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POEMS, 
 
 LEGENDARY, LYRICAL, 
 
 AND 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE. 
 
 Bote first CoTIectrti. 
 
 BY DAVID VEDDER, 
 
 n 
 
 CORRESPONDING MEMBER OF THE SOCIETY OF SCOTTISH ANTIQUARIES. 
 
 EDINBURGH: 
 
 t THE EDINBURGH PRINTING AND PUBLISHING CO. 
 
 GLASGOW : JOHN SMITH & SON ; AND JOHN M'LEOD. 
 
 LONDON : SMITH, ELDER, AND CO. 
 
 M.DCCC.XLII. / 
 

 EDINBURGH PRINTING COMPANY. 
 
It is difficult for an Author to speak of his 
 own productions without laying himself open to the 
 charge of affected modesty on the one hand, or that 
 of egotism on the other. 
 
 The days of elaborate Prefaces have gone by. 
 The reading Public are more inclined to judge of 
 a work by its own merits, than from the colouring 
 the author may attempt to give it at the outset. 
 If a book possesses vitality, it will last ; if not, a Pre- 
 face even by Johnson would not buoy it up. 
 
 The Author of the following sheets embraces the 
 present opportunity of tendering his sincere thanks 
 to the Conductors of the Periodical Press of Great 
 Britain, whose criticisms on his former publica- 
 tions have often been laudatory- — always lenient; 
 to which circumstance the present Volume owes 
 its appearance. 
 
 Cherry Bank, 
 March, 1842. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Count Raymond, a Legend of the Pyrennees, - • 1 
 
 The Aurora Borealis, - - - - 12 
 The Fray of Glengarry, a Tale of the Fifteenth Century, 15 
 
 A Norwegian Lyric, - - - - 23 
 
 New Theory of the Heart, - 27 
 
 The Mountain Sanctuary, ... 33 
 
 The Battle of Luncarty, ... 37 
 
 To Freedom, 46 
 
 Jeanie Ballantyne, - 49 
 
 The Confessions of a Dominie, 56 
 The Massacre of Kringellen, a Ballad, translated from the 
 
 Norse, .... 60 
 
 The Sorrows of an Exquisite, 65 
 
 May, ..... 69 
 
 June, ...--- 73 
 
 Brummel M'Rory, .... 77 
 
 A Picture of the Past, .... 83 
 
 Stanzas to a very Young Lady, - - 108 
 
 The Corse o' Dundee, a Ballad, - - 110 
 
 Rheumatism, an Epistle to Professor Gillespie, - 113 
 
 Street Auctioneer, . - - - 118 
 
 Hans Snorro, a Legend of Orkney, - 123 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 The Persecutor's Death-bed, 
 
 The Persecutor's Grave, 
 
 The Laird o' Windlestraetown, 
 
 To Shakspeare, - 
 
 The Temple of Nature, 
 
 To Burns, - 
 
 To Poland, 
 
 To the Memory of Scott, 
 
 The Civic Feast, 
 
 To Gait, - - - - 
 
 Emmeline, - 
 
 To Professor Tennant, 
 
 Historical Etchings: — 
 
 The Death of the Red Corny n, 
 Lament of the Duke of Rothsay, 
 Lament for Mary Queen of Scots, 
 The Death of Douglas, 1452, 
 
 To the Memory of Charlotte, 
 
 Stanzas to a Daughter, 
 
 To Ebenezer Elliott, 
 
 Auld Freends, - 
 
 Dugald M'Donald, 
 
 Scotland to Campbell, 
 
 Biblical Etchings : — 
 Balak, - 
 Gideon's War- Song, 
 The Song of Elkanah, 
 The Destruction of Tyre, 
 
CONTEXTS. vii 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Voice of Time, - - - - 221 
 
 The Witch o' Pittenweem, - 224 
 
 The Constellation, - 234 
 
 For the Anniversary of Burns, - - 237 
 
 Stanzas to a Lady, - 240 
 
 To the same, .... 242 
 
 He would be a Soldier, ... 244 
 
 Written at Midnight, - 249 
 
 Sir Alan Mortimer, a Legend of Fife, - - 252 
 
 To Orkney, - 261 
 
 The Happy Hour, .... 264 
 
 Gloaming, - 267 
 
 The Jumping Jack, - 269 
 
 The Dew-Drops are falling, - - - 271 
 
 When the Lunar Light is leaping, - - 273 
 
 When the Orb of Morn Enlightens, - - 275 
 
 Heard ye the Tidings ? 277 
 
 The First of May, 279 
 
 The Gloaming Star is gleaming, - - 281 
 
 Kind Robin lo'es me, - 283 
 
 I neither got promise of siller nor land, - 285 
 
 A bonny lass laden wi* care, ... 287 
 
 Prince Charles Edward's last View of Scotland, - 289 
 
 For the Anniversary of Burns, - - - 291 
 
 Song of the Scotish Exile, - 294 
 
 There is a pang for every heart, - 296 
 
 The Sun-flowers droop, the Breezes sigh, - 298 
 
Vlli CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Yes ! I will deem thee like the Rose, - - 300 
 
 Retrospection, - 302 
 
 Lord George Murray to the Clans, - - 304 
 
 The Sun's in the East, - 307 
 
 The Tempest is raging, ... 309 
 
 Bonnie Jean mak's muckle o' mee, - - 311 
 Like evening star's refulgent ray, from the Danish of Thaarup, 313 
 
 Now Gloaming o'er the welkin weaves, - 315 
 
 Margaret's Reminiscences, - - - 317 
 
 Lord George Douglas' Song, - - 321 
 
 Parental Anguish, - - - - 323 
 
 Epistle to George Thomson, Esq., - 327 
 
 My own Blue Bell, ... 330 
 
 The Harp of Byron, - 335 
 
 The Last Hours of Moses, - - - 338 
 
 My Fatherland, from the Danish of Jetsmark, - 341 
 
 Scotland to her Queen, - 343 
 
 Notes, ----- 345 
 
POEMS. 
 
 COUNT RAYMOND, (a.) 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE PYRENNEES. 
 
 Five centuries before the invention of gas, 
 
 Lived old Baron Raymond, the Lord of Corasse ; 
 
 A cruel, tyrannical, mail-covered dragon, 
 
 Who gloried in nought save his sword and his flagon ; 
 
 His trusty brown weapon, and goblet so bright, 
 
 Were his play-things by day, and his solace by night ; 
 
 The varlets and minions, 
 
 Who crossed his opinions, 
 Their heads were shred off like the peelings of onions ; 
 His vassals grew palid, and blenched at his frown, 
 For he swore he would do what he liked with his own. 
 
 The eyry, where nestled this foul bird of prey, 
 Was built on a pyramid, rugged and grey, 
 
Z COUNT RAYMOND, 
 
 Thrown up by some fierce subterranean fire, 
 When Nature, in agony, seemed to expire. 
 And Science, though rude, did the structure enrich 
 With rampart, and parapet, glacis, and ditch ; — 
 
 With strong barricade, 
 
 And huge palisade, 
 At the base of the rock, like an iron brigade ; 
 And sentinels posted by night and by day, — 
 So safe was the roost of this foul bird of prey. 
 
 This ruthless marauder,— a recreant from honour, — 
 Prowl'd, plunder 'd, and robb'd, in the mountain defiles ; 
 And the bronzed desperadoes who followed his banner 
 Were sweepings of dungeons and scum of the jails : 
 
 Say, was it not pity, 
 
 This horde of banditti, 
 So long held in terror, town, hamlet, and city, 
 By pillaging, slaughtering, razing, and burning ? 
 But 'tis a long alley that ne'er has a turning. 
 
 The Count had replenished his strong mountain-peel 
 With engines of torture, the rack, and the wheel ; 
 
A LEGEND OF TIIE PYREXXEES. 6 
 
 And blood-crusted axes the prison within ; 
 And six grisly head-men, as ugly as sin ; 
 He had fetters and gyves that all sizes would fit, 
 And a dungeon as deep as a Newcastle pit ; 
 
 Besides, a black pair 
 
 Of gibbets were there ; 
 From which, perhaps, monthly, there dangled in air 
 A score of poor victims, — 1 -peak it with loathing. — 
 All dancing the felon's courant upon nothing ! 
 
 The vassals were famished, and worn to the bone. 
 Their rations were scant, and of gold they saw none ; 
 They toiled day by day, at their hopeless vocation, 
 To form an impregnable fortification, 
 For Raymond, their tyrant, their despot abhorred, 
 Who ruled by the gibbet, the axe, and the sword. 
 
 No service, alas ! 
 
 Xo xirc nor mass, 
 Was e'er solemnized in the church of Coras 
 The altar was broken, the sacristy plundered ; 
 Xo wonder at length that his Holiness thundered, 
 
4 COUNT RAYMOND, 
 
 The hoary clerk-curate was scorned and maltreated. 
 His crosslet profaned, and his pyx desecrated : — 
 He fled for his life under darkness of night, 
 And barely reached Orthes, in piteous plight ; 
 Then crept to an ancient Dominican's cell, 
 And cursed the old Baron by candle and bell ! 
 
 He had cursed him before, 
 
 In basket and store ; 
 But he gave him one swinging anathema more ; — 
 Then swigged off a flask, and lay down on the rushes, 
 Till morning had covered the mountains with blushes. 
 
 He bounced from his lair at the lark's matin lay, 
 And donned his bare ecclesiastical cope ; 
 Then forth like a pilgrim he wended his way 
 To Rome or Avignon, and knelt to the Pope ; 
 
 And gave such narration, 
 
 Of wrongs and oppression, 
 Of murder, and robb'ry, and church spoliation ; 
 That, ere he had finished his horrible tale, 
 The Cardinals shook, and the Pope turned pale 
 
A LEGEND OF THE PYREXXEES. 5 
 
 I've seen Corryvreckan 'midst tempests terrific, 
 Careering, and foaming, and lashing the strand ; — 
 I tell thee, kind reader, that scene was pacific, 
 Compared with the rage of the Pope and his band ! 
 
 He swore bj St Swieter, 
 
 By crosier and mitre, 
 And the bones of his great predecessor St Peter, 
 To send in a trice, — without caring a jot, — 
 The old sacrilegious villain to pot. 
 
 Decretals were rummaged, and precedents cited, — 
 
 For the faggots were heaped, and the pile was ignited : 
 
 An edict was issued that Raymond should come, 
 
 In garb penitential, bare-footed to Rome ; 
 
 Subsist like a beggar, in fashion precarious, 
 
 And crawl seven times round the shrine of Janarius ; 
 
 And ere he could hope to receive absolution, 
 
 Of the funds of the church to make due restitution : 
 
 Of fraud and oppression 
 
 Make ample confession ; 
 And six times, at least, undergo flagellation ; — 
 
6 COUNT RAYMOND, 
 
 The scourge steeped in nitre ; — or lopped he should he, 
 Like a poisonous shoot from the Christian Tree. 
 The bull was delivered, and grimly he laughed, 
 He flourished his brand, and his goblet he quaffed ; 
 " Shall I, like a poor pusillanimous beast, 
 Succumb to the power of an overgrown Priest ; 
 Or brook, like a craven, his arrogant scowl, 
 Congee to a crosier, or crouch to a cowl? 
 
 His herald must fly hence, 
 
 I scout his alliance, 
 And hurl at his mitre my scorn and defiance ; — 
 Though hare-hearted cowards his thunder appals, 
 My nerves are as firm as my rock-crested walls. 
 Ho ! Senechal ! Senechal ! indolent sharper, 
 Replenish the flagon, and send in the harper!" 
 
 RAYMOND SINGS. 
 
 Let Guy of Chatillion, 
 And Conrad De Blois, 
 And that hoary old villain 
 Sir Gaston De Foix, 
 
A LEGEND OF THE PYREXXEES. 
 
 Go prattle to prelates 
 And mutter to priests — 
 Go turn up their daylights, 
 And smite on their breasts : 
 Such lives let them drag on, 
 In sackcloth arrayed ; 
 Give me but my flagon 
 And berry-brown blade ! 
 
 Let Ernaut De Pester, — 
 
 Sir Hugh of St Pule, 
 
 Send bounty at Easter 
 
 And largesse at Yule ; 
 
 Pope Urban " the Quiet" 
 
 And twelve cardinals 
 
 Will revel and riot 
 
 The more in their halls : 
 
 Of these crimson-clad vermin 
 
 I ne'er was afraid; 
 
 So I clasp thee, and grasp thee, 
 
 My flagon and blade ! 
 
8 COUNT RAYMOND, 
 
 From Urban the Fifth, to the bare-footed friar, 
 All reckoned on old Baron Raymond's contrition ; 
 But his scorn and defiance enkindled their ire, 
 Like rivers of oil on the flames of perdition. 
 
 Perplexed and amazed 
 
 The cardinals gazed ; 
 The Pope was at fault, and with phrensy was seized : 
 " Now oust me this vulture from off his foul nest, — 
 It is no matter how, but obey my behest." 
 
 A covetous curate, morose and pedantic, — 
 Denounced by his bishop for arts necromantic ; — 
 One who used incantation, and sorcery, and spell ; 
 And commerced at large with the spirits of hell : — 
 Cadaverous, loathsome, enfeebled, and old ; 
 Yet he lusted for power, and he thirsted for gold : 
 
 He wrote to the Pope, 
 
 " Expressing a hope, 
 That if I with the Count can successfully cope, 
 And blow him to atoms ; — your Highness for that 
 Will give me a mitre or cardinal's hat." 
 
A LEGEND OF THE PYREXNEES. 9 
 
 His Holiness crimsoned, and seemed quite astounded, 
 
 For his pride was assaulted, his dignity wounded, — 
 
 To find a denounced and heretical priest 
 
 Prefer such a shameless, audacious request ; 
 
 But he swore by his pastoral staff and tiara, 
 
 He'd agree, though the terms were as bitter as Mara. 
 
 " The mother that bore him 
 
 Through life did abhor him ; 
 Yet many a scamp's been a bishop before him ; 
 Take back this response, — let my herald declare it, — 
 The Hat or the Mitre, — go win it and wear it." 
 
 The wizard perused what the Pontiff had written ; 
 With rapture transcendant his bosom was smitten ; 
 Though none that was mortal had e'er seen him smile, 
 Yet he chuckled and laughed — in his sleeve — all the 
 
 while ; 
 And stared like an owlet, and croaked like a rook ; 
 " With a sprat from Avernus I baited my hook : 
 
 In vile ragged cope 
 
 I've angled in hope ; 
 But at last I have caught that old gudgeon the Pope ; 
 
10 COUNT RAYMOND, 
 
 I'll make him descend from the pride of his place, 
 To tickle my ears with ' My Lord, ' and ' Your Grace. ' " 
 
 WIZARD SINGS. 
 
 Old Urban 's lord 
 
 Of a glittering hoard, 
 
 For he carries St Peter's keys ; 
 
 And the rich may not move 
 
 To the spheres above, 
 
 Till they pay him the entry-fees. 
 
 But I am lord 
 
 Of a different horde ; 
 
 For though thread-bare is my stole ; — 
 
 When I wave my wand, 
 
 Their pinions expand, 
 
 And they fly from pole to pole ! 
 
 To a dark- waving forest the sorcerer came, 
 
 And drew round his body a circle of flame ; 
 
 Instanter a magical trumpet did blow, 
 
 Which summoned his sprites from the regions below ; 
 
A LEGEND OF THE PTSSNVEES. 11 
 
 Anon, with the speed of a sun-beam they came, 
 And gazed on their Lord through the circle of flame. 
 
 Intent to fulfil 
 
 II is absolute will ; 
 To raze and eradicate, injure or kill: — 
 But lips may not utter, and tongue may not telh 
 The horrent effect of enchantment and -pell! 
 
 And so found Old Raymond, the Lord of Corasse, — 
 His rampart- were rifted, dried up was his fosse ; 
 His rafter- and beam-, with their bolts and their bands, 
 Were shattered to shreds by invisible hands: 
 
 Hi- bastions melted, and crumbled his walls, 
 
 And the Devil'- own tattoo was beat in his halls ! 
 Then rumbled the thunder from turret to basement, 
 And hurricane- rush'd thro' each doorway and casement ; 
 Twas horror, confusion, distraction, amazement ! 
 
 The blue lightning flashed! 
 
 Cloud-cataracts dashed ! 
 And prone to the centre the edifice crashed ! ! 
 Thus toppled to ruin the tower of Corasse, 
 And buried its tyrannous Lord in the fosse. 
 
12 THE AURORA BOREALIS. 
 
 THE AURORA BOREALIS. (b.) 
 
 The winter night is dark and drear, 
 
 No cheerful moon nor stars appear ; 
 
 The scowling clouds are trailing on 
 
 To " sift their snows'' o'er the arctic zone. 
 
 No sound is heard save the brawling din 
 
 Of shallow streamlet and mountain-linn ; 
 
 Or the voice of the gale, now high, now low, 
 
 Tossing the heather to and fro, 
 
 Shaking the rushes and lady-fern 
 
 That grow round the buried warrior's cairn, 
 
 And seem like spectres to the eye 
 
 Of credulous fatuity. 
 
 In the cleft of a rugged, rifted rock, 
 Split by the howling thunder's shock, 
 
TIIE AURORA BOREALIS. 13 
 
 An helpless Covenanter lay, 
 
 Who, fled from Bothwell's bloody fray, 
 
 Both wished and feared the coming day. 
 
 His war-worn limbs and aching head 
 
 Were wrapped in a damp and tattered plaid, 
 
 And famine, gaunt and grim, was there, 
 
 Ghastfully hovering o'er his lair ; 
 
 And the brumal blast grew deadly chill, 
 
 And the night waxed darker, drearier still. 
 
 Horror, alas ! had banished sleep, 
 
 He sobbed and moaned, but could not weep. 
 
 When, in the twinkling of an eye, 
 From palpable obscurity 
 Tumultuous streams of glory gushed, 
 Ten thousand thousand rainbows rushed 
 And revelled through the boundless sky, 
 In jousting, flashing radiancy. 
 Careering around the welkin's brim 
 Like bright embattled Seraphim ; 
 Or soaring up to the dome of Xight, 
 Flooding the Milky-way with light ; 
 
14 THE AURORA BOREALIS. 
 
 Or streaming down on the mountain-peaks, 
 
 On the muirland wastes, and the heather brakes ; 
 
 On lake and river, on tower and tree, 
 
 Showering a sky-born galaxy, 
 
 Like a storm of pearls and diamonds driven, 
 
 Imbued with the gorgeous hues of heaven ! 
 
 The persecuted arose from his lair, 
 
 And poured forth his soul in praise and prayer ; 
 
 His faith waxed strong, and his hope grew high, 
 
 As he upward gazed with intensity 
 
 On the lambent flames that blazed around, 
 
 And he deemed that he stood on holy ground ! 
 
 " What mind," he said, " can conceive aright 
 
 The floods of uncreated light, 
 
 Which from eternity hath shone 
 
 Around the Everlasting's throne, 
 
 When such refulgent glories glow 
 
 Upon his footstool here below ! " 
 
THE FRAY OF GLENGARRY. 15 
 
 THE FRAY OF GLENGARRY, 
 
 A TALE OF THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 The scenery of our mountain land ; 
 
 Her straths, and glens, and dells romantic ; 
 Her streamlets rushing to the strand, 
 
 To charge the foaming, proud Atlantic ; 
 Her sunny vales and verdant sward, 
 
 Her golden broom and silver daisies, 
 Have been the themes of many a bard, 
 
 And minstrel harps have sung their praises. 
 
 And Genius, Valour, Wisdom, Worth, 
 
 Whole winter nights have sat and listened : 
 
 The tones gave patriot feelings birth, 
 
 And Beauty's eyes with pleasure glistened ! 
 
16 THE FRAY OF GLENGARRY. 
 
 But ne'er a glen, however fair, 
 
 Among the heathy hills of Albin, 
 In fertile beauty might compare 
 
 With Lochievale in fair Breadalbane. 
 
 And there, amidst the yellow broom, 
 
 And laverocks clear their sky-notes swelling, 
 And wild flowers wafting rich perfume, 
 
 Arose fair Ellen's rural dwelling : 
 A stream meandered to the sea, 
 
 The bees flew by, with honey laden, 
 The lambs disported on the lea ; 
 
 It was, in sooth, a second Eden ! 
 
 Her father fell ! His sovereign's call, 
 
 From kindred, home, and hearth, unbound him ; 
 He died 'neath Norham's leagured wall, 
 
 With Scotland's banner wrapped around him. 
 Her mother heard the tale of woe, 
 
 Wept, drooped, and pined, in speechless sorrow, 
 Like beauteous fawn, or mountain doe, 
 
 Pierced by the ruthless hunter's arrow. 
 
THE FRAY OF GLENGARRY". 17 
 
 Beneath her hoary grandsire's eye 
 
 The beauteous orphan blossomed gaily ; 
 Pure as the streamlet gurgling by, 
 
 Sweet as the lily of the yalley ! 
 He stored her ductile mind with lore, 
 
 On many a theme, divine and human : 
 Paternal loye could do no more 
 
 To form an intellectual woman ! 
 
 ►She touched the harp with witching skill, 
 
 The listeners sat with breath suspended ; 
 Youths drank delicious draughts, at will, 
 
 Of loye, and joy, and music, blended ! 
 Her fertile mind was richly fraught 
 
 With legends learned from grey tradition : 
 What bards had sung, or sages taught, 
 
 Seemed all her own by intuition ! 
 
 Her radiant eyes of heavenly blue 
 
 Produced love's own intoxication ; 
 Her form was such as Raphael drew 
 
 In happy hours of inspiration ! 
 
18 THE FRAY OF GLENGARRY. 
 
 And Modesty, that grace severe, 
 The milder Graces lent assistance, 
 
 And taught the youths, who drew too near, 
 To worship at an humbler distance. 
 
 But nathless youth in belted plaid, 
 
 And fiery chiefs of hostile races, 
 Forsook the chase and Lowland raid, 
 
 To woo this minion of the Graces. 
 They came from moss-grey towers and peels, 
 
 In eagle plumes and tartans flaunting ; 
 With armed retainers at their heels, 
 
 Who for each other's blood were panting ! 
 
 The regal power was all too weak 
 
 To awe those chiefs, or curb oppression ; 
 The foxes on the mountains bleak 
 
 Might sooner brook subordination ! 
 Each kept a wild ferocious host 
 
 Of brawny clansmen, swart and sable ; 
 And he who robbed and plundered most 
 
 Sat highest at the festal table. 
 
THE FRAY OF GLENGARRY. 19 
 
 Beyond the rest, two chiefs of name 
 
 Stood candidates for Ellen's favour ; 
 The one, as yet, unknown to fame, 
 
 The other was a veteran reiver. 
 Their hollow truce was quickly broke ; 
 
 Their kinsmen mustered, armed, and numbered ; 
 Hereditary vengeance woke, 
 
 Which had for ages scarcely slumbered. 
 
 Macdougal, from the glens of Lorn, 
 
 Declared himself the maid's adorer ; 
 And had, upon the Gospel, sworn 
 
 To win her or to perish for her ! •» 
 
 And Raasy's youthful chief, Macleod, 
 
 Maedougal's unrelenting foeman, 
 Had sworn, upon the holy rood, 
 
 To yield his plighted bride to no man. 
 
 For Ellen loved the island lord 
 
 With youth's enthusiastic fever ; 
 And had, in secret, pledged her word 
 
 To love but him, and that for ever. 
 
20 THE FRAY OF GLENGARRY. 
 
 She reft a ringlet of her hair, 
 
 And gave her lover, simply braided ; 
 
 And, with a silver crosslet rare, 
 
 The fond enraptured youth repaid it ! 
 
 The chieftains and their followers fell, 
 
 Intent on blood and mutual slaughter, 
 Met in Glengarry's rugged. dell, 
 
 And poured their life-blood forth like water ! 
 'Twas hand to hand, and brand to brand, 
 
 'Twas stab, and thrust, and feint, and parry • 
 'Twas shout, and groan, and yell, and moan ; 
 
 Red ran thy streamlet down, Glengarry ! 
 
 But still the Slogan's deadly sound 
 
 Rung through that dark and narrow valley ; 
 Three hundred warriors bit the ground, 
 
 But ay the grim survivors rally ! 
 Pell-mell they fought till day was gone, 
 
 With furious shrieks and wild commotion ; 
 The sun seemed weary looking on, 
 
 So sunk beneath the western ocean ! 
 
THE FRAY OF GLENGARRY. 21 
 
 Macdougal sought his mortal foe, 
 
 Where axe and glaive were brightest glancing, 
 Where eagle plume, now high, now low, 
 
 Seemed o'er the field of carnage dancing ; 
 His battle axe, besmeared with blood, 
 
 He poised, then, with his foeman grappling, 
 lie clove the youthful chief, Macleod, 
 
 As sturdy woodman cleaves a sapling ! 
 
 Then Kaasy's men screamed wild, " Haloo!" 
 
 When they beheld his life-blood streaming; 
 Ten swordsmen pierced Macdougal through, 
 
 Which sent him to his place blaspheming ! 
 And night closed in above, around, 
 
 And shrouded wild Glengarry's barriers ; 
 Some thirty stragglers left the ground, 
 
 The remnant of four hundred warriors ! 
 
 The laverock pipes o'er Lochievale ; 
 
 The blackbird's dulcet notes are ringing ; 
 The flowers their sweet perfumes exhale ; 
 
 The stream runs to the ocean singing ; 
 
22 THE FRAY OF GLENGARRY. 
 
 But where has peerless Ellen flown, 
 
 Of that fair glen the pride and wonder ? 
 
 She sleeps beneath an altar stone, 
 
 With other saints and martyrs round her I 
 
 The j found her stretched within the bower 
 
 Where first her virgin faith was plighted ; 
 A beauteous, but up-rooted flower, 
 
 By bitter blasts untimely blighted. 
 A Silver Cross lay on her breast, 
 
 Her pallid fingers twined around it ; 
 She's where the weary are at rest, 
 
 Beyond the stars in bliss unbounded ! 
 
A NORWEGIAN LYRIC. 23 
 
 A NORWEGIAN LYRIC. 
 
 Ik dalliance with my mountain-harp 
 I spend the live-long day ; — 
 
 Come, beauteous boys and rosy girls, 
 List to an old man's lay : 
 
 Song to his spirit solace brings — 
 
 \\'\< riches are the golden strings. 
 
 Young Harold, a poor warrior's son, 
 But honest, brave, and fair, 
 
 Loved Thoralille,* the loveliest maid 
 That breathed Norwegian air ; — 
 
 He met her daily, vainly strove, 
 
 But never dared to tell his love. 
 
 * Literally, f ' Little Thora." 
 
24 A NORWEGIAN LYRIC. 
 
 One summer eve, with listless step, 
 He trod the daisied sward ; 
 
 And, from the pine-fringed slope above, 
 An angel-voice he heard 
 
 Singing a lay of loveliness, 
 
 Which breathed affection and distress. 
 
 Attracted by the magic sound, 
 
 He upward gazing stood ; 
 Anon he saw a bright-haired maid 
 
 Encircled by the wood, 
 Who, like a bird upon a spray, 
 Poured forth her mountain melody. 
 
 He listened to her song of love, 
 The verdant pines among : — 
 
 " Oh ! dearest, best of Norway's sons, 
 And theme of many a song, 
 
 Couldst thou but know the agony 
 
 Of that which fondly throbs for thee !" 
 
A NORWEGIAN LYRIC. 25 
 
 And yet more near, and nearer still, 
 
 The anxious Harold crept, 
 And listened, till his straining eves 
 
 Involuntary wept. 
 " My thought by night, rny joy by day, 
 Ah ! couldst thou hear my plaintive lay !" 
 
 Xow turned she to the mountain's base, 
 
 Where Harold stood amazed ; 
 And in each other's glistening eyes 
 
 With love transcendant gazed : 
 " And didst thou, Thora, sing of me?" 
 " I own it, love — I sang of thee !" 
 
 She sank into his manly arms — 
 
 He pressed her to his breast ; — 
 An age of happiness, of bliss, 
 
 Was in that hour comprest : 
 Their life was one continued spring, 
 Like dew on flowerets glistening. 
 
2Q A NORWEGIAN LYRIC. 
 
 Then dance away, sweet innocents, 
 
 Ye rosy girls and boys ; 
 And dream of bliss and ecstacy, 
 
 And future loyes and joys : 
 I'm Harold! once the young, the brave- 
 Ye're dancing now on Thora's grave ! 
 
 In dalliance with my mountain-harp 
 
 I sit the live -long day : — 
 Then, gallant boys and lovely girls, 
 
 List to my minstrel lay : 
 Song to my spirit solace brings — 
 My riches are the golden strings. 
 
NEW THEORY OF THE HEART. 27 
 
 NEW THEORY OF THE HEART, (c.) 
 
 " The heart has been elevated to a place in general esteem to which it is 
 by no means entitled. . . . The heart is nothing more or less than a 
 kind of force-pump to propel the blood through the system, somewhat like 
 a set of city water-works." — Chambers's Journal, No. 338. 
 
 When old (ialileo first published his system, 
 
 A set of old gentlemen strove to resist him ; 
 
 Like soap-hells their arguments melted in air, 
 
 But the dungeon was deep, and the sage immur'dthere ; 
 
 The doctrine was startling, heretical, new, 
 
 But Time with his touchstone has proved it all true. 
 
 My motto is startling, and somewhat like mystery, 
 
 But its truth I shall prove by referring to history. 
 
 That royal Virago, " enthroned by the west," 
 By Raleigh bepraised, and by Essex caressed, 
 
28 NEW THEORY OF THE HEART. 
 
 Who gave British ciyilization a shock, 
 Sending one to the Tower, and one to the block ; 
 And, determined her whims and caprices to vary, 
 Embrued her white hands in the blood of poor Mary ; 
 Whose matin refection was steaks from the rump- 
 She had not a heart, but a royal force-pump ! 
 
 King Jamie the Scot, her successor and brother, 
 He fawn'd on the shrew, tho' she murder 'd his mother ; 
 Gave countless but quiet enormities birth, 
 Though he held himself Heaven's vicegerent on earth, 
 And squandered the nation's finances on minions, 
 Who flattered his humour, and backed his opinions ; 
 So at once to this truthful conclusion I jump — 
 He had not a heart, but a patent force-pump ! 
 
 His son, whom Old Noll on the battle-field baffled, 
 Atoned for his Star-Chamber crimes on the scaffold ; 
 But sympathy, feeling, and sorrow, apart, 
 If truth must be spoken, he had not a heart ; 
 Though I hold in abhorrence the doom of the Rump — 
 The " Martyr" had only a royal force-pump ! 
 
SEW THEORY OF THE HEART. 29 
 
 When Charles his son was brought backfromthe Hague, 
 He solemnly swore to the " National League :" 
 But his oaths were engraven on water, not stone, 
 So he sabred the lieges who buttress 'd his throne ; 
 Ungrateful, capricious, licentious, and mean, 
 Despised in his harem, and loathed by his queen ; 
 A vassal of Louis, he truckled and sold 
 His influence, such as it was, for French gold ; 
 
 his memory resembles an old rotten stunrp — 
 He had not a heart, but a carious force-pump ! 
 
 That essence of selfishness, rancour, and pride, 
 Of worldliness, meanness, with genius allied ; 
 A dignified churchman at war with the world, 
 Who from his foul armoury poisoned shafts hurled 
 At gentleness, beauty, the loves, and the graces, 
 Nay, thunder-bolts launched at his foes in high places ; 
 Say, where is the right-minded man in the nation, 
 Can read his memoirs and suppress indignation? 
 Vanessa the tender, and Stella the bright, 
 Both sickened and died for this clerical fright, 
 
30 NEW THEORY OF THE HEART. 
 
 This Dean of St Patrick's — who shed not a tear 
 O'er their beautiful ruins when laid on the bier : 
 He was of the "earth, earthy," a base-minded lump, 
 He had not a heart, but a rotten force-pump ! 
 
 The Twickenham Bard immortality won, 
 He blazed o'er his age like a tropical sun ; 
 And beauty, and fashion, and royalty, vied 
 With the masses of mankind to flatter his pride ; 
 And fortune and elegance furnished his table ; 
 But his little force-pump was as hard as a pebble. 
 When incense was offered spontaneous and free, 
 He kicked down the censer, and eke devotee ; 
 He cruelly, basely, lampooned Lady Mary, 
 Because in opinion they happened to vary ; 
 Though erst he adored her as nymph and as goddess, 
 And retained as a relic the string of her bodice ; 
 By virulence prompted, at length he despised her, 
 And — shameful to letters ! — the bard satirised her. 
 His gallantry, sure, must have lodged in his hump ; 
 For he had not a heart, but a crooked force-pump ! 
 
NEW THEORY OF THE HEART. 31 
 
 Napoleon, who gallop'd from Tagus to Dwina, 
 
 Demolishing thrones like a bull amongst china, 
 
 'Neath Liberty's banner began his career, 
 
 But governed his serfs like a despot, by fear. 
 
 His laws were engraved by the bayonet — and some 
 
 Were written in blood on the head of the drum ; 
 
 These edicts, so hated, detested, abhorr'd, 
 
 Were sealed with the hilt of a gore-crusted sword, 
 
 Gazetted instantcr, and forced upon France 
 
 By her recreant Chief, at the point of the lance ; 
 
 lie rivctted chains that had galTd her for ages, 
 
 And infamy paid him a renegade's wages ! 
 
 Ah ! well might the tyrant have granted the nation 
 
 A thorough political regeneration, 
 
 And spurn'd the idea — the bastard renown 
 
 Of wearing a common-place conqueror's crown ; 
 
 But largely develop'd was cruelty's bump, 
 
 For he had not a heart, but a paltry force-pump ! 
 
 But patience, alas ! ingenuity — time — 
 Would fail the poor poet to hitch in his rhyme 
 
32 NEW THEORY OF THE HEART. 
 
 One tithe of the deeds of the 'historical heartless — 
 Besides that the Muse thinks it is not her part less 
 To sing how poor Chatterton, Otway, Kirke White, 
 Burns, Lovelace, Keats, Butler — all children of light, 
 Whom, for its own sake, the world should havecherish'd, 
 In the midst of their days and celebrity, perished 
 From want, or from noble or critical malice, 
 While dunces have often been lodged in a palace. 
 So she sings, like Northumbrian bard, "in the dumps," 
 For men have not hearts, but a set of force-pumps. 
 
THE MOUNTAIN SANCTUARY. 33 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN SANCTUARY. 
 
 Bleak was the winter Sabbath morn, 
 
 And dreary was the sky, 
 When the persecuted left their caves, 
 
 To worship the Most High. 
 An unfrequented mountain -gorge 
 
 Received the trembling flock ; 
 Their canopy was mist and clouds — 
 
 Their altar was the rock. 
 
 The eagle o'er their sanctuary 
 
 Majestically soared, 
 And screamed discordant, while the crowd 
 
 Mo§t rev'rently adored. 
 
 c 
 
34 THE MOUNTAIN SANCTUARY. 
 
 The chilling wind moaned fitfully 
 Through groves of stunted pine ; 
 
 And the torrents rushed and thundered 
 Through the desolate ravine. 
 
 And from that lonely rugged spot 
 
 Ascended, rich and rare, 
 The incense of the contrite heart — 
 
 The sacrifice of prayer. 
 And angels from the heights of heaven 
 
 Did look complacent down 
 On the honoured heads that soon should wear 
 
 The martyr's glorious crown. 
 
 And grey -haired sires forgot their griefs, 
 
 And all their wrongs forgave, 
 When they heard of Him whose power burst 
 
 The barriers of the grave. 
 And widows, poor and desolate, 
 
 And homeless orphans, prayed 
 For pardon from the throne on high 
 
 On their oppressors' head. 
 
THE MOUNTAIN SANCTUARY. 35 
 
 And matrons, haggard, pale, and wan, 
 
 With babes upon the breast, 
 Expelled from husband, hearth, and home, 
 
 Gaunt, destitute, oppressed, 
 Exulted in their sufferings, 
 
 Nay, smiled at torture — death, 
 And gazed on the Sun of Righteousness 
 
 With the eagle eye of faith ! 
 
 And woe-worn groups, in manhood's prime, 
 
 By tyranny harassed, 
 Whose tattered garments, matted hair, 
 
 Streamed on the wintry blast, 
 Attuned their voices solemnly 
 
 To an high and holy theme ; 
 And the strains of Zion blended with 
 
 The roaring of the stream. 
 
 The ruthless conqueror may climb 
 
 The slippery steep of fame ; 
 And venal pens corroding brass 
 
 Immortalize his name. 
 
36 THE MOUNTAIN SANCTUARY. 
 
 Unfading wreaths, celestial palms, 
 And crowns, are their reward, 
 
 Who brave the tyrant, when the sword 
 Of persecution's bared. 
 
THE BATTLE OF LUNCARTY, 37 
 
 THE BATTLE OF LUNCARTY. (d.) 
 
 The beacon lights are blazing bright, 
 
 The slogan's on the blast ; 
 The clansmen muster rapidly, 
 
 The fiery cross flies fast ; 
 Chiefs hurry from their towers of strength, 
 
 And vassals from their shiels ; 
 For Albyn's strand's polluted by 
 
 An hundred hostile keels. 
 
 Oh ! vermil cheeks shall pallid grow, 
 
 And sunny eyes shall weep ; 
 But not from fear nor sorrow, but 
 
 From indignation deep, 
 
38 THE BATTLE OF LUNCARTY. 
 
 To see those Scandinavian wolves, 
 
 A wild unhallowed band, 
 Like demons of destruction come 
 
 To waste our fatherland. 
 
 The robber hordes are all debarked — 
 
 Their raven-banners wave — 
 Their swords are out — and fair Strathmore 
 
 Is one promiscuous grave ; 
 The Esk, the Brothock, Lunan, Tay, 
 
 Run ruddy to the sea ; 
 While altar, temple, tower, and town, 
 
 Are levelled with the lea ! 
 
 The hut, the cottage, and the grange, 
 
 Are blazing up to heaven ; 
 Decrepit eld, and babes alike, 
 
 Are to the carnage given ; 
 And beauteous maids, and matrons fair, 
 
 Leap from the dizzy steep, 
 And perish — pure as snow from heaven 
 
 Upon the ocean deep. 
 
THE BATTLE OF LUXCARTY. 39 
 
 The spoilers move exultingly 
 
 O'er Gowrie's fertile fields ; 
 Their deadly spears a forest seemed, 
 
 A solid wall their shields ; 
 Like locusts in their mortal flight 
 
 Upon the orient wind, 
 A paradise before them lay, 
 
 A blighted waste behind. 
 
 Bathed in the setting light of heaven, 
 
 Imperial Bertha shone, 
 Like some empurpled orient queen 
 
 Upon her emerald throne. 
 The waving woods, her gorgeous train, 
 
 Seemed paying homage meet ; 
 And Tay, emitting silver sounds, 
 
 Lay crouching at her feet. 
 
