t,\ \i._»uN .^y.^^v: mia il ii.vriiihi. "1^ 1^ 1 MinwHIIIHI 1 IHiiflip^ 1 i IIMilnlllfcTffljfliiWiilW ..iKiliKG i^rt^,ll II uiiintKwiyjii I nnifl n p: jdf!«5S,' f. SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. <-' ^ 0-v>v > J J > J J J 1 J > Entered according to act of Congress, in the year iSSS, by PAGAN & ROSS, in the ofTice of the Librarian of Congress, at Wasliington. I'RESS OP William Pagan, Jr., 352 Ptarl Street. NRW VORK. k • <►• • • »• * • • • • .*. . . • .^ • • • • • • • • • • • # • % \ t ^ * • • • • • • .' . % « « • « • • • • • • • • • • » • * • . . • • • v • » •• • 1 • • b • • *. • • • • • *.•.•' : •.• 1> • • • • • • • • • t • • • • • • • • • • • • • • * • *..•• « • • • • • • • • . • ••• • . • . • • • * • • • • • • *• * • • • « • ••• • :.. • • . • ••• ... .. . • • • . . • • . • . • . . . • « • • • PR ^ >4 37? .7 1 TO I The Hon. Chief Justice, David McAdam, OF NEW YORK CITY, tn A lover of Literature, and the antlior ol various works, O THESE ninr^K SKF/r(MIKS of t^COTTlSII POETS TN AMF.llTCA CO ;sz are respectfully and with permission rj "^ Dedicated. (TJ 410789 It is an ungenerous silence which leaves all the fair words of honestly- earned praise to the writer of obituary notices and the marble-worker. Oliver Wendell Holmes. POETS REPRESENTED IN THIS WORK. Ainslio, Hew, ...... e^ Crcrar, Duncan MacGrcgor, - - • - - 29 Crichton, James D. - - - - - . 104 Harper, Dr. John M. - - - - . - g8 Henderson, Daniel Mclntyre, - - . . g© Kennedy, James, - - - - . - 3^^ Latto, Thomas C. ----- - q Lyle, William, • - - - - - - 68 MacColl, Evan, ------ 20 McCallum, Major-Gen. Donald Craig, - - - . 171 M'Lachlan, Alexander, - - - - - 152 McLean, Andrew, - - - - - - 84 Massie, Dr. John, - - - - - - 212 Moffat, Prof. James C. - - - - - - 47 Murray, William, - - - - - - 161 Patterson, John, - - - - - - - 178 Ramsay, Donald, ...... 202 Sturoc, Hon. William Cant, - - - - - 60 Taylor, Malcolm, Jr. - - - - - - 144 Telford, William, - - - - - - 1S7 Wanless, Andrew, - - - - - - 125 Whittct, Robert, - - - - - - - no Wilson, William, -....- 77 Wingficld, Alexander, - - - - - - 136 \Vood, William MacDunald, - - - - - 117 i SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. THOMAS C. LATTO. I left him in a giccn old age And looking like the oak, worn but still steady, Amidst the elements, while younger trees Fell fast around him. I RECENTLY paid a visit to Mr. Thomas C. Latto, the distinguished author of many of the most humorous Scottish lyrics of the present century. The shades of evening were silently wrapi)ing the snow-clad world in darkness as I entered the threshold of his comfortable home and, with a feeling more of veneration than gladness, grasped the hand which he invitingly extended to welcome me. My visit was neces- sarily of brief duration, but it shall live in my memory and be cherished as one of those rare events only met with at long intervals in the jour- ney of life. It was the first time that I had stood in the presence of the author of many of the most familiar songs of my boyhood; songs which had charmed and delighted me with their exuberant humor, and which now intertwine themselves and nestle among the happiest recollections of my early years. Nor was this the most important feature to me, in connection with my visit to the talented song-writer and poet. Here was one who had mingled with many of the illus- trious men whose very names I had revered from infancy, and whose works had been a beacon of enjoyment and delight to me for so many long years! Men who had made themselves famous by the treasures they had added to, and by which they had enriched, the general literature of Scotland, and then laying aside their pen, had passed from the world and joined one another in "the land of the leal." It was therefore with more than ordinary interest that I listened to the conversation of Mr. Latto, and as he proceeded and recollec- tions of by-gone days and events became awakened in his mind, I could notice that his eyes brightened and his face seemed to glow with a singular pleasure. He certainly had a wonderful store of reminis- 10 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. cences and anecdotes of men and books, which he related in a style peculiarly his own. These included James Hogg, the author of " The Queen's Wake;" Professor ^^'illiam Edmonstoune Aytoun, author of " Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers " (to whom Mr. Latto acted as private secretary for four years); Allan Cunningham, the editor of Burns's works; Professor John Wilson ("Christopher North"), of Noctes Ambrosianae fame; James Ballantine, author of "Castles in the Air;" Macaulay, Talford, Mrs. Hemans, Mrs. S. H. Whitman, "the bright- est woman of New England " and the well-known defender of Edgar A. Poe, David Macbeth Moir (" Delta "), author of " Mansie Waugh;" Henry Scott Riddell, author of "Scotland Yet," besides Charles Gray, David Vedder, Robert Gilfillan, Hew Ainslie, Alexander Smart, Robert Nichol, and many others equally famous, all of whom he had known and with whom he had associated or corresponded. Truly, such of his reminiscences as he imparted to me were of an interesting and profitable nature, and if he could only he induced to publish a collec- tion of them in book form the literary world would be greatly enriched thereby. He was, in early life, a prominent contributor to Whistle Binkie, the Ladies' Own Journal, Blackie's Book of Scottish Song, the Glasgow Citizen, Blackwood's Magazine, and many other standard works and publications, and his recollection of his contemporaries at this date would undoubtedly prove not only interesting but valuable reading. His own reputation as a poet had already been established, and his poem on Sir Walter Scott, which appeared in Blackwood's Magazine about this time, drew from the editor of that ])ublication the acknowledgment that " Of all the poetical tributes which had been laid on the tomb of the great magician, that of Latto was the most graceful and the most original." Mr. Latto is now well advanced in years. He was born at Kings- barns, Fifeshire, on the first of December, 1818, and received the best l)art of his education at St. Andrew's University. He was noted among his schoolmates as being of a very reserved and retiring dis- position, and strange to say these traits are characteristic of him even to this day. While his name and his wriiings are well known through- out the United States and Canada very few Scotsmen even in this city are aware of the fact that their gifted countryman has resided for a number of years in a pleasantly situated cottage in the suburbs of Brooklyn. After engaging in one or two mercantile pursuits, both in Edinburgh and Glasgow, Mr. Latto decided to take up his residence THOMAS C. LATTO. ii in this ( ounlry. He arrived here in 1851, and since then has supported himself and his family to a great extent by his untiring literary labors. In the midst of these labors, howe\cr, tlic nuise has been his constant and fascinating comijanion, and he has continued to contribute to the press both of Great Britain and America many sterling gems of poetry and song on a variety of subjects. His most jjopular songs are his humorous ones, and of tlicse, "Sly Widow Skinner," "When we Were at the Schule " and "The Kiss Ahint the Door," are i>robably the most widely known. They have been sung in nearly every part of tlic world, certainly in every part where Scotsmen have found a resting place. The following is a copy of "The Kiss Ahint the Door," with an additional stanza (the fourth) which Mr. Latto has added to the song so as to render it more complete: There's meikle bliss in ae fond Iciss, Whyles mair than in a score; Hut wae betak' the stowin smack I took ahint the door. O laddie, whisht! for sic a fricht I ne'er was in afore; Fu' brawl}- did my mithcr hear The kiss ahint the door. The wa's are thick — ye needna fear; But, gin they jeer and mock, I'll swear it was a startit cork, Or wyte the rusty lock. There's meikle bliss, etc. We stappit ben, while Maggie's face Was like a lowin' coal; An' as for me, I could ha'e creept Into a mouse's hole. The mither look't — safT's how she look't — Thae mithers are a bore, An' gleg as ony cat to hear A kiss ahint the door. "Ehere's meikle bliss, etc. Tlie douce gudeuian, tho' he was there, As weel micht be in Rome, Fm by the tire he fulled his pipe, An' never fasht his ihooni; 12 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. But, titterin' in a corner, stood The gawky sisters four — A winter's nicht for me the)' micht Ha'e stood ahint the door. There's meikle bliss, etc. Wee Rab, that sneck-the-woodie imp, Could scarcely hide his glee, As owre his sclate he botched an' shook, Thrang at his " Rule o' Three." That lang-drawn whistle that he wheept Was herald o' mischance; lie kent the music was begun An' wha was gaun to dance. There's meikle bliss, etc. " How daur ye tak' sic freedoms here?" The bauld gudewife began; Wi' that a foursome yell gat up — I to my heels and ran. A besom whiskit by my lug, And dishclouts half a score; Catch me again, tho' fidgin' fain, At kissin' 'hint the door. There's meikle bliss, etc. "The Kiss" was made the subject of a painting by an eminent Scottish artist, and exhibited in the Royal Academy at Edinburgh some few years ago. " When we were at the Schule " originally appeared in " Blackie's Book of Scottish Song," without the author's name being attached to it, but in the index of authors it is properly credited to him. Some twenty years ago an article appeared in the New York Weekly Dis- patch, claiming that the song was written by a John Paterson, whose widow was then living in Grand Street. It seems that this party had been in the habit of singing it for many years as one of his own ])ro- ductions; but the matter having been brought to the notice of Mr. Latto, he had no difficulty in proving that Paterson was laboring under a hallucination. We api)end a copy of this celebrated song, of which it was said by the Rev. George Gilfillan " Every line is a memory. In the whole compass of Scottish lyrical poetry there is nothing more graphic or delightful." THOMAS C. LATTO. 13 WHEN WE WERE AT THE SCHULE. The laddies plague me for a sang, I e'en maun play the fule; I'll sing them ane aboot the days When we were at the schule. TliDugh noo the frosty pow is seen, Whaur ance wav'd gowden hair. An' mony a blytliesome heart is cauld, Sin' first we sported there. When we were at the schule, my frien', When we were at the schule; An' O, sae merry pranks we play'd, When we were at the schule. Yet muckle Jock is to the fore, That used our lugs to pu', An' Rob, the pest, an' Sugar Pouch, An' canny Davie Dow. O do ye mind the maister's hat, Sae auld, sae bare an' brown. We carried to the burnie's side An' sent it soomin' down? When we were at the schule, etc. We thocht how clever a' was plann'd, When, wliatua voice was that? A head is raised aboon the hedge, " I'll thank ye for my hat!" O weel I mind our hingin' lugs. Our het an' tinglin' paws, weul I iniiid his awfu' look. An' weel I mind the taws! When we were at the schule, etc. O do ye mind at countin' time. How watchfu' lu' has lain. To catcli us steal frae ithers' slates An' jot it on our ain? An how we fear'd at writin' hour, His glunrhes an' his glooms. How mony times a day he said. Our fingers a' were thooms? When we were at the schule, etc. 14 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. I'll ne'er forget the day ye stood, ('Twas manfu' like,) yoursel', An' took the pawmies an' the shame, To save wee Johnnie Bell; The maister fand it out belj've, He took 3-6 on his knee. An" as he gaz'd into your face, The tear was in his e'e. When we were at the schule, etc. But mind ye lad, yon afternoon, How fleet ye skipp'd awa'. For ye had crack't auld Jenny's pane, When playin' at the ba'. Nae pennies had we; Jenny grat; It cut us to the core; Ye took ye're mither's hen at nicht An' left it at her door. When we were at the schule, etc. An' sic a steer his granny made, When talepyet Jamie Rae We dookit roarin' at the pump. Syne row'd him down the brae. But how the very maister leuch, When leein saddler Wat Cam' in an' threep't that cripple Tam Had chas'd an' kill'd his cat. When we were at the schule, etc. Ah, laddies, ye may wink awa', Truth maunna aye be tauld; I fear the schules o' modern days Are just sic like's the auld. An' are na we but laddies yet, Wha' get the name o' men? How sweet at ane's fireside to live Thae happy days again; When we were at the schule, my frien', When we were at the schule, An' fling the snawba's owcr .ngain We Hang when at the schule. Mr. Latto's pathetic compositions are of the very highest order. They contain the genuine ring of llie true poet, and in each instance are clothed in great beauty and tenderness. Here is one which was THOMAS C. LATTO. 15 published in Blackie's Book of Scottish Song as far back as 1845. For sweetness and sim])licity it is eciiial to anything of its kind ever published, and if we mistake not it is one of the author's special favorites : THE BONNIE BLIND LASSIE THAT SITS I" THE SUN. O hark to the strain that sac sweetly is ringin', And echoing cleady o'er lake and o'er lea, Like some fairy bird in the wilderness singin", It thrills to my heart, yet nae minstrel I sec, Round yonder rock, knittin', a dear ciiild is sillin', Sac toilin' her pitifu' pittance is won, Hersel' tho' we see nae, 'tis mitherless Jeanie — The bonnie blind lassie that sits i' the sun. Five years syne come autumn she cam' wi' her mithcr, A sodger's puir widow, sair wasted an' ganc: As brown fell the leaves, sae wi' them did she wither And left the sweet child on the wide woild her lane. She left Jeanie wcepin', in His holy keepin' Wha shelters the lamb frae the cauld wintry win", We had little siller, yet a' were gude till her. The bonnie blind lassie that sits i' the sun. An' blythe now an' chcerfu' frae mornin' to e'enin' She sits thro' the simmer, an' gladdens ilk ear, Baith auld and young daut her, sae gentle and winnin', To a' the folks round, the wee lassie is dear. Braw leddies caress her, wi' bounties would press her. The modest bit darliii' their notice would shun, For though she has naething, proud-hearted this wee thing. The bonnie blind lassie that sits i' the sun. The hue l>r. Joem in the work gives us a key at once to the mainspring of his poetic feelings — the love of the fatherland, which he thus apostrophises : PKOF. JAMES C. MOFFA T. 49 Wild land of poesy, when free From daily cares to youth and thee My thoughts return, what visions lie Like evening clouds before my eye ! The winding stream, the mountain glen And sunny lawn appear again ; While every spot its legend brings Of love and past beloved things. The prelude introduces to us the story of the heir of a Scottish house whose worldly circumstances have been reduced, but who wins the love of a high-born lady, and in a heroic endeavor to win fortune and fame, undertakes the command of an expedition to the Polar regions. Years pass and no news of the hero until a wandering sailor tells the story of the finding of a lost ship and a frozen crew in the northern seas. The descriptive passages in the work are particularly fine, the versification elegant and melodious. Take, for instance, the hero's last look at the home of his beloved: The moon is on the eastern height His silver on the seas, But fairer to the poet's sight The glimmering of that humble light Among the ancient trees ; For it has shone on one possessed Of human life's most envied boon And prized more dearly to his breast Than all the rest beneath the moon ; And at this lovely place and hour When nothing but that ancient tower Upon the wooded steeps above Can thought of human life impart, Its gentle rays come on his heart Like messengers of love. The description of the Polar regions, the attitudes of the frozen crew, with the accompan)ing weird natural phenomena, are admirable examples of invention and graphic description to which no brief selec- tion could give an adequate illustration. We pass, however, to notice his happy faculty of writing short poems, chiefly of a moral or didactic kind. They embrace a variety of subjects, but the most striking are those which contain a survey of the beautiful in nature ; a subject with which he ever links a broad human sympathy. As an illustration of this let us quote a little poem which he composed during a visit to Europe immediately after the Franco-German war : 50 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. TO THE RHINE AT COLOGNE. We've met, old Rhine, among the hills. And thou wast young and playful then, Disporting with the wanton rills And rushing wild from glen to glen. I've met thee in a fuller stream, Where still the haughty Alps arose, Flowing in majesty supreme, And gathering tribute from their snows. When brooks with loud complaining din, Harassed and tortured in the race. Through rocks and gorge, o'er ledge and lin. Sought refuge in thy strong embrace. And here, in thy maturer age. In tranquil force and grandeur spread, Conferring traffic's heritage Upon the lands thy floods have made, Diffusing far on every hand. Thy gifts and energies benign, I bow before thy wide command. And hail thee monarch, mighty Rhine. So may the people, through whose coasts Thy far-assembled waters wind, Their strong but long-divided hosts. Of honest worth and fertile mind. Endowed with learning's richest dower. Harmoniously at length combine Into one vast benignant power. As thou art here, imperial Rhine. Many of the professor's short poems are of a religious kind, and as such display an abiding faith in God's goodness to men. "A Cry in Battle " may be taken as a specimen of this: A CRY IN BATTLE. There is a war which I must wage, A victory I must win ; A fiend has cast the mortal gage. And dares me from within. PROF. JAMES C. MOFFA T. 51 His hate is vigilant and keen, His forces manifold ; His strategy is broad, unseen, His charge sustained and bold. Insidious craft have I to meet, Whose arts deceive the eye ; To fight is to provoke defeat, Yet I must win or die. Great Son of God, whose piercing glance Through all designs can see, My hope for victory in defence I rest alone on thee. Again, many of his short poems lake a lyrical form, and of these his Tamers of the Ground " is probably the most widely known. TAMERS OF THE GROUND. There is conquest of force in taming the horse Till he brooks to be driven and bound, But prouder by far the victories are Of the men who tame the ground — Who tame the ground and its wilful powers, And determine the work it must do. Till it leaves its own, and executes ours. With obedience docile and true. For they are true workers together with God, In maturing the earth to his plan. And in teaching her dull and unmeaning sod To glow with the thinking of man — Who compel her rude life to surrender the wold, The marsh and the jungle to yield To him who can out of her deserts unfold The wealth of the fruit-bearing field. Delights there may be on the restless sea, Though treacherous, barren and bare ; But the grateful land ever blesses the hand That tends it with wi.sdom and care. Then health to the heroes, who tame the ground, And hold ii in bountiful thrall. For they lap the earth with their conquests around Enriching, benignant to all. S2 SCOTTISH POETS TN AMERICA. The greatest, however, of the learned professor's poems is "Alvvyn: A Romance of Study," published by Messrs. Anson D. F. Randolph & Co., of this city, in 1875. It is a lengthy work of seven cantos, written in the Spenserian stanza, and deals chiefly in an analysis of the mind of a student passing through the various studies of the acquired knowledge