BUHR
GRAD
A 1,069,011
PR
4971
.M73
L97
1856

· MICHIGAN
MICH
UNIVERSIT
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1817
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THE
17

ProHendrie
Hen (Road
19. anuary 1856
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.
LYRICS:
Love, Freedom, & Manly Independence.
BY
HUGH BUCHANAN MACPHAIL,
AUTHOR OF THE "SUPREMACY OF WOMAN," & c.
GLASGOW :
W. B. OGILVIE, ST. VINCENT STREET.
MDCCCLVI.
GRAD/BUHR
PR
4971
M73
197
1856
GLASGOW
Printed by James M'Callum,
182 Trongate.
BUHR/GRAD
Gift
05/02/05
ΤΟ
John Pringle Nichol, Esquire, F. L.D.
PROFESSOR OF ASTRONOMY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF GLASGOW,
THIS SMALL VOLUME OF LYRICS
IS MOST RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED,
AS A TRIBUTE OF ADMIRATION OF IIIS GENIUS,
BY THE AUTHOR.
Je
CONTENTS.
...
...
...
::
Introductory Remarks,
Peace, or the Crystal Palace,
Depend on Heaven,
...
Robert Burns-Ode, ..
Fanny,
...
Industry-The Drunkard,
Scotland's Mountaineer,
She's hung upon my arm,
...
...
Fare thee well, my darling Jessic,
Answer, The
Nuptial Morn,
I care not for the face of man,
All hail to thee, my brother Scribes,
Love of Country,
...
Envy,
Bridal Song,
...
:
...
Page
ix
1
4
5
...
9
11
14
:
16
17
20
...
282
22
24
...
:
: :
...
25
26
26
28
...
29
:
32
:
33
...
...
36
...
. 11,
37
41
...
...
42
43
44
...
45
...
...
46
...
...
48
Scotia's Isles,
...
Not in man's school have I been taught,
My father's death-with note,
Love, Faith, and Peace,`
Epistle to James B-d of B-
A last request,
Man-his impotence,
On the death of an infamous character,
The Plebeian,
..
...
Taunt me not for loving woman,
Sir Archibald Alison, Bart.-with note,
Satire,
vi
CONTENTS.
The false oath,
She loves me not,
Sacrilege,
...
The lovely Scottish girls,
On the marriage of Wr M
-r M
-1,
...
...
Death of Alexander Buchanan, poet-with note,
Song-Maid of Lochlong,
...
:
Page
49
50
51
...
53
55
56
...
57
58
...
...
60
61
...
Alexander Milne, the Scottish Vocalist-with note,
The parting,
...
...
Woman-Creation-a paraphrase-with note,
:
Jas. Reddie, Esq., late first town clerk of Glasgow-with note, 64
The Fair,
...
Sonnet-Miss E▬▬h L————e,
...
Do. R. Gordon Cumming (note in Appendix),
The Matron,.
...
Song-Fresh from her mountains,
Do. The Lily of the Clyde,
Death of John Haig, Esq.,
Wellington,
A prayer,
Death of my infant, Jessie,
To my wife, in her last illness,
Scotland's Rights-with note,
Garibaldi-race horse,
...
...
...
...
...
Triumph of Genius-(a fragment),
::
...
...
...
...
::
8889
65
66
67
...
67
68
69
70
73
:
::
741
75
76
77
...
81
...
...
Visit to H-h-n, (after an absence of eleven years),
James B. Manford, Esq.-departure for Australia,
Lines on Kossuth, embraced in do.
Speak not of love,
...
•
...
To one who would make a Scotchman a slave,
Fragments:-
...
...
:
82
84
86
86
91
...
...
92
...
...
.93
Matrimony; Epitaph; The broken spell; O where
on earth is beauty like to thine; George Buchanan,
the Historian, with note; The Enigma; Retort;
on the Queen's first visit to Scotland; Clara; Thou
cheat, with face could rob or steal; Extempore on
CONTENTS.
vii
Page
the hand writing of
; Wallace at Falkirk to
his army.
Song, was ever beauty like to thine?
The Papal aggression,
Sonnet-On a painting of Loch Lomond,
Do. On a miniature portrait of a young lady,
Do. Rev. C. H. Spurgeon-with note,
97
...
99
...
103
...
...
101
104
...
...
Hutchison,
Tight Lacing,
105
...
...
107
...
James Hood, Esq.)
Old Church of A————,
More books have I than I can read-(prefaced by letter to
A perjured wretch-(letter in Appendix),
Our ain auld toon o' Anderston,
109
...
...
...
116
117
...
119
...
:
A dream,
...
Lines on the death of Miss H-n S
n S―r,
Song-O bonny Kitty Lindsay,
122
...
...
...
130
...
131
...
Do. Nought but beauty's self thou art-with note,
Do. My own, my lovely Teena,
132
133
...
Do. The flowers they are springing,
...
134
Lines on the death of Josiah H--g, Esq. of Charleston,
S. C. (late of Glasgow),
Lines-John Murray, Adelaide-(late of Glasgow),
Stanzas on the death of William Hector Belford,
135
...
...
136
137
141
...
...
Russia,
...
APPENDIX,
...
.....
441
145
INTRODUCTORY REMARKS.
"Let not men think that there is no truth, but in the sciences
that they study or the books that they read."—LOCKE.
In giving to the public this small volume of my metrical
compositions, let me first of all tender to my numerous sub-
scribers my best thanks for their kind patronage. Let them
not receive this acknowledgment as the verbiage of cold
lipped formality; but the genuine expression of my inmost
heart.
Of my native city I may well be proud; from the support
it has given me. Nor should I omit to mention her civic
dignataries—her bailies and counsellors-who, on waiting on
them, received me not with purse-proud indifference or
official supercilliousness; but with gentlemanly breeding and
that courtesy which man expects from man. In procuring
so long—nay, I may say—so unprecedented a list of names
of highest respectability, not a few capable of appreciating
moral magnanimity and mental greatness, cheered me on in
my lonely pilgrimage through the windings of this vast
city; amidst, I must affirm, unspeakable privations ;—and
what is a thousand times worse-wrongs, which, for basest
ingratitude and heartless cruelty, might have broken the
α
X
spirit of one of less sterner purpose-less manly resolve.
As to those privations-though such do nerve the brave
and dispirit the coward-I will say nothing; as to those
wrongs but one single word. This work would have been
long ere this in the hands of my subscribers, had it not been
for this most painful episode in my life. Delayed and de-
layed I have till heart sick of it, in giving a perjured one
opportunity after opportunity of restoring to me-I may say
-my all; so as this most iniquitous matter, in my some-
what “strange and eventful history," might drop into ob-
livion; and in the hands of his God alone leave him at that
DREAD TRIBUNAL before which all of us must stand! Fruit-
less all my efforts; so to eternal infamy consign him, and
let the world pour out its execrations on him as it choose.
·
Good, meek, mild souls may say why introduce such here?
The man will not so express himself who has seen his ALL
—by a FALSE OATH-pass from him; and, it may be, a dear
wife and innocent little ones, with outstretched hands and
beseeching looks, become the object of melting PITY at the
sudden and unexpected approach of grim poverty and hag-
gard destitution, but rather with Emilia exclaim-that
there were
"Put in every honest hand a whip
To lash the rascal naked through the world. *
Yes! that false oath might have reduced the wealthiest of the
land to beggary! Apart, however, altogether from personal
feeling, I have elsewhere so expressed myself, in chastising
this reptile in human shape, as may, and I trust shall, leave
an impression on the minds of many, as to the enormity of
* Othello, Act, iv., Scene- 15.
xi
this double-damning crime to God and man. The lines
written under the strong and vehement impulse of the
moment, as to this wrong of wrongs from boyhood upwards
I have suffered, being included in the volume, I could not
but make a passing remark, here, in pointing to them. If
the language used seems scripturally strong, it was warran-
ted-conscious of the truth I wrote in the spirit of truth!
But for the one alluded to something more intrinsic as to
matter, and more etherial as to spirit, would have been given
to my countrymen. The Poems selected, (embracing
great variety of subjects,) extend over a period of twenty
years; and, I need not say, that love was the inspirer of my
youthful heart and female loveliness the idol of my youthful
muse. Indeed, what but the objects surrounding me, or
circumstances in which been placed, have given vitality.
form, birth, and being to those productions? They are
the offspring of the heart, as well as the children of the
brain; or passages, so to speak, in the history of my
affections-travel of my mind and aspirations of my soul.
Here, it may be said, are the sentiments of the lover, the
parent, and the husband-sentiments sacred to friendship.
and ever hallowed to filial affection-as well as those, I trust.
worthy of the patriot and the MAN,-feelings or emotions
universally felt, with more or less intensity, if not syllabled
or sung.
The pieces having reference to, or headed FANNY (with
one or two exceptions) were written in the young hey-day of
intoxicating passion, and should they not please those with
the winter of life's cold blood in their veins, they will, I trust.
be acceptable to Britain's rising sons. As to the object called
forth these strains in, and commemorative of, the romantic per-
1
xii
iod of my early days, delicacy forbids, in the meantime, com-
ment. In the Dream—a late production—my sentiments are
expressed so fully that it would be superfluous here to add one
word. Permit me, however, to remark that I would rather it
be considered a fiction than a reality, the attachment there
expressed of so long duration; or, in short, the "Dream" a mere
imaginery strain-the object there introduced wholly ideal-
the sentiments there expressed purely fanciful-than that the
world's cold, unfeeling breath should give the least mental
disquiet to one, who in early life-to use the beautiful lan-
guage of Shakespeare-I would not have allowed "the winds
of heaven to visit her face too roughly." I know well that
in breaking through the insipid or artificial restrictions of
modern times, and, in the more open and manly spirit of
the chivalric age of the divine Petrarch and his Laura, in-
troducing those few lyrics as to my heart's earliest affection,
I lay myself open to the ridicule of ignoble minds; or of
those incapable of forming disinterested friendships or im-
perishable attachments! Prepared I am, however, for what
frivolity may whisper-heartlessness may say-vulgarity
may utter—and impurity may insinuate, or the long train of
versifiers with their feigned love ditties-or trumpery,
tinselly, glittering lays—as to a passion they have never felt
¡n all its divine purity-sacred glow-and impassioned force
-a passion, the divinest in the human breast, in which
years but "throws a halo round the dear ones head," or
time, "but the impression deeper makes as streams their
channels deeper wear." Twenty years and more have rolled
over me since I first beheld—in her girlhood glory—the one to
whom, I may say, I am solely indebted for the many springs
of intellectual enjoyment opened up in my mind-through
xiii
that long vista of years-of the most elevating and ennob-
ling character; and for those exquisite sources of mental or
purest joys-I cannot, in her noble womanhood, but grate-
fully acknowledge-she who, indeed, merits all I have said or
sung of her. Those lyrics, as to her maiden beauty she has
never seen; and when, for the first time, her eye lights on
them-recalling the elysian period of our lives, or "the love
of life's young day," I know not how she may feel;-as for
myself, I can, in manhood's prime-with all its severe
thought and stern duties-exclaim with the great and grave
historian, Edward Gibbon, that "I am proud that I was once
capable of entertaining so pure and exalted a sentiment.”
Did I think there was not some little merit, in some few
of the productions I would not intrude myself upon the
public. Indeed, it is a mere accident there ever being
published. The pleasure enjoyed in composition, without
the pleasing voice of fame, repays the artist and the poet.
I aim at no lofty position in my country's poetic literature.
An humble name with an humble celebrity. I may aspire
to the fame of a rhymster, if not to the laurels of a poet.
And while conscious of possessing some little ability, I would
not like to be accused of mock-modesty, nor censured for
arrogant presumption in becoming a candidate for public
approbation. And if not found in this volume, flowery
imagery; or that sickly, effeminate sentimentality charac-
terises so vast a number of the heartless and spiritless pro-
ductions of our age, I feel conscious nothing will be found
to offend the ear of true modesty; or the mind of sturdy
masculine commonsense. And mark me: I would rather be
the writer of one single piece noted for manly expressions
and independent sentiments; or breathing the very spirit
a 2
xiv
of freedom-than the author of volumes on volumes of the
most exquisite common place effusions, which touch neither
the heart nor elevate the mind-not speaking of their en-
larging the sphere of thought, or deepening the channels of
affection towards our race! That there will be found in those
productions, imperfections is what I anticipate. But man-
kind, in general, will not condemn a whole through imperfect-
ions in a part And in an age of stern reality, when facts are
poetry themselves, as in the astronomical truths discoursed on
in the sublime language of Professor Nichol, no wonder when
quaint fancies, fantastic conceits, affected humour, and
pointless wit, (not speaking of their incapability at rasping
irony or biting satire) are the general features of our would-be
poets, that men of sense and taste, of poetic feeling,
and poetic conception, should look with a suspicious eye on
the straggling incomer on the poetic field of literature—
however high his intellectual capacity or loftiness of soul!
I may state, that I have never sat down to write for writ
ing's sake to please this friend, or gain the approbation of
that acquaintance-never with the view of gaining a name,
much less through the sordid feeling of pounds, shillings,
and pence. What wrote was written on the spur of the
moment, under the inspiration of the subject. To say they
are the effusions of one solely self-taught, is true; and that
men of matured taste, and thoroughly versant with the
classic compositions of ancient and modern masters of song
may find many defects, is to be expected. But there are men
whom Job must have had in view, when he exclaimed "O
that mine enemy had written a book "—who could not pen
one single line, posterity would not "willingly let die,”-
discomfitted knights with the rueful countenance in the
XV
tented poetic field-men, in short, whose greatest ability is
in dispraising what they would make a miserable figure in
even attempting; yet such the little, petty, carping, would-be
critical moths, who would dare to moth-eat the most gorge-
ous vesture of the muse, or, with unhallowed touch, soil her
inspiring mantle!
And one word to Mammon's idolaters, or those to
whom Burns refers, with but "the nievfu' o' a soul!"
If in your eyes time is misspent and talents wasted, in
doing aught else than biting, so to speak, the dust;
and the sacrifice of self for country's good or its literary
renown, be regarded by you as folly; surely the ob
scure individual, in his humble sphere, digging for know-
ledge to enrich his country mentally, or, devoted to the
sacred NINE has wooed and wedded one of the angelic sisters
—whose progeny immortal "thoughts that wander through
eternity;"-is, though penury his lot, and obscurity hist
garb,—immeasurably superior to the one fritters away his
glorious youthful prime in gaiety, frivolity, foppery, and
all the fooleries of his age! or even he who spins his dull
round in the sordid acquisition of riches-so as he may look
upon himself above or lord it over, his fellow-men! DISIN-
TERESTEDNESS, alas! with millions-so intent on purely
personal aggrandisement, but an "empty name”—a word
signifying "nothing."
it
Having appended to the volume extracts from letters re-
ceived by me from divines and poets of world-wide celebrity,
may be asked my reason for doing so. It is simply this:
that as regards rhyme or verse written in giving vent to pas-
sions raging within-to griefs which know no tear, in parting
with dear friends to meet, perchance, no more, -to domestic
xvi
bereavements threw dark shadows around my pathway-
to my love of country and her National Independence—
to my admiration of what is noble, my veneration of what is
pure and exalted in human character, or my irrepressible
indignation of secret asassins-those who can "smile and
murder when they smile," —or of hypocritical knaves or un-
dermining sycophants-or my almost idol worship of the
saintly beings who have fallen as martyrs for sacred truth,
or patriots have shed their blood to make their country free
-I have never overlooked the darling subject of my youth-
ful days; my advocacy of woMAN or vindication of her
supremacy. As to this "high argument," or vindication
not of "the way
the way" but of this "work
but of this "work" of "God to man;"
I know I may be in advance of the spirit of the age. In
fact, I know this subject to be regarded by not a few, as but
the phantom of a youthful imagination; or a beautiful
idea, without the flesh and blood of tangible reality.*
First undoubtedly of my countrymen, and first may be
said of my race, in heralding on scriptural or philosophical
ground her supremacy; and as to this question, and on this
debateable ground, I stand alone. Right or wrong in my
views, I have merely to add, that I am not ashamed of hav-
ing on such high and imperishable authority, in the warm
flush of young exhuberant feeling, with all my humble
ability, advocated the cause, or vindicated the name of
woman. One little piece,† in particular, will be found in this
collection expressive of my feelings at the witless railery,
senseless talk, and idiotic guffaw, I had, when first appear-
ing before the public, in my boyhood's prime, to breast and
*See Appendix, No. I.
† Pages 24 and 45.
xvii
to beard. The notice of my advocacy of the sex in 1839
which appeared in the Glasgow Saturday Post, I feel a pride
and a pleasure in also appending; though, indeed too com-
plimentary to a stripling, even admitting he had the daring
-if not possessed of the lion heart of manhood—to enter
with, it may be said, some of the chivalric spirit of ancient
times, the public arena in defence of the Fair; and did the
best at his years of which he was capable.
Now one brief word, in conclusion, as to poets and poetry.
I have said I have no pretensions to the laurels of the poet,
or as having penned "thoughts that breathe and words
that burn," of the inspired Bard with “ eye in a fine frenzy
rolling glancing from heaven to earth, from earth to
heaven." It is not every little dabbler in poetic phraseo-
logy, who can make words jingle, or lines harmoniously
sound; or who can "pervert the prophets and purloin the
psalms," is verily entitled to the name of Poet,—whose
PERSON I conceive SACRED, and HIS emanations DIVINE.
The true poet is one of an age a man of a million. With
loftiness of conception, he has force of soul. He sees Na-
ture, not as through a glass dimly, but face to face. Beauties
and sublimities in the external universe, other eyes fail to
see, enrapturing to his gaze! And, if in the panoramic
glories of creation his soul is lifted from "nature up to
nature's God," what must it be in presence of female beauty?*
His sensitive feelings, warm affections, tumultuous emotions,
and vehement passions, are not those of the listless and plod-
* "I look on the sex with something like the admiration with
which I regard the starry sky in a frosty December night. WOMAN
is the blood-royal of life;-let there be slight degrees of precedency
amongst them, but let them be all SACRED.”—Robert Burns.
=
xviii
ding multitude-he stands apart-and hallows or consecrates
every object of which he sings by the magic of his verse.
Some men seem to live in a world of words-others of phrases*
-others of sentiments-but few in the world of ideas or
mental images, save the Poet. In far higher estimation
now held, by every cultivated mind, than they were wont
to be, the tuneful or inspired children of Nature. At
this moment, in this empire, it is the Poets-a Charles
Dickens, a Douglas Jerrold, a Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton-
and kindred master spirits, are achieving bloodless triumphs,
peaceful victories, noiseless revolutions, in the onward march
of mind. They are marshalled on the side of freedom and
human rights, civilization and christianity. Their Thoughts
are armies-with Heaven for their leader, and Truth for
their camp. And, with all the barriers still in the way to
a due appreciation of sterling mental parts-in eloquence.
or song—the time has come when ignorance must bow to
intelligence, and the highest intellectual attainments pay
homage to the majesty of GENIUS ! And what should be
the general drift of all compositions but to make us THINK,
and to make us FEEL-to think rightly and to feel humane-
ly? This the Poets special province. In fact, what is all
true poetry but the genuine offspring of the human heart,
and the legitimate conceptions of the human soul! The
true sublime of poetic song, is, though the sense of the sen-
timents be obscure to millions, like the lark soaring aloft
'midst sunshine to heaven,-unseen to mortal eye but his
sweet, thrilling, and rapturous strains causing our gaze and
keeping us spell bound to the spot. Few such can write,—
few such gifted. He who writes in the true spirit of poesy'
*"A mint of phrases in their brain."-Shakspeare.
xix
with its lofty aspirations and glorious enthusiasm, is truly
one of the "gifted few." There are many, unfortunately,
so inanimate and dead, that there is no quickening or en-
livening them-so destitute are they of spiritual animation
or life.
They seem, as it were, a mere particle of dust, into
which there is no means of infusing soul. They have not a
heart to be touched, or a mind to be elevated, above animal
enjoyments. The fictions of romance, or the creations of
imagination, or the magic breathings of genius, in poetic.
strains or soul-stirring eloquence, cannot arouse them to
feel as men, or to think as immortal creatures. Such
are thoroughly brutish-minded. They do not seem to
possess one spark of fire that can be kindled, or one par-
ticle of mental feeling that can be operated upon. To
speak to them of poetry would be like uttering the precepts
of the sage to born idiots. Talk to them of everything that
can be touched, or handled, or evident to the external senses,
and they may understand you; but poetry is too etherial a
subject to discourse on for their comprehending you. Those
persons, though low in the scale of humanity, are not to be
dispised or ill-treated. They have still the human shape!
The impress of the Divinity, though slight, is still upon
their minds. The spark of immortality, though it cannot
be winnowed here into a flame, may hereafter be kindled
and blaze forth throughout eternity. But we speak of them
as they exist amongst us. Natural defects they cannot help,
and there is no taking down and rebuilding here the mortal
tenement to admit of more light into their mind. The little
crevices, so to speak, in their structure cannot be enlarged
into spacious windows; so that he who soars into the regions
of imagination should not be disheartened in coming in
XX
contact with that inferior class of minds, who through their
mental organization, are incapable of appreciating the
golden emanations of the human soul!
In the verses
Woman-Creation—a Pharaphase,” I have
thrown out a few thoughts will, I trust, be accessible to the
minds of all who are given to reflect and think for themselves,
as to Woman, "the blood-royal of life"-the perfection of
humanity!
In the "Epistle to James B—d;" "Russia;” and the “Papal
Aggression," you have my sentiments as to tyrants and ty-
ranny-kingly despotism and priestly thraldom! Dearto man
as life itself, is LIBERTY!-freedom of thought and freedom
of expression Out upon the creeds or systems of man's
making-go by what name they may-that would coerce
men to think as they think, or assume infallibility in dic-
tating to our race.
eral, the reverse.
God's Word is TRUTH-man's, in gen-
That my soul loathes and abhors despo-
tism in all its shapes or aspects, whether in the person of
a monster Nero or a Nicholas, or the pettiest tyrant in
every-day life, may be inferred from these strains.
It will be observed that I have, here and there, in these
effusions, struck the bold note of manly Independence-that
"Honour and shame from no condition rise,
that
Act well your part there all the honour lies :"
"WORTH makes the Man, and want of it the FELLOW:"
that the
"Rank is but the guinea stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that.'