 " Now, by the sacred mead that flows 
 
 In Odin's palace high, 
 And by the blessed light that beams 
 
 From Thor's immortal eye ! 
 
40 THE BATTLE OF LUNCARTY. 
 
 If there's a recreant in my host," 
 
 The giant Sweno cries, 
 " His craven corse shall flesh my hounds — 
 
 His odious memory dies ! 
 
 " See mountain, meadow, strath, and stream, - 
 
 Behold the glorious prize, 
 The bright Valhalla of my dreams 
 
 When sleep had sealed mine eyes. 
 There lies the land of my desire — 
 
 The home of all my love ; 
 And there the Danish diadem 
 
 Shall shine all crowns above." 
 
 Ten thousand voices burst at once 
 
 In one loud chorus-swell ; 
 Whilst echo from her mountain caves 
 
 Prolonged the savage yell : 
 Ten thousand brands on brazen shields 
 
 In dire collision clashed ; 
 Ten thousand darts were hurled in air, 
 
 Or in the sod were dashed. 
 
THE BATTLE OF LUNCARTY. 41 
 
 But, hark ! a shout has answered theirs, 
 
 Like mountain torrents loud, 
 A marshalled host comes moving on, 
 
 Dense as a thunder-cloud ; 
 And like that cloud, surcharged with death, 
 
 And rolling rapidly : — 
 That thunder-cloud is Scotland's King, 
 
 And Scotland's chivalry. 
 
 In fiery haste the Scots advance, 
 
 And with the invaders close — 
 Like tigers of their cubs bereaved, 
 
 They spring upon their foes. 
 And thousands fall no more to rise, 
 
 Gashed o'er with many a wound ; 
 And shrieks, and shouts, and groans are blent, 
 
 And life-blood stains the ground. 
 
 The Scottish monarch marked his track 
 
 Along the gory plain ; 
 His beacons in that sea of blood 
 
 Were pyramids of slain. 
 
42 THE BATTLE OF LTOCARTY. 
 
 He spurred his foaming charger on 
 
 Along the embattled line, 
 And with his ponderous battle-axe 
 
 Clove Sweno to the chine. 
 
 Now clan with clan, and son with sire, 
 
 And chief with chieftain vied, 
 To pierce the Danish phalanx through, 
 
 And turn the battle's tide. 
 For vassal, knight, and thane, alike 
 
 Their blood ran hot and high ; 
 Death glared from every falchion's edge, 
 
 And vengeance from each eye. 
 
 What boots it now how well they fought, 
 
 For, ah ! they fought in vain ; 
 Their squadrons reel — their ranks are broke- 
 
 They fly before the Dane. 
 The banner of the silver cross 
 
 Lies trampled in the clay, 
 And for the glorious battle-cry, 
 
 'Tis, " Save himself who may." 
 
THE BATTLE OF LUNCARTY. 43 
 
 See how they flee o'er moor and dale, 
 
 Like fugitives forlorn ; 
 Where is thine honour, Scotland, now ? 
 
 'Tis like thy banners — torn. 
 Yes, there is honour — there is hope — 
 
 For by this blessed light, 
 Three gallant men have left their teams, 
 
 And checked the shameful flight. 
 
 And now they rally, form, and charge, 
 
 And gory gaps they hewed ; 
 With tenfold fury in their souls, 
 
 The battle was renewed. 
 'Twas hand to hand, and brand to brand, 
 
 And dirk and dagger met — 
 And flane and flane alternately 
 
 In red heart-blood were wet. 
 
 On, on, ye glorious peasants three, 
 
 The bloody die is cast ; 
 The Danes are routed — see, they fly 
 
 Like snow-flakes on the blast ! 
 
44 THE BATTLE OF LUNCARTY. 
 
 On, on, ye peasant heroes, on, 
 And win your deathless meed — 
 
 The gory die at length is cast, 
 And Scotland's soil is freed. 
 
 There's mirth and kingly revelry 
 
 In Scone's imperial hall ; 
 And squire, and knight, and lord, and thane, 
 
 Grace that high festival ; 
 And royalty, in robes of state, 
 
 And beauty's bright display ; 
 But every eye in homage turned 
 
 Upon the patriots Hay. 
 
 There's mimic warfare on the lawn, 
 
 Beneath the royal eye ; 
 There's lances shivered — knights unhorsed — 
 
 The flower of chivalry ; 
 And high-born dames, lit up with smiles 
 
 Bright as the milky-way — 
 But, ! their smiles beamed brightest on 
 
 The stalwart peasants Hay. 
 
THE BATTLE OF IX5CA&TT. 
 
 Then royal Kenneth left his throne, 
 
 n aside — 
 " Are yon the glorious peasants three 
 
 That turned the battle's tide? 
 Your patent of nobility 
 
 Hearen gare you at your birth, 
 Alas ! a King can only add 
 
 The splendours of the earth. 
 
 h &= we hare we p — I I r /rd3 
 Of Errol f s fertile fiel : 
 And be your scutcheon blazoned with 
 
 And may your fame, your glory, last 
 
 erer an»: 
 For Scotland, to the end of time, 
 Shall bless the name of Hay." 
 
46 TO FREEDOM. 
 
 TO FREEDOM. 
 
 In youth I adored thee, 
 
 And knelt at thy shrine ; 
 In manhood I worship thee, 
 
 Spirit divine ! 
 When my last pulse shall throb, 
 
 When my last sigh is sighing, 
 If thy presence is there, 
 
 There is bliss even in dying. 
 
 Thy fanes have been thronged 
 
 In days that are past, 
 With ardent adorers, 
 
 In multitudes vast ; 
 
TO FREEDOM. 47 
 
 And the priests at thine altar 
 
 Have ministered well, — 
 Leonidas — Washington — 
 
 Wallace— and Tell ! 
 
 Enrobed in thy vestments, 
 
 On Bannock's red field, 
 Thy patriot sons 
 
 Made Plantagenet yield ; 
 With the flesh of his minions 
 
 The eagles were gorged, 
 And he writhed and blasphemed 
 
 In the chains he had forged. 
 
 What though over Poland, 
 
 All blighted and waste, 
 Barbarians stalk 
 
 At a despot's behest — 
 There each rock is an altar, 
 
 Each grove is a shrine, 
 Where thy votaries shall worship yet. 
 
 Spirit divine ! 
 
48 TO FREEDOM. 
 
 Hark ! hark ! — there's a sound ! — 
 
 To our hearts — to our homes, 
 With the speed of the hurricane 
 
 Northward it comes : — 
 One Monarch, adored 
 
 In the isles of the free, 
 That Monarch is building 
 
 A temple for thee. 
 
JEANIE BALLANTYNE. 49 
 
 JEANIE BALLANTYNE. 
 
 Oh ! my days have been o'ercast, 
 
 With sorrow and with pain, 
 Since bonny Jeanie Ballantyne 
 
 Gaed o'er the roaring main, 
 To seek a kindly hame 
 
 In the western forests free — 
 Oh ! the world's aye sinsyne 
 
 Been a wilderness to me. 
 
 Her father's cottage stood 
 In a sweet secluded glen ; 
 
 It was theekit o'er wi' moss, 
 Had a cantie butt and ben ; 
 
50 JEANIE BALLANTYNE. 
 
 And the honeysuckle bloomed, 
 And the lily blossomed fair, 
 
 And the mavis and the lark 
 
 Thrilled their sweetest music there. 
 
 The daisy gemmed the sward, 
 
 And the go wan glittered round, 
 And 1he burnie wimpled by, 
 
 With a sweetly-soothing sound ; 
 And Jeanie's angel- voice, 
 
 By her father's hallowed hearth, 
 Made the cot a bower of bliss — 
 
 It was paradise on earth ! 
 
 And fondly did we love, 
 
 With a pure and ardent flame ; 
 For our wishes, and our wants, 
 
 And our feelings, were the same. 
 From morning's rosy blush 
 
 Till the gloaming star was seen, 
 Seemed scarcely half an hour 
 
 When I wandered with my Jean. 
 
JENNIE BALLANTYNE. 51 
 
 Her parents both approved 
 
 Of our mutual love, I ween ; 
 The j mindet us in prayer 
 
 When the books were ta'en at e'en ; 
 And her mother smiled with joy, 
 
 While the tear stood in her e'e, 
 That her darling should be joined 
 
 To a decent youth like me. 
 
 Thus contentment, peace, and love, 
 
 Sweetened a' our daily toil, 
 Till a stern and stranger lord 
 
 Became owner of the soil ; 
 And he gave the fell behest, 
 
 That the glen should be " improved :" 
 And levelled with the dust 
 
 Were the cottages we loved ! 
 
 The neighbours couldna speak, 
 
 But they looked up to heaven — 
 For the judgment on us fell 
 
 Like a shower of burning leven ; 
 
52 JEAXIE BALLANTTNE, 
 
 And the wrinkled, hoary sire, 
 
 Of fourscore years and ten, 
 And the baby at the breast, 
 
 Were ejected from the glen ! 
 
 And rustics, in their prime, 
 
 Bereft of home and hearth, 
 Had to bid a long farewell 
 
 To the spot which gave them birth ; 
 And they gnashed their teeth, and cried, 
 
 In a deep sepulchral tone — 
 " Shall vengeance sleep for aye ? 
 
 It belongs to God alone !" 
 
 Oh ! what sickness of the soul, 
 
 And what bursts of wild despair ! 
 And, alas ! unhallowed words, 
 
 Fell from many a lip in prayer ; 
 For the mother, with her babes 
 
 Shivering houseless at her knee, 
 Couldna mind the blest command, 
 
 " Ye may suffer — but forgi'e." 
 
JEAXIE BALLANTYNE. 53 
 
 But though Jeanie's father grieved 
 
 O'er his prospects lorn and lone, 
 Yet he trusted in his God, 
 
 And his energy alone : 
 " There is space on earth," he cried, 
 
 " For ourselves and for our child— 
 I shall seek a cottage-home 
 
 In the dark Canadian wild. 
 
 " We'll fire the pristine pine, 
 
 And we'll chase the bounding roe, 
 And we'll urge the slippery sledgo 
 
 Over trackless mounds of snow ; 
 And we'll tend our lusty steers 
 
 In the forest and the pen, 
 And we'll snap our fingers, thus, 
 
 At the tyrant of our Glen !" 
 
 The fated bark arrived 
 
 For one tide in Allan-Bay ; 
 And the exiles, steeped in tears, 
 
 Left their native land for aye ; 
 
54 JEANIE BALLANTYNE. 
 
 The swelling sails were spread 
 To the early summer breeze ; 
 
 And bonny Jeanie Ballantyne 
 Glides o'er the western seas ! 
 
 I watched the vessel's course 
 
 With a strained and watery eye, 
 Till she dwindled from my sight 
 
 Like a speck against the sky ; 
 Oh ! the agony I felt 
 
 On that inauspicious day, 
 Was like rending of the soul 
 
 From its tenement of clay ! 
 
 The welkin lowered around, 
 
 And I sunk upon the sod ; 
 But anon the earth was spanned 
 
 By the glorious bow of God ; 
 And the scowling clouds dissolved 
 
 Into fructifying showers ; 
 And incense rose to Heaven 
 
 From the herbage and the flowers. 
 
JEANIE BALLANTYNE. 55 
 
 Then I thought upon the vows 
 
 We had vowed in early youth ; 
 That her bosom was the home 
 
 Of simplicity and truth ; 
 That a sparrow cannot fall 
 
 Save permitted from on high, 
 And my throbbing bosom swelled 
 
 With a melancholy joy. 
 
 I shall join her in the wild, 
 
 Where a tyrant may not come ; 
 And together we shall live, 
 
 Or we'll slumber in one tomb : 
 We shall build a bower of bliss, 
 
 Far from the haunts of men. 
 Then, farewell, a long farewell, 
 
 To my native Allan- Glen ! 
 
56 THE CONFESSIONS OF A DOMINIE. 
 
 THE CONFESSIONS OF A DOMINIE. 
 
 In spite of the anathemas 
 
 Of synod and of session, 
 I love the good old practice of 
 
 Auricular confession ; 
 It proves to the corroding heart 
 
 An efficacious salve ; 
 And to the burning, bursting breast, 
 
 A moral safety-valve. 
 
 Come, conscience ! I'll let off the steam 
 
 That thus oppresses thee, 
 And tell the world a thing or two 
 
 It could not fail to see. 
 

 THE CONFESSIONS OF A DOMINIE. 57 
 
 Alas ! I fill a certain chair, 
 
 In common sense' defiance, 
 For though I sack the salary, 
 
 I'm not a man of science. 
 
 " The Schoolmaster," the wise ones say, . 
 
 Doth o'er the country roam ; 
 Well, I'm the man, for in the school 
 
 I never am at home ! 
 Yet with the learned I pretend 
 
 To live in close alliance ; 
 Alas, alas ! 'tis all pretence, 
 
 I'm not a man of science. 
 
 " Delightful task," the poet says — 
 
 Delightful 'tis, no doubt — 
 " To teach the young idea of 
 
 A booby how to shoot." 
 A booby he must aye remain, 
 
 In spite of his appliance ; 
 I cannot stuff it in his brain, 
 
 I'm not a man of science. 
 
58 THE CONFESSIONS OF A DOMINIE. 
 
 The planets that presided o'er 
 
 My birth have been at strife ; 
 And I'm predestined now to be 
 
 A blockhead all my life : 
 Perhaps 'twas Luna's influence, 
 
 Perhaps it was Orion's ; 
 But be the influence what it may, 
 
 I'm not a man of science. 
 
 To gaping rustics I pretend 
 
 To be a second Daniel, 
 But to the parish minister 
 
 I'm docile as a spaniel : 
 Upon Ms patronage and power 
 
 Is placed my whole reliance ; 
 One word from him would blow me up- 
 
 I'm not a man of science. 
 
 With ponderous polysyllables, 
 
 And classical quotations, 
 I quite astound the natives, when 
 
 We're o'er our strong potations ; 
 

 THE CONFESSIONS OF A DOMINIE. 59 
 
 But Johnson's surly spirit seems 
 
 To scowl on me defiance, 
 And Lindley Murray meekly wails, 
 
 " You're not a man of science !" 
 
 I cannot dig, and I'm ashamed 
 
 To take the streets and beg ; 
 Don Carlos would say nought to me, 
 
 I have a shapeless leg : 
 But I'll lay siege to Widow Ward, 
 
 Freed from her third alliance ; 
 Should she say " yes," I'll snap my thumb 
 
 At scholarship and science ! 
 
60 THE MASSACRE OF KRINGELLEN. 
 
 THE MASSACRE OF KRINGELLEN. 
 
 A BALLAD, TRANSLATED FROM THE NORSE. 
 
 Childe Sinclair and his menyie steered 
 
 Across the salt sea waves ; 
 But at Kringellen's mountain -gorge 
 
 They filled untimely graves. 
 
 They crossed the stormy waves so blue, 
 
 For Swedish gold to fight : 
 May burning curses on them fall 
 
 That strike not for the right ! 
 
 The horned moon is gleaming red, 
 The waves are rolling deep ; 
 
THE MASSACRE OF KRIXGELLE> r . 61 
 
 A mermaid trolled her demon lay — 
 Cliilde Sinclair woke from sleep. 
 
 " Turn round, turn round, thou Scottish youth, 
 
 Or loud thy sire shall mourn ; 
 For, if thou touchest Norway's strand, 
 
 Thou never shalt return." 
 
 " Vile is your song, ye grisly witch — 
 
 It evil bodes to all ; 
 If once I had you in my power, 
 
 I'd hack your carcase small." 
 
 They sailed three days, they sailed three nights, 
 
 This mercenary band ; 
 And, on the morning of the fourth, 
 
 They saw old Norway's strand. 
 
 At Romsdhal-nord Cliilde Sinclair flung 
 
 His banners to the wind ; 
 And fourteen hundred armed slaves, 
 
 Like sleuth-hounds, crouched behind. 
 
THE MASSACRE OF KRINGELLEN. 
 
 The hamlets blazed aloft to heaven, 
 
 On mountain and on plain ; 
 Meek maidens violated were, 
 
 And weeping widows slain ; 
 And hoary sires and smiling babes 
 
 Fell thick as new-cut grain. 
 
 But the news flew east, the news flew west, 
 
 And north and south it flew ; 
 Soon Norway's peasant chivalry 
 
 Their fathers' swords they drew. 
 
 The beacons'blazed on every hill ; 
 
 The fiery cross flew fast ; 
 And the mountain warriors serried stood, 
 
 Fierce as the northern blast 
 
 The royal troops had drawn their swords 
 
 Upon a foreign strand ; 
 So the patriot peasant chivalry 
 
 Must defend their fatherland. 
 May the curse of heaven descend in showers 
 
 On him who slacks his hand ! 
 
THE MASSACRE OF KRIXOELLEN. 63 
 
 The boors of Lessoo, Vaage, and Froen, 
 Seized axe, and scythe, and brand — 
 
 " Foredoomed is every felon Scot 
 Who stains our native land. 
 
 u The peaks of Lidde pierce the clouds, 
 
 Black at his base withal ; 
 The Lougen rushes wild and deep — 
 
 And there our foes must fall." 
 
 In ambush, near this darksome stream, 
 
 Five hundred rifles lay ; 
 The water-kelpie stroked his beard* 
 
 And nichered for his prey. 
 
 44 Hist ! warriors, hist ! they come, they come ! 
 
 Fire, hack, and slash away !" 
 Again the kelpie nichered loud, 
 
 And gloated o'er his prey ; 
 And the victims in the mountain-pass, 
 
 Like tigers stood at bay. 
 
64 THE MASSACRE OF KRINGELLEff. 
 
 The first fire thinned the Scottish ranks — 
 Childe Sinclair bit^the ground ; 
 
 And, as his life-blood oozed away, 
 He moaned like a dying hound : 
 
 And his myrmidons like autumn leaves 
 By hundreds fell around. 
 
 The banquet-board was spread by Death, 
 
 Amidst Kringellen hall ; 
 And the ravens from a thousand hills 
 
 Held greedy carnival ; 
 But the eagle from the Dovre-fioeld 
 
 Presided lord of all. 
 
 One fugitive escaped to bear 
 The news to Scotland's strand, 
 
 That Scots were crushed like earthen pots 
 'Neath Norway's vengeful brand. 
 
 A monumental cairn was raised 
 
 To mark the gory spot, 
 Where Norway triumphed in her might 
 O'er the mercenary Scot. 
 
THE SORROWS OF AN EXQUISITE. 65 
 
 THE SORROWS OF AX EXQUISITE. 
 
 The soul-exhilarating dance, 
 
 The joyous festival, 
 The harmony of hound and horn, 
 
 Must be forgotten all : 
 I'm forced to breakfast where I may, 
 
 And dine where'er I can ; 
 One line explains the mystery — 
 
 I'm not a money 'd man. 
 
 The ancient spinsters all declare 
 That I am virtuous grown, 
 
 Because I look so very grave 
 Whilst lounging about town. 
 
66 THE SORROWS OF AN EXQUISITE. 
 
 Moreover, IVe been once to church, 
 
 And cut the gamester clan ; 
 Well, virtue has a poor reward, — 
 
 I'm not a money 'd man. 
 
 I hinted to Miss Betsy Blue 
 
 That I did mean to fix ; 
 She's worth some twenty thousand pounds, 
 
 And only fifty-six ! 
 In spite of rouge and decency, 
 
 With anger she grew wan ; 
 She look'd, as plain as looks can speak, — 
 
 " You're not a money'd man." 
 
 I've read in tales of chivalry, 
 
 And eke in old romances, 
 For dashing youths, some six feet high, 
 
 Young ladies had strange fancies ; 
 And how they'd weep, and faint and die, 
 
 When at the tilt they ran : 
 " The days of chivalry are gone," 
 
 And I'm a ruined man ! 
 
THE SORROWS OF AN EXQUISITE. 67 
 
 I ogled little Fanny Flirt, 
 
 And hinted at my wishes ; 
 Her father has the ear of those 
 
 Who deal out loaves and fishes. 
 Yet though the minx is freckled o'er 
 
 Just like a rusty pan, 
 She laughed outright, and all but said — 
 
 " You're not a money 'd man." 
 
 Tired of the town, I scampered to 
 
 Famed Leamington in July ; 
 And, laced in corsets, I displayed 
 
 My precious person duly : 
 But in a trice, my want of funds 
 
 Through all the village ran ; 
 E 'en wrinkled dowagers snuffled forth — 
 
 " He's not a money'd man." 
 
 " Aroint thee, witch !" my landlady 
 
 Is looking very glum, 
 And, in a supplicating tone, 
 
 Says, " Quarter-day is come !" 
 
68 THE SORROWS OF AN EXQUISITE. 
 
 Well, I must take the morning's wings, 
 
 And flee to Hindostan ; 
 I'll turn Mahomedan or Turk, 
 
 To be a money 'd man ! 
 
 
MAY. 
 
 MAY. 
 
 COUNTRY. 
 
 *Tis May ! and soft the west wind blows 
 Where hums the bee, where blooms the rose, 
 Where pipes the plover o'er the fell 
 To blackbird whistling in the dell, 
 Where larks ascending, downward fling 
 A shower of melody ; and Spring 
 Rejoicing, greets the rising day, 
 And gladness walks abroad — 'tis May ! 
 
 Professor Gillespie. 
 TOWN. 
 
 'Tis May ! and smoke in dusky volumes 
 Ascends from twice an hundred columns, 
 Enveloping the azure sky 
 In palpable obscurity. 
 
MAY. 
 
 Iii poet-phrase, " the lamp of morn' r 
 Seems of its heavenly radiance shorn, 
 And glares upon the busy mob, 
 A rayless copper-coloured globe ; 
 Shedding a dingy, dirty yellow, 
 For half a mile on mead and fallow. 
 Is this the month of flowerets, say ? 
 Yet Almanacs pronounce it May ! 
 
 'Tis May ! the watchmen home are hieing, 
 
 The scavengers are busy plying 
 
 Their nauseous trade ; the morning gale 
 
 Is loaded with offensive smell ; 
 
 The chimney-sweeps are on the scent — 
 
 Of beer and whisky redolent ; 
 
 The carters, talking slang and smut, 
 
 Now scald their throats with " iron-cut ;" 
 
 And, nothing loath, the porters neatly 
 
 Pour down the liquid poison sweetly, 
 
 Thumb down their coppers, plod their way ; 
 
 And clamour stalks abroad — 'tis May ! 
 
MAY. 71 
 
 ,r Tis May ! it blows a furious gust, 
 And clouds on clouds of dirt and dust, 
 Above, below, around, assail ye, 
 While respiration's like to fail ye, 
 And powders every sir and madam — 
 Thanks to the invention of Macadam ! 
 The cloud above descends in showers — 
 It never rains, it always pours — 
 Your Sunday-suit, your London beaver, 
 Is ruined, blasted — gone for ever ! 
 Then home you wend your weary way 
 Through crowded streets — and this is May ! 
 
 'Tis May ! the evening star ascends, 
 And gas its sickly lustre lends ; 
 The mills their denizens pour forth, 
 Like snow-flakes from the frozen north ; 
 And " barkers," at a score of shops, 
 Bawl loudly with extended chops. 
 The ballad-singers strain their throats, 
 And stun us with discordant notes ; 
 
72 MAY. 
 
 Our souls are harrowed up with cries 
 Of " water," " auction,' ' " haddocks,' ' "pies!" 
 The creaking wain, the rumbling dray — 
 Ah ! save me, Fate, from such a Maj ! 
 

 JUNE. 73 
 
 JUNE. 
 
 COUNTRY. 
 
 'Tis June ! the year's refulgent pride 
 Now flames o'er fields and forests wide : 
 The butterfly on dappled wing 
 To every floweret loves to cling, 
 While humble bee nith sleepy drone 
 Pursues his purpose all alone ; 
 And shepherds doze the fervid noon, 
 Whilst flocks around them pant — 'tis June ! 
 
 Professor Gillespie. 
 
 TOWN. 
 
 Tis June ! the sun on dome and spire 
 Flames like a raging glass-house fire ; 
 And scorches with unwonted glow 
 The poor inhabitants below ; 
 
74 JUNE. 
 
 Fierce as of yore, on Park or Lander, 
 Enough to fry a Salamander — 
 Oh ! for a cool October noon — 
 My blood is boiling — this is June ! 
 
 'Tis June ! each city in the nation 
 
 Pours forth its dusky population, 
 
 To scrub and cleanse their dingy hides 
 
 In ocean's cool refreshing tides ; 
 
 There, like a thousand sea-calves splashing — 
 
 How they enjoy their annual washing ! 
 
 To concert pitch — harmonic tune — 
 
 It screws their slackened nerves — 'tis June ! 
 
 'Tis June ! from Highland cots and farms, 
 The Celtic tribes descend in swarms, 
 Uttering a wild discordant lingo, 
 Quaffing old Neptune's saline stingo ; 
 And, plunging overhead, the sinners, 
 Like porpoises or stranded finners ; 
 While hoary grandsires sit and croon 
 Their orisons on shore — 'tis June ! 
 
JUNE, 75 
 
 'Tis June ! a score of rival steamers, 
 
 Tricked off with ensigns, jacks, and streamers, 
 
 Hiss, flap, and snore, like river monsters, 
 
 With crowds of blockheads, rhymsters, punsters ; 
 
 Old bloated cits, with ruby noses, 
 
 Prim ladies, all in search of roses ; 
 
 And wrinkled Eld, quite out of tune, 
 
 In search of bracing air — 'tis June ! 
 
 'Tis June ! the thimbleriggers, full 
 Of knavish arts, the public gull ; 
 And gipsies camp beneath the hedges, 
 Purloining poultry from the lieges ; 
 And tinker hordes are on the tramp, 
 Containing many a sturdy scamp, 
 Who prowls with ladle, bellows, spoon, 
 Jack-ass, and squalid brat — 'tis June ! 
 
 'Tis June ! the sallow Thespian train, 
 Like wandering Arabs, shift the scene ; 
 Ophelia, drest in tattered silk, 
 Begs at the cottage-door for milk ; 
 
76 JUNE. 
 
 And Hamlet, buttoned to the chin — 
 Alas ! no linen greets his skin — 
 Craves patronage, that blessed boon, 
 From all and sundry — this is June ! 
 
BRUMMEL M'RORY, 77 
 
 BRUMMEL M'RORY. 
 
 His honour, the Laird, in pursuit of an heiress, 
 Has squandered his money in London and Paris ; 
 His creditors gloom, while the black-legs are laughin' 
 The Gauger's the mightiest man in the clachan ! 
 
 Our worthy Incumbent is wrinkled and auld, 
 And whiles taks a drappie to haud out the cauld ; 
 Syne wraps himself round in his auld tartan rachan : 
 The Gauger's the mightiest man in the clachan ! 
 
 The Dominie toils like a slave a' the week, 
 
 And, although he's a -dungeon o' Latin an' Greek, 
 
/O BRUMMEL M'RORY. 
 
 He hasna three stivers to clink in his spleuchan : 
 The Gauger's the mightiest man in the clachan! 
 
 The Doctor's a gentleman learned an' braw, 
 But his outlay is great, and his income is sma' ; 
 Disease is unknown in the parish of Strachan : 
 The Gauger's the happiest man in the clachan ! 
 
 Auld Johnie M'Nab was a bien bonnet-laird, 
 Six acres he had, with a house and a yard ; 
 But now he's a dyvor, wi' birling and wauchin' : 
 The Gauger's the wealthiest man in the clachan! 
 
 The weel-scented Barber, wha melled wi' the gentry, 
 The walking gazette for the half o' the kintra — 
 His j okes have grown stale, for they ne 'er excite laughin' : 
 The Gauger's the wittiest man in the clachan ! 
 
 The drouthy auld Smith, with his jest and his jeer, 
 Has shrunk into naught since the Gauger came here ; 
 The lang-gabbit Tailor's as mute as a maukin : 
 The Gauger's the stang o' the trump in the clachan ! 
 
BRUMMEL M-'RORY. JQ 
 
 On Sunday the Ganger's sae trig an' sae dashin', 
 The model, the pink, an' the mirror o' fashion ; 
 He cleeks wi' the minister's daughter, I trow ■ 
 An* they smirk i 1 the laft in a green-eushioned pew. 
 
 At meetings, whenever the Bailie is preses, 
 
 He takes his opinion in difficult cai 
 
 The grey-headed elders invariably greet him ; 
 
 Andbrewster-wives beck when they happen to meet him. 
 
 The Bedral, who houfs up the best in the land, 
 Aye cracks to the Ganger wi' bonnet in hand — 
 Tho' cauld, wi' his asthma, is sair to be dreaded. 
 -7/ , in his presence, continue bare-headed. 
 
 At dredgies an' weddings, he's sure to be there. 
 And either is in, or -its next to the chair ; 
 At roups an' honse-heatings, presides at the toddy. 
 An' drive- hame at night in the factor's auld noddy. 
 
 At Ynle, when the daft-days are fairly set in, 
 A ploy without him wadna be worth a pin ; 
 
80 BRUMMEL M'RORr. 
 
 He opens ilk ball wi' the toast o' the parish, 
 And trips like Narcissus, sae gaudy an' gairish. . 
 
 An' when he's defunct, an' is laid i' the yird, 
 His banes maunna mix wi' the mere vulgar herd 
 In the common kird-yard ; but be carried in style, 
 And buried deep, deep in the choir, or the aisle. 
 
 (Critic.) — " Pray who is this rare one ? The author's 
 
 to blame — 
 He should told us, long since, of his lineage and name." 
 ( Author.) — " A truce with your strictures — don't ravel 
 
 my story ; 
 If I must tell his name,- it is Brummel M'Rory. 
 
 " An' as for his ancestors — Sir, by your leave, 
 There were Grants in the garden wi' Adam an' Eve ; 
 Now, Brummel held this an apocryphal bore — 
 But he traced up his fathers to Malcolm Canmore." 
 
 An' they had been warriors, an' chieftains, an' lairds, 
 An' they had been reivers, an' robbers, an' cairds ; 
 
BRUMMEL M'RORY. 81 
 
 They had filled every grade, from a chief to a vassal ; 
 But Mac had been Borrisdale 's am dunniwassel. 
 
 The chief an' M'Rory had hunted together, 
 Had dined i' the ha'-house, and lunched on the heather ; 
 M'Rory had shaved him, an' pouthered his wig — 
 My certie ! nae wonder M'Rory was big ! 
 
 When Borrisdale sported his jests after dinner, 
 M'Rory guffawed like a laughing " hyenar," 
 An' thundered applause, an* was ready to swear, 
 " Such peautiful jesting she neffer did hear." 
 
 When Borrisdale rais'd a young regiment call 'd "local," 
 An' pibrochs an' fifes made the mountains seem vocal, 
 M'Rory was aye at his post i' the raw, 
 An' was captain, an' sergeant, an' corplar, an' a'! 
 
 An' he drilled the recruits wi' his braw yellow stick, 
 Wi' the flat o' his sword he gied mony a lick ; 
 An' in dressing the ranks he had never been chidden ; 
 An' he dined wi' the Cornel — whene'er he was bidden. 
 
 F 
 
82 BRUMMEL M'RORY. 
 
 On his patron's estate he was principal actor, 
 Gamekeeper an' forester, bailie an' factor ; 
 An' mony a poacher he pu'ed by the lugs, 
 An' mony a hempie he set i' the jougs ! 
 
 But Borrisdale gaed to the land o' the leal, 
 An' his country was bought by a nabob frae Keel ; 
 So they made Rory a Gauger, sae trig an' sae gairish- 
 An' now he's the mightiest man i' the arish ! 
 
A PICTURE OF THE PAST. S3 
 
 A PICTURE OF THE PAST. 
 
 RECITATIYO. 
 
 Harsh the steeple cock was creakin' 
 
 On its rusty spindle aulcl ; 
 Keen December winds were sughin' 
 
 Through the windows, snell an' cauld. 
 
 Aye the storm waxed loud an' louder, 
 As the shades o' gloamin' fell ; 
 
 Gifted Gibbie said that Sathan 
 Got an inch, an' took an ell. 
 
 Wild as fire the tempest rattled 
 'Gainst the shutters, auld an' frail ; 
 
84 A, PICTURE OF THE PAST. 
 
 Moanin' through the narrow closes, 
 Wi' a mad unearthly wail. 
 
 Slates an' tiles, frae aff the houses, 
 On the causey crown played smash \ 
 
 Deacon Draff the brewer's stable 
 Tumbled wi' an awfu' crash. 
 
 " Deil-ma-care," says Provost Pawkie ; 
 
 6 ' Let it hail, an' rain, an' blaw ; 
 We maun meet in Luckie Lyon's, 
 
 Though the lift itsel' should fa'. 
 
 " Though our foes may clip our pinions^ 
 Thwart our plans, and gi'e us pain ; 
 
 Hooly, lads ! — our nests are feathered, 
 S after, may be, than your ain." 
 
 Provost Pawkie 's first-rate genius 
 Ruled the town for thirty years ; — 
 
 Mony a member o' the council 
 He had kicket down the stairs. 
 
A PICTURE OF THE PAST. 85 
 
 If his schemes were ever thwarted 
 
 By a nod, a look, or word ; 
 Instantly that man was marked, 
 
 Syne mixed wi' the common herd. 
 
 Frightened thus, the civic quorum 
 
 Acted blindly, spoke by rote, 
 Whispered round the council table, 
 
 " Whilk way does the Provost vote ?" 
 
 Five o'clock — the hour appointed — 
 
 Loudly chappit on the town ; — 
 Enter a' the civic quorum, 
 
 Duly at the blithesome soun'. 
 
 " Waiter ! Where's laird Pickle tillum ?" 
 
 Cried the Provost wi' an air : — 
 Xi Gudesake, sir, I hear his honour 
 
 Comin' pechin up the stair !" 
 
 Pure as snaw the diaper glistened 
 Xeath a sumptuous dinner rare ; 
 
86 A PICTURE OF THE PAST. 
 
 A' was welcomes, smiles, an' greeting 
 As the laird drew in his chair. 
 
 Brief's a shot the grace was muttered,— 
 ? Twas three minutes yont the time ;— 
 
 Knives an' forks, an' plates an' glasses, 
 Rang an Epicurean chime. 
 
 Courses swift succeeded ither ; 
 
 Port an' Sherry poured like rain ; 
 While aboon the saut they sported 
 
 Lots o' Claret an' Champaigne. 
 
 Grapes an' almonds, figs an' raisins, 
 Pears an' pines, the crew did munch ; 
 
 Tired of these, the Preses bawled out, 
 " Lady, gie's a bowl o' punch.' ' 
 
 Speedily the bowl was emptied ; 
 
 Naething could allay their thirst ; 
 In a trice anither mantled, 
 
 Muckle better than the first> 
 
A PICTURE OF THE PAST. 87 
 
 " Gie's a sang!" exclaimed the chairman ; 
 
 " Let the tempest rair an' rave ; 
 Pickletillum, first an' foremost, 
 
 Tip us aff a canty stave !" 
 
 " At your service, Provost Pawkie ; 
 
 'Gainst the chair I'se ne'er rebel ; 
 Thole until I clear my windpipe. (Coughs.) 
 
 Here's a sang I made mysel' !" 
 
 AIH. 
 
 Tune — The Campbells are coming. 
 
 To our burgh my lord in his chariot rolled, 
 And his flunkies were gleaming in purple and gold ; 
 And the smile on his face, and the glance of his e'e, 
 Seemed as fair to my sight as the flowers on the lea. 
 
 Like bees round their hives when the summer is green, 
 The councillors all round the tavern were seen ; 
 Like bees when the leaves of the forest are strewn, 
 That party by midnight were all overthrown. 
 
05 A PICTURE OF THE PAST. 
 
 For the steam of the alcohol rose to their brains, 
 And the window-frames shook with their bacchanal 
 
 strains, 
 And in bumpers they drank to his lordship's success, 
 Till they dropt on the carpet like pears on the grass. 
 
 And there lay the butcher in holiday pride, 
 Not a cowl on his head, nor a steel by his side, 
 And the sugh of the sleeper waxed noisier still, 
 Though the shoemaker bawled for a finishing gill. 
 
 And there lay the tailor, dejected and wan, 
 A shrivelled abortion, — a fraction of man ; — 
 And the room is all silent, the carpet all wet ; 
 The tumblers demolished, the tables upset. 
 
 And the matrons were angry and loud in their wail, 
 That their doves had imbibed so much whisky and ale ; 
 But a compliment kindly and decently shored, 
 And they melted in smiles at the glance of my lord ! 
 
 
A PICTURE OF THE PAST. 89 
 
 RECITATIVO. 
 
 •The Provost got upon his shanks, 
 An' tendered Pickletillum thanks, 
 
 In good set civic phrase : 
 The clamour for a wee was hushed, 
 But up the laird's life-current rushed, 
 An' ance intil his life he blushed, 
 
 To hear sic fulsome praise. 
 
 Let cynics snarl an' sages sneer, 
 Yet praise to ilka heart is dear, 
 
 Though it comes frae a coof ; 
 The laird his throbbin 1 forehead wipes, — 
 " Come, Maister Pawkie, tune jour pipes, 
 Ye ( mi in a say ye're drinking swipes — 
 
 I'll join you, — there's my loof ! " 
 
 The Provost was a joyous soul 
 
 As ever toomecl a cup ; 
 IK- took a drappie frae the bowl, 
 
 Syne " roared this ditty up." 
 
90 A PICTURE OF THE PAST. 
 
 AIR. 
 Tune — Gilderoy. 
 'Twas when I left my father's cot, 
 
 Some forty years ago ; 
 I knew that wealth was to be got, 
 
 But where, I did not know. 
 The world was wide, an' I was young, 
 
 A hardy loon, an' hale ; 
 Besides, I had a sleekit tongue, 
 
 That ne'er was known to fail. 
 
 Baith east an' west I glowered like daft, 
 
 To see what wad befa' ; 
 For, och ! I hated handicraft, 
 
 An' manual labours a*. 
 Compelled at last to catch the plack, 
 
 Whatever might betide ; 
 I took the ellwand an' the pack, 
 
 An' roamed the kintra side. 
 
 My mither, as a parting boon, 
 Wi' tears intil her e'e, 
 
 
A PICTURE OF THE PAST. 91 
 
 A Bible an* a horn spoon 
 
 That day presented me. 
 She squeezed my hand, an' conjured me 
 
 To use them baith wi' care : 
 An* ane o' them, as ye may see, 
 
 I'm master o' an* mair. 
 
 For seven years, an' somewhat mair, 
 
 I wandered mony a mile ; 
 An' faithfully I gathered gear, 
 
 By mony a quirk an' wile. 
 At length a sonsy damsel's glance 
 
 Gar'd a' my ramblings stop ; 
 I wooed her, — for I stood a chance 
 
 To heir her father's shop. 
 
 Day after day I urged my claim, 
 
 0' naething stood in awe ; 
 An' in a fortnight I became 
 
 A Bailie's son-in-law. 
 By mither wit, an' norlan' skill, 
 
 I scaled the Council stair ; 
 
92 A PICTURE OF THE PAST. 
 
 Nor ever looked behind, until 
 I filled the Civic chair ! 
 
 recitativo. 
 