of the ages. This subject, simple as it may appear, opens a wonderful panorama of facts and fancies, which pass transfigured before the intellectual eye, and illustrate not only the vast scholarship of the author but his intimate knowledge of natural phenomena. The endless array of pictures that pass before us are drawn from every conceivable source, from the lovely grandeur of far- spreading seas, from the wild sublimity of mountains, from the shroud- ed stillness of the white North, from the dazzling brilliancy of tropical forests, from the heart of man and from all animate nature. The effect of each new experience of observation is finely pointed out in the growing intellectual power of the hero of the poem, and the incentive to study and a true conception of the power of knowledge with the highest reverence and faith in revealed religion, may be gathered as the general effect of the whole work. Indeed the religious sentiment is ever held, and justly so, as the highest attribute of man. The effect of forests in this sentiment is grandly expressed in the first canto: And much he sought the forest dense and old, A strange unhuman charm resided there ; And in the sombre twilight, damp and cold, Which bade the venturous foot of man forbear, He found attractions such as dangers wear. An awful thought that the Almighty God, Such as he reigned ere man was made, and ere Christ was revealed, still had his dread abode, In these old shades, to him was like a wizard's rod. Majestic trees, earth's ancient garniture, Primeval forests, which so fondly cling To the wild places, which your life secure From the destrtjying enemy, ye bring Conceptions of creation's early spring. Ere man's viccgerency had yet begun. And when in herb and stream and living thing. In heat and cold and cloud and golden sun God solitary reigned and all his will was done. PROF. JAMES C. MOFFA T. 53 Not only does this intimacy with nature form one of the chiefest beauties of the work, but through this quahty we are led to a higher appreciation of such men of eminence, whose works are touched upon in this masterly poem. Even when we cannot follow the learned professor into his perfect knowledge of the work of the Greek and Roman poets and philosojihers we feel a closer intimacy with them after seeing the kaleidoscojjic reflex of their works such as is here presented on every hand. Take Cicero for instance : "Most fertile genius of the Roman name, Whose glowing tones of eloquence bestow But half thy green inheritance of fame ; Pure statesman hero, toiling to reclaim A sinking countr)' and a vicious age, Who lived a life scarce faction dared to blame, And nobly died to stem the tyrant's rage — Hail freedom's martyr, hail benign eclectic sage !" If space permitted, we would be pleased to analyze this poem to its close, but we can only add that as a whole it is one of most remarkable ever published in America. In finish of versification it certainly has no superior. It gives added sanction and stability to the power of knowledge and to the faith and practice of true religion as constituting the highest law of the moral universe. Besides his poetical works, Prof. Moffat is the author of a Life of Dr. Chalmers, published in Cincinnati, 1853; Introduction to the Study of /Kesthetics, 1856; Comparative History of Religions, 2 vols., 187 1-3; Song and Scenery, or a Summer Ramble in Scotland, 1S74; Church History in Brief, 1885; and he has contributed about seventy historical articles to the Princeton Review and other periodicals. In conclusion, we cannot close our brief comments on the poet-professor without alluding to the exalted estimate in which he is held as a man. His pure and noble life carries with it the royal reward of a heart still sweet and young. The shepherd's boy with the keen eye and the bright smile is still there; the journeymen printer, with the quick hand and the kind word for a fellow workman, is still there. Add to this the talented scholarly jirofessor, the profound theologian; and through this combination of manly and noble (pialities, the light of poesy shines as sunshine among the forest leaves, blessing and beautifying the whole. HEW AINSLIE. His life was gentle; and the elements So mixed in him, that nature might stand up And say to all the world "this luas a man.' Hew AiNSLiE is entitled to a prominent place among Scottish- American poets. Early imbued with a taste for the ballad and song literature of his country, he contributed much to it that was both valuable and beautiful, and his name shall descend to posterity enshrined among the galaxy of sweet singers who have made the land of the mountain and the flood famous among nations as a land of poetry and song. Hew Ainslie was born at Bargeny Mains, in the parish of Dailly, Ayrshire, on the fifth of April, 1792. His father at the time held a responsible position on the estate of Sir Hew Dalrymple, and, being in possession of sufficient means, resolved upon giving his son a better education than that usually accorded to boys in Scotland at that date, A private tutor was accordingly procured, who prepared him in the elementary branches of study at home, after which he was sent to the parish school at Ballantrae, and later on to the Ayr Acade- my. He remained at the latter place until he reached his fourteenth year, when failing health compelled him to discontinue his studies and return home. Gen. James Grant Wilson, in his excellent work, " The Poets and Poetry of Scotland," tells us that " Sir Hew was at this time engaged in an extensive plan for the improvement of his estate, under the direction of the celebrated landscape gardener, White, and a number of young men from the South. Young Ainslie joined this company, as he says, * to harden my constitution and check my over- growth. Among my planting companions I found a number of intelligent young men, who had got up in a large granary a private theatre, where they occasionally performed for the amusement of the neighborhood the 'Gentle Shei)hcrd,' ' Douglas,' etc., and in due lime I was, to my great joy, found tall enough, lassie-looking enough, and flippant enough to take the part of the pert 'Jenny;' and the first HE IV AINSLIE. 55 relish I got for anything like sentimental song was from learning and singing the songs in that pastoral — an Id ballads that my mother sung — and she sung many and sang them well — having been all the poetry I cared for. For three years, ^\hich was uj) to the time we removed to Roslin, I remained in this employment, accpiiring a tough, sound con- stitution, and at the same time some knowledge of nursery and floral culture." Shortly after this however he was sent to Glasgow, where he entered upon the study of law, but this proving too uncongenial an occupation for one possessing his temperament, he soon resigned his position and returned to his home. Another situation was procured for him in the Register House, Edinburgh, and here he performed his duties faithfully for a number of years. He also acted for some time as the amanuensis of the celebrated Professor Dugald Stewart. At the age of twenty he married, and ten years later, finding that his salary was inadequate for the maintenance of his family, he resolved to emigrate to America. He certainly expected that he would better his condition by coming to this country, and yet it was with a very sorrowful heart that he bade farewell to his native land. THE LAST LOOK OF HOME. Our sail has ta'en the blast, Our pennant's to the sea, And the waters widen fast 'Twixt the fatherland and me. Then, Scotland, fare thee well — There's a sorrow in that word This aching heart could tell, But words never shall record. The heart should make us veil From the heart's elected few — Our sorrows when we ail — Would we have them suffer too? No, the parting hour is past ; Let its memory be brief ; When we monument our joys We should sepulchre our grief. Now yon misty mountains fail, As the breezes give us speed — On, my spirit, with our sail, There's a brighter land ahead. 56 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. There are wailings on the wind, There are murmurs on the sea, But the fates ne'er proved unkind Till they parted home and me. He arrived here on the twenty-second of July 1822, and shortly afterwards purchased a small farm at Hoosick, Rensselaer County, N. Y. This proved an unwise speculation for him however, and after struggling with it for nearly three years, he was glad to retire from it. Then Robert Owen's settlement at New Harmony, Ind., was tried and pronounced a failure. A few years later he removed to Cincinnati, where he entered into partnership with Messrs. Price & Wood, brewers, and henceforth his lot may be said to have fallen in pleasant places. Success followed nearly all his future movements, and, being prosperous, he was happy and contented. But amidst this prosperity his thoughts would ever turn to scenes of bygone days, and he would find time to sing of THE LADS AN' THE LAND FAR AWA'. When I think on the lads an' the land I ha'e left, An' how love has been lifted, an' friendship been reft; How the hinnie o' hope has been jumbled wi' ga', Then I sigh for the lads an' the land far awa'. When I think on the days o' delight we ha'e seen, When the flame o' the spirit would spark in the een ; Then I say, as in sorrow I think o' ye a'. Where will I find hearts like the hearts far awa ? When I think on the nights we ha'e spent hand in hand, Wi' mirth for our sowther, and friendship our band, This world gets dark, but ilk night has a daw' ! And I yet may rejoice in the land far awa' ! In 1864 Mr. Ainslie resolved to pay a visit to Scotland. With what eagerness and joy he crossed the Atlantic for this purpose, may be judged by the following lines, entitled "A Hameward Sang." His love for Scotland must indeed have been stamped very deeply on his heart when, on nearing it after an absence of over forty years, his imagination gave him the impression that the trees seemed to look upon him with fond recognition, while even the very brutes had a social look about them and seemed to welcome him back to his early home. I/EIV AINSLIE. 57 A HAMEWARD SANG. Each whirl o' the wheel. Each step brings mc nearer The hamc o' my youth — Every object grows dearer, The hills and the huts, The trees on that green, Losh ! they glour in my face Like some kindly auld fricn'. E'en the brutes they look social, As gif they would crack ; And the sang o' the bird Seems to welcome me back. Oh, dear to our hearts Is the hand that first fed us, An' dear is the land An' the'cottage.that bred us. An' dear are the comrades Wi' whom we once sported; But dearer the maiden Whose love we first courted. Joy's image may perish. E'en grief die away ; But the scenes o' our youth Are recorded for aye. He remained for some years in Scotland and on the continent, enjoying the friendship of many of the most eminent men of letters of the time. Returning to America he took up his abode permanently with his eldest son George, at Louisville, Ky. Mr. Ainslie was a poet in the truest sense of the word. His love for Scotland no doubt stimulated his muse to sing forth her praises in songs which will ever retain a place in the hearts of his countrymen, but apart from this he has left us numerous ballads and lyrical pieces which we would not willingly let die. Many of these are of a very pathetic nature, and, in addition to their being very beautiful, they contain excellent senti- ments expressed in the simplest of words. Take for instance his DOWIE IN THE HINT 0' HAIRST. It's dowie in the hint o' hairst, At the wa'-gang o' the swallow, When the wind grows cauld, and the burns grow bauld, And the wuds are hingin' yellow ; 58 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. But oh, it's dowier far to see The wa'-gang o' her the heart gangs wi', The dead-set o' a shinin' e'e — That darkens the weary warld on thee. There was mickle love atween us twa — Oh, twa could ne'er be fonder ; And the thing on yird was never made, That could ha'e gart us sunder. But the way o' Heaven's aboon a' ken, And we maun bear what it likes to sen' — It's comfort, though, to weary men, That the warst o' this warld's waes maun en'. There's mony things that come and gae, Just kent, and just forgotten ; And the flowers that busk a bonnie brae, Gin anither year lie rotten. But the last look o' that lovely e'e, And the dying grip she ga'e to me, They're settled like eternitie — Oh, Mary ! that I were wi' thee. "Perhaps," says Mr. Thomas C. Latto, "the finest of Hew Ainslie's songs is the ' Bourocks o' Bargeny,' which I transcribe from the manu- script of the good old Bard, now lying on my desk. He copied it for me at my request October i6, 1868, and felt much gratified when I expressed my opinion that, though the theme had been attempted several times, notably by Robert Chambers in ' Young Randal ' and by Robert Nicoll in * Bonny Bessie Lee,' it had never been handled with greater delicacy and success than in his own simple lines. The Bou- rocks (/. e. Cotter houses) o' Bargeny is indeed a gem. 'I left ye, Jeanie, bloomin' fair 'Mang the bourocks o' Bargeny, I've found ye on the banks o' Ayr, But sair ye're alter'd, Jeanie. I left ye like the wanton lamb That plays 'mang Hadyed's heather ; I've found ye noo a sober dame — A wife and eke a mither. I left ye 'mang the leaves sae green In rustic weed befittin'; I've found ye buskit like a queen In painted chaumcr sittin". Ye're fairer, statelier, I can see ; Yc'rc wiser nae dou't Jeanie, But oh ! I rather met wi' thee 'Mang the bourocks o' Bargeny ! ' " . * HEW A IN SUE. 59 In 1822 Mr, Ainslic published his first work, viz. : "A pilgrimage to the Land of Burns." Several large editions of this work have been issued and sold. In 1855 he published "Scottish Songs, Ballads and Poems," and this also received a cordial welcome from the public and press. Three different editions of his collected writings have since been publshed and disposed of. Many of his earlier poems are to be found in the publications of the Messrs. Chambers, of Edinburgh, and in " Whistle Binkie," "Gems of Scottish Song," etc. Mr. Ainslie died at Louisville, Ky. , at the venerable age of eighty-six. From an obituary notice which appeared a few days after his death written by Mr. Latto, we clip the following : — " A truer Scotchman than Hew Ainslie never trod the heather. In person tall, stately and agile even in advanced years, his face was the index of his character — frank, open, honest, genial and manly. He looked the personification of Wallace wight or Bruce the bold, and in a personal encounter he would have been a match for half a dozen ordinary men. His head was beautifully set on his square shoulders and his broad, lofty brow betokened a rare and transcendent genius. At one of the meetings of the Burns Club, Brooklyn, E, D., it was stated that Ainslie, before he left Scotland for the first time, had had the honor of kissing Burns' ' bonny Jean' by the banks of the Nith, on the spot where he had composed one of his deathless lyrics. Full of years and of honors, it must be consoling to his family in their bereavement to know that his long life closed so peacefully, but never can his place be filled in the hearts of those who, like the writer, knew and loved him." HON. WILLIAM CANT STUROC. The general voice Sounds him for courtesy, behavior, language, And every fair demeanor, an example ; Titles of honor add not to his worth, Who is himself an honor to his title. William Cant Sturoc was born in the old town of Arbroath in the year 1822. He was the twelfth child of a family of thirteen, and as his parents' circumstances in life were not of the best, it became neces- sary to put him to work at a comparatively early age. His education therefore while not altogether neglected, can truly be said to have been of a limited description. During the short time however that he remained at school it is interesting to note that he was credited with being " a persistent, dogged, unconquerable boy, with a sharp, inquisi- tive turn of mind, bold and self-reliant, and a leader among his school- mates." He learned the trade of a whcel-wright with his father, but so determined was he during those early years of his life to better his ed- ucation and to push himself forward in the world, that before he had reached the age of twenty he had read through and studied as carefully as possible nearly all of the English classics. To-day he can pause and look back with complacent satisfaction on the heroic and laud- able struggles of his youth, and he inay feel proud of the fact that apart from the honors which his merits have won for him in various fields, he now stands prominently before the world as one of the finest speci- mens of the self-made men of the present century. In 1846 he resolved to emigrate to Canada. He arrived in Montreal in May of that year, and while supporting himself during the succeeding four years by his trade, eagerly embraced every opportunity that presented itself whereby he could add to the knowledge which he had already acquired. He became a frequent contributor to Canadian newspapers and magazines, and many of his articles written at this date show that he possessed HON. WILLIAM CANT STUROC. 6i considerable literary ability, besides a sound discriminating judgment. Life in Canada however soon failed to please him. In 1 850 he crossed over to the United States and took up his abode in Sunapee, N. H. Here he became ac(iuainted with the late Hon. Edmund Burke, and by him was induced to commence the study of law. Zealously apply- ing himself to his new task he was rewarded in 1855 by being admitted to practice as an attorney in the courts of New Hampshire. Since that time he has made Sunapee his home, and while attaining the high- est degree of eminence in his profession, has also acquired an honor- able reputation as an orator, a poet and one of the ablest statesmen in New Hampshire. By his gentle demeanor, his genial disposition and his numerous acts of Christian kindness he has gained the respect and the love of all classes. His home and surroundings are thus described in a recent issue of the Granite Monthly :— "Along the banks of Sugar River, on the shore of the lake, and crowning surrounding hillsides cluster fifty or sixty dwelling-houses, interspersed among which rise the spires of three church edifices, the roofs of a hotel, post-office, five stores, school-house, and the town hall. Some of the residences are elegant and commodious and compare favorably with the same class of structures in larger villages. The oldest and one of the best-looking dwelling-houses is the one owned by the Hon. William Cant Sturoc, in the heart of the village. We found that gentleman at home in his library, a man fifty-seven years of age, looking what he is, the educated, hospitable, ardent Scotchman. The blood of Bruce and Wallace is in his veins, the fire of Burns and Scott in his brain. Next to his adopted country he loves Scotland, and he has often breathed that affection in exquisite verse. It is a pleasure to hear him read Burns and other Scotch poets. As a lawyer and politician, he has no little distinction. He was the democratic candidate for State Senator in district number ten in 1876. His proudest title, however, is that of the ' Bard of Sunapee.' " The following is his well-known descriptive poem entitled LAKE SUNAPEE. Once more, my muse ! from rest of many a )'ear, Come forth again and sing, as oft of yore ; Now lead my steps to where the crags appear In silent grandeur, by the rugged shore, That skirts the margin of thy waters free, Lake of my mountain home, loved Sunapee ! 