When I say manly independence, I do not mean that ghostly
independence leans on birth, or rank, or wealth, for its sole
xxi
importance and consequence in the world--without which
the individual would shrink into his primitive or native
insignificance that independence to which idiots may be
born by a title, or sheer blockheads, by accident, come to be
possessed of by riches; but the Independence springs from
pure feelings and noble thoughts-asserts the royal dignity of
man-the majesty of his nature, and the incentive to real
brotherly kindness, genuine civility, and unaffected polite-
ness.
الله
I cannot conclude this introduction without expressing-or
rather I cannot repress my feeling of my love of Scotland—
my own beloved Scotland! and I cannot but rejoice to see, in
such a momentous crisis as the present, three great countries
as ONE, and under the sway of so benignant and incompara-
ble a queen. If my loyalty to my Queen, or my regard for
my Country, has caused me to introduce their names
repeatedly in those effusions, I trust it will be pardoned.
As to Britain herself, I cannot omit expressing my conviction
of Divine Providence having singled out our Isle, not only
as the pioneer of universal freedom; but the emancipator of
millions on millions from slavery, corporcally and mentally;
and in the conflict so sanguinary now with the very Prince
of Evil himself and his myriads in human form, I have no
doubt but that Great Britain will be looked upon by suc-
ceeding ages, as one of the favoured nations of the earth,
since prophesy held her breath, and inspiration was confined
to other worlds! Britain, it may be said, is the Trinity of
Nations, the Godhead, so to speak, of the kingdoms of the
earth. Ireland contributes her warm and burning feelings,
Scotland her valorous and magnanimous spirit, and England
her lofty and aspiring soul. Sage Egypt, learned Greece,
b
xxii
martial Rome, must yield to her the palm for wisdom, for
genius, for renown in arms!
The first to the Volume is Peace, or the Crystal Palace;
the last Russia, or the Eastern or world-wide war apparently
to be. And I say it unhesitatingly, if it merits oblivion the
sooner it is in those impenetrable shades the better. If it
belongs to the brotherhood of Dulness, or the sisterhood of
Heartlessness,--or possesses not one original thought, one
beautiful idea, one manly expression, one independent sen-
timent, one thrilling passage, or one graphic description, to
make man think or feel, or lay past and fondly cherish in the
memory! it should meet its merited fate--be treated, as it
deserves, an abortion of the writer, and become, as it should be,
one of the still-born of the press. If it has real merit it will
force its own way; and, in course of time, find its proper
place in the literature of my country. And not to man's
changing and perishable Prejudices and Partialities, commit
these pages, but to Virtue, Freedom, Truth. If they are
mortal they shall die, if immortal live for ever. TRUTH is in-
destructible, be it either in prose or poetry. It may be
buried for ages, but its resurrection will take place. Anni-
hilate it impossible, no more than man's frail hand can
shiver this earth, or arrest the planets in their course!
+
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
PEACE; OR THE CRYSTAL PALACE.
1851.
INSCRIBED TO JAMES WATT MACGREGOR, ESQ.,
OF WALLACE GROVE,
As a mark of profound regard of his worth as a man, his pub-
lic spirit as a citizen, and his eminent qualifications as a
Magistrate.
ENGLAND!
Thou hast thy triumph now, no land can boast;
And shall thy sister, Scotland, not exult
In this achievement of thy glorious might?
Thou'st had thy victories of kingly name,
A world hath struck with wonder and with awe;
And, here, thy national greatness is displayed
In this-another wonder of the world:
More wondrous too than aught this world hath seen,
And reared as if by more than mortal hand!
Yes! England, worthy of thy sovereign mind
This fairy structure-with intent so high-
To bring, from every clime 'neath vaulted heaven,
Th' ingenious products of man's marvellous skill;
B
2
In gen'rous, peaceful rivalry to vie,
Each with the other, and to closer draw
Heart towards heart of th' great family of mankind.
Yes, worthy thee! all eyes are to thee turned,
Fair England! as if to some new planet
Struck out strange pathway in the firmament;
Long hast thou been the envy of the world,
Asylum of the great in heart and mind-
Who've traversed far from despot's hate and power,
To reach thy happy hospitable shore.
Now worthy thee! Kind greeting to them give,
Whate'er their colour or complexion be,
Who with the olive branch of Peace they come
O'er trackless deserts and o'er boundless seas,
Thee to homage pay, like Sheba's youthful queen
To Palestina's far-famed sapient king.
Methinks as if an angel in the sky,
With eye complacent looks upon this scene,
As harbinger of that oft-talk'd of time
When lion with the lamb will playful sport,
And universal Peace and Love shall reign
The world o'er: Heaven speed it so! for true
There's something in the times to eyes can glance
Beyond the surface of humanity,
Into the deep arcana of the heart—
To eyes can 'yond the present penetrate
And picture out the future! This the sign
Of the great moral changes are at work,
Which only Britain in her sea-girt isle—
(Whose power, no less her language, hath no bound.
Whose breath can melt the fetters from the slave)—
For prostrate man is able to accomplish!
3
What she in arms hath done, in moral power
Surpass, and rise pre-eminently great,
As if Divinity her singled out
To people and to language every clime.
No spot on which her banner hath not waved
Or cannon thundered: but we wish no more
The fire and frenzy of the battle field.
Here are they come with outstretched hand to grasp
The hand of her—not Egypt, Greece or Rome,
In arts and arms and daring enterprise
E'er equall'd, when like gods they sat enthroned,
And nations round them worshipped at their feet!
Hail to Victoria! and her queenly reign
Throws into shade men-monarchs of the past;
A queen we love, no less her royal lord—
A queen our pride, our boast, our glory too-
None nobler sceptre sway'd or graced a throne!
Much might be said, but farther wont express,
My aim was high to touch so great a theme-
Great as it was could Scotland sing no song
To celebrate this jubilee of Peace!
To HIS all-ruling hand the sceptre wields
On Earth-in Heaven-of universal sway,
Do we commit this gathering of the earth,
And Heaven's blessing do implore on them!
O! may it link in closer bonds our race,
No matter what their country or their creed,
In that sweet brotherhood which man to man
Was meant to other show when first was made.
O! may on earth no more the din of war
Sound in our ears-to orphans, widows make-
The sword hung up as of a barbarous age—
4
Industrial art, and science, literature
From time to time new floods of light pour forth--
All darkness mentally dispel, that seen
At once the origin divine of man-
Love, Friendship, Peace, the motto of the world!
DEPEND ON HEAVEN!
COMPOSED ON A VISITATION OF CHOLERA.
DEPEND on Heaven, man's surest stay-
Depend on Heaven, 'twill guide your way;
Depend on Heaven, on heaven depend—
The poor man's only lasting friend!
Thy faith in God let it be true,
And ne'er will He abandon you:
O! trust in Him whate'er betide,
And all thy wants he will provide:
Whate'er in private, public do,
Think that His eye is fixed on you;
His hand unseen can ward the blow,
Tho' aim'd it be to lay you low;
His voice, though silent in his Word,
All consolation can afford—
Teach how to live and how to die,
In joy to meet Him in yon sky!
Though the Destroying Angel's here,
Depend on God and have no fear;
For live you will, where'er may roam,
Till summon'd to thy heavenly home!
5
ODE TO THE MEMORY OF ROBERT BURNS.
TO JAMES MOIR, ESQ.,
In testimony of my admiration of his energy and zeal as Councillor,
in sustaining the character, extending the commerce, lessening
the oppression of taxation, and beautifying and adorning our
great City-this Ode, to the memory of the Kingly Peasant-
is respectfully inscribed.
HAIL! gifted Peasant, with thy soul of fire;
Thy manly bosom and thy tender heart,
Ne'er given 'mong men to act a mundane part;
But Heaven thee raised on earth to strike the lyre-
Humanity to melt
And humanize;
Who has not thrilling felt
With ears or eyes,
The magic of thy verse,
Which hardest heart can pierce,
The savage breast can move-
Can charm the sage,
Both youth and age,
With soul-inspiring love?
For thine no artificial fire,
But that much sought, and all desire,
Which is alone to men of genius given-
The light of nature and the fire of heaven--
Which, when thou spoke, lit up thy face
With a bright radiance and a grace—
B 2
6
A witchery, a power, a spell,
That fascinated all who hung
Upon the accents of thy tongue-
While glow'd thine eye, and voice subdued
To pity, or a melting mood,
Those that around thee wondering stood!
For thou wast given the gift divine,
In conversation brilliant shine;
Whate'er the theme, love, virtue, truth,
The ways of age or scenes of youth,
Domestic joys or social mirth,
Man's native rights or woman's wrongs!-
With matchless eloquence dwell,
(Few could approach and none excel),
On the dear land that gave thee birth,
And all that to that land belongs.
But something more than sage or bard,
Or genius with its eagle scan-
Tho' ne'er was prized till 'neath the sward
Thou wert, in heart and soul a MAN!
Thou hadst the frailties of thy race,
But would-be wits would blur thy fame-
Have tried-and sunk-erased their name
Had they тHY passions and THY place,
Would they have act'd a better part,
Or shown so much of MIND or HEART ?
What Scot exults not in thy name?
You felt, as few have felt, the flame
Which in the Patriot's bosom glows-
Makes him forget his griefs and woes—
7
In thee, with unquenched ardour, burn'd
The more oppress'd, the more was spurn'd;
Not in heroic strains alone-
Thy "Song of Death," or "Bannockburn!"
Well o'er thy tomb the Muse may mourn,
A world lament that thou art gone;
For thou wert one to FREEDOM dear,
O'er human woe could shed the tear;
And yet the first the want supplied—
Have bravely for thy country died!
Thy hate of tyrant and of knave,
Of bigot and arch-hypocrite;
Make us revere the Hand which gave
Thee form, and stamped upon thy soul-
He'll ne'er to Mammon be a slave,"
On tablet of thy heart was writ,
"By God approved, of finest mould."
'But ill the omen on thy natal morn,
No lightnings gleam, no thunders roll;
More feared, the deep-mouthed tempest howled,
As if the fiends had 'scaped from earth,
Round the clay cottage of thy birth-
Their frantic and impetuous rage
Vent, not unheard of, on life's stage,
That one to man so god-like had been born!
Unhurt, tho' fell thy humble cot,
Beneath the tempests furious blast,
And consecrated is the spot
Where first drew breath and breathed thy last.
Yes! powers of flesh, and earth, and hell,
Against thee jointly did conspire;
8
The passions led thee to the brink,
Where thousands to destruction fall;
The Muses to their magic cell,
Where visions thronging to their call,
In uncreated light attired,
Thy soul illum'd, thy bosom fired,
Lips breathed the song thee Heaven inspired!
But fatal were the words that flew,
Like arrow to thy inmost heart;
Fell clouds and darkness round thee threw,
And made wild phantoms round thee start;
Which haunted thee till latest day,
Till life and reason passed away—
Those tyrant-words can we forgive,
""Tis thine to act and not to think;"*
Such were the words-eternal live,-
A libel on the British name,
A mockery-a curse-a shame-
E'en said to least of human kind-
But to thee, BURNS, such words address'd,
Thy country's pride, of worth possess'd—
Threw crowns and sceptres in the shade!
Whose heaving breast with feelings fraught,
A halo circled round thy head;
Whose sterling, independent mind,
Nought could subdue, no fetters bind;
Free as the cagle or the wind,
That sweeps the mountain tops along,
Tho' wide its range-the world of thought—
Sphere in which breathed—the heaven of song!
* The censure passed on the Bard by the Honourable Board of
Excise, London.
9
FANNY.
WHEN first I clasp'd thee to my breast,
When first thy rosy lips I prest—
When first thy bosom heaved a sigh,
And mine to thine made a reply—
When round your waist my arm I flung,
And on my breast your head you hung-
When I did kiss thee o'er and o'er,
The lips ne'er lover prest before!
What transports did I inward feel,
I could not check, nor yet conceal—
What
•
prayers breathed, too, from this heart,
Void of hypocrisy or art.
Ah! dear the hour, the hallow'd spot,
Remember'd ne'er to be forgot;
Fortune and friends may me disown,
And all the world may at me frown;
But never can this heart rebel
Against the form it loves so well.
Blest is the land that give thee birth-
For beauty! none like thee on earth;
For virtue! none to rival thee,
From pole to pole, from sea to sea;
Thy face-its beauty plainly tell,
How man at first in Eden fell;
10
;
Thy voice-its magic tones inspire
Within my breast love's sacred fire;
Which makes my heart thy form adore-
Which pleads to love thee more and more.
To love! ah, cruel he who would
Not like Leander brave the flood,
And buffet billow, tide and storm,
To gaze upon thy angel form!
Thy heart is gentle, kind, sincere,
But they have made you shed a tear;
If faults I had-if faults there be
'Tis through excess of love to thee!
And they have told, and let them tell,
How high my breast with passions swell;
My love of Nature, Nature's child-
The passions uncontrolled and wild,
That will not be subdued, and scorn
Mask or disguise them to adorn!
O! had this heart thee never loved,
And with your charms been ne'er unmoved—
Had I ne'er listen'd to thy sigh,
Ne'er read the language of thine eye-
Ne'er had my arm around thy waist,
Ne'er prest thee gently to my breast-
Ne'er on thy lips impress'd a kiss,
Ne'er in thy presence felt a bliss;
No song on thee I'd e'er have sung,
No lyre to thee I'd e'er have strung-
No muse would e'er have me inspired,
Nor love to thee this bosom fired;
Nor to thee sworn many a vow,
My first, my only love, art thou!
11
1835.
Celestial Powers! O hear my prayer!
My Fanny be thy constant care;
Thy covering wing around her spread;
Thy sweetest influence on her shed!
May you her lead and her protect—
In virtue's path her steps direct :
Though they have from my breast you torn,
By envy, malice, strife and scorn;
Dreams till life's latest will restore
Thee whom my heart and soul adore;
And when our mortal course is run,
Our souls will meet and be as ONE!
INDUSTRY-THE DRUNKARD.
SWEET Industry! I love thee well,
Thy honest worth I fain would tell-
Thy children are a healthy race,
Strong exercise their nerves do brace;
Contentment doth their minds keep sane,
Ne'er poison'd by o'er-love of gain!
O, how unlike, kind souls! are you,
The noisy, blustering, sottish crew—
Their souls confusion! frame a sink!
Can ne'er be gen'rous but in drink!
Call ye that thought? a madman's rave,
A rooted vice, to drink a slave!
12
What actions those? but of a fool,
'Bove precept, common sense, or rule.
How blotched his face! what idiot look!
His eyes all mental light forsook-
See how he staggering, stumbling goes,
With all will quarrel, give them blows-
Stupid-frantic-maniac-wild-
Could not give battle to a child!
Thou to be pitied wretch-awake!
Can I thy drunken slumber break,
Or rouse thee into active life-
Ah! dost thou see thy babes and wife?
Look! can aught thee to wisdom nerve,
Thy wife and children! dying--starve!
Ye who cannot social be,
Unless the circling glass you see;
Ye, who cannot speak your mind,
Unless half-drunk yourselves you find;
Ye, who fancy you are Scots,"
Ye prosers, rhymsters, doggrel sots-
Who never felt your bosoms glow
With raptures, poets only know-
Not speaking of the sacred flame,
Enthusiasm! that's its name-
Which to you's only known by sound-
Its meaning for you too profound.-
Invoke the Muse! first soak your brains,
Then squeeze out all your skull contains;
Or
pepper well your nose oft fed,
To sneeze some little out your head;
13
1838.
Or by tobacco's fumes to start,
Not thought, but sickness in your heart!
Why have, ye fools! recourse to these?
You cannot Nature but displease;
Or, rather Heaven, which wondrous kind,
This world and myriad stars designed,
'Long with His breathing WORD to fire
And them alone the soul inspire!
O, heavens! what chaff! when one them sifts,
To whom thou hast denied thy gifts!
Wit, satire, humour, pathos, song,
And feelings keen, and passions strong.
They know not what a poet is,
Or solitary life is his-
The passions agitate his breast,
How raised in joys, in griefs deprest :
Nor what calls forth his rapturous strains,
Which none can feign, take what like pains-
Or imitate, save to brutes given,
The larks sweet song in face of heaven!
C
t:
h

14

SCOTLAND'S MOUNTAINEER.
INSCRIBED TO JOHN STEWART, Esq. DUNLOP STREET.
As a small memorial of respect for his kindness and courtesy.
I LOVE my native mountains, and her mountaineer so brave,
He who a thousand deaths would seek, ere yield to be a slave;
Thy hills a wall around thy coast, my far-famed fatherland!
The Roman eagle could not scale, nor face thy patriot band.
In them the sinew, strength, and fire, of yore their bosoms
steel'd,
They're lambs around the household hearth, and lions in the
field!
You, England! know th' valorous soul in conflict they've
display'd,
How oft thy sons they've put to flight-their front thy
ranks dismay'd;
They more than Spartans oft have fought, the coward from
them spurn,
Let Wallace shade at Falkirk tell, or Bruce at Bannockburn!
And when the war-pipe of the clans, the “Gathering” sum-
mon'd forth,
To meet the daring Corsican, and test his martial worth;
No whit behind their fame of old the enemy they slew,
And 'mongst the fighting hosts the first on field of Waterloo!
Praise to the men! who speak the tongue in which an
Ossian wrote-
Praise to the men! eternal praise who have our battles
fought:
15
Praise to the men! no one betray'd which told their faith-
ful true heart-
When thousand pounds was on the head of Charles Edward
Stewart!
Say not the Highland heart is cold, disloyal, or untrue,
To love, to friendship, royalty, nor pays to worth its due;
They who attempt to slight them deserve our withering
smile,
Our mountaineer's the life, the strength, the glory of our
Isle!
Though England the oppressor and usurper oft hath been
Of Scotland's rights and liberties-long life to England's
Queen;
Though her past feuds forgotten, and our wrath we have
allay'd,
The noblest ever wore a crown, or hath a sceptre sway'd!
Still let us cling to Scotia! to English brothers be!
Ne'er foe I trust shall tread our Isle-Dread Empress of the
Sea.
I wish to see no more disturb'd the blessed reign of Peace,
But see the sword a pruning hook, the trumpet's blast to
cease;
And man to man more brotherly, and truth and virtue bloom,
Unblighted by the breath of war, till worlds in flames con-
sume!
16
SHE'S HUNG UPON MY ARM.
SHE's hung upon my arm,
Reclined upon my breast,
I could not do her harm,
Though oft her lips I prest
Although like lover sighed,
And lover's raptures felt,
And she me fondly eyed;
But at her feet I knelt,
Implored that she would give
Her hand to me for life;
That she would with me live-
My sweet devoted wife!
✪ Heaven! thou knowest well,
The love I bore this one;
Too prone my love to tell
From first her heart I won
She knew she felt-I loved!
And this her bridal day!
And here where we have roved-
At e'ening love to stray-
Another she hath given
The hand that should be mine-
Me from her bosom driven,
And form to me divine!
17
O! whither shall I fly,
Despair hath seized my brain-
Asunder's snap'd the tie,
Which bound me to this plain.
No charms hath earth to me,
Yon sky a lowering gloom-
My breast a troubled sea,
My soul a joyless tomb.
Elysium once sprung
Before my musing eye—
Of love I raptured sung,
But now I long to die.
JESSIE-FARE THEE WELL!
FARE thee well, my darling Jessie,
Fare thee well to meet no more;
Ne'er again will I caress thee-
Billows high shall 'tween us roar.
Not my fault, but thine my dearest,
That I bid you now adieu ;
Thou hast to my heart been nearest
Ne'er to one was I so true.
Ne'er did I disguise a feeling,
As it swell'd within my breast;
But too prone was in revealing-
What elated or opprest!
c 2
18
Me thou'st seen in saddest sorrow,
Me thou'st seen in wildest mirth-
Sunk at eve, but on the morrow
Spirits high as heaven from earth !
And the clouds that oft did gather,
Deep and dark around my soul,
Like sun night thy charms did scatter—
Kept my passions in controul !
I have long'd and I have sigh'd for,
Full possession of thy heart;
And thy hand I would have died for—
And 'tis death with thee to part!
But the struggle I'll get over,
Though the strained heart-strings break;
For no less the MAN than LOVER-
Who with thee doth farewell take.
I was bound by love and duty,
Thee to love and thee to woo--
Basking in thy peerless beauty,
Thee to gain no more could do-
Not alone in my addresses-
Tender, heartfelt, and sincere-
Or my warm and fond caresses,
But has pled the falling tear!
But, perhaps, 'tis well we sever,
Tho' I'm loath to part with thee;
19
For through life I find will never
One so kin in soul to me!
Why inclined thus to slight me?
Why reject my proffer'd love?
Why thy hand dost thou not plight me ?
Tell me, e'er from thee I rove!
By the sainted Powers above me!
By yon hallow'd groves and streams!
Where we've met and stray'd-I love thee!
Think I clasp thee oft in dreams!
Ah! thou mayest to another
Give thy hand,-thee I'll not blame;
Though some one should call you mother,
To my sorrow or my shame.
When the bark shall bear me from thee,
Wilt thou heave for me a sigh—
Or, again, will think upon me,
When in other climes I die!
Fare thee well, since I must leave thee,
Reason's dictates must obey!
Though her stern commands do grieve me,
And her voice—“ Away, away!”
1841.
20
THE ANSWER.
FARE thee well, then, fondest lover
If you must bid me adieu;
If too late now to discover-
None I loved, and love like you !
Say not that the fault is mine, love,
Makes you rashly part with me,
Not my fault I vow-'tis thine, love-
If, indeed, a fault there be !
Tell me have I thee offended,
Or aught done makes you me spurn;
Whose breath oft with mine hath blended-
Love for love did you return.
Was I not all true and tender
From the hour first you I met,
And was willing to surrender
The heart-none but you shall get.
If so cruel as to leave me
Through some coined falsehoods, love,
Before earth and heaven, believe me,
Ne'er shall man this heart unmove!
Its affections on thee centred,
Hopes of future bliss did give;
Though to tell thee ne'er have ventur'd
How with thee I'd like to live.