 Confound the bards of ancient days — 
 
 A set of ruthless tigers ; 
 They've stolen my very best ideas, 
 
 Likewise my tropes and figures ; 
 They've niched, I think, my genius too 
 Which makes me look a leetle blue : 
 So, if my narrative be tame, 
 Say, gentle reader, who's to blame ? 
 
 The brimming glasses, glancing bright, 
 Were emptied, with the speed of light, 
 
 By all the festive crew ; 
 Shouting, around the table's verge, 
 As loud as when the final charge 
 
 Was made at Waterloo ! 
 
 Next, in enthusiastic fit, 
 
 They drank the Memory of Pitt : 
 
A PICTURE OF THE PAST. 93 
 
 Their maudlin hearts were tender. 
 The goblets, that ill-fated hour, 
 Though graced with star, and tree, and flower, 
 Descended in a crystal shower, 
 
 Clish, clash, within the fender ! 
 The dazzling ruin strewed the hearth, 
 Like Chaos, ere Creation's birth. 
 
 The landlord, in a lorn condition, 
 Beheld the work of demolition, 
 
 And thought the party fools ; 
 Yet, nathless, with the speed of thought, 
 He, from the parlour cupboard, brought 
 
 Another set of tools : 
 The hearth was -wept with might and main. 
 The board was cleansed from every stain, 
 And all was decency again. 
 
 By this time all the clique had found 
 
 The zenith of hilarity ; 
 The " mantling bliss" went round and round 
 
 With even increased celerity. 
 
94 A PICTURE OF THE PAST. 
 
 A burly captain on the staff 
 
 A verse or two would hollow ; 
 Then, something like a dying calf, 
 
 He drawled the following solo : 
 
 AIR. 
 Tune — Darby Macshane. * 
 
 There's never a lass in the British Isles, 
 From the duchess to the dairy-maid, 
 
 That could have withstood the witching smiles 
 And the flattering tongue of my Kerry blade. 
 
 Ah ! the winning simplicity 
 
 Of this gem of the Irish nation ! 
 
 His glances were electricity, 
 And his smiles were fascination. 
 
 Six feet three in his shoes he stood ; 
 
 When first the boy came a-courting me, 
 He had nothing, alas ! but his sabre good, 
 
 To carve his name upon Fortune's tree. 
 
A PICTURE OF THE PAST. 95 
 
 But, ah ! his winning simplicity ! 
 
 Love seemed his whole vocation. 
 His glances were electricity, 
 
 And his smiles were fascination. 
 
 I plunged in love with the darling youth — 
 
 The moment was bliss and ecstasy ; 
 Although he had naught of this world's growth, 
 
 Except his grandsire's family tree. 
 
 But, with cold and studied simplicity, 
 I talked about " reputation ;" 
 
 Though his glance was electricity, 
 And his smile was fascination. 
 
 We met by stealth, but my heart beat quick ; 
 
 I listened with blushing and swelling face, 
 When he conjured me — to cut my stick, 
 
 And be off from my father's dwelling-place. 
 
 I murmured " Benedicite," 
 
 In the midst of my trepidation ; 
 
96 A PICTURE OF THE PAST. 
 
 For his glances were electricity, 
 And his smiles were fascination. 
 
 Of the stirring joys of a soldier's life 
 
 And wedded love, he spoke a deal ; 
 But, when I refused to be his wife, 
 
 He wept like any crocodile ! 
 
 But, ah ! it was pure felicity, 
 
 To behold his agitation ; 
 For his glances were electricity, 
 
 And his smiles were fascination. 
 
 " I'll sail in a week across the main, 
 
 To avenge King Ferdinand's quarrels, love ; 
 
 And, on the gory field of Spain, 
 
 I'll gather a waggon of laurels, love. 
 
 "For blood-bought glory we shall share, 
 Though friends and home disown thee ; 
 
 And thou shalt wreathe a chaplet rare, 
 And thine own fair hands shall crown me." 
 
A PICTURE OF THE PAST. 97 
 
 The chain was riveted round my soul, 
 And I lacked a hammer to break it with ; 
 
 So I gave him my hand, for good and all — 
 And ten thousand pounds to take it with. 
 
 Ah ! there was no duplicity 
 
 In this gem of the Irish nation ! 
 
 His glances were electricity, 
 His smiles were fascination ! 
 
 RECITATIVO. 
 
 Long and loud were the plaudits that rung, 
 When Kemble acted, or Braham sung ; 
 When Vestris danced like an airy sprite, 
 Thrilling the Cockneys with delight ; 
 When Paganini, music's lord, 
 Bewitched the world with his monochord ; 
 But louder and heartier were the cheers 
 That greeted the veteran warrior's ears. 
 
 G- 
 
A PICTURE OF THE PAST. 
 
 Old Bailie Macfun — a thirsty soul — 
 
 Encored the Captain's song ; 
 And struck, with a ladle, a toddy bowl, 
 
 Till it rung like an Indian gong ; 
 One stroke too hard on the china fell, 
 Alas ! it burst like a mortar-shell ! 
 
 Macfun a mariner had been, 
 
 And countless dangers braved and seen ; 
 
 In sooth, he was a patriot tried, 
 
 Who oft his country had supplied 
 
 With brandy, wine, geneva, tea ; 
 
 And always did it dutyfree. 
 
 Yes ; many a cargo contraband, 
 
 Old Mac, the smuggler, brought to land ; 
 
 But since the Exchequer laws ne'er reached him, 
 
 Pray, who so merry as he ? 
 So he filled up his glass, in a trice, to the brim, 
 
 And sang like a bird on a tree ! 
 
A PICTURE OF THE PAST, 99 
 
 AIR, 
 Tune— The Roast Beef of Old England. 
 
 Come, bustle, my hearties, she lies like a raft, 
 Up, shake out a reefj let us crack on the craft ; 
 Be handy, be active, brace up and haul aft. — 
 
 Success to the Free Trade for ever ! 
 
 Hurrah ! for the funny Free Trade ! 
 
 Old Linstock, I swear, you're no fair weather spark, 
 Your bull dogs, my bleacher, must bite if they bark, 
 We soon may fall in with a custom-house shark. — 
 
 But here's to the Free Trade for ever ! 
 
 Success to the funny Free Trade ! 
 
 My trig little vessel's the queen of the sea ; 
 
 She skims like a water-witch, close hauled or free ; 
 
 I ne'er saw the man could manoeuvre with me. — 
 
 So here's to the Free Trade for ever ! 
 
 Good luck to the canny Free Trade ! 
 
100 A PICTURE OF THE PAST. 
 
 I've landed the stuff when the tempest howled high ; 
 Not a light on the beach, nor a star in the sky ; 
 The cruisers ! — the lubbers, they're all in my eye. — 
 
 Good luck to the Free Trade for ever ! 
 
 Success to the honest Free Trade ! 
 
 RECITATIVO. 
 
 M Bravissimo !" the Provost roared, 
 
 In rapturous delight ; 
 " That glorious sang maun be encored 
 
 'Boon a' the sangs this night ! 
 Man, Bailie, ye 're a chieF o' pluck, 
 
 As ever toonied a bicker ; 
 An' fervently I wish ye luck, 
 
 Baith in and out o' liquor !" 
 
 Lang, langere order was restored, 
 The clock had struck eleven ; 
 
 The candles on the festive board 
 Seemed multiplied by seven. 
 
A PICTURE OF THE PAST. 101 
 
 The landlord bustled through the room, 
 
 Fu' portly an' fa' fat ; 
 An' Deacon Draff, wi' surly gloom, 
 
 Cried, " Whatna man is that?" 
 
 Young Donald Dhu, the halberdier, 
 
 Hummed loudly " Turnamspike ;" 
 For drink, like Death, the leveller, 
 
 Makes every rank alike. 
 " Och ! if your honours pay me weel, 
 
 I'll gi'e you the M 'Donald dreel." 
 Like fire and tow, the maudlin squad 
 
 Roared for the piper's lay ; 
 An' Donald, like a lusty lad, 
 
 At once began to bray. 
 
 AIR. 
 Tune — The Braes of Glenorchy. 
 
 Come, Corplar M'Donald, pe handy, my lad, 
 Drive in a' ta stragglers to mornin' paraad ! 
 
102 A PICTURE OF THE PAST. 
 
 Greas orst /* or you'll maype get " through ta wood, 
 
 laddie," 
 Ta Kornal will not leave a soul in your pody ! 
 
 Faall into ta ranks, tere ! ye scoundlars, fall in ! 
 I'll mak' ta one half of you shump from your skin . f 
 You're raw as ta mutton, an' creen as ta cabbage, 
 111 treel you to teath with your weight heavy paggage I 
 
 Advance to ta left, tere ! faal pack to ta right ! 
 Tress straight into line, or I'll treel you till night ! 
 You sodgers ! — ye 're shust a disgraish to your clan, 
 An' a ferry hard pargain to Shorge, honest man ! 
 
 You, Tuncan M 'Donald! you fery great sot, 
 You're trunk as ta cap, or ta stoup, or ta pot ! 
 You'll ket a night's quarters into ta plack hole : — 
 Now, silence ! an' answer to call of ta roll. 
 
 You, Ronald M 'Donald ! your pelt is as plack 
 As ta pra' Sunday coat on ta minister's pack ; 
 
 * Make haste. 
 
A PICTURE OF THE PAST. 103 
 
 So you needna stand cruntin' tere, shust like ta pig, 
 For ta Captain shall send you on duty fatigue ! 
 
 An', as for you, Evan M'Donald, you see 
 You'll go to ta guard-house tis moment wi' me ; 
 Your firelock and pagnet '11 no do at a', 
 An' ta ramrod's sae roosty it winna pe traw ! 
 
 An' Struan M'Donald, stand straight on your shanks, 
 Whenever ta sergeant treels you in ta ranks ; 
 An' hoult up your head, Sir, and shoulter your humph ! 
 I toot you've peen trinkin', you creat muckle sumph ! 
 
 You, Lauchie M'Donald ! you skellum, ochon ! 
 Your hair's neither poutherecl nor letten alone ; 
 An' the tin o' your pig-tail has lost the shapan, 
 An' your frill is as brown as the heather o' Pran ! 
 
 Oigh ! Dugald M'Donald ! your small clothes are aye 
 As yellow as mustard in April or May ; 
 I tare say you think it a creat cryin' sin 
 To puy ta pipe clay, an' to rub it hard in ! 
 
104 A PICTURE OF THE PAST. 
 
 An' now you'll dismiss like goot bairns till to-morrow, 
 I'm sure you're my pride, an' my slioy, an' my sorrow ; 
 It's a' for your goods if I gi'e you a thraw, — 
 For the sergeant, ye ken, has the sharge of ye a'. 
 
 RECITATIVO. 
 
 The piper strutted through the hall, 
 As proud as any peacock's mother ; 
 Then stood erect against the wall, 
 And volunteered another : 
 Entranced, enchanted, and enamoured, 
 They ruffed, and for the ditty clamoured. 
 
 AIR. 
 Tune — Will ye gang to the ewe bughts, Marion ■ 
 
 Nainsel' fra' ta hills wad pe flittin', 
 An' come to a toon on ta coast : 
 
 An' as it was proper and fitting 
 She soon got a shentleman's post. 
 
A PICTURE OF THE PAST. 105 
 
 Her cousin, ta laird o' Pitgrunsel, 
 
 A letter did send in a crack : 
 An' syne frae ta provos' an' council 
 
 She cot a toon-coat till her pack. 
 
 She disna pe drink in ta mornin', 
 
 Except it pe trams ane or twa ; 
 An' when ta Lord Provos' gi'es warning, 
 
 She aye stan's his henchman fu' pra'. 
 She disna pe drink in ta e'enin', 
 
 Unless it pe twa or tree cann, 
 An' if she pehaves whar she's peen in, 
 
 She'll soon pe ta Provos' pest man. 
 
 She marches ilk week to ta preachin', 
 
 An' shoulders her halbert like daft ; 
 An' aye while ta minister's teachin', 
 
 She sleeps in ta magistrates' laft. 
 But tiao' she's o' gentle connection, 
 
 She scorns for to prag or to plaw ; 
 Weel may ye digest your refection ! 
 
 Gude night, sirs, an' shoy wi' ye a' ! 
 
106 A PICTURE OF THE PAST. 
 
 RECITATIVO. 
 
 
 The party screamed with sheer delight, 
 
 Discordant as a flock of solons, 
 
 When, from St Kilda's dizzy height, 
 
 A shot expels them, nolens volens. 
 " Sans ceremonie" was their motto, 
 For form was fled, and rank was levelled ; 
 Like bandits bousing in a grotto, 
 They laughed and sang, and drank and revelled. 
 
 Old Draff beneath the table snored ; 
 Macfun gave many a sprightly sally ; 
 And Pawkie jumped upon the board, 
 And, dancing, sung the grand finale. 
 
 AIR. 
 Tune — Jenny's Bawbee. 
 
 Here ! landlord, bring us in the bill — 
 We mauna langer sit an' swill — 
 I'm sure o' drink we've had our fill ; 
 
A PICTURE OF THE PAST. 107 
 
 But use an' wont is law : 
 Then thinkna we're sic simple spoons, 
 As drink sae mony score o' roun's, 
 Syne pay the bill like ploughman-loons ; 
 
 The toun maun pay it a* ! 
 
 We're magistrates, an* men o' rank, 
 Wi' purses neither lean nor lank ; 
 But tho' we've siller in the Bank, 
 
 We're unco sweer to draw : 
 We've only done what's just an' right : 
 The morn ye'll get a note at sight, 
 But ne'er a rap ye'll get the night ; 
 
 The toun maun pay it a' ! 
 
 (Exeunt omnes, very uproarious,) 
 
108 STANZAS TO A VERY YOUNG LADY. 
 
 
 STANZAS TO A VERY YOUNG LADY, (e.) 
 
 Brightest, fairest, purest gem 
 In thy mother's diadem ; 
 Lovely, sweet, attractive flower, 
 Budding in maternal bower ; 
 Gentlest of thy sister choir ; 
 I strike my monitory lyre, 
 And sing a little lay to thee, 
 Type of peace and purity. 
 Listen to my minstrelsy, 
 
 Darling ! darling ! 
 Listen to my minstrelsy, 
 
 Darling ! 
 
STANZAS TO A VERY YOUNG LADY. 109 
 
 Though thou'rt beauteous as the dawn, 
 Gleesome as a mountain fawn, 
 Blithe as bird upon a spray, 
 Carolling its roundelay — 
 Modest as the rose at even, 
 Bending to the breath of heaven, 
 'Neath the pearly dewdrop sheen, 
 Blushing in the dell unseen ; — 
 Age will come, and care, and pain, 
 And sorrow haply in their train. 
 Let fervent faith and love divine 
 Pervade that joyous heart of thine ; 
 Let holiness and heavenly lore 
 Imbue thy bosom to its core ; 
 Centre all thy hopes on high — 
 Prepare to live — prepare to die. 
 Listen to my homily, 
 
 Darling ! darling ! 
 Listen to my homily, 
 
 Darling ! 
 
110 THE CORSE O' DUNDEE. 
 
 THE CORSE 0' DUNDEE, (p.) 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 When France was beginnin' her noisy career, 
 An' settin' the despots o' Europe asteer, 
 Pray, wha hasna heard o' the muckle bum-bee, 
 That buzzed i' the bonnets o' bonny Dundee ! 
 
 They hied to a plantin' an' pu'ed a young ash, 
 As green as the holly, as straight as a rash : 
 The callants they kirsen'd it " Liberty's Tree," 
 An' they planted it deep at the Corse o' Dundee. 
 
 The bailies cam rinnin', clean out o' their wit, 
 An' swearin', like fiends frae the bottomless pit, 
 They wad string to a lamp post, whae'er they might be, 
 Wha had planted that ash at the Corse o' Dundee. 
 
THE CORSE O' DUNDEE. Ill 
 
 The constables threatened to skiver the mob ; 
 
 The deacons a' thought it a very bad job ; 
 
 An' they swore Robbie Spear, an' his myrmidons three, 
 
 Wad be dancin' a reel at the Corse o' Dundee ! 
 
 Auld Dugald M'Dhu, wi' a wild Heelan' grunt, 
 She hewed at the tree till her halbert grew blunt ; 
 An' she swore " siccan hullions she nefer did see, 
 Tat wad tare be tisgracin' ta Corse o' Dundee." 
 
 But the provost was wise, an' his word was a law, 
 His finger had muckle mair sense than them a' : 
 " Be cannie, fule bodies, an' touchna the tree 
 That the lads ha'e set up at the Corse o' Dundee. 
 
 " It's naething but daflin' — the lads need a ploy — 
 I'm sure if they like it, I wush them great joy ;" 
 But he sent for the sodgers, encamped on the lea, 
 To clear wi' their muskets the Corse o' Dundee. 
 
 Be-plaided and kilted, the Highlanders came, 
 Their bayonets gleaming, their blood in a flame ; 
 
112 THE CORSE o' DUNDEE. 
 
 An', in thirty-five minutes, the bonny ash tree 
 Was lodged i' the muckle black-hole o 9 Dundee. 
 
 In double quick time did the kilties career ; 
 The weavers an' hecklers, they scamper'd like deer ; 
 The vera auld wives to their garrets did flee :. 
 An' quietude reigned at the Corse o' Dundee. 
 
 But a " Wee Patie Bridie," a barber by trade, 
 His vera best bow to the provost he made ; 
 Wi' a " Lang leeve your honour ! just gi'e me the tree- 
 Never mair it sail stand at the Corse o' Dundee." 
 
 The provost was sharp, but the provost was shrewd, 
 He lik'dna to needlessly anger the crowd ; 
 " Gae till the black-hole, an' tak' out the bit tree, 
 An' ne'er let me see't at the Corse o' Dundee." 
 
 The barber had prudence ; an' when it was dark, 
 They planted the ash in a bonny green park ; 
 An' there it has flourished, sin' " ninety an' three," 
 Revered by the bonnets o' bonny Dundee. 
 
RHEUMATISM. 113 
 
 RHEUMATISM, (a.) 
 
 AN EPISTLE TO PROFESSOR GILLESPIE. 
 
 <( A man, Sir, should keep his friendship in constant repair." — Dr Johnson. 
 
 Dear Doctor ! — honoured friend and leal ! 
 I fondly hope and trust you're weel ; 
 And since you have a heart to feel 
 
 For others' woes, 
 Read this — and let the tear-drops steal 
 
 Out ower your nose. 
 
 Pride o' St Andrews ancient city — 
 
 Who, though a gownsman grave, yet witty — 
 
 Your heart would be like lignumvitae, 
 
 Or stuff as hard, 
 Should you withhold your ruth and pity 
 
 From suffering bard. 
 
 H 
 
114 RHEUMATISM. 
 
 But I'll not moot the point between us, 
 Nor from my story lang detain us : 
 I never knew a man of genius, 
 
 Or high emprise, 
 But o'er the sufferings that pain us 
 
 Could sympathise. 
 
 For eight lang weeks, an' something mair, 
 I've groaned upon the bed o' care ; 
 Alas! alas! I've suffered sair, 
 
 'Yond contradiction — 
 Nay, almost driven to despair 
 
 By fell affliction ! 
 
 ! 
 
 Rheumatic pains — yell ken them weel — 
 Ha'e tortured me frae hip to heel, 
 An' made me like a baby squeel, 
 
 Sans intermission ; 
 May never friend nor foeman feel 
 
 Siclike condition ! 
 
RHEUMATISM. 115 
 
 For days frae side to side I rockit, 
 My hands in ither firmly lockit, 
 My knees against each other knockit 
 
 Right violentlie ; 
 Ilk joint seemed comin' frae the socket 
 
 Wi' agonie ! 
 
 At night I couldna sleep a wink, 
 Save at the dawning whiles a blink ; 
 To try to read, converse, or think, 
 
 Was a' in vain : 
 In short, I've been on madness' brink 
 
 Wi' heavy pain ! 
 
 I couldna walk, I couldna stand, 
 I moaned, alas ! like ane unmanned ; 
 Domestic love, in accents bland, 
 
 Could scarcely hush me, 
 For Torture's adamantine hand 
 
 Sae sair did crush me ! 
 
116 RHEUMATISM. 
 
 Ah ! how the doctor tried my patience, 
 Wi' liniments an' fomentations, 
 An* pills, an' other preparations, 
 
 To help me through : 
 While cauld an' clammy perspirations 
 
 Ran o'er my brow ! 
 
 But yet, the langest winter night 
 Recedes before the morning bright ; 
 Health, like a phantom of delight — 
 
 In Wordsworth's phrase- 
 Descending, burst upon my sight, 
 
 And gave me ease ! 
 
 An' now the Miltons, Dry dens, Grays — 
 Those glorious lights of other days — 
 Shed on my soul their fulgid rays, 
 
 Serene an' calm ; 
 An' whiles I walk in Wisdom's ways 
 
 Wi' surly Sam. 
 
RHEUMATISM. 117 
 
 But I must close. All Nature's guise, 
 " The common air, the sea, and skies, 
 To me seem opening Paradise," 
 
 From morn to even : 
 may my gratitude arise 
 
 Henceforth to Heaven ! 
 
118 STREET AUCTIONEER, 
 
 STREET AUCTIONEER, (h.) 
 
 " Come, crowd aroun' the stand, gude fowk ! 
 
 Ye '11 get your fortunes mended ; 
 For here's a weel selecket stock, 
 
 An' keen am I to vend it. 
 See ! here's a shawl for twa pound three, 
 
 Ye'll aiblins think I'm boastin', 
 As gude as e'er cam' ower the sea, 
 
 Frae Persia or Hindostan ! 
 A half a crown for't. — Are ye done ? 
 I'm ruined : goin' ! — goin' ! — gone ! 
 
 " Here's siller-mounted specks for age, 
 Frae Lon'on new come down ; 
 

 STREET AUCTIONEER. 119 
 
 For purblindisni's a' the rage 
 
 Wi' half the fops in town ; 
 An 1 youthful ladies sport them too, 
 
 It mak's them look qnite knowin' ; 
 A sixpence for them. — Thanks to you. 
 
 Agom' ! — goin' ! — goin' ! 
 Another penny. — Are ye done ? 
 I'm harried ; goin' ! — goin* ! — gone ! 
 
 " A new an' fashionable watch, 
 
 Turns on a braw carbuncle, 
 Wi' gowden guard an' chain to match ; 
 
 I bought it frae ' my uncle : ' 
 'Twas pawned by ane wha whiles ower lang 
 
 Ower wine an' wa'nuts tarried ; 
 (But gin the gaud be ill to gang, (Aside.) 
 
 It may, at least, he carried.) 
 A ha'f a guinea, — one pound one. 
 I'm done for ; goin' ! — goin' ! — gone ! 
 
 (" Gie ower, ye loons, v:l throwin stanes, 
 Or haith ye's get a hammerin !) 
 
120 STREET AUCTIONEER. 
 
 See ! here's a book by Dr Baines, 
 On stutter in' an' stammerin'. 
 
 0, th — at's the v — ery b — ook f — or me, 
 I'll b — uy it at a v — enture ; 
 
 If I'd b — een fluent, d — o y — ou s — ee, 
 I'd b — een a p — arliamenter : 
 
 F — ive sh — illings for it. — Are ye done ? 
 
 Ye've got a bargain ; goin' ! — gone ! 
 
 " Here's fifty yards o ? Brussels lace, 
 
 Brought hame by skipper Saunders ; 
 He stowed it in a canny place, 
 
 When he cam' ower frae Flanders : 
 It's worth a guinea ilka yard, 
 
 'Twad been a glorious seizure ; 
 But trade is dull, an' times ower hard, 
 
 I'll gi'e you't at your pleasure. 
 Five, — ten, — twall, — fifteen, — twenty-one. 
 I'll flee the kintra ; goin' ! — gone ! 
 
 " A drinkin' horn to had the splore, 
 Chased roun' wi' siller wark ; 
 
STREET AUCTIONEER. 121 
 
 The owner o't, in days o' yore, 
 
 Was famous Mungo Park ; 
 The antiquarian lads wi' glee 
 
 Upon't wad lay their clutches, 
 But they may go to Banff for me, 
 
 I'll sell't for what it fetches. 
 A sixpence, — eightpence. — Are ye done ? 
 It's worth a guinea ! goin' ! — gone ! 
 
 " A whittle that belanged to Burke, 
 
 That prince o' murderous fallows ; 
 He was a most unfeelin' Turk, 
 
 As e'er gaed to the gallows ; 
 Baith haft an' blade's fu' trim an' nice, 
 
 A drawin' o't's been ta'en ; 
 They want it for a frontispiece 
 
 To Sathan's Magazine. 
 It's newly sharpet on a hone. 
 A guinea ! goin' ! — goin' ! — gone ! 
 
 " Here's Doctor Faustus an' the De'il, 
 In unco good condition ; 
 
122 STREET AUCTIONEER. 
 
 'Twas drawn by an Italian chiel, 
 I think they ca'd him Titian. 
 
 A Frenchman taul' me yesterday, 
 It was a gran' cheef doovre ; 
 
 For twenty years an' mair, they say, 
 It hang up in the Louvre. 
 
 Five, — five an' sixpence. — Are ye done ? 
 
 Ye'll mak' your fortunes ; gohr ! — gone V* 
 
HANS SXORRO. 123 
 
 HANS SXORRO. (i.) 
 
 A LEGEND OF ORKNEY. 
 'Dieser Charakter scheint dem Norden gantz eigenthurnlich." — Grimm. 
 
 Hans Snorro was a chieftain stern, 
 
 And turbulent of mood ; 
 With Xiels, his kinsman, ward, and heir, 
 
 He lived at deadly feud. 
 Oh, many a pilgrimage he made, 
 
 And goodly gifts he vowed, 
 To great St Magnus' hallowed pile, 
 For one to heir his name and isle. 
 
 But, childless still, he ceased, at last, 
 
 To weary heaven with prayer ; 
 And rushed to S tennis' gory stones, 
 
 In sullen, dark despair ; 
 
124 HANS SN0RR0. 
 
 And to the ghostly Enemy 
 
 Did suit and service there — 
 Vowing the tithe of hoof and horn, 
 Whene'er a man-child should be born. 
 
 And, in a twelvemonth and a day, 
 
 Among the wilds of Hoy, 
 Old yellow-bearded Snorro leaped 
 
 Three Danish ells for joy, 
 To see his own ferocious face 
 
 Reflected in his boy ; 
 And, for a month — noon, night, and morn, 
 He drained his ample wassail-horn. 
 
 The mountain tops, for miles around, 
 With lurid bale-fires blazed ; 
 
 The eagles on the splintered cliffs 
 Screamed, startled and amazed ; 
 
 The very beeves, in mute dismay, 
 Upon each other gazed ; 
 
 The Borealis gleamed on high, 
 
 Like fiery serpents in the sky. 
 
HAXS SXORRO. 123 
 
 The withered monk crept to his cell, 
 
 By Rackwick's rugged shore, 
 And kissed the rood more fervently 
 
 Than e'er he did before, 
 And told his beads, with trembling hand, 
 
 A thousand times and more ; 
 The buxom priest, rotund and fair, 
 For once betook himself to prayer. 
 
 At holy-tide, the infant heir § 
 
 Of Snorro's ancient race 
 Was held before the sacred font, 
 
 To gain the signs of grace ; 
 The consecrated element 
 
 Hissed from the baby's face, 
 As balmy rain, 'neath summer skies, 
 From off a glowing ploughshare flies. 
 
 The terror-stricken monk essayed 
 
 An ave and a creed ; 
 The stalwart chieftains crossed themselves, 
 
 As men will do at need ; 
 
126 HANS SN0RR0. 
 
 The fainting mother, speechless, pale, 
 
 Shook like a storm-tossed reed, 
 While gleamed young Snorro's vengeful eye, 
 A star of evil destiny. 
 
 He spurned his mother's gentle breast, 
 
 Kind nature's genial boon ; 
 His food was bramble-berries wild, 
 
 Plucked ere the heat of noon ; 
 Or honey gathered from the heath, 
 
 Beneath the waning moon ; 
 His drink was from the haunted rill 
 That oozed from out the wizard hill. 
 
 As tower the green Norwegian pines 
 
 Above the weeping willows, 
 Young Snorro grew erect and tall, 
 
 Beyond his island-fellows ; 
 Albeit his couch was stunted heath, 
 
 And runic stones his pillows. 
 His scowl was dark, his cheek was wan — 
 A moody solitary man. 
 
 ■ 
 
HANS SN0RR0. 125 
 
 His days were spent in wizard gloom, 
 
 His nights in mental toil ; 
 He never felt the influence 
 
 Of lovely woman's smile — 
 The brilliancy of woman's eye 
 
 Ne'er lit his narrow pile ; 
 The peasants cowered, and held their breath, 
 When Snorro crossed them on the heath. 
 
 The melody of woman's voice 
 
 He ever loathed to hear ; 
 The music of the harp and lute 
 
 Was poison to his ear ; 
 The carol of a summer bird 
 
 Thrilled his dark soul with fear. 
 But, ah ! he loved the night wind's moan 
 Through ruined tower or cavern lone. 
 
 The noble Scandinavian youth 
 
 Who graced Jarl Eric's train ; 
 The island chiefs in martial guise ; 
 
 The scalds with courtly strain ; 
 
128 HANS SN0RR0. 
 
 The bearded sages of the north — 
 
 He held in high disdain : 
 Two skin-clad moonlings, gaunt and wan, 
 Did service to this lonely man. 
 
 On Beltane Eve the wizard hied 
 To Rackwick's gloomy dell ; 
 
 And 'midst enchanted circle there 
 Performed the rites of hell : 
 
 And, while his infant victims writhed 
 With wild unearthly yell, 
 
 He caused his orisons arise 
 
 To gory Norse divinities ! 
 
 Then Hecla, Odin's fiery fane, 
 
 In parturition's throes, 
 Belched lava-torrents, far and wide, 
 
 Above eternal snows ; 
 Then exhalations dense and dun 
 
 In hideous masses rose, 
 And, by an arctic tempest driven, 
 O'erspread the earth, and darkened heaven. 
 
HANS SNORRO. 129 
 
 Then ocean heaved unwontedly 
 
 Amid the horrific gloom, 
 And buried hapless Runabreck 
 
 In her capacious womb. 
 The hardy island warriors 
 
 Thought it the day of doom ; 
 While chief and serf, on heath and moss, 
 In terror clutched and kissed the cross. 
 
 Then royal Haco's gallant fleet, 
 
 Laden with foemen's spoil, 
 Sank in tlje fathomless abyss, 
 
 Where Pentland's currents boil, 
 And foam, and rage, and thunder on, 
 
 By Stroma's rugged isle ; 
 While, on the alpine height of Hoy, 
 The wizard laughed with fiendish joy. 
 
 Time rolled ; but aye the sorcerer, 
 
 By cave or blasted heath, 
 Defiled the genial air of heaven 
 
 With his polluted breath, 
 
130 HANS SNORRO. 
 
 And ratified, each Beltane Eve, 
 
 His league with hell and death ; 
 Till holy Swern, apostle, saint, 
 Dissolved the infernal covenant. 
 
 St Swern from youth was powerfully 
 Endowed with heavenly grace ; 
 
 The love divine which glowed within 
 Beamed radiant in his face ; 
 
 And night and day he wept and prayed 
 For all the human race ; 
 
 But chiefly for the wizard fell, 
 
 Estranged from God, in league with hell. 
 
 The glorious banner of the cross 
 
 He fearlessly unrolled, 
 And waged inexorable war 
 
 Against the " Anarch old ;" 
 And many wandering sheep he brought 
 
 Back to his Master's fold. 
 His faith was strong, his hopes were high, 
 His guerdon immortality. 
 
HANS SXORRO, 131 
 
 Sustained by energy divine, 
 
 And more than mortal might, 
 He sought the gloomy sorcerer 
 
 About the noon of night, 
 And poured upon his mental eye 
 
 A flood of gospel light ; 
 Expelled, by ardent, humble prayer, 
 The fiend who had his dwelling there. 
 
 The haggard penitent knelt down 
 
 Amidst the lonely wild ; 
 His hellish relics, magic books, 
 
 Upon the flames he piled, 
 And on his ghostly father's neck 
 
 Wept like a weaned child ; 
 Salt tears, by sharp contrition sped— 
 They were the first he ever shed ! 
 
 Anon, at Ladye-chapel font, 
 
 This chief of ancient line, 
 From holy Swern, in sacred stole, 
 
 Received the rite divine. 
 
132 HANS SNORRO. 
 
 A hallowed fire that day was lit, 
 
 Which never knew decline, 
 Till Faith was lost in light on high, 
 And Hope in blest reality. 
 
THE PERSECUTOR'S DEATH-BED. 133 
 
 THE PERSECUTOR'S DEATH-BED. (k.) 
 
 Horror and doubt distract 
 
 His troubled thoughts \ and from the bottom stir 
 The hell within him. — Milton. 
 
 On a starless winter night, 
 
 A hoary man of blood 
 
 Heard wild unearthly voices cry— 
 
 " Prepare to meet thy God I" 
 
 The Solway lashed the shore 
 
 With a dread unwonted surge ; 
 
 And the tempest groaned through the forest dun, 
 
 As if pealing Nature's dirge ! 
 
 And midnight thunder rolled 
 Through the dense and sulphury air ; 
 While perjured priests the death-prayer read 
 By the lurid lightning's glare* 
 
134 the persecutor's death-bei>. 
 
 Deep horror on him fell, 
 And he deemed that death was nigh ; 
 For the blood of his victims seemed to call 
 For vengeance from on high ! 
 
 In agony he burned 
 
 With fierce internal fires ; 
 
 Like a soul fore-doomed to the evil one ? 
 
 When its written term expires. 
 
 He gnawed his tongue with pain, 
 And he cursed the lamp's pale ray ; 
 For he knew that the grisly visitant 
 Had marked him for a prey. 
 
 His troopers, bronzed and scarred, 
 Who'd been steeped to the lips in crime, 
 Did shake like storm-tossed aspen-leaves ? 
 When they heard the midnight chime ! 
 
 And stern, and blood-shot eyes, 
 That ne'er had known a tear, 
 
THE PERSECUTOR'S DEATH-BED. 135 
 
 Grew dim with the film of agony, 
 As they gazed on the tyrant's lair. 
 
 Death-dew from every pore 
 
 Oozed o'er his brow like rain ; 
 
 And he clutched the cross with his red right hand, 
 
 But the symbol broke in twain ! 
 
 And forms of murky hue 
 Seemed hovering round his head ; 
 Anon with shrieks of blasphemy 
 The unhallowed spirit fled ! 
 
 The fox howled on the hill, 
 The blood-hound bayed the blast ; 
 And the eagle flapped his dusky wings, 
 And screamed when the wanderer past. 
 
 Then silence reigned around, — 
 The thunder ceased to roll ; 
 And the stars shone forth in brilliancy, 
 And glowed from pole to pole. 
 
136 the persecutor's grate. 
 
 THE PERSECUTOR'S GRAVE 
 
 The dew may fall at gloaming gray, 
 And moon-beams light the scene, 
 But the turf that wraps thy mouldering clay 
 Shall ne'er be green. 
 
 No floweret fair shall ever mock 
 The grave where thy carcass lies ; 
 But birds obscene shall nightly croak 
 Thine obsequies. 
 
 No merle nor mavis e'er shall sing 
 Where thy vile relics rot, 
 And the lark shall cease its carolling 
 When near the spot. 
 
THE PERSECUTOR'S GRAVE. 137 
 
 No sportive lambs thy mound shall grace, 
 Nor insects dance in air ; 
 And bees shall shun th' unhallowed place, — 
 There's poison there. 
 
 The hare shall ever avoid that ground, 
 Though the hunters press behind ; 
 But there the furious rabid hound 
 Shall shelter find. 
 
 The reptile on this blighted ground 
 Shall yearly spawn its young ; 
 And the adder every day shall loll 
 Its forked tongue, 
 
 By death's unerring javelin hushed — 
 Beneath this blasted sod 
 He sleeps ; — who like a demon crushed 
 The saints of God. 
 
138 THE LAIRD o' WINDLESTRAETOWN. 
 
 THE LAIRD 0' WINDLESTRAETOWN. 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 The sun had slipped ayont the hill, 
 
 The darg was done in barn^and byre ; 
 The carle himsel' come hame frae the mill, 
 
 Was luntin his cutty before the fire ; 
 The lads an' lasses had just sitten down, 
 
 The hearth was sweepit fu' canty and clean, 
 When the cadgie laird o' Windlestraetown 
 
 Cam' in for till haud his Hallowe'en. 
 
 The gudewife becked, and the carle booed ; 
 
 In ower to the deis the laird gaed he ; 
 The swankies a' they glowered like wud, 
 
 The lasses leugh i' their sleeves sae slee ; 
 
THE LAIRD o' WINDLESTRAETOWN. 139 
 
 And sweet wee Lilias was unco fear'd, 
 
 And she blushed like a rose in a garden green. 
 
 And queer she felt when she saw the laird 
 Come there for till haud his Hallowe'en. 
 
 " Now haud ye merry/ ' quo Windlestraetown, 
 
 " I downa come here jour sport to spill ; 
 Rax down the nuts, ye uncolike loon, 
 
 For though I am auld, I am gleesome still ; 
 And Lilias, my pet, to burn wi' me 
 
 Ye winna be sweer, right weel I ween ; 
 However it gangs my fate I'll dree, 
 
 Since here I am haudin' my Hallowe'en/' 
 
 The pawkie auld wife, at the chimley cheek, 
 
 Took courage an' spak', as a mither suld do ; 
 " Noo haud up your head, my daughter meek, — 
 
 A laird comesna ilka night to woo ! 
 He'll mak' ye a lady, an' that right soon, 
 
 I dreamt it twice ower, I'm sure, yestreen." 
 " A bargain be't," quo Windlestraetown, — 
 
 " It's lucky to book on a Hallowe'en. 
 
140 THE LAIRD o' WINDLESTRAETOWN. 
 
 "I'll stick by my nuts for better for waur, 
 
 Will ye do the like, my bonny May ? 
 Ye shall shine at my board like the gloaming star, 
 
 And gowd in gowpins ye's hae for aye." 
 The nuts were cannilie laid on the ingle, 
 
 Weel, weel were they tented wi' anxious een ; 
 And sweetlie in ase thegither they mingle ; 
 
 "Now, blessed for aye be this Hallowe'en !" 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 " Let banefires blaze on the Wardlaw height, 
 
 Unyoke baith pleugh an' cart bedeen ; 
 Gae warn the piper, wi' speed o' light, 
 
 To haste wi' his pipes to the loaning green ; 
 Let auld and young i' their best be boune, 
 
 Let guns an' pistols fu' loudlie rair ; 
 For the cantie laird o' Windlestraetown 
 
 This day has gotten a son an' heir ! 
 
