She told me in 
 confidence, that it had been her intention to stay a few days with 
 
137 
 
 us, then proceed to Coilsfield, in Ayrshire, where she had been en- 
 gaged as dairy maid, and delicately hinted that she was soon to be 
 married to Robert Burns, then a ploughman on his father’s farm. 
 
 She had in her possession a number of letters which on different 
 occasions she had received from Burns. About that period several 
 satirical effusions had found their way throughout the country, and 
 from their bold and independent style my uncle thought that the 
 letters would have a tendency of the same sort, consequently he 
 burned them all. Some time after this occurrence a letter reached 
 us, Robert Burns being the writer. In that letter he went on to say 
 -—How durst he (Macpherson) consign to the dust the last remains 
 of his dearly beloved Mary, without at least giving him due notice 
 on the subject. Now, I think the loss preyed so much upon his 
 mind that he could only find relief in writing his ode “To Mary in 
 Heaven.” Some years after Macpherson’s death, parties called 
 upon my auut asking permission to have a memorial stone placed at 
 Mary’s grave, but this was never granted till after her death. The 
 rest you know. A monument has been erected in the West Church- 
 yard, Greenock, with a representation of the two lovers parting on 
 the banks of the Ayr; with those words— . e 
 
 “Oh Mary! dear departed shade 
 Where is thy place of blissful rest ? ” 
 
 After a hearty shake of the hand, and thanking her for her 
 kindness, we bade adieu to our venerable informant, greatly de- 
 lighted with our interview. 
 
 WONDERFUL MARGARET WILKIE. 
 
 Whoever has visited the Kingdom of Fife will agree with me 
 that its inhabitants are an hospitable and light-hearted elass of 
 people, and are fond of dancing and a social song. Well they may 
 be termed “ the frank, funny folk o’ Fife ””—and even some of her 
 sons have tried their hands at the Muses. The following stanzas 
 on Leven we give as a specimen :— 
 
 THE FLOWER 0’ LEVEN. 
 
 Green are Leven’s bonnie braes, 
 Where I’ve spent delightful days ; 
 Pure is Leven’s limpid stream, 
 Reflecting ilka sunny gleam; 
 
138 
 
 Sweet are Leven’s shady bowers, 
 Blooming with the fairest flowers, 
 Where I’ve wandered oft at even 
 With the bonnie Flower o’ Leven. 
 
 Whiter than a snawy robe, ie 
 Purer than a dewy blobe, ; 
 
 Brighter than the glowing west, 
 
 Stainless as the lily’s breast, 
 
 Spotless as the hawthorn bloom, 
 
 Sweeter than the bean’s perfume 
 
 At the placid hour o’ even, 
 
 Is the bonnie Flower o’ Leven. 
 
 Fairer than the smiling May, 
 Clearer than a cloudless day, 
 Gentle as the sportive lamb 
 Frisking round its bleating dam, 
 Meeker than the siller dove 
 
 Is the maiden whom I love, 
 Praised by a’ and blest o’ Heaven, 
 Bonniest Flower o’ bonnie Leven, 
 
 As the ever active bee 
 Loves to fly across the lea, 
 
 Drinking up the liquid sweets 
 
 From ilk blooming cup she meets, 
 
 Carrying off the precious store, 
 
 And returning back for more, 
 
 So I love to rove at even 
 
 With the sweetest Flower o’ Leven. 
 
 May no mildew blight the rose, 
 That in summer splendour glows, 
 May no careless footstep tread 
 On the lily’s snawy head. 
 
 And no cold and sleety shower 
 Blight the blossom o’ this Flower, 
 Till transplanted frae the Leven 
 She adorn the braes o’ Heaven. 
 
 Our Fife poet has sung in a very flowery and captivating style 
 
 of one, according to the burden of his song, as near perfection as 
 any of the sex, and we feel sure that by the banks of the Leven 
 more than one might have been selected as meet subjects for his 
 
 Muse. 
 
 But in the meantime we refer to the summer of 1864, when 
 
 we paid a visit to the ancient town of Auchtermuchty, along with a 
 Leslie friend. We proceed, leaving the long town of Leslie behind 
 
139 
 
 us. Thus we reach the farm house of Glaslies, then by a footpath 
 ascend East Lomond Hill, from the summit of which the eye has 
 a wide range over the Howe o’ Fife. We see the braes beyond 
 Newburgh in the distance; fields and plantations abound; whilst 
 the towns of Falkland, Freuchie, Dunshalt, Auchtermuchty, and 
 Strathmiglo are scattered here and there, giving a pleasant effect to 
 the general landscape. We may here state that said towns give 
 ready employment to a goodly number of men and women in the 
 manufacturing of linen fabrics. 
 
 Making our descent from the Lomond, we enter the quiet little 
 town of Falkland, and view its venerable palace, once the residence 
 of a Scottish King. From the appearance of the place, we should 
 say that there are still some of the remains of its regal greatness. 
 Another two miles’ walk brings us to the primitive village of 
 Dunshalt. We make a halt for a littte, and enter a chapel where a 
 congregation meet weekly to bend the knee in adoration to Heaven’s 
 Enternal King. The speaker who exhorted us was a lay or local 
 preacher, and much were we astonished at the force and fluency of 
 his language. Auchtermuchty had little of attraction. Its name is 
 merely associated with its linen and damask manufacturing, and the 
 stirring strains of its lively band. Retracing our steps by Falkland, 
 our friend leads the way by a shorter route, which brings us to the 
 farm house of Hanging Myres. Here we partake of hamely but 
 halesome fare, good scones and milk, which we consider a fitting 
 repast for the occasion. 
 