€
21
Dost thou think, because in secret
Ne'er my mind reveal'd to you,
Tho' in smiles you must have seen it—
I was heartless or untrue?-
That my thoughts were on another—
When your arm hath clasp'd my waist;
And you vow'd you loved none other—
Cause my love, I ne'er exprest!
But it cannot be we sever-
That you'll wrench yourself from me→
Ne'er again to meet-no-never!
I will with thee cross the sea-
Where you'll wander, there you'll find me,-
Whither Fate shall bid you go;
Home and country leave behind me—
Cling to thee thro' weal or woe!
What care I for soul-less creatures,
Tho' their riches be immense-
Who have nought but human features,
Neither tenderness nor sense?
To the man, tho' poor, commend me,
With high impulses of soul—
Who would love me and defend me-·
Him o'er me I'd give control!
Ah! don't say—but I must smother
Thoughts arise within my breast—
22
For no child shall call me "Mother"
But thine own-by thee caress'd!
Thy love! whether I deserve it,
To thee and heaven best is known!
But I will strive to preserve it,
This I pledge, if made thine own.
But I'm not, nor ne'er been suitor,
Tho' I'm now at your command;
Tho' dark clouds rest on the future,
Thou art welcome to my hand!
LINES ON MY NUPTIAL MORN.
My Jessie's form, my Jessie's mind,
Where like in human life to find?
And I have sought, but sought in vain,
To find her like on Scotia's plain.
Care not tho' man may be despise,
So I've the jewel that I prize;
Was for me formed, now to me given,
She'll make this earth to me a heaven!
I pine not at my humble lot-
What might have been, or what I'm not.
I envy not the worldly great,
Their princely wealth nor high estate;
23
When to my arms and bosom's given
All I could ask of earth or heaven!
Through scenes of poverty and wo,
Perhaps 'tis yet my fate to go;
But come what storms and tempests may,
E'en round my naked head to play-
And houseless, homeless, earth I tread—
Its caves my shelter, breast my bed:
No power shall e'er subdue or bind
The independence of my mind!
Ill constituted for this life,
Its knavery and ceaseless strife-
Its senseless din, its selfish ways—
Its hollow, heartless, mock displays;
But as one launched upon the sea,
By elements encompassed he―
By shoals and breakers, wind and wave-
Bark skilful guide or meet a grave:
So dauntless, fearless on I'll go,
With warrior pace my path below-
Tho' disappointments, pains I share,
Then tranquil meet, heroic bear ;
And shake may thrones, sceptres depart―
But nought will move this firm fixed heart.
Yes! through this world my course I'll steer,
And virtue, honour, worth revere;
And tho' through want of trick or cheat,
To fortune's favours I be beat;
Or, that peculiar frame of mind
Ill suits my mingling 'mong my kind,
Save with the few, world-keep apart,
Akin in mind, alike in heart-
24
1841.
Yet struggle will for her dear sake—
All will forego, all undertake,
Her comfort to increase, that I
May happy live, may happy die.
I CARE NOT FOR THE FACE OF MAN.
1839.
I CARE not for the face of man!
In spite of all his hate and scorn,
I'll walk through life as I've began ;
With th' spirit of a Briton born.
What though around me foes do grin,
And poison'd arrows at me throw;
I laugh at their defaming din,
And scorn to give them blow for blow!
Let envy sting me as she will,
And malice at me bark and bite;
And of my blood they drink their fill-
I to the death will sternly fight!
No man, whoe'er he be, will hush
My voice when raised in woman's cause!
For such I have no need to blush-
For such I pant not for applause!
25
ALL HAIL! TO THEE, MY BROTHER SCRIBES!
TO THE LEARNED CLERKS OR SCRIBES OF THE LEGAL FRATERNITY.
•
INSCRIBED TO ROBERT T. M'MASTER, ESQ.,
DIRECTOR OF THE GLASGOW JURIDICAL SOCIETY.
ALL hail! to thee, my brother scribes!
Thy humble calling who derides?
If such a wretch on earth there be,
He's base, not brave—a slave, not free!
May daring souls 'mongst you arise,
The world have sense their worth to prize;
Not serpent give to them for bread-
To raise a stone to them when dead!
May many of you God endow,
With manly front and lofty brow;
Heroic virtue fire their breast-
Though ne'er by patronage caress'd-
To lash the vices of their age
With pen of poet or the sage!
My brothers! tho' an humble train,
Ne'er mingle 'mong the foolish, vain;
Nor ape the vices of the great-
Of any, tho' of princely state;
For well you know, as well as 1,
A palace oft hath been a sty!
What class of youths in Britain's Isle,
Who for their daily bread do toil,
Can match you for intelligence—
For cultured mind, or massive sense!
I leave thy charming circle must:
Thee will regard, and long, I trust,
Where'er my wandering footsteps rove.
With feelings of fraternal love!
D
26
LOVE OF COUNTRY.
I LOVE the land that gave me birth;
The fairest spot to me on earth :
And countless ties I daily find,
Doth to her rugged soil me bind!
The scenes of infancy and youth--
Of boyhood's dreams and manhood's truth;
The scenes where oft I've musing trod,
My soul communing with its God:
Or 'neath the starry sky did rove,
My arm around my darling love;
Or seated on the sward her prest
In raptures to my swelling breast;
While vows I sealed with many a kiss
(0, this the sum of human bliss!)——
Those scenes are sacred to my heart,
And never wish with them to part;
But rather, here, exist a slave,
Than elsewhere die and find a—grave!
ENVY.
HA! Envy me to sting hath tried ;
Thy fang and venom have defied!
What blasting eye when fixed on you,
Or that you purpose for to do!
How foul thy mouth, when thou dost see
One of superior soul to thee;
27
Who 'midst his race in thought arise,
Nearer and nearer to the skies!
Yes! envy's in the mass of men ;
And low ambition now and then
Displays itself, in almost all,
And brings oft-times the humbling fall
Of those who overshoot the mark,
By speculations in the dark!
To-day them proudly solvent see,
To-morrow humbled bankrupts be;
To-day in circles high they flirt,
To-morrow splutter in the dirt!
For lucre is their only thought;
For 't grapple at each other's throat;
Who have it not are all despised,
And those with it raised to the skies-
No matter how its earn'd or got,
Its owner be a knave, or sot,
Or truth contemns, or light doth hate—
Blasphemer or a profligate-
The lowest, meanest of our kind,
He's raised above the KINGS OF MIND!
I envy not the monarchs crown,
His sceptre, power, nor fame,
A manly spirit! my renown,
A MAN my royal name.
Yes! like a Briton will I live,
And like a Briton die;
Unask'd, my Epitaph I give,
"Here doth a BRITON lie."
28
1841.
BRIDAL SONG.
SWEET Jessie, idol of my soul,
And queen, too, of my heart;
The nuptial ceremony's o'er—
Death shall alone us part.
A joyous, rapturous mood is mine,
Thee dearest love to gain—
By the approving smile of Heaven—---
Thee to my bosom strain.
O, fair the scene, and bright the sky!
Upon thy bridal morn;
But who can tell what clouds may lower.
Ere we of life be shorn!
To share thy joys, to share thy griefs,
To thee united been;
A manly part be mine my love,
E'en till life's closing scene.
What tho' we cannot boast of wealth ?
As happy live can we,
As can the titled of the earth,
Though king and queen they be.
"Tis not the grandeur of the great.
Nor fortune to them given;
But kindred minds and loving hearts,
Make wedded life a heaven.
29
SCOTIA'S ISLES.
(As if addressed from the Great Deep.)
INSCRIBED, WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OF RESPECT AND GRATITUDE, TO
FRANCIS POOLE, Esq.
'Tis Scotia's Isles, 'tis Scotia's Isles,
I see them in the distant view-
Where freedom lives, where virtue smiles,
Beneath a sky of lovely blue;
The brightest gems that stud the sea
Of Caledonian ancestry!
There Fingal fought, as Ossian sung,
Invincible to Roman arms;
Loud with their fame the world has rung,
As also Mary's matchless charms :
No ground more sacred is on earth,
Nor people of more sterling worth.
Th' Atlantic's waves dash 'gainst their shore,
Their mountains eye them from afar,
And hear their music's savage roar,
While elements do round them war ;
And glassy lakes reflect their form,
And will through ages yet unborn.
A king they boast who tuned the Lyre,
With master-hand he swept the strings-
D 2
30
A royal Bard, with seraph-fire,
Was worthy of his race of kings,
The sceptre swayed, crown by him worn,
What hand, what head, they now adorn?
None qualified to wear that crown,
Or sway that sceptre here below;
Yes! terrible that people's frown,
To kings of mind they only bow:
Sacred the regalia they
Of James do keep until this day.
Ye sportive billows of the deep!
That round me rise to kiss the sky;
'Tis womanish for man to weep,
And scarcely dare he heave a sigh:
But O! his country sure he may
Bemoan when made a tyrant's prey
!
"Twas yonder Wallace drew the sword,
Methinks the patriot now I see,
For Caledonia raise his word,
With her to die—with her be free!
And who for country would not fight,
For altar, hearth, and native right?
Ah! they have fought, and they have bled,
Who once did breathe upon yon Isle ;
Their spirit hath not from it fled,
But lives in natives of the soil!—
And give the word a foe invades,
And up they rise and grasp their blades.
31
But let me turn from clashing steel,
And gloom and death: Lead beauty forth;
Before her let the manly kneel,
From east to west, from south to north.-—
False stimulants of gin and wine,
Are of the earth, are not divine.
Not yonder the lascivious dance-
Her Brougham thunders like a god,
While tiny statesmen round him prance,
And kings and princes court his nod.
Bruce in the field, in senate he,
What country boast a rivalry?
Come boy, make haste; lead Beauty forth,
Gave inspiration to a Burns;
The world doth know not half her worth,
Speak, speak! ye mighty from your urns!
Of every land, of every clime,
Ye spirits raised her praise to hymn!
Come boy, make haste; lead Beauty forth
Where is the light of Abbotsford ?
Where he against the fair so wroth
With pen that cuts more deep than sword?
Ha! Byron! howe'er great thy mind,
Shallow thy views of woman kind.
Transported to yon blood-drench'd field,
There Scotia's sons in triumph fell;
Napoleon's fate they princely sealed,
And they the despot hurl'd to hell.
32
All hail, ye states! eye Waterloo,
Ne'er tempt the clans to fight with you.
Come, Beauty come, stretch forth thy hand,
My soul doth feel the gen'rous swell,
Felt often in yon happy land;
Bliss which no human tongue can tell:
Where valour, wisdom, love, and song,
High heave the breast, the pulse beat strong!
The Powers of Darkness who doth fear?
My course of life it hath begun;
Swift as the wing'd-steed my career—
And when my rapid race is run,
'Neath yon glorious Scottish sky,
On Beauty's bosom let me die.
Not in man's school have I been taught,
Not he enlarged my sphere of thought;
Not he gave vision to those eyes,
Not he me learn'd to moralise;
Not he me skill'd to strike the lyre,
Not he did fill this breast with fire-
Nor shall he ever damp that flame,
Till it return from whence it came!
33
MY FATHER'S DEATH.
My boast is not that I deduce my birth
From loins enthroned, or rulers of the earth,
But higher far my proud pretensions rise-
The son of parents pass'd into the skies.
WHAT! dost thou say he is no more-
That I will ne'er again him see!
I cannot weep, tho' feel full sore,
The loss of one so loved by me.
I cannot weep-too long hath grief
An inmate of my bosom been;
And nought but death could give relief,
To pains concealed, and pangs unseen.
I cannot weep-the fount is dry-
My heart may break-I cannot tear,—-
Another passed into the sky,
Of those I held on earth so dear.
My father! 'tis for thee I sigh—
Why do I live thy death to see?
Now broke the dearest, tenderest tie,
Which bound me, native Land, to thee.
Now I in distant climes could roam-
COWPER.
Could leave the place that gave me birth;
All gone who made this land a home-
A hallow'd spot upon this earth!
I look around—no more I see,
My mother's smile-my father's form-
My babes-so shortly spared to me—
All left me here to wail and mourn.
34
'Tis true there's one, one only left,
Can comfort to my soul impart;
My all-were I of her bereft
Sweet idol! of my inmost heart!
My feelings strung-my bosom fired—
Theme of my song in early life-
My soul approved, my heart desired,
Whom now can call, in raptures-wife!
But still a loneliness I feel-
A dreariness not tongue can tell;
A something which I can't reveal—
To part with one loved me so well.
O would'st that thou a few more years
To me been spared, to thee have proved,
In more than sighs, or words, or tears,
How thee so tenderly I loved.
Gone, dear Father! gone-scarcely more
Than manhood reach'd, when fled thy breath ;
But cares and pains thy bosom tore,
And brought on age and early death!
Yes! might'st have lived-strong was thine arm,
Robust thy frame, in years gone by—
Firm built, well formed, heart large and warm;
Dark eye that glowed, and forehead high!
Fain would my filial love preserve
Thy name in song, my gifted sire!
For thou had'st muscle, bone, and nerve,
Of mind, of frame, and soul of fire!
Misfortunes! and a crowd of ills!
That wither life, destroy its bloom,
35
*
The spirit breaks, the strongest kills,
Thee ripen'd early for the tomb.
Great hopes thou had'st of him now sings,
Thy dirge in sorrow's plaintive tone;
Though nought but nature wake the strings,
Of his wild harp, in paths alone.
Ne'er can forget, but on mine ear,
Like melancholy music swell,
Thy latest words, in accents clear,
"My son! my son! to thee farewell!"
O God! thou hast me sorely tried,
Within a few short months to take,
So many loved one's from my side,
As if thou meant'st my heart to break!
Perhaps, 'tis well, 'twill wean away
My thoughts from earth-them fix above!
The home of everlasting day,
For they are there I dearly love!
Since I have "passed the Rubicon," in coming before the public
in a Rhymer's garb-if not with the inspiration of the poet-I have,
as to my paternal parent, to add (and I may quote, so far as
memory goes, from a notice which appeared at his death in the
Glasgow Herald), that he was one of the few under the guiding genius
of the wondrous Henry Bell-had command of the "Comet," the
first steamer that plied on the Clyde, or Europe's waters. The first,
too, steamed one into the beautiful Bay of Rothesay, and into the
far-famed and romantic Lochlomond. He is interred in the cemetery
of the High Church of Rothesay. I was not present when he gave
his manly and heroic soul to his God; and a letter from a lady
acquainting me of his death, and his last, sad words, called forth
the above strain. As to my maternal parent, who is intro-
up
36
duced in the piece, "Our ain auld Toon o' Anderston," I may as
well, here, in a word state, that she was niece of the late Miss
Buchanan of Boquhan-was heiress of that estate-the chief seat
of my ancestors, centuries ago, Machar Castle, the ploughshare has
long since passed over. This is not the place to make revelations
as to how those ancient, and once extensive patrimonial possessions,
are now in the hands of the "stranger"-bearing the name, and
assuming the arms of my family; but I may say, that of all events
in my life, this one has had the greatest influence in directing my
mind to the duplicity and hypocrisy of mere lip-religionists: men
who, under the cloak of sanctity (as in the case, at the present
moment, of Sir J. D. Paul), with downcast eye, sanctimonious gait,
and mum-mum looks, commit every degree of villany in defrauding
sterling honesty, or, if worse can be, in one's very birthright
smuggling into their hands!
LOVE, FAITH, AND PEACE.
FAITH is, indeed, the Christians' stay,
And Love the lamp that lights his way:
Or Faith and Love a wedded pair,
And Peace the offspring of their care!
No more would War this world dismay,
If Peace had universal sway!
All strife and bloodshed here would cease,
In the all-glorious reign of Peace!
And for that blessed time pray we,
When Peace shall reign from sea to sea.
Then, then, the Jubilee will ring,
The advent of our Saviour King:
To Judah's throne, with Judah's might,
Till sun, moon, stars, withdraw their light!
37
EPISTLE
TO JAMES B-F- -D OF BRECHIN.
SCOTLAND STREET, GLASGOW, 1st Jan., 18—.
DEAR James, thy silence puzzles me,
And may say-mine;
That months fly past, and from you be,
Not e'en a line!
“A guid new year” in guid auld phrase,
In mountain dew;
A bumper to my lips I raise,
And quaff to you.
I've had a mind ofttimes of late
To something say;
My griefs, my joys, or woes relate,
Form of a lay!
My sentiments to you express,
Void of disguise;
Not in the sophistry or dress,
The schoolmen prize—
But from the heart what freely flows,
To
pour it forth,
While the warm tide of feeling glows,
To one of worth.
Well dost thou know the thoughts oft spring.
In manly breast—
In minds for ever on the wing—
Ne'er sluggish rest.-
E
38
But soaring 'yond this mortal state,
And upward driven
By pinions strong, and strength innate,
Draw light from heaven!
Amidst my many struggles I,
And life-time wrong;
I've yet a soul soars to the sky
In artless song.
My lark, sweet bird! what tho' it be
Chained to the spot,
Sweet notes of artless minstrelsy,
Pours from its throat.
Tho' I, unskilled in schoolmen's art,
To sweep the lyre,
Perhaps my words may reach the heart--
The bosom fire!
O! sweet the joy it gives to me—
Nor will rehearse-
The power, the pathos, melody,
Of witching verse.
The muse, sweet nymph! companion dear!
With goodness fraught;
Inspirer of the sage, the seer,
Me wisdom taught.
Oft 'neath Heaven's high o'erarching dome,
Solaced with song:
Depressed with care I often roam,
Clyde's banks along!
39
The muse is ever constant, kind,
The genius fires;
A manly, independent mind,
In me inspires!
I bear up 'midst the thralls of life,
On buoyant wing,
'Gainst e'en neglect, and slander rife,
And thus will sing.
I cannot bow, I cannot bend,
To wealth or power;
Not formed to fawn, or crouch, my friend
To crown or dower!
I cannot bend, I cannot bow,
To mere earth worms:
Tho' decked in regal pomp or show,
My soul them spurns!
I may be scorned, I may be jeered,
But what care I:
"Tis not in man to make me fear'd-
But once to die.
Let friends prove false, let man me spurn,
I wont despair;
Nor death nor all life's ills will mourn,
While health I share.
Dost thou think, man, an humble pay,
This heart would break;
Or frowns, or threats, or tyrant-sway,
Me slavish make?
40
No! not 'fore brother worm I vow,
Withhold my breath;
Nor trample on me would allow-
Meet rather death!
OPPRESSORS! DESPOTS! ye the curse
Of living states!
Whom nations blindly suckle, nurse,
Hell you awaits.
You spill their blood, you grind their bones,
Or exiled driven;
The tears, the sighs, the people's groans,
Ascend to Heaven!
You may enjoy the present hour,
In lewdness, lust;
And crush each one within your power,
But die you must!
You may exult in your career,
All void of heart;
But summon'd be, the sentence hear,
"Accurst! depart!"
But let me turn from tyrants, knaves,
And they're not few;
Who are at best but cowards, slaves!
Dear James, to you.
Thy father, long may Heaven him spare,
And sisters dear,
Thy brother fortunes favours share,
From year to year.
41
My hand, my heart, to you extend,
And happy, hale,
Long may you be! so sings your friend
Till death-MACPHAIL.
•
A LAST REQUEST.
I FEAR my days are closing
And opening now the tomb;
In arms of death reposing,
Ere reach'd have manhood's bloom.
Will no kind hand be strewing
Sweet flowers my grave around;
Or tear the sod bedewing,
Will no one there be found?
Weep not for me, tho' I have wept
O'er youth and beauty's bier!
Grieve not for me, tho' oft have I,
The loss of friendship dear!
Plant at my head the heather-bell,
The thistle by my side,
As emblems of the hills I loved,
And land, my boast and pride!
E 2
42
MAN: HIS IMPOTENCE.
MAN! canst thou hush the winds asleep,
Or canst thou walk upon the deep,
Or the thunder keep from roaring,
Or on high the eagle soaring,
Or in youth's breast love from burning,
Or earth on her axis turning;
Or canst thou make the moon stand still,
Or stop Freedom's murmuring rill,
Or the tides from ebbing, flowing,
Or the seasons coming, going;
Or make the ocean's fury cease,
Or make the light of day increase :
Canst thou dispel night's dreary gloom,
Or wake the sleepers of the tomb;
Canst thou Death's cruel hand unnerve,
Make time out of her course to swerve,
Or blot the stars out of the sky,
Or stay a soul when called on high?
No, MAN! no more than can arrest,
The flame that fires the patriot's breast,
Or, Sacred Genius! bursting forth,
In burning clime, or chilly north!
MAN! Heaven's mandates do obey!
Thou like the brutes wast made of clay;
Them thou canst conquer with thine iron rod,
ONE can thee conquer, with a smile-a nod!
43
ON THE DEATH OF AN INFAMOUS
CHARACTER.
ROUND me they chant a despot's praise,
They who have slaughtered most their race,
Great monuments to them do raise,
And give them in fame the highest place:—
Surely those times shall cease to be,
O'er the wide world from sea to sea.
Lately there sank in death's cold arms,
The vilest of men e'er drew breath;
Numberless maids robb'd of their charms,
And bragg'd of it till met by death!
Surely this creature doth dwell
Not in high heaven, but deepest hell.
No one so loathsome to my eye,
As the seducer of the Fair;
Round me would raise the "hue and cry,"
Severest death for him prepare!
Surely many around me be
Of similar mind are to me.
O! what so painful as to hear,
In boasted Land of truth and love;
That conntless maids do shed the tear,
Through those that falsely to them prove;
Surely some spirit will arise
In woman's cause, fire earth and skies!
44
O! why should man be slave to man?
And woman unprotected be?
Which have entailed since time began,
On earth such vice and misery.
Go! break my brother's bonds-him free,
And woman I defend will thee!
THE PLEBEIAN.
'Tis true, no star adorns my breast,
Nor 'scutcheon have to eye arrest,
Nor in the state do hold the reins,
Nor can I say, "Those my domains;"
Nor aught have I to task with toil,
Nor selfish interest in this isle;
And what but such make men, I say,
Love of themselves so much display?
Contracts perverts-their minds, their hearts,
That nothing truthful in them starts!
Nought have I but what God has given,
No earthly heritage 'neath heaven,
And this at once I do admit;
But it has not, nor e'er shall it,
Cause me the "truly great" to lower,
Or at them scowl-them I adore!