 " Then pierce the barrel as soon's ye may, 
 An* let the berry -brown yill run free ; 
 
THE LAIRD o' WIXDLESTRAETOWN. 141 
 
 We'll a* baud a ranting holiday, 
 
 An' drink success to the laird's roof-tree, 
 
 Let cap an' stoup gae cheerily roun', 
 Wi s health an' joy to the happy pair — 
 
 The laird an' lady o' "Windlestraetown, 
 Wha now hae gotten a son an' heir !" 
 
 The day was fair as fair could be, 
 
 The yill was gude, an' the pipes in tune ; 
 They lap an' flang, on the daisied lee, 
 
 Till their faces glowed like the harvest moon ; 
 The bicker gaed briskly roun' an' roun', 
 
 The maidens never seemed half sae fair ; 
 An' ay they huzzaed for Windlestraetown, 
 
 An' eke for his bonny wee son an' heir ! 
 
 The laird cam' out in his braw new wig, 
 An' oh ! but a blithe auld carle was he ; 
 
 He crackit his thumbs as he danced the jig, 
 An' he kissed the lasses frae chin to bree ! 
 
 " Xoo pass the nappy, my canty loon, 
 An' smoor your sorrow an' drown your care ; 
 
142 THE LAIRD o' WINDLESTRAETOWN. 
 
 It's no ilka day," quo Windlestraetown, 
 " That I get a callant to be my heir. 
 
 "I've bonny braid lands i' the How o' Fife, 
 
 I've routh o' flocks on the flowing lea, 
 An' ae sweet wife i' the morn o' life, 
 
 Wha's dear as the light o' heaven to me." 
 " YeVe mair than that," said a grey-haired sire,- 
 
 " Ye've e'en an' morn the poor man's prayer ; 
 An' noo for to heeze your heart up higher, 
 
 Ye Ve gotten a bonny wee son an' heir. 
 
 " We'll drink his health wi' heart an' tongue, 
 
 I' the best o' yill that hands can brew ; 
 An' oh ! may the blessing o' auld an' young 
 
 Descend upon him as it does on you. 
 Then fill — we'll just hae anither roun', 
 
 A willy waught o' this winsome ware ; 
 Come, nine-times-nine for "Windlestraetown, 
 
 The lady hersel', and the sweet wee heir." 
 
TO SHAKSPEARE. 143 
 
 TO SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 Who can impart new brilliancy 
 
 To heaven's ethereal bow ? 
 
 Or teach the lustrous orbs on high 
 
 To shed a richer glow ? 
 
 Or doth that wondrous being breathe 
 
 Can brighten that perennial wreath 
 
 Which circles Shakspeare's brow ! 
 
 Ah ! no — that coronal sublime, 
 
 Unchangeable, shall bloom until the end of time. 
 
 Ten thousand mighty rivers rush 
 
 Impetuous to the sea ; 
 
 But cannot alter nor augment 
 
 Its vast immensity ! 
 
 So countless millions of thy kind, 
 
 When musing on thy master mind, 
 
 Have almost bent the knee, 
 
144: TO SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 In homage to thy deathless name ; 
 
 But congregated man can ne'er enhance thy fame, 
 
 Humanity's united power 
 
 And skill were all in vain, 
 
 To build a fitting tomb for thee ; — 
 
 The tower on Shinar's plain, 
 
 Piled on St Helen's rifted cone. 
 
 'Midst ocean s everlasting moan, 
 
 Were all too mean a fane ; 
 
 Thou hast indeed a nobler shrine — 
 
 The ponderous globe itself is thine — for ever thine ! 
 
 The hurricane's resistless force, 
 
 The ocean's awful roar, 
 
 That rocked the ark, when floating on 
 
 A sea without a shore, 
 
 Are unimpaired in strength and tone, 
 
 Though o'er the crest of Time have flown 
 
 Four thousand years and more ! 
 
 And thus thy fame shall ever be, 
 
 Till hoary Time shall blend with dread Eternity. 
 
THE TEMPLE OF NATURE. 145 
 
 THE TEMPLE OF NATURE. 
 
 Talk not of temples — there is one 
 Built without hands — to mankind given ; 
 Its lamps are the meridian sun, 
 
 And all the stars of heaven ; 
 Its walls are the cerulean sky ; 
 Its floor the earth so green and fair ; 
 The dome is vast immensity,— 
 
 All nature worships there ! 
 
 The Alps arrayed in stainless snow, 
 The Andean ranges yet untrod, 
 At sunrise, and at sunset, glow 
 Like altar-fires to God ! 
 
 K 
 
146 THE TEMPLE OF NATURE. 
 
 A thousand fierce volcanoes blaze, 
 As if with hallowed victims rare ; 
 And thunder lifts its voice in praise, — 
 All nature worships there ! 
 
 The ocean heaves resistlessly, 
 
 And pours his glittering treasure forth ; 
 
 His waves, the priesthood of the sea, 
 
 Kneel on the shell- gemmed earth ; 
 And there emit a hollow sound, 
 As if they murmured praise and prayer ;- 
 On every side 'tis holy ground, — 
 
 All nature worships there . r 
 
 The grateful earth her odours yield 
 In homage, Mighty One, to thee, — 
 From herbs and flowers in every field, — 
 
 From fruit on every tree : 
 The balmy dew, at morn and even, 
 Seems like the penitential tear, 
 Shed only in the sight of heaven. 
 
 All nature worships there ! 
 
THE TEMPLE OF NATURE. 147 
 
 The cedar and the mountain pine, 
 The willow on the fountain's brim, 
 The tulip and the eglantine, 
 
 In reverence bend to Him ; — 
 The song-birds pour their sweetest lays, 
 From tower, and tree, and middle air ; — 
 The rushing river murmurs praise, — 
 
 All nature worships there ! 
 
 Then talk not of a fane, save one, 
 
 Built without hands — to mankind given — 
 
 Its lamps are the meridian sun, 
 
 And all the stars of heaven ; — 
 Its walls are the cerulean sky, 
 Its floor the earth so green and fair ; 
 The dome is vast immensity, — 
 
 All nature worships there ! 
 
148 TO BURNS, 
 
 TO BURNS. 
 
 I thought on thy name — so beloved, so adored, 
 
 'Neath each clime of the earth, sweetest bard of the 
 north ; 
 
 Of the heights so sublime where thy spirit had soared, 
 And the rapturous strains which thy muse bodied forth. 
 
 I thought on the sorrows which checquered thy youth, 
 On the early misfortunes with which thou hadst striven ; 
 
 When thou drank'st from the crystalline fountain of truth, 
 And inhaled, unalloyed, inspiration from Heaven. 
 
 It was then that thy masculine fancy took wing, 
 And soared like a bird to the summit of fame, 
 
 Pouring warblings as sweet as the music of spring, 
 And pure as the Devon's meandering stream. 
 
TO BURNS. 149 
 
 It was then that thy lyric enchantments were sung, ; 
 
 And each feeling bosom its sympathy spoke ; 
 Thy harp, like a seraph's, melodiously rung; 
 
 For the hand of a master its music awoke. 
 
 The great and the noble — by apathy pressed — 
 Were stirred by its soul-thrilling music divine ; 
 
 Even noble-born beauty its magic confessed, 
 And Fashion taught Dulness to bow at thy shrine. 
 
 But they left thee to wrestle with want and with woe, 
 Thy prospects all blighted, thy feelings all sered : — 
 
 Like a meteor amongst them awhile thou didst glow, 
 Like a meteor, alas ! which too soon disappeared. 
 
 
 I thought on the column his genius had raised, — 
 On the dark dreary grave where his relics repose, — 
 
 On his sensitive bosom which sorrow had seized, — 
 On his progress through life, on his loves, and his woes. 
 
150 TO BURNS. 
 
 I thought on his hours of convivial bliss, 
 With the friends of his heart, round the magical bowl ; 
 
 On the conjugal rapture — the heart -thrilling kiss, — 
 And I wept like a woman in fulness of soul. 
 
 Sweet bard, thy renown shall for ever increase ; 
 
 Whilst genius is prized shall thy merits be sung ; 
 The star of thy fame shall in brilliancy blaze, 
 
 Till Nature's funereal knell shall be rung ! 
 
 Our loveliest maidens shall yearly bestrew 
 
 With flowerets the green turf that pillows thy head ; 
 
 And the salt tear of sorrow for ever shall flow 
 O'er the spot where our mightiest poet is laid. 
 
TO POLAND. 151 
 
 TO POLAND. 
 
 In Fate's defiance — in the world's great eye, 
 Poland has won her immortality. — Campbell, 
 
 From the forest and the steppe, 
 From the mountain and the down, 
 From the dreary icy Cape, 
 And from castle, tower, and town, 
 From city, village, hamlet, and shed ; 
 Lo ! the myriads of the North, 
 In their panoply pour forth, 
 Till they shake the solid earth — 
 With their tread ! 
 
 Like the hurricane they haste, 
 Or like Etna's lava-flood, 
 From the mountain's flaming crest, 
 To be quenched in human blood ; 
 
152 TO POLAND. 
 
 Or like an avalanche downward hurled ; 
 Or like locusts in their flight, 
 They eclipse the solar light, 
 Spreading desolation's blight 
 O'er the world. 
 
 Stern Justice wildly mourns 
 O'er the soul-appalling sight ; 
 And dove-eyed Ruth returns 
 To her native fields of light, 
 To mingle with the angels on high ; 
 For the Polish plains are red 
 With the life-blood of the dead — 
 Even Mercy's self hath fled 
 To the sky! 
 
 But, like giants roused from sleep, 
 The enslaved shall burst their chains, 
 On the wild Siberian steep — 
 On the Asiatic plains — 
 
TO POLAND. 153 
 
 In the forests — in the fens of the Swede, — 
 This victor-shout shall swell, 
 Over field, and flood, and dell — 
 " Ring ! ring the despot's knell ! 
 He is dead!" 
 
 Then Freedom's bark shall sail 
 On the mountain-waves sublime, 
 And her pennon on the gale, 
 Through the lapse of waning time, 
 Shall flaunt above, majestic and fair ; — 
 And tyranny accursed — 
 By fiends and demons nursed — 
 Shall, like a bubble, burst 
 Into air ! 
 
154 TO THE MEMORY OF SCOTT. 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF SCOTT. 
 
 A sound of heart-rung woe 
 
 Came on th' autumnal gale ; 
 
 And countless mourners wildly raised 
 
 The deep funereal wail. 
 
 The magic-lyre is mute, 
 Its chords with cypress bound ; 
 The mighty hand is cold in death 
 That waked its witching sound. 
 
 His soul hath winged its flight 
 To worlds beyond the sky ; — 
 But from that fated hour we date 
 His immortality. 
 
TO THE MEMORY OF SCOTT. 155 
 
 Iii Dryburgh's ancient fane 
 They've laid him down to rest ; 
 And ne'er within its hallowed walls 
 Came such a glorious guest. 
 
 His radiance o'er the earth 
 
 Shall sparkle unconfined ; 
 
 But Scotland glows with borrowed light, 
 
 The sunshine of his mind. 
 
 Our lonely sea-girt isles, 
 
 Our rivers, streamlets, lakes, 
 
 Our forests, mountains, straths, and glens, 
 
 Our dingles, shaws, and brakes : — 
 
 Our cities, towns, and towers, 
 
 Our donjon ruins grey, 
 
 Our fathers' hallowed mountain caves ; — 
 
 Live in his page for aye ! 
 
 When beauty wreathes her hair, 
 That late was flowing free ; 
 
156 TO THE MEMORY OF SCOTT. 
 
 Ah ! cull the sombre chaplet from 
 The weeping willow tree. 
 
 Let Teviot's classic stream, 
 And Tweed's pellucid wave, 
 For ever, as thej roll along, 
 Churme "dirges round his grave." 
 
THE CIVIC FEAST. 157 
 
 THE CIVIC FEAST 
 
 O'Rourk's noble fare 
 
 Shall ne'er be forgot, 
 
 By those that were there, 
 
 Nor those that were not. — Swift, 
 
 Of a Civic Feast of worth 
 
 Sing the glorious night's renown, 
 
 How to wassail sallied forth 
 All the bailies of the town, 
 
 Whilst the chandeliers on high brightly shone ; 
 
 The spirit-stirring bowl 
 
 Stood with glasses cheek-by-jowl, 
 
 And a frolic -loving soul 
 
 Led them on. 
 
158 THE CIVIC FEAST. 
 
 Over pudding, pie, and round, 
 
 See the whetted carvers gleam ; 
 Whilst a haggis, like a mound, 
 
 Filled the hall with fragrant steam ; 
 It was five o'clock at even by the chime, - 
 Then, then, with knives and forks, 
 They demolished Donald's works, 
 Like a gang of ruthless Turks, 
 For a time. 
 
 Full forty minutes flew, 
 
 And the havoc did not slack, 
 Sir Loin himself looked blue, 
 
 And the haggis went to wreck ; — 
 Mr Croupier bawled aloud for a dram— 
 Howtowdies took their flight, 
 Turkies bade the board good-night, 
 While vanished from the sight 
 Tongue and ham. 
 
 Now, as thirsty as the grass, 
 Ere the evening dews descend ;, 
 
THE CIVIC FEAST. 159 
 
 See each toper grasp his glass, 
 
 When, a nod from friend to friend 
 Their arms in middle air they npreared ; 
 With joy each heart expands, 
 Whilst the toddy in their hands, 
 Like rain upon the sands, 
 Disappeared. 
 
 Again, again they fill, 
 
 From the China reservoir, 
 Whilst, like waiter from a mill, 
 
 Music streamed from Walker's lyre. 
 Horns, fiddles, and bassoons, loudly bray ; 
 In a bold determined ring, 
 On their trotters see them spring, 
 With, — "His Majesty, the King, 
 Hip, hurra!" 
 
 With the energy of Knox, 
 
 Or like men of modern time, 
 Such as Sheridan or Fox, 
 
 Or like Burke on the Sublime ; 
 
160 THE CIVIC FEAST. 
 
 Or like Canning, Scarlett, Scott, Peel, or Leach, 
 Mr President arose, 
 Wiped the dew-drops from his nose, 
 And, 'midst thunders of applause, 
 Made a speech ! 
 
 Oration, toast, and song, 
 
 Followed at each other's heel, 
 Till the candles seemed to long 
 
 To kick up a Highland reel. 
 The waiters seemed to waltz in the room ! 
 'Twas witching time of night, 
 Mr Preses took his flight, 
 And waddled left and right, 
 
 Through the gloom, 
 
TO GALT, 16 L 
 
 TOGALT. (l.) 
 
 i( Helpless, forgotten, sad, and lame, 
 
 On one lone seat the live-long day, 
 I muse of youth and dreams of fame, 
 
 And hopes and wishes all away. 
 The burning thought ; the boding sigh ; 
 
 The grief unnamed that old men feel ; 
 The languid limbs that withering lie, 
 
 The powerless will's effectless zeal ; 
 All these are mine, and heaven bestows 
 
 The gifts, but still I find them woes." 
 
 Galt. 
 
 "Forgotten!" Nay, immortal one, 
 
 That may not, cannot be ! 
 While Glotta's classic river rolls 
 
 Majestic to the sea ; 
 While tempests, storms, and hurricanes, 
 
 Through pristine forests rave, 
 Or sterile mountains wildly frown 
 
 By dark Ontario's wave : — 
 
 L 
 
162 TO GALT. 
 
 While planets in their orbits fly,— 
 Thine ! thine is immortality 1 
 
 " Forgotten !" Never ! While the sea 
 
 Shall lash the sonnding shore, — 
 While gowans deck the verdant sward 
 
 Before the cottage door, — 
 While blackbirds thrill their lays of love 
 
 Upon the milk-white thorn, — 
 While laverocks feed their callow brood 
 
 Upon a summer morn, 
 Or soar in music to the sky, — 
 Thine ! thine is immortality ! 
 
 While raptured hearts, at gloaming, seek 
 
 The unfrequented glade, 
 Or breathe their vows : in rustic bower, 
 
 For happy lovers made ;, — ■ 
 While Scottish song at even tide * 
 
 The Exile's heart doth thrill, 
 When scenes of youth in vision rise — 
 
 The cottage, — streamlet,— mill ; 
 
TO GALT. 163 
 
 While bald Ben-Nevis braves the sky — 
 Thine ! thine is immortality ! 
 
 " Forgotten !" Thy undying name 
 
 Shall be by mankind prized ; 
 And thy delicious " dreams of fame" 
 
 Shall all be realized : 
 An obelisk shall mark the spot 
 
 Where first thou op'd thine eyes ; 
 And where thy hallowed relics rest 
 
 A pyramid shall rise ; 
 And countless crowds shall heave the sigh, — 
 This ! this is immortality ! 
 
164 
 
 EMMELINE, 
 
 EMMELINE. 
 
 Sweet Emmeline sported her queen dike plume 
 O'er a wreath of flowers and pearls ; 
 
 But the chaplet drooped, and the gems grew dim, 
 'Neath the light of her sunny curls ! 
 
 The jewels around her snowy neck 
 Paled beneath the flash of her eye ; 
 
 Whilst the vermil hue of her honeyed lip 
 With the young moss-rose did vie ! 
 
 Her face was suffused with a virgin blush, 
 And beamed with an angel smile ; 
 
 And, oh ! the countless, nameless charms, 
 That played round her mouth the while. 
 
EMMELIXE. 165 
 
 Her step was as light as the beauteous fawn 
 
 That brushes the summer flowers ; 
 And her breath was the odorous breeze that stole 
 
 Through the brier and woodbine bowers. 
 
 Her robe was white as the fleecy cloud 
 
 That floats o'er the sun at even ; 
 And her zone was clasped with the burnished gold, 
 
 And glowed like the bow of heaven. 
 
 Sweet Emmeline hied to the splendid hall, 
 
 To list to the minstrel's lay ; 
 There high-born dame and noble youth 
 
 Held joyous holiday. 
 
 With radiant mien, and brow serene, 
 
 She graced the bright festal hall ; 
 And seemed the enthroned divinity 
 
 In that crowded festival. 
 
 Oh, many a knightly bosom thrilled 
 As they met her bewitching glance ; 
 
166 EMMELINE. 
 
 All hearts beat high, and all pulses throbbed, 
 As she flew through the mazy dance. 
 
 And, oh ! the sound of her matchless voice— 
 The tones of her seraph tongue ; 
 
 She sung like the birds in Eden's bowers, 
 When the sinless world was young. 
 
 A knight there was in this festal throng, 
 
 Of bearing haught and high ; 
 His shield had been dinted by Moslem spears, 
 
 'Neath Palestine's sultry sky ; 
 
 His cheek was swart as the faded heath, 
 
 And his lip of the lurid hue ; 
 And lines of care 'neath his thin white hair 
 
 Were deep on his ample brow. 
 
 But his bosom glowed for this lady bright, 
 
 For he deemed her all divine ; 
 So he kissed the cross of his brand, and swore 
 
 He would wed fair Emmeline. 
 
EMMELINE. 167 
 
 'Tis merry to view the forest glade, 
 
 And the wild deer roaming there ; 
 But the dappled doe, and the bounding roe, 
 
 They herd not with the bear. 
 
 'Tis merry to see the song birds perch 
 
 On tower, and tree, and cairn ; 
 But the blackbird sweet, and the mavis fleet, 
 
 They mate not with the erne. 
 
 Yet the swarthy knight he has donned his mail, 
 
 With his good sword by his side ; 
 And a wooing he's gone to the lady's bower, 
 
 " As the lion woos his bride." 
 
 But the matchless grace of her beauteous face, 
 
 And the light of her lovely eye, 
 And her saint-like smile, so devoid of guile, 
 
 Proved a cobweb panoply. 
 
 " Your father fell, and your brothers twain, 
 When the battle was all but won ; 
 
168 EMMELINE. 
 
 Their bones doth bleach in the hostile breach, 
 Beneath the fierce Syrian sun. 
 
 " Your uncle died on the Moslem spears, 
 
 By Calvary's hallowed shrine — 
 Then where is the brand that can ward your land, 
 
 Like this well-tried blade of mine ? 
 
 " Your beardless coz, with his clerkly lore, 
 
 And his silken doublet fine — 
 Can he wield a brand, that can ward your land, 
 
 Like this tough Bilboa of mine ? 
 
 ' ' Bethink thee in haste of a ring and a priest, 
 
 Delay is with danger rife ; 
 For I'll ride to the saddle-laps in gore 
 
 Ere another shall call you wife." 
 
 The maiden's blood receded fast, 
 And her cheek waxed deadly pale ; 
 She bent like a lily beneath the blast, 
 Or a rose cut down by hail. 
 
EMMELINE. 169 
 
 Xor priest, nor leech, nor human skill, 
 Could aught to her avail. 
 
 He shuddering looked on her comely form, 
 
 He gazed on her death-set eye ; 
 But her spirit had soared on angel wings 
 
 To the bowers of bliss on hi^h. 
 
170 
 
 TO PROFESSOR TENNANT. 
 
 TO PROFESSOR TENNANT. 
 
 Ten thousand bosoms throb with honest pride, 
 Y/hen sterling merit meets with due reward ; 
 
 Alas ! the meed of praise — and nought beside— 
 Is often all that greets the struggling bard, 
 
 Till overwhelmed bj want's resistless tide, 
 He hides his honoured head beneath the sward : 
 
 Then obelisks arise, and busts are carved, 
 
 And elegies are penned, for him who lately starved. 
 
 Blush, Power and Patronage, with burning shame, 
 Review the past, and shed the scalding tear ; 
 
 In sooth, ye did a " deed without a name," 
 In sending Burns to an untimely bier. 
 
 What though the thousand trumpet-tongues of fame 
 Doth herald o'er the earth his bright career, 
 
TO PROFESSOR TENWA1TT. 171 
 
 He perished foully by the assassin's blow, 
 
 And by the poisoned shaft? of slander, want, and woe. 
 
 Where slept the self-styled patrons of the Muse, 
 
 When perished Rowe, and Chatterton. and Lee ? 
 Say, did not Wealth his boundless power abuse 
 
 When wayward Savage died in misery \ 
 And did not pampered Luxury refuse 
 
 Her surplus scraps to Otway's penury I 
 Oh I did not glorious Milton, loved and mourned, 
 Exist upon such crumbs as menials would have spurned! 
 
 The blind old man. with his immortal story 
 Of thrones, dominions, potentates, and powers, 
 
 Heaven's bright hierarchy — celestial glory, 
 It- sapphire blaze, and amaranthine flowers. 
 
 Lay on his truckle-bed, enfeebled, hoary. 
 Lingering away his melancholy hours ; — 
 
 While fashionable Folly idly laughed, 
 
 Ran pleasure's giddy round, and brimming goblets 
 quaffed, 
 
172 TO PROFESSOR TENNANT. 
 
 Shade of consistent Butler ! hapless bard ! 
 
 Thy life was spent in poverty and pain ; 
 Although thy burning satire ever marred 
 
 The iron soul of Cromwell, — 'twas in vain : 
 The royal largess flowed not to reward 
 
 Thy firm untainted loyalty ; the rain, 
 The snow, the storm, howled o'er thy houseless head, 
 Until thou refuge found within the narrow bed. 
 
 Why reckon up those spirits who possessed 
 " The vision and the faculty divine ?" 
 
 The music of their lyres flowed unrepressed, 
 Though left in wretchedness and woe to pine : 
 
 Yes ! unborn myriads yet shall call them blessed. 
 Then let not poets-militant repine ; 
 
 A brighter and a better day is nearing — 
 
 See, all the literary skies are clearing ! 
 
 And Scotland has for once performed her duty, 
 To genius, erudition, talent, worth ; — 
 
 And lowly bending to my very shoe-tie, 
 I thank the ancient Empress of the North, 
 
TO PROFESSOR TENNANT. 173 
 
 Whose falcon-eye perceived at once the beauty 
 
 Of Tennant's musings, by the banks of Forth ; 
 Well may the sister-kingdoms both applaud her, 
 For elevating him who sang of " Maggy Lauder !" 
 
 She heard the thrilling music of his lyre, 
 
 From sea to sea its diapason rung ; 
 Beauty with parted lips could scarce respire, 
 
 And horny-handed labour leaped and flung 
 In ecstacy — lasses in gay attire 
 
 Thronged to the spot whene'er the poet sung : 
 She's placed him in a grave Professor's chair, 
 Who sung in jocund strains the joys of " Anster Fair." 
 
 Without a rival he's been long installed 
 The poet-laureate of the Fairy Queen, 
 
 And annually on Kelly's summit bald, 
 In gorgeous livery of gold and green, 
 
 He meets the tiny sovereign, nought appalled, 
 In dazzling splendour and unearthly sheen ; 
 
 And from her royal hands he there receives 
 
 A bard's unfading wreathe of amaranthine leaves. 
 
174 TO PROFESSOR TENNANT. 
 
 No doubt he quaffs a grace-cup with her highness, 
 Distilled from the aroma of Pleiades, — 
 
 For bards have been remarkable for dryness. 
 And always pledge — especially with ladies : 
 
 Save Cowper — I have never read of shyness 
 In any of the tribe when rhyme their trade is — 
 
 The horned moon gleams like a fiery flaught, 
 
 To see them tossing off so large a willy-waught ! 
 
 In haste they mount their winged steeds, and flee 
 To Largo Law, or Lomond's steep sublime ; 
 
 And there with ecstacy they hear and see 
 
 " Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme ;" 
 
 What wild unearthly matchless melodie 
 
 Bursts on their ravished ear from time to time ; 
 
 And aye they toom another nectar-horn, 
 
 Till Leslie's hundred cocks proclaim the coming morn. 
 
 To shift the scene — like Hero and Leander, 
 They either swim or fly across the Tay ; 
 
 And on the Siedlaw Hills for hours they wander, 
 Like bride and bridegroom on their wedding-day ; 
 
TO PROFESSOR TENNANT. 175 
 
 She strikes the sod, and fairy rills meander 
 
 Bright as a moon-beam, or a solar raj ; 
 Whilst Ursa- Major grunts his approbation, 
 To see the enamoured pair hold such sweet delectation. 
 
 When, presto, on the lunar rainbow's rim, 
 
 Thej glide to Dollar's classic grounds instanter ; 
 
 The setting moon, though tired, doth shake a limb, 
 The Borealis dance to Oberon's chanter ; 
 
 Ten thousand Fays, in cobweb tunics trim, 
 Cry " for a single hour of Rob the Ranter ;" 
 
 We'd foot it deftly on the growing corn, — 
 
 Of Oberon we are tired, — confound his stock-an'-horn. 
 
 To fairy-realm anon they wing their flight, 
 Lit by a comet through the nether skies : 
 
 Bathed in a yellow flood of amber light, 
 
 The Imperial City meets their raptured eyes : 
 
 Its domes and spires, and towers and turrets bright, 
 In glittering magnificence arise, 
 
 And dulcet strains salute their ravished ears, 
 
 Excelled by nought except the music of the spheres. 
 
176 TO PROFESSOR TENNANT. 
 
 Ten thousand rainbows span its glowing walls, 
 Its streets and squares Macadamized with gems, 
 
 Its river, with an hundred waterfalls, 
 
 A bank, incrusted o'er with diamonds, hems ; 
 
 The dwellers in its moon-bright princely halls 
 Wear never-dying flowers for diadems ; 
 
 The queen's Tiara darts a fulgent ray — 
 
 'Tisgemm'dwithnew-bornstarsfrom out the milky-way. 
 
 Thus hath our poet learned from observation 
 
 The secret mysteries of fairy-land ; 
 And sweetly sung to an admiring nation 
 
 Of nought but what his eagle-eye had scanned ; 
 The world hath stamped his song with approbation, 
 
 Though now, alas ! he's broke his magic wand : 
 No more he'll sing of Puck and Anster Fair, — 
 So, worthily may he fill a grave Professor's chair. 
 
THE DEATH OF THE RED COMYtf. 177 
 
 HISTORICAL ETCHINGS. 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE RED COMTN. (m.) 
 
 A traitor's soul hath fled, — 
 
 A craven's spirit's gone ; 
 
 And the reek of his recreant blood ascends 
 
 From the holy altar stone ! 
 
 And the exhalation vile 
 
 Shall taint the balmy air, 
 
 Till the slogan of Bruce, like a thunder peal, 
 
 Shall cleanse the atmosphere. 
 
 The steel-clad warriors shrunk, 
 
 And the priesthood stood aghast, 
 
 When the Monarch's crimsoned dagger told 
 
 That the caitiff had breathed his last, 
 
 M 
 
178 HISTORICAL ETCHINGS. 
 
 He died not with the brave, 
 By battle-axe or brand, [crushed, 
 
 Where spears are splintered, and helmets 
 Defending his fatherland. 
 
 He met a felon's fate, 
 By a patriot Monarch's glaive ; 
 For he lived a foreign tyrant's tool, 
 And he died that tyrant's slave. 
 
 His memory ne'er can fade, 
 His name shall never die ; 
 No ! His is an immortality 
 Of scorn and infamy. 
 
 LAMENT OF THE DUKE OY ROTHSAY. (n.) 
 
 Yes ! there are sighs for the bursting breast, 
 And tears for the sleepless eye ; 
 
LAMENT OF THE DUKE OF ROTHSAY. 1/9 
 
 There are streaks of light in the murkiest cloud 
 
 That floats along the sky ; 
 But tears, and sighs, and sympathy, 
 Are luxuries unknown to me. 
 
 The wretch immured in the dungeon-keep 
 
 May snatch an hour's repose, 
 And dream of home, and the light of heaven, 
 
 Ere he wake to misery's throes, 
 If Hope, with her radiant lamp, be there ; — 
 I mate with the swarthy fiend, Despair. 
 
 The mariner, lorn and tempest-tost 
 
 Afar on the stormy sea, 
 With a sinking wreck, or a single plank, 
 
 'Twixt him and eternity ; — 
 Even there, pale pilgrim, Hope is thine ; 
 Despair and agony are mine. 
 
 The captive doomed by a savage horde, 
 And urged on his fated way, 
 
180 HISTORICAL ETCHINGS. 
 
 Whilst the scalping knife and the tomahawk 
 
 Are exposed in dread array, 
 May yet escape the blazing pyre ; 
 / perish here through a kinsman's ire. 
 
 The hapless, homeless, fugitive, 
 
 In the tangled forest ground, 
 May escape the ruthless tiger's maw, 
 
 Though he crouch for the fatal bound ; 
 And his eyeballs glare a fiery name ; 
 I perish here unknown to fame. 
 
 Oh ! Heaven ! for the onset's thunder- shout, 
 And the trumpet's brazen bray ; 
 
 The twang of bows, the flight of flanes, 
 And the battle's glorious fray; 
 
 The cloven shield, the splintered spear : — 
 
 Alas ! alas ! I perish here. 
 
LAMENT FOR MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 181 
 
 LAMENT FOR MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS, (o.) 
 
 And has that more than angel form 
 
 Been chased within the traitor's toil, 
 And doth she tremble 'neath the storm, 
 
 In yonder rugged, ruined pile ?* 
 Built on a narrow, nameless isle, 
 
 Where dove-eyed pity ne'er was found ; 
 And doth she waste her seraph -smile 
 
 On trembling, weeping menials round ? 
 
 Yes ! They who bared their battle -brands, 
 
 And swore by heaven for her to die, 
 Have lifted sacrilegious hands 
 
 Against their sovereign's liberty : 
 The radiance of her regal eye, 
 
 Though heaven-lit, no impression made- 
 Lost was her sweet, her suppliant sigh, 
 
 On ruthless souls, to honour dead ! 
 
 • Lochleven Castle. 
 
182 HISTORICAL ETCHINGS. 
 
 It chills my soul to think of thee, 
 
 So late the flower of Gallia's plains, 
 Where belted heroes bent the knee, 
 
 And princes held thy bridle-reins ; — 
 And poets sung in rapturous strains, 
 
 And sages praised in accents bland ; 
 And monarchs, led in willing chains, 
 
 Contended for thy peerless hand. 
 
 Loved princess ! late, in regal pride, 
 
 From pleasure's chalice thou didst drink ; 
 But fiends have dashed the cup aside, 
 
 And urged thee o'er destruction's brink : 
 But late, these felons did not think 
 
 A gem too rare to deck thy crown, 
 And now, sweet captive, thou must shrink 
 
 Beneath a withered beldame's frown. 
 
 But sacred Truth shall yet arise, 
 And Justice shall not always sleep ; 
 
 And their unhallowed memories 
 
 In scorn's putrescent pool shall steep ; 
 
THE DEATH OF DOUGLAS. 183 
 
 And execrations, loud and deep, 
 
 Shall fall on thy relentless foes : 
 Whilst countless thousands yet shall weep 
 
 O'er all thy wrongs, and all thy woes. 
 
 THE DEATH OF DOUGLAS, 1452. (p.) 
 
 " Yes ! I will beard his fiery face,* 
 
 And back his censures fling ; 
 It never shall be said I feared 
 
 A kaiser, or a king ; — 
 I never blanched to mortal man, 
 
 Nor changed my purpose yet ; 
 And if he sports a crown — I wear 
 
 A Douglas' coronet." 
 
 The banners floated on the gale, 
 The trumpets loudly brayed ; 
 
 * His face was disfigured by a red spot, which procured for him the 
 name of James with the Fiery Face. 
 
184 HISTORICAL ETCHINGS. 
 
 And Stirling's courtly inmates came 
 
 To greet the cavalcade ; — 
 The Monarch doffed his bonnet low 
 
 To Douglas' proud array ; — 
 And fluted prop, and fretted arch, 
 
 Rung with high holiday. 
 
 And there was wassail in the court, 
 
 And upsees in the hall ; 
 And music poured its dulcet notes, 
 
 To grace the festival ; 
 And bumpers deep that day were drained, 
 
 With pledge of glove and ring, 
 To " lasting peace and amity 
 
 'Twixt Douglas and the King." 
 
 The liveried varlets had retired, 
 The gorgeous feast was done ; 
 
 And goblets circled round the throng 
 Like planets round the sun ; — 
 
 From crystal spheres, and silver tubes. 
 The perfumed tapers gleamed ; 
 
THE DEATH OF DOUGLAS. 185 
 
 And from the eyes of beauty "bright, 
 More glorious radiance beamed. 
 
 " Now break thy league," — the Monarch cried, 
 
 " Audacious traitor-lord, 
 Or, by the spirits of my sires, 
 
 I'll cut it with the sword ; — 
 Dissolve thy base confederacy, 
 
 And down upon thy knee, — 
 Disband thy rebel robber-horde,- 
 
 Here, none shall reign but me." 
 
 " No ! by the Cross, it may not be, 
 
 I've pledged my knightly word ;" — 
 And like a thunder-cloud he scowled, 
 
 And half unsheathed his sword. 
 The Sovereign drew that jewelled glaive 
 
 Which gore so oft had spilt ; 
 And in the haughty Douglas' heart 
 
 He sheathed it to the hilt. 
 
186 TO THE MEMORY OF CHARLOTTE. 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF CHARLOTTE. 
 
 She came — the child of many a prayer — 
 Like a precious, peerless gem ; 
 
 And she glowed a while, like a ruby rare, 
 In a regal diadem ; 
 
 But the light of the gem was soon o'ercast- 
 
 It was all too glorious far, to last. 
 
 She came like an iris upon the breast 
 
 Of the swelling ocean afar ; 
 Like morn upon a mountain-crest, 
 
 Or the light of a new-born star ; 
 But the tempest o'er her radiance passed — 
 It was all too glorious far, to last. 
 
TO THE MEMORY OF CHARLOTTE. 187 
 
 She came like a rose on the streamlet's side, 
 
 When the winter storms are gone, 
 Whose odorous leaves, in crimson pride, 
 
 Expand to their parent sun ; 
 But she perished by an untimely blast — 
 She was all too beauteous far, to last. 
 
 From verdant fields, and from cloudless skies, 
 
 And from ever-blooming bowers, 
 She came like a bird of paradise 
 
 To this stormy land of ours ; 
 But her plumage was strewn upon the blast — 
 It was all too gorgeous far, to last. 
 
 Her voice was the limpid water's gush 
 
 To the parched pilgrim's ear ; 
 Her cheek was the dawning's chastened blush 
 
 To that pilgrim lorn and drear ; — 
 That cheek is wan, that voice is mute, 
 That rivalled an angel's face and lute. 
 
188 TO THE MEMORY OF CHARLOTTE. 
 
 Her mind was pure as the morning dew 
 That bathes the opening flowers, 
 
 Or the cloudlet tinged with a sunny hue, 
 That descends in balmy showers : 
 
 That mind hath soared from our vision dim, 
 
 To mingle with the cherubim ! 
 
STANZAS TO A DAUGHTER. 189 
 
 STANZAS TO A DAUGHTER. 
 
 Beloved one, upon whose bi;ow 
 
 The glow of health is spread, 
 Around whose heart the radiance 
 
 Of paternal love is shed ; 
 Look up, my best beloved one, 
 
 It is thy father sues, 
 And as thou art my theme, my love, 
 
 So thou shalt be my muse. 
 
 These silky tresses, silver bright, 
 
 That round thy temples curl, 
 Thine azure eye, thy vermil cheek, 
 
 My own adored girl ; 
 
190 STANZAS TO A DAUGHTER. 
 
 The seraph smile that lights thee up, 
 
 And thine angelic mould, 
 Impart such raptures to my soul 
 
 As never may be told. 
 
 Then give thy joyous heart to heaven 
 
 A free-will offering, 
 And flowers of faith, and hope, and love, 
 
 In that sweet soil shall spring ; 
 Oh ! wreathe the sacred garland, 
 
 Let their beauteous blossoms blend, 
 And lay it on the altar of 
 
 Thy father and thy friend. 
 
 Yes ! happy one, thou'rt entering 
 
 On life's " enchanted ground," 
 A thousand snares may spread for thee, 
 
 False friends, and foes surround ; 
 But cling to Him, beloved one, 
 
 And thou mayest safely tread 
 The rugged path that leads beyond 
 
 The mansions of the dead. 
 
STANZAS TO A DAUGHTER. 191 
 
 Then, when the moon shall cease to shine, 
 
 The sun be dimmed with age, 
 When systems shall be blotted from 
 
 Creation's glorious page ; 
 When planets from their orbits swerve, 
 
 And stars shall disappear, 
 Thou'lt shine above, beyond them all, 
 
 Through an eternal year ! 
 
192 TO EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 
 
 TO EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 
 
 Dread lord of an iEolian lyre 
 Of more than mortal tone ; 
 Sublime as Nature's minstrel- strain, 
 Produced by storm or hurricane, 
 Through pristine forests lone ; 
 And sweet as water's gushing sound 
 To the parched pilgrim's ear ; 
 Bright as the glowing tints that dye 
 The concave of the summer sky 
 Surpassing, rich, and rare : 
 
 I greet thee with an awe profound, 
 Thou giant of Parnassian ground ! 
 