62 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. Meet invocation ! to the pregnant scene, Where long ere yet the white man's foot did roam, Strode wild and free the daring Algonquin ; And where, perchance the stately Metacom Inspired his braves, with that poetic strain Which cheer'd the Wampanoags, but cheer'd in vain. Clear mountain mirror ! who can tell but thou Hast borne the red man, in his light canoe As fleetly on thj' bosom as e'en now Thou bear'st the pale face o'er thy waters blue ; And who can tell but nature's children then Were rich and happy as the mass of men ? Sweet Granite "Katrine" of this mountain land ! Oh jewel set amid a scene so fair ! Kearsage, Ascutney, rise on either hand, While Grantham watches with a lover's care. And our dark "Ben" to Croydon sends in glee, A greeting o'er thy silvery breast. Lake Sunapee ! How grand, upon a moonlit eve, to glide Upon thy waters, twixt the mountains high And gaze within thy azure crystal tide. On trembling shadows of the earth and sky ; While all is silent, save when trusty oar Awakes an echo from thy slumbering shore. Oh, lovely lake, I would commune with thee ! For in thy presence naught of ill is found ; That cares which wed the weary world to me, May cease to harass with their carking round. And I a while 'midst Nature's grandeur stand. On mount of rapture 'twixt the sea and land. For where shall mortals holier ground espy, From which to look where hope doth point and gaze. Than from the spot that speaks a Diety, In hoary accents of primeval praise ? And where shall man a purer altar find, From which to worship the Almighty Mind ? Thy past is curtained by as deep a veil As shrouds the secrets which we may not reach ; And then, 'twere wisdom, when our quest doth fail. To read the lessons whicli thou noiii dost teach ; And in tliy face, on which wi; If)ok to-daj'. Sec hopes to cheer us on our onward way. HON. WILLIAM CANT STUKOC. 63 Roll on, sweet lake ! and if perchance thy form Laves less of earth than floods of Western fame ; Yet still we love thee, in the calm or storm, And call thee ours by many a kindly name. No patriot heart but loves the scenes that come, O'er memory's sea to breathe a tale of "Home." And when the winter in its frozen thrall Binds up thy locks in braids of icy wreath, Forget we not thy cherish'd name to call, In fitting shadow of the sleep of death ! But morn shall dawn upon our sleep, and we, As thou in spring-time wake, sweet "Sunapec !" Mr. Sturoc has been an ardent and successful wooer of the muses since his earliest years. He has given to the world many excellent poems and lyrical pieces, which have been awarded the highest praise from the press and literary men in general, but his extreme modesty and unwillingness to exhibit his talents in this respect before the public, has in a great measure retarded his popularity as a poet, both in America and in Great Britain. "The little fugitive crumbs," he says, "which I have cast carelessly upon the waters have been received on both sides of the Atlantic with more favor than they really deserve, yet, though 'owre the seas an' far awa', I always take a warm and hearty interest in all that concerns Scotland." There is however, a notable difference between his early poems and those of a more matured i)eriod of his life. Take for instance one of his pieces which appeared in the Glasgow Citizen in 1845. ^^ begins, My Katie is a winsome flower, As ever bloomed in cot or ha'. An' heaven forbid its dewy leaves, Should ere untimely fade or fa,' etc. There is hardly a line in this i:)roduction that is in any way worthy to stand beside the beautiful lines which he gave to the world later on under the title of " Mary " and which we herewith append. An American paper noticing this poem at the time of its first publication very justly remarked that " It stamped its author, not only as a ripe scholar, but as possessing rare poetic gifts." 64 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. MARY, I saw a vision in my boyish days, So bright, so pure, that in my raptur'd dreaming, Its tints of emerald and its golden rays Had more of heavenly than of earthly seeming ; The roseate valley and the sun-light mountain Alike, enchanted as by wand of fairy, Breathed out as from a high and holy fountain. On flower and breeze, the lovely name of Mary. That youthful vision, time has not eflfaced, But year by year the cherish'd dream grew deeper, And memory's hand, at midnight hour oft traced, Once more, the faithful vision of the sleeper ; No chance or change could ever chase away This idol thought, that o'er my life would tarry. And lead me, in the darkest hours, to say — "My better angel is my hoped-for Mary." The name was fix'd — a fact of fate's recording — And swayed by magic all this single heart ; The strange decree disdained a novel wording. And would not from my happy future part ; As bright 'twas writ, as is the milky way — The bow of promise is a sky unstarry — That sheds its light and shone with purest ray Through cloud and tempest round the name of Marj'. Burns hymn'd his "Mary" when her soul had pass'd Away from earth, and all its sin and sorrow ; But mine has been the spirit that hath cast A gleam of sunshine on each blessed morrow ; And crown'd at last, this trusting heart hath been, With fruits of faith, that nought on earth could vary. For I have lived until my eyes have seen The vision real, in the form of Mary. A special feature of Mr. Sturoc's poetry is the simplicity of language used by him. He places his thoughts before us in a clear and concise style, and his words, beautiful and appropriate in each instance, seem to flow as naturally from him as do the streams and rills down the sides of the mountains and the glens of his native land. Take the following " song " as a specimen of this : HON. WILLIAM CANT ST U ROC. 65 I kcn'na gin the lanesome birds. When winter's snaws fa' dreary, O. Forget their canty summer hames In woods and glens sae cheery, O. But weel I ken this heart o' mine, Tho' fortune gars me wander O, Boats leal to ilka youthfu' scene An' distance makes me fonder, O. For in my dreams, by day or nicht, Tho' wealth and beauty bind me O, I'm wafted far owre sea an' land, To friends I left behind me O, An' there I see ilk wceUkent face. An' hear sweet voices many O. But dearest'still the smile and word O' charming, winsome Jenny O In nearly all of our author's poetry we find an underlying reference and unquestionable love for the land of his boyhood. This is more to be wondered at when we take into consideration the fact that it is now more than forty years since he left Scotland. Time however has in no way changed her to him; and her history, traditions, scenery and people are ever before his mind. In some cases his enthusi- asm for the fatherland becomes uncontrollable, and his muse bursts forth into patriotic strains as noble and as grand as those which emanated from Henry Scott Riddell and others. The following poem, for in- stance, written not very long since, will always be accorded a prominent place in Scottish minstrelsy : MY NATIVE SCOTTISH HILLS. Though cold and bleak my native land, Thoughjwint'ry are its looks, The mountains towering, dim and grand, Though "ice-bound" are its brooks ; Yet still my heart with fotvdest pride. And deepest paisions thrills, As, gazing round me, far and wide, I miss my native hills ! The spreading prairies of the West May yield their richest store ; And other tongues may call them blest, And chant their praises o'er ; 66 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. But I shall sing, in humble song. Of mountains, lochs and rills — The scenes my childhood dwelt among — My native Scottish hills. Oh native land ! Oh cherished home, I've sailed across the sea. And, though my wandering steps may roam, My heart still turns to thee ! My thoughts and dreams are sweet and bright With dew which loves distills ; While every gleam of golden light Falls on the Scottish hills. And, when my mortal race is run, And earth's vain dreams are o'er, And, far beyond the setting sun, I see the other shore — Oh, may my resting place be found Secure from all life's ills. Some cheerful spot of hallow'd ground Among the Scottish hills. A sincere religious sentiment, well worthy of note, also pervades many of Mr. Sturoc's musings. However much his public career may have brought him in contact with the world there is no misdoubting the Christianity of the heart that can sing So what we have of gifts and graces given. Are only lent us for life's little day ; Nor shall we do the high behest of heaven If gifts are hidden, or be cast away ; And whom the hand of destiny hath sealed. As seer and singer for his fellows all, 'Tis his to scatter o'er earth's fertile field The seeds that drop at inspiration's call Then let me sing ! O worldlings, let me sing ! Mayhap my warblings with their notes of cheer Will heal some heart that cherishes a sting Or wake the hopeless from their sleep of fear ! And thus I give what first to me is given ; My licart still grasping at the good and true. And trust the rest to high and holy heaven. Which measures doing by the power to do. HON. WILLIAM CANT STUROC. 67 The Manchester Daily Mirror afid American, in an article describing our author says: " He has many of the elements of the genuine orator. He is one of the best debaters in the legislature — better than a majority in Congress whose names appear daily in the papers during the sessions of that body. He is deliberate in utterance, makes himself heard by all tlie house, and speaks with earnestness and to the point. In July, 1867, he received from Dartmouth College the honorary degree of Master of Arts, He holds a commission as Justice of the Peace and as Notary Public from the Governor of N. H. His de- mocracy is of the Jeffersonian type and his faith in constitutional liberty as firm as the granite hills." Mr. Sturoc keeps up a regular correspondence with his many literary friends, both in this country and Scotland, and frecjuently receives a rhyming epistle from some of liis poetical contemporaries. The following brief but complimentary one is by Mr. Duncan MacGregor Crerar, and is addressed "TO WILLIAM CANT STUROC, ON RECEIVING HIS PORTRAIT." My wishes warm I waft to thee, Beloved bard of Sunapee ! I prize, and will as years roll on, Perhaps, dear friend, when thou art gone, This welcome gift, this portrait true Of thee, ta'en at three score and two ; Those kindly eyes and locks of gray Will call up many a byegone day Made glad by letters charmed from thee, Belov6d bard of Sunapee ! Heaven grant thee strength and spare thee long To sing thy tunesome woodland song. Till dell and dingle, lake and corrie. Join in the strain and sound thy glory ! Mr. Sturoc, while getting on in years, is still hale and hearty. His intellect is as clear to-day as it has been in years gone by, and we trust as he gradually lays aside the cares of public life that he will continue to charm us with more of that genuine poetry which he has already produced, and which he is still capable of producing. WILLIAM LYLE. The fame that a man wins himself, is best; That he may call his own. Honors put on him Make him no more a man than his clothes do, Which are as soon ta'en off. William Lyle, whom the Dundee Weekly News extols as being "one of the sweetest toned of Uving poets resident in America," was born at Edinburgh in the year 1822. His father having died at a comparatively early age, the entire responsibility and care of the boy devolved upon his mother, a noble Scottish woman who, with limited means and a sincere faith in God's goodness, earnestly strove to per- form the duty allotted to her. Our author received the rudiments of his education at the Lancas- terian school of his native city, and at the age of twelve removed with his mother to Glasgow, where a few years afterward he became apprenticed to a potter. He was always a bright, observing boy, and being possessed of good common sense he soon became conscious of the fact that his education was very deficient in many respects. He therefore began to apply himself diligently to study and to the reading of standard books. In addition to this he enrolled himself as a scholar in one of the evening schools, and soon had the satisfaction of know- ing that he was making rapid progress in the cultivation of his intel- lectual faculties. He also made rapid progress in learning the various branches of the trade at which he was occupied, and as soon as his apprenticeship was finished he readily obtained a position as journey- man at a salary which enabled him to better himself in many ways. In 1850 he became united in marriage to Miss Jessie VVylie, third daughter of Mr. Robert Wylie of Kincardine on the Forth. She was an intt'llij.^ent and fascinating young lady, and her loving nature and sweet companionship stimulated him to brave, and eventually over- come, many of the obstacles which beset his pathway in life at the time. She was the first to inspire his muse, and he has acknowledged WILLIAM LYLE. 69 her worth and his love for her in many of his finest pieces. Under the title of " Queen Janet," he sings: Beside a wee burn there stan's a wee cot, An' a bonny wee lassie in it ; Gin the gowd were mine that gilds a king's lot, I wad pairt wi' it a' this minute If there I raicht bide fur aye by the side O' the bonny wee lassie in it. Red roses speel roon' its auld-fashioned door, Less sweet than the roses within it ; Outside the birdies mak' sic an uproar — Inside is the song o' the linnet. The birds in the glen are jealous, I ken, O' the bonniest lassie in it. Richt past it the burnie rins tae the sea— Losh me ! hoo my love wad ootrin it, Gin I thochther heart was waitin' for me, Wi' her twa witchin' een abune it. The song I wad sing wad make the wuds ring An' fairies wad help me tae spin it. Saft blaw the win's o' winter's cauld day Aroon' that wee cot an' wha's in it ; An' when its my aln, as sometime it may (For I'll play my best cards tae win it). I'll sit mysel' doon an' think I've a crown In the true love of my Queen Janet ! In 1862 Mr. Lyle was offered and accepted a position in England, and while there published a number of meritorious poems which com- manded a great deal of attention. One in particular, of considerable length, was entitled " The Grave of Three Hundred," and had refer- ence to the great Barnsley Mine disaster. This poem was published in book form and had a very extensive sale. It was dedicated by per- mission to the late Lord Lytton, and copies were presented to and accepted by her majesty Queen Victoria. Some years later our author decided to emigrate to America. On his arrival here, he took up his residence in Rochester, N. Y.. where he has since remained, and where he has long held a position of trust and responsibility. Like all other Scottish poets in America, while upholding the dignity and grandeur of his adopted country, he is intensely enthusiastic on the subject of 70 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. his native land. His whole soul is completely wrapped up in his ad- miration for her, and he never seems to tire of singing her praises. Take the following as a specimen of his muse in this particular: THE LAND OF THE HEATHER Come sing me the songs of old Scotland, If ye would be merry awhile, And strike the wild harp of her minstrels, If ye would my sorry beguile. O chant the wild lays of her heroes, Whose blood has baptized every vale, And sing me the songs of her martyrs, That oft lent a joy to the gale. Hurrah for the land of the heather! The dear little land of the North, Where true hearts and brave ones together, Tell mankind what freedom is worth. The earth is enriched with her lessons, And time is embalming her name : Disgrace never tarnished her tartans, Or mantled a brow with its shame. Bright gold may not burst from her valle)-s, Nor silver be washed from her streams, But there is a gold in her glory — Her valor all silver outgleams. Three cheers for the land of the heather ! The dear little land of the North, Where true hearts and brave ones together Tell mankind what freedom is worth. Through all the archives of the nations, 'Tis writ how her fame has been bought, Still wearing the chaplet of honor Wherever her claymore has fought. O, hearts from the birthplace of freedom Forget not the soil ye have trod, Through time and through distance remember The noble old land and her God. Hurrah for the land of the heather! The dear little land of the North, Where true hearts and brave ones together Tell mankind what freedom is worth. WILL/AM LYLE. 71 Tlie above is but one probably out of a hundred poems which we might mention, written by Mr. Lyle, each of which sparkles with references of the warmest nature to Scotland. Even a sprig of heather sent to him by a friend, calls forth the following affectionate sentiments: Bonnie wcc sprig o' the dear purple hc.Tthcr, Fresh frae the auid iaii' my heart lo'cs sae weel ; Twa|cronies hae met when we've come thcgither ; Auld love revived wi' a kiss I maun seal. Ye come like a warlock, wi' queer thochts surroonded Ye bring tae my heart lang syne simmer days, Ere life's angry storms my young dreams confoonded. When freedom an' I ran wild on the braes ! Ye speak o' the ploys by the rock and the river ; Ye tell me o' frien's lang deid an' awa ; Ye mind me o' music noo silent for ever ; — I wadna be true if tears didna fa'. Puir withered stranger, lang miles frae yer mithcr, Ye needna be ftcyed though far frae yer hame ; Fortune is kind — ye ha'e met wi' a brither, Wha never looks cauld on ane o' yer name. Bide near my heart, braw son o' the mountain. For his sake wha sent ye, an' for yer ain ; The bluid o' a Scot maun be cauld at the fountain When he can look on sic a gift wi' disdain. Yes, bide near my heart, an' aften ye'll cheer mc, When fortune's hard thumps frae the warl' I dree ; In fancy I'll dream that I hae a frien' near me, Though your hame an' mine is ower the wide sea. Bonnie blue sprig, ye'll be dawtied an' nourished. An' no ae strip frae yer plume shall be torn ; Ye'll keep the wish warm that I hae long cherished, Tae see the auld Ian' whaur we twa were born. They say sometimes the spirit will linger Near the lo'ed places when life is nae mair ; — If sae, can ye blame the heart o' the singer, That breathes sic wish in its sang an' its prayer? Mr. Lyle is a voluminous writer of poetry besides being the author of a number of tales and sketches. During the twelve years which the New York Scotsman was in existence scarcely a week elapsed without 72 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. a. new poem being contributed by him to its pages. He has already composed material enough to fill six large volumes and he still con- tinues to write with unabated vigor and zeal. He is thus well and favorably known to the Scottish residents both in this country and Canada, and he has hosts of admirers on the other side of the Atlantic as all of his principal poems have been extensively copied by the Scottish press. His themes are numerous, and his poems, considering the very large number of them, display considerable power and origin- ality of thought. Humor and pleasing sarcasm also form a special characteristic of many of his compositions. A good illustration of these latter qualities may be found in the poem entitled: A CRACK Wr BOBBY INGERSOLL. Noo, Rab, my lad, I want tae say A word or twa in frien'ly way Tae ye, my chiel. Ilk ither week ye mak' a din About the clergy and their sin — A' praying folks through thick and thin Ye thump them weel. Ye've got a notion in yer pow That there can be nae after lowe — That there's nae hell. Ye mak' some folks believe it's sae. An' crack yer jokes tae them — for pay; But