But greatness is alone in mind,
And not ìn names of any kind;
Man can't it give, but God alone;
And though yon man don't fill a throne,
45
But lives secluded and retired,
He with the soul of genius fired,
And poor as Lazarus he be,
A greater than your kings is he!—
Men in the past, to scourge mankind,
The kingly office them assigned!
The earth and all its sweets them give
To toiling millions starving live!
Who in the past, since time began,
A scandal on the name of MAN!
TAUNT ME NOT FOR LOVING WOMAN.
TAUNT me not for loving woman,
While I journey on this earth;
For whom I'd die like a Roman,
Whom I've loved from my birth!
Cease to plague me more, ye SELFISH,
For to mind the world and wealth;
He's no greater brains than shell-fish,
Who her loves not more than pelf.
Cease to cry-Desist from writing
Of this creature and her worth;
Foolish youth! for one your fighting,
Who'll your labours turn to mirth!
46
Say not so that she will jest make,
Or to me ungrateful be;
While I boldly, here, her part take,
On this famed Isle of the Sea.
But, dear Woman! fame I court not,
Nor thy favours nor thy smiles!
Though crosses rife in my hard lot,
I will ne'er renounce my toils!
1839.
SIR ARCHIBALD ALISON, BARONET,
HISTORIAN OF EUROPE.
O LIVE, great master of our age!
For, bright is thy historic page;
I've gazed upon thy noble form,
With mental toil though sadly worn ;
And in thy lineaments of face,
Deep channels of grave thought could trace.
To greatest minds thine is allied,
Will ever be thy country's pride!
Most startling hast thou shown the fate,
The destiny all states await,
Which from uprightness turn away—
And where injustice bears the sway—
Stripp'd of the purity of youth-
Which grovel in the blaze of truth!
47
But 'tis the virtues of thy heart.
In private life the better part,-
That shed a lustre on thy name,
As bright as is thy world-wide fame,
Thy genius with true worth combined,
No morals loose in thee we find;
As are not few, who would be thought
Men born to teach, 'bove being taught―
Act contrary to what they teach,
Or rather what they heartless preach!
An honour to the gifted thou—
The peer, and peasant at his plow,
Thy memory deeply will revere,
And through all time thy name hold dear!
For moral worth, and lofty mind,
Rank 'mong the first of human kind!
As to the above, I may remark, that it is not the lawyer, or the
judge, or the baronet-the accomplished gentleman, or the learned
writer, or the eloquent orator, or the profound sage, to whom any
little compliment is here paid-but to the MAN and to the great
HISTORIAN. Those lines, I may add, were written shortly after
he came amongst us, adorning our Judicial Bench, and rendering
more illustrious the annals of our city. And, probably, two
greater men, in literary eminence, never sat, in any age, or
in any country, on one Bench, than Sir Archibald Alison
and Henry Glassford Bell-the latter, allowed by every impartial
mind, the most triumphant has entered the lists in defence of the
beauteous Mary, Queen of Scots! Who can read his defence of
the maligned, persecuted, and martyred Mary, without pronounc-
ing him amongst the most eloquent of men, or his metrical lines
on her chequered and tragic life, without, at once, acknowledging
him-a POET.
48
SATIRE.
THOU wouldst be petty tyrant-hence!
Thou creature full of bestial sense-
Thou dog, thou cur, thou mongrel ape,
Good heavens! a brute in human shape!
Go, hide thy shapeless, spindle legs,
Thou whose breath is rotten eggs;
Whose laugh, but the hyena's grin-
Foul out, but fouler art within!
Ha! thou the pure aud virtuous one.
Thou wouldst-be Saint! come, come, have done!
No more of cant-first learn, thou elf,
To love thy brother as thyself.
Thou hypocrite! and pray what not?
Go hold thy tongue thou secret sot!
Thou venal wretch, who thee admire,
Save but to vent on thee their ire?
Thy face its sallow, corpse-like hue,
Proclaim thee dead to all that's true!
What are thy looks? but low and mean-
More cringing sycophant ne'er seen!
You would attempt to all despise
With snivel talk, and soulless eyes!
You would attempt to all o'erreach
With canting nonsense madmen preach!
You would attempt to under-rate
Men could school thy blockhead pate!
Thou insidious, artful devil,
Thou incarnate of all evil!
49
Go on! thou soon wilt show thyself
Chameleon-like-ass-fool-and elf.
What care we for thy smooth-lip'd tongue,
To dirt shalt go, from dirt hath sprung!
A serpent's coil is thy embrace,
And who not spurn thee, loves his race?
Conceited fool! thy brains a midden,
Thy heart a sink-rest meantime hidden,
Them may again unmask at will
And show thee e'en more hideous still!
THE FALSE OATH.
DECEIT and treachery in thy tongue!
The villain in thy face!
Can smile and smiling murder could,
Thou monster of our race!
'Tis not the ruin, beggary-
These I can manly brave-
On me you've brought—I care for—tis
The damning oath you gave!
Avaunt! I cannot breathe the air,
So foul a thing doth draw-
Could murder men as oaths—if leave
Was given to thee by law!
ין
50
SHE LOVES ME NOT.
WHAT! say'st thou that she loves me not!
O, was there ever love like mine?
That I must love and curse my lot!
That e'er such love-that fount divine-
Should heave my solitary breast;
O, have I not in yonder place,
E'en till my lips were parch'd, her's prest
And gazed with raptures on that face,—
Was so entrancing to my sight!—
That it was bliss, if bliss e'er given,
To bosoms young with fond delight—
A foretaste of the joys of Heaven!
And are those joys by her forgot?
And did she say she loves me not!
She loves me not! can I believe,
Such words should from her lips e'er flow?
Some other one were meant to grieve;
She could not wound this bosom so-
Where oft her gentle head hath lain,
And none but Heaven our transports see!
O, that I could recall again
One moment!-but that ne'er can be-
When 'neath the smiling moon we've strayed,
My arm around her lovely form ;
Or to behold my vestal maid
I heeded not the rain or storm:
Are those young days by her forgot?
O, did she say—she loves me not!
51
She may not love! I'll her forgive!
But dear to me each early token;
In gloom and sadness doom'd to live;
Would that the mystic spell was broken!
'Tis easy said! but ne'er till death,
I fear this heart will cease to love her,
And even at my latest breath,
Her form, in fancy, round me hover!
Her image! who shall it deface?
Or from my bosom wrench it try?
Rude time may others there displace;
But it my soul shall bear on high!
She yet around my grave may move,
And whisper, "Yes! I did him love.”
SACRILEGE!
Written several years ago, on seeing the more than barbarous
desecration of poor men's graves-their very bones dug up-cast
about-and carried away as if those of dumb animals or insensate
brutes. The remonstrances of dearest kindred were in vain. The
tears of the widow and the orphan had no eloquence in moving
them to desist—an old and venerable church must be thrown down
-graves must be removed-to make way for a new structure—a
modern piece of show.
Is feeling exiled from the breast of man ?
Or reverence for the ashes of the dead?
The living from the grave are but a span,
Death at their heels with measured step doth tread!
52
The tomb is sacred in the eye of Heaven,
Around it angels wing with sympathy divine,
Is thus its casement to be shatter'd-riven-
Its hallow'd ashes to the rude winds given,
And sun, and moon, and stars, with pity on them shine?
The savage guards the spot where kindred sleep,
And in defence of it his blood would spill!
What if he saw the relics that those keep,
Untomb'd and trampled on? he would you kill!
Monsters cease! who a resurrection preach,
Ye infidels! a theme for waggery and jest!
'Tis works like these make thousands make a breach,
And fling from them salvation in their reach—
Revolting to each feeling of the human breast!
Does not the widow's and the orphan's tears,
Stay thy mad havoc with these humble graves?
To meet thy God for it hast thou no fears?
Their tenants were not vassals, no! nor slaves-
But of the free! tho' plebeians of our land,-
The sons of honest toil and sterling worth!
The worst of sacrilege your deeds this brand-
Would that Heaven would paralize your hand,
In ravishing those tombs of holiest earth.
A Temple here you are about to raise,
When you have thoroughly brush'd those bones away,
And in it JESUS glorify and praise,
May it be to the elements a prey!
53
The thunder-bolt that echoes though the sky,
The hurricane that sweeps along the ghastly deep,
The earthquake that makes mountains fall and rise-
May they it their merciless victim prize,
And bring it low as those who lately here did sleep!
THE LOVELY SCOTTISH GIRLS.
In rapturous strains they sing of climes where dark-eyed
maids dwell,
Their blandishments and witchery, and fascinating spell!
But little other lands do know-and little do we care-
The beauty of our martial isle in feature, form and air,
They may not have the wanton gait, and wanton ways of those
Who live beneath a warmer sun, and feel love's warmest
throes-
But skin as fair and heart as pure-them would not give for
worlds-
And nought but beauty's self they be-our lovely Scottish
girls.
Come, match you them, ye minstrels! who wake mystic lyre
In praise of those ye fondly love, or those you most admire:
On
sunny plains of Italy, or England's temp'rate clime,
Your daughters may be beautiful-our daughters are sublime!
'Tis not alone the hue of health, or rich blood in their veins,
Nor e'en the magic of their voice, us keeps in captive chains;
F2
54
But lofty mind the virtuous sways, the vicious from them
hurls,
Our highest pride, our greatest boast-our lovely Scottish
girls.
'Tis thou, sweet Clyde! can tell how oft I long thy banks
have roved,
And arm in arm in summer's eve, with her I dearly loved,
And 'neath a spreading tree we've sat, o'erhung thy classic
stream,
With all the warmth of youthful love indulged hopes gayest
dream:
Those days are gone, those joys are fled, ah! never to return,
But Heaven still guard my lovely JEAN, tho' blasted hopes
I mourn;
Too great the bliss her have enjoy'd, whose name like magic
dirls,
E'en yet each cord within my breast-sweet, precious,
matchless girls!
There is a sprightly loveliness peculiar to the Fair,
Who live amidst our sylvan scenes, or breathe our mountain
air,
A freshness and buoyancy of spirit to them given,
With every mental gift endow'd on favourites of heaven:
And let a foe invade our shore-at morn, or noon, or night,
Those are the charmers who would nerve our arm in glorious
fight!
What glancing eyes, and noble brows, luxuriant auburn
curls;
O, blessings on that beauteous race! our lovely Scottish girls!
55
ON THE
NUPTIALS OF WALTER MH———L.
OUR ain kind Watty's gaun awa,
T' the hymenial altar;
Whare mony's gane, but few like him,
Thrown roun' them been love's halter:
And joys await he little kens,
Whan on love's breast reposes,
Tho' thorny ways in life he'll tread,
Love's bed's a bed o' roses!
Wha disna Watty wish fu' weel-
A chiel o' sterling merit;
Frae heel to croun, frae breast to back,
He's fu' o' Scottish spirit!
Wha sweeter sing, or story tell,
Or e'en a point dispute-
Nae matter what it be, he's sure
T'ilka ane confute;—
Not wi' the learning o' the schules
O' muckle sumph or coof;
But COMMON SENSE, that heavenly gift,
Comes rattling free aff loof!
I'll say nae mair-weel him I wish,
As weel's his charming Mary;
11
56
My blessing rest upon them baith,
Till sail'd have o'er life's ferry-
O, may he weather every storm,
Triumphantly them brave;
Till age gies way-and Heaven cries
Sheer into port"-the grave!
ON THE DEATH OF ALEXANDER BUCHANAN,
WAVERLY COTTAGE, GOVAN.
THIS is the spot-this was the home,
Of sweetest minstrel ever sung-
Proud was the muse with him to roam,
Her choicest mantle round him flung,
Sweet Bard! not kinder heart could be-
Ne'er gentler nature e'er man given,
Nor mind with more true poesy-
Ne'er nobler soul e'er passed to heaven!
Yes! well may Scotia heave a sigh,
And Nature's self let fall a tear!
He's gone to join the choir on high;
He's gone e'er shone his glories here.
How chill that brow so oft inspired—
Those eyes how dim once beam'd so bright-
That voice! the coldest breast hath fired,
Now hush'd-and day here turn'd to night!
This young and really gifted poet-leaving a widow and three
interesting children-expired in his romantic cot, Govan, on
57
the 8th February, 1852, in the 34th year of his age. As to
the relics of almost sacred interest-possessed by him, among
which-THE CHAIR OF ROBERT BURNS-See p. 234 of Mr. Hugh
Macdonald's recently published and charmingly-written "Rambles
Round Glasgow." This Chair, it may be mentioned, in which sat,
in Dumfries, our National Bard, at his own fire-side-is still in
possession of Mrs. Buchanan; though, I am informed, great
inducements have been held out to her to part with it. I need
not remark as to the numbers, who, with that generous enthusiasm,
all associated with, or belonging to, BURNS excites, come from
all parts to see it; and many, I have no doubt, seated in
that plain, antique-looking Chair, have felt more glowing and
exalted feelings than had it been the throne of the greatest of
earth's potentates. Such the power, such the spell of genius!
THE MAID OF LOCHLONG.
O, GIVE to me my native hills, and give to me my Jean,
To wander forth with her alone, and by no mortal seen,
Save the spirit of the storm as it skips the mountains high,
And its wild music heard afar as it revels through the sky.
And what the joy, and what the bliss, Lochlong to me
thou'st given,
The rapturous hours I spent with her were nought but bliss
of Heaven.
To see me with my arm around her sweet, voluptuous form,
While broadly on us shone the moon, and round us raged
the storm.-
58
To see me as I spoke of love with all the warmth of youth,
While on her glowing lips impress'd the pledge of love and
truth,-
Those were the hours to kindle up and fire e'en manhood's
brain,
One moment but to live again, could bear a world of pain !
I'll climb again my native hills, I'll walk where she hath
trod,
And linger round the fairy spot where we had our abode,
I'll linger, yes! I'll tread each scene, and glory in the maid,
That there is ONE that I can love, as if for me was made!
EXTEMPORE ON ALEXANDER MILNE,
THE SCOTTISH VOCALIST.
SWEET singer of our land,
In pathos and in power,
How glad to grasp thy hand,
In this bright, happy hour.-
Around the social board,
My humble voice to raise;
And well I may accord
Thee highest meed of praise!
59
A witchery in thy song,
A magic in thy voice,
Us thrilling bears along,
And leaves no room for choice-
To think--reflect—but feel,
You master of your art,
Such wizard power to steal,
All save from us our-heart!
A melody which strings
Each chord within our breast,
Like lark, when soaring, sings-
Long live and be thou blest!
may remark that this extempore effusion was written on my first
hearing Mr. Milne sing, in our City Hall, some three years ago.
Wilson gone! Who competent to fill the void? An entire stranger
Mr. M. was to me, but I was delighted beyond measure that that
void, I thought, was now filled ably, and, to my mind, masterly, in
rendering the very spirit of the genius of Scottish song, familiar
to all privileged in hearing him. I have heard him twice or thrice
since. Confirmed they have my first impression of his rare natural
ability; indeed, of his being specially gifted in interpreting the
very feelings, and entering into the very soul of the poet, under
the inspiration of composition. But what of Mr. Milne now? Is
"The harp that once through Tara's halls
The soul of music shed,"
hung up as lumber, or the temple of Fame deserted by him for
that of Mammon? I do not wish to say anything disrespectfully
of Mr. Milne; for impossible a breast like his, from which such
melody can flow, could be possessed of thorough sordidness; or an
ear so finely attuned to all that's sweet, and touching, and thrilling
in our nature-could close itself against the elevating and enduring
voice of fame.
60
It is in a NATIONAL point of view I have ventured these remarks.
It is important to sustain our National character-our high and
enviable position as the "Land of Song." And wherever genius
is we should foster it, not killing it by kindness, nor allowing it to
perish by neglect;—killing! did I say—no fear of that-neglect !
alas, too probable-too often the case in this most fruitful, but I
am sorry to say, most uncongenial climate, in rearing so tender a
plant as genius! And while awarding a small tribute to the charm-
ing vocal powers of one who has passed the threshold of popularity,
if he has not reached the pinnacle of celebrity, I should be happy
in seeing him delighting the millions, who, from his apparent re-
tirement, are denied that exquisite gratification; and it seems
strange to me, that a gentleman with such high professional ac-
quirements, and indisputable musical genius, should not gratify
his countrymen; however much he may be independent of, or in-
different to, encountering the vicissitudes of a professional life.
The critical ordeal he has passed through over the three kingdoms,
was such as to stimulate him to renewed and greater efforts; and I
am but expressing the opinion of competent judges when I say,
that his might be a career in this country and America, as bright,
and a name as lasting, associated with Scottish song, as any have
appeared in public, warbling "our native wood notes wild." He
has my best wishes, and to him I can but repeat-"long live and
be thou blest!"
THE PARTING.
O, MUST we part-O, must we sever,
To meet no more-to part for ever!
The joyous scenes, the sweet, sweet places;
I've clasped thee oft to my embraces:
With heaving breast-pulse wildly beating,
Forgetful of time swiftly fleeting-
Leave them I must-forget them-never,
Though we must part, and part for ever!
61
WOMAN.
CREATION.-A PARAPHRASE.
In the beginning of the world,
When plenish'd was this earth,
With herbs and plants, and beasts and birds,
In gladness, joy, and mirth—
MAN sprang from the CREATOR'S hand;
To him was given a name,
That he might know his origìn—
That he from dust but came.
A sleep o'er him GOD caused to come
To—(not of earth or stone,
Or water, air, or fire)-now make
Creation's CROWNING ONE!
He slept as if to dust returned;
And 'midst earth's grandeurs rife,
A WOMAN into being rose,
With name of EVE or LIFE!
The woman from a rib GOD made,
Her to the man did give;
Placed them in Eden's blissful bowers,
To sinless, guileless, live:
Naked they were, and not ashamed
Their hearts fond love to tell,
And purest thoughts and feelings glowed,
And burned-till-sinning-fell!
G
62
Expell'd were they from Paradise :
For KNOWLEDGE-term her must
First Martyr! which showed she had MIND,
Or something more than DUST.
She saw the tree was fair and good,
She knew that it would make,
On eating of its fruit-her WISE,
And did of it partake.
Expell'd! not her GOD first accused
Of this all-blasting sin-
Knew whom most to be angry with
For disobeying Him.
And heaviest curse on him pronounced;
Who has not felt the same?
He weak and cowardly, indeed,
To lay on Eve the blame!
Expelled! poor exiles of the world!
But with no PROMISE loose-
Her seed-not his-in future time,
A perfect MAN produce—
A GOD! a glory throws around
The universal race ;-
The least-most fallen-e'en in whom
Some trait divine can trace!
Expell'd! If we through HER have lost-
Or were from Eden driven,
SHE who has given the world ONE
Through whom to get to Heaven!
63
Leave father-mother-cleave to wife
Man do not be "alone"
Is the Creator's first command,
And
ye shall be as ONE.
Unspeakable the honour man,
So fair a one to wed,
A being far less beautiful
God might for thee have made.
A fairer could not breathe on earth,
Nor could to man be knit;
'Twas her who made earth Paradise,
And such doth make it yet!
There is a meaning in words; and what volumes as to the
names, "Adam" and "Eve?"-Adam, in the Hebrew, signifying
earth, or red earth; and Eve, life or spirit-the one indicating his
more gross or terrestrial nature, and the other, her more exalted
or spiritual creation!
It is not my intention, here, to advance anything as to the
Supremacy of Woman; but she, indeed, seems, in the works of
creation, the link between the human and angel kind; or she-not
man-the first murderer, and ever since the man-stealer, man-en-
slaver, and man-oppressor of his race!-who appears, as Scripture
hath it, a little lower than the angels." In the woman being
taken out of the man, what grossly absurd reasoning or inferences,
have been penned! Is not woman's being taken out of the
man a thousand fold better than like him-as to the element of
which he was formed-in a level with the whole animal kingdom?
She, in this respect, stands alone-separate and apart from all the
earth-born creatures—and as if another order or race of being,
while man "of the earth, earthy," can claim no superiority, in
respect to the substance of which he was made, to the dumb ani-
mals around him! And this explains the meaning of the expres
64
sion, so humiliating to his pride, of Solomon, the sage, that “
man has no pre-eminence above a beast."
&
In fact, he is as it were the husk or shell, and woman the kernel
taken out of it; or, the earth the soil, the lower animals the
roots, man the tree, and woman the fruit of animated existence!
The noble work-" Woman and Her Master"-of Lady Morgan-
Britain's greatest authoress-I beg to press upon the attention of
every unprejudiced man; and every intelligent woman.
JAMES REDDIE, ESQ.,
ADVOCATE.
YES! yonder seated is the sage,
In legal lore in prime of age;
Usurping passions from him flown,
And reason reigning on her throne.
How clear and steady is that eye,
And blue, too, as his native sky :
What mild expression, roomy brow,
And hair white as the driven snow.
List to the accents of his voice!
His language nought of sounding noise,
His thoughts, how clearly are express'd,
And to the judgment are addressed;
No pompous, ostentatious tones,
Proceed from dullards or from drones;
No gloomy look! no glance severe!
Presumptuous or dogmatic air.
O, see the smile that's on his face,
As natural as to beauty—grace,
65
Valour-to those who've battles won,
As light is to the rolling sun!
Not silly or unmeaning it,
Nor artful on his face doth sit,
Nor it put on some end to gain,
A patron, friend, or beau retain !
O, 'tis the radience of his soul,
Like spreading light from pole to pole,
Breaks through his face on you doth shine,
Not earthly it, but LIGHT DIVINE!
This great luminary of the law, to whose vast legal acquirements
and comprehensive judgment, the most eminent at the Bar, and
distinguished on the Bench, paid such profound deference, is now
no more. It is not for me to say I have been successful in this
poetical sketch. He was, indeed, an ornament-a venerable and
venerated head-as First Town Clerk of the second city of this
great empire. His rare and remarkable abilities and attainments,
moral majesty and intellectual glory, are immortalized in the
pages of Lord Brougham.
WOMAN.
The gust of joy, the balm of woe,
The saul o' life, the heaven below,
Is rapture-giving Woman.
BURNS.