TO EBEXEZER ELLIOTT. L93 
 
 Xo weak discordant notes are heard 
 
 In thine immortal strain : 
 
 Like fire from Etna's solitude, 
 
 Thy satire, like a lava-flood, 
 
 Comes burning from the brain ; 
 
 The feeble darts from palsied arm?. 
 
 That flutter o'er the land, 
 
 These arrows are to thee unknown ; 
 
 Such puny shafts have ne'er been thrown 
 
 By thy gigantic hand. 
 
 Ah, no ! thou dost thy foemen quell 
 With rocket, carcass, shot, and shell ! 
 
 Thy Helicon meanders not 
 
 A shallow, sluggish tide, 
 
 So gentle that a little child 
 
 May safely pluck the flowerets wild. 
 
 That blossom on its side ; 
 
 It murmurs not with soothing sound. 
 
 Like classic streams of yore — 
 
 But rapid, rolling, broad, and deep, 
 
194 TO EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 
 
 It rushes o'er the rocky steep 
 
 Like wild Niagara's roar ; 
 
 And rages round its prison walls, 
 As in the dread abyss it falls ! 
 
 At fairy fiction's flowery shrine 
 Thou hast not bent the knee ; 
 No, Elliott ! thou hast been from youth 
 The poet of unvarnished truth 
 And stern reality : 
 To jewelled wealth and luxury 
 Thou hast not struck the lyre ; 
 Nor wreathed the brows of pomp and power 
 With chaplets from the Muses' bower, 
 Like bards of meaner fire. 
 No ! — to Creation's final hour, 
 
 TflOU ART THE POET OF THE POOR ! 
 
AULD FREENDS. 195 
 
 AULD FREENDS. 
 
 My word ! but ye seem nae sheep-shank ; 
 I like your visage free and frank ; 
 That ye 're a man o' wealth and rank 
 
 I shouldna wonder, 
 Wi' credit in Sir Willie's Bank 
 
 For twa three hunder ; 
 
 Forbye a sclated house to bide in, 
 
 A pony cart to tak' a ride in ; 
 
 Sax gude milk-kye yell hae a pride in, 
 
 A mare an' filly : 
 This comes o' thrift an' frugal guidin', 
 
 Auld muirland Willie ! 
 
 An' when ye gae to tryst an' fair, — 
 Gin ye hae little time to spare, — 
 
196 AULD FREENDS. 
 
 Ye '11 trot the cannie auld grey mare 
 
 Through dubs an' plashes, 
 
 Your legs happed in a cosie pair 
 
 0' splatterdashes. 
 
 Nae doubt, but ye hae struggled sair 
 Through fifty years to gather gear : 
 Your manly brow wi' lines o' care 
 
 Is sair indented, 
 But truth an' honesty are there 
 
 As deep imprented. 
 
 The parish kens that ye've maintained 
 Through life a character unstained ; 
 The eldership ye'll hae attained, 
 
 As is right meet ; — 
 Or, if ye binna yet ordained, 
 
 Ye 're on the leet. 
 
 When neebours cam' to altercation, 
 Aspersion an' recrimination ; 
 
auld preendsj 197 
 
 An' naetliing for't but Courts o' Session, 
 An' judge an' jury ; 
 
 Your mild an' righteous arbitration 
 
 Aye laid their fury. 
 
 When tailor Tarn broke yard an' sheers, 
 
 An' listed i' the Fusileers ; 
 
 His widowed mother, bathed in tears, 
 
 Mourned o'er the staff 
 An' stay o' her declining years, — 
 
 Ye bought him aff. 
 
 Besides, it's kent that ye can len' 
 Sma' sums to puir but honest men ; 
 But a' unlike " my uncle" Ben 
 
 0' Borrowstowu, 
 Ye never seek a pledge agen, 
 
 But shools it down ! 
 
 Ise wad ye hae ane ample store 
 0' solid theolocric lore. 
 
198 AULD FREENDS. 
 
 Frae Baillie, Boston, Brown, and More, 
 
 An' weel can quote them ; 
 
 An' ither worthies, half a score, 
 
 Though IVe forgot them. 
 
 I see yeVe trotted ower the green 
 To meet your valued early friea' ; 
 He's sittiii' on an auld grey stane 
 
 Quite at his leisure ; 
 The vera twinkle o' his een 
 
 Denotes his pleasure. 
 
 Ah ! had we mony mae like thee, 
 To prop the State's auld randle-tree, 
 An* drink the stream o' libertie 
 
 In moderation ; 
 In spite o' grumblers we should be 
 
 A happy nation. 
 
DUGALD M'DONALD. 199 
 
 DUGALD M'DGXALD. 
 
 Aulb Dugald M'Donald — ye '11 scarcely believed — 
 
 Was ance a wee tot on the knee o' his mither ; 
 An 1 a' the gude crones i' the clachan perceived 
 
 Him as like to his dad as ae pea's till anither. 
 His hair was as red as a sunbeam in mist ; 
 
 His face was a' freckled ; his nose it was sma' like ; 
 His bonny wee mou' had a trifle o' twist, 
 
 Remarkably fitted for lisping the Gaelic. 
 
 Deaf Janet, the spaewife, she munted her specs, 
 An' glowered like a hawk i' the loof o' the callan' ; 
 
 An' Dominie Dhu, in a fit o' the freaks, 
 
 Spak o' stars an' conjunctions to Rory M' Allan. 
 
200 DUGALD MCDONALD. 
 
 For Dominie Dim had ta'en note o' the stars, 
 An' Rory M' Allan had studied the planets ; 
 
 An' though their opinions were whiles at the wars, 
 They coost up their noses, an' scouted auld Janet's. 
 
 M'Lauchlan, the priest, wi' his weel- shaven crown — 
 
 Whase father was shot at Drummossiewi' Charlie — 
 He whuppit a book frae the sleeve o' his gown, 
 
 An'cross'd him, an' sain'dhim, an'kirsen'd him fairly. 
 Mair joy in ae family scarcely could be, 
 
 Frae green Aberfoyle to the borders o' Buchan ; 
 Sae Ranald shooled out, in the shape o' a fee, 
 
 A weel-hoarded guinea frae out o' his spleuchan. 
 
 Now gentle an' semple they emptied the horn — 
 
 Even matrons an' maidens they werena above it ; 
 For wee Dugald's sire was a gentleman born, 
 
 Being ninety-sixth cousin to Fraser o' Lovat. 
 A fig for sic tipple as sherry or port, 
 
 It's no worth a snuff frae a Highlandman's mill — 
 What raises his soul to the regions o' sport 
 
 Is double strong usquebae het frae the still ! 
 
DUGALD MCDONALD. 201 
 
 So they drank an' they sang like the sons o' Apollo, 
 
 For frolic an' fun they got riper and riper ; 
 But at drinking, the callant wha beat them a 5 hollow. 
 
 Was Evan, the Laird o' McAllisters piper ; 
 For he drank an' he played, an' he played an' he drank ; 
 
 An' his pipes they were buskit wi' ribbons a' o'er ; 
 An' I dare to be sworn, for a man o' his rank, 
 
 He laid in a stock for a towmond an' more ! 
 
 The lang winter nicht flitted by like a dream ; 
 
 They felt themsel's queer, but they wistna what 
 ailed them ; 
 Till the sun frae the lift shone on mountain and stream, 
 
 An' cam' down through the lum an' the window, an' 
 skailed them. 
 M'Lauchlan he steadily munted his beast — 
 
 For his reverence was bound on amission to Forres ; 
 But, ere he departed, the kind-hearted priest, 
 
 He gae them his blessing, an' drank doch-an-dhoris. 
 
 A truce with his nonage — that task I resign ; 
 
 Young Dugald M 'Donald's deserves not a stanza ; 
 
202 DUGALD M'DONAL'D. 
 
 Suffice it to say, he grew tall as a pine, 
 And stout as the heiress of regal Braganza. 
 
 He was proud as a peacock, a stranger to fear, 
 He was strong as a garron, and fleet as a hound ; 
 
 And for spearin' a sawmont, or stalking a deer, 
 There wasna his match in six parishes round. 
 
 But naething like learnin' wad enter his scull ; 
 
 The dominie grat that his mind was " obtuse ;" 
 He knew not a B frae the foot of a bull, 
 
 Nor ever could master his P's and his Q's. 
 If dulness is bliss, 'tis in vain to be wise — 
 
 So Dugald exultingly swore by St George, 
 " If she couldna for learnin' optain ta pra prize, 
 
 She w^dna pe panished nor hanged for a forge." 
 
 He sorned on the tacksmen, he poached frae the laird, 
 He rifled the doo-cot, an' plundered the stream ; 
 
 An* whiles a bit ewe or a lamb disappeared, 
 
 But the corbie and eagle they aye gat the blame. 
 
 At markets he aye made a shift to get fu', 
 
 Wi* wonderfu' combative powers he was gifted ; 
 
DUGALD M'DONALD. 203 
 
 But ae wear j niglit, the poor dominie's cow — 
 The pet o' the bairnies — alas ! she was lifted. 
 
 Frae sheilin' to sheilin', through clachan an' toun, 
 
 The tidin's flew swift as the auld fiery corse ; 
 They thought on M 'Donald, the lang-fingered loon, 
 
 An' the saddle for ance set upon the right horse. 
 The clan in a crack was his foe to a man ; 
 
 The grey-headed patriarchs sairly misca'ed him ; 
 Sae he took to his heels like a sleuth-hound, an' ran, 
 
 For the bounds o' the parish were ower het to haud 
 him. 
 
 An' down to the Lowlands the land-lowper hied ; 
 
 He ne'er coost the glance o' his e'e ower his shouther ; 
 But galloped full three Scottish ells at a stride, 
 
 An' thought upon bayonets, an' bullets, an' pouther. 
 In sooth, but the uppermost thought in his mind 
 
 Was Hangie, the drap, an' the horrible fa' ; 
 Sae he flew to a sergeant, as fleet as the wind, 
 
 An' listed at ance i' the auld Forty-Twa. 
 
204 DtTGALD M'DONALD. 
 
 An' there he got rations an' fightin' galore, 
 
 Where bayonets clashed, an' where ordnance thun- 
 dered ; 
 He aye was the first an' the last i' the splore, 
 
 An' mony a weel-stickit Frenchman he plundered. 
 A skirmish was a' very weel in its way ; 
 
 But a battle afforded him unalloyed pleasure ; 
 For he prowled 'mang the slain at the close o' the day, 
 
 An' rifled their sporrans an' spleuchans at leisure. 
 
 An ingot, a cross, or a braw diamond ring — 
 
 A chain, or a star, or a gowden repeater — 
 A brooch, or a locket, awa he would bring, 
 
 An' mair than a poet can hitch in his metre. 
 Nae matter, he held up his head wi' the best, 
 
 An' calmly submitted to every restriction ; 
 For brawlie he kenned he had feathered his nest, 
 
 An' that was a comfort in every affliction. 
 
 Thus Dugald industriously filled his pock-neuk, 
 But valour oozed out at each pore in his skin ; 
 
DUGALD M'DONALD. 205 
 
 So he wearied to beat his claymore to a heuk, 
 An' back to the mountains o' Scotland to win. 
 
 " Let them rush on ta bagnets, an' slash at ta French — 
 Let them munt ta fell breach while ta cannons are 
 roarin' — 
 
 Let them stan' to ta knees amang glaur in ta trench, 
 Wha haena a plack i' the neuk o' their sporran 
 
 " I'm aff." A tremendous hurricane blew — 
 
 Ye wad thought auld Sathan was rulin' the roast ; 
 Sae he took a gowd piece frae the sole o' his shoe 
 
 To bribe the poor sentry, an' ran to the coast. 
 An' lang afore daylight the fortunate dog 
 
 Was safely on board o' a three-lugged bikker ;* 
 Wha was bound to Lochalsh an' Lochaber incog., 
 
 Pang fu' o' gude tea, an' tobacco, an' liquor. 
 
 In Albyn he landed in less than a week, 
 
 An' vow but his heart was as light as a feather ; 
 
 * Bikker, or bukker, the Highland term for a smuggler, probably a cor- 
 ruption of buccaneer. 
 
206 DUGALD M'DONALD. 
 
 When his nose was saluted wi' Highland peat reek 
 He loupit an' danced like a cowt on the heather. 
 
 But, sly as a fumart, he travelled to Lorn, 
 
 Twice sixty miles south frae his ain native glen ; 
 
 Ca'd in at the change-house an' took a gude horn, 
 An' tauld them his name it was Dugald McLean. 
 
 The mistress was gaucy, an' ance had been young, 
 
 A widow she'd been for a year an' a day ; 
 An* Dugald he fleeched wi' a traveller's tongue, 
 
 For while it was summer he meant to mak' hay. 
 The courtin' was done in a fortnight at maist, 
 
 The breach had been made, an' the fortress was carried ; 
 Sae he hurried a boat to Lismore for the priest, 
 
 Wha cam' in a crack, an' the twasome were married. 
 
 In six months he awoke frae his dream wi' a stairt, 
 The minions o' justice an' law cried — " Remember!" 
 
 An' bills showered around him frae every airt, 
 As thick as the snaw-flakes i' gloomy December. 
 
 He paid frae his ill-gotten gear as he might, 
 
 Till his siller was gane, an' his credit was conpit ; 
 
DUGALD M'DONALD. 207 
 
 An' now fell upon him the finishing blight — 
 
 The hail o' his stock an' his steedin' was roupit! 
 
 Expelled frae his hame, ower the country a ranger, 
 An* beggared in conscience, an' credit, an' cunzie, 
 
 He seeks his bit piece frae the hand o' the stranger, 
 A heart-broken, hagard, an' puir gaberlunzie. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 Reader, if honesty you lack, 
 This wholesome truth I tell ye — 
 
 The gear that's won ower Satan's back 
 Is spent beneath his belly. 
 
208 SCOTLAND TO CAMPBELL. 
 
 SCOTLAND TO CAMPBELL. 
 
 For genius, as a living coal. 
 
 Had touched his lip and heart with flame, 
 And on the altar of his soul 
 
 The fire of inspiration came. 
 
 Whittier. 
 
 With all a mother's ecstacy 
 
 I give my feelings scope 
 In warmest welcomings to thee, 
 
 Auspicious Bard of Hope ! 
 
 Ten thousand song-birds on the wing 
 Shall warble for thy sake, 
 
 And roses 'neath thy feet shall spring 
 From out the heather-brake. 
 
SCOTLAND TO CAMPBELL. 209 
 
 Proud of thy never-dying rhyme, 
 
 Old Clyde shall speak of thee 
 To Forth, in colloquy sublime, 
 
 Gay and exultingly ! 
 
 Each heath-clad mountain shall assume 
 
 A robe of deeper blue, 
 And every daisied strath shall bloom 
 
 In yet more verdant hue. 
 
 The cataracts shall all rejoice, 
 
 And thunder from on high ; 
 And every stream shall lift its voice 
 
 In music and in joy ! 
 
 Then, with a mother's ecstacy, 
 
 I give my feelings scope 
 In warmest welcomings to thee, 
 
 Auspicious Bard of Hope ! 
 
210 BIBLICAL ETCHINGS. 
 
 BIBLICAL ETCHINGS, 
 
 BALAK. 
 
 The fierce barbarian king — 
 Whose jewelled turban, and blazoned crest, 
 And the burnished mail on his regal breast, 
 
 Their dazzling spendours fling 
 On the steel-cased legions that round him stand 
 With the bow and the shaft, the spear and the brand ; 
 Thus issued forth his dread behest 
 To the vassal-prince, and the crouching priest : — 
 
 "To Pethor wend your way, 
 Afar, where the wizard-prophet dwells ; 
 Whose dread enchantments, and potent spells, 
 
 Can blacken the orb of day, — 
 
BALAK. 211 
 
 Call forth the thunder and lurid leven, 
 And quench the light of the stars of heaven ; 
 Arrest the comet in mid-way flight, 
 And pluck the moon from the brow of night ! 
 
 " And bid the sage retire 
 Seven days and nights to his murkiest cell, 
 Invoking the deadliest fiend of hell, 
 
 For curses deep and dire ; 
 Anon in our presence let him appear, 
 In his magic-girdle and roquelaure, 
 Fraught with one dread curse, whose raging flame 
 May scorch from the earth the Hebrew name. 
 
 " Jehovah's mighty hand 
 Hath hurled the bolts of his vengeance dire : — 
 By pestilence, locust, hail, and fire, 
 
 Hath swept Egyptia's land : 
 His word hath cloven the raging waves, 
 And made an highway for this horde of slaves ! 
 Then bid him invoke a curse of flame 
 That may blight the hated Hebrew name. 
 
212 
 
 BIBLICAL ETCHINGS. 
 
 " Chiefs, Princes, Kings, lie low,— 
 Their mailed squadrons foiled and driven, 
 Like mist before the gales of Heaven, 
 
 By this audacious foe ! 
 Their country's drenched with a gory flood, 
 Whilst the mountain-hawks, and the eagle's brood, 
 Have gorged on hearts that beat high for fame, — 
 Let him curse me this race with a curse of flame." 
 
 A gorgeous cavalcade, — 
 Noble and warrior, prince and priest, 
 Have wended their way to the flowery east, 
 
 In regal robes arrayed. 
 Their camels were laden with virgin gold, — 
 And pearls from the ocean, of Nature's mould, — 
 And jewels and gems from the fane of Peor, — 
 A guerdon rich for the orient seer ! 
 
 Poring on mystic page, 
 Inscribed with characters unknown, — 
 Dark emblems, — might startle a statue of stone,- 
 
 They found the hoary sage ; 
 
BALAK. 213 
 
 His ample beard, on the troubled air, 
 
 Streamed like the portentous comet's glare ; 
 
 His ivory scalp, and his straggling hairs, 
 
 Had been blenched by the winds of an hundred years ! 
 
 The gold and gems were piled 
 Before the wizard, in order bright, — 
 His spirit glowed with supreme delight, — 
 
 His eye with rapture wild, — 
 As he gazed on ingot, pearl, and gem, — 
 Each might ransomed a king in his diadem. 
 The princes knelt, whilst Baalim's priest 
 Pronounced his sovereign's dread request. 
 
 The Prophet's cheek was blenched ! 
 The mystic scroll from his fingers dropt, 
 And the current of life for a moment stopt ; 
 
 The fire of his eye was quenched ! 
 But the lust of lucre prevailed in his soul, 
 And he snatched from the dust the enchanted scroll, 
 And he brandished his wand with unholy glee ; — 
 " Your king's request shall granted be." 
 
214 BIBLICAL ETCHINGS. 
 
 Led on by his princely guard, — 
 Bending with awe and homage meet, 
 Lo ! at the plumed monarch's feet 
 
 The eastern sage appeared. 
 Tho' his face was ploughed, and his locks were thin, 
 Yet his soul was intent on the meed of sin : — 
 With a curse on his tongue ; — from the heights of Baal 
 He gazed on the camp of Israel. 
 
 Seven idol-altars blazed 
 To Heaven, on Nebo's summit hoar ; — 
 'Midst the lightning's flash, and the thunder's roar, 
 
 The Prophet heaven-ward gazed, — 
 When the truth from God on his spirit came, 
 And his lips were touched with an hallowed flame ; 
 And a glance from the Holiest beamed on his eye, 
 And lit up the gloom of futurity. 
 
 " The shaft of the Amorite shall not prevail, 
 Nor Midian steel against Israel ; — 
 Nor wizard's enchantment, nor sorcerer's spell, 
 Nor the deadliest curse from the depths of hell : 
 
GIDEON'S WAR SONG. 215 
 
 The Jordan shall rush to its source in fear, 
 Like the timid hind, or the hunted deer ; 
 Then Jacob's favoured tribes shall rest : 
 Jehovah hath blest them, — they shall be blest." 
 
 GIDEON S WAR SONG, 
 
 Oh ! Israel, thy hills are resounding, 
 The cheeks of thy warriors are pale ; 
 For the trumpets of Midian are sounding, 
 His legions are closing their mail, 
 His battle-steeds prancing and bounding, 
 His veterans whetting their steel ! 
 
 His standard in haughtiness streaming, 
 
 Above his encampment appears ; 
 
 An ominous radiance is gleaming 
 
 Around from his forest of spears : 
 
 The eyes of our maidens are beaming, — 
 
 But, ah ! they are beaming through tears ; 
 
216 BIBLICAL ETCHINGS. 
 
 Our matron survivors are weeping, 
 • Their sucklings a prey to the sword ; 
 The blood of our martyrs is steeping 
 The fanes where their fathers adored ; 
 The foe and the alien are reaping 
 Fields, — vineyards, — the gift of the Lord ! 
 
 Our country ! Shall Midian enslave her, 
 With the blood of the brave in our veins ? 
 Shall we crouch to the tyrant for ever, 
 Whilst manhood — existence — remains ? 
 Shall we fawn on the despot ? Oh, never !— 
 Like freemen, unrivet your chains ! 
 
 Like locusts our foes are before us, 
 Encamped in the valley below ; 
 The sabre must freedom restore us, 
 The spear, and the shaft, and the bow ; — 
 The banners of Heaven wave o'er us, — 
 Rush ! — rush like a flood on the foe ! 
 
THE SONG OF ELKANAH. 217 
 
 THE SONG OF ELK AN AH. 
 
 Yes ! years have flown on silken wing 
 
 Since first thou blest my view ; [spring, 
 They have bloomed like the flowers of Eden's 
 When the sinless world was new ! 
 
 Thy locks are as rich on that neck of snow, 
 And thy heaving bosom as white, 
 
 And thy dove-like eyes as brightly glow 
 As on thine espousal night ! 
 
 No clouds have obscured the star of our loves, 
 
 In its azure path on high ; 
 Serenely amidst the spheres it moves 
 
 The loveliest in the sky ! 
 
 Then brighter still may its rays blaze forth, 
 Till our journey of life shall be o'er ; 
 
 And our spirits, freed from the stains of earth, 
 Above it together shall soar. 
 
218 BIBLICAL ETCHINGS. 
 
 THE DESTRUCTION OF TYRE. 
 
 Thy merchandize, Tyre, 
 
 Shall be strewn on the blast, 
 Like the leaves of the forest, 
 
 When summer is past ; 
 And thy glory shall fade 
 
 Like the passion-flower's bloom ; 
 And thy light shall be dimmed 
 
 By the damps of the tomb. 
 
 Like myriads of locusts 
 Impelled by the wind, — 
 
 A garden before them, 
 A desert behind ; 
 
THE DESTRUCTION OF TYRE. 219 
 
 Thy foemen shall trample 
 
 Thy gardens and bowers ; 
 And level in ashes 
 
 Thy temples and towers ! 
 
 And nation on nation, 
 
 Like wave after wave, 
 Shall crimson their steel 
 
 In the blood of thy brave ; — 
 Thy nobles shall fall 
 
 'Neath their daggers and blades, 
 And their sabres shall reek 
 
 O'er thy matrons and maids ! 
 
 And the viper shall lurk 
 
 Where thy virgins have slept ; 
 And the serpent shall hiss 
 
 Where thy sucklings were kept : 
 And melody's voice 
 
 Shall for ever be mute ; 
 For the adder shall twine 
 
 Round the harp and the lute ! 
 
220 BIBLICAL ETCHINGS, j 
 
 The flames from thine altars 
 
 In volumes may rise, 
 And the smoke of thine incense 
 
 May darken the skies ; — 
 But Vengeance thy priests 
 
 And their idols shall crush ; 
 And the blood of his victims 
 
 In torrents shall rush ! 
 
THE VOICE OF TIME. 221 
 
 THE VOICE OF TIME. 
 
 The World, with all the joys it hath, 
 
 Is an illusive show ; 
 And Life is a slippery mountain-path, 
 
 With a yawning gulf below : — 
 Whilst some dread power invisible 
 Impels us onward, — onward still ! 
 
 Yet we would all our steps retrace, 
 
 Or linger by the way ; 
 Deem arid wastes like a paradise, 
 
 Could we here prolong our stay : 
 But the dread power invisible 
 Impels us onward, — onward still ! 
 
222 THE VOICE OF TIME. 
 
 A thousand wild conflicting schemes 
 
 Impair our happiness ; 
 Fame's fleeting breath, — ambition's dreams, 
 
 Our fevered spirits oppress : — 
 Yet we would gladly bear them all, — 
 But, " onward ! — onward !" — is the call. 
 
 We pluck the flowerets from the lea, — 
 
 Their hues celestial fade ; 
 We shake the goodly spreading tree, — 
 
 But we find the fruit decayed : — 
 The limpid brook, and the crystal rill, 
 Taste bitter : — onward ! onward still ! 
 
 We turn, and gaze from day to day 
 On the blooming scenes we have past ; 
 
 And we shudder to see them swept away 
 By the desolating blast : — 
 
 Yet visions of bliss our souls will thrill, 
 
 Till the voice cries, — " onward ! onward still !" 
 
THE VOICE OF TIME. 223 
 
 The gold of the earth, in one pyramid, 
 
 May not buy an hour's delay ; 
 All the precious pearls in the ocean hid 
 
 Cannot bribe the tyrant away : — 
 Tho' our souls are sick, and our blood runs chill, — 
 Tis " onward ! onward ! onward !" still, 
 
 'Tis enchantment, — spell, — illusion all, 
 
 The starry vault beneath ; 
 We dimly perceive life's fearful goal 
 
 Through the mists and the vapours of death : — 
 Though remorse and horror our spirits fill, 
 'Tis " onward ! onward ! onward still !" 
 
 One tottering step, and we headlong merge 
 
 In that sea without a shore ; 
 One feeble grasp at the rugged verge, — 
 
 One struggle, — and all is o'er ! 
 
224 THE WITCH O' PITTENWEEM. 
 
 THE WITCH 0' PITTENWEEM. 
 
 A LEGENDARY BALLAD. 
 
 There woned a wife in Pittenweem, 
 
 And a greusome cummer was she ; 
 Nae glimpse o' grace was in her heart, 
 
 Nor spark o' humanitie. 
 Her tawny face was furrowed ower 
 
 Like a beggar's hoggart hose ; 
 Nae tinkler's pike-staff had a cleek 
 
 That could match this carline's nose. 
 
 Her een they goggled like a fiend's, 
 
 Her chin was clad wi' hair, 
 And her crooked stumps pushed out her lips 
 
 Like the tusks o' a Lapland bear. 
 
THE WITCH o' PITTENWEEM. 225 
 
 Her voice was like the howlet's scream, 
 
 Or like the carrion craw's ; 
 An' the nails upon her finger-ends 
 
 Were like a griflin's claws. 
 
 And ower her crooked shoulders hung 
 
 A cloak that had ance been red ; 
 But the curch was as black as Acheron 
 
 That covered the beldame's head, 
 She dearly loved the comet's glare, 
 
 But she hated the light o' day ; 
 And she banned the beams o' the blessed sun 
 
 As he rose ower the Isle o' May. 
 
 She's hied her whar' twa highways cross 
 
 Low in a dreary dell, 
 Far, far beyond the haly sound 
 
 O' the Abbey's kirsened bell. 
 And she's knelt upon a suicide's grave, 
 
 And invokit Sathan's name ; 
 And muttered mony a horrid spell, 
 
 Till the grisly monster came. 
 
 p 
 
226 THE WITCH O' PITTENWEEM. 
 
 And there she renouncit her mither's creed, 
 
 And eke her father's faith ; 
 And there she made a solemn league 
 
 And covenant wi' Death. 
 She's pierced a vein on her withered hide, 
 
 As she pawned her sinful soul ; 
 And with the blood whilk was nearest her heart 
 
 She has signed the fearfu' scroll. 
 
 And when she delivered the fatal brief, 
 
 Weel written, signed, an' sealed, 
 A thousand phantoms, mirk as night, 
 
 A horrid anthem pealed. 
 And the screechm' o' the demons dark 
 
 Seemed music till her ear ; 
 And aye she called the Evil One 
 
 Her lord and master dear. 
 
 And she has abjured the blessed sign, 
 
 Which fiends an* demons fear ; 
 And aye she called the Evil One 
 
 Her lord and master dear. 
 
THE WITCH O' PITTENWEEM; 227 
 
 And the more to prove her allegiance true, 
 
 Like a vassal gude an' leal, 
 She has branded her banes wi' Sathan's mark, 
 
 And her flesh wi' his privy seal. 
 
 He's gi'en her seven deadly imp& 
 
 As black as the midnight clud ; 
 And he's bidden her suckle them at her teats, 
 
 And nourish them wi' her blood. 
 He's gi'en her a spindle frae his belt., 
 
 Whilk unto hers she hung ; 
 The whorle o't was a scaly snake 
 
 Lollin' out its forked tongue. 
 
 He's gi'en her a staff intil her hand, 
 
 Cut frae the gallows wood, 
 Weel virled about wi' murderer's banes, 
 
 And varnished wi' felon's blood. 
 But the foul fiend snorted like a wolf, 
 
 Wi' dreddour an' wi' fear ; 
 Syne flew to hell wi' an eldritch yell, 
 
 For he scentit the morning- a ir„ 
 
228 THE WITCH O' PITTENWEEM. 
 
 Neist night she proudlie mounted her nag, 
 
 Like the queen o' hellish hags ; 
 While a' her imps, fu' cozilie, 
 
 Lay nestled in her rags. 
 Ower brake an* mould, ower heath an' wold, 
 
 Fu' swiftlie did she fly ; 
 An* the little wee starns crap in wi' fear, 
 
 As she glowered up to the sky. 
 
 She's killed the heifer on the green, 
 
 The lamb upon the lea ; 
 An' the nether millstane rave in twa 
 
 Wi' the glamour o' her e'e. 
 And mony a blumin' bairnie pined 
 
 Upon its mither's knee ; 
 An' glowered like an unearthly imp, 
 
 An' wad neither live nor dee. 
 
 An* mony a maiden far an' near, 
 
 As sweet as the rose in June, 
 Spewt iron skeurs, and crooked preens, 
 
 Ilk changin' o' the moon. 
 
THE WITCH O' PITTENWEEM. 229 
 
 The husbands sighed, the matrons cried, 
 
 Wi* grief the country rang ; 
 And they murmured at the haly monks 
 
 For tholin' the limmer sae lang. 
 
 The Abbot assembled a' his monks 
 
 Upon St Clement's day ; 
 " Mak' haste an' wash in Marie's well, 
 
 And likewise fast an' pray ; 
 Anoint your heads wi' haly oil, 
 
 In haly robes be dight, 
 An* trust in gude St Swithin's strength, 
 
 And sweet St Marie's might ; 
 For a deed sail be dune, and that fu' sune, 
 
 That shall sere your souls wi' fright." 
 
 The Sheriff has sent his scouts abroad, 
 And they sought baith east an' wast, 
 
 Till they cam' to a cave as mirk as the grave, 
 Where they fand her sleeping fast. 
 
 They trailed her to the Abbey yetts, 
 And hemmed the hag about ; 
 
230 THE WITCH O' PITTENWEEM. 
 
 An' they pricket her body frae head to heel, 
 To find the witch-mark out. 
 
 They bound the caitiff to a bolt, 
 
 Low in the dungeon-keep, 
 An' thrice three nights, an' thrice three days, 
 
 They kept her een frae sleep ; 
 An' they scorched her soles wi' burnin' gauds, 
 
 But she wouldna or couldna weep. 
 
 They tied her arms behind her back, 
 
 An' twisted them with a pin ; 
 And they dragged her to Kinnoquhar loch, 
 
 An' coupit the limmer in — 
 An' the swans flew screamin' to the hills, 
 
 Scared with the unhaly din. 
 
 When first she defiled the crystal flood, 
 
 She ga'e a gruesome scream, 
 But like a bladder fu' o' air, 
 
 She floated on the feam. 
 

 THE WITCH 0' PITTENWEEM. 231 
 
 And when the Abbot saw her swim 
 
 Like cork abune the flood, 
 He breathed an Ave, crossed himsel', 
 
 And kissed the haly rood ; 
 " Avoid thee, Sathan!" the Abbot said, 
 
 " An' a' thy hellish brood." 
 
 An' monk an' layic, priest an' friar, 
 
 Shrunk frae the polluted flood — 
 " Avoid thee, Sathan!" was their cry, 
 
 " And all thy sinfu' brood !" 
 The Abbot pronounced the fearfu' word 
 
 Amidst his monks' acclaims — 
 And the civil power has ta'en the witch, 
 
 And doomed her to the flames. 
 
 They harled the caitiff to the shore, 
 
 And smeared her ower wi' tar, 
 An' chained her to an iron bolt, 
 
 An' eke an iron bar. 
 They biggit a pile around the hag, 
 
 Twa Scots ells up, an' higher ; 
 
232 THE WITCH O' PITTENWEEM. 
 
 An' the hangman cam' wi' a lowin' torch, 
 An' lighted the horrid pyre. 
 
 But the gatherin' cluds burst out at last, 
 
 And loud the thun'er roared ; 
 The sun withdrew his beams o' light — 
 
 The rain in torrents poured. 
 It slockit at ance the witch's fire — 
 
 A dreadfu' sight to see — 
 An' the wind was lown, an' wadna stir 
 
 The leaves o' the aspen tree ; 
 An' monk an' layman crossed themseFs, 
 
 And prayed to Sanct Marie ! 
 
 But there was a monk amang the rest, 
 
 And ane cunning monk was he, 
 Renowned thro' a' the shire o' Fife 
 
 For lear an' sanctitie. 
 He lighted his taper at the lamp 
 
 Before St Marie's shrine ; 
 An' reckless o' the foul fiend's powers — 
 
 Without a cross or sign — 
 
THE WITCH O' PITTENWEEM. 233 
 
 He stappit up to the witch's pile, 
 
 An' applied the sacred light — 
 An' the crackling flames blazed up to heaven 
 
 Like whins on a summer night. 
 An' when the flames had reached her heart, 
 
 She ga'e an awfu' yell, 
 An' her sinfu' spirit winged its flight — 
 
 But where — I darena tell. 
 
 And aye the spot remained a blot 
 
 On Nature's beauteous face ; 
 For grass never grew, nor fell the dew, 
 
 Upon the accursed place. 
 
234 THE CONSTELLATION. 
 
 THE CONSTELLATION, (q.) 
 
 Come, fill up the wine cup ; — thro' blight and thro' bloom, 
 Thro' joy and thro' sorrow, thro' glory and gloom, — 
 We'll drink Walter Scott — tho' the dunces may fume ; 
 And green be his laurels for ever, 
 And, oh! may his laurels be green. 
 
 The claret is glorious — a bumper let's pour, 
 Till the bright ruddy drops from our goblets run o'er, 
 To Bowring, and Bulwer, and Campbell, and Moore ; 
 And green be their laurels for ever, &c. 
 
 Let us quaff off this sparkler of nectar divine, 
 To laurel-crowned Southey, whose name we'll combine 
 With Wordsworth, the priest, at Simplicity's shrine ; 
 And green be their laurels for ever, &c. 
 
THS CONSTELLATION. 235 
 
 To Lockhart and Bowles let this brimmer go down* 
 And to Wilson, a gem in Apollo's own crown ; 
 Rare Christopher Xorth ! thou art old in renown — 
 So green be thy laurels for ever, &c. 
 
 Arouse you, arouse you, ye flag — you're at fault, 
 By allowing the crystals, like cripples, to halt ; 
 Here's to Cunningham, Kennedy, Malcolm, and Gait ; 
 And green be their laurels for ever, &c. 
 
 Here's to Hogg, tho' his name will not hitch in my rhyme, 
 Yet his ballads are good, his Kilmeny sublime, 
 And his lyrics will last till the fag-end of time ; 
 So green be his laurels for ever, &c. 
 
 Here's to Hemans the songstress, pathetic and mild, 
 And sweet Letty Landon, the beauteous, the wild ; 
 And lovely ML Jewsbury, nature's own child ; 
 
 And green be their laurels for ever, &c. 
 
236 THE CONSTELLATION. 
 
 Here's to Strickland the handsome, and Mitfordthe sage, 
 Whose deep-thrilling lays all affections engage ; 
 Here's to Baillie, the pride of her sex and her age ; 
 
 Green, green be their laurels for ever, &c. 
 
 Again, yet again, fill up higher and higher, 
 We'll drain one cup more to the lords of the lyre ; 
 Here's to Tennant and Motherwell, Pringle and Moir ; 
 And green be their laurels for ever, &c. 
 
 What tho' some maybe Whiggish, andsome maybe Tory, 
 Yet they all have augmented our national glory ; 
 Be their names and their works everlasting in story ; 
 And green be their laurels for ever, &c. 
 
 Once more, aye, once more ; for in blight and in bloom, 
 In joy and in sorrow, in glory and gloom, 
 We'll drink Walter Scott — tho' the dunces may fume; 
 And green be his laurels for ever, 
 And, oh ! let his laurels be green. 
 
FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF BURNS. 237 
 
 FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF BURNS. 
 
 Ushered by storms and tempests drear, 
 
 Again the auspicious day returns ; 
 A day to Caledonia dear, — 
 
 The birth- day of immortal Burns. — 
 No more the beauteous matron mourns, 
 
 No more her tresses sweep the earth, 
 Her poet's mighty name adorns 
 
 The happy land that gave him birth ! 
 
 ! for a portion of that fire, 
 
 That pathos, strength, and energy, 
 
 With which the poet swept his lyre 
 While struggling with pale poverty ;- 
 
238 FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF BURNS. 
 
 Then should mj muse adventurous try 
 The dignified, the daring theme,— 
 
 A theme immeasurably high, — 
 
 Even Scotland's mighty Minstrel's fame. 
 
 But that can ne'er forgotten be ; — 
 
 He bade her Doric numbers chime, 
 And struck her harp, whose silver chords 
 
 Shall vibrate till the end of time. 
 The pealing, rapturous notes sublime, 
 
 That rung from his immortal lyre, 
 Shall ever ring, through every clime, j 
 
 Till blazes Nature's funeral pyre ! 
 
 His lyrics glad the Scottish swains, 
 Where Ganges rolls with sullen roar ; 
 
 His nervous, soul-ennobling strains 
 Resound on Hudson's icy shore : 
 
 Beyond the Andean mountains hoar, 
 • Where sacred Freedom's banners blaze, 
 
 Our countrymen his loss deplore, 
 And yearly crown his bust with bays. 
 
FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF BURNS. 239 
 
 His satire was the lightning's flash 
 
 Which purified our moral air, 
 His war songs were the thunder's crash 
 
 Which stirred the lion in his lair : — 
 He painted Scotland's daughters fair, 
 
 All beauty, tenderness, and light, 
 Like verdant wreaths of flowerets rare, 
 
 With summer dews bespangled bright. 
 
 Then let thy heath empurpled plains 
 
 With Tuscan vales for ever vie, 
 And Scotland may thy dulcet strains 
 
 Still rival Tuscan melody : — 
 Let thy maternal tears be dry, 
 
 For though his radiant course be run, 
 The astonished world with plaudits high 
 
 Proclaims him thine illustrious son. 
 
240 STANZAS TO A LADY. 
 
 STANZAS TO A LADY. 
 