 It-was here we had the opportunity of meeting with Margaret 
 Wilkie. Reference had been made as to the ability of the preacher 
 whom we had heard in the forenoon; and Margaret began in her 
 own racy style, showing a rare knowledge of the Scriptures, and 
 also that she was conversant with the writings of Erskine, Bunyan, 
 Boston, and Brown. From her conversation she seemed to us to 
 know every chapter from Genesis to Revelation, and her flow of 
 language was equal to her power of memory. We had often heard 
 of the retentive memories of the Rev. John Brown of Haddington, 
 and Professor Lawson of Selkirk; but in an obscure corner of the 
 county of Fife, little did we anticipate meeting with one so rarely 
 gifted. The reading of the Scriptures has always been to her a 
 source of enjoyment, and she could not see what prevented others 
 from receiving the same benefit. 
 
140 
 
 Seis ap 
 
 Her residence is at Dunshalt, but she is known beyond the 
 neighbourhood. Leaving Hanging Myres, our conversation was 
 wholly regarding the wonderful gifts bestowed on honest Margaret 
 Wilkie. 
 
 REBECCA BRUCE. 
 
 ' In the next and last place, having had a holiday to ourselves, 
 we embrace the opportinity by a visit to Kinesswood, the birth- 
 place of Michael Bruce, author of ‘‘ Lochleven” (a poem), James 
 the Rose, and many others, not omitting the beautiful paraphrase 
 on Job— ; 
 
 “ Few are thy days and full of woe, 
 O man of woman born.” . 
 
 In passing from Leslie, we come to Scotland Wells, founded 
 as the inscription says, by David, one of the Kings of Scotland. 
 Here, in an obscure corner in the old churchyard, stands a memorial 
 stone to the memory of Mrs. Erskine, wife of Ebenezer Erskine, 
 the founder of the United Secession Church. We are inclined to 
 think that he had been minister of Portmoak Established Church 
 previcus to his dissent therefrom. 
 
 ~ A short walk brought us to Kinesswood, where the odour from 
 peat reek makes known the fact that turf in a great measure takes 
 the place of coal in this hilly district of Kinross-shire. On entering 
 the village we were agreeably surprised to meet with Rebecca Bruce, 
 neice to the poet. Very kindly did she lead the way to the house 
 where the poet was born, but now only a few feet of the walls are 
 left standing (we refer to the summer of 1864). In the first instance 
 she showed us the spot in the garden, where, in his feeble state of 
 health, he delighted to meditate on the Bible; and there sitting 
 calmly viewing the approach of death’s grim messenger. To the 
 mind of the friends who beheld him, it seemed as if his soul’s highest 
 hopes were treasured in Heaven. 
 
 When a mere child of seven years of age, ae the village 
 school, the teacher gave him the child’s book to begin with, when 
 he found that: the future poet could read very satisfactorily the 
 Bible and Scott’s collections. She spoke of the.many happy hours 
 he had spent with his Peggie; and as her father was a farmer in the 
 neighbourhood, many were.the opportunities the two lovers had of 
 a secluded walk along by Loch Leven shore. Alas! another lover 
 
141 
 
 more successful in his advances, gained the hand of Peggie, and our 
 youthful poet was left to brood over his sorrows, wandering over 
 West Lomond Hill or lone Loch Leven’s shore. She next spoke of 
 the years spent at the College classes in Edinburgh. Subsequently 
 of his being schoolmaster in the Forest, and lastly, of his Christian 
 fortitude and resignation in the hour of death. She further stated 
 that her father, James Bruce, the poet’s elder brother, wrote some 
 very fair pieces, but he was scarcely known beyond the limits of 
 our own county. | 
 
 In bidding good-bye to honest Rebecca, little did we anticipate 
 that in a short while we should read of her death by an accident 
 from fire. Such being the case, she was interred beside her 
 illustrious relative in Portmoak Churchyard, where a monument 
 points to the place where lie the remains of that once accomplished 
 scholar and pious poet, Michael Bruce. 
 
 THE END. 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 , Pare ww 
 
 * 
 
NON 
 SO 
 RS 
 
 oer 
 OER LIE MOR ORY SoS Ma aaa 
 S sete ao eo So wr : ah 
 
 ec ale ae a 
 
 Sa 
 \ \ 
 SS SS 
 
 TN sited te wget acton 
 
 eit a 
 
 AC 
 
 Sh 
 
 id 
 
 Mp 
 
 ‘ 
 Zp 
 are i 
 riper in i tc us 
 " < em at 
 
 faim at, Pat Ps 
 i | “a 
 
 Fe" ree: 
 
 \ 
 
 a 
 
 x 
 = . Ve - 
 1 hye ee 
 eR 
 
 ‘a 
 eo 3 
 A 
 
 ee 
 
 A me i 
 : he ,#) 
 , + 
 es & 
 
 Sa ail as 
 
 S 
 a 
 PIP’ 
 
 AS AEN Nt eh nt 
 Oo 
 CAA 
 eso ae . 
 
 lar 
 
 2 <a 3 Poss x 
 ieee ah Ni oA Rc AE te pe Rae Ba EME 
 
 es Tale ta 
 Fe aoe 
 Sea ee i 
 
 Og ae 
 
 aN sr » hy ANIA S ee + 
 ANG AK AS \\\ . 
 . 
 
 - 
 : PAN \\ SAN S KS 
 c ; : + 
 
 ea 
 
 Se 
 
 - 
 
 a 
 
 os SARS ANCE AT LN) 
 SERS SRA 
 ASE RE 
 
 - sola 
 18 eG PRE A