whaur )^e get yer logic frae I cannna tell. Noo, if there be nae hell tae dreid. Whatever mak's ye fash j'er held. An' guid time spen' ? Beside there's ae thing puzzles me, Tae after life ye'll no agree : Hae ye been ower the lake tae see — Hoo dae ye ken ? It's this way, Rab, as sure as death — We are na'gaun tae pin our faith Tae your coat tail. Ye may hae notions in yer brain — Juist keep them there — they're a' 3'er ain Aye, whcn'yc try sic tae explain, Yer sure tae fail. WILLIAM LYLE. 73 When braggin' o' yer duty dune, Yer suppin' wi' a mucklc spune, For mair than you Hac loved their brithcrs juist as wecl, Wha ne'er denied there was a dcil, And wi' their bluid this truth did seal- Thc Bible's true. Rab, heids are heids, ye ken yersel', An' heids as guid as yours can tell Juist what they think : Maybe the worthies we could name Tac sense had quite as soond a claim As ye hae; and for honest fame Were nae sma' drink. Sae haud ye, man, an' dinna squeeze, Yer conscience for twa-thrce bawbees Gie us a rest ! Gin ye think Jonah gulped the whale, Sae let it be — baith held and tail ; But losh ! man, Rab, let ilk ane sail As he thinks best. Our author has been connected for a number of years with the Scottish Society of Rochester. He takes a deep interest in everything pertaining to the welfare of this patriotic organization, and no member is better known or more highly respected than he is. It has been customary with him for many years past to present the society with an original and always able and pleasing poetical address, on the occasion of its annual observance of the birthday of Robert Burns, and he has thus worthily borne the title of Poet Laureate of the society, an honor which his brother members conferred upon hirn many years since in recognition of his talents. These addresses are of considerable length, and if they were collected together and pub. lished in book form they would make a very interesting and unique little volume. We cannot conclude our brief sketch of Mr. Lyle and his works without referring in the highest terms to his English com- positions. They are certainly ecpial to his poems in the Scottish dia- lect, and prove that he possesses true poetic genius. The following poem in this respect will speak for itself: 74 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. THE MURDER AT HOLYROOD. Night's ebon curtain fell once more On quaint Edina, Lothian's pride; Again the pointed gables wore The mystic robes of eventide. And stood up gaunt and grim and hoar, Like spectral giants, side by side. The narrow streets were still and lone. No taper with its fitful glare From odd projecting casement shone, Or struggled with the murky air, While now and then the night guard's tone In query curt cried, " Wha gangs there ?" Dark, silent city, little dream Your honest burghers while thej' sleep That horrid murder's daggers gleam In ruthless hands, and curses deep Will mar the peace of happy themes When morn shall rise on eyes that weep. At Holyrood — sweet royal name — In stately room, of fashion old. Lit by lambient spirit flame. Sat Scotland's Queen, and, roundly told, All of the friends her lot could claim, Alas, how few were in the fold. A plaintive air from skillful hand, Remembered her of happy days In sunny France, the summer land. Ere sorrow fell upon her ways, While beauteous lips in concert planned To meet the minstrel's witching lays. To some hearts come when skies are glad, And Nature smiles her sweetest smile, A premonition, softly sad. Like shadow from some unseen isle. Thus oft our thoughts in gloom are clad, With sunshine overhead the while. A presence seemed to fill that room No one could name and none could see, A creeping terror, and a gloom Lip feared to mention. Minstrelsy, However sweet, had sound of doom. And nameless sorrow soon to be. WILLIAM LYLE. 75 Hush, hark, a ring of rattling mail Steals on the startled ear and then The crash of timber, cheeks grow pale And hearts beat high — it comes again! Eft soon that sound has told its tale — The room is filled with armoured men. Sprang the fair Sovereign from her scat: " What means this outrage ? how my lords. Have ye no shame? or is it meet To face your Queen with flashing swords ? Douglas! on guard, these traitors greet! Death with this treason well accords." Swift the stern Ruthven crossed his blade With youthful Douglas, whose slim steel. Unused to war's more trenchent trade. Snapped at the hilt, ere he could feel The gash the sullen earl had made. Or note his doublet's bloody seal. "'Tis not with striplings we would war," Cried Murray, as he viewed the fight. " This popinjay and his guitar Must no more blast the nation's sight. Madame, stand back, for by my star, And God's own Son, he dies to-night." Then hauberks Hashed, on floor and stair Gleamed naked swords behind whose blades Each bosom was a tiger's lair, Where vengeance lurked in stygian shades. " Hound," the fierce Ruthven howled, "prepare; Scotland is tired of masquerades." Then flashed the Stuart's pallid face, She bounded dogs and prey between. So meekest hearts to grandeur brace When danger shows and wrong is seen. Stamping her foot with royal grace, She stood there every inch a queen. " Caitiffs and curs, this boy shall feel Through our own heart your traitor blows. Unhand me, Darnley! thus you seal Your marriage vow, thus treason grows. Guards, without there. This last appeal Is from your Queen, whose friends are foes." 76 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. "Lords of the Covenant, is hate A tenant of the church you own ? We've heard you all of mercy prate. Is this its outcome? this its tone ? Mother of God, look on our fate — For thou art more than crown or throne." Few words were said, few were to say, 'Twas chance and thrust with lightning speed; Poor Rizzio fell, his doublet grey Dabbled in blood. Oh, hellish deed; Man becomes demon when his sway Is held in common with his creed. Drag the dead minstrel from the place He loved so well, by his Queen's side. Cold dews of death o'erspread his face; Winds tell his mother of her pride — Tell her his name bore no disgrace, But men were cruel, and he died. The sun arose o'er Arthur's throne In liquid floods of golden brown. Poor hunted Mary sat alone. And viewed the dead with mournful frown. She knew it not, but she had gone One step nearer the martyr's crown. Thus every time the sun shall rise, Its rays will fall on varied scenes; Some hearts give song and some give sighs, While some are kings and some are queens, Some from hovels send weary cries, Nor recks the sun what all this means. Mr. Lyle is at present arranging for the publication of a new volume of poems which his friends have at length induced him to place before the public. It will be entitled " The Martyr Queen and Other Poems," from which " The Murder at Holyrood " is an extract, and we feel assured that the little volume will receive a hearty welcome from all true lovers of Scottish poetry. Its publication will undoubtedly add to the fame of its author, although this is hardly necessary, as he has already earned a reputation for himself of which he may justly feel proud. WILLIAM WILSON. A truer, nobler, trustier heart, More loving or more loyal, never beat Within a human breast. " Having summered and wintered it for many long years with your dear father, I ought to know something of the base and bent of his genius, though, as he hated all shams and pretensions, a very slight acquaintance with him showed that independence and personal man- hood, *as wha daur meddle wi' me,' were two of his strong features; while humor, deep feeling and tenderness were prominent in all he said or wrote. * * i loved him as a man, a poet and a brother, and I had many proofs that my feelings were reciprocated." So wrote Hew Ainslie of William Wilson in a letter addressed to General James Grant Wilson, the esteemed editor of " The Poets and Poetry of Scot- land" and of the "Cyclopaedia of American Biography." William Wilson was born at Crieff on the twenty-fifth of December, 1801. Ha was educated with great care, and early began to take an interest in poetical matters; indeed, many of his own verses, written before he had reached his tenth year, prove that even at this tender age he was possessed of superior i)oetical talents. He is aaid to have inherited these gifts from his mother, a patriotic Scottish lady who ever delighted in singing the old Jacobite sjngs and ballads, which she did with much sweetness and pathos. At the age of twenty-two Mr, Wilson removed to Dundee, where he edited for some liiue the Literary Olio, and 10 which he contributed largely, both in poetry and prose. He afterwards went to Edinburgh and entered into business on his own account as a commission agent. While there he is credited with having contributed no less than thirty-two valuable jjoems in less than three years to the Edinburgh Literary Journal^ a well-known publication then under the editorship of Henry Glassford Bell, late Sheriff of Lanarkshire. 78 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. Through his connection with this periodical he was brought into con- tact with nearly all of the prominent Hterary men of the time, and among others with Robert Chambers, then a young man just beginning his wonderful literary career, with whom he formed a warm friendship which was only terminated by death. He was also a great favorite with Mrs. Grant, of Laggan, who claimed the privilege of naming his eldest son, by his second marriage with a member of an old Border family, after her husband, the Rev. James Grant. This lady the young poet first saw while on a visit to his friend the " Ettrick Shep- ard," who delighted in his spirited singing of old Scottish songs and ballads. In 1833 Mr. Wilson emigrated to America and took up his residence in Poughkeepsie, N. Y. Here he established a book-selling and pub- lishing business, which he conducted with great success for nearly thirty years. For a portion of this period he had for a partner a brother of Bishops Alonzo and Horatio Potter, and for a few years before his death, his son, General Wilson. But during all these years he continued to pour foith his heart in song, and many of his finest pieces were composed at brief intervals amid the cares and anxieties of this busy portion of his life. Many of these compositions were given to the world anonymously, and in this manner did not at once attain the popularity which they afterward achieved. They are now classed with the more illustrious of Scottish poems, however, and Mr. Wilson has long since been accorded a prominent place among the bards of his country. He was indeed a true Scottish poet, simplicity, tenderness, pathos or humor being characteristic of all his writings. Apart from his poems, however, his lyrical compositions have made him a universal favorite with his countrymen everywhere. Few Scots- men, even in America, for instance, are unacquainted with his AULD JOHNNY GRAHAM. Dear aunty, what think ye o' auld Johnny Graham ? The carle sae pawkic and slee ! He wants a bit wifie to tend his bein liame, And the bodie has ettled at me. Wi' bonnet sae vaiinty, an' owerlay sae clean. An' ribbon that waved boon his bree, He cam' doun the cleiigh at the gloamin' yestreen, An' rappit, an soon specrt for me. WILLIAM WILSON. 79 I bade him come ben whare my minnie sac thrang Was birlin' her wheel eidentlie, An", foul fa' the carle, he was na' that lang Ere he tauld out his errand to me. " Ilech, Tibb)', lass ! a' yon braid acres o' land, Wi' ripe craps that wave bonnilic. An', mciklc mair gear shall be at yer command, Gin ye will look kindly on me. " Yon licrd o' fat owscn that rout i' the glen, Sax naigies that nibble the lea ; The kye i' the sheugh, and the sheep i' the pen, I'se gie a', dear Tibby, to thee. " An', lassie, I've goupins o' gowd in a stockin', An' pcarlin's wad dazzle yer e'e ; A mettl'd, but canny young yaud for the yokin' When ye wad gae jauntin' wi' me. " I'll hap ye and fend ye, and busk ye and tend ye. And mak' ye the licht o' my e'e ; I'll comfort and cheer ye, and daut ye and dear ye, As couthy as couthy can be. I've lo'ed ye, dear lassie, since first, a bit bairn, Ye ran up the knowc to meet me ; An' dcckit my bonnet wi' blue-bells an' fern, Wi' mcikle glad laughin' an' glee. " An' noo woman grown, an' niensefu' an' fair. An' gracefu' as gracefu' can be — Will ye tak' an auld carle wha ne'er had a care For woman, dear Tibby, but thee?" Sae, aunty, ye see I'm a' in a swither. What answer the bodie to gie — But aften I wish he wad tak' my auld mither, And let puir young Tibby abee. Another of Mr. Wilson's lyrical compositions which has won tor itself a well-merited popularity is the one entitled "Jean Linn." This was not only a favorite with the author but was also admired and highly spoken of by Dr. Robert Chambers, N. P. Willis, Hew Ainslie and other prominent authorities. So SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. JEAN LINN. Oh, baud na' 3'er noddle sae hie ma doo! Oh, baud na' j'cr noddle sae hie! The days that hae been may be yet again seen. Sae look na' sae lightly on me, ma doo ! Sae look na' sae lightly on me ! Oh, geek na' at hame hodden gray, Jean Linn. Oh, geek na' at hame hodden gray ! Yer gutcher and mine wad thocht themsels fine In cleidin' sae bein, bonnie May, bonnie May — In cleidin' sae bein bonnie May. Ye mind when we won in whinglee, Jean Linn, Ye mind when we won in whinglen, Your daddy, douce carle, was cotter to mine An' our herd was yer bonnie sel', then Jean Linn, An' our herd was yer bonnie sel', then. Oh, then ye were a' thing to me, Jean Linn ! Oh, then ye Avere a' thing to me ! An' the moments scour'd by like birds through the sk}-, When tentin' the owsen wi' thee, Jean Linn, When tentin' the owsen wi' thee. I twined ye a bower by the burn, Jean Linn, I twined ye a bower by the burn, But dreamt na' that hour, as we sat in that bower, That fortune wad tak' sic a turn, Jean Linn, That fortune wad tak' sic a turn. Ye busk noo in satins fu' braw, Jean Linn, Ye busk noo in satins fu' braw! ler daddy's a laird, mine's i' the kirkj-ard, An' I'm yer puir ploughman, Jock Law, Jean Linn, An' I'm yer puir ploughman Jock Law. While Mr. Wilson wrote largely in his mother tongue, he has also given us many valuable gems of English poetry. Of these his "Rich- ard Coeur De Lion " is the best. This is the piece which Mr. William Cullen Hryant claimed to be "more spirited than any of the ballads of Aytoun." WILLIAM WILSON. 8i RICHARD CCEUR DE LION. Brightly, brightly tlic moonbeam shines, On the castle turret-wall; Darkly, darkly, the spirit pines Deep, deep in its dungeon's thrall. He hears the screech-owl whoop reply To the warden's drowsy strain, And thinks of home, and heaves a sigh, For his own bleak hills again. Sweetly, sweetly the spring flowers spread, When first he was fettered there ; Slowly, slowly the sere leaves fade, Yet breathes he that dungeon's air. All lowly lies his banner bright, That formost in battle streamed. And dim the sword that in the fight Like midnight meteor gleamed. But place his foot upon the plain, That banner o'er his head, His good lance in his hand again, With Paynim slaughter red, The craven hearts that round him now, With coward triumph stand. Would ((uail before that dauntless brow, And the death-Hash of that hand. Among Mr. Wilson's other short pieces his " Sweet Lammas Moon," "A Welcome to Christopher North," "Jeanie Graham," "Sabbath Morning in the Woods," and " Britania " are worthy of special notice. The following extract in connection with our author is taken from the "Autobiography and Memoirs of Robert and William Chambers:" — "Among the persons to whom my brother applied for materials for the work ( ' Popular Rhymes of Scotland ' ) was William Wilson, a young man of about his own age who had similar poetical and archa;- logical tastes, and for a time edited a literary periodical in Dundee. Between the two there sprung up an extraordinary friendship which was not weakened by Wilson some years later emigrating to America. The letters which passed between them bring into view a number of particulars concerning my brother's literary aims and efforts. Writing in January, 1824, to Wilson, whom he always addresses as 'Dear Willie,' he refers gratifyingly to the * Traditions,' and the manner 82 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. which the book had brought him into notice. 'This little work is taking astonishingly, and I am getting a great deal of credit by it. It has also been the means of introducing me to many of the most respectable leading men of the town, and has attracted to me the attention of not a few of the most eminent literary characters. What would you think, for instance, of the venerable author of the * Man of Feeling ' calling on me in his carriage to contribute his remarks in MS. on my work! The value of the above two great advantages is incalculable to a young tradesman and author like me. It saves me twenty years of mere laborious plodding by the common walk, and gives me at twenty-two all the respectability which I could have expected at forty.'" Mr. Wilson died at Poughkeepsie on the twenty- fifth of August, i860. The last of his work were the following verses, written in a feeble and faltering hand a few days before his death: WANING LIFE AND WEARY. Waning life and weary, Fainting heart and limb, Darkening road and drear}-, Flashing eyes grow dim ; All betokening nightfall near, Day is done and rest is dear. Slowly stealing shadows Westward lengthening still O'er the dark brown meadows. O'er the sunlit hill. Gleams of golden glory From the opening sk.v, Gild those temples hoary — Kiss that closing eye : Now drops the curtain on all wrong — Throes of sorrow, grief and song. But saw ye not the dying Ere life passed away. Faintly smiled while eying Yonder setting day : And, his pale hand signing Man's redemption sign — Cried, with forehead shining. Father, I am thine ! And so to rest he (luictly hath passed. And sleeps in Christ, the Comforter, at last. WILLIAM WILSON. 83 A few years after Mr. Wilson's death a portion of his poems were published in a small volume, with a memoir by Mr. Benson J. T.ossing. A second and enlarged edition appeared in 1875, and this has since been followed by a third edition. Many of his poems made their first appearance in I^lackwood's Magazine or Chambers' Journal, and selec- tions from his writings appeared in Whistle liinkie, The Modern Scot- tish Minstrel, Blackie's Book of Scottish Song, The Cabinet, and in Longfellow's " Poems and Places." In concluding the brief memoir attached to his father's poems in " The Poets and Poetry of Scot- land," CJeneral Wilson says: — "The idea of this work originated with William Wilson, but urgent demands upon his time, together with failing health, interfered with its execution. The task devolved upon his son, who has as an act of filial duty, no less than a labor of love, endeavored to complete his father's unfulfilled literary project." Granting that the completion of this work was "an act of filial duty and a labor of love," it is still due to General Wilson to say that he has given us one of the best and most valuable books on the subject of Scottish poets and poetry which has so far been published. ANDREW M CLEAN. Tho' modest, on his unembarrassed brow Nature hath written: — Gentleman. Mr. Andrew McLean, the eminent Brooklyn journalist, is also a poet of sterling merit. He is a native of Renton, in Dumbartonshire, where he was born in 1848. After studying for a few years at the village school of Alexandria he became apprenticed to a carpenter, and remained at this trade until he was nearly fourteen years of age. It cannot be said, however, that he took much interest in this occupa- tion; certainly it did not in any manner harmonize with his tastes; and we may judge from the following verses that it afforded him consider- able relief when Saturday night approached and the work of the week was nearly over. Then his thoughts left the bench and the workshop, and he rejoiced that : The wearisome week is over, With its burden of fret and toil ; To-morrow I'll smell the clover And tread the daisied soil, And chant a tune as I lightly go More merry than any the greenwoods know. Where the streamlets glint and shimmer. Through shadows of maple gloss, And strolling sunbeams glimmer On fern and rambling moss, An hour I'll spend and drink the balm That the brooklets brew in the woodland's calm. He began to liavc a desire for some kind of occupation where energy, determination and ambition were requisite qualities to success, and where the services of one i)ossessing these would command recognition and advancement. Wc are not surprised therefore to find AN DUE W MCLEAN. 