 'Tis not for thy beauty I love thee, 
 'Tis not that thou'rt sylph-like and young : 
 Thy sweetness itself could not move me, 
 Nor the music that flows from thy tongue. 
 Thy smile so enchanting, thy soul-searching glances, 
 Thy clustering tresses, thy grace and thine ease ; 
 And thy modesty rare, which each beauty enhances— 
 Ah ! no, dearest Mary, I love not for these. 
 
 Though thy steps by the Graces are measured — 
 Thine actions by purity's page ; 
 Though thy mind to o'erfl owing is treasured 
 With the lore of the bard and the sage : 
 
STANZAS TO A LADY. 241 
 
 Though the harp and the lute, 'neath thine ivory fingers, 
 Emit such sweet sounds that a seraph might please, 
 And spell-bound — enraptured — thy fond lover lingers— 
 Yet Mary, sweet Mary, he loves not for these. 
 
 Though fair are thy hills and thy valleys, 
 And rich are thy gardens and bowers ; 
 And bright is thy beautiful palace, 
 Surrounded by fruits and by flowers ; 
 Tho' thy fathers have shone in the annals of fame — 
 Tho' their deeds onher 'scutcheon resplendent doth blaze, 
 Tho' thou bearest of heroes and princes the name, 
 Yet still, dearest Mary, I love not for these. 
 
 But, like dew from the violet falling, 
 The tears from thy bright eyes will steal, 
 When Misery approaches thy dwelling, 
 Or Poverty tells her sad tale ; 
 And thy bounty extends to the homeless and poor, 
 And the peer and the peasant unite in thy praise, 
 In the turreted hall — in the cot on the moor — 
 These, these, dearest Mary, I love thee for these. 
 
242 TO THE SAME. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Lady, thy form is more beauteous and fair 
 
 Than the heathen imagined a Goddess possessed ; 
 
 And thine eyes shed a radiance more dazzling, by far, 
 Than the stars that illumined the bowers of their blest. 
 
 And thou hast a voice, that is sweeter than ought 
 That e'er fancy ascribed to Elysian lyres ; 
 
 And thy smiles so seraphic, are equalled by nought, 
 Save the rapture transcendent thy presence inspires. 
 
 A truce with your roses, the simile's trite, 
 And lilies are equally heartless and faint ; 
 
 Thy Maker has made thy soul's index so bright, 
 It approaches the glow of a glorified saint ! 
 
TO THE SAME. 243 
 
 As the scorching effulgence that flows from the sun, 
 In its course thro' the air becomes tempered and kind ; 
 
 So the eloquent sweetness that flows from thy tongue 
 Is, with dove-like simplicity, mixed and combined. 
 
 And purity's self hast thou been from thy birth ; 
 
 And often thou hast with adversity striven ; — 
 But, still shine in the paths of Religion on earth, 
 
 And thy spirit shall shine 'midst the splendours of 
 Heaven. 
 
244 HE WOULD BE A SOLDIER. 
 
 HE WOULD BE A SOLDIER. 
 
 5 Tis of a gallant tailor youth, 
 
 Stitched in an attic story, 
 Who weekly thumbed a dingy sheet 
 
 'Bout Wellington and glory : 
 Ah ! many a weary day he spent, 
 
 'Gainst fortune still repining ; 
 For, tho' his coat was neatly made, 
 
 The pockets wanted lining. 
 
 He read of drums and blunderbusses, 
 Trumpets, guns, and thunder ; 
 
 Of breaches, mines, and ambuscades, 
 Which filled his soul with wonder ; 
 
HE WOULD BE A SOLDIER. 245 
 
 Of honour's bed, and glory's field, 
 
 And slashing, stabbing, killing ; 
 So, all his coppers being spent, 
 
 He went and took the shilling. 
 
 The Serjeant was an Irishman, 
 
 Had seen a power of slaughter ; 
 But while Snip's bounty lasted, vowed 
 
 He never would taste water : 
 He made the crystals walk their rounds, 
 
 And swore it would be seen, 
 That, tho' the tailor's cabbage failed, 
 
 His laurels would be green. 
 
 Moreover, he buoyed up his hopes — 
 
 It was his theme diurnal — 
 That in twelve months he'd either be 
 
 A corporal or colonel. 
 " Cheer up, my boy, for by the powers, 
 
 Like my ould comrade C albert, 
 In half that time you'll likely be 
 
 Promoted to a halbert." 
 
246 HE WOULD BE A SOLDIER. 
 
 The tailor donned a forage cap, 
 
 A ribbon at his ear, 
 And strutted like a bantam cock 
 
 Thro' street and thoroughfare ; 
 Held up his head — swelled out his chest ; — 
 
 And when this manhood's fraction 
 Was fired with lots of alcohol, 
 
 He burnt to be in action. 
 
 His blunt had flown — to get in debt 
 
 He swore he would be loath ; 
 Determined aye to cut his coat 
 
 According to his cloth : 
 Quite apropos the route arrived, 
 
 And Snippy was escorted, 
 With music, to the transport's side, 
 
 And he was quite transported. 
 
 The swell set in — the vessel rolled, 
 He felt some queerish qualms ; 
 
 The pitch and tar, like cabbaged cloth, 
 Stuck fast to both his palms. 
 
HE WOULD BE A SOLDIER. 247 
 
 His berth had ne'er a mattress in't, 
 
 Nor was with blankets stored ; 
 But he did what he'd done before — 
 
 Viz. pricked upon the board. 
 
 The mountain waves of Biscay Bay 
 
 The youth endured with patience, 
 And, like a prudent Scottish lad, 
 
 He hoarded up his rations : 
 Think what he might, I cannot say, 
 
 Only one word he spoke — 
 The Brigantine was built of fir — 
 
 He hourly called her oak. 
 
 The hour of debarkation came, 
 
 'Twas twelve o'clock at night ; 
 The rockets, bombs, and carcasses, 
 
 Served him for candle light ; — 
 Whilst a forced march of fifty miles 
 
 Displayed Bellona's charms, 
 And, instead of nodding on his legs, 
 
 He slept upon his arms. 
 
248 HE WOULD BE A SOLDIER. 
 
 He joined a patriotic band, 
 
 It was the hope forlorn — 
 And climbed the breach thro' shot and shells, 
 
 One beauteous Sabbath morn. 
 The Frenchmen pushed — the British rushed— 
 
 The smoke did almost blind him, 
 So he tumbled in the fosse below, 
 
 And left his legs behind him. 
 
 " It might been worse," the tailor said, 
 
 With looks so sly and arch, 
 " The Duke himself, with all his power, 
 
 No more can make me march" 
 So he came home an altered man 
 
 To his own village gaily, 
 And mounted to his attic floor, 
 
 Where he clothes the naked daily. 
 
WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT. 249 
 
 WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT. 
 
 Night is the time to muse ; 
 Then from the eye the soul 
 Takes flight. Montgomery. 
 
 The serried clouds, on the welkin's verge, 
 
 In tumult began to roll ; 
 And the tempest howled as if nature's dirge 
 
 Was pealing from pole to pole ; 
 And ocean yawned, like an opening tomb, 
 And reared to heaven its crests of foam. 
 
 And a knell came on the careering blast, 
 From an ancient Gothic tower ; 
 
 Proclaiming aloud that the day was past — 
 Marking its parting hour : 
 
250 WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT. 
 
 And thought on thought upon me stole, 
 And spake strange things to my sleepless soul. 
 
 It spoke of the mighty ones laid low, 
 Who had poured forth deathless lays ; 
 
 The sun of whose fame shall in glory glow. 
 Until Nature's final blaze, — 
 
 Of the wayward " Childe" — the bold — the free- 
 
 The star of Greece and poesy ! 
 
 It spake of the waste of human life 
 By the Danube's blood-stained wave, 
 
 Where thousands met in mortal strife, 
 And filled one gory grave : 
 
 Whilst paeans, alas ! insult the skies 
 
 For such unholy victories ! 
 
 It spake of a despot forging chains, 
 
 And rearing dungeons strong, 
 On the sunny vales, and the vine-clad hills, 
 
 Where Tagus rolls along : — 
 
WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT. 251 
 
 Of freedmen ringing that tyrant's knell, 
 And whetting their swords on his citadel ! 
 
 It spake of our glorious naval band, 
 
 Afar on the pathless deep ; 
 Whose thunders guard our happy land, 
 
 As round its loved coasts they sweep : 
 The island Empress of the Sea, 
 Whose fiat makes the slave go free ! 
 
252 SIR ALAN MORTIMER. 
 
 SIR ALAN MORTIMER, 
 
 A LEGEND OF FIFE, 
 
 And soft thy beams of amber light 
 
 Upon the fairy landscape fall, 
 Awaking dreams, in memory bright, 
 
 Past— past, but unforgotten all. — Delta . 
 
 The morning's e'e saw mirth an' glee 
 
 I' the hoary feudal tower 
 0' bauld Sir Alan Mortimer, 
 
 The Lord o' Aberdour. 
 But dool was there, an' mickle care, 
 
 When the moon began to gleam ; 
 For Elve an' Fay held jubilee 
 
 Beneath her siller beam. 
 
SIR ALAM MORTIMER. 253 
 
 Sir Alan's peerless daughter was 
 
 His darling frae infancie ; 
 She bloomed in her bower a lily flower, 
 
 Beneath the light o' his e'e ; 
 Her eyes were gems, her brow was bright, 
 
 Her tresses black as jet ; 
 An' her thoughts as pure as the dews of even 
 
 On the virgin violet. 
 
 The woodbine an' the jessamine 
 
 Their tendrils had entwined ; 
 A bower was formed, and Emma aft 
 
 At twilight there reclined. 
 She thought of her knight in Palestine ; 
 
 And sometimes she would sigh, — 
 For love was a guest in her spotless breast 
 
 In heavenly purity. 
 
 The setting sun had ceased to gild 
 
 St Columb's haly tower, 
 An' the vesper star began to glow 
 
 Ere Emma left her bower ; 
 
254 SIR ALAN MORTIMER. 
 
 An* the fairy court had begun their sport 
 
 Upon the daisied lea, 
 While the gossamer strings o' their virginals ran 
 
 Wi' fairy melodie. 
 
 That night the king had convoked his court 
 
 Upon the enamelled green, 
 To pick an' wale thro' his beauties a' 
 
 For a blumin' fairy queen ; 
 An* ere ever he wist, he spied a form 
 
 That rivalled his beauties a' ; 
 'Twas Emma — Sir Alan Mortimer's pride — 
 
 Coming hame to her father's ha.' 
 
 Quick as the vivid lightning gleams 
 
 Amidst a thunder storm, 
 As rapidly the elve assumed 
 
 Lord Bethune's manly form : 
 As flies the cushat to her mate, 
 
 So, to meet his embrace she flew — 
 Like a feathered shaft frae a yeoman's bow 
 
 She vanished frae human view ! 
 
SIR ALAN MORTIMER. 255 
 
 The Abbey bell, on the sacred isle, 
 
 Had told the vesper hour ; 
 No footsteps are heard, no Emma appeared, 
 
 Sir Alan rushed from his tower : — 
 The warders they hae left their posts, 
 
 An' ta'en them to the bent ; 
 The porters they hae left the yetts — 
 
 The sleuth-hounds are on the scent. 
 
 The vassals a' hae left their cots, 
 
 An' sought through brake an' wold ; 
 But the good sleuth-hounds they a' lay down 
 
 On the purple heath, an' yowled. 
 Sir Alan was aye the foremost man 
 
 In dingle, brake, an' brier ; 
 But when he heard his sleuth-hounds yowl, 
 
 He tore his thin grey hair. 
 
 An' aye he cheered his vassals on, 
 Though his heart was like to break ; 
 
 But when he saw his hounds lie down, 
 Fu' mournfully thus he spake : 
 
256 SIR ALAN MORTIMER. 
 
 " Unearthlie sounds affright my hounds, 
 
 Unearthlie sights they see ; 
 They quiver an' shake on the heather brake, 
 
 Like the leaves o' the aspen tree. 
 
 " My blude has almost ceased to flow, 
 
 An' my soul is chilled wi* fear, 
 Lest the elfin or the demon race 
 
 Should hae stown my daughter dear. 
 Haste, haste, to the haly Abbot, wha dwells 
 
 On St Columb's sacred shores ; 
 An' tell him a son o' the haly kirk 
 
 His ghostlie aid implores. 
 
 " Let him buckle sic spiritual armour on 
 
 As is proof against glamourie ; 
 Lest the fiends o' hell hae power to prevail 
 
 Against baith him and me." 
 The rowers hae dashed across the sound, 
 
 An' knocked at the chapel door ; 
 The Abbot was chauntin' his midnight hymn, 
 
 St Columb's shrine before : 
 
SIR ALAN MORTIMER. 257 
 
 His saint-like mien, his radiant een, 
 
 An' his tresses o' siller gray, 
 Might ha'e driven to flight the demons o' night, 
 
 But rood or rosarie. 
 
 The messenger dropt upon his knee, 
 
 An* humbly this he said — 
 " My master, a faithfu' son o' the kirk, 
 
 Implores your ghostlie aid ; 
 An' ye 're bidden to put sic armour on 
 
 As is proof against glamourie, 
 Lest the fiends o' hell ha'e power to prevail, 
 
 Against baith him and thee." 
 
 The Abbot leaped lightlie in the boat, 
 
 An' pushed her frae the strand ; 
 An' pantin' for breath, 'tween life and death, 
 
 The vassals rowed to land ; 
 An' he graspit the mournfu' Baron's hand — 
 
 " Ha'e patience, my son," says he, 
 " For I shall expel the fiends o' hell 
 
 Frae your castle and baronie." 
 
258 SIR ALAN MORTIMER. 
 
 " Restore my daughter," Sir Alan cries, 
 
 "To her father's fond embrace, 
 An' the half of my gold, this very night, 
 
 St Columb's shrine shall grace : 
 " Yes, if thou It restore my darling child, 
 
 That's from me foully been riven, 
 The half of my lands, ere mornin's prime, 
 
 To thy Abbey shall be given." 
 
 The Abbot replied, with priestly pride, 
 
 " Ha'e patience under your loss ; 
 There never was fiend withstood me yet, 
 
 When I brandished the haly cross ; 
 Forego your fear, an' be of good cheer — 
 
 I hereby pledge my word, 
 That by Marie's might, ere I sleep this night, 
 
 Your daughter shall be restored," 
 
 The Abbot had made a pilgrimage, 
 
 Barefoot, to Palestine ; 
 Had slept i' the haly sepulchre, 
 
 An' visions he had seen ; 
 
SIR ALAN MORTIMER, 259 
 
 His girdle had been seven times laved 
 
 In Siloam's sacred stream, 
 An' haly St Bride a crucifix hung 
 
 Around his neck in a dream ! 
 
 A bead was strung on his rosarie, 
 
 That had cured three men bewitched ; 
 An' a relic o' the real cross 
 
 His pastoral staff enriched ; 
 He carried a chalice in his hand, 
 
 Brimfu' o' water clear, 
 For his ane behoof, that had oozed frae the roof 
 
 0' the haly sepulchre ! 
 
 He sprinkled bauld Sir Alan's lands 
 
 Wi' draps o' this heavenlie dew ; 
 An' the fiends o' hell, wi' a gruesome yell, 
 
 To their midnight darkness flew : 
 Anon he shook his rosarie, 
 
 An' invoked St Marie's name, 
 Until sweet Emma's voice was heard 
 
 Chauntin' the virgin's hvmn ! 
 
260 SIR ALAN MORTIMER. 
 
 But when he brandished the haly rood, 
 
 An' raised it to the sky — 
 Like a beam of light, she burst on their sight, 
 
 In vestal purity ! 
 
TO ORKNEY. 261 
 
 TO ORKNEY. 
 
 Land of the whirlpool — torrent — foam, 
 
 Where oceans meet in maddening shock ; 
 
 The beetling cliff — the shelving holm — 
 
 The dark insidious rock : 
 
 Land of the bleak, the treeless moor — 
 
 The sterile mountain, sered and riven ; 
 
 The shapeless cairn, the ruined tower, 
 
 Scathed by the bolts of heaven : 
 
 The yawning gulf — the treacherous sand — 
 
 I love thee still, my native land. 
 
 Land of the dark — the Runic rhyme — 
 The mystic ring — the cavern hoar ; 
 
262 TO ORKNEY. 
 
 The Scandinavian seer — sublime 
 
 In legendary lore : 
 
 Land of a thousand Sea-kings' graves, — 
 
 Those tameless spirits of the past, 
 
 Fierce as their subject Arctic waves, 
 
 Or hyperborean blast ; 
 
 Though polar billows round thee foam, 
 
 I love thee ! Thou wert once my home. 
 
 With glowing heart, and island lyre, 
 Ah ! would some native bard arise 
 To sing with all a poet's fire 
 Thy stern sublimities ; 
 The roaring flood — the rushing stream, 
 The promontory wild and bare, 
 The pyramid where sea-birds scream 
 Aloft in middle air ; 
 The Druid temple on the heath, 
 Old, even beyond tradition's breath. 
 
 Though I have roamed through verdant glades, 
 In cloudless climes, 'neath azure skies ; 
 
TO ORKNEY. 263 
 
 Or plucked from beauteous orient meads 
 
 Flowers of celestial dyes ; 
 
 Though I have laved in limpid streams, 
 
 That murmur over golden sands ; 
 
 Or basked amid the fulgid beams 
 
 That flame o'er fairer lands ; 
 
 Or stretched me in the sparry grot,. — 
 
 My country ! Thou wert ne'er forgot. 
 
264 THE HAPPY HOUR* 
 
 THE HAPPY HOUR. 
 
 Oh, dear to my heart is the balmy hour, 
 
 When the dew of heaven steeps herb and flower ; 
 
 And the orient flames, with a crimson, glow 
 
 On the smooth expanse of ocean below ; 
 
 "When the mountains are wrapped in a misty shroud, 
 
 And the lark is carolling from the cloud, 
 
 And the blackbird chaunts from the milk-white thorn 
 
 A mellow hymn to the opening morn ; 
 
 When the whin-bush exhales a rich perfume, 
 
 And trances the eye with its richer bloom ; 
 
 When the west wind steals, with an hand unseen, 
 
 The incense from brier, and birch, and bean. 
 
THE HAPPY HOUR. 265 
 
 And dear to the heart is the evening fire, 
 And the blended tones of the voice and lyre ; 
 When Beauty the willing ear enchains 
 With the deathless poet's sweetest strains ; — 
 When the captive soul is borne away 
 On the magic stream of minstrelsy ! 
 
 And dear is the hour, yes ! doubly dear, 
 
 When the tomes of Sir Walter, the wizard, appear : 
 
 Then the mighty dead before me stand 
 
 In casque and cuirass, — with lance and brand ; — 
 
 In vision arises the turreted tower, 
 
 The moat, the bridge, and the Ladye's bower ! 
 
 Hark ! to the music, deep and bold, 
 The trumpet's martial tone, 
 
 It speaks of the glorious days of old, — 
 Of the times that are long, long gone ! 
 Of Coeur de Lion with eye of fire, — 
 Of Blondel, the bard of the matchless lyre ! — 
 See ! see how that legion their chargers wheeled, — 
 They pant to rush to the gory field, — 
 To flesh their swords thro* each foeman's shield : 
 
266 THE HAPPY HOUR. 
 
 One helm is wreathed with a milk-white glove,— 
 The stainless pledge of his ladye-love ! 
 
 But dearer than all is the hour at even, — 
 'Tis an hour akin to the bliss of heaven, — 
 When friend meets friend in communion sweet, 
 And the full heart feels what it cannot repeat ; — 
 The quivering lip, and the beaming eye, — 
 The faltering question,— the brief reply, — 
 Bespeak a heaven-born sympathy ! 
 
GLOAMING. 
 
 267 
 
 GLOAMING, 
 
 (to a much-valued friend.) 
 
 The sun hath sunk to his coral cave, 
 
 Beneath the occidental wave ; 
 
 But hath left behind him a crimson dye, 
 
 Like the hues of the upper sanctuary ; 
 
 When angels, in their bowers of bliss, 
 
 Blush for their own unworthiness ! 
 
 And slowly as the day retires 
 
 A splendid host of glorious fires 
 
 Are studding the azure vault on high, 
 
 And glowing a gorgeous galaxy ! 
 
268 GLOAMING. 
 
 But the vesper star is blazing to-night 
 
 With more than her own accustomed light ; 
 
 She moves like the empress of the sky, 
 
 Clothed in pellucid majesty ! 
 
 Those lambent flames that have downward flown, 
 
 Seem couriers sent from her radiant throne ; 
 
 And those countless orbs flitting swiftly by, 
 
 Seem crowding to swell her pageantry ! 
 
 I deem her the fairest star above, — 
 
 For friendship was formed beneath her ray ; 
 
 A friendship stronger than woman's love, 
 
 And lasting as eternity. 
 
 For ever that blessing let me share, 
 For life is short, and bliss is rare ; 
 That for a few fleeting years were worth 
 A patriarchal age on earth. 
 And when our spirits shall soar above 
 Yon glowing gems that stud the sky, 
 Our love shall equal angels' love, 
 Through never-ending eternity ! 
 
THE JUMPING JACK, 269 
 
 THE JUMPING JACK, 
 
 How Time, the fell destroyer, flies ! 
 'Tis thirty years and more, alack, 
 Since first, with infantile surprise, 
 I saw a jumping jack ! 
 
 Pleased with himself, and all around, 
 The rogue appeared instinct with life ; 
 And frolicked to the squeaking sound 
 Of solitary fife. 
 
 The rustic louts were all at fault, 
 To see a little man of paper, 
 Like famous Joe Grimaldi, vault, 
 Gesticulate, and caper ! 
 
270 THE JUMPING JACK. 
 
 They burned to know what magic spell 
 Had galvanized the puny hero ; 
 The showman swore he " vouldn't tell," 
 And looked as cold as zero. 
 
 x\t length a youth amidst the ring, 
 With eye as any eagle's keen, — 
 Perceived a bumpkin pull the string 
 Behind the shabby scene ! 
 
 " Pray, where 's the moral of the thing ?" 
 With all due deference to my betters, 
 I've known a blockhead pull the string 
 In more important matters. 
 
THE DEW-DROPS ARE FALLING. 271 
 
 THE DEW-DROPS ARE FALLING, 
 
 The dew-drops are falling 
 
 The green leaves among, 
 The thrush is recalling 
 
 His mate with a song ; 
 The rose is exhaling 
 
 Its richest perfume, 
 And the flowerets are swelling 
 
 Like Eden's first bloom ! 
 
 The sun, mj adored one, 
 Hath sunk in the west, 
 
 Like a spirit of light 
 
 To the bowers of his rest ; 
 
272 THE DEW-DROPS ARE FALLING. 
 
 But his glories are tinging, 
 And lighting the skies, 
 
 Like the hues of thy cheek, 
 And the light of thine eyes ! 
 
 The star of the gloaming 
 
 Hath burst on our sight, 
 Like love-lighted woman, 
 
 Transcendently bright : 
 That vesper -song comes not 
 
 From spirits, I deem — 
 'Tis the voices, commingling, 
 
 Of ocean and stream. 
 
 Then look, my beloved one, 
 
 Around, and above, 
 There's nothing save harmony, 
 
 Beauty, and love ; 
 And list to the love -tale 
 
 I'll breathe in thine ear ; 
 'Tis so pure, that the spirits 
 
 Of heaven may hear. 
 
WHEN THE LUNAR LIGHT IS LEAPING. 273 
 
 WHEN THE LUNAR LIGHT IS LEAPING. 
 
 When the lunar light is leaping 
 On the streamlet and the lake ; 
 And the winds of heaven are sleeping, 
 And the nightingale awake ; 
 While mirrored in the ocean, 
 The bright orbs of heaven appear ;— 
 'Tis the hour for deep devotion, — 
 Lift thy soul to Heaven in prayer ! 
 
 When the autumn-breeze is sighing 
 Thro' the leafless forest wide ; 
 And the flowers are dead, or dying, 
 Once the sunny garden's pride ;— 
 
274 WHEN THE LUNAR LIGHT IS LEAPING. 
 
 When the yellow leaves in motion 
 Are seen whirling in the air ; — 
 'Tis the hour for deep devotion, — 
 Lift thy soul to God in prayer ! 
 
 On His power and greatness ponder, 
 When the torrent, and the gale, 
 And the cataract, and thunder, 
 In one fearful chorus swell ; — 
 Amidst nature's wild emotion, 
 Is thy soul oppressed with care ? 
 'Tis the hour for deep devotion, — 
 Lift thy soul to Him in prayer ! 
 
 In sorrow, and in sickness, 
 And in poverty, and pain ; 
 And in vigour, or in weakness ; 
 On the mountain or the plain ; 
 In the desert, on the ocean, — 
 Tc the throne of love repair : 
 All are hours for deep devotion, — 
 Lift thy soul to Heaven in prayer ! 
 
WHEN THE ORB OF MORN ENLIGHTENS. 275 
 
 WHEN THE ORB OF MORN ENLIGHTENS. 
 
 When the orb of morn enlightens 
 
 Hill and mountain, mead and dell ; 
 When the dun horizon brightens, 
 
 And the serried clouds dispel ; 
 And the sun-flower eastward bending 
 
 Its fidelity to prove, — 
 Be thy gratitude ascending 
 
 Unto Him whose name is Lore. 
 
 When the vesper-star is beaming 
 
 In the coronet of Even ; 
 And lake and river gleaming 
 
 With the ruddy hues of heaven ; 
 
276 WHEN THE ORB OF MORN ENLIGHTENS. 
 
 When a thousand notes are blending 
 In the forest and the grove, — 
 
 Be thy gratitude ascending 
 
 Unto Him whose name is Love. 
 
 When the stars appear in millions 
 
 In the portals of the west, 
 Bespangling the pavilions 
 
 Where the blessed are at rest ; — 
 When the milky-way is glowing 
 
 In the cope of heaven above ; — 
 Let thy gratitude be flowing 
 
 Forth to Him whose name is Love. 
 
HEARD YE THE TIDINGS ? 2/ i 
 
 HEARD YE THE TIDINGS? (r.) 
 Air — Bonnie Prince Charlie. 
 
 Heard ye the tidings, Donald M < C4illaTrj? 
 
 Ken ye he's landed at Moidart, auld carlie ? 
 
 Saw ye our mountain men, marching by thousands ten, 
 
 Waving their broadswords, and shouting for Charlie ? 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Follow thee, fly to thee, wha wadna fly to thee ? 
 Speed to thy banner that's flaunting sae rarely ; 
 Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna die for thee, 
 Lord of our bosoms' love, bonnie Prince Charlie? 
 
278 HEARD YE THE TIDINGS ? 
 
 There's rushing of clans to the Chevalier's banner, 
 Like floods from the mountains in torrents descending ; 
 Their pennons are streaming, their broadswords are 
 
 gleaming, 
 Huzza ! the white rose wi' the heather is blending. 
 Follow thee, &c. 
 
 Welcome as light sweet flower to the wilderness, 
 Long hast thou bloomed in a far foreign garden ; 
 Bright eyes shall sun thee, and soft sighs shall fan thee, 
 The ever green thistle shall aye be thy warden. 
 Follow thee, &c. 
 
 Well rally around thee, true scion of royalty, 
 Reckless of home and our kindred's undoing ; 
 Prove with our good swords our faith and our loyalty, 
 Soar in thy triumphs, or sink in thy ruin. 
 
 Follow thee, fly to thee, wha wadna fly to thee ? 
 Speed to thy banner that's flaunting sae rarely ; 
 Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna die for thee, 
 Lord of our bosoms' love, bonnie Prince Charlie ? 
 
THE FIRST OF MAT. 270 
 
 THE FIRST OF MAY. 
 
 Air — The Braes o' Balquhidder. 
 
 Now the beams of May morn 
 
 On the mountains are streaming ; 
 And the dews on the corn 
 
 Are like diamond-drops gleaming ; 
 And the birds from the bowers 
 
 Ave in gladness ascending ; 
 And the breath of sweet flowers 
 
 With the zephyrs is blending. 
 
 And the rose-linnet's thrill, 
 Overflowing with gladness, 
 
 And the wood-pigeon's bill, 
 
 Tho' their notes seem of sadness ; 
 
280 THE FIRST OF MAY, 
 
 And the jessamine rich, 
 
 Its soft tendrils is shooting ; — 
 
 From the pear and the peach 
 The bright blossoms are sprouting. 
 
 And the lambs on the lea 
 
 Are in playfulness bounding ; 
 And the voice of the sea 
 
 Is in harmony sounding ; 
 And the streamlet on high 
 
 In the morning beam dances ; 
 For all Nature is joy 
 
 As sweet summer advances. 
 
 Then, my Mary, let's stray 
 
 Where the wild flowers are glowing, 
 By the banks of the Tay 
 
 In its melody flowing ; 
 Thou shalt bathe in May dew, 
 
 Like a sweet mountain blossom ,- 
 For 'tis bright like thy brow, 
 
 And 'tis pure as thy bosom. 
 
THE GLOAMING STAR IS GLEAMING. 281 
 
 THE GLOAMING STAR IS GLEAMING, 
 
 Air. — Aikendrum. 
 
 The gloaming star is gleaming, 
 The summer moon is beaming, 
 Their blended light is streaming 
 
 On mountain, tower, and tree. 
 The birds their loves are telling, 
 The flowers their sweets exhaling, 
 Around the rural dwelling 
 
 IVe reared, my love, for thee, 
 
 The aspen leaves are sleeping, 
 The silver willow's weeping; 
 The violet is steeping 
 
 Its leaves in diamond dew : 
 
282 THE GLOAMING STAR IS GLEAMING. 
 
 The mimic fountain rushes, 
 The sylvan streamlet gushes, 
 Its rose-fringed margin blushes, 
 But cannot rival you. 
 
 Then grace my rosy bower, love, 
 Thyself its brightest flower, love, 
 And let this hallowed hour, love, 
 
 Pure ecstacy impart. 
 And by thy beauteous brow, love, 
 And balmy lips, I vow, love, 
 That thou, and only thou, love, 
 
 Shall share my home — my heart. 
 
 Let worldlings beyond measure 
 Go idolize their treasure — 
 Loll in the lap of pleasure, 
 
 Or bathe in fancied bliss ; — 
 Let heroes, or let sages, 
 Speed where the battle rages, 
 Or study nature's pages — 
 
 Give me an hour like this. 
 
KIND ROBIN LO'ES ME. 283 
 
 KIND ROBIN LO'ES ME. 
 
 Robin is my joy, my dear, 
 Robin reigns triumphant here. — 
 So to his suit I'll lend an ear, 
 Because I'm sure he lo'es me. 
 
 Happy, happy was the shower 
 That led me to his birchen bower, 
 Where first of love I felt the power, 
 And kenned that Robin lo'ed me. 
 
 He's tall and comely, frank and free, 
 Lo'ed by a', but dear to me ; 
 Wi' him I'd live, wi' him I'd dee, 
 Because my Robin lo'es me. 
 
284 KIND ROBIN LO'ES ME. 
 
 My titty, Jeanie, said to me, 
 His constancy a joke would be, 
 And I ower late be made to see 
 That Robin didna lo'e me. 
 
 But little kens our bonnie Jean 
 The glamour o' my Robin's een ! — 
 The starting tear — the vow yestreen, 
 By these I ken he lo'es me. 
 
 When in his bower o' summer sweets, 
 At gloamin' he his vow repeats, 
 My fluttering heart wi' rapture beats, 
 To think how weel he lo'es me. 
 
 The witchery o' Robin's smile 
 Can sweeten care, and lighten toil, 
 And a' the ills o' life beguile, 
 Sae lang's I'm sure he lo'es me. 
 
I NEITHER GOT PROMISE OF SILLER NOR LAND. 285 
 
 I NEITHER GOT PROMISE OF SILLER, &c. 
 
 Air — Todlin' Hame. 
 
 I neither got promise of siller nor land, 
 With the bonnie wee darling who gave me her hand ; 
 But I got a kind heart with my sweet blushing bride, 
 And that's proved the bliss of my ain fireside : 
 My ain fireside, my dear fireside, 
 There's happiness aye at my ain fireside. 
 
 Ambition once pointed my view towards rank, 
 To meadows, and manors, and gold in the bank; — 
 'Twas but for an hour, — and I cherish with pride 
 The sweet lowly flower at my ain fireside : 
 My ain fireside, my happy fireside, 
 My Jeanie's the charm of my ain fireside. 
 
286 I NEITHER GOT PROMISE OF SILLER NOR LAND. 
 
 Her accents are music, there's grace in her air, 
 
 And purity reigns in her bosom so fair ; 
 
 She's lovelier now than in maidenly pride, 
 
 Tho' she's long been the joy of my ain fireside : 
 My ain fireside, my happy fireside, 
 There's harmony still at my ain fireside. 
 
 Let the minions of fortune and fashion go roam, 
 I'm content with the sweet simple pleasures of home ; 
 Tho' their wine, wit, and humour, flow like a springtide, 
 What are these to the bliss of my dear fireside ? 
 My ain fireside, my cheery fireside, 
 There are pleasures untold at my ain fireside. 
 
A BONNY LASS LADEN Wl' CARE. 287 
 
 A BONNY LASS LADEN WI' CARE. 
 
 Air — Sae merry as we a' ha'e been. 
 
 A bonny lass laden wi' care 
 Sat pensively under a thorn ; — 
 Unseen by the sorrowful fair, 
 I heard her begin thus to mourn : 
 Whene'er my dear Jamie was near, 
 The birds seemed more sweetly to sing, 
 And cold dreary winter to wear 
 A face that resembled the spring. 
 Sae merry as we twa ha'e been, 
 Sae happy as we twa ha'e been, 
 Wi' sorrow my heart's like to break, 
 When I think on the days we ha'e seen. 
 
288 A BONNY LASS LADEN Wl' CARE. 
 
 ? Tis sweet, in a morning in May, 
 To roam through the green leafy bowers ; 
 Tis sweet, at the closing of day, 
 To drink in the breath of the flowers ; 
 But sweeter at gloaming, by far, 
 To sit 'neath our ain trysting-tree, 
 To gaze on the bright e'ening star, 
 And greet, my dear Jamie, for thee. 
 Sae merry as we twa ha'e been, 
 Sae happy as we twa ha'e been ; 
 With sorrow my poor heart will break, 
 When I think on the days that are gane. 
 
PRINCE CHARLES' LAST VIEW OF SCOTLAND. 289 
 
 PRINCE CHARLES EDWARD'S LAST VIEW 
 OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Farewell to thee, Scotland, thy verdure is blighted, 
 
 Thy daisies are steeped in the blood of the brave ; 
 And I, who thy wrongs with the sword would have righted, 
 
 Am tossed like a fugitive serf on the wave ! 
 Impelled to the pursuit, by gold and by vengeance, 
 
 My foemen are swift as the storm- driven rack ; 
 From the fierce brutal tribes they've selected their en- 
 gines, 
 
 The beagles and blood-hounds are scenting my track. 
 Farewell to thee, Scotland, thy hills are receding, 
 
 So beagles and blood-hounds can track as they may; 
 But my heart to its centre is wounded and bleeding, 
 
 For thousands who fell on Culloden's dark day. 
 
 T 
 
290 PRINCE CHARLES' LAST VIEW OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 The hill-fox's howl, and the lorn widow's wailings, 
 
 Commingle at midnight, 'midst tempest and rain ; 
 And the red mountain-streamlets by smouldering sheil- 
 ings, 
 
 Brawl hoarsely and fiercely the dirge of the slain. 
 The Chieftains and heroes who followed my banner 
 
 Are pining in dungeons, and bleaching on walls ; 
 Or, stripped of their all, saving conscience and honour, 
 
 The grass growing rank on their hearths and their 
 halls. 
 Farewell to thee, Scotland, thy loftiest mountain 
 
 Is fading and blending with ocean and sky, 
 I groan — for my tears are dried up at the fountain — 
 
 A wanderer I've lived, and an exile I'll die. 
 
FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF BURNS. ' 291 
 
 FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF BURNS. 
 
 Air — Dainty Davie. 
 
 When Januar winds were ravin' wiF, 
 O'er a' the districts o' our isle, 
 There was a callant born in Kyle, 
 
 And he was christened Robin. 
 Oh Robin was a dainty lad, 
 Rantin' Robin, rhymin' Robin, 
 It made the gossips unco glad 
 
 To hear the cheep o' Robin. 
 
 That ne'er-to^be-forgotten morn, 
 When Coila's darling son was born, 
 Auld Scotland, on her stock an' horn, 
 Play'd "Welcome hame" to Robin, 
 
292 FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF BURNS. 
 
 And Robin was the blythest loon, 
 Rantin' Robin, rhymin' Robin, 
 That ever sang beneath the moon ; 
 We'll a' be proud o' Robin ! 
 
 The Muses round his cradle hung, 
 The Graces wat his infant tongue ; 
 And Independence, wi' a rung, 
 Cried, — " Redd the gate for Robin." 
 For Robin's soul-arousing tones, 
 Rantin' Robin, rhymin' Robin, 
 Gart tyrants tremble on their thrones ; 
 We'll a' be proud o' Robin ! 
 
 Then let's devote this night to mirth, 
 And celebrate our poet's birth ; 
 While Freedom preaches in the earth, 
 She'll tak' her text frae Robin. 
 Oh Robin's magic notes shall ring, 
 Rantin' Robin, rhymin' Robin, 
 While rivers run, and flowerets spring, 
 Huzza ! huzza for Robin ! 
 
FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF BURNS. 2l>3 
 
 Fame stepped ben beyont the hearth, 
 Cried, " I foresee your matchless worth ; 
 And to the utmost ends o' earth 
 I'll be your herald, Robin." 
 Oh ! Robin was a lad o' skill, 
 
 Rantin' Robin, rhymin' Robin ; 
 He ruled the passions at his will ; 
 We'll a' be proud o' Robin ! 
 
294 SONG OF THE SCOTISH EXILE. 
 
 SONG OF THE SCOTISH EXILE* 
 
 Oh ! the sunny peaches glow, 
 And the grapes in clusters blush ; 
 And the cooling silver streams 
 From their sylvan fountains rush ; 
 There is music in the grove, 
 And there's fragrance on the gale ; 
 But there's nought so dear to me 
 As my own Highland vale. 
 
 Oh ! the queen-like virgin rose, 
 Of the dew and sun-light born, 
 And the azure violet, 
 Spread their beauties to the morn ; 
 
SONG OF THE SCOTISH EXILE. 295 
 
 So does the hyacinth, 
 And the lily pure and pale ; 
 But I love the daisy best 
 In my own Highland vale. 
 
 Hark ! hark, those thrilling notes ! — 
 Tis the nightingale complains ; 
 Oh ! the soul of music breathes 
 In those more than plaintive strains ; 
 But they're not so dear to me 
 As the murmur of the rill, 
 And the bleating of the lambs, 
 On my own Highland hill. 
 