O, THEY are mirthful and they're joyous creatures,
When unrestrain'd and freedom to them given ;
To watch their movements, gaze upon their features,
To me a something not of earth bnt Heaven!
Yes! it was bliss no where on earth I've found,
And I have mingled oft 'mong grave and gay,
G 2
66
The flowing bowl and happy friends around,
Have held, 'tis true, o'er me their magic sway-
But what the festive scene without dear Woman's there,
Her smiles to cheer, her looks to glad the heart;
Her witchery of voice and her enchanting air,
To manly bosoms nameless joys impart!
O, what were life without dear Woman's charms?
And who so well can sooth when we're with grief opprest!
'Tis heaven itself when circled in our arms,
We
e press her to our lips or strain her to our breast!
SONNET.
MISS E————H L-
-E.
In thee is innocence and loveliness combined,
Thou beauteous one, and with high powers of mind;
Nor vain art of thy charms, thou charming creature-
Thy form perfection, and thy every feature.
With laughing eye, and lofty, ample brow,
With ruby lips, and skin like driven snow,
The lily and the rose, as if thee lended,
Are in thy cheeks most beautifully blended;
While modesty in thee, all charms surpasses,
Proclaims thee lovelist of our Scottish lasses.
Tho' Scottish born, with Scottish manners too,
Erin's warm blood thy veins it courses through.
O, may no treacherous one ensnare thy youth,
But mated be to one of love and truth!
67
ROUALEYN GORDON CUMMING, ESQ.*
OF ALTYRE,
(THE EMINENT SPORTSMAN AND LION-HUNTER.)
SAY what they may, I cannot but admire
Thee Cumming! who did leave thy native shore
In times of peace-no foe thy breast to fire,
To wield the patriot's sword in battles roar!
Around us are the trophies of thy might!
Which speak thy valour and thy daring high,
Of one who would have shown in glorious fight;
Thy Wallace-form proclaims it and thine eye!
First in the field, and last, with deadly mark,
A spartan! if thy country was to save.
Nor fly-nor move-not e'en immortal Park
Nor Bruce thy great compeers, the bravest of the brave
In wilds of India, or in fields of blood,
Do what thou'st done on earth and in the flood!
:
THE MATRON.
You say her maiden beauty
Has faded from her cheek,
The spring of young affection
'Twere vain in her to seek;
Whose form my pathway lighted
In boyhood's glowing morn,
* As to this remarkable man, and his extraordinary exploits,
see Appendix.
68
Ere guile my breast had entered,
Or it with passions torn;—
Tho' faded be that beauty,
Like fairest flower must die,
And tho' sweet young affection
No longer lights her eye,
She dear to me with matron grace,
As when I first beheld her face!
SONG.
FRESH from her mountains-
Where muircocks whirring spring :
Fresh from her mountains-
Where eagles, soaring, wing;
Where the blue bell and heather,
Are fresh as of yore,
She the beauty of beauties,
The maid I adore.
Fresh from her mountains-
Where the winds wildly blow;
Fresh from her mountains-
Ever mantled with snow!
To the lowlands she's come,
As if from on high;
And who not admire her,
In form, face, and eye!
69
Fresh from her mountains-
They the throne of our isle-
Her movements-a queen,
And an angel's-her smile.
Her voice the sweet music
Of truth and of love;
Where one of earth's daughters
This heart could so move!
Fresh from her mountains,
This flower of her race-
Cause many to sigh,
They her charms to embrace;
But heaven will her guide,
And heaven I implore,
That it guard will this one-
The maid I adore.
THE LILY OF THE CLYDE.
THE dew is on the grass,
The clear broad moon on high,
Her progeny, the stars,
Around her fill the sky;
And silence reigns around,
While musing on my bride-
Enchantress of this stream-
The Lily of the Clyde.
70
"Tis not her fairy form,
Nor looks, nor smiles, nor grace,
Nor soft and touching tones,
Nor lineaments of face-
Keep me spell bound to her,
By love's resistless tide-
But angel-mind her given-
The Lily of the Clyde.
Many a lovely flower,
Adorns those sylvan scenes,
Enrapturing youthful hearts
With golden joys and dreams ;
But who so fair's my Jean,
By stream or mountain side.
She, queen of beauty, is-
The Lily of the Clyde.
ON THE DEATH OF JOHN HAIG,
OF HUTCHISON.
EMPTY is that chair,
Desolate this place,
Death has entered here,
And fatal his embrace.
Where now the kindly smile?
Where now the beaming look?
And hand warm welcome gave-
All now a sealed book!
71
!
Who in his face not see
Sagacity and wit?
And even goodness self,
By hand of Heaven writ!
My venerable friend,
No more I'll sit by thee,
O, Hutchison the loss
How great to you and me!
There is a mournful gloom-
The shadow 'tis of death-
Around this charming spot,
Since yielded up his breath.
Where now the Holy Word
So oft he ponder'd o'er,
The more it read, did give
New warmth his God adore.
No fanatic, nor knave,
No hypocrite, nor sot;
His worth, with partial failings,
Fall to the wisest's lot.
Long years estranged us-true,
The fault, perhaps, 'twas mine
In loving as I did,
One seem'd to me divine.
Those boyhood's ardent days
Of purity and truth,
Nor love again as did
In my impassioned youth!
72
A glory round my path-
A light as from on high-
A something not of earth-
A creature of the sky-
My Fanny seemed! no more!
A Power there is above-
Resigned am I to Heaven,
Sole source of light and love!
To Heaven thy spirit's went,
Thy body to the dust,
'Mongst first be raised of those,
The spirits of the just.
O, scenes for ever dear!
Dear to this love-lorn heart,
Remember'd ever be,
Though doom'd with thee to part!
Farewell! in sadness, sorrow,
Farewell! no more here tread,
Tho' Love doth live, 'las Friendship
Is buried with the dead!
SEPT. 1853.
73
ON THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON.
INSCRIBED TO GEORGE WINK, ESQ.,
OF EDEN VILLA.
WAIL for the dead! the mighty's gone,
At last by death was forced to yield;
A brighter star hath never shone,
Upon this world in battle field.
The conqueror of conquerors he-
High was the mission to him given-
Not to enslave, but make man free,
That was the voice to him from heaven!
As brave have fought, and bled, and died,
Their country from oppression save,
And all the tyrant's power defied,
And welcomed freedom or the grave;
But for his like we look in vain,
No equal has on history's page-
The chief of chiefs, the man of men,
As warrior, statesman, saint and sage.
Sweet Erin! England cannot claim
This matchless one, nor Scotia's shore-
While living an unbounded fame,
And now, till time shall be no more!
Sleep, warrior, sleep! with Nelson lie,
Your names will nerve our inmost heart,
Should e'er renewed the battle cry,
For freedom! and new life impart!
H
74
Your names! a spell on field or main,
Where'er the British flag's unfurled,
Till universal peace shall reign,
And war be banished from the world.
1852.
This lyric was put, by Mr Mitchison, the eminent music-seller,
late of this city, into the shape of a song, and published in his
"Vocalist's Companion." He has prefixed to it "Anniversary
Song," saying, in a note, "It is humbly submitted that the above
elegant and beautiful lines are deserving and appropriate, and
worthy of the title given-'Anniversary Song'-to an occasion
that, in the roll of time, must ever be remembered."
A PRAYER.
O God, I've gone astray,
And walked in the high way—
Leads to the shades of death and hell;
O, pardon a poor sinner Thou,
To follow Thee doth henceforth vow-
Full fraught with grief his breast doth swell.
O God, Thou hast been kind to me,
To Thee alone I bend the knee;
Though oft of Thee forgetful been-
Those days, those years are past—
No more I tread youth's flowery scene,
No more me toss, no more me heave-
Away me lead, and me deceive—
The whirlwind and the blast
75
Of passions, which me oft have torn,
'Long pleasures stream me hurrying borne !
O God, acknowledge do,
And daily, hourly, view,
Thy Almightiness and Power;
And grateful I'm, as I should be,
That Jesus Christ hath died for me,
May He in me his SPIRIT pour!
ON THE DEATH OF MY LAST INFANT, JESSIE.
AND is another from me torn!
Whose death I wail, whose loss I mourn-
Another and another gone,
In rapid flight to Heaven have flown.
Sweet cherubs! from thy native sphere
Assuage the grief that knows no tear-
To part with thee did give me pain,
'Twas like to rend my heart in twain;
O, when of thee, dear babes, bereaved,
What madd'ning pangs my bosom heaved-
Come didst thou like a gleam of light,
Then vanished ever from my sight,
Or, flowers by hand unseen me given
To gaze upon! then snatched to Heaven!
Oh, I have felt, intensely too,
For the dear one that nurtured you;
76
To me 'twas pain, to her 'twas death,
When on her bosom past thy breath--
And lifeless sunk-no more be prest,
In fondness to her glowing breast,-
Or, thy sweet smile attract her eye,
Like angel's visit from the sky,-
Or, dearer still, a language spoke,
Oft clouds of grief dispersing broke.
Ah, gone thou art! my record make,
I wished to live for thy dear sake,
But all my babes are from me torn,
And left me, here, to wail and mourn!
TO MY WIFE-IN HER LAST ILLNESS.
THE hand of grief's fallen heavy on me,
Who, my beloved, when thou art gone-,
When left to pace this world alone-
Shall tend to me, or kindness show me?
And when on bed of sickness lying,
Who sooth my agonizing pains,
In soft and sweet endearing strains?
Or, round my couch weep while I'm dying?
O, do not say we'll soon be parted—
For ne'er again thy like I'll see,
Nor woman love as I've loved thee-
But to the grave sink broken-hearted!
77
O, do not say, I must be mated,
When thou, my love, art from me ta’en,
To her who raised my first, fond flame:
O, speak not so! ne'er such is fated!
You loved me for that very loving!
That I could love! you found 'twas true,
And I have shared that love with you!
Brought back my thoughts oft wayward roving!
O didst the heavens it not reprove,
One only boon of them I'd crave,
Be laid with thee in thy dear grave,
For never more on earth can love!
ROTHESAY, 1848.
SCOTLAND'S RIGHTS.
INSCRIBED TO WILLIAM WEST WATSON, ESQ.,
LATE SENIOR MAGISTRATE OF THE CITY OF GLASGOW,
In token of my admiration of the dignified bearing and masterly
manner in which he, as Chairman, acquitted himself at the
great National Demonstration in Vindication of Scottish
Rights-held in the City Hall, 15th November, 1853.
WHY insult us thus, thou Saxon!
Kindle will the patriot's flame ;
Making "Treaty" of a "Union,"
But a mockery and a name!
H 2
78
Borne for years too long have we,
Thy encroachments and thy pride;
And no longer silent be,
As to rights to us denied!
Speak we must! who hold his breath?
If such there be, that recreant spurn;
England! mind the field of death,
For Scotland's Rights! a Bannockburn!
Why a mutual compact make,
With an old unconquer'd nation-
Why the first its terms to break?
Treachery 'tis, and spoliation!
England thou art great and glorious;
But thou'lt pine in bitter anguish,
For thy breach of faith-notorious—
And to one thou ne'er couldst vanquish!
Can thy most unchristian motto,*
In thy National Arms compare,
With the noble one of Scotia?
Yet her Arms "to touch" you "dare!"
Roused you have a nation's fury,
Thy presumption she disdains:
Leave will to a world's Jury,
All her wrongs and all her claims.
* England's motto translated is, "Evil to him that evil thinks."
Most Christian, certainly! Scotland's, "No one dare touch me
with impunity"-manly! who deny it?
79
:
You were conquer'd, she was never-
Not the Romans her subdue;
And Caledonia live shall ever!
Free and unenslaved as you!
But she loves thee, noble England!
If thou'rt powerful, still be just;
All our deadly quarrels, England,
Long since levell'd with the dust
But you, England, little know,
Or your millions how she's slighted;
If they did, at one fell blow,
Would her wrongs at once be righted.
Scotland up! with spirit fight on,
In peace triumph as in war;
You that should be called "Great Britain".
You e'er Freedom's guiding star!
Long the struggle it may last;
All we want is but our due;
COMPENSATION for the past-
In the future-JUSTICE TRUE.
་
As to Scotland's National wrongs, or the innumerable viola-
tions by England of what is high-soundingly termed a "Treaty of
Union" (but which is verily little more than a simple Contract of
Copartnery, in carrying on the business of the two nations under
the title of "Great Britain"); all who venerate immutable right,
and eternal justice, are referred to the "Statement of Grie-
vances" issued by the National Association for the Vindication
of Scottish Rights. I know for a certainty that were the
80
English people themselves aware of such flagrant wrongs: and
had but the power in that place called the House of Commons, or
the People's House (and which is anything but that), they would
not allow the ancient emblems of Scotland to be insulted-not
speaking of being defaced-nor would her just claims remain for
one moment unredressed. They are, we willingly admit, a glori-
ous people, to whom we are proud of being united; and we have
reason to know they are equally proud of the civil alliance with a
more ancient monarchy than their own; or of a kingdom, we
may say, stands alone amidst the mighty monarchies of earth-if
not with the trophies of many victories in her hands-on her brow
the diadem-UNCONQUERED. It is that Scotland nearly a thousand
years ago, in the days of her courtly hospitality and regal splen-
dour, was the asylum of the proscribed and persecuted of England's
nobility*-that Scotland which, at the present moment, has given-
not to England, or France, or the world—but to LIBERTY, by the
inventive genius of her WATT and her BELL, those fire-ships on the
Baltic and the Black Sea, are making the tyrant tremble on his
throne, and his gigantic collosal power totter to its base. The
spirit of Nationality is now abroad throughout the earth, and let
Scotland keep true to her God and to herself, she will be preserved
amidst the whirl of revolutions, the departing of sceptres, and the
crumbling of thrones. And who doubts, with all the jeers and
sneers, puns and paragraphs, of little-mindedness, and benighted
ignorance, of the ultimate good and triumphant success, of this
Patriotic Alliance, headed as it is by one stands so high in the
estimation of his countrymen-not merely in respect of honours
the highest royalty could confer on him, or his illustrious house or
ancient lineage-but those endearing and enduring qualities of
heart and mind, which have made him so beloved by the people,
and so great an ornament of the Peerage. The very name of
Eglinton carries with it a sort of spell to the working, toiling mil-
lions, ever since he, with princely munificence-regardless of every
personal sacrifice-produced, in honour of Woman, that which was
a worthy prelude to England's Palace of Peace-the Tournament
* See Appendix, No. II.
81
-the grandest spectacle of modern times. Fleeting or evanescent
as that gorgeous pageant was, so complimentary to the Fair, and
illustrative of the chivalric glories of the past, draw it did the eyes
of the civilized world to his own loved land, of "mountain and of
flood;" and with no Glen-Tilt exclusiveness, threw open his fairy
grounds to the very humblest of his countrymen: he who now, in
his glorious manhood, at his country's call, has come forward
heading this National Movement-not with the sanguinary sword,
but the mightier one of eloquence-in behalf of Scottish Rights
and Scottish glory! And his Lordship, it must be admitted, is not
undeserving of the honourable appellation of the People's Peer;
and, side by side with the GENIUS of PATRIOTISM, no unworthy re-
presentative of Scotland's ancient monarchical majesty. And in
those ranks—in which are the greatest of her living sons-would
that Scotland could point to the great luminary has arisen in the
ducal family of Argyll.
GARIBALDI-RACE HORSE.*
THE PROPERTY OF JOHN WALLACE, ESQ.
GIVE him a rider and I have no fear,
No, none! but Garibaldi beats all here.
I've horses seen of mettle and of speed,
Told you at once their blood as well's their breed;
And Garibaldi not one whit behind,
The noblest and the fleetest of his kind!
But 'tis his symmetry I most admire,
No less his action and his eye of fire!
See! how he lifts his head, as if in scorn
Of distance, rain, of thunder and of storm
This noble animal is since dead,
82
Impatient looks! and in his face you see-
At least, can read his noble pedigree!
Away he flies outstripping all in speed,
And match'd he is by many a gallant steed,
And hundred eyes are strain'd along the grounds,
To catch one glimpse of him as past them bounds!
And in he comes, swift darting o'er the plains,
Though but a neck with ease a triumph gains-
And peers and sportsmen crowd do him along,
As well's the boisterous and admiring throng.
Yes! Wallace, you of Garibaldi may be proud,
Of him possess'd and hear such shouts so loud,
The humblest and the greatest praise so high
His numerous points, from flank to form and eye!
And e'en thy Juno equall'd is by few,
When gun in hand on moors you death do strew,
Seems with her master honest pride to share,
In laurels now which Garibaldi wear.
TRIUMPH OF GENIUS.
(A FRAGMENT.)
GIVE all fair play to wealth and fame;
Some covet wealth, and some a name!
They intellectual gods aspire,
Above each earthly, gross desire:
Who, while they live, do battle fight,
Not against Freedom, Justice, Right—
83
But ERROR, IGNORANCE and VICE-
Nor bribe will take whate'er the price;-
These are the three-they are their foe,
In closet-not arena-show,
How they can wrestle and o'ercome,
Tho' still the frame or tongue be dumb!—
Not by the sword, in butch'ring men,
But wielding masterly the pen!-
They soar above the din and strife,
The mists and thralls of human life:
Not poverty can freeze their blood,
Which bounds and heaves like ocean's flood;
Nor luring vice e'er them deprave,
Nor make them its perpetual slave;
Nor e'er by truthless writings caught,
Ne'er soil the fountain of their thought;
Them nought depress, but rise above
Maligning foes-e'en slighted love!
Deserting friends, a spurning world,
And all its malice at them hurl'd!
The dauntless heart, it never fags,
A noble form I've seen in rags—
Not shallow worth, not empty sound,
Can make earth with your name rebound,
Or waft your pages 'yond your urn,
But "thoughts that breathe and words that burn!”
84
FANNY.
ON A VISIT TO H
H
N.
(AFTER AN ABSENCE OF ELEVEN YEARS.)
DEAR object of my early love!
To show this heart doth faithful prove,
Those scenes revisit once again—
And fain in simple, artless strain,
Would dedicate to thee a lay,
Of glories that have pass'd away!
Sweet form! that caught my youthful eye,
A love awoke can never die ;
Within this breast, when those fond arms,
Were wont to clasp thy virgin charms,
And strain thee to my heaving breast,
As I thy lips in raptures prest—
But many long, long years gone by,
Since that sweet time, when heart-soul-eye,
But spoke the language that I felt,
While sighing at thy feet I knelt,
And breathed, in warmest words, love's flame-
The joy of joys thy very name!—
Which on my lips oft since hath stole,
And warmed and fired my inmost soul!
Remembrance of those happy days,
In life's young morn-the guileless ways,
And feelings pure, unsullied flowed,
And transports in my bosom glowed-
While, here, I melted, burned for thee,
Who made this earth a heaven to me-
85
Brings back the days of "auld lang syne,"
To cheer this drooping heart of mine.
O, did she know-but can it be!
My Fanny's form again I see?
Good Heavens! and do I hear her voice-
Which makes my bosom-chords rejoice,
My heart to bound within my breast-
O, I'm with joy o'erwhelming prest!
Eleven years since last I heard-
Breathed from her lips a single word-
When she was lovely, fair and young-
When last enraptur'd on them hung!
She hath her daughter-mine is gone,
Sad, sad the thought to think upon-
Yet, in my arms I could her take,
And kiss her for her mother's sake.
O, blessed hour! Sweet womankind!
'Tis something yet to live I find—
O for the moments long since past,
The joys, too heavenly were to last!
Shall I e'er seated by her be?
O speak, thou dark Futurity!
Hand link'd in hand, and eye meet eye,
Interpreter, a look, a sigh—
Expressing more than pen or tongue,
Or poet ever said or sung.
Pass on-I cannot speak-dear one!
Soon may our course on earth be run ;
A few short years and I'm no more-
Be laid with those who've gone before-
But thee I'll love till latest breath,
Till closed and sealed mine eyes in death!
1849.
I
86
FAREWELL ADDRESS,
DELIVERED AT DINNER IN HONOUR OF
JAMES BALLANTINE MANFORD, ESQ.
(PREVIOUS TO HIS LEAVING FOR AUSTRALIA).
WE'VE met to pay to worth a tribute due,
And with no selfish, mercenary view——
My mite contribute, be it rhyme or reason,
We trust, at least, 'twill be a word in season—
As promised, when last met in Eden's bowers,*
When wit, mirth, music, ruled the festive hours.
In these eventful times by many mourned;
When Europe to a battle-field is turned;
And war once more, with visage grim and dread,
Is shaking Europe with her iron tread :
And Peace, that lovely and celestial maid!
Is here pent up and looks to us for aid—
Can we indifferent view from Albion's shore,
The battle's conflict and its maddening roar;
Without one word to note this marvellous age,
None will surpass on the historic page.
Since Spain and Portugal's, and Britain's Queen,
Have sway'd the sceptre, what convulsions seen?
Seen thrones o'erturned and monarchs too uncrowned,
And dynasties been levell'd with the ground;
Seen noble KOSSUTH! like to glorious TELL,
Against oppression high his bosom swell—
Rise 'gainst his country's foes, to combat dare—
The Austrian Tiger, and the Russian Bear;
* The town residence of George Wink, Esq.
87
Seen him in exile and choose rather death,
Than he'd renounce our sacred Bible faith!
Yes! Kossuth, Scotland with her Wallace-fame,
Doth homage pay to thy illustrious name;
Her heart as warmly beats in Freedom's cause,
As when an Edward trampled on her laws-
To crush her Independence vainly tried,
With all a despot and a tyrant's pride,
Till vengeance called on BRUCE to take the field,
That Right would triumph and his doom be sealed!
1
But of all wonders 'neath a Catholic sky,
A Pope from his dominions forced to fly;
But stranger still, seen at the gates of Rome,
A people clad in arms should been at home-
Who lately burst their chains in Freedom's name.
Yet would not let the Romans do the same!
Well may we love and prize the British name,
More glorious than all Greek and Roman fame---
For Britain seems as if by Heaven designed-
Not only conquer-humanize mankind!
To regions dark, as if Divine command
y!
Impell'd her onward, with Truth's torch in hand—
She moves victorious-and all force gives way,
As if the world should live beneath her sway
And such the land a MANFORD bids adieu:
And when her hills-receding from his view-
O'er the wide waters-think you, ne'er a sigh-
Will heave his breast, or tear bedim his eye-
O, I can fancy what it is to part
With those dear as the life's-blood of our heart!