85 him at this time eagerly gazing beyond the Atlantic to the shores of the new world and resolving to strike out for himself and begin life anew under the flag of the great republic. He had hardly reached his fifteenth year when he left his home and proceeded to Glasgow. Here he gladly entered into an engagement with the captain of an American vessel to perform certain duties, for which he was to be allowed a free passage across to New York. The recollection many years afterward of this eventful period of his life inspired his muse, and in spirit he became a boy again with a farewell song on his lips to his native land: Deep crimson heather bloom, Rich yellow blushing broom, Sweet, fragrant Scotch bluebell, Farewell ! farewell ! Song-hearted, throbbing lark, Gray cushat crooning dark, Shy, plaintive "bonnet blue," Adieu! adieu ! Broad-bosomed, silver lake, Leven's rippling, sunny wake. Grim, grizzly mountains high, Good-b)e ! good-bye ! Scenes that I loved and roved among : Rocks that echoed my earliest song ; Birds I knew in the nesting days ; Flowers I plucked by the woodland ways ; Lake of silver and sunny stream — Beauteous all as a sinless dream ; I say farewell, good-bye, adieu. But life shall end ere I part from you ; Ye are present wheresoever I be. Thy life is mine; I am part of thee. Arriving here during the excitement of the war, McLean entered the navy and served with distinction and honor until its close. On his return he took up his residence with some friends in Brooklyn, and after spending some time as a student in a commercial college, he decided to adopt journalism as a profession. He obtained a position on a daily as a reporter, and it did not take long for the management of the paper to discover that they had made a valuable acquisition to their staff. He proved himself an original and terse writer on all subjects. After serving in one or two other positions he S6 SCOTTISH POETS /AT AMERICA. became assistant editor of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. On the death of Mr. Kinsella he became editor-in-chief; but in 1886 he severed his connection with the Eagle and started what is now not only the recognized organ of the Democratic party in Brooklyn, but a first- class evening newspaper generally, namely, the Brooklyn Citizen. Mr. McLean is cerlainly a hard and conscientious worker in the newspaper field, and the public has not been slow to recognize his talents in this respect. " The true Scottish ' grit ' of McLean is proved by his antecedents," writes one of his literary friends. " He is an eloquent and effective public speaker, and the skill and ability he has displayed in conducting an influential daily are generally conceded. Engaged as he is, he has but few leisure hours to devote to poetry; and yet such is the energy of the man that he has actually written much — no small portion of which bears the stamp of poetical genius." The following is one of his best known poems: THE JEWELS OF BLARNEY. 'Tis told us pleasantl}', by the simple peasantry Whose hearts ne'er wander tho' their words may stray, How an earl's daughters into Blarney's waters Cast all their jewels on a hapless da)' ; There to be pendant till some late descendant, Finding from war and bigotr)' release, Shall bid the fairies on whom the care is, Bring them to deck his coronet in peace. There's another story, presaging glory, And something better, which the peasants tell : For witching reasons, in happy seasons, When the earth is under the new moon's spell, Come flocks all white, from the breast of night, Calmly to graze near the pearly strand ; So that favored eyes may at least surmise That a spotless future awaits the land. These old traditions and superstitions Yield a moral that fits our time and place — They've a counterpart in each human heart That throbs with the heat of an ancient race; The Bigot's word and Oppression's sword Made a lake far deeper than Blarney knows. And in its water (iood Will's fair daughters Once buried jewels more rare than those. ANDREW MCLEAN. 87 Clancarty's carl ne'er owned a pearl To compare with tlic Kf" of hrotlicrhood ; Nor in any mine dolh a diamond shine Like the soul that longs for another's good. No glittering schist, or soft amcthysl Can rival the beams of a friendly eye ; The emerald fades and llic topaz shades In the Hashing light of a purpose high. On a new made plain I observe again The Blarney Hocks with their spotless dress, And a shepherd near, from the fairy sphere, Maketh signs wliic li my heart is swift to guess : Our Age is the heir to the jewels fair That Good Will buried in evil days, And wc shall sec in our own land free The diadem on his forehead blaze. Let us sing old songs and bury old wrongs. And draw from the past, not gloom but cheer ; The angry moods of our fathers' feuds Should be given no place in our gatherings here : Let our children boast when our healths they toast At the festal boards of the years to come, That their fathers' choice was for friendship's voice. And in favor of striking rancor dumb. Mr. McLean is a poet of excellent fancy and power. His com- positions, as a rule, evince a true sympathy with nature, and there is a tenderness and melody, besides a quaint simplicity, displayed in all of them. Many of them also contain pleasing and thoughtful ideas, expressed in the choicest of language. Take for instance his poem entitled : THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. Sweet songs of old ! they tluiil to-day, With undiminished gladness, Our hearts beneath their heads of gray And under brows of sadness. Again they bring the bounding joy Wc knew among the heather When, sunny girl and ardent boy. We roved and sang together. 88 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. What Ponce de Leon sought in vain, Youth's sparkling, never failing fountain, We find in ever)' witching strain Of lightsome deeds by vale and mountain. Oh youth behind the mask of years ! Oh subtle singing rare magician, When e'er thy voice the spirit hears. She conquers age and scorns transition. Away the latter sorows flee And hither troop to take their places, The radicnt eyes the fleckless glee Of garnered days and gathered graces. In ever}- note a glor)' lives ; In every cord pure love vows tremble ; At every call the singing gives A thousand happy thoughts assemble. To age we give the meed of age. But when the tuneful breeze is blowing Affection leaves the wrinkled cage. And, eagle like, her pinions showing, (^utsoars the dusk, the gray of grief. The changing winds of seasons rolling To revel in the high relief Of spheres beyond the world's controlling Thrice blessed be the songs of old. And blessed be the tongues that sing them. And blessed be the hearts that fold Their sweetness wluii the minstrels bring them. In 1878 Mr, McLean published a small volume of his poems. The principal ])oem in the collection is the one entitled '* Tom Moore." This was written for and read by the author, at the celebration, by the St. Patrick's Society of Brooklyn, of the ninety-ninth anniversary of the poet's birth. According to the "argument" the poem ])roceeds to disclose a council held in Elysium by Irishmen before the birth of Moore, at which. Heaven having signified a willingness to grant their country whatever single gift they should agree upon, it was resolved to ask for a poet, who should win the admiration of the world and glorify the Emerald Isle. In the course of the debate the (jualities and purposes of his song are determined by various speakers. It is ANDREW MCLEAN. 89 also shown that the misapprehensions of this life so cease in the light of the upi)er world that old enemies find themselves one in sympathy. Taken altogether the poem is certainly a very able and spirited one. It is, of course, too long for cpiotation here and it has to be read through to thoroughly appreciate its many beautiful passages and similies. Among the smaller i)oems in the volume "A Glimpse of April Sun " is particularly fine. Hail, gladsome gleam of April sun ! Thou glance from Nature's kindly eye ; Bright i)ledge of boisterous weather done ; Fair flowery fragrant prophecy. Thy radiance to the bluebird shows The gentleness he loves to sing, When winds that wanton with the rose • Forsake the rose to fan his wing. The various creatures of the woods Are gladdened by thy early grace. As I am glad when angry moods, Pass cloud-like from an old friend's face. Socially, Mr. McLean is one of the best of men. He is possessed of a warm, confiding and generous nature, and he has won the esteem and friendship of all parlies with uhom he has come in contact. While he is the author of nearly one hundred poems, not one of which he may be ashamed to own, still he is extremely modest in his own estimation of his poetical abilities, and it is seldom that his poems when printed for the first time have the proper signature attached to them. DANIEL McINTYRE HENDERSON Here too dwells simple truth; plain innocence; Unsullied beauty, sound unbroken youth; Patient of labor, with a little pleased; Health ever blooming, unambitious toil; Calm contemplation and poetic ease. The west of Scotland has been the birthplace of many eminent poets, and among these Mr. Daniel Mclntyre Henderson, the subject of our present sketch, is destined to occupy a prominent place at no distant date. He was born at Glasgow on the tenth of July, 185 1, but in 1 86 1 his family removed to Blackhill Locks, a short distance from the city, and a place where there was little or no society. The situa- tion, however, had its charms for our youthful poet. He was compelled to walk to and from the city each day, first for educational, and later on in life for social and literary advantages, and he attributes to this largely the fact that the thoughts of a naturally reflective mind began to shape themselves in rhyme. As with nearly all modern Scottish poets. Burns became his earliest model, and many of his boyhood's musings were inspired by reading and studying certain poems of the master bard. As soon as his education was finished he was sent to learn the wholesale drapery business, but he soon left this occupation, and after filling one or two other positions became bookkeei)er to the Scottish Permissive Bill and Temperance Association. Since that time he has taken an active part in all temperance and religious move- ments, and some of the beautiful hymns now sung in our churches are from his ])en. We append a specimen of his religious poetry, written in his mother-tongue : DANIEL MCINTYRE HENDERSON. 91 on, LIPPEN AN' BE LEAL. (A Paraphrase). (3h, lippcn an' be leal ! The Fallicr's bairns are ye — A' that He does is weel, And a' that's guid He'll gie ! The birds they ken nae cark. They fear nae cauld nor weet — His e'e's ower a' His wark, They dinna want for meat. Think o' the bonnie flow'rs, Wi' slender, gracefu' stem, Drinkin' the summer show'rs — The Father cares for them ! The lilies o' the field At God's ain biddin' bloom ; His bosom is their beild, His breath is their perfume. And if He minds the llow'rs, And decks them oot sac braw. He'll care for you and yours — Then trust Him wi' your a'. The Father's bairns are ye — A' that He does is weel, And a' that's guid He'll gie — Oh, lippen an' be leal ! Mr. Henderson composed a considerable number of poems before coming to this country, and it is to be regretted that none of these have been preserved. He tells us that when he resolved to leave Scot- land he also resolved to " cpiit rhyming," as he had reached the con- clusion that he was not a poet, a wonderful conclusion, by the way, for one of the rhyming fraternity to reach. Landing in Baltimore in 1873 he obtained a position as bookkeeper with Messrs. R. Renwick & Sons, the well-known furniture mauufacturers, with whom he still remains. Memories of home soon revived the poetic spirit, and in 1874 appeared " Flowers frae Hame," an exquisite lyrical piece, which 92 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. was at once set to music by the late Mr. Archibald Johnson, of New- York, and became decidedly popular. Soon afterward appeared his "Scotland Mine," a poem which proved that however much he had become attached to the land of his adoption, his heart still beat loyally toward the land of his birth. Oh, Scotland mine, my mother-land, How grand, how fair art thou ; The sunbeams play about thy feet, The lightnings round thy brow. How stout of arm, how fierce of speech, In battle and in storm ; But to thy children, bosom-nursed. How tender-souled and warm. My mother-land, how bare thy form, How wild thy heart of flame. Till kindly snows and mists and dews With gentlest soothing came: And now in nature's greenest robe, A queen I see thee stand ; The fairest, grandest child of earth. My own, my mother-land. In 1880 Baltimore celebrated its sesqui-centennial, A feature of the occasion was a parade of the Scottish societies, with delegates from New York, Philadelphia and other cities, Mr. Henderson con- tributed an ode in connection with the event which was widely copied and favorably noticed. An epistle, also written about this time to the late Mr. David Kennedy, the Scottish vocalist, was greatly prized by him, especially the verses : We want to hear the guid auld sangs that carry back the mind To the faces and the friendships, and the hame scenes o' lang syne We want to hear the Doric braid and lauch and greet by turns As ye sing the sangs o' Tannahill and oor ain brither Burns ! Sac yc'll come back, Davy Kennedy, and niak' oor hearts rejoice Wi' your cheerie face, j'our cantic ways, and the music o' your voice, And if the warl' could spare you, we'd keep you for a year, And you'd hae concerts nichily, and we'd a' be there to hear. Of a different nature, and rich in humorous sentiment, is Mr. Hen- derson's now famous epistle to Mr. Andrew Carnegie. It was written DANIFJ. AfC/iVTVRF. HENDERSON. 93 a few years ago and published in the New York Scotsman, from whence it was copied into quite a number of American and liritish newspapers. There is certainly a great deal of truth and honestly deserved praise comi)ressed in the verses, and we doubt not that Mr. Carnegie looked upon the ])oem as one of the kindliest compliments ever paid to him. ElMSTLE TO ANDREW CARNEGIE. Oh, Andrew Carnegie, it's wecl to be you ! To hae siller and sense is the lot o' but few ! Ye hae gear and the grace for guid to employ it, And leisure yc hae and the heart to enjoy it — Lang life to ye, Andrew Carnegie ! Auld Scotland, oor mither, is prood o' your birth, As she blesses her bairns abraid ower the earth ; And America's prood ye hae fa'en to her lot, Her typical man, and oor typical Scot — Lang life to ye, Andrew Carnegie ! Ye ken what liard wark is, ye've earned you ain bread. And wrocht your way up wi' your liands and your head. And true to yoursel' through it a' ye hae been ; Thougli your wallet grew fat, your lieait didna grow lean ; Lang life to ye, Andrew Carnegie ! And noo, through your l)ounty, your ain native toun Has its storehouse o' knowledge, and's prood o' the boon, And hearts are made glad ilka side o' the sea. By the heart that can feel, and the han' that can gie — Lang life to yc, Andrew Carnegie ! It's oh to be you, to sae cannily slip Awa' roun' the warl' in a cosey bit ship, Or merrily rattle owre Britain's braid Ian' Wi' the wale o' guid chiels in a snug four-in-han' ! — Lang life to ye, Andrew Carnegie ! I vow, should the fates or the fairies decree. That anither, and no my ainsel' I maun be, Gin luiiic were the choice, takin' a' things thegither, I'd be Andicw Carnegie, witiiool ony swither ! Lang life to ye, Andrew Carnegie ! In 1876 Mr. Henderson re-visited Scotland and while there was united in marriage to Miss Alice Ashcroft, a refined and talented young 94 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. lady who has since proved herself well worthy of the love which he bestowed upon her. " Their American home," to use the words of another well-know^n author, " now rings with the music of children's voices." Death, liowever, once crossed their happy threshold and robbed them of one of their treasures. Note the resigned, yet hope- ful and Christian spirit in which the following verses are written, in connection with the event. Rest thee, rest thee, bonnie doo, In the Faither's keepin' ; ' Nocht shall fear or fret thee noo In the kirkyard sleepin ! Rest thee, bonnie bairnie rest, Wakin's waefu', sleep is best. Rest thee, rest thee, bonnie doo, White, white is thy plaidie, Sae He gie'th snaw like 'oo', Warm and lown to hide thee ! Rest, my bonnie bairnie, rest, Wakin's waefu', sleep is best. Rest thee, rest thee, bonnie doo. Bide the simmer bringin' Gowan's white and bell's o' blue. And the birdies singin'. Rest thee, bonnie bairnie, rest. Wakin's waefu', sleep is best. Rest thee, rest thee, bonnie doo, A)'e we'll mind oor dearie. A' the gowden simmer through, A' the winter dreary. Rest thee, bonnie bairnie, rest, Wakin's waefu', sleep is best. Rest thee, rest thee, bonnie doo, Sair has been oor sorrow. Oh to greet the bairn we loe In Heaven's glecsomc niorrf)w. There, my bairnie, wakin's blest, There, my bairnie, wakin's rest. The same sad occasion also gave rise to an incident which tended in some measure to soothe the feelings of the bereaved parents : DANIEL MC IN TYRE HENDERSON. 