 Oh ! the flowerets fair may glow, 
 And the juicy fruits may blush, 
 And the beauteous birds may sing, 
 And the crystal streamlets rush ; 
 And the verdant meads may smile, 
 And the cloudless sun may beam ; 
 But there's nought beneath the skies 
 Like my own Highland hame. 
 
296 THERE IS A PANG FOR EVERY HEART. 
 
 THERE IS A PANG FOR EVERY HEART. 
 
 Air — Gramachree. 
 
 Theee is a pang for every heart, 
 
 A tear for every eye ; 
 There is a knell for every ear, 
 
 For every breast a sigh ; 
 There's anguish in the happiest state 
 
 Humanity can prove ; — 
 But, oh ! the torture of the soul 
 
 Is unrequited love ! 
 
 The reptile haunts the sweetest bower, 
 
 The rose blooms on the thorn ; 
 There's poison in the fairest flower 
 
 That greets the opening morn : 
 
THERE IS A PANG FOR EVERY HEART. 297 
 
 The hemlock and the night-shade spring 
 
 In garden and in grove ; 
 But, oh ! the upas of the soul 
 
 Is unrequited love ! 
 
 Ah ! lady, thine inconstancy 
 
 Hath made my peace depart ; 
 The unwonted coldness of thine eye 
 
 Hath froze thy lover's heart ; 
 Yet with the fibres of that heart 
 
 Thine image dear is wove, 
 Nor can they sever till I die i 
 
 Of unrequited love. 
 
298 THE SUN-FLOWERS DROOP, THE BREEZES SIGH. 
 
 THE SUN-FLOWERS DROOP, THE 
 BREEZES SIGH. 
 
 Air — Pinkie House. 
 
 The sun-flowers droop, the breezes sigh, 
 
 In Pinkie's beauteous glade ; 
 The lilies weep in dewy tears, 
 
 The rose its leaves has shed ; — 
 Maria frowns — the peerless one 
 
 That wont to smile so sweet, 
 That won all hearts, and charmed all eyes — 
 
 Her lover at her feet. 
 
 " Nay, frown not thus, divinest maid, 
 
 Nor waste that pearly tear ; 
 For tho' I cropped that peerless prize, 
 
 A ringlet of thy hair, 
 
THE SUN-FLOWERS DROOP, THE BREEZES SIGH. 299 
 
 'Twas but to braid it on nij heart 
 
 With many a costly gem ; 
 Nor would I with the relic part 
 
 For England's diadem. 
 
 " Yes, yes ! my throbbing heart will break 
 
 If from thy presence driven ; 
 Can I forego the countless charms 
 
 Which made that presence heaven ? 
 My bloom of bliss will then be sered, 
 
 My rising hopes undone, — 
 Thus tempests blight the vernal flowers 
 
 Just opening to the sun. 
 
 " Bestow the sweet seraphic smile 
 
 Which thou alone canst give ; — 
 Oh ! raise the music of thy voice, 
 
 And bid thy lover live ; 
 Then let the clouds obscure the stars, 
 
 Or blot them from the skies, 
 My light shall be thy sunny smile, 
 
 My ruling stars thine eyes." 
 
300 TES! I WILL DEEM THEE LIKE THE ROSE. 
 
 YES ! I WILL DEEM THEE LIKE THE ROSE. 
 
 Yes ! I will deem thee like the rose, 
 
 In summer's rich refulgent glow ; 
 I'll swear that winter's purest snows 
 
 Grow dim beside thy beauteous brow : 
 Thine eyes, like violets bathed in dew, 
 
 Shall ever be compared by me ; 
 For snows, and flowers of fairest hue, 
 
 Are emblems of inconstancy. 
 
 Oh ! thou hast made thy captive drink 
 
 The chalice of unmingled woe ; 
 And thou hast broke the magic link 
 
 Which chained him to the world below : 
 
YES ! I WILL DEEM THEE LIKE THE ROSE. 301 
 
 That heart is torn with many a throe, 
 Which throbbed tumultuously for thee : 
 
 And first affection's heavenly glow 
 Is chilled by thine inconstancy. 
 
 Sweet woman ! tho' arrayed by heaven 
 
 In conquering beauty's brightest beam, 
 Thou'rt fickle as the clouds of even, — 
 
 Inconstant as the meteor's gleam. 
 My early thoughts, — my daily theme, — 
 
 My nightly musings still shall be, 
 That woman's love is all a dream — 
 
 Inconstancy — Inconstancy ! 
 
302 RETROSPECTION. 
 
 RETROSPECTION. 
 
 Air — Poverty parts gude company. 
 
 Oh ! gane are the days, when the Bailies and me, 
 On subjects o' state could for ever agree ; 
 When Councillors praised our discretion and sense, 
 Tho' we dined twice a- week at the borough's expense — 
 
 Drank " things as they are," with three times three : 
 
 Oh ! politics part good company. 
 
 On Sundays we marched in our holiday gear, 
 Escorted by Donald, our stout halberdier, 
 In solemn procession, owerbye to the kirk ; 
 And aye we were greeted by smile and by smirk ; 
 
 And mony low bows the bethal did gi'e : 
 
 But politics part good company. 
 
RETROSPECTION. 303 
 
 When coofs came before us, fu' awkward and blate, 
 For shooting the game on his honour's estate, 
 How bonnilie justice and mercy did blend, 
 When we sent them to bridewell their morals to mend, 
 
 And a' the town fowk applauded hie : 
 
 But politics part good company. 
 
 And ay when the Parliament duly expired, 
 With rapture transcendent our bosoms were fired, 
 For candidates came from the north and the south, 
 To canvas our votes, and to slocken our drouth. 
 
 Ah ! during these revels how blest were we : 
 
 But politics part good company. 
 
 We lunched at the Lion — we dined at the Gourd, 
 Where sherry and port like a cataract poured, 
 And — fair-play's a jewel — we supped at the Swan, 
 Where claret and punch like a broad river ran. 
 
 Then all was mirth and jollity : 
 
 But politics part good company. 
 
304 LORD GEORGE MURRAY TO THE CLANS, 
 
 LORD GEORGE MURRAY TO THE CLANS, 
 
 The British diadem 
 Is the royal Stuart's right ! 
 Let the beacons brightly flame 
 From each tower and rocky height ; 
 Let the slogan through our glens loudly swell : 
 For above your fathers' graves 
 Tread these Hanoverian slaves, 
 And their standard proudly waves 
 On the gale. 
 
 Oh ! whet your daggers bright 
 On the tomb of great Montrose ; 
 
LORD GEORGE MURRAY TO THE CLANS. 305 
 
 Then quench their radiant light 
 In the bosom of jour foes — 
 The foemen of jour sovereign and lord. 
 Carve his titles on the pines 
 Where the German's banner shines, 
 Through their mercenary lines, 
 With the sword. 
 
 The coward Cope maj boast 
 Of his squadrons and his files, 
 But the leader of our host — 
 Heir of all the British isles — 
 Bj the lightning of his eje and his brand 
 These cravens shall be chased, 
 With fierj- footed haste, 
 As the tempest o'er the waste 
 Drives the sand ! 
 
 Remember great Dundee, 
 And the glories of jour sires ; 
 When the clansmen, one to three, 
 Amid bajonet-thrust and fire 
 
306 
 
 LORD GEORGE MURRAY TO THE CLANS. 
 
 Hewed their gory path with broadsword and targe. 
 Trophies shall reward your toils 
 From the proud usurper's spoils ; 
 Eternal justice smiles — 
 To the charge! 
 
THE SUN'S IN THE EAST. 307 
 
 THE SUN'S IN THE EAST. 
 
 Air — The Yellow-Hair'd Laddie. 
 
 The sun's in the east, and the dew's on the flowers, 
 And the laverocks ha'e soared frae their sweet mossy 
 
 bowers, 
 And their music's increased by the hum of the bee, 
 By the tinkling rill, and the voice of the sea. 
 
 The linnet, the blackbird, the mavis, and thrush, 
 Are mingling their notes in the arbour and bush ; 
 And the grasshopper chimes in the meadow unseen, 
 And the new weaned lambies bound blithe on the green. 
 
 The sweet brier-bush, and the rich yellow broom, 
 Are blending their fragrance, exhaling perfume ; 
 
308 the sun's in the east. 
 
 And the white blossoms sprout from the hawthorn tree, 
 And the clear glassy brook wimples on to the sea. 
 
 All nature, sweet Mary, is joyous and bright, 
 Her vestments are bathed in the dew and the light- 
 Add to these, my adored one, thy voice and thy smile. 
 And, oh ! 'twill be bliss to thy lover the while. 
 
THE TEMPEST IS RAGING. 309 
 
 THE TEMPEST IS RAGING. 
 
 The tempest is raging, 
 
 And rending the shrouds ; 
 The ocean is waging 
 
 A war with the clouds ; 
 The cordage is breaking, 
 
 The canvass is torn, 
 The timbers are creaking — 
 
 The seamen forlorn. 
 
 The water is gushing 
 
 Through hatches and seams ; 
 'Tis roaring and rushing 
 
 O'er keelson and beams ; 
 

 310 THE TEMrEST IS RAGING. 
 
 And nought save the lightning 
 On mainmast or boom, 
 
 At intervals bright 'ning 
 The palpable gloom. 
 
 Tho' horrors beset me, 
 
 And hurricanes howl, 
 I may not forget thee, 
 
 Beloved of my soul ; 
 Tho' soon I must perish, 
 
 In ocean beneath, 
 Thine image I'll cherish, 
 
 Adored one, in death. 
 
BONNIE jijax mak's muckle o' mee. 3 LI 
 
 BOXXIE JEAN MAK'S MUCKLE 0' MEE. (s.) 
 
 My Lorde Kilspindie's crappe is in, 
 Sae hail may skyte, an' rain may pour ; 
 The norlan' blaste frae yonte the binne 
 May skelpe an' dadde fu' snelle an' dour : 
 I've noucht till doe but tende my flouir, 
 As lang as Heaven sail health bestow mee ; 
 My life's ane rosie sun-licht hour, 
 For bonnie Jean mak's muckle o' mee. 
 
 Thy bewtie is baith riche an' rare, — 
 Thy cheeke's the rose, thy teethe's the pearle ; 
 Luve sportes amang thy coal-blacke hair, 
 An' in thine evne, my winsome girle ! 
 
312 BONNIE JEAN MAK'S MUOKLE 0* MEE. 
 
 Her voice is musick frae the merle, 
 Or mavis in the glen below mee ; — 
 I'm happier than Kilspindie's Earle, 
 When bonnie Jean mak's muckle o' mee. 
 
 Mess Jhone, our sanctimonious frier, 
 
 Screedes frae the altar ilka Lente, 
 
 That laicks a' were placed here 
 
 To practise pennaunce, an' repente ; — 
 
 But frae sic doctrines I dissente, 
 
 An' spurn his cauldrifife dogmas fro' mee ; 
 
 This warl's a' wi' flouris besprente, 
 
 For bonnie Jean mak's muckle o' mee. 
 
 I bous'd an' biiTt at the yill, 
 
 At bikkeris aye I bure the gree ; 
 
 The roarin' channel-stane stude still 
 
 Upo' the yce withoutten mee : 
 
 But now adieu to barley-bree, 
 
 Whilke frae my ballance aft did throw mee, 
 
 For I've forsworn it a', ye see, 
 
 Sin' bonnie Jean made muckle o' mee. 
 
LIKE EVENING STAR'S REFULGENT RAT. 313 
 
 LIKE EVENING STAR'S REFULGENT 
 RAY. (t.) 
 
 FROM THE DANISH OF THAAftUP. 
 
 Like evening star's refulgent ray, 
 
 Like balmy dew on flowers ; 
 Like sun-light on the lap of May, 
 
 Like fructifying showers, 
 May happiness descend on us, 
 
 A race of toil-worn men, 
 Whilst we the wassail bowl discuss 
 
 In this our native glen. 
 
 The fruits of industry and peace 
 
 We freely shall partake ; 
 Our happiness shall aye increase 
 
 While thus our thirst we slake ; 
 
314 LIKE EVENING STAR'S REFULGENT RAY. 
 
 And grey-haired sires will here recall 
 
 The joys of manhood — when 
 They drained the wine-cup, one and all, 
 
 In this their native glen. 
 
 Attune the minstrel harp, and sing 
 
 Our gallant patriot's deeds ; 
 Let Charity her purse unstring, 
 
 The poor man succour needs ; 
 Let Beauty smile, and jocund Youth 
 
 Smile back to her agen — 
 Thus love and friendship, song and ruth, 
 
 Shall grace our native glen. 
 
 May Friendship, Wisdom, Wit, and Worth, 
 
 Among us still abide ; 
 May joy pervade each home and hearth, 
 
 And bless each bien fireside. 
 Then though our clime be cold, I wis, 
 
 And rudely clothed our men, 
 We'll deem it still a paradise — 
 
 Our own dear native glen. 
 
xow gloamin' o'er the welkin weaves. 315 
 
 NOW GLOAMIN' O'ER THE WELKIN 
 WEAVES. 
 
 Air — For a' that, an' a' that. 
 
 Now gloaniin' o'er the welkin weaves 
 
 A canopy, an' a' that ; 
 The lily faulds its dewy leaves, 
 Sae does the rose, an' a' that : 
 For a' that, an' a' that, 
 The violet, an' a' that ; 
 But soon I'll clasp a fairer flower 
 Than lily, rose, or a' that. 
 
 The clover on the e'enin' gale, 
 The new mawn hay, an' a' that ; 
 
 The honeysuckle down the dale 
 Their fragrance shed, an' a' that, 
 
316 now gloamin' o'er the welkin weaves. 
 
 An' a' that, an' a' that, 
 The bloomin' broom, an' a' that ; 
 But soon I'll prie a balmier breath 
 Than they exhale, for a* that. 
 
 The stars aboon the silver Tay 
 
 Are glowin' bright, an' a' that ; 
 Like diamonds on a gala day, 
 O'er beauty's brow, an' a' that : 
 For a' that, an' a' that, 
 The crescent moon, an' a' that ; 
 But Jeanie's een, I'll tak' my aith, 
 Are brighter far than a' that. 
 
 Thrice welcome to the trystin' hour — 
 
 'Tis come at length, for a' that ; 
 I'll meet her i' the birken bower, 
 Ayont the burn, an' a' that : 
 For a' that, an' a' that, 
 My throbbin' pulse, an' a' that ; — 
 Ye misers, gae an' hug your gear — 
 I'm richer far than a' that. 
 
Margaret's reminiscences. 317 
 
 MARGARET'S REMINISCENCES, 
 
 Oh ! the days are gone of snowy plumes, 
 
 And crimson banners streaming ; 
 And merry fifes, and rolling drums, 
 
 And swords and sabres gleaming; 
 And regiments mixed, with bayonets fixed, 
 
 In serried files advancing ; 
 And yeomen bold, in blue and gold, 
 
 On war-steeds proudly prancing ! 
 
 Oh ! the days are o'er when Scotland's strand 
 With martial men was teeming ; 
 
 Prepared for glory, heart and hand, 
 Each more than mortal seeming ; 
 
318 Margaret's reminiscences. 
 
 Whilst bugles sung, and clarions rung, 
 
 In grand heroic measure ; 
 And kerchiefs waved, and bosoms heaved, 
 
 And pulses thrilled with pleasure ! 
 
 Bright were the days when volunteers, 
 
 In thousands ten were swarming ; 
 And rifle corps and fusileers 
 
 In every glen were arming ; 
 When street and square, and church and fair, 
 
 With helms and casques were glancing ; 
 And rich and rare, in the noon-tide air, 
 
 The countless crests were dancing ! 
 
 And then the "pomp and circumstance" 
 
 Of mounted squadrons drilling ; 
 Of lengthened lines in full advance, 
 
 Retreating, marching, wheeling. 
 Meanwhile the band, on either hand, 
 
 Struck up " the Grahams," or " Campbells ;" 
 Then tender sighs, and hazel eyes, 
 
 And glorious moonlight rambles ! 
 
Margaret's reminiscences. 319 
 
 Can I forget the grand review, 
 
 One happy daj in July, 
 When gallant Graham and bold Buccleuch 
 
 Surveyed their squadrons duly ? 
 Sweet Captain Gask, he doffed his casque, 
 
 And kissed his hilt so neatly ; 
 Nay, even did swear, in my willing ear, 
 
 I had won his heart completely. 
 
 The ball commenced, the music flowed, 
 
 We trod one sprightly measure ; 
 My fluttering heart with rapture glowed, 
 
 And throbbed with new-born pleasure. 
 He squired me down the grand saloon, 
 
 He saw me to my carriage ; 
 With air so bland he squeezed my hand, 
 
 I thought he whispered " marriage!" 
 
 Alas ! 'twas all a waking dream, 
 
 A sweet hallucination : 
 " Things are not always what they seem/' 
 
 Is a sage observation. 
 
320 Margaret's reminiscences. 
 
 Next week, I ween, to Gretna-Green 
 They drove my faithless lover, 
 
 With jointured dame and titled name, 
 Whilst I , but, 'pshaw, 'tis over. 
 
 Oh ! the days are gone of snowy plumes, 
 
 And crimson banners streaming ; 
 And merry fifes, and rolling drums, 
 
 And swords and sabres gleaming : 
 And regiments mixed, with bayonets fixed, 
 
 Tn serried files advancing ; 
 And yeomen bold, in blue and gold, 
 
 On war-steeds proudly prancing. 
 
LORD GEORGE DOUGLAS* SONG. 321 
 
 LORD GEORGE DOUGLAS 5 SONG, 
 
 There's rays o' mair than earthlie light, 
 
 That beam frae Mary's e'e ; 
 A sweeter floweret never bloomed 
 
 Beneath heaven's canopie. 
 She equals Eve's majestic form, 
 
 St Mary's matchless grace ; 
 An' the heavenly hues o' Paradise 
 
 O'erspread her beauteous face. 
 
 The diamond grows dim compared wi' her e'e, 
 The gowd compared wi' her hair, — 
 
 Wi' the magic o' her bewitching smile 
 There's naething on earth can compare ; 
 
322 LORD GEORGE DOUGLAS' SONG. 
 
 An' the dulcet music o' her voice 
 
 Excels the harmonie, 
 Which elve and fay sae deftlie play 
 
 When halding high jubilee. 
 
 Oh ! I could dive to ocean's bed 
 
 For pearls to deck her hair ; 
 An' my bosom heaves tumultuously 
 
 For leave to braid them there. 
 An' I wad search the darkest mine 
 
 For jewefe to gem her brow ; — 
 Nay, life itsel' I wad blithely tyne 
 
 For a kiss o' her lovely mou'. 
 
PARENTAL ANGUISH. 323 
 
 PARENTAL ANGUISH. 
 
 AN INCIDENT OF, AND SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN DURING, 
 THE DAYS OF THE COVENANT. 
 
 The sun blinks blithe on ray aulcl beld head, 
 The flowers in clusters around me spring ; 
 The breath of May fans my farrowed cheek, 
 And sweet in the lift the laverocks sing ; 
 From tree and thorn rich blossoms hing, 
 Perfuming the balmy morning air ; 
 But grief and despair have seized on me now, 
 And pleasure and joy are things that were. 
 
 I've been a decent kirk-ga'ing man 
 For more than sixty years and three ; 
 I've striven to walk in the narrow path, 
 And I've trusted in Him who died for me ; 
 
324 PARENTAL ANGUISH. 
 
 I hoped to lie down in the kirk-yard lea, 
 And there in peace take the saint's repose ; — 
 But horror and woe ! I cannot forgi'e 
 The Spoiler who ruined my beauteous Rose. 
 
 My eldest boy in his country's cause 
 
 Resigned his life on the gory sod ; 
 
 I wiped away the gathering tears, 
 
 And bowed to the Providence of God ; 
 
 In all my sorrows I kissed the rod, 
 
 And prayed for my own and my country's foes ; 
 
 But 111 never forgive the ruthless wretch 
 
 Who blighted and sered my beauteous Rose. 
 
 My Jeanie — the light of her father's eye, — 
 Like a lily-flower in winter, decayed ; 
 And ere the summer had ope'd the rose, 
 The gowans bloomed o'er her narrow bed. 
 Few sighs were heaved, — few tears were shed ; 
 We knew we should meet in bliss on high, 
 Where parting in grief is quite unknown, — 
 Where tears are wiped from every eye. 
 
PARENTAL ANGUISH. 325 
 
 But my ruined Rose ! despair ! despair ! 
 With a broken heart, and a brain on fire, 
 I'll trace her seducer's lurking place, 
 And I'll wither his soul with my curses dire I 
 The morning sun on the village spire 
 Reminds me of Him who forgave his foes, 
 But I cannot forgive the smooth-tongued liar, 
 Who ruined, and left my own sweet Rose. 
 
 And when I take the sacred Book, 
 Or bow my knee at morn or even, 
 Some blessed angel whispers me, 
 " Forgive, if thou wouidst be forgiven I" 
 
 I feel the words, as if from heaven, 
 But, in a moment, passing strange ! 
 Some felon -fiend shouts in mine ear, 
 
 II Revenge your Rose ! revenge ! revenge !" 
 
 At midnight on my sleepless bed, 
 
 Or haply on some distant hill, 
 
 I muse on the strength of the law divine, 
 
 But a law impels me, stronger still ; 
 
326 PARENTAL ANGUISH. 
 
 By thundering linn, or purling rill, 
 
 By mountain, meadow, cottage, grange, 
 
 By hut or hall, the demon cries, 
 
 " Revenge your Rose ! revenge ! revenge !" 
 
 The iron entered her mother's soul, 
 
 When she heard of her darling daughter's fate ; 
 
 And in thrice three suns, from that fatal day, 
 
 She was borne a corse through the kirk-yard gate. 
 
 Then stern and unrelenting Hate, 
 
 Come nerve my arm to wield a brand ; 
 
 I'll rid the earth of a serpent yet ; — 
 
 He shall die the death by mine own right hand. 
 
 By bleak Airdsmoss, or Bothwell banks, 
 Where'er the spoilers lurk in the west, 
 I'll seek him amidst the Malignants' ranks, 
 And I'll bury my sword in the traitor's breast : 
 Then my nameless grave will soon be dressed 
 With the red heath-flower, and the gowan wan, 
 And the wild curlew on the mountain-crest 
 Shall wail the fall of a ruined man ! 
 
EPISTLE TO GEOilGE THOMSON. 327 
 
 EPISTLE TO GEORGE THOMSON, ESQ.(u.) 
 
 (THE FAR-FAMED CORRESPONDENT OF ROBERT BURNS.) 
 
 Ten thousand thanks, dear friend of mine, 
 For " Johnie Cope," that braw propine ; 
 I'll drink your health in "blude-red wine," 
 
 Just after dinner, 
 Wi' a' the honours, nine times nine, 
 
 As I'm a sinner ! 
 
 Good men an' true — their country's boast — 
 Whose works are known from coast to coast, 
 Shall join me in the grateful toast, 
 
 And loud applaud you, 
 While I sit a delighted host, 
 
 To hear them laud you ! 
 
328 EPISTLE TO GEORGE THOMSON. 
 
 By faith an' filial fondness led on, 
 I love the very ground ye tread on, 
 An' pray for benisons your head on, 
 
 Here an' hereafter ; — 
 Auld Scotland mourns wi' sable weed on, 
 
 Sin' ye ha'e left her. 
 
 For, ah ! ye roamed her wide domains, 
 Her broomy haughs, an' flowery plains, 
 Her dreary dells, an' mountain chains, 
 
 Fatigue defying, 
 An' married her immortal strains 
 
 To verse undying ! 
 
 Far from the busy, noisy throng, 
 Ye sought, the Border dales among, 
 The Hierarch of Scotish Song, 
 
 So famed in story, 
 And while time's river rolls along, 
 
 Ye'U share his glory ! 
 
EPISTLE TO GEORGE THOMSON. 329 
 
 With kindred souls, that would not palter, 
 With faith that could not flinch nor falter, 
 Ye took an oath at Friendship's altar, 
 
 Within Truth's portal, 
 And now, like Shakspeare an' Sir Walter, 
 
 Ye're both immortal ! 
 
 May hope and peace, and love and joy, 
 Like stars, illume your evening sky ; 
 May countless blessings from on high 
 
 Your steps attend, 
 With heaving breast and moistened eye, 
 
 So prays your friend. 
 
330 MY OWN BLUE BELL. 
 
 MY OWN BLUE BELL. 
 
 Let gallants sigh for sunny eyes, 
 
 Ripe lips, and faultless forms ; 
 Exhale their very souls in sighs 
 
 For visionary charms ; 
 Let sordid wretches riches grasp, 
 
 Their useless hoards to swell, 
 Let me but to my bosom clasp 
 
 My own Blue Bell. 
 
 Let patriots for their speeches fine 
 Receive their country's thanks ; 
 
 And with enthusiasm join 
 The opposition ranks ; 
 
MY OWN BLUE BELL. 331 
 
 Let courtly members, more sedate, 
 
 Their weight and influence sell ; 
 Give me — 'tis all I ask of fate — 
 
 My own Blue Bell. 
 
 Let veterans of the sword and shield, 
 
 Let high aspiring youth, 
 Seek honour in the gory field ; 
 
 Xay, in the cannon's mouth ; 
 Let mercenaries fight for gold, 
 
 Let casuists doubts dispel ; 
 Let me but in my arms enfold 
 
 My own Blue Bell. 
 
 Let nobles climb the slippery heights 
 
 Where Fame's proud temple shines ; 
 Let connoisseurs, on gala nights, 
 
 Descant on soups and wines ; 
 Let commerce cent, per centum gain 
 
 In Fortune's sunny vale : — 
 Let me but to my bosom strain 
 
 My own Blue Bell. 
 
332 MY OWN BLUE BELL. 
 
 To hear her read her lyric lays 
 
 Is happiness unbounded ; 
 To see her loll in learned ease, 
 
 By manuscripts surrounded, 
 Is bliss itself : for, by the powers, 
 
 She wrote " The Haunted Dell,"— 
 Besides a tome called " Attic Hours," 
 
 My own Blue Bell. 
 
 There's Baillie, famed both far and near, 
 
 There's Mitford, and Miss Bowles ; 
 Although they cannot write like her, 
 
 Are very pleasant souls ; 
 There's. Roberts, Howitt, Hemans, Hall, 
 
 And beauteous L. E. L. 
 But, oh ! she soars above them all, 
 
 My own Blue Bell. 
 
 She brought a glorious work to Bates, 
 Likewise to Hurst and Chance ; 
 
 But they demurred and shook their pates, 
 Nor would the cash advance ; 
 
MY OWN BLUE BELL. 333 
 
 But A. K. Newmans, he's the boy 
 
 That makes her writings sell ; — 
 Thy fortune's made, my love, my joy, 
 
 My own Blue Bell. 
 
 She teems with literary lore, — 
 
 Though scarce beyond her teens ; 
 She's written Sonnets by the score 
 
 For half the Magazines. 
 The Bijou and the Winter's Wreath 
 
 With her productions swell : 
 For thee I live, for thee I breathe, 
 
 My own Blue Bell. 
 
 She sings so sweet, devoid of art, 
 
 I'm fixed in mute attention ; 
 Oh ! 'tis the homage of the heart 
 
 To genius and invention. 
 Like Sappho, in the days of yore, 
 
 She strikes the chorded shell, 
 And 'tis my bliss to love, adore, 
 
 My own Blue Bell. 
 
334 MY OWN BLUE BELL. 
 
 She talks so learnedly and terse, 
 
 Of dactyles and iambics ; 
 Hexameter, heroic verse, 
 
 And eight-feet namby-pambies ; 
 Parnassus, too, and Helicon, 
 
 Where all the Muses dwell, — 
 By Jove ! she's quite a paragon, 
 
 My own Blue Bell. 
 
 This night, tho' racked 'twixt hope and fear, 
 
 I swear by all the Muses, — 
 I'll pop the question in her ear, 
 
 And die — if she refuses ; 
 Or, better still, I'll leave sweet home, 
 
 Take staff and scallop shell ; 
 And, like a weary pilgrim, roam 
 
 From false Blue Bell. 
 
THE HARP OF BYRON, 335 
 
 THE HARP OF BYRON, 
 
 The Arch-Druid's venerable oak 
 
 Was cleft by the lurid lightning's stroke, 
 
 And the mystic tree into fragments broke. 
 
 The splinters were borne to a sorcerer's cave, 
 When the crescent moon had sunk in the wave, 
 And the owlets hoot o'er the wizard's grave. 
 
 And there, in silence and gloom, I ween, 
 A harp was formed by hands unseen, 
 Bright as the Iris' dazzling sheen, — 
 
336 THE HARP OF BYRON. 
 
 Inlaid and embossed with the scalps of sages, 
 Whose burning lays hath endured for ages, 
 Though never engrossed on earthly pages, — 
 
 Whose spirits of flame, for a thousand years, 
 Had flitted, at times, from their radiant spheres, 
 And hovered above their sepulchres. 
 
 The keys which stretched its sounding chords 
 Were forged from time-worn Moslem swords, 
 Which had drunk the blood of Tartar hordes — 
 
 And scimitar-blades, whose deadly sway 
 Through many a sanguinary day 
 Had swept whole dynasties away. 
 
 This harp was strung with chords of gold, 
 
 Whence glorious diapasons rolled, 
 
 Like sonorous sound from some Minster tolled. 
 

 THE HARP OF BYRON. 337 
 
 And, sooth to say, its silver strings 
 Wailed forth wild unearthly things, 
 Like a fairy streamlet's murmurings. 
 
 But tinkling brass, and tuneless iron, 
 Were also stretched this magic lyre on ; — 
 Such was thy harp, immortal Byron ! 
 
338 THE LAST HOURS OF MOSES. 
 
 THE LAST HOURS OF MOSES. 
 
 Serene on Pisgah's rifted crest 
 
 The hoary prophet stood ; 
 Tho' human foot had never traced 
 
 That awful solitude, — 
 Thence, at his Master's high command, 
 He gazed upon the promised land, 
 
 In boundless gratitude : 
 Oh ! 'twas a scene surpassing fair ; 
 Heaven's prodigality was there ! 
 
 Meandering streams and mountain rills 
 Adown their channels dashed ; 
 
 The sun upon the palmy hills 
 In noon-tide glory flashed ; 
 
THE LAST HOURS OF MOSES. 339 
 
 And perfume floated on the gale, 
 And roses glowed in every vale, 
 By balmy dew-drops washed ; 
 And fountains 'mid the vineyards gushed, 
 And grapes in rich profusion blushed ! 
 
 The Jordan, from its mountain-source, 
 
 In glory rolled along, 
 Diffusing gladness in its course, 
 
 A thousand vales among ; 
 While from the groves on either side, 
 The beauteous birds, in plumed pride, 
 
 Did pour themselves in song. 
 The fishes, in the solar beams, 
 Leaped jocund o'er their native streams, 
 
 The flocks on CarmePs flowery side. 
 
 The herds in Sharon's vale ; 
 The olive, spreading far and wide, 
 
 In Baca's sun-bright dale : 
 The pomegranate, in blossoms rich, 
 The fig, the citron, and the peach, 
 
 In wild luxuriance swell, — 
 
340 THE LAST HOURS OF MOSES. 
 
 The nectarine in beauty glowed, — 
 The land with milk and honey flowed ! 
 
 Yet what avails the gorgeous view, 
 
 Streams, meads, and mountains high ; 
 Flocks, herds, and fruits of every hue, 
 
 And flowers of every dye ? 
 What boots the glories of that land, 
 When with prophetic eye he scanned 
 
 The dark futurity ? 
 A people steeped in crime and blood, 
 And traitors to their King — their God. 
 
 He saw Baalim's altars blaze 
 
 " On mountains yet untrod ;" 
 Heard Israel's thousands offer praise 
 
 To demons — not to God ; 
 He saw, as with the lightning's speed, 
 An host of human victims bleed 
 
 On Bethel's hallowed sod. 
 Nay, even the Lord's most holy fane 
 Reeked with the life-blood of the slain ! 
 
MY FATHERLAND. 341 
 
 MY FATHERLAND. 
 
 FROM THE DANISH OF JETSMARK. 
 " Duftende Ergesq kornvige Yange, " &c. 
 
 Our valleys and straths are bespangled with daisies, 
 We've silver-blue seas and a rich wooded strand ; 
 
 Our maids are like graces, 
 
 With sweet smiling faces — 
 Oh, these are the riches and joy of our land ! 
 
 Our sailors have furrowed each field of the ocean, 
 To circle the globe they have gallantly striven ; 
 
 Our corn-fields, up-heaving, 
 
 Are gloriously waving, 
 And glowing like gold with the bounties of heaven. 
 
342 MY FATHERLAND. 
 
 The graves of our heroes who battled for freedom 
 Are hallowed for aye in each green Danish dell ; 
 
 We've planted the pines, 
 
 To bloom o'er the shrines 
 Where Patriots conquered, and Tyranny fell. 
 
 Mighty our monarchs, with sword and with sceptre, 
 And stalwart the lances they had at command ; 
 
 The skalds poured in rhyme 
 
 Inspiration sublime, 
 And Fame built her Fane in our dear Danish land ! 
 
 Deep-rooted and strong is the fair tree of Freedom ; 
 It flourishes green 'neath our cold northern sky ; 
 
 Whilst glory and honour 
 
 Await on our banner, 
 And Tyranny quails at our fierce battle-cry ! 
 
NOTES. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 Note (A.) p. 1. 
 
 COUNT RAYMOND. 
 
 As many of my readers may not have access to the ponderous 
 tomes of Froissart, it may not be improper to give some account 
 of the worthy who figures as the hero of the above legend, in the 
 quaint but graphic language of the worthy " Canon and Trea- 
 surer of the Collegiate Church of Chimay," whose love of the 
 marvellous has seldom been equalled, never surpassed. 
 
 " It is well a twenty years past, that there was in this 
 country a Baron, called Raymond, Lord of Corasse, 
 which is a seven leagues from the town of Orthes. This 
 Lord of Corasse had, the same time, a plea at Avignon before 
 the Pope for the dismes [tithes] of his church, against a Clerk- 
 Curate there, the which priest was of Catalonia. He was a 
 great Clerk, and claimed to have a right of the dismes of the 
 town of Corasse, which was valued to a hundred florins by the 
 year ; and the right that he had he shewed and proved it. And by 
 sentence definitive, Pope Urban the Fifth, in Consistory General, 
 
346 notes. 
 
 condemned the Knight, and gave judgment with the priest. 
 And of this last judgment he had letters of the Pope for the 
 possession of his dismes. The Lord of Corasse had great in- 
 dignation at this priest, and came to him, and said, ' Master Pe- 
 ter,' or, * Master Martin,' as his name was, ' thinkest thou that 
 by reason of thy letters that I will lose mine heritage ? Be not 
 so hardy that thou take anything that is mine ; if thou dost, it- 
 shall cost thee thy life. Go away into some other place to get 
 thee a benefice, for of mine heritage thou gettest no part ; and 
 once for always I defy thee.' The Clerk doubted [feared] the 
 Knight ; for he was a cruel man, therefore he durst not persevere. 
 Then he thought to return to Avignon, as he did ; but when he 
 departed, he came to the Knight, the Lord of Corasse, and 
 said : — 
 
 " ' Sir, by force, and not by right, ye take from me the right 
 of my church, wherein ye greatly hurt your conscience. I am 
 not so strong in this country as ye be; but, sir, know for 
 truth, that as soon as I may, I shall send to you such a champion 
 whom ye shall doubt more than me.' 
 
 " The Knight, who doubted nothing his threatenings, said, 
 ( Heaven be with thee ; do what thou mayest ; I doubt no more 
 death than life ; for all thy words, I will not lose mine heritage.' 
 Thus the Clerk parted from the Lord of Corasse, and went, I 
 cannot tell whether into Avignon or into Catalonia ; and forgot 
 not the promise that he had made to the Lord of Corasse ere he 
 departed. For afterwards, when the Knight thought least on 
 him, about a three months after, as the Knight laid on a night a- 
 bed in his Castle of Corasse, there came to him messengers in- 
 visible, and made marvellous tempest and noise in the Castle, 
 that it seemed as though the Castle should have fallen down ; 
 and struck great strokes at his chamber- door. 
 
 " The Knight heard all, but he spake no word thereof, be- 
 
notes. 347 
 
 cause he would shew no abashed courage ; for he was hardy to 
 abide all adventures. This noise and tempest was in sundry 
 places of the Castle, and endured a long space, and at last ceased 
 for the night. 
 
 iS In the next morning, all the servants of the house came to 
 the Lord when he was risen, and said, e Sir, have ye not heard 
 this night that we have done ?' 
 
 {i The Lord dissembled, and said, ' No ; I heard nothing.— 
 What have you heard ?' 
 
 " Then they shewed him what noise they had heard, and how 
 all the vessels in the kitchen were overturned. 
 
 " Then the Lord began to laugh, and said, ( Yea, sirs, ye 
 dreamed ! It was nothing but the wind.' 
 
 " The next night there was a great noise and greater, aDd 
 such strokes given at his chamber- door and windows, as if all 
 should have been broken to pieces. The Knight started up out 
 of his bed, and demanded who was at his chamber-door at that 
 time of the night ? And anon he was answered by a voice that 
 said, * I am here.' 
 
 " Quoth the Knight, ' Who sent thee hither ?' 
 
 " * The Clerk of Catalonia sent me hither,' quoth the voice ; 
 * to whom thou dost great wrong ; for thou hast taken from him 
 the rights of his benefice. I will not leave thee in rest till thou 
 hast made him a good accompt, so that he is pleased,' " &c. 
 
 This story is told by Froissart with a grave wonder, and serious 
 curiosity, every whit as entertaining in their way as the story it- 
 self. " It appears in good truth," says the late Mr St Leger, 
 " to have been to Froissart matter of most puzzling cogitation 
 and wonderment during the remainder of his life." 
 
348 NOTES. 
 
 (i To Rome or Avignon, and knelt to the Pope," 
 
 Stanza vii. line 4, p. 4. 
 
 About this period the great schism of the west had spread 
 over the greater part of Europe. There were two Popes, Cle- 
 ment VII. and Urban VI. ; they had been respectively anathema- 
 tizing each other for five years. Urban, seeing that his spiritual 
 thunders did not much advance his affairs, had recourse to tem- 
 poral arms ; and published against his competitor and his adhe- 
 rents a crusade, to which he attached all imaginable indulgences. 
 Europe was divided. The Emperor, Charles IV., England, Flan- 
 ders, and Hungary, acknowledged Urban ; to whom Rome and 
 Italy also paid obedience. France, Scotland, Savoy, and Lor- 
 raine, were for Clement. All the religious Orders were divided ; 
 all the Doctors wrote ; all the Universities gave decrees. The 
 two Popes treated each other mutually as usurpers and anti- 
 christs. They excommunicated each other reciprocally. But 
 what became really tragical was, that a war arose, fought with 
 the double fury of a civil and of a religious war. In the year 
 1379, the nephew of Clement, with a body of Gascon and Bre- 
 ton troops that he had raised, marched into Italy, surprised 
 Rome, and in their first fury killed every body whom they met. 
 But the Roman people rallying, exterminated them within their 
 walls. They cut the throats of all the French priests whom they 
 could find. In a short time afterwards, an army of Pope Cle- 
 ment, raised in the kingdom of Naples, met within a few leagues 
 of Rome the troops of Urban. Each army bore the keys of St 
 Peter ; a bloody battle was fought ; but the Clementines were 
 routed. — Essai sur les Mosurs et VEspirit des Nations, chap. 
 