88
But must the Muse her sketching powers not try
On one fit subject for the poet's eye;
And that we cannot say of all our kind,
Some nothing striking in their face nor mind!
No less the painter, but the poet too,
Must keep his object straight before his view;
Nor deal with fiction, truth call to his aid-
And what's a picture without LIGHT and SHADE!
Of primest metal made-tho' tempered high-
Glows in his breast and kindles in his eye-
But for a moment and the storm gives place,
To glorious sunshine o'er his beaming face!
And such the nature of Heaven's gifted ones,
Her high-soul'd daughters and her brilliant sons-
Of those who have immortal made their name,
Given to their country an eternal fame ;
By science, art, or songs all-magic power,
Tho' frailest mortals in life's softest hour.
Yes, quick and fiery, as if no control
Subdue the passionate outbursts of his soul-
As was a Byron in his fiercest mood-
As was a Burns when blockheads round him stood !
But higher, greater, valued more than pence,
His native shrewdness and his commonsense;
For what the wittiest or most virtuous creature,
If commonsense ne'er sparkle in a feature?
Or child of fancy, if no solid thought
Escape his lips with Heavenly wisdom fraught?
But 'tis in business where his merits shone,
With him few can compete-reigns there alone—
And this explains how well his coffer's filled,
In tact, persuasion, who, like him, so skill'd?
89
To drive a bargain, or the "knowing" do,
Who can surpass him, no not e'en a Jew?
And tho' in fabrics better versed than law,
I will attest his heart's without a flaw!
Who would believe, that one so nervous keen,
(As instances of which not few have seen),
Of that sweet, precious dust in Mammon's mart,
Should have so kind, so generous a-heart ?
Do not suppose I am inclined to flatter,
I flatterers hate, no less their wretched matter,
Of wealthy, titled, scorn to soil my pen,
Unless, like Manford, had hearts-souls-like men!
This sketch, imperfect in its light and shade,
If nought as to his social feelings said,
To give to it a likeness real and true-
For social feeling he's surpass'd by few,
When circulates the glass the coldest warms,
Or feels the influence of female charms!
Then who more sweetly sing that happy strain,
Tho' poet were and more, "My pretty Jane,"
Or with more warmth enjoy, in part or whole-
"The feast of reason and the flow of soul."
Faults he may have, and say who has them not ?
In parting with him they are all forgot;
Go where he will may Heaven his footsteps tend,
While merit, virtue, find in him a friend;
While richer grows may gold the heart ne'er sear.
Nor whit of miser e'er in him appear;
But more and more his sympathies embrace,
His kindred, country, all the human race!
The Heavenly maxim feel-not only know-
When prone to shed the tear o'er human woe.-
I 2
90
And honest worth its sufferings he relieve,-
"More blessed for to give than to receive."
I could have wish'd the sweets of life he'd tasted,
Ere from his own dear land his steps he'd hasted;
I could have wish'd, and would him more admired,
If manly ardour had his bosom fired—
Impell'd him 'long a certain path of life,
'Mongst Scotia's lovely daughters found a- -wife!
But no! he goes all
all "lonely and alone,"
As Adam was ere Eve to gaze upon;
Still do we love him, single tho' he be—
Spare him, ye tempests! on the rude, rough sea;
And blow, ye winds! since must to other shores,
They'll make more dear the land that he adores,
His native land, where the proud thistle waves,
Its stern and warlike head o'er heroes graves,
His native land! for piety and worth,
Where find her equal o'er this solid earth!
Whose every hill and dale hath deeds to tell—
A patriot triumph'd or a martyr fell!
Blow, blow ye winds! but temper them ye skies?
'Tis now we feel how sweet are friendship's ties-
Where'er thy lot o'er the wide world may be,
Or seas divide us,—still our hearts with thee-
Loath are to part, and warm emotions swell
Our breasts, to bid, perchance, a last-FAREWELL.
1849.
91
SPEAK NOT OF LOVE.
SPEAK not of love! I cannot love!
My heart is to another given ;
To muse-to think-to speak of her,
Is little less than bliss of heaven!
O, what the joy-joy not of earth-
As lately pass'd me did she glide;
But what the bliss-O speak it not!
Had she been seated by my side.
Speak not of love, she KNEW I loved!
Ere she her hand to stranger plighted-
Her hand, but not her love could give;
In whom my heart and soul delighted.
Can she forget the rapturous joys,
When on her burning lips I've hung-
How oft her lips in transports press'd,
Till, as inspired, of her I sung.
Speak not of love! how can I love,
Save her on whom I once so doated;
And years have come and years have fled,
Still finds my heart to her devoted!
I never see the rainbow's form,
I never see the gentle dove,
But Hope revives with fluttering wing,
And whispers me to "live and love."
Speak not of love! I ONCE did love,
But ruthless hand the tie did sever;
92
And that in life's young glorious morn,
Still is she dear to me as ever!
There is a magic in her name,
And her's a spell I cannot break ;
And death alone dissolve the charm,
When I with life do farewell take!
Speak not of love! mysterious fate!
Hath broke the cords to dear ones bound us:
And left us both as free to love,
As when youth's visions danced around us.
O love, first love! thou Heavenly joy!
All else but pain and tears below;
Let hands be joined whose hearts are ONE--
Whose breasts with mutual passion glow!
TO ONE WHO WOULD MAKE A SCOTCHMAN A SLAVE.
You'd try to crush the spirit!
You'd try to break the heart-
To starve into submission;
To act a slavish part!
I'd rather very beggar be,
Than be the richest tool;
Who but a mouthful has of sense,
Of nonsense is brimful-
Who pompous struts-and with an air—
As if in all things skilled;
O, cursed wealth, what tyrants made!
With knaves this world filled!
93
Fragments.
MATRIMONY.
WOULD that the vile but knew the joys I share,
Who fly from Virtue and do Vice embrace;
No more would harlots in their lures them snare
But would, at once, fair Virtue's steps retrace-
And all the sweet anxiety and care
Of wedlock being, in their mind take place—
Of those unhallowed and impure desires,
Them bestial makes as they have made their sires!
EPITAPH ON J——S Z-L, BALFRON.
HE, 'neath this clod,
This Earth once trod,
Ne'er fear'd man's nod-
Threw off earth's load,
And took the road
To the abode
In Heaven-of God!
THE BROKEN SPELL.
THE spell is broke-the charm hath ceased,
I fling thee from my heart;
No longer empire over me,
Away-away-depart !
Go! let idlers with thee toy—
Give them what gifts they crave—
Kiss bloodless lips, hug heartless forms!—
No longer I'm thy-SLAVE!
94
O, where on earth is beauty like to thine!
So soul-inspiring, holy and divine;
Such innate wisdom, loveliness of form,
What vestal maid of classic land adorn?
O, let the thistle, shamrock, and the rose,
Twine round thy brow when I in death repose—
When I forgotten lie beneath some clod,
Without a stone to tell I e'er earth trod!
GEORGE BUCHANAN.
HAIL, stern Reformer! persecuted sage!
The light, the glory, of that dark, dark age-
Now happ❜ly gone!—when Scotia bleeding lay,
To guard her few from ravenous birds a prey—
Save thou and KNOX-who with an angel's might,
Did shed abroad Heaven's own celestial light!—
A kindred name, and kindred blood, 'tis said,
Here homage pays to thy departed shade!
Though thou didst slander HER* whom I reverc,
Thy wrongs-thy miseries—do claim a tear!
The above, written in boyhood, on visiting the obelisk erected
at Killearn to the memory of Buchanan, one of Scotland's great-
est and most gifted sons. But what bad taste, and what ruder
hand-in his own native place-railed in this beautiful monu-
mental pile? No one can approach it without reverence. Of those
who, in the early dawn of European freedom, rang the funeral knell
of mental slavery, what name more dear to our country or to
liberty-the Socrates-the John Milton-the Hampden of our be-
loved land—whose immortal writings-as poet, historian and sage,
-not brighter gems in the tiara adorns the brow of Scotland's
classic literature.
* Mary, Queen of Scots.
95
THE ENIGMA.
THEY wish me to explain,
The interval hath been;
But no! I cannot speak—
Of that last parting scene-
No mention will I make-
'Tis sad to think upon,
The fault was mine-but LovE
The cause of it alone!
RETORT.
TO AN ILLITERATE, DOGMATICAL Creature,
Who persisted in Woman's being made of the same gross
element as man.
THOU fool! to me a laughing-stock-
With heartless form, and leaden block—
With soulless eye, and voiceless tongue,
From dust, in truth, you must have sprung!
THE QUEEN,
ON HER FIRST VISIT TO SCOTLAND.
HAIL to the Queen! who approaches to visit thee,
Sons of the mountain and chiefs of the Gael;
On with your philibeg, wrapt in your tartan plaid,
March from your mountains and bid her, All Hail!
Marshall'd at Granton Pier-she to all England dear—
The longer she lives the brighter she seems;
Pure as yon snowy cloud! one and all shout aloud,
Hail! Mother of Kingdoms, and first of earth's Queens!
96
CLARA.
SWEET Clara, dear Clara, thou gem of thy sex !
Thy beauty, men's hearts but to tease and to vex :
They their arts and endeavours in vain may employ,
They may look, they may gaze, but can never enjoy!
We've seen thee go tripping the banks of our Clyde,
Attracting all eyes, with thy lord by thy side,
And we could not but like thee-nay love thee-in vain!
And a madness it were not our passion restrain—
Though thine eye had a language all of us move,
Which none can resist but admire and to love!
THOU cheat! with face could rob or steal-
With heart!—ne'er given thee to feel,—
Thou brat! so long a plague-spot been,-
Ne'er pettier creature have I seen!
Let not thy vulgar tongue more wag-
Thou thing of dirt, and even rag—
Clothes well to cover vulgar clay,
An insect! but to live a day!
EXTEMPORE ON THE HAND WRITING OF
WELL may I love that dear hand write,
Well may
I kiss those letters bright,-
Wrote by that hand so oft I've press'd,
Closer and closer to my breast ;
That hand for which my boyhood sighed
That hand which Heaven me denied-
That hand-such bliss could yet confer,-
Not higher rapture mortal share!
DEC. 22d, 1852.
97
WALLACE AT FALKIRK, TO HIS ARMY.
WITH soul to dare and hands perform,
My country's wrongs I inly mourn ;
She of her liberties is shorn,
And all around is dark as night.
Let that which binds us to these plains,
Let that which runs along our veins—
Our slaughter'd babes, and sons in chains-
O, let them nerve us in the fight.
Come, Scots! who've by me fought and bled,
'Fore whom the foe hath turned and fled-
Whom oft to glory have I led,—
Shout! Scotland ever shall be free!
Swear by the God that reigns on high,
You're for your rights prepared to die,-
And let the universal cry,
Now! now be death or victory!
SONG.
Was ever beauty like to thine!
My lovely Mary Ann;
In nature's noblest mould been formed,
My lovely Mary Ann!
Who woos thee has no heartless breast,
To innocence betray;
Thou moon by night my Mary art,
And sun to me by day!
K
98
Thy witching smile, thy sparkling eye,
And lips of love's own hue;
Thy guileless mind and gentle heart,
Possess'd, my love, by few;
Nor can Edina's beauteous daughters,
With thee in charms compare;
They may be beauteous, but thou art,
'Mongst fairest of the fair.
And what the fairest flowers to thee,
Thou star of brightest ray;
And in my bosom only thou,
Doth heavenly influence sway.
Long I in secret thee have loved-
Could not my love impart;
Though oft my swelling breast hath tried
To tell how dear thou art!
A world of joy, a heaven of bliss,
Art thou when I'm by thee,
And earth in sunny smiles appears,
Though it rude winter be!
Was ever beauty like to thine !
My lovely Mary Ann,
In nature's noblest mould been formed,
My lovely Mary Ann!
99
THE PAPAL AGGRESSION,
INSCRIBED TO THE MOST NOBLE
HIS GRACE, GEORGE, DUKE OF ARGYLL.
COME, Scotia! to thy hills once more,
With bonnet blue and bright claymore—
Thy voice be heard from shore to shore,
In FREEDOM's cause!
What! Rome to trample, as of yore,
Tay rights and laws!
Insult hath given to Britain's Queen;
Would tear from her the diadem-
Our souls again in shackles seen-
Had power as will;
And deeds of horror be-hath been-
This Empire fill!
Sweet Spirit! that we love and prize,
Religion! in men's looks and eyes—
In tone and temper-gentle, wise,-
That walks abroad,
With soul communing with the skies;
Love's man! fears GOD!
Sweet Spirit! we thy name evoke,
Which once fair Scotia's fetters broke,
From Rome's presumptuous, galling yoke—
On thee we call!
To give us nerve to ward the stroke,
Will prostrate all.
100
་་་
What! shall the Vatican presume,
Amidst its ghastly, hideous gloom,
As if to seal the final doom,
Of fair, free thought!—
Us to assail? which we old Rome
With blood hath bought?
Awake! awake!-nor idle now;
BRITANNIA! forward!-kneel and vow—
With heavenly mien, angelic brow—
DEFENDER be,
Of FREEDOM! daughter, all allow,
Has sprung from thee!
Shall we, whose sinews strung to toil,
Permit Italia on our Isle?
Whose best embrace a serpent's coil—
To sting to death;
With every artifice and wile
To smother breath!
Well dost thou know Great Britain's might;
Give thee once footing-"all is right"-
With emissaries dark as night,
Arrest will try
That celestial spread of light!
Came from on high,—
Came when the Reformation broke,
Fell clouds of sulphurous fire and smoke—
When, phoenix-like, Dread Mind awoke…
Nor longer stoop;
101
When Luther, Knox in thunders spoke,
And Europe shook!
We know thee, Rome-let hist'ry tell,
How Protestants ye love so well,—
The rack, a dungeon, or a cell—
To torture give;
For conscience' sake make earth a hell_
1s't thus you live?
What! art thou changed?_it cannot be!
What privileges we've given to thee;
And in return thine cross the sea,
Like stealthy knave-
A people who've so long been free,
Them to enslave!
Come in whatever guise you may,
'Tis to have universal sway,
And Science' torch and Reason's ray,
Extinguish quite;
And turn the glorious light of day,
To ancient night!
Talk not to us you have no aim
At temporal power! thou art the same
Committed martyrs to the flame-
Age-manhood-youth!
That made Galileo-honoured name-
Recant a truth!
K 2
102
Plots-massacres-more murd'rous still-
Which makes one's blood with horror thrill-
An INQUISITION! to instil,
Whate'er you choose—
And all for Heaven men's blood to spill-
Should they refuse.
Though we thy creed contemn, abjure,
As mental fictions most impure—
Would mind enslave, and truth obscure-
We wish no strife;
Or each on other hatred pour,
In daily life!
But still, when FREEDOM's sacred fane,
Pope, priest, or king, dare to profane;
Shall we inactive, mute remain?
We must be bold,
And tame the Beast so many slain,
Of saints of old!
Come, Scotia! with thy wonted ire,
Thy masculine vigour, native fire;
Now strike for LIBERTY the Lyre-
In highest flight,
And Europe and the world admire-
Thy MORAL MIGHT !
1851.
103
Sonnets.
INSCRIBED TO JOHN STEWART, ESQ., ARTIST,
As a mark not only of my regard for his inestimable worth; but
admiration of his distinguished artistic ability.
ON A PAINTING OF LOCH LOMOND.
HERE trace the genius of a master hand!
The which in painting or in poetry,
By words or tints, diffuses o'er the land
Pure feelings and pure thoughts--a witchery,.
Makes us not only feel, but think and love
This fair creation! See the canvass glow,
Like Nature's self in sunshine, clouds above
Reflected on the fairy lake below;
Ben Lomond! guardian of this classic scene,
O'ertops the hills-lifts his proud front on high,
And all is calm and tranquil and serene-
To captivate the heart, arrest the eye,
And make us own the painter's mighty skill,
So like to Nature can the canvass fill!
ON A
MINIATURE PORTRAIT OF A YOUNG LADY,
DECEASED,
Shown by her Father, an Officer in the British Army.
O, WHY should e'er such beauty die!
Save taken from the earth to breathe
A purer air beyond the sky!
And this thy daughter, Sire! beneath
104
Those looks of loveliness, a soul
Angelic must have shone,-which would
In tones and smiles rude man control!
O, for the shades of solitude!
And such a one beside me! high
And finely formed that noble brow!
How mild and pensive that blue eye!
Her mind pure as the stainless snow—
Expressed is in that face divine,
Once happy Sire!-could'st say "Thou'rt mine!"
REV. C. H. SPURGEON.
ENGLAND! thou truly great and god-like art!
What mental prodigies from thee have sprung?
And Spurgeon one. To touch the mind and heart,
Him Heaven has raised! what parts in one so young!
All hail! thou noble youth! to Scotia's clime;
O, thou hast come in needed and ripe hour-
You, like an angel in the WORK DIVINE-
With Apostolic zeal and Heavenly power,
Speak'st to the CHURCHES-of their fallen state!
'Fore thee Hypocrisy doth droop her head,
While Bigotry, all-trembling, sees her fate;
And sick'ning Cant yields up the ghost as dead!
O, Spurgeon! may the marvellous powers thee given,
Be long preserved, who mission'd seems from Heaven!
The above was written on hearing this youth (22 years of age)
recently preach in this city. He is a preacher of the gospel in
105
the true acceptation of the term; whilst many, I must say, appear
to me, merely dull, cold, stale, commonplace Lecturers on things
divine-more suited for the Professor's Chair, or the Philosopher's
Bench. Beautiful ideas, fine language, and copious illustration
they have; eminent, a few, it is admitted, in arresting the
attention, and making us bend the ear to drinking in their dis-
course. No one questions their sincerity; or their not exerting
themselves to the utmost of their capacity. In the Protestant
pulpit of our land are finely cultivated intellects; and withal, as
much learning as in the antagonistic church. But here a young
man connected with that small body of Christians, called
Baptists-with no academical honours of Scotland's or England's
renowned seminaries of learning to recommend him;-yet with
what primitive Christian simplicity he, on opening the Inspired
Book, keeps not only riveted the eye, and bent the ear; but what
is better-the generous sympathies of our nature are touched—
the liberal principles of our mind are awakened; and while dis-
coursing in the morally sublime language of the sage, or the rapt
strains of the poet, or the vehement denunciations of the
prophet; or, in the spirit of the very genius of Christianity—like
an angel of mercy-no one can leave his presence but the most
hardened wretch, or most grovelling-minded creature, without be-
coming a wiser and a better man."
HUTCHISON.
DEAR Cot! I love to visit thee;
Sweet Hutchison! a charm to me
There is, c'en in thy very name,
For here first felt love's melting flame!
106
Where she my life-my love-my lyre-
All that I could on earth desire-
Who did my heart, mind, soul inspire
With feelings-visions-ne'er again,
To woman-kind will me enchain!
But, look you see! the very chair!
Where the rapt-boy, unknown to care-
Unknown to schools-unknown to art—
With but God's gifts!-a mind—a heart!
Enraptured by her sat―nor knew
What 'twas to love, or what love do-
Tho' he oft kindled, glowed, and burned,
As she her eyes upon him turned-
Her lovely, loving, dream-like eye!
Which like the rainbow in the sky,
Threw round his heaven a cloudless joy,
In the heart-worship of the boy!—
There sat, his arm around her waist,
Her head reclining on his breast,
Lip press'd to lip in ardour sweet—
While pulse to pulse all-furious beat-
To Nature's music, passion's heat !
What boots it now, that glory's gone!
Like first light on this world shone-
Like first glimpse Adam got of Eve,
Ere Tempter enter'd to deceive—
So sweet-so heavenly-full of truth;
Yes! this my Paradise of youth!
No wonder that I love to stray,
At solemn eve, or morning grey,
Along these plains, around this cot-
To me, on earth, not sweeter spot!
107
TIGHT LACING.
'Tis shocking, Sir, but they will do it,
Tho' thousands live and live to rue it,
But a remonstrance must be made,
Or call it, if you will-Crusade—
Against this monstrous, barbarous fashion,
E'en saints might drive into a passion,
And mutter words we will not mention,
At this sweet, torturing invention.
Pretty! do you call that shape?
Speak, ye rhymsters small and great-
Out with your senseless, soulless trash,
'Tis you, not they, deserve the lash-
Whose special fort's to all bespatter,
Deformity itself to flatter!
With jingling nonsense! you can do it,
Tho' thousands live and live to rue it.
Pretty! yes, 'tis might'ly so,
To brainless fop, or heartless beau-
To men of sense, or men of taste,
'Tis shocking, such a wasp-like waist!
Pretty! no! 'tis the reverse-
Pale cheeks-coffin-and a hearse-
Are thine, my fair! and the tomb
You receive ere beauty's bloom!
Pretty! brings consumption-death-
A wasted form—a tainted breath—
Enfeebles body—mind—and brain-
Poor sickly things through life remain!
108
Pretty! why, the Chinese' feet
In irons placed to make them neat-
Or savage tribes with heads comprest,
Are nothing to your strangled waist!
O, why the power abused them given,
Spoiling their shape-insulting Heaven!
Not only maid, but even wife,
Endangering her and infant's life-
When "
women are who like to be,"
Who love their lords in unity!
Protest against such conduct must,
Destroys the fullness of their bust-
Their symmetry of form impairs-
Stiff movements, and affected airs—
With jaded looks, and sickly hue-
O, who with heart not pity you?
Breathe freely cannot-nor the heart
Have room to play its proper part ;
Each rib, and they are many, prest,
To make a slender-spider-waist!
An artificial figure-not
The faultless form from nature got!
Agreed! that every corset-maker,
Is living woman's undertaker;
And that this horrid strangulation,
In humblest, and in highest station-
The best thing could adopt or try,
So they may prematurely-die!
So by all means pray let them do it,
'Tis they shall live-but live to rue it!
109
A
MORE BOOKS HAVE I THAN I CAN READ.
MY DEAR HOOD,-Permit me to Inscribe this Effusion to you, as
one of the many of my esteemed friends I have, in this way, re-
membered, in this little Volume. This singular strain you, and
others whose judgment I could rely on, counselled its publication.