95 OUR NEIGHBOR'S PITY. That day our little one lay dead, And wc were sad and sore of heart, And all the joy of life seemed fled, Our neighbor sought to ease the smart. Oh ! strange, sweet power of sympathy ! That grief should find assuagement thus ! Our sorrow seemed the less to be, The more we thought, she pities us ! And then she said, how blest was she, Since God had still denied her prayer, Nor set a baby on her knee ; For such a gift meant such a care ! Our pain was stilled by sad surprise ; New feelings in our heart did stir. We looked into our neighbor's eyes. And pitied her — and pitied her. Mr. Henderson is a studious reader of nearly all kinds of literature. The life, character and writings of ihc late Dr. David Livingstone con- stitute him his nineteenth century hero. Carlyle, however, is his favorite prose writer, and Browning and Lowell his favorite poets. His own poems are carefully and skillfully written, and show that he is l)ossessed of a cultured literary taste His style is natural and unre- strained, and the characteristics of a true son of song are manifested in all of his writings. Many of his i)ieces have a soft, melodious cadence with them whicli is very pleasing. Take for instance his piece entitled "A Song of Love." Love's season is but brief, So they say. It opens like the leaf, To decay ; Ah ! wlII, I only know The long years come and go But 'tis leaf time with Love ahvay ! A silver cloud is Love, So they say. That tloats a while above. Then away ; Ah ! well, the years have brought, Their freight of care and thought. Yet I build in the clouds to-day. c6 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. Uncertain as the sea, So they say, Love ever will be free, Well-a-day ! The years have come and gone, Life's ebb and flow go on, But the sea is the same for aye. If loves do fade e'er long, As they say, Yet Love is true and strong, And will stay. The leaf and cloud and tide Through all the years abide — Is not Love longer lived than the}-? Among the various sonnets which Mr. Henderson has composed, the one enlilled " Thomas Carlyle " is decidedly the best. It is a scholarly production, and bears on its face the imprint of the work of a master. Tliere have been numerous sonnets published on the same subject, but the jjresent is the finest that has come under our notice so far : THOMAS CARLYLE. (I'uried at Ecclcfechan). Yes, it was meet tliat there he should be laid ; Tlie ^real and wise beside the good and just — They were his kindred ! Nature's " dust to dust." The tinal law had honor when they made His bed, noi with the cliisel, but the spade. Not in the Abbey, but the kirkj-ard lone. His mother-mould takes tenderlv her own, And o'er him spreads her green, all sheltering plaid. God made from out the dust of Scottish earth A man whose spirit was th' Almiglity's breath : The moorland breezes shouted at his birth. And blew brave music through him till his death ! Knox, Wallace, Burns, — priest, patriot, and bard, Woke once again, sleep now in yon kirkyard. With these few selections from the poetical writings of Mr. Hender- son we take our leave of him. That he is possessed of true poetical gifts none will dispute, and we refer those of our readers, who desire to obtain a collection of his writings, to the volume just published by Messrs. Cushings & Bailey, Baltimore, entitled " Poems, Scottish and DANIEL MC IN TYRE HENDERSON. 97 American." Reviewing this work T/ie Critic (New York), says: "Happy the \)(i^\. that is born in Scotland. Perhaps it is because 'the interesting ' abounds tliere; from whatever cause a natural grace and ease, a true feeling for the music of verse, a close sympathy with nature, and a warm humanity, seem the birthright of the singer sprung from Scottish soil. All these characteristics are to be found in the collection of ' Poems, Scottish and American,' by D. M. Henderson. It is a pleasure to meet a little book so sincere, so satisfying within its limits. The poet longs, under the bright Southern sky, for the song of the skylark, entering the Holy of Holies in the far blue above; he notes, with the keen eye that reads the sweet meanings of nature, the significance of the giant poplar ' maimed, but a giant still,' 'rustling a thankful psalm,' as it aspires to heaven from the feverish turmoil of the city. Perfect in its way is the tenderness of 'Rest thee, Bonnie Doo,' a lullaby to the bonnie bairnie warm-folded under the ' white plaidie ' of winter by Him who giveth snow like wool. Worthy of a compatriot of Burns are the simple song ' Jeanie, lass, I lo'e thee,' and the arch lines 'Seekin' Sympathy.' In a loftier tone is the poem on Carlyle. It is not needful that we should have an unqualified admira- tion for that teacher, in order to appreciate the ring of Mr. Hender- son's verses." f^%: DR. JOHN M. HARPER. Such sweet, such melting strains! Their soft harmonious cadence rises now, And swells in solemn grandeur to its height! Now sinks to mellow notes — now dies away — But leaves its thrilling memory on my ear! Sweet as the note of a bird in the wildwood, strongly imbued with patriotism, fervent in religious sentiment, eloquent in thought, pure in expression, and noble in purpose; such form a few of the character- istics of the muse of Dr. John M. Harper, the Canadian educationist and author. Many of his principal poems are of considerable length, displaying both skill and talent in their construction, while glittering through all of them, like stars in a clear midnight sky, are metaphors of rare and striking beauty. His themes, as may readily be inferred, embrace a wide variety of subjects, and we hesitate somewhat in deciding as to which of his pieces are the most suitable to include in our brief sketch, the better to enable our readers to form a just esti- mate of his intrinsic merits as a poet. In his poem, entitled " In Memoriam," for instance he says: Man's strength is weakness in the face of God's; His stinted powers are weaker than his will; He plans; and yet his boldest plan forbodcs The human weakness that may not fulfil. 'Tis near his loved ones dying that he knows — When seeking strength from every hope that blows, When all the tendrils of his being thrill — That God is fate, and death his messenger, That Christ of perfect peace is still the harbinger. Ephemeral shine the brightest of our joys, Amid the clouds that lloat across our sky; They're but the golden star-dust heaven employs To beautify man's life and destiny. A shadow here is but no shadow there: There is no light where all is bright and fair: Joys quenched reveal the living joys that lie Around us — while a light as sweet as dawn Plays peaceful round the shadows of the hope that's gone. DR. JOHN M. HARPER. 99 Lines Jikc these are not the idle musings of a mere rhymist, they are the finely conceived ideas of a cultured imagination and intellect, in other words they are the work of a true poet. Among Dr. Harper's finest efforts are a group of i)oems artistically tied together under the poetical title of " Lays of Auld Lang Syne." Such poems as "The Burgh's Hells," "Sacrament Sunday," "Auld Jeames and his Crack," "Johnstone Landward," and many others are included in the group, the whole forming as fine a collection of Scottish poetry as one would wish to read. The introduction to the group is as follows: My n.itivc land, .i debt of song I pay, A debt of love, that lieth on my soul, When memory draws the veil of bygone day, And olden music greets the lifting scroll. A tribute to thy freedom's faith I bring: The piety that scents thy glebe I sing; Thy purple hills whose silver mists unroll The waving gold of dawn; thy pleasant plains And hawthorn banks and braes where hamlet meekness reigns. The first mentioned poem of this group is after the manner of Burns's " Twa Dogs," and consists of over four hundred and fifty lines, which run smoothly and harmoniously from the beginning to the end. The preface to the poem explains the purpose of the writer thus: "A little while ago the lieges of Johnstone, in discussing the true owner- ship of the fine bell that hangs in the steeple of the parish church, were found indulging in that wMrmth of expression which seems to arise so naturally in discussions over local affairs. In this case there were two well-defined parties, the one claiming, from facts connected with the purchase of the former occupants of the steeple, that the present bell is the property of the town, the other claiming that its ownership is vested solely in the trustees of the church. Now that the storm is over the following verses have been written with the simple intention of crystallizing the discussion. If the Doric or Scot- tish dialect be, indeed, dying out, as some declare it is, the writer, in making use of it as a literary medium, can only urge, as an excuse for his temerity, the fact that much of the discussion must necessarily have been conducted in Lowland Scotch." The poem then opens with a description of the vale of Cart, and from this we obtain a pretty fair idea of our poet's descriptive powers: iob SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. 'Tvvas at the gloaming of a springtide day, While sunset's golden locks were fringed with gray Beyond the western slopes of Cartha's vale, Beyond the isles that echo ocean's wail, While yet o'erhead the silvery shadows fell To shroud the glory of the day's farewell— I sought the silent path whose slope commands The view of burgh built on Houstoun's lands— To spend an hour with nature in repose Or weave a silken thought in rhyme or prose. The moon, all radiant at the sun's retreat In time drew near her beauty's zenith-seat, And threw her modest veil around the scene That peaceful glowed amid the electric sheen. The giddy stars like courtiers unrestrained Danced on the floor of heaven, chaotic-stained, As if tliey thought their merry rays alone Shed light enough to lustre midnight's throne. Amid the silence of midnight the prologue of the poem is rung out by the new bell in this manner: With a brave-hearted roll my tongue dares to toll And dirl a dread of the past ; With the present still here, I shall ring out a cheer That no memory-cloud shall o'ercast ; Neither grumble nor groan, neither malice nor moan Shall hinder my cheer-ringing mirth. In the morn of my pride, all care I'll deride As 1 roll out the joy of my birth. Let other bells weep generations asleep. As for me I shall ever ring joy ; As I throb in my steeple, I'll stir up the people Full moments of mirth to employ. So hurrah ! as I swing, as I joyously ring The burghers their lives to fulfil, Let me banish all fear as their spirits I cheer With tones that all honest hearts thrill. Afterward there appear before the poet's vision the ghosts of the two old bells discussing the new bell and its prospect in life. The following is a good example of the pith of the Scottish dialect, and illustrates to what a wonderful extent Dr. Harper is master of his mother tongue: DR. JOHN M. JIARPER. lOi Guid e'en, auld grannie, ncebour mine, I nccdna spccr wliat ^^ars ye whine, Or glower sae angry thro' your mutch As if the steeple were some witch — As if ye'd grip'd yon gommeril's throat And chirt frac him iiis dying note ; For trutii to tell, his giddy bouncing Would set auld Job himsel' aflouncing, But ne'er ye fash your thumb, guidwife, He's but a menscless nyaffin cuif, A trashtrie-tritler fu' o' win'. That kens nae glory save in din. For us, our day is past, 'tis true, For lang's the time since we were new ; But then experience is nae vice Gin sense it bring as virtue's price ; And if auld age has cracked us baith Or forced us else to don ghost's graith, Our record's guid and weel worth hearing By a' that hae for guid a caring ; While as for boastin' Tarn up yonder He'll nocht be but a nine day's wonder. The two old beldames converse for some time in the most friendly manner, until disagreeing upon some point of local history their con- versation breaks out into angry words. 'I'he Insi of the ghost's words are very human : Ha I ha ! you drab, wha's angry noo ? Mayhap ye've gi'en my grunt a grue ; You wise folk canna bear defeat But burn your temper wi' its heat, Tarn yonder's daft, but ye are crazy. Philosophy hath made ye hazy I And the piece winds up with the writer's words: No more I heard beyond a dreadful whish As if the ghosts did then their anger push To close attack. An eerie moment passed. And then I shuddering rose, downcast With fears, and shivering in the midnight cold. Determined ne'er again to be so bold As wander near the haunts of spirit bells That show the weakness human hate reveals. 102 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. Glancing over the smaller poems in the group, " To a Sprig of Heather " comes peeping forth, sweet in its simple beauty, and charm- ing us with its fragrance of other days. My bonnie spray o' pink and green, That breathes the bloom o' Scotia's braes, Your tiny blossoms blink their e'en, To gie me glimpse o' ither days — The days when youth o'er-ran the hills, A-daffin' wi' the life that's free, 'Mid muirland music, and the rills That sing their psalm o' liberty. Your wee bit threads o' crimpit fringe Ance shed their fragrance in the glen, Whaur silence hears the burnie bringe, And o'er the the scaur its prattle sen': And now your bonnie tlow'rets blink. To mind me o' the burnie's sang. To move my heart perchance to think O' mirth that thro' the bygane rang. E'rewhile the hillside breezes kiss'd The dew-drops frae your coronet, Or made you smile as thro' the mist The peep o' day dispelled the wet : And now your bloom's the token sweet O' freenship in a brither's heart. That smiles to see our cares retreat, When freenship acts a brither's part. Nor must we overlook another little poem which is hidden behind the "Sprig of Heather." It is entitled " Woo'd and Wed," and it is seldom that we come across a piece so brief and yet so daintily clothed in the sweet language of the true poet. This, with the former piece and many others of our author's lyrics, lias been set to music. The east wind blustered in her car, The daisy shuddering drooped her head, Such wooing pinched her heart with fear, She closed her eye and said : " No lover true would think to harm A wee bit thing like modest me ; I'll crouch me down and keep me warm Till summer sets me free." * « * * DR. JOHN M. HARPER. 103 Tlic zcph)'r whispered though her hair, The daisy blushing coyly smiled, She thought to say, " IIow do you dare?" His sighs lier tlioughts beguiled. He kissed her crown, and crimson lips, Her tresses trembled on his crest, But dew-drops stained her petal tips When yEol drove him west. The bloom of autumn woo'd her heart, The daisy gave her heart away. Such loves as theirs true joys impart, Their life was golden day, No thought how long such love could last, 'Twas his upon her heart to lie, Her matron hopes no shadow cast That love would ever die. Among Dr. Harper's more serious pieces we have a special liking for the one entitled " The Old Graveyard." There is something of the quaintness and pathos of Wordsworth embodied in each verse, the poem altogether being full of those human sym]jalliies that make tlie world of one kin. We append it herewith: THE OLD GRAVEYARD. The summer's day is sinking fast. The gloaming weaves its pall. As shadows weird the willows cast Beyond the broken wall. And the tombstones gray like sentinels rise. To guard the dust that 'ncath them lies. The whispering breezes solenui bear A requiem knell-intoned. As the steeple's throbs alarm the air. And through the valle)' sound, To bid the wear}' seek repose. When dies the day at twilight's close. Then silken silence murmurs rest, And the peace that reigns supreme Seems but awaiting God's behest. To wake it from its dream. While yet it soothes the hearts that weep Lament for those that lie asleep. 104 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. The moon, deciphering virtue's claims To deeds of duty done Illumes anew the graven names, That time hath not o'ergrown, Though the deeds of all are in the book, Where time hath never dared to look. Five generations slumber here, Beneath these crowding mounds. And still their spirits hover near. As memory makes its rounds — When widowed love here finds retreat. And sympathetic echoes meet. The first to find their rest were those Who saw the hamlet's birth. When hum of industrj' arose, To blend with rural mirth — When progress first beheld its dawn. Near by the river's virgin lawn. But now the glebe a surfeit knows Though scarce a century old. And undisturbed the rank grass grows Above the tear dewed mould. While men in thousands claim it theirs, Where lie their kindred and their tears. And oft 'tis here we learn to die. As sorrow sifts the soul, When love's sweet longings seem to sigh. And with our grief condole — To make us feel what joy it is To know that death makes all things his. For if tradition reads its lore In lines of dismal light. Our higher hopes the tints restore To dissipate the night — To courage us to think of death A change beatified by faith. Among our poet's sonnets, of which, by the way, there are a very great number, we come upon many that are of the very highest order of merit. Such, for instance, are the following: DK. JOHN M. HARPER. 105 TO THE TRUE POET. Sweet as the sheen the dew-drops sip at dawn Thy purity of song hath laved my heart, The rhythm of its light hath inward shone To bid the sliadows from my soul depart. As soars the lark be)'ond the fragrant mead To bear the breath of wild flowers to the skies, 'Tis his to greet the sphere that purifies Earth's sweetness with its own; and scattering seed Of scented tnitli upborne upon the wing Of song, 'tis thine to seek an upper light Beyond life's clouds, while we upgazing sing A timid greeting to thy venturous flight, And long to bathe our being in the air Where none but thee and such sweet singers dare. LAW AND LOVE. How pleasant 'tis to watch the sweet-mouthed tide Wave over wavelet kiss the golden sands, Where, coyly moored, the dancing skiffs deride Its silvery crest or where the chubby hands Of childhood dare its frolic and embrace — To find too late its foam a sackcloth wreath. Even so in life, when charmed with virtue's face, We often learn how danger lurks beneath For venturous love that heeds not law's restraint. When morning's sweetness, noonday steals away And night distils from beauty's breath the taint That marks the bloom of nature, nature's prey, 'Tis then we ask why law hath love betrayed Or why in vain our love to law hath prayed ? Dr. Harper is President of the Quebec St. Andrew's Society, an association which has long and faithfully performed its mission of caring for the needy. He is the author of several odes and poems in connection with the anniversary of their patron saint, and these have been highly spoken of and are warmly received by his countrymen everywhere. We give as a specimen of his work in this connection one of his poems which is written in the Doric and entitled : lo6 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. ST. ANDREW'S DAY. St. Andrew's Cross — nae Cross of Fire That bids the sons of Celtic sire Their cla3'mores furious draw — With sympathetic scroll unfurled, Hath borne its summons roun' the world, To greet us ane and a'; For Scotland yet anither year Hath added to her fame, And friends forgather far and near In honor of her name ; And cheerfu' nor fearfu' Of hindrance to our mirth, We time then our rhyme then In honour of her worth. A-lowe with s3'mphonies of hame Our modest daffin' thinks nae shame To woo the winsome past ; Our noblest joy's an honest pride In sires, whase deeds heroic guide Our faith still firm and fast ; The liberty our forbears prized, Though wounded oft and torn, Now wears content its scars, baptized With tears for those forlorn. And binds a", to kinds a' A helping hand to len' — To strengthen and brengthen The britherhood of men. To baud our hearts in humble vein Fate whiles may single out our ain To sere with sorrow's fire, Or, in disdain, may make a ba' Of some puir brither, gin he fa' In Clootie's treacherous mire ; But Scotia ne'er can lose her pride, Though fate should seem her foe, Gin Scotsmen share, whate'er betide. Their joy with ithers' woe, To praj' for, ilk' day for The weaker of our kind, Sustaining, ne'er paining The broken hearts they bind. DR. JOHN M. HARPER. 