NOTES. 349 
 
 71. Such is a slight sample — among hundreds that may be ad- 
 duced — of the conduct of those mitred miscreants, who rode rough- 
 shod over the Christian Church for ages ; and we opine, that it 
 may serve as a puzzler to those gentlemen of our own times, who 
 lay so much stress on that silly fallacy, ycleped uninterrupted 
 apostolical succession of the Church of Rome ! 
 
 " I've seen Corry vreckan 'mid tempests terrific," 
 
 Stanza viii. line 1, p. 5. 
 
 Corryvreckan is a famous, but exceedingly dangerous, whirl- 
 pool on the western coast of Scotland. The Atlantic rushes with 
 fearful velocity through a narrow rugged channel, between Jura 
 and the small islet of Scarba, creating a sound loud as thunder, 
 even when the weather is calm, and the adjacent sea scarcely 
 agitated. 
 
 * Pope Urban ■ The Quiet,'" 
 Stanza ii. of Count Raymond's song, line 5, p. 7. 
 
 This Pope was one of the greatest miscreants that ever dis- 
 graced the tiara. Impetuous and fierce, a slave to his passions 
 and lusts, he rivalled in atrocity the Caligulas and Neros of for* 
 mer times. His Cardinals and Bishops, wearied with his savage 
 disposition, took measures at Nocera to depose him, and to elect, 
 at Rome, a Pope more worthy of being so. Urban being in- 
 formed of their design, caused them all to be put to the torture 
 in his presence. Being afterwards obliged to fly to Genoa, he 
 
350 NOTES. 
 
 dragged in his suite these Cardinals and Bishops, maimed as they 
 were, and chained ; one of whom, half dead with the torment he 
 had suffered, and not being able to reach the shore soon enough, 
 he caused his throat to be cut on the way. He afterwards exe- 
 cuted five of his Cardinals who were prisoners ! — Vide St Leger's 
 Notes to Froissart, vol. ii. p. 189. London edition, 1832. 
 
 Note (B.) p. 12. 
 
 THE AURORA BOREALIS IN ORKNEY. 
 
 To the contemplative mind, which gazes on nature with the eye 
 of a poet, lists with rapture to the howling of the deep-toned 
 winds — the moaning of the ocean — the never-ceasing murmur of 
 an hundred mountain streamlets — the irresistible Atlantic rush- 
 ing with inconceivable velocity into countless subterranean gios 
 or helyers, with a noise louder than thunder, and anon receding 
 with equal rapidity, few places are equal to the island of Hoy in 
 Orkney. 
 
 Towering over the neighbouring islands, like the fragment of 
 some huge Gothic cathedral over the humble cottages of the 
 peasantry, this insulated mountain may be seen from forty to 
 sixty miles distance according to the state of the atmosphere, 
 from every point of the compass, whilst its rocky base is deeply 
 immersed in, and lashed by, a tremendous 
 
 wilderness of waves, 
 
 "Where all the tribes of earth might sleep 
 In their uncrowded graves ! 
 
 But the freshness of spring, the glories of summer, the sere and 
 
NOTES. 351 
 
 yellow leaves of autumn, and the vapours, clouds, and storms of 
 winter, dwindle into insignificance when compared with certain 
 celestial phenomena which very frequently occur in these wild 
 regions during the winter months. 
 
 Let the reader imagine himself standing alone in the midst of 
 such desolate scenery, surveying the azure vault of heaven, be- 
 spangled with stars innumerable, whose scintillating rays con- 
 verge and blend, apparently throwing a gossamer veil of silver 
 over the'blue expanse. 
 
 Let him turn his eyes northward, and what must be his feel- 
 ings, when, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, ten thousand 
 rainbows rush into a glorious existence, and fill the celestial arch 
 with their radiance, shifting their positions with the velocity of a 
 sunbeam, blending into a circular halo round the concave of 
 heaven, mounting to the zenith like squadrons of cherubim, diving 
 into the profound-like bright but fallen spirits, and evanishing 
 with the speed of thought, leaving the stars and planets glowing 
 in tranquil sublimity, and the spectator, if he possesses a par- 
 ticle of the vivida vis animi, entranced with the recollection of 
 the glories by which he had been surrounded ? — Again and again 
 in my school days have such visions of celestial grandeur floated 
 before my delighted eyes, and many a chilly hour have I passed 
 amidst the rigour of an hyperborean winter night, watching the 
 progress, the advance, the retreat, the melee, or the final exter- 
 mination of these celestial armies ; and I do aver, that no object 
 in nature can illustrate the wars of the 
 
 Thrones and dominions, potentates and powers, 
 
 of Milton, half so well as the splendid sight which I have been at- 
 tempting to describe. 
 
 It is rather humiliating to human nature when I observe, that 
 
352 NOTES. 
 
 the majority of the peasantry regard this beautiful phenomenon 
 with frozen apathy. — Though its splendours are beyond the 
 power of pen to delineate ; though its glories, on particular occa- 
 sions, are absolutely overpowering, yet I have frequently mingled 
 in their groups, made one in their parties, and never heard an 
 impassioned exclamation escape a single individual of them, 
 though the aurora borealis was flickering and flaming, and glow- 
 ing, nay, actually hissing, as if in scorn of the frigid feelings of 
 those who were so happy as to witness the jousts and tournaments 
 of these aerial revellers. 
 
 Note (C.) p. 29. 
 
 " Vanessa the tender, and Stella the bright," 
 
 Stanza vi. line 9. 
 
 In consequence of the cruel and unaccountable conduct of 
 Swift, Vanessa, alias Miss Vanhomrigh, was seized with a deliri- 
 ous fever, and died in resentment and despair. In like manner, 
 Stella, or Mrs Johnson, died of a lingering decline, four years 
 after the death of Miss Vanhomrigh. " Thus perished these two 
 innocent, warm-hearted, and accomplished women, so rich in all 
 the graces of their sex ; so formed to love and to be beloved, to 
 bless and to be blessed ; sacrifices to the demoniac pride of the 
 man they had loved and trusted. But it will be said, ' Si elles 
 n'avaient point aime, elles serai ent moins connues ;' they have 
 become immortal by their connection with genius ; they are ce- 
 lebrated merely through their attachment to a celebrated man. 
 But, oh ! what an immortality ! won by what martyrdom of the 
 
NOTES. 353 
 
 heart ! and what celebrity ! not that with which the poet's love, 
 and his diviner verse, crown the deified object of his homage, but 
 a celebrity purchased with their life-blood and their tears !" — Mrs 
 Jamesons Romance of Biography, vol. ii. p. 240. 
 
 " He cruelly, basely, lampooned Lady Mary," 
 Stanza vii. line 9, p. 30. 
 
 You shall see (said Lady Mary Wortley Montague, referring 
 to Pope's Letters) what a goddess he made of me in some of 
 them, though he makes such a devil of me in his writings after- 
 wards, without any reason that I know of." — Spence. 
 
 " And retained as a relic the string of her bodice," 
 Line 12. 
 
 " In vain fair Thames reflects the double scenes, 
 Of hanging mountains, and of sloping greens ; 
 Joy lives not here — to happier seats it flies, 
 And only dwells where Wortley casts her eyes." 
 
 " These sweet and musical lines, which fall on the ear with 
 such a lulling harmony, are dashed with discord, when we remem- 
 ber that the same woman who inspired them was afterwards 
 malignantly and coarsely designated as the Sappho of his satires. 
 The generous heart never coolly degraded and insulted what it 
 has once loved ; but Pope could not be magnanimous — it was 
 not in his spiteful nature to forgive." — Romance of Biography, 
 vol. ii. p. 300. 
 
 z 
 
354 NOTES. 
 
 Note (D.) p. 37. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF LUNCARTY. 
 
 In the year 980, when the Danes had invaded Scotland, and pre- 
 vailed in the battle of Luncarty, near Perth, the Scots were 
 worsted and gave way ; and in their flight through a narrow pass 
 were stopped by a countryman and his two sons, who encouraged 
 them to rally and renew the fight ; telling them it was better and 
 more honourable to die in the field fighting for their king and 
 country, than to fly and be afterwards killed by the merciless 
 Danes ; and upbraided those who would fly like cowards, when all 
 was at stake. The more timorous stood still, and many of the 
 stout men, who fled more by the desertion of their companions 
 than want of courage, joined with the old man and his sons to 
 stop the rest, till there was a good number together. The 
 countrymen, who were armed with only what their ploughs fur- 
 nished, leading them on, and returning upon the Danes, made a 
 furious onset, crying aloud, " Help is at hand!" The Danes be- 
 lieving a fresh army was falling on them, the Scots thereby to- 
 tally defeated them, and freed their own country from servitude. 
 The battle being over, the old man, afterwards known by the 
 name of Hay, was brought to the King, who, assembling a parlia- 
 ment at Scone, gave to the said Hay and his sons, as a just re- 
 ward for their valour, so much land on the river Tay, in the dis- 
 trict of Gowrie, as a falcon from a man's hand dew over till it 
 settled; which, being six miles in length, was afterwards called 
 Errol. And the King being willing to promote the said Hay 
 and his sons from the rank of plebeians to the order of nobility, 
 he assigned them a coat-of-arms, which was — argent, three 
 escutcheons, gules — to intimate that the father and the two sons 
 had been the three fortunate shields of Scotland. — Scottish Peer- 
 age, Art. Hay. 
 
notes. 355 
 
 %* THE MASSACRE OF KRINGELLEN, p. 60. 
 
 In March 1612, Gustavus Adolphus, King of Sweden, dis- 
 patched officers to 'Scotland, for the purpose of raising troops 
 to assist him in a war with the Danes and Norwegians. Among 
 those who volunteered their services from Scotland was Colonel 
 George Sinclair, a native of Caithness, who brought over with 
 him about 900 men, almost all of them of his own clan and name. 
 This brave corps proved of eminent service to the Swedish mon- 
 arch. The Norwegians, who had chiefly felt their prowess, were 
 exasperated at the Scotish auxiliaries ; and, being unable to meet 
 them in a fair field, they had recourse to stratagem. Sinclair's 
 motions, therefore, were minutely watched by spies, appointed for 
 the especial purpose ; and unceasing strategy was practised to 
 lead him into an ambuscade. During an incursion into that part 
 of the country bordering on the Dovne-Fjeld, Sinclair and his 
 band arrived at a tremendous mountain-gorge, which he found it 
 indispensably necessary to cross, called the Pass of Kringellen. 
 The road was cut out of the solid rock, was exceedingly narrow, 
 and overhung in a terrific manner the precipitous banks of a deep 
 and rapid river. Having hitherto met with no opposition, and 
 not suspecting any attack in this quarter, Sinclair carelessly pur - 
 sued his way along the difficult defile. When he had attained, 
 however, the middle of the passage, the boors, under their leader, 
 Berdon Segelstadt, who had lain in ambush, suddenly made their 
 appearance on the rocks ; and, after shutting up every avenue of 
 retreat, in addition to the murderous effect of their rifles, hurled 
 down large stones on the unfortunate Sinclairs, and, in a short 
 time, to use their own expression, dashed the whole of them to 
 pieces, like so many earthen pots. Sinclair himself fell — as a 
 Scotsman should always fall — in the foremost rank. About sixty 
 of our countrymen interceded for their lives, and were taken pri- 
 
356 NOTES. 
 
 soners. But the boors getting at length tired of supporting them, 
 marched them off in a body, and disposed of them a la Don Carlos, 
 One only escaped to tell the dismal tale. Sinclair's remains were 
 honoured with a decent interment ; but the bodies of his unfortu- 
 nate clansmen were literally left a prey to 
 
 tC The ravens from a thousand hills." 
 
 The above ballad was composed on the occasion, and to this day is 
 one of the most popular pieces of the kind in the "Gamel Norge ;" 
 being sung from one end of the country to the other. A recent 
 traveller had the laudable curiosity to visit the grave of his ill- 
 fated countryman, Colonel Sinclair. " It is," he says, " a lowly 
 sepulture, and lies in a deep solitude. A small wooden cross 
 marked the spot, supporting a tablet, on which is the following 
 inscription — f Here lies Colonel Jorge Zinclar, who, with 900 
 Scotsmen, were dashed to pieces like earthen pots, by the boors 
 of Lessoo, Vaage, and Froen — Berdon Segelstadt of Bingeboc 
 was the leader of the boors.' " 
 
 " The fiery cross flew fast," 
 Stanza x. line 2, p. 62. 
 
 What I have rendered " fiery cross" is in the original Bud- 
 stikhen, or message-stick. " It is," says Mr Laing, «' of the size 
 and shape of our constable's baton, is painted and stamped with 
 the royal arms, and made hollow, with a head to screw on upon 
 one end, and an iron spike on the other. The official notice to 
 meet, the time, place, and object, are written on a piece of paper, 
 which is rolled up and placed in the hollow. This is delivered 
 from the public office or court-house of the district, to the nearest 
 householder, who is bound by law to carry it, within a certain 
 time, to his nearest neighbour, who must transmit it to the next, 
 and so on. In case of two houses equally distant, it must be 
 
NOTES. 357 
 
 previously determined by the foged at which he shall deliver it. 
 If the owner is not at home, he is to stick it ' in the house-father's 
 great chair, by the fireside ;' and if the door be locked he must 
 fasten it to the outside. Each is bound to prove, if required, 
 at what hour he received, delivered, or stuck it. He who, by 
 his neglect, has prevented others from receiving the notice in 
 due time to attend the meeting, pays a fine for each person so 
 absent. There are fixed stations at which the bud-stick rests for 
 the night ; and it cannot be carried after sunset, or before sun- 
 rise. The householder to whom it comes last takes it back to 
 the office." 
 
 (C But the eagle from the Dovre-fioeld," 
 Stanza xvii. line 5, p» 64. 
 A Norwegian mountain, nearly 8000 feet high. 
 
 " One fugitive escaped to bear,'* 
 Stanza xviii. line 1, p. 64. 
 
 In the original, it is said, every living soul was slain. This, 
 however, is contrary to historical facts. One did escape home ; 
 and another escaped through the instrumentality of a robust fe- 
 male peasant, whom he afterwards married. Their descendants 
 are numerous, and their origin well known in the district. 
 
 Note(E.) p. 108. 
 
 STANZAS TO A VERY ?OUNG LADY. 
 
 Miss Janet Chambers, aged four years, the daughter of my 
 much-valued friend, Robert Chambers, Esq. 
 
358 NOTES. 
 
 Note (F.) p. 110. 
 
 THE CORSE o' DUNDEE. 
 
 The Corse of Dundee is an exact narrative of what took place 
 in that spirited town in the year 1 793. The identical Tree, the 
 Tree of Liberty, flourishes in the grounds of an ex-provost of 
 Dundee. The road in front of his premises has recently been 
 widened, but, with good taste and feeling, the emblem has been 
 spared. It will thus become a considerable traditional ash in 
 time. It is an historical and poetical tree already. 
 
 Note (G.) p. 113. 
 
 RHEUMATISM. 
 
 A painful distemper, an excruciating disease, supposed to 
 proceed from acrid humours, bearing that relation to toothach 
 which the fees of an advocate in a case of litigation are to those 
 of an attorney ; the one may be borne, the other is intolerable. 
 
 " The throttling quinsey, 'tis my star appoints, 
 And rheumatisms I send to rack the joints." 
 
 Drydex. 
 
 Note (H.) p. 118. 
 
 STREET AUCTIONEER. 
 
 The days of the douce, canny, money- making Scotisb pedlar 
 
NOTES. 359 
 
 have almost terminated. Macadamized highways, railroads ar.d 
 steamers, have forced him to lay aside ell-wand and pack and be- 
 take himself to a more modern method of turning the penny. 
 The necessaries and luxuries of life may now be procured by the 
 inhabitants of our most remote districts with comparative ease 
 The intercourse between the metropolis and our wddest glens is 
 of daily occurrence ; and the penny-postage system otters a 
 thousand facilities for an extended and enlarged commerce, un- 
 known and undreamt of by our forefathers. 
 
 The chapman, or travelling merchant, is of very Ingh ant,- 
 quity For centuries he was the medium of communication be- 
 tween the various provinces of our country ; between the se- 
 veral parishes of the same province, and between the separate 
 hamlets and farm-steadings of the same parish. He was 
 the universal newsmonger, a kind of verbal » Tunes, whose 
 -leading articles" instructed and amused the primitive people 
 among whom he « circulated." His appearance was haded with 
 l0 y by all classes, from the hoary grandsire of fourscore, to the 
 Jht-hearted maiden of fifteen. In short, he was a welcome 
 guest, and lived at free-quarters wherever he came. He was 
 celebrated in song, and was a simile to royalty. Sir David 
 Lindsay, speaking of his early and familiar intercourse with King 
 James the Fifth, quaintly says : 
 
 E'en as ane pedlar bearis his pack, 
 I bore thy grace upon my back. 
 But the days of his celebrity are gone; he has become the 
 .host of what he was, and in a little time shall disappear for ever. 
 To him has succeeded a locomotive hybrid, with a hawkers li- 
 cence in one pocket, and an auctioneer's in the other ; abawlmg, 
 vociferating, noisy personage, who, with a miscellaneous collection 
 of odds and ends,-a heterogeneous mass of remnants from Man- 
 chester, spoiled shawls from Paisley, damaged ginghams from 
 Glasgow, deteriorated hardware from Sheffield and Birmingham, 
 and the refuse of warehouses from everywhere,_perambu- 
 
360 NOTES. 
 
 lates from city to city, from town to town, and from hamlet to 
 hamlet, dragging a donkey after him, who, in his turn, drags a 
 cart, containing the foresaid unsaleable rubbish ; and offers it to 
 a i( discerning public, as an elegant assortment of new and fashion- 
 able goods, bought for cash under the most favourable circum- 
 stances, at a recent sale of one of the most extensive houses in 
 the empire, who, in consequence of the failure of their agents in 
 Curdistan and Lahore, were under the disagreeable necessity of 
 appearing in the Gazette." Such is the gentleman whom the ce- 
 lebrated Mr Geikie has depicted in his inimitable etching. 
 
 Note (I.) p. 123. 
 
 HANS SNORRO. 
 
 " And rushed to Stennis' gory stones," 
 Stanza ii. line 3. 
 
 These are very singular monuments of remote antiquity, infe- 
 . rior in magnitude only to Stonehenge. The circle on the west 
 side of the Loch of Stennis is three hundred and sixty feet in 
 diameter ; formed by a ditch on the outside, twenty feet broad 
 and ten deep, and on the inside by a range of standing-stones, 
 from twelve to eighteen feet high, and four broad; several of 
 them are fallen down, of others fragments remain, and of some 
 only the holes in which they stood. The earth that has been 
 taken from the ditch has been carried away, and very probably 
 been made use of to form four tumuli, or barrows, of considerable 
 magnitude, which are ranked in pairs on the east and west side 
 of a wild Scandinavian temple. The plain on the east border of 
 the loch exhibits a semicircle, ninety-six feet in diameter, formed 
 by a mound of earth, and with stones in the inside, like the for- 
 mer in shape, though of much larger dimensions. Near the circle 
 
NOTES. 361 
 
 various other stones are standing, but they are not placed in any 
 regular order ; and as near the semicircle are others of the same 
 description. In one of the latter is a perforation, not in the mid- 
 dle, but towards one of the edges, much worn, as if by the fric- 
 tion of a chain by which some victim had been bound. " Like 
 monuments of the same kind," says Dr Barry, " they, it is highly 
 probable, have been designed for a head court of law, or a con 
 vention of a popular assembly, for enacting salutary regulations ; 
 and, upon great and solemn occasions, for a temple to Odin, the 
 Scandinavian god." 
 
 " Then exhalations dense and dun," 
 Stanza xiv. line 5. 
 
 " About forty years ago," says Dr Barry, (who wrote about the 
 end of the last century,) " the north wind wafted over the ocean 
 what is still recollected by the old people by the name of the 
 ' black snow,' which at the time struck the inhabitants of Orkney 
 with terror and astonishment. . . . Their fears were happily dis- 
 pelled by an account of an eruption of Mount Hecla, from which, 
 in all probability, this black snow proceeded. If the distance be- 
 tween Iceland and Orkney staggers the faith of any with respect 
 to this matter, they should recollect what has been stated as a 
 fact, that, in some of the eruptions of Etna or Vesuvius, the ashes 
 have been carried by the winds to the plains of Egypt." The 
 voice of tradition, however, refers to various falls of " black 
 snow," centuries ere the Orcadian historian wrote. 
 
 " And buried hapless Runabreck," 
 Stanza xv. line 3. 
 
 Runabreck is a large and dangerous shoal, lying about two or 
 
362 NOTES. 
 
 three miles west of North Ronaldsha. Tradition says that it 
 once formed part of that island, and was swallowed up by the in- 
 cantations of a magician The " Ba' Green o' Runabreck" 
 forms to this day part of a local proverb. 
 
 Note (K.) p. 133. 
 
 THE PERSECUTOR'S DEATHBED. 
 
 During the persecution, Grierson of Lag held a commission 
 under Graham of Claverhouse, and resided occasionally about 
 Gilston, in the parish of Kelton. In the execution of his com- 
 mission he was savage and blood-thirsty beyond all his coadjutors ; 
 even Dalziel could ask the life of his old companion in the field, 
 Captain John Paton, but the Laird of Lag stood without one re- 
 deeming quality. The house of Mayfield was a city of refuge 
 for the persecuted wanderers ; and though the Hallidays had nei- 
 ther been out at Drumclog nor Both well, nor taken any active 
 part in resistance, yet the crime of hospitality was equally punish- 
 able by death. Lag therefore resolved to wreak his vengeance 
 on the Hallidays of Mayfield, and with a chosen party of his own 
 followers, and a troop of Strahan's dragoons, proceeded to May- 
 field, and passed near the place where Halliday and five others 
 had concealed themselves, on the margin of a small hollow moss, 
 among some long heather. Having heard the horses pass, one of the 
 fugitives raised his head to see if all was safe, and was observed 
 by a trooper, who had lingered behind the band, who instantly 
 called back the troop. Five were immediately put to death, 
 after quarter had been given. One strong man fled down the 
 valley of the Tarth, pursued by the dragoon who had called back 
 the troop, and at a narrow pass called the Gilhowe, turned on 
 his pursuer, whom he wounded, and made his escape. Lag pro- 
 ceeded to Mayfield, which he plundered of all that could be driven 
 
notes. 363 
 
 off or carried away. The five martyrs were buried on the spot 
 where they were murdered ; but, by order of Lag, were disinterred 
 and exposed above ground. Four were by their relations carried 
 away, and under cloud of night buried in their family burying- 
 places. But James Clement, a stranger from Carrick, was re- 
 interred by women in a deep grave. The name of Lag is still 
 associated with all that is diabolical ; a monstrous " swirel" as 
 it was termed, betwixt his eyes rendered his visage horrible. 
 The horse-shoe of Redgauntlet is borrowed from his countenance. 
 He died at his house in Dumfries, in the greatest agony ; his feet, 
 when put into cold water, instantly made it boil ! The horses 
 provided to carry him to the churchyard refused to be yoked to 
 the hearse. Sir James Kirkpatrick of Closeburn said, that his 
 four black coach-horses would draw him if he was the devil. 
 They did draw to the place of interment, the old kirkyard of 
 Dunscore, and on their arrival, instantly dropped down dead ! 
 The late Mr Coupland of Colliestoun told me this anecdote, and 
 said that his grandfather, then provost of Dumfries, was present. 
 — Note to Poems by John Morrison, Edinburgh, 1832. 
 
 Note (L.) p. 161. 
 
 TO GALT. 
 
 A considerable period of time has elapsed since the grave closed 
 over all that was mortal of John Gait. 
 
 Yet although his name is associated with all that is beautiful, 
 playful, graphic, and ingenious in prose-fiction ; though his 
 writings are familiar to his countrymen, nay, wherever the lan- 
 guage in which he wrote is spoken, — though his works are known 
 and appreciated over the Continent of Europe, and though he 
 has conferred undying honour on the land of his nativity ; no 
 
364 NOTES. 
 
 monument has been erected to his memory, in testimony of that 
 reverence and gratitude which Scotland should pay to her illus- 
 trious dead. 
 
 It is true, a pillar of adamant would not prolong his memory, 
 but, as was previously said in a similar circumstance, it would tell 
 posterity that his contemporaries were not insensible to the fame 
 of that man, who was only second to the great Author of Waverley 
 in imaginative literature. 
 
 As the friction of two small pebbles can produce scintillations, 
 which may afterwards fire the most important alarm-beacon ; so 
 we humbly hope that the idea thrown out in this note may not 
 have been written in vain. 
 
 It may not be out of place, as a matter of curiosity, to enu- 
 merate the works of this distinguished man. Such an Herculean 
 task has seldom been performed by a single individual ; and may 
 never occur again in the annals of literature. The titles of his 
 works are as follow, viz. The Battle of Largs. Voyages and 
 Travels. Letters from the Levant. Life of Wolsey. Life of 
 Benjamin West. The Majolo. Historical Pictures. The 
 Wandering Jew. Modern Travels in Asia. The Crusade. The 
 Earthquake. The Ayrshire Legatees. The Annals of the 
 Parish. The Provost. The Steam-Boat. Sir Andrew Wylie. 
 The Entail. The Gathering of the West. The Last of the 
 Lairds. The Omen. Ringhan Cilhaize. The Spaewife. 
 Rothelan. Southennan. Laurie Todd. Bogle Corbet. Stanley 
 Buxton. Eben Erskine. The Stolen Child. Lives of the Play- 
 ers. Life of Byron. Life of William Spence. Ouranoulogos. 
 The Member. The Radical. The Autobiography. Poems. 
 The Bachelor's Wife. Essay on the Works of Henry Macken- 
 zie, Travels for a Gentleman who put his name on the Title- 
 page. A Pamphlet for a Gentleman who had sense eric ugh to 
 publish it anonymously. Besides various pamphlets, nnd some 
 twenty-two dramas ; making in all fifty-six volumes ! ' Tis pass- 
 ing strange, that those who basked in the sunshine of his friend- 
 
NOTES. 365 
 
 ship, — and others who battened on the fruits of his intellectual 
 labours, should all have remained as silent as the turf which now 
 wraps his mortal remains. 
 
 Note (M.) p. 177. 
 
 DEATH OF THE F.ED COMYN. 
 
 It was in the month of February 1 305-6, and the English 
 Justiciaries, appointed by Edward's late regulations for preserva- 
 tion of the peace of the country of Scotland, were holding their 
 assizes at Dumfries for that purpose. Bruce, not yet prepared 
 for an open breach with England, was under the necessity of 
 rendering attendance on this high court as a Crown vassal, and 
 came to the county town for that purpose. He here found 
 Comyn, whom the same duty had brought to Dumfries. Bruce 
 invited his rival to a private interview, which was held in the 
 church of the Friars Minorite ; a precaution — an unavailing one 
 as it proved — for the safety of both parties, and the peaceful 
 character of the meeting. They met by themselves, the slender 
 retinue of each baron remaining apart and without the church. 
 Between two such haughty rivals a quarrel was sure to arise, 
 wmether out of old feud or recent injury. The Scots historians 
 say that at their private interview Bruce upbraided Comyn with 
 his treacherous communication to Edward ; the English, more im- 
 probably, state that he then, for the first time, imparted to Comyn 
 his plan of insurrection against England, which Comyn rejected 
 with scorn, and that this gave occasion to what followed. With- 
 out pretending to detail what no one save the survivor could have 
 truly described, it is certain that a violent altercation took place, 
 in which Comyn gave Bruce the lie, and Bruce in reply stabbed 
 Comyn with his dagger.— -Sir Vialter Scott's History of Scot- 
 land. 
 
366 NOTES. 
 
 Note (N.) p. 17? 
 
 LAMENT OF THE DUKE OF ROTHSAY. 
 
 The Castle of Edinburgh was gallantly held out by the Duke 
 of Roth say, . . . and Henry, finding nothing was to be won 
 by residing in a wasted country to beleaguer an impregnable rock, 
 raised the siege, and a twelvemonth's truce took place between 
 the kingdoms. In this interval a shocking example, in Scotland, 
 proved how ambition can induce men to overleap all boundaries 
 prescribed by the laws of God and man. The gallant Duke fell 
 under his father's displeasure. Deceived by malicious reports of 
 his son's wildness and indocility, the simple old king was induced 
 to grant a commission to Albany to arrest his son. The Duke 
 of Rothsay was trepanned into Fife, made prisoner, and conducted 
 to Falkland Castle, where he was immured in a dungeon and 
 starved to death. — Abridged from Sir Walter Scott's History of 
 Scotland, 
 
 Note (0-) p. 181. 
 
 LAMENT FOR MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 
 
 Fate had reserved for Queen Mary an additional chance for 
 repairing her broken fortunes. In Lochleven Castle she was sur- 
 rounded by those most deeply interested for the Earls of Murray 
 and of Morton. But there was one person among them who be- 
 held her confinement and her distresses with an eye of compas- 
 sion. This was a youth named George Douglas, brother of the 
 Lord of Lochleven, who, captivated by her beauty, touched by 
 
NOTES. 367 
 
 her sorrow, and seduced by her promises, laid a plan for her 
 escape Sir Walter Scott's History of Scotland. 
 
 Note (P.) p, 183. 
 
 THE DEATH OF DOUGLAS. 
 
 Douglas having entered into a league Yvith the Earls of Craw- 
 ford and Ross, to make common cause, not only against the King, 
 (James II.) but against all mortals, was induced by promises, 
 and an ample safe- conduct, under the great seal, to visit the 
 Court, then held in Stirling Castle, On Shrove Tuesday he was 
 invited to sup with the King, who received him kindly, and the 
 evening passed away in mirth and festivity. As they rose from 
 the supper table, about eight in the evening, the King led the 
 Earl into the recess of a deep window, and urged him to break 
 the illegal bond which he had formed with the other turbulent 
 Lords. The Earl haughtily replied, that his faith was pledged, 
 and he would not renounce it for living man. " By heaven, then," 
 said the King, i( if you will not break the confederacy, this shall ;" 
 so saying, he drew his dagger, and plunged it in Douglas's body. 
 — Abridged from Sir Walter Scott's History of Scotland, 
 
 *#* THE WITCH O' PITTENWEEM, p. 224. 
 
 Such is a specimen of what was believed by our not very re- 
 mote ancestors, from one end of the island to the other. 
 
 The throne, the bench, the bar, the pulpit — the professor in 
 his chair, and the philosopher in his study — all gave implicit cre- 
 dence to the monstrous doctrine of tangible agreements, made 
 with hellish legal ceremony, between the arch-enemy of man, 
 
368 NOTES. 
 
 and certain infatuated beings, who lived lives of scorn, infamy, 
 and exclusion from their kind, and generally ended their wretched 
 existences at the stake, amidst the hootings and execrations of an 
 ignorant rabble, and the self-gratulations of the expurgators. 
 
 Note (Q.) p. 234. 
 
 THE CONSTELLATION. 
 
 This poem was written ere the world was bereaved of one of 
 the mightiest names in imaginative literature, ancient or modern. 
 
 Out of the twenty-five celebrated names mentioned, no less 
 than ten of them have passed that bourne whence no traveller 
 returns. It is unnecessary to enter on their respective merits in 
 this note — these are known to the world. 
 
 Note (R.) p. 277. 
 
 HEARD YE THE TIDINGS ? 
 
 This, and the five following songs, have been set to music, 
 with symphonies and accompaniments ; and published in Mr 
 George Thomson's Scotish Melodies, 5 vols, folio, Edit, 1830. 
 
 Note (S.) p. 311. 
 
 BONNIE JEAN MAK's MUCKLE o' MEE. 
 
 This little piece was written for an old Scotish air, which ap- 
 peared in the celebrated Skene Manuscript of the reign of King 
 James VI., which has recently been published, with an Introduc- 
 
NOTES. 369 
 
 tory Enquiry, illustrative of the History of the Music of Scotland, 
 by W. Dauney, Esq. F.S. A. Scot. 
 
 Note (T.) p. 313. 
 
 LIKE EVENING STAR'S REFULGENT RAY. 
 
 Although this little exotic is deficient in the higher attributes 
 of poetry, yet I have retained it, because it breathes of repose, 
 contentment, patriotism, and benevolence. 
 
 For the literal rendering of this and the Norwegian Lyric* page 
 23, I am indebted to my antiquarian friend, John Mitchell, Esq,, 
 of Leith, whose knowledge of the Scandinavian dialects requires 
 no eulogy from me. 
 
 Note (U.) p. 327. 
 
 EPISTLE TO GEORGE THOMSON, ESQ. 
 
 Possessing a clear head, and a vigorous intellect, the vene- 
 rable gentleman to whom the above verses are addressed has 
 recently composed an excellent narrative-ballad on the flight of 
 that mirror of recreant knights, Sir John Cope, at the patriarchal 
 age of eighty-two ! His zeal and assiduity in the cause of Scotish 
 Music and Song seem to increase with increasing years. He is 
 now busily employed in getting up a Sixth Volume of his cele- 
 brated Select Scotish Melodies. From his boyhood he had a 
 passion for the sister arts of Music and Painting, which he has 
 ever since continued to cherish, in the society of the ablest pro- 
 fessors of both arts. Having early studied the violin, it was his 
 custom, after the hours of business, to con over our Scotish Melo- 
 
 2 a 
 
6i 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 dies, and to devour the choruses of Handel's oratorios; in which, 
 when performed at St Cecilia's Hall, he generally took a part, 
 along with a few other gentlemen. He had so much delight in 
 singing those matchless choruses, and in practising the violin 
 quartettos of Pleyel and Hadyn, that it was with joy he hailed 
 the hour when he could hie him home to his Cremona, and enjoy 
 Hadyn's admirable fancies. At the St Cecilia Concerts he 
 heard Scotish songs sung in a style of excellence far surpassing 
 any idea which he previously had had of their beauty, and that 
 too from Italians, Signor Tenducci the one, and Signora Domi- 
 nica Corri the other. These artistes, it would appear, so elec- 
 trified the audiences of that day, that in the most crowded room 
 not a whisper was to-be heard, so entirely did they rivet the at- 
 tention of the company. Tenducci's singing was full of passion, 
 feeling, and taste, and it was in consequence of his hearing him and 
 Signora Corri sing a number of our songs so charmingly, that 
 he concaved the idea of collecting all our best melodies and songs, 
 and of obtaining accompaniments to them worthy of their merit. 
 On examining and comparing the various collections of Scotish 
 Songs, he found them a sad mixture of good and evil, pure and 
 impure ; the melodies were without symphonies ; and the ac- 
 companiments, for the piano only, meagre and common-place ; 
 while the verses united with the melodies were, in a great many 
 instances, coarse and vulgar, which could not be tolerated or sung 
 in good society. Having selected the best sets of the best of our 
 airs, he applied to Pleyel for symphonies and accompaniments ; 
 and afterwards, when he resolved to extend his work into a com- 
 plete collection of all the airs that were worthy of preservation, 
 he divided them into different portions, and sent them from time to 
 time to Hadyn, Beethoven, Weber, Hummel, &c, the greatest 
 musicians then flourishing in Europe. These gentlemen complied 
 with his request, and produced compositions, which have been pro- 
 nounced by the Edinburgh Review to be wholly unrivalled for 
 oj iginality and beauty. 
 
NOTES. 371 
 
 The poetry became next the subject of his anxious considera- 
 tion. Fortunately for the melodies, he made application to Ro- 
 bert Burns, then in the zenith of his literary glory. The poet, 
 with that frankness, generosity, and enthusiasm, which marked 
 his character, undertook to write whatever songs were wanted 
 for the work. From the year 1792 till the time of his death, in 
 the summer of 1796, the inimitable bard continued to supply Mr 
 Thomson with his exquisitely beautiful compositions, and like- 
 wise empowered him to make use of all the other songs which he 
 had written for Johnson's Scots Musical Museum. Mr Thom- 
 son's work, therefore, contains above 120 of the inimitable songs 
 of Burns, besides many of uncommon beauty from the pens of 
 Campbell, Scott, and Joanna Baillie, together with the best songs 
 of the olden time. 
 
 Mr Thomson's character has been assailed in several quarters 
 for the slight remuneration which he tendered the poet for his 
 beautiful lyrics ; but where did merit ever appear that detraction 
 did not follow, as surely as the shadow follows the substance ? 
 
 The poet's songs were indeed above all price. Mr Thomson 
 could not have properly remunerated him, even if he had had his 
 permission ; but in place of permission, he was strictly and rigidly 
 prohibited by the poet ever to tender i ' money, wages, fee, or hire ;" 
 calling it " downright prostitution of soul." Moreover, when their 
 intimacy had been in some measure consolidated, and Mr Thomson 
 ventured to send a small pecuniary present, all the world knows that 
 the sturdy and irritable bard wrote the melodist, u that if he pre- 
 sumed to repeat it, he would, on the least motion of it, indignantly 
 spurn what was past, and commence entire stranger to him."' 
 
 " His work," says Mr Chambers, " the labours of his lifetime, 
 has long been held the classical depository of Scotish Melody 
 and Song, and is extensively known. His own character, in the 
 city where he spent so many years, has ever stood high. It was 
 scarcely necessary that Mr Thomson should enter into a defence 
 of himself against the inconsiderate charges which have been 
 
372 NOTES. 
 
 brought against him. When Burns refused remuneration from one 
 whom he knew to be, like himself, of the generation of Apollo ra- 
 ther than of Plutus, and while his musical friend was only enter- 
 ing upon a task, the results of which no one could tell, how can 
 Mr Thomson be fairly blamed ? The charge was indeed never 
 preferred but in ignorance, and would be totally unworthy of no- 
 tice, if ignorant parties were not still apt to be imposed on by it." 
 
 %* It is right to state, that the Dedication has been set to a 
 beautiful martial air by Peter M'Leod, Esq. " The Song of the 
 Scotish Exile," page 294/ has also been set to a very pleasing 
 melody by the same talented individual. 
 
 " Prince Charles Edward's last View of Scotland" has like- 
 wise been wedded to a beautiful Gaelic air by Finlay Dun, Esq., 
 and published by Pater son and Roy in the i( Vocal Melodies of 
 Scotland," vol. iii. 1838. 
 
 In " Kind Robin lo'es me," page 283, several lines from the 
 olden lyric of that name have been retained, at the request of Mi- 
 George Thomson. 
 
 In " The Harp of Byron," the 6th line should have been 
 within inverted commas . 
 
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