To your nice discrimination of the peculiarities of our language-
its modes of expression, in giving force, dignity, or beauty to our
thoughts-I am much indebted. And you know my sentiments
as to this, and all my productions-that more prized by me would
be the approbation of one single man of real, native, transcendant
parts,—who, while capable of perceiving all the blemishes, will
not overlook one single excellence, in thought or expression,-
to a whole world's laudation of that class of dissatisfied men,
whom nothing can please; or those literary tyrants who would
have every one to think as they think; or confine the human
intellect in its range of subjects, to the little, narrow, circle in
which they exist mentally; and in which you cannot say they
think; but rather chirp like grasshoppers, or prate like parrots.
You know, too, my dear Sir, with what sacredness I regard the
HOLY SCRIPTURES; while with heart-felt sorrow, viewing around
me, pure practical christianity too much lost sight of in contempt-
able sectarian rivalries and contensions: and further-my often
reiterated sentiment-that if a work has within itself aught of the
divine spirit or indistructable soul of man-and not a mere tissue
of sounding words or lip phrases, artfully put together-it shall
live; and while some may condemn your book before having read
one page of it; or by one, single, solitary effort of your mind, set
themselves up as judges of your varied, versatile, or original
powers, or while there may be in your book-even one paragraph
of surpassing beauty, or unapproachable grandeur or sublimity—
shines out like the very sun in his meridian illuminating splendour;
or but one thought—like a celestial visitant from heaven to earth-
which certain constituted minds, through their oblique or dim
L
110
mental vision, are incapable of appreciating or recognising-there
are men, and not a few, will not close their eyes to that one pas-
sage; nor hesitate, in hailing with delight, that luminous
thought!
Reserving, my dear Sir, wholly in the meantime my own re-
marks on "More books have I than I can read;" and, in thus ad-
dressing you, taking advantage of the opportunity afforded me, of
thanking those of the Press of this City, who, in the past, have
taken notice of any little I have done on the platform; and in
inserting any trifle I have sent them, in their columns-particu-
larly the veteran of that out-spoken, manly, and patriot broad
sheet the "Glasgow Gazette"-in the early bantling of which-
the old "Loyal Reformers' Gazette," the pioneer, it may be
said, of the invaluable unstamped newspapers now introduced
into our land--my boyhoods well meant but feeble efforts first ap-
peared.
I am, my dear Hood, thine most truly.
TO JAMES HOOD, Esq.
O, WHAT a set of rascals—
Would-be saints and righteous knaves-
Who for merit would dig graves,-
And make all around them slaves!
Not e'en one save-let thousands sink!
"Do as I do think as I think."
I saw it in their sullen brow-
"Stand back-I holier am than thou;"
Or, worthy of their vulgar breed,
More books have I than I can read."
111
•
1
O, what a set of rascals-
Thus they genius patronize,
Offspring purely of the skies,
Write they do, what never dies,
Walk this earth they do in glory,
Render famous in their story;
Hill and dell they've paced around-
Are to nations hallow'd ground—
And yet the cuckoo's sang, indeed!
More books have I than I can read,
O, what a set of rascals-
Heartless breasts, and mindless brains,
Intent on nothing but their gains,
What belly wants or house contains;—
Stumbling, rumbling daily on,
With no thought can call their own;
Books! their ledger; Bible! cash book,
Saw it in their eye, and ash-look,
No wonder such might say—indeed!
More books have I than I can read,
O, what a set of rascals-
Spark of true celestial flame,
Another word for Heaven-its name!
To nations gives eternal fame-
Thus the one doth it inherit-
All its living, vital spirit—
Brighten can the darkest thing,
Darken brightest, with its wing—
Such is his angel might, indeed!
More books have I than I can read.
112
O, what a set of rascals—
The gracious maxim know they not,
Live and let live each brother Scot,
To virtue, merit, half your groat!
But, no those reptiles crawl along,
Know not the power divine of song,
While live, us serpent give,-when dead,
A stone in mockery for our head;
Yet e'en in circles high this breed-
More books have I than I can read.
O, what a set of rascals-
They to church so gravely go,
Puppit-like to make a show,
Of the WORD they nothing know.---
And never open do the Book,
Except in pew into it look:
When is announced the text abroad-
O, hypocrites 'fore man and God!
Those are the ones cry out, indeed !
More books have I than I can read.
O, what a set of rascals-
Their creed is charity--they say,
But what their charity-ask may
To those who erring go astray?
Condemn each one not made like them!
And to everlasting flame-
In regions of eternity;
When they, than them, more damn'd may be!
And such a numerous class, indeed,
More books have I than I can read.
113
O, what a set of rascals-
The scum of scums of earthly dross-
The earth may tread, the ocean toss,
Toss them! and tossing think no loss,
Tho' whelm'd be in the whirling wave,
And deepest ocean for their grave ;
And hideous monsters rive and break
Their carcase till not left a wreck,
Whose boast unblushing is, indeed,
More books have I than I can read.
O, what a set of rascals-
Scotia's Bard must oft have met,
Nor their sayings could forget;
Were I them to estimate-
Burns would require to quote "galore,“
As "riddlings of creation"-more
Shadow of least shadows they,
Reptile's sting, and birds of prey,
They ominous in looks, indeed!
More books have I than I can read.
O, what a set of rascals-
Met have oft and of a class:
If not swindler, fool, or ass,
Could those three combined surpass!
Sweet-lipped, foul-tongued, treacherous creatures!
Not human, but in form and features;
Where in them could acutest find
One god-like trait in heart or mind?
Promised much-performed! indeed,
More books have I than I can read.
L 2
114
O, what a set of rascals—
For native worth, or native might,—
For mental stars, or suns of light,—
For ever shining, ever bright,—
In the firmament of mind!
What care those midges of our kind?
Who, at the best, like parrots speak,
Who never think, nor truth do seek!
To them, and such as them, in print,
"A book's a book, tho' nothing's in't.”
O what a set of rascals—
There they sit in spleen and spite
O'er the page of streaming light-
May dispel gloom drear as night!
One single thought what light may shed?
More glory throw around the head
Of him, from whom it emanates—
That single thought—to living states,
Or states in embryo, than the sun-
Around the Earth-his fallen one!
O what a set of rascals-
There they sit in spleen and spite,—
To cloud or darken thoughts all-bright!
By their puny strength or might,
To slay, or level with the dust-
Or infect with rot or rust-
That which shall live! when no one mourns
Their carcase loathsome food for worms!
Those are the ones books get by stealth,
To pilfer all their mental wealth!
115
O what a set of rascals-
There they sit in spleen and spite—
Can barely read, and scarcely write;
Each self-perfect idiot wight,
Making mountains of a mole-hill,
Or soul immortal try to kill!
Asps and spiders! of our race,
"
The right man in the right place!"
With books-as men-the world yet see,
Ha! spleen and spite, who care for thee!
O what a set of rascals
When all will cry
•
There goes the sage,
The light, the glory of our age,
Immortal thoughts his mind engage.'
""
Thousands will rush this one to greet-
Their very selves throw at his feet,
And women, too, with every art
Try to seduce his noble heart!
But he'll remember, might, indeed!
More books have I than I can read.
O what a set of rascals-
Will shun you in adversity-
Will spurn you if in poverty,—
Nor lift you from obscurity,—
Tho' with archangel's spiritual might
You wield the pen in mental fight!
Who care for their low vile regard,
Who breathe deceit and live on fraud ?
Books are the things those villains slight,
As bats and owls do hate the light!
116
O what a set of rascals-
Whose empire's self—mammon their god!
And vice the name of their abode!
Whose thought ne'er rise above the sod—
Ye! who to greatness do aspire,
With manly heart and soul of fire ;
Defying slander's venomed tooth—
Ye devotees of beauty, truth!
Press forward! you're the ones indeed
Whose names SHALL live, Books all should read !
A PERJURED WRETCH.*
Ye serpents, ye generation of vipers! how can ye escape the
damnation of hell."
THOU perjured wretch, the d—————-1 d———¤ !
And send to lowest hell:
Thy false oath's chronicled above-
To thee damnation tell!
Thou vulgar, and illiterate knave!
Thou swindler of first class-
A day of retribution! dire!
With thee will come to pass.
You at the Bar of Justice swear,
My all on earth was thine;
O, after this thou'rt capable
Of any mortal crime!
* See Letter in Appendix.
•
117
Would every craftsman in the land,
For this notorious breach-
Of all that's SACRED-point and say,
There goes the perjured wretch !” ·
Yes! in mechanics I have faith!
Thou foul-blood sucking leech!
Not one of millions false oath take,
Like thee! thou perjured wretch !
And there are thousand artizans,
When those few lines them reach-
Thee spit on-spurn-and scornful cry,
Avaunt! thou perjured wretch!"
'Mongst the most infamous thou art,
Ere many seasons roll;
Before Heaven's Bar we'll meet! and God
Have mercy on thy soul !
OLD CHURCH OF A.
HERE did I get my Christian name,
Here first the fire from Heaven came,
And kindled in my soul a flame.
Of pure devotion to my God;
To worship him at home-abroad-
In temple, or in life's high road—
118
'Neath the domestic canopy,
Or the broad and boundless sky,
In my wanderings till I die!
This edifice I do revere,
In it have I breathed a prayer,
And did many a rapture share,
As round me swell'd the voice of praise,
In those inspired and heavenly lays,
I've warbled from my infant days,
To hallow'd Jesus! Holy One!
Soon may His will on earth be done,
His truth shine brighter than the sun-
O'er all the world! O, sacred place!
Here gazed I've on my Fanny's face,
And was the happiest of my race-
As eye met eye !—as language sweet,
Each interchanged as they did meet,
Which never more they may repeat!
And thou art doomed!
But glitter more, in modern days,
Than solid worth, the senseless praise,
But let them build-when they erase
This sanctuary, from where it's stood-
Who do, not 'mong the great or good,
They no less vain than heartless rude!
1838.
119
ANDERSTON.*
INSCRIBED TO
GEORGE MACEWAN, ESQ. SURGEON.
In my appreciation of his varied intellectual acquirements, pro-
fessional skill, and long and tested friendship.
Our ain auld toon o' Anderston,
I'm wae wi' thee to part;
How dear the recollections
That crowd aroun' my heart!
My mither's in her cauld, cauld grave,
There first did see the light,
That mither was sae kind to me,
Nor bear me frae her sight;
My infant mind she tutor'd
Wi' precepts grave and sage,
How I maun warstle wi' the warld,
And be a Scotchman brave!
An' every foe to conquer,
Must be by might o' mind!
And be they of whatever creed,
To love a' human-kind!
My bairnies three and loving wife,
Beside her ashes lie;
An' rapturing to me the thought,
I'll meet them in yon sky!
This piece has reference to what I have termed in the Intro-
duction, the "Pilgrimage" I undertook, single handed and unaided
in procuring subscribers, in printing a few of my pieces in the
shape of a volume, before quitting my native land.
120
Our ain auld toon o' Anderston,
Kind friens I there hae met-
Nae wonder! for like brithers a,
Nor ill could treat a get"
And names not mention-but I must
Ere journey ower the sea:
We e part, but what that parting say,
Ere tear mysel' frae thee!
The very stanes I tread upon,
The very breath I draw
Are thine, are mine, and think I will
On them when far awa!
There F-g-n, great promise gives,
Heaven gie him mony days—
Enraptured listen'd aft hae I
To his inspiring lays;
Nor noble-minded K- g forget,
An' ithers I could name,
The kind words that they spak to me
Aft set my breast in flame;-
Desponding thoughts aft pressed my heart-
Aft thought I must gie ower
The pilgrimage I taken had,
And golden dust turn stoure!
But no! kind Providence me sent,
Or rather led me to
Chiels o' a spirit like my ain,
Wi' hearts o' kindred hue-
Mack- -e, W-11-e, St-s-n,
Dar I their names omit,
Their hamely crack aft care beguiled,
Sae fu' o' mither wit.
121
Nor H-w-t-n amang the lave
A wab o' nature's best,
He feel can for the weary foot,
Or those wi' grief opprest.
Nor C-pb-1 wi' his buirdly form,
For frien', through thick and thin
Wad gang! an' snap his fingers at
A warld's defaming din !
But whan the darkest cloud did lower,
Aroun' my naked head—
A N-1-n hauded out his han',
An' kindly words he said,
Cheer up! the gloom envelopes you,
Precursor of bright day!
I'll be thy frien! so speed you on
Your weary toilsome way.
Tho' you've frae hame been cruel driven,
And friens ance fair now foul,
And ruin'd by a perjured one.
Cheer up! ye hae a soul!
And do not let the puppy's yelp
Or cur's perpetual snarl—
Nor vipers may thy path beset-
Nor noisy barking carle!
Thee e'er dispirit or depress-
Thy watchword "never yield,”
Press forward like thy brithers brave
Now in the battle field!
And feats o' moral prowess thine
Which Scotchmen foremost can-
In peace or war e'er proved themselves
The HERO and the MAN!"
M
122
And at those cheering words new nerve
Was given to my brain,
Enfeebled hand now stronger grew,
And joy took place of pain!
Our ain auld toun O' Anderston
Wha like ye can I see!
Saint Mungo I may like fu' weel,
But thee love till I dee!
A DREAM,
INSCRIBED TO MRS. D. BROWN.
"Love is indestructible,
A holy flame that ever burneth,
From heaven it came to heaven returneth.”
SOUTHEY.
"There's nothing half so sweet in life,
MOORE.
As Love's young dream."
WHAT! is she come to me again!
Come in the dreams of night,
As palpable and beautiful,
Before my mental sight—
As she stood in her youthful prime,
Before my raptur'd eye,
When earth it seem'd a paradise,
When she to me drew nigh!
Ere CARE had sat upon my brow,
And changed those locks to grey;
123
Tho' scarcely more than thirty years
I've trod life's thorny way.—
I cannot see her-I'm forbid-
Still Heaven to me her brings,
In vision of the night her saw,-
To whom my heart still clings!
I saw her, and that heart so long
I thought so cold to me ;
Lit up her face with smiles, where once
In them her soul did see !
I saw her-grasp'd her snow-white hand—
Like one supremely blest-
Her near me drew, and snatch'd a kiss.
And clasp'd her to my breast!
I felt as one entranced with joy—
No bounds my bosom knew;
But it a melancholy gloom,
Around her spirit threw :
There was a sadness in her looks-
A sorrow in her eye-
A mournful cadence in her voice-
A death-knell in her sigh;
They spoke of other days and years,
Of joys for ever fled-
Of hopes and happiness, long since
Been buried with the dead.
Our meeting was in smiles, but now
Her something deeper moved;
She laid her head upon my breast,
And ask'd if still I loved!
Those were the touching words-from lips
So oft I've pressed of yore ;
124
Her closer to my bosom drew,
And kiss'd her o'er and o'er-
I kiss'd her, but the tear down fell,
Upon her lovely cheek;
“What can this mean?" I whispering said,
Come, do, sweet Fanny, speak."
You know thou wert the first that fired,
My soul with passion's flame;
And half my life's been loving thee,
A spell e'en in thy name!
Forms may have seen as fair as thine-
Ah! no, it could not be;
Though I have loved! but what that love-
To love I've had for thee ?
O, do not ask if still I love,
With equal fervour, truth,
As when thy form I first beheld,
In freshness of my youth:
Thou wert the bright and morning star!
Or sent my fate to seal ;
The first that taught my soul to think—
That taught this heart to feel-
First impulse to my mind you gave,
To fancy pinions strong
To soar, if God the gift had given,
In regions high of song:
How can I not e'en still you love,
If mutual on your part?
But who accept a jewell'd hand,
Unless with it a-HEART?
Once I in early life could say,
None warmer beat than thine,
125
Nor finer mould of heart or form,
E'er came from Hand Divine!
But then I loved as few have loved,
Perchance, did love in vain!
No! not in vain, if one kind thought,
For me you still retain!
Call it a weakness-care I not,
A folly-may have been,
A madness-if it were, 'twas such,
In few of mortals seen!
A love, eternal as the heavens!
Surviv'd the wreck of years,
A flame that purer, brighter burns,
'Midst gloom and death and tears--
A love-but time hath tested it!
No momentary glow-
An all-absorbing passion oft
Hath laid all others low-
A passion which with wizard power,
Hath held o'er me its sway-
A light-as from above-to guide
Me on life's devious way!
O, do not ask, if still I love,
"Tis cruel you must own;
Thee love! tho' Heaven a barrier set,
Our souls, e'en here, seem'd one--
E'en when I saw thee pass from me,
Saw thee another's wife!
What but thy spirit's haunted me-
My every step in life?
I saw thee not-but if mine eye,
One single feature caught
M 2
126
In female form least like to thine,
Thou wert before me brought!
Or, if their voice least semblance had
To thine's rich music's flow,
I felt, nor could suppress, my breast
With youthful passion glow!—
Could by them sat till Doom's bell rang,
Reminded me of thee!
E'en were it but the very smile,
Of thy young maiden glee!
What if I plung'd in pleasure's stream,
When Fate thee me denied ;
And for to drown all thoughts of thee
I every effort tried—
Not beauty's lip, nor beauty's charms,
To all the senses cloy-
Could cheat this heart to e'er forget,
Its first and darling joy!
Not mortal form, howe'er so fair,
That could so chain my mind,
Impressions made but few! and some
As on the sand or wind!
Save hers-the sainted one on high,
Than thine ne'er met such charms-
She had a brow-a mind-a form!
Were worthy of those arms-
She had, nor did she fling away
Her priceless, peerless worth,
Her virgin glory! but, alas!
Too lovely was for earth.
She knew I loved thee! 'twas that love,
For which first loved me;
127
When thou didst wed-her won! so it
Might draw my thoughts from thee!
The incidents, how strange have been,
Since life's young, joyous age-
So similar too, in both our lives-
Surpass e'en fiction's page.
What storms I've had to face and brave!
Or yield the vital breath,
A mother thou-a father I-
But all cut down by death-
Save one sweet cherub to thee left-
Who bears my daughter's name !
What blighted, blasted hopes been mine?
But thee I will not blame !
Mine a romantic life hath been
Since by thy charms first smit,
And not a scene we used to tread
But I remember yet.
The cottage! but O, name it not!
'Twas there first knew I bliss-
There my young, ardent heart was won,
In first loves thrilling kiss!
And, then, the scenes around that spot,
'Neath star-lit sky divine;
My arm around thy faultless form,
My hand too lock'd in thine-
How blest that time! to memory dear!
So sweet, ecstatic hours!
Will ne'er return by Clyde's fair stream,
Within her sylvan bowers :-
Then cared not what the world might say,
I cared for thee alone!
128
One moment with thee more to me
Than dukedoms or a throne!
They might heap riches mountains high-
Earth's princess proffer me,-
False would have been to this fond heart
Preferring them to thee-
O, thou seem'd to me heavenly fair!
No earthly taint in thee,
A world of cull'd, unsating sweets,
A very heaven to me!
STILL would not have thee think of me,
Discard me from thy thought—
If thy once warm and loving heart,
Thy lips hath never taught—
To breathe in secret one fond word
Or heave for me a sigh!
But let me love!—and loving thee—
Nor chide-I loving die!
It may be thee I'll meet no more,
To cheer this sad, lone heart.
Ah, hush," she said, "see'st thou yon heavens!
There meet to never part!
It may not be our destiny
That we united be;
Tho' marvellous, indeed, that love,
So long thou'st had for me-
A love, which tho' on history's page,
Few like it do I find;
Still would I have more scope you give
To the immortal Mind;
The earth-the sky-and Holy Writ-
Will ample treasures yield;
129
>
There's worlds of mind yet to explore,
And truths to be reveal'd!
What of the cause thy youth espoused?
Why mute now as the grave?
Why cease to vindicate her rights?
IS WOMAN less a slave?
To higher, loftier realms of thought,
Than amorous song aspire,
With Roman strength, and Grecian grace
Go! Strike thy country's Lyre.”
I could have answered, but no word
Permit me in reply;
Her voice was Fascination's self,
And Eloquence her eye;
One pressure of my hand-a look!
A word of meaning spoke,
She waved adieu-when, lo! I from
This dream of Dreams awoke!
APRIL 8th, 1850.
:
130
LINES ON THE DEATH OF MISS HELEN S-R.
Он, lovely Helen, art thou gone?
Thee while I breathe will think upon!
But what, dear Helen, shall I say
Of him that stole thy heart away!
A Villain! said I from the first,
A Villain! who's by Heaven accurst;
Wert thou living thou wouldst say
"Stole-but not my soul away."
He might try but could not taint,
Were he demon, were he saint,
That bright essence mankind given-
Soul of earth and light of Heaven!
Yes, Helen! tho' thou liest low,
Death's cold damp upon thy brow.—
Lifeless-still thou art to me
Dear as when I've sat by thee !-
Sat with rapturous delight,
Sat and talk'd day into night,
And thy spotless purity,
Had a thousand charms for me!-
Saw it in thy speaking eye!
Word-tone-look-and secret sigh.—
Each movement of thy form divine,—
Like angel seem'd 'mongst human kind!—
131
The loveliest of the lovely-dead!
Well may I grieve thy spirit fled,
And to thy memory shed a tear,
Through joys thy presence gave me here.
O, to my latest, longest day,
May thy pure spirit guide my way!
Not fairer e'er to earth was given
To live so short, and pass to Heaven!
SONG.
O, BONNY Kitty Lindsay,
Lives by Clyde's famous water,
Many ogle at, and try
To slip round her love's halter,
But Kitty knoweth whom to please,
Of all the world's races;
And whom to like and whom to tease,
And let to her embraces.
Her cheeks are like the rose,
Her skin is like the snow,
Her eyes are like the stars-
Her hair black as the sloe;
Her breath is like the violet,
Her form the mould of Nature,—
Of Nature's best, and the impress
Is heaven in every feature!
O, bonny Kitty Lindsay!
132
SONG.
NOUGHT but beauty's self thou art,
But why steal away my heart?
Would I ne'er had seen that face-
Since thy charms I can't embrace :
Nor those lips dare press to mine,
But gaze on thee as if divine-
Looking in those lovely eyes
Makes all around a Paradise!