107 The echoes of a strife at times Blends discord with the Sabbath chimes Of some sweet highland glen, When lording's heel presumes to bruise The liberty that aye embues God's bairns to make them men ; But manhood dares its poean raise To sanctify the strife, And puts to shame the tyrant's craze That mars the sweets of life ; For blot ne'er, true Scot ne'er Shall thole upon the shield That broadly and proudly Protects the puir man's bield. A tribute to our patron saint I Love for the hearts that never faint In doing deeds of love ! Their pibroch is compassion's call That sweetens hate and poortith's thrall: Their gospel's from above : Theirs is the anthem Andrew taught — Fair virtue's holiest hymn ; Theirs is the love that life begot When liberty burned dim : Our pride tlien may bide then By Scotia's proudest aim — To care for and dare for The love that hallows hame. The subject of our sketch also holds tl\e honorable position of Vice- President of the Quebec Literary and Historical Society. He has paid many a glowing tribute in verse to the genius of Burns, and we regret that these addresses are generally of so lengthy a character that we are unable to reproduce one here. We presume that it is unnecessary for us to refer to his love for "The Land of the Tartan." He reveres its every nook and corner, and is an authority on all matters pertain- ing to its history, customs or literature. The land where the sw^ord of freedom has flashed in the hands of Wallace and Bruce, where the voices of Knox, Guthrie and Chalmers have rung out with gospel truths that have echoed around the world, the birthplace of poets, philosoi)hers, statesmen and luindreds of intellectual celebrities, shall only become obliterated from his thoughts when life itself becomes extinct: loS SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. Hurrah for auld Scotland, the land o' the heather, Whase fragrance has scented our hearts fond o' hame, Tis meet when her bairns in their friendships forgether To lilt the sweet memories that halo her name. Hurrah for auld Scotland, the land o' the thistle, Whase motto we hold as the shield o' her fame; Let us sing mid our cheer o' the men and the muscle That flushed freedom's foes wi' terror and shame. Yes, hip, hip hurrah! for the land o' our forbears, Whase brave deeds bedizzen ilk muirland and glen! Let us think o' their hardships mid life's many warfares And face all our foes like brave-hearted men. John Murdoch Harper was born at Johnstone, in Renfrewshire on the tenth of February, 1845. He was reared amid comfortable sur- roundings and early gave evidence of being in possession of bright intellectual qualities. He received the rudiments of his education at the parish school, from whence he went to the Glasgow E. C. Training College, which he entered as a Queen's scholar of the first rank. He left Scotland for Canada in 1867, and after several years' residence in his adopted land became a graduate of Queen's University. A few years later the degree of Doctor of Philosophy was conferred upon him by the Illinois University. Since that time he has devoted him- self to educational pursuits, and he has achieved both honor and dis- tinction throughout the Dominion of Canada as an instructor and head of educational institutions. He is at present Inspector of Superior Schools for the Province of Quebec, having been for several years Rector of the Quebec High School, and for a season interim Professor of Mathematics in Morrin College. He is also Secretary of the Board of School Commissioners and Superintendent ot the Quebec City Schools. He has written and compiled various school text books and in con- nection with general literature he is the author of historical and bio- graphical sketches, essays, novels, elc, all of which have been pub- lished from time to time. He was for many years editorial writer for no less than three weekly newspapers, and he is now literary editor of tae Educational Record of Quebec. Encomiums of a flattering nature have frec^uently been passed on his i)ovvers as a lecturer and public speaker. He numbers among his personal friends many prominent DR. JOHN M. HARPER. 109 authors and scholars of the day, and with one of his sonnets of sympathy to a brother poet we will conclude our sketch: A MOTHER'S CROWN. Inscribed, with warm sympathy, to Duncan MacGregor Crcrar, on the occasion o( his mother's death. A psalm of sympathy our hearts intone To soothe the wail of sorrow's anthem weird That wrings the soul of filial love. She's gone! She sleeps the sleep fair virtue never feared, Howe'er the solemn change draws tears from him Who was not near to see her fall asleep. The lamp of love and sweetness ne'er waxed dim That lit tlie chamber of her life, when deep Within her children's souls she sought to plait The golden threads of truth — to beautify With woof of faith the yawning warp of fate. And on it fresco liowers that never die. Her sleep immortalizes love. The crown She wears, eternal shines a wreath of light. The lustre of her saintship streameth down In diamond rays to diive away our niglit Of doubt — to beckon us from frailt)''s fears, And melt in love the mist of mortal tears. --»<-e>§^^^<^— ROBERT WHITTET. While he lives, To know no bliss but that which virtue gives, And when he dies, to leave a lofty name, A light, a landmark on the cliffs of fame. When Robert Whittet in 1882 published his "Brighter Side of Suffering and Other Poems," he added a work to the poetical litera- ture of America which will perpetuate his memory for many years to come. Taken in whole or in part, it is a beautiful and finely conceived production, and it deserves special consideration at our hands, as it forms the longest poem so far issued by a Scottish American poet. Rich in metaphorical language, it is also sweet in expression, while a deeply religious sentiment, and a quiet, philosophic pathos pervades its every page. "In point of composition," says a well-known Scot- tish writer, " it has all that spontaneity and unbroken connection which are true indications of a full emotional nature, and a mind cul- tured to a fine vocal utterance. * * * The most casual reader cannot fail to be struck with the range of subjects suggested in every page of Mr. Whittet's book, his wealtli of imagery, his keen moral perception, and above all, that fine spiritual eye that sees good in everything, and marks his principal work as one of a kind which we not only enjoy as a rich intellectual treat, but as one that tends to lighten the burdens of life, by painting in colors of unfading bright- ness the better side of human suffering." The poem which gives the title to ilic work occupies two hundred and fifty-one pages, and is divided into seven chapters. Chapter one is entitled "Suffering in Nature," and, after describing the various beauties of nature, shows how these only attain a higher type of beauty by passing through the process of decay. Chai)ter second is devoted to "National Liberty, the Fruit of Suffering," and illustrates how ROBERT VVIIITTET. iii liberty, both civil and religious, have been secured through suffering. Chapter three refers to " Suffering in the individual life of man," which, being universal, creates a common sympathy. Chapters four and five deal with "Suffering in individual experience;" chapter six with "The highest concejjtion of suffering" — suffering for others — and chapter seven is a summary of the whole, and proves that the suffering and unsatisfactory nature of the present life implies a better life to come. As none are exempt from suffering, so none are forgotten in God's arrangements to enjoy the fruit of suffering in a future state of perfect happiness. It will readily be seen from this brief synopsis of the work that it is one of considerable imjiortance. It is of too lengthy a nature to allow of our making sufficient ([uotations from it that would convey to the reader a true idea of its meritorious character, and we will therefore content ourselves with one extract from chapter four. Here the author demonstrates how God's purposes are accomplished alike in the babe and in the life of three-score-and-ten: But ah! what varied ends, what varied years, Are strangely meted out as each one's line! The baby life, that, like a sunbeam's glint Is cast one moment o'er the household heart, As if the angelic messengers who brought Tarried one moment at the open door Until a greeting and a parting — both Enwrapped in one fond kiss — were given, and then Took back the gift that hope had thought would stay! And our fathers, bent with reverent age, Have only had a larger handful given Of that unmeasured time they've but begun — The first gray dawn of immortality; Their guardians but a little longer wait, To let earth's greetings be enjoyed awhile, And farewell be a little oftcner said: But yet infinite wisdom, that can find Its ends accomplished in each atom's breath. Whose cloud-capped mountains are of sand-grains Viuilt, And ocean but a dew-drop multiplied, Has furnished all He first designed within The babe's short span, or three-score 3'ears and ten. Mr. Whittet dedicates his work to "My wife, whose loving self- sacrifice has met and warded many of our mutual sufterings, and to 112 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. our children, whose dutiful affection has been a solace in seasons of care and anxiety." In a pleasing prefatory prelude, which another poet characterizes as being " musical as the warble of a wild bird at the dawn," he says: One linnet's note the more or less Within the wildwood's minstrelsy, Can neither raise nor aught depress The sense of joyous revelrj'. And yet each linnet from the spray His swelling notes melodious flings, And pipes his own sweet roundelay Heedless of how another sings. He has a song 'tis his to sing And that he sings right earnestly, And waiteth not for anything To urge his heart to minstrelsy. The skylark sings where bliss belongs, That song an ampler field be given; Takes to the clouds his seraph songs — Throws half to earth and half to heaven. And some sweet songster, near alight On thorny perch, amid the throng. Gives to the passing heart delight. And cheers it with a joyous song. So are the songs that poets sing Within secluded quiet retreat, But single echoed notes, that bring Their quota for a choir complete. Each pipes his own peculiar strain, On artful lute or simple reed, And sings, and sings, and sings again. To satisfy his own heart's need. Yet may some raptured thought out-reach Far, far the poet's dream above, And some faint wavering heart beseech To deeds of grace, and hope, and love. To sing has given one heart employ, And thus did end enough fulfil; but if, resung, another's joy . Is more enlarged, 'twere better still. ^ROBERT WHITTET. 113 And so, self pleased, I give the song That's kept my own past clear and bright, If that, perchance, some other tongue May lift the lilt, and find delight. Interwoven in " 'I'he IJrighler Side of Suffering " arc smaller poems of great beauty and worth. We give as a specimen of these the one entitled: HOME LOVE. Oh! love is like a summer day, When sunny pleasures crowd; Wlu n brightest shines the silver ray Nearer the thunder cloud; But mother's love and father's care. Where'er our footsteps roam. Still make our hearts the sunshine share Of love, sweet love at home! O home-love! sweet home-love! There's no love like home-love; Though all else may faithless prove, Leahy's aye in home-love. O'er the prairie waste the wanderer Plods with laggard step alone; On the billow toss'd, the mariner Treads his watch, even starlight gone; And from whence, to such ones weary. Can a sweeter comfort come. Than to know that hearts sit dreary, For their sakes, far, far, at home? O home-love! sweet home-love! There's no love like home-love; Wander where our footsteps may, We cherish still our home-love. The bustling world to some is joy, Or dreams of golden gain — What loved ones gone would deem a toy, Perhaps estecin as pain! When to the mind, 'mid care and strife, No resting-place can come. The balm for every ill of life Is surest found at home. O home-love! sweet home-love! There's no love like home-love; The sweetest rest for aching breast Is the couch of home-love. 114 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. As where the purest light is given The brighter are the flowers, So when the life is likest heaven The purest jo}' is ours; And thoughts of highest bliss are bound B}' heaven's unclouded dome, And most of heaven on earth is found Around the hearth at home. O home-love! sweet home-love! There's no love like home-love; The purest — best — the sweetest zest, Is surely found in home-love. But ah! beside the love of heaven, Earth's best we dare not name, For there the lovers' hearts, unriven, Are changeless and the same; But still earth's dearest, tcnderest tics Nearest to heaven's standard come, Where'er the barb of grief and sighs Are solaced best — at home! home-love! sweet home-love! The purest love is home-love; Though all else may faithless prove Faithful aye is home-love. Passing from " The Brighter Side of Suffering " we find that the rest of the volume (one hundred and thirty-three pages) comprises a collection of poems by the author on various subjects. Among thenu 'Foibles," "The Kirk and State," "A Union Question," "Thought," "After the Funeral," "The Ingle Side," "The Daisies," and numer- ous others, are all readable and talented compositions. There are also a few sonnets displaying considerable merit. Take the following one for instance: MY BOOKS. I have had friends whose friendship died away. And some, diseased by selfishness, a day Was all their little life of love; some wane Or wax as circumstances move; the main Of all arc fickle as the cloud-swept skies, Or mists that o'er the mountain-tops arise; But I have friends within my own home bower Whose love no season witiiurs: yet, no flower Can match tlicir sweetness; thcir's is far above The wayward constancy of human love: They are my teachers unto trutii sublime, And give for patterns hero-men of lime; Riglit noble friends are they — my books — whose bloom Sheds joy o'er life from manhood to the tomb. ROBERT WIIITTET. 115 In addition to his English poems, Mr. Whittct has wisely included in his volume a number of his pieces that are written in the Doric. They are all of a graceful and tender character. Referring to them in his preface he says : " To his friends on the American side of the Atlantic the writer owes an apology for having inserted so many pieces written in the Scottish dialect. He trusts they may deem it a suffi- cient excuse that, though resident among them a good many years, and the recipient of many kindnesses, yet the recollections of the old home and the friends that are very dear, and the idiom of his boyhood still remains the most expressive, and he loves it and everything Scottish with all tlic stubborn tenacity of his countrymen. He has, however, toned down much of the peculiar orthography, that they may be the more easily intelligible to the American reader." We quote as a specimen of these Scottish musings: THE FROZEN BURN. O whare is the wee brook that danced through the valley, Wlia's muiiiuir at uhiainiti' sae sweet was to me ? Or whare are the gowans that decked a' the alley, And gae us, when bairnies, in summer sic glee? O cauld cam' the rude blast that blew frae the wild hills, And keen bit the hoar frost and iiurce drave the snaw. And they plucked a' the sweet flowers that basket the wee rills. And sealed up the burnie's wee wavelets and a'. But spring soon will come wi' its buds and its blossoms; The waving young leaflets will dead ilka tree, The birdies' sweet love note will thrill frae their bosoms. And this snaw-covered desert an Eden will be. The wee flowers will peep up their heads by the burnic, And its waters will dance in the sunbeams again, Ilk thing that has life in't will flourish and charm ye. When the life now entombed shall have burst its ice chain. Sac man, like the burnie when summer is glowing. Glides on in his rapture, free, lightsome and gay; But life has its winter, and toward us 'tis flowing, And soon will its rude breath freeze us in the clay. But there is a summer the soul kens is comin'. When life to those temples anew will be given; Then fret nae, but cheer ye, and comfort your gloamin' — The grave has but planted the flowerets for heaven. ii6 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. The volume concludes with a series of poems, entitled " Sabbath Day Communings." These are the outpourings of a sincerely Chris- tian spirit, and they form as fine a collection of short religious pieces as we have ever read. The concluding one is as follows: HOME SHOULD BE BEAUTIFUL. God has reserved for us a home — His heaven — when earthly things are done, Its golden streets, its rainbow dome. He keeps secure till life has run; And while time's gliding moments roll Ceaseless to the glorious goal, He girds us daily witli His love; He's made our earth a joyous bower, Full plenish6d with fruit and tfower, And over all revealed — (that we May strive to copy faithfully) — The pattern of His home above! Then be it ours, while life is given, To make earth's home like that of heaven! Mr. Whittet is a native of Perth, where he was born in 1829. On completing his education he was sent to learn the printing trade, and after working for some years in Aberdeen and Edinburgh returned to Perth, where he set up in business for himself. Though in this reason- ably successful, yet the strain of excessive competition was always a jarring element to his sensibilities, and induced a desire for relief^ which developed into a determination to emigrate and seek a quieter life in rural occupation in this country. In 1869 he purchased a plan- tation of some four hundred acres in Virginia, close by the old city of Williamsburg, and in scenes made historic by the struggles of the first settlers on this great continent; but the venture proved — as one less possessed of the sentiment of an ideal life might have expected — a disaster, and he regretfully retreated to his old occupation, in the city of Richmond, where he still labors, mostly in printing and publishing, under contract, the papers and literattire for tlie Sunday-schools of the Presbyterian Church South. This business has since become more largely developed, and Mr. Whittet is now well known through- out the South as the senior partner in the publishing firm of Messrs^ Whittet & Shepperson. He is a warm-hearted Scotsman, and he has won his way to the front by his energy, perseverance and sturdy Scot- tish independence. He has been blessed witli poetical gifts of the highest order, and he holds an uniiueslionable right to the title of a true poet. WILLIAM MACDONALD WOOD. Though triy as mirth, as curious though sedate; As elegance polite, as power elate; Profound as reason, and as justice clear; Soft as compassion, yet as truth severe. The Brooklyn Daily Times has enjoyed a prosperous career since it was established in 1848. Its present editor, Mr. William Macdonald Wood, is a native of Edinburgh. He was born in 1847. Hi^ father, James Wood, followed the occupation of a printer, and seems to have been possessed of a deeply religious nature, as we learn that, while not an ordained minister, he frequently officiated as a preacher of the gospel in Kirkcaldy. His mother, Susanna Macdonald, was descended from an ancient Highland family. She was a woman of strong intellectual faculties, and our author is said to have inherited many of her distinguished qualities. Mr. Wood, after receiving what in those days was considered an excellent education, began the battle of life on his own account by becoming an apprentice to a publishing firm in his native city. Life, however, in Edinburgh seemed too slow for his ideas. At the age of twenty-one he emigrated to this country, and after travelling somewhat extensively through the South settled in New Orleans. Here he readily obtained employment, and shortly after- ward began contributing a series of articles on various subjects to the Jidinburgh Review which attracted considerable attention and brougiit his name i)romineiitly before the literary celebrities of the lime then domiciled in the Scottish metroi)olis. He does not seem to have taken kindly to