Would I'd seen you years ago,
When as maid pure as the snow,
Tho' as wife no taint in thee,
But what the joy then given to me,—
We must part-a long adieu,
But what the pain to part with you!
Alas! the first meeting and last parting with this beautiful one
who now sleeps the sleep that knows no waking!
I may here, in the shape of a note, give the initials of the fair
ones, whose amiability and beauty elicited the two or three songs
I have, for variety, interspersed throughout the work: and I do so
with much pleasure, as I understand it is not only agreeable to
them; but their express wish.
"Maid of Lochlong," J-e F-1-n; "Fresh from her Moun-
tains," J e S-t; "Lily of the Clyde," J—e K▬▬g; “My
own, my Lovely Teeny," C-
a Hy; "Was ever Beauty like
-e, of E-; and the above de-
-e, of P――y.
to Thine" M-y A-n MacF
parted lady, Mrs. MacF-
133
MY OWN, MY LOVELY TEENA.
THERE she sits with modest mien,
There she, too, moves like a queen,
All in beauty's native sheen;—
My own, my lovely Teena.
See her raven ringlets flow,
Round her full, expressive brow,
Falling on her breast of snow;—
My own, my lovely Teena.
Heaven her shield from earthly harms!
Who my breast divinely warms—
Needs not art to deck her charms-
My own, my lovely Teena.
See her face lit up with smiles,
See her eye with love's own wiles!
Canker'd cares and woes beguiles—
My own, my lovely Teena.
If the rude world me annoys,
Or my peace of mind destroys--
She's to me the joy of joys!
My own, my lovely Teena.
Sing, ye birds! the chorus join,
None my raptures can divine,
What the bliss to call her mine!
My own, my lovely Teena.
N
134
SONG.
THE flowers they are springing,
The birds they are singing,
In raptures I muse by my own native Clyde;
That after years many,
I've met with my Fanny,
Ne'er mortal more blest as I sat by her side!
How joyous that meeting,
Tho' short 'twas and fleeting,
Like bright dream of youth of the gifted and true;
When first I did view her,
My heart bounded to her,
As well so it might for its first love it knew!
My looks, too, revealing,
While soft glances stealing,
The love that was kindled in life's early day ;
And ill in concealing,
This sweet cherish'd feeling,
Though thousands have perish'd, it knows no decay!
She beam of life's morning,
My pathway adorning,
Tho' clouds through long years oft my sky hath o'ercast;
It still me surrounding,
With glory abounding—
A sun ne'er shall set till life's warfare is past!
JANUARY, 1851. \
135
ON THE DEATH OF JH H- -G.
CHARLESTON S. C., (Late of Glasgow.)
My dear Josiah! is thy spirit fled!
Art thou, too, gone, and number'd with the dead.
Sweet be thy sleep! till that bright morn arise,
When Heaven's own trump all summon to the skies!
Sweet be thy sleep! but would I had been near,
To smooth thy pillow, or to drop a tear,
Or but one word,—or parting glance alone,—
Ere death stepp'd in and claim'd thee for his own ;
And thou art gone! my darling friend of youth!
Thou hadst the heart, and very soul of truth,—
O, why this sudden, unexpected blow,
In distant land that's laid thy manhood low?
False Woman, hence! O thou hast play'd thy part-
Deception's self! embodiment of art!
I saw thee glide before his raptur'd eye,
What looks assume, and smiles and graces try?
And every blandishment his breast to move,
Yet thou-in winning him—so false to prove!
What of the sacred pledges to thee given ?
What of thy vows recorded art in Heaven?
He from his boyhood to his manhood's prime,
With Love's own eyes thee look'd on as divine—
And in his absence, o'er the Atlantic's wave—
Him hast thou brought to an untimely grave-
This hast thou done-thou creature of a day—
Thou loathsome piece of finely painted clay!
Tread, stranger! softly where his ashes sleep,
Ye angels! round them nightly vigils keep :
136
"Tis one of Scotia's sons lies there at rest,
Ne'er kindlier heart e'er beat in human breast!
If not the royal blood-to Genius given-
Stream'd through his veins, with mounting thoughts to
Heaven,
In Mind's uncircumscribed dominions free-
He one of Nature's own nobility!
My dear Josiah! words how poor reveal-
How much I loved thee! or what pangs now feel!
Congenial Spirit! Sympathetic heart!
To thee I could my inmost soul impart.
The past in memory flits before my view,
My sad forebodings at our last adieu :-
Thy warfare's o'er, or cross'd thou hast life's sea,
Soon may the haven heave in sight for me;
A little time—a pace—a breath—and I
My dear, dear friend, rejoin thee in the sky!
JULY 10th, 1854.
LINES
ON READING, IN AN AUSTRALIAN NEWSPAPER,
An advertisment, by Messrs. L-
-n and Wr, Melbourne-
requesting a meeting with Mr. John Murray (of Glasgow), who had
gone to Adelaide, but deceased.
THE silence of the grave-
That sacred, solemn place-
Can answer where I am,
Dear brothers of my race!
Here laid in death's cold arms,
No more on earth meet we;
But soon, in yonder sky,
A lasting meeting be!
137
STANZAS
ON THE DEATH OF WILLIAM HECTOR BELFORD,
OF BRECHIN.
I liked thee sae weel, Willie,
O, sair to me the blow!
Has laid thee in the grave, Willie,
To meet nae mair below;-
But cherish I'll thy memory,
While I have life and breath,
An' meet aboon will we, Willie,
Ne'er pairted be by death!
O weel I mind the time, Willie,
Whan first we twa did meet
Whan first I heard thy voice, Willie-
And by me took your seat,—
And e'en first words ye spak to me→
Sae muckle wi' thee taen—
And mony, mony happy nights—
Since had, ne'er hae again!
Nae brither e'er I've had, Willie,
To whom my min' impairt,
Thou my adopted brither was—
A brither o' my heart!
Weel may I mourn thy loss, Willie,
Weel may I hing my heid-
Weel may a tear start in my e'e,
To think that ye are deid!
N 2
138
How shortly syne ye read the lines,
That maist did mak me weep,
On thy wee nephew's death, Willie--
And noo wi' him ye sleep:-
I always thocht I'd be the first_
That lang life's storms ye'd brave,-
wad live to sing my dirge-
My heid lay in the grave!
That ус
O, I could leave this warld, Willie
An' a' aroun' my care—
Sin' thou art frae me taen, Willie,
Wha aft my griefs did share:-
For sympathy divine, Willie,
Was in thy manly breast!
How aft my inmost thochts, Willie,
Hae I tae thee exprest?
And whar sin' thou art gane, Willie,
Shall I anither find-
Sae calm, serene; sae steadfast, true-
Sae social and sae kind!
I look may roun' and travel on,—
E'en till life's langest day—
Ne'er see again thy like, Willie,
Where'er my steps may stray!
Oh! waes me! that sae promisin'
A Bard sae young should dee-
While mony worthless creatures live,
Till hoary headed be;
Not I alane do grieve, Willie,
Thy loss e'er manhood's bloom-
139
The SCOTTISH MUSE, puir thing! Willie,
Sits greeting by thy tomb.
Thou'rt wi' thy Mary noo, Willie,
Wha was thy saul's first love,
Tho' fate her t' anither joined,
Yet thou didst faithfu' prove--
Removed was far frae thee, Willie,
Across the braid, braid sea;
But man nae mair will hae the power
T' sep'rate her and thee.
They think it is nae crime, Willie,
Wi' stratagems and arts—
But curst are they wha pit between,
An' sever twa fond hearts!
You left thy native place for aye
When to the Ind' thy Mary gone,
Thy Grampian hills thy boyhood's scenes—
Thy own romantic home!
Thine was the love ne'er dees, Willie,
Tho' maid it slights or spurns!
A heavenly flame within the breast,
That warmer, purer burns.—
And this the fire did thee consume,
Thy peace o' mind destroy,-
For disappointed early love
Aft blights ilk future joy!
If e'er a Scotchman was, Willie,
That Scotchman it was you:
140
Sae fervently auld Scotia loved,
Her every
neuk ye knew ;
Her gifted sons wi' reverence
Didst thou speak o' their name!—
If e'er man felt 'twas you, Willie,
The patriotic flame!
Methinks I see you yet, Willie,
Thy firm, expressive mou'-
Thy handsome form, aad stately step-
Thy high and lofty brow;
Thy e'e sae fu' o' tenderness-
Thy face-ne'er smiled wi' art,—
Thy tone of voice did tell, Willie,
The guidness o' thy heart!
Whan in yon lone and silent place
And gazing there aroun'!
You little thocht e'er twa suns shined,
Thou'd be, alas! cut down
O, little did'st thou think, Willie,
When said, "here like to lie,”
Sae soon-and at that very spot_
Be laid when thou would'st die.
Thou'rt gane, thou'rt gane frae me, Willie,
Frae a' that loved thee here;
Fareweel, fareweel, my darling frien'!
Lied to my heart sae near:
What would I gie ance mair, Willie,
These plains to stray wi' thee-
But ne'er again we'll meet, Willie,
Nae mair thy face I'll see!
1843.
141
RUSSIA!
INSCRIBED TO WILLIAM EUING, ESQ.,
*
ROYAL EXCHANGE, GLASGOW.
Composed 1854.
GIVE glory to the God on high!
And glory to the brave;—
Give glory to the British Arms,
On field or ocean's wave:
Bomarsund! destroyed they have;
Fall will Sebastopol!
By French and British valour,
United heart and soul!
And see the tyrant tremble,
Tottering, too, his throne,
His sceptre is departing,
His kingly power is gone!
Belshazzar's fate is his-
Hand Writing on the wall-
By Britain, and by France,
Proclaim his doom and fall!-
And this incarnate Satan-
This Cain-would millions kill!—
This despot-worlds would enthrall-
What now his power, or will?
Wave high the British banner!
It dear to freedom, fame,
To European despots,
A terror in its name.
142
Press on, press on to glory!
Ye brave and valient men ;
Victory after victory yours—
Though found be 'mongst the slain!
Wave the Union flag on high,
It sacred as of yore,
And Marathon, Thermopyla
To modern times restore.
On Alma's heights you've triumph'd,
And crippled have the bear—
The English, Scottish lion—
With France's eagle there!
And who first climb'd those rugged hills?
Who first their summit reach?
Who but our mountaineers!-'twas they
First made the deadly breach.
And high above the fighting host,
The chieftain Campbell's scen;
Waving aloft his sword he shouts,
A bonnet from your Queen.'
O, their's that daring-of their race,
That spirit-none subdue,
That courage-Egypt's plains can tell,
As well as Waterloo !
Who like them beard the cannon's mouth--
And perish ere they'll yield!
For Scotland's glory first to fight,
And last to quit the field!
Read the history of the past,
Page after page it turn-
Who've conquer'd now, descendants are
Of those at Bannockburn!
143
And they amidst the mighty host;
Like pillar were of fire,
On Alma's cliffs invincible-
Each worthy of his sire!
"Tis FREEDOM's battle they've begun,
That to perdition's hurl'd
Earth's tyrant!—and his minions too-
To free an enslaved world.
The God of Battles' on their side,
Triumphant be at last;
Tho' Russian hordes like demons fight,
From their high place be cast.
Ye, Poles! break now your fetters,
Hungary! shout, you're free!
BRITAIN'S in the field to fight,
And that for LIBERTY!
To sacred PEACE a temple rear'd,
Which show'd her genius, worth;
Invited to this solemn fane,
All nations of the earth-
They met and hand to hand was given,
As brothers of one race,
The Russian and the Scottish Gael,
As brothers did embrace.-
But, lo! the sound of War now rings,
Low moaning to our shore:
Weeping, and wailing for the dead,
None braver been before.-
Italians up! no longer be
Branded cowards, slaves;
144
Now dash your fetters to the earth-
And Freedom havc, or graves!
Now is the time! ye States in bonds,
To snap your chains asunder;
No longer serfs, or slaves remain-
To dust be trampled under!
Arise! regain your precious rights-
Arise! or ne'er be free-
Mazzini, Kossuth! lead you on,
To death or victory!
Earth of her TYRANTS must be rid,
Cost her what blood it may ;
That blood one drop compared to what
For centuries shed have they.
Napier! forward, strike the blow,
At him by all accurst-
His Cronstadt into ashes lay.
Saint Petersburgh to dust!

APPENDIX.
Extracts from Letters from the REV. DRS CHALMERS AND
WARDLAW, Rev. ROBERT MONTGOMERY, THOMAS MOORE,
LADY MORGAN, &C.
No. I.-Introduction, p. xiv.
Dr. CHALMERS-"I cannot but rejoice in the number of writers
which appear on the side of truth and righteousness."
Dr. WARDLAW-I may, before introducing his letter remark,
that the time I received it was when this venerable sage and
saintly divine, created, in my opinion, a new era in the history of
the protestant ministry of this country, by his able defence in
this city, publicly, of WOMAN,-a ministry I profoundly regard-
ranged as they are on the side of civil and religious liberty-but
where another Wardlaw amongst them in this respect? Much
they could do in getting the fair sex protected by legislative enact-
ments; they are not protected in this land-we are very barbar-
ians in this respect! Elevating, too, the moral tone of the community
their special province-and to effect which, no better way than
by animating our breasts with more manly feelings, and even chi-
valrous sentiments of devotion towards them. But money, not
virtue, mammon, not beauty, the idol of the present generation!
They, in the exercise of their high and holy functions, could, at
least, do much in exposing the reprobates around them-convert-
ing the fairest flowers of our country into the rankest weeds!
But how many shake cordially the hand of the rich villain, but
avert their looks on passing the poor, but honest man! The ad-
mirable Lectures, this distinguished divine delivered as to Female
Prostitution, were worthy of his high acquirements, profound saga-
city, and truly Scottish heart. He says, "I ought to have ac-
0
146
APPENDIX.
women.
knowledged long ere this time, the receipt of your very kind letter
accompanying a copy of your spirited address to your country-
I thank you heartily for both." "Your letter," he adds,
gave me fresh encouragement in the fulfilment of an important,
but far from pleasant public duty." "I might not," he says further,
adopt as my own every expression of 'yours, but I go great
lengths with you in your high estimate of the superior worth of
woman."
REV. ROBERT MONTGOMERY, (the distinguished Poet).—"I quite
concur with you in your chivalrous sentiments, in the inherent
majesty, and moral claims of woman."
THOMAS MOORE, (Ireland's National Bard).-"I beg to return
you my best thanks for the interesting work of yours, which you
have been so kind as to send me. You do me but justice in tak-
ing for granted that the subject and sentiments of it are such as I
should feel an interest in and highly approve."
LADY MORGAN.-"Lady Morgan begs to assure Mr. Macphail
that she is fully sensible of the good feeling and high motive,
which is so apparent in the earnest and amiable appeal which he
has made to the public mind in behalf of his countrywomen; and in
Mr. Macphail's determination, wishes him all possible success, and
feels grateful for the chivalrous effort he has made in a cause in
which she is so deeply interested."
L.
FROM THE GLASGOW SATURDAY POST, March, 1839.
SUPREMACY OF WOMAN.-"To Mr. MacPhail we are indebted for
the first ideas on this all-important subject; and we sincerely trust
that the views so eloquently advocated by him, are destined to
work a change in our laws and customs, in so far, at least, as re-
gards that pleasing portion of the works of creation. It is impos-
sible, in the short space of a newspaper report, to give an adequate
idea of the arguments advanced in support of its hypothesis; or
the electrical effect produced on his audience, among whom we
observed some samples of the very fairest of that sex, who have
found in Mr. MacPhail such a distinguished champion. The days
of chivalry are gone and have left a lowering gloom behind them;
but it has been reserved for this young and talented lecturer, in
APPENDIK.
147
favour of "Female Emancipation," to dispel the mists which have
so long surrounded the subject; and to display, in its true form
and genuine colours, the odiousness of man's tyranny. In conclu-
sion, we have to hope that the talent displayed in this lecture will
not be suffered to be dormant, but that we shall again have the
pleasure of hearing him on this subject. We are sure our citizens
are much indebted to Mr. MacPhail for directing their attention
to this topic."
No. II.-P. 80.
After the conquest of England by William the Norman, in 1065
Cospatrick and Merleswain, with other nobles of the highest rank
in the North of England, consulting their own liberty and safety,
fled to Scotland-carrying with them Edgar Atheling, the heir of
the Saxon line, his mother, Algatha, with his sisters, Margaret
and Christina, and sheltered themselves under the hospitality of
Malcolm III.-History of Dunbar: from the Earliest Records to the
Present Period. By JAMES MILLER, 1830, chap. ii., p. 9.
SIR,-My aunt at
No. III. Pp. 49, 116.
says that you wish an interview with me
in the way of offering me cash to do some business on my own
account; and for I presume-nor doubt it-your own advantage!
I have requested her to say that I can hold no meeting with you
till you have restored to me my own; and as to money, I would
not accept it from your hands-though it were thousands of
pounds-until you have done so. You the last on earth I would
trouble myself writing to, were it not for her: and thinking you
have taken a remorse of conscience (which God grant is true!) I
humble myself in thus communicating with you.
As to the wrong of wrongs you have done me, I would be more
than human did I not feel it deeply, keenly, and cuttingly to the
very heart's core! I could not believe you could have been guilty
148
APPENDIX.
So,
of the like. No one could have pursuaded me that you would
swear a false oath, to deprive me of my all. But this you have
done. That false oath is registered in heaven-that false oath
will, like your shadow, haunt you through life-that false oath
will, in your dying moments, stand with terrific aspect before you,
and confront you with horrors at God's Bar of Judgment. There
we shall meet. Mark my words! I know not if you still attend
church-still place yourself at JESUS CHRIST'S Communion Table*—
if I do not know what name to call you. With that murdered
oath in your throat, how can yon handle the elements of that
Divine Being? With the brand of perjury on your forehead, you
must be an unhappy mortal. From my inmost heart I pity you.
I can tell you truly that I would not have that false oath upon
my soul-no, not for the whole universe. I say it is as nothing
the wrong you have done me, to that damning oath! If soul you
have, every article of my furniture must, day after day, remind
you of your perjury; and when your eye lights on my picture, it
will speak daggers, if you have one particle of honesty in your
breast. What all my follies or excesses, in the past, to this mill-
stone about your neck? I can say I have a clear conscience,-I
can hold up my head and look heaven in the face, and say,—I am
an honest man. But as to my furniture-I have simply to say,
that to save you and your partner becoming objects of hate and
scorn; and by posterity held up to execration, you have but one
thing to do that is to restore to me everything that, belongs to
me-this done, I pledge myself to blot out as far as I can every-
thing from memory, as to this almost unheard of piece of basest
ingratitude and most heartless cruelty-and more I will do-for
the sake of your family, and your family alone-I will aid them
in every way that is in my power! But not till you have restored
things so valuable to me, do I wish to meet you till in eternity.
* He was, I am sorry to say-and may be still-a member of
that old and highly respectable Christian congregation, so long
and so ably presided over by the Rev. Dr. Struthers-as beloved
a Pastor as ever directed the steps of youth in the paths of virtue,
or to the aged pointed the way to Heaven!
APPENDIX.
149
Have no care for me-nor do I wish an only sister to pass one
single thought on me-I can battle for myself-honestly live-and
that honesty, in course of time, crown me with independence!
Have no care for me, I have plenty of friends-twenty to one I
had when I thought you were one, and one would remain so to
the death, How deceived! I can tell you, Mathew, with all you have
got possession of of mine-in driving me from your house-taking
advantage of my absence-opening my drawers-turning over my
papers-producing in court the document might have been de-
stroyed by me years ago—and swearing what you knew to be down
right false as to my ever having received one penny of the money
-you are a poor, poor creature to the one you thought sinking to
rise no more; and though I cannot but characterise you by proper
terms, and believe my Bible of you and all such false swearers,
certain of eternal damnation or hell, I here pray to my God that
he may spare you in his mercy!
So, you have part here of my mind. Read and re-read this letter
carefully. Say to my aunt that you will give up my furniture, and I
will meet you; but not otherwise converse with you here or in
time!
No. IV. p. 66.
I could not do better than, without a single remark as to Mr.
Cumming, refer to the two volumes he has published of his travels,
perils, and prowess in Africa, by flood and field. Those works are
most delightful reading, and exceedingly instructive; and the nar-
rative of his adventures could not be more exciting-parts of it,
you would say, bordering on the marvellous.
That every feat performed by him, or encounter with the prowl-
ing herds of the forest or monsters of the deep, there described, is
true, though incredulity may doubt, is what I am confident of. In
Mr. Cumming are united so many extraordinary qualities and
acquirements, that his coolness and daring in facing the lion,
laying in wait for the tiger, or hunting to the death the elephant,
seems no way surprising to me. Since Byron swam the Helespont
150
APPENDIX.
he has, perhaps, no rival in battling with the flood-and this
among his many other athletic and manly accomplishments.
*
When in Glasgow, exhibiting his wondrous collection of skins
and skeletons of gigantic animals, fell before his sure aim and
steady fire, I had the pleasure of forming some little intimacy
with him. In him you found not only the gentleman and scholar,
but a man of singular natural parts, and most bewitching con-
versation. I was proud of him as my countryman. Brought up
and schooled in all the refined and graceful manners of the order to
which he belongs-there was, besides, a nobleness in his demeanour
that neither birth, nor rank, nor royalty could confer that nobility
of mind-shared alike by the peasant and the peer-to be seen in
the look, conversation, or deportment of an individual; and which
always accompanies men with remarkable mental endowments,
and marks them out as singular or peculiar beings among their
less-favoured or gifted fellowmen.
Those who have seen Mr. Cumming-in his favourite dress-the
Highland costume-his commanding figure and lofty bearing, must
admit that they were carried back to the ancient days of Scotland's
chieftainship; and he more like a hero of romance than one of our
modern parloured and pantalooned gentlemen.
One little reminiscence in the course of my short acquaintance -
ship with him, I will long remember; which was his singing
Byron's "Lochnagar," with all the rapt enthusiasm one might
imagine of the young Bard while composing it, and then his voice
so rich, full, and musical-and he in a standing position—and
in such a garb-was, if true what Longinus, the Grecian critic,
says of the sublime-that whatever makes a deep impression on
the mind partakes of it,-a thing to be remembered and never
to be forgotten.


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