Southern life, however, although one of his friends writes that "the balmy, delicious climate and summer pomp of the South slill lingers pleasantly in his memory." In a few years he came North and took up his residence in Brooklyn. Obtaining a minor position on the Ti/ncs, his abilities as a journalist were soon recognized, and he was rapidly advanced until at length he was offered and accejjted the post of managing editor. Mr. Wood composed verses from his ii8 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. boyhood, and many of his early musings evince considerable talent and skill. Take as a specimen of this: ACHILLEA MILLEFOLIUM. Not by the sounding name that science wrote For thee, fair Yarrow, do I hold thee dear; Yet that is precious, even as mothers gloat O'er honors that their darling children wear. Fair child of summer! with thy thousand le.aves Bordering with living green the dust brown street, While through the emerald fringe thy blossom weaves, Thick clustering stars for beauty's garland meet. In many a land — beneath the tropic's blaze, On Northern hills where snow-fed torrents foam — Thy flowers have answered back my wearied gaze And thrilled me with soft memories of home. And that dear stream, in whose song-honored name Thou, Yarrow, art baptized and consecrate; Its steep, birch-shadowed banks remembrance claim Where rock-throned Newark sits in lonely stale. Oh, fairest stream! Not broader in thy course Than Bushkill Creek, by amorous willows kissed, And given to gloom and darkness at the source By llowerless crags envcilcd in tearful mist. Fond memory hears th}- hidden music rise Through dense wove branches from the deep ravine. While Newark's silent towers before me rise (Not like its Jerse}' antitype, I ween). Even there, as here, my wayside blossoms gleam, Flinging their odors to the hill-born gale. Drinking their glory of their patron stream, And giving beauty to the birchen dale. As in the shell the land-bound sailors hear The sullen roaring of the distant sea. So Yarrow's glen, St. Mary's lonely mere. Are i)ictiircd, Yarrow, in thy llowers to me. And if thy flowers, neglected and unsought, Are crushed beneath the ploughman's heedless tread True lover liands shall strew, with tciuler thought. Thy blossoms o'er the summer's dying bed. WILLIAM MACDONALD WOOD. 119 As might be expected from one whose abilities have secured for him the responsible j^osition of editor of a daily newspaper, Mr. Wood's writings prove that he is possessed of highly cultured literary tastes. His ])oems display marked strength, a fanciful imagination, ({uiet humor, and keen descriptive powers, while, in addition to these, we find a s])irit of true Christian piety hovering over and beautifying the whole of his work. Although the largest number of his pieces are written in the English language, he has given us cpiite a few which prove that, however cosmopolitan he may have become in his ideas, he still retains a warm place in his heart for his " auld mither tongue." The following lyrical production is a good illustra- tion of this: OLD AND NEW. dinna sing thae jingling sangs That tempt the graceless feet, Wi' solemn words in daft array, Like guisers on the street; But to the grand auld measures That fill the kirks at hamc, Sing the sweet sangs that David sang To strains that he micht claim. At least let thae licht sangs be still On the holy Sabbath day, Nor thrum sic evil dancin' rants When to your God ye pray, 111 do sic wanton thrains Become the holy name, O sound His praise in the grand old strains That fill the kirks at hamc. O grannie, let the bairnies sing As fit their lichtsome mood, Nor let the gloom O Sinai cloud Their gowan-busket road, Sweet were the auld kirk aniliems, Where lyart elders knelt; Yet thinkna heaven disdain'd to hear The laverock's gladsome lilt. Aft have our torn an' tempted hearts Tlirill'd to the psalmist's lyre, An' kenned the sins an' griefs our ain That did his strains inspire; I20 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. But the sangs that pleased the Master, When this cauld world He trod, Were the glad hosannas o' the weans That hailed Him as their God. Bethink ye how our faith was wrocht In persecution's fires When on the covenant anvil stern God fashioned out our sires The hills that drank their life-bluid Echo their martyr psalms, Each misty moor their children till Their ragged faith embalms. But they have fa'en on summer days, Thae slips o' the auld tree; Tho' covenant bluid is in their veins Nae covenant fires they dree Theirs are lauchin' blossoms, The fragrant sweet-blown flowers O' the faith bedewed wi' martyr blood On Scotland's heathery moors. Then, grannie, let the bairnies sing As suits their gleesome mood; Nor let our Sinai cloud the path Their God wi' flowers has strewed. When David's waes beset them Like us, his psalms they'll sing; But let the loud hosannas rise That hail the children's king. Among our author's various poems we also find a number of what we miglit term domestic pieces. These are written in simple and choice language, easily understood and long remembered. While they contain some very thoughtful and touching i)assages, they also possess the rare feature of never soaring into impossibilities. Such a one is "Wedded Love." It was written many years ago, but it has stood the test of time, and remains one of Mr. Wood's most admired pieces. WEDDED LOVE. Tradition says, when Stradivarius wrought — The idol of Cremona's golden days When Art's inspired evangels hymned his praise And as a shrine his dingy workshoj) sought — WILLIAM MACDONALD WOOD. 121 The Master, slowly fashioning piece to piece, Surveyed with doubt and self-distrustful shame The unaccorded and iintcmpcrcd frame Till Time's acclaim gave to his doubts surcease. But still he wrought, with patient, tender skill. Singing his soul into each instrument. And, as the mellowing seasons came and went. These, ripening, grew responsive to his will. For, wedded part to part in union strong, Veined through with throbbing tides of harmony The parts forgot their old identity, Merged in one glorious avalanche of song. So, wife of mine; returning seasons prove That year by year our hearts the closer grow, The old self fades as round our spirits flow The all sufTusing symphonies of love. Eight years ago, O dearer life of mine! Alono with God we stood and joined our troth, Alone, though loving kinsfolk hailed our oath, No presence felt we, love, save mine and thine. We loved, as youth and maiden love, when all Of heaven is cssenced in the loved one's smile. Nor conscious doubt, nor dream of hidden wile Bade its dark shadow o'er our nuptial fall. Yet, looking back across those happy years, Scemeth not, loved one, fondly as we stood On that March day, our love unripe and crude, Waiting the mellowing touch of mingled tears ? Heart grows to heart, and soul to soul, alone When touched by common joys and common woes. But self dies hard, and struggles as he goes Though fading into bliss before unknown. Our thoughts, O wife, are but the thought of one; Our tears have flowed, our smiles as one flashed forth, The years but prove to each the other's worth, And true love ripens with each rising sun. Probably the finest of all Mr. Wood's productions, however, is his poem on the famous Scottish divine, Thomas Guthrie, who died in 1873. The subject afforded him considerable scope for the exercise 122 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. of his poetical powers, and he certainly made good use of the same. There is not a verse in the poem which could not stand as a true picture of Dr. Guthrie in some phase, and altogether they form, in our judgment, one of the finest eulogies ever pronounced on this noble and God-serving hero. THOMAS GUTHRIE. Here is one whom ye may mourn, A man, whatever title others claim, This ever shall his name adorn — In every fibre of his burly frame; In his broad, vehement speech, ablaze with thought In every noble work his strong hands wrought, Staunch, stubborn manhood, fit expression sought. What was he? this gray-haired man, Lying so still, though wet with burning tears, Washed with orphan tears, yet wan — Scarred with the hurricanes of storm-filled years? An iron veteran, battle-worn and grim. Yet love bends over him with soft eyes dim. And hosts of homeless children weep for him. He was a prophet of the Lord, His lips aglow with coal from God's own altar, And all the gold of fashion's horde Was vain to tempt his steps to swerve or falter From the steep path alone by duty lighted. Bravely he went to seek the souls benighted, Till even his tempters followed him delighted. A man of wondrous eloquence, Melting proud schoolmen with his glowing zeal, And shaping intellect and sense. As on his forge the workman shapes the steel; Yet, scorning, like the Galilean Cliicf, the praise And costly offerings of the host he sways And caring more the outcast poor to raise. Even as his wandering Master took Lepers and thieves and others in His care, Unheeding Piiariscc's rebuke. So Guthrie tiod dark allc}' and vile stair, And vice sliraiik witiicred from his words of fire, And men, uplifted, shunned the drunkard's mire, And the neglected children found a sire. WILLIAM MACDONALD WOOD. 123 Honor to Tlionias Gutliric's name! His hearty voice is heard no more on earth, But we arc richer with his fame, And lieaven is richer with liis love and mirth. Write on his tomb that Scotland never gave To earth a man more noble, kindly, brave, Than this who rests from toil in Guthrie's grave. Among the other not;il)lc poems of this talented Scottish poet we might mention "My Joy is Taken," "The Gaelic Race," "The Children's Festival," and his much admired tribute to the genius of John Howard Payne, the author of thai imperishable lyric, " Home, Sweet, Home." One of his most cherished aspirations is the desire to compose a set of words to the air of Yankee Doodle, as he considers that by its audacious aggressive unconventional measure, this air con- stitutes itself the true American national anthem. He has "tried his hand," as he says, on this once or twice, with more or less success. The following will give an idea of his work in this direction: Hail, O Fatherland, to thee! Hail, thou restless giant! Marching on from sea to sea, Strong and self-reliant. Laurelled with a hundred years Whence no shames assail thee. Proudly still with songs and cheers We, thy children, hail thee. With a thousand tongues we come In one anthem blended; Faction's feeble voice is dumb. Ancient feuds are ended. Gothic force and Gaelic fire Mingling here unhindered; One and all wc hail thee, sire, Clasping hands of kindred. Hail to thee, America! Lift thy banner stainless; Land of freedom, land of law, Kingless land and chainless. Lo! the nations far that bear Brand of fetters feudal, Lift their hearts in hope to hear The song of Yankee Doodle. 124 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. Mr, Wood commands the respect of a very large circle of literary and other friends. In his pleasant home at Manhasset, L. I., the sur- roundings of which he likens to " a region transplanted from the Lothian uplands," he lives at peace with the world, and serene and happy in the midst of his family and his books. Mr, Thomas C. Latto writes that " under a very gentle exterior there is a true manliness, a tender feeling, a warm love of country, native and adopted, and a genial wit and humor that would hardly be suspected by those who do not know him thoroughly." He has never ventured on the publica- tion of a volume, but it would afford his numerous friends a sincere pleasure were they to see the announcement made that he was about to issue a collection of his poems in book form. ANDREW WANLESS. Whose song gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer Or tears from the eyelids start. Mr. Wanless is a deservedly popular Scottish poet. He has now been before the public as an author for upwards of forty years, and during that time he has published many beautiful and valuable poems that will live and be admired long after the present generation has passed away. On the publication of his second volume of poems, he presented a copy to Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, and in due time received the following acknowledgment of the same. " Lieut. Gen. Sir T. M. Eiddulph has received the Queen's commands to thank Mr. A. Wanless for sending his volume of Poems and Songs, which Her Majesty has been graciously pleased to accept. Buckingham Palace, Septemper 2, 1876." Mr. Wanless is now getting well on in years. In an epistle to his friend, Mr. James McKay, of Detroit, he says : "I'm getting uiico auld and still, And glow'ring ower life's dreary cliflT; 'Twill no be lang or I play whiff, And close my e'en, And sail awa in death's dark skifT To the unseen. "Yet still I needna grunt and grane, I'm no just in the warld alane, I've wife and bairns to ca' my ain. And when I dee Nae stranger cauld wi' heart o' stane Will close my e'e !" In a short autobiographical sketch of our author, to which we have had access, we find him saying: — "I was born in Longformacus, Ber- wickshire, May 25, 1824, This is near the classic Tweed and among 126 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. the Lammermoor hills, the scene of Sir Walter Scott's * Bride of Lammermoor.' The same locality is also mentioned in the * Heart of Midlothian,' when Jennie Deans, on her visit to London, informed the Duke of Argyle tliat she had an aunt residing in Longformacus, ' Wha was a grand maker of ewe-milk cheese.' My father studied and graduated from the famous University of Edinburgh. He was the parochial teacher of the parish in which he lived for more than fifty years. I have a vivid recollection of his intense grief when the tidings of the death of Sir Walter Scott first reached him. He was an ardent admirer of the wonderful ability of the famous ' Wizard of the North.' The mind of my mother, however, was strongly tinctured with Cal- vanistic doctrines, and she regarded the matter in a very different light. ' Houts, guid man,' said she, 'he's wcel awa'. He was just fillin' the heads o' the folks fu' o' downright havers! ' " Young Wanless was sent to school at an early age, and received the usual education which was supposed, at that time, to fit a lad for almost any business calling. He gives us a pleasant gliinpse of his boyhood days when he says, " My keenest pleasure, in early life, was found in wandering about my native land, visiting romantic haunts and burnsides. I was always of a studious and retiring disposition, enjoying the society of nature more than that of man. As 1 said in rhyme years afterwards: ' When floods cam' gushing down the hill And swelling wide the wee bit rill, As sure as death — I mind it still — In some lone nook, I'd stand and learn poetic skill Frae nature's book. 'A snow-drop on its bielded bed Would raise its modest virgin head, My very heart to it was wed With nature's chain; And tears o' joy would o'er it shed, I was sac fain! ' And when the bonnic spring would come. When bees around the flowers would bum. And Unties were nae Linger dumb The woods amang, 'Twas there, wi' them, I learned to hum My wee bit sang.'" ANDREW IVAN LESS. 127 After leaving school Mr. Wanless was sent to Dunse where he entered upon a seven years' apprenticeship as a bookbinder. On com- pleting his term of service he removed to Edinburgh, where he pro- cured a position as foreman in a large bookbinding establishment. "In Edinburgh," he tells us, "I frequently met and conversed with Professor Wilson (Christopher North), Hugh Miller, Robert Chambers, Francis Jeffrey, Lord Cockburn, and many other famous literary and scientific men of their day. I also attended the School of Arts, where I acquired a knowledge of French and various other fancy accomplish- ments which have never been of practical benefit. My mind then, and pretty nuuh ever since, found room only for contemi)lalion of the songs of the old Scotch Bards." In 1 85 1 he emigrated to Canada, and taking up his residence in Toronto entered into business on his own account as a bookbinder. This turned out an unfortunate adventure for him, as his shop was burned one day and he was left without a penny. While in Toronto he contributed a large number of poems to the press, and published a volume which was warmly received by the public, and is now entirely out of print. In 1861 he removed to Detroit, where he once more set up in business, this time as a bookseller. Since then he has been successful in all respects, and is now one of the best known and most respected citizens of Detroit. "My career in this city is too well known to justify elaboration," he writes. "I have lived a quiet, peaceful life, and sincerely trust I have made few enemies. I have gradually surrounded myself with a large collection of old book<;, both standard and miscellaneous in character. I have seen many changes in the city, and have seen those whom I had learned to love droj) out of the long race one by one. In 1873 I published another volume of poems which met with such favor that a second edition was demanded a year later. I have travelled extensively in this country and in Canada, reading before Scotch audiences. I have now a book in manuscript which is nearing con)pletion, which I have called ' The Droll Book of Original Scotch Anecdotes.' I possess a remarkable memory for the folk lore with which I was familiar during my early years. I should have told you that I have been married twice and have a family of six children, all bonnie lasses." From his comfort- able home in Detroit he has sent forth the majority of his finest poems. One of these, " Our Mither Tongue," was read before the St. Andrew's Society, Detroit, November 30, 1870. It at once achieved popularity 128 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. both in America and Scotland, and to day is probably one of his widest-known j^ieces. OUR MITHER TONGUE. It's monie a day since first we left Auld Scotland's rugged hills — Her hcath'ry braes and gow'ny glens, Her bonnie winding rills — We lo'ed her in the bj'-gane time, When life and hope were young, We lo'e her still, wi' right guid will. And glorj' In her tongue! Can we forget the summer days Whan we got leave frae schule. How we gade birrin' down the braes To daidle in the pool? Or to the glen we'd slip awa Where hazel clusters hung, And wake the echoes o' the hills — Wi' our auld mither tongue. Can we forget the lonesome kirk Where gloomy ivies creep ? Can we forget the auld kirk yard Where our forefather's sleep ? We'll ne'er forget that glorious land. Where Scott and Burns sung — Their sangs arc printed on our hearts In our auld mither tongue. Auld Scotland! Land o' mickle fame! The land where Wallace trod, The land whose heartfelt prnisc ascends Up to the throne of God; Land where the martyrs sleep in peace. Where infant freedom sprung, Where Knox in tones of thunder spoke In our auld mither tongue. Now Scotland dinna ye be blatc 'Mang nations crouscl)' craw. Your callants are nae donnert sumphs. Your lasses bang them a' The glisks o' heaven will never fade, That hope around us flung — When first we breath'd the tale o' love In our auld mither tongue. ANDREW WANLESS. 129 O ! let us ne'er forget our hame, Auld Scotland's hills and cairns, And let us a' where'er we be, Aye strive " to be guid bairns," And when we meet wi' want or age A-hirpIing owre a rung, We'll lak' their part and cheer their heart Wi' our auld mithcr tongue. Mr. Wanless's poems have a genuine ring that is not to be mistaken. They are deep in thought, exquisite in fancy, tender in sentiment, rich in humor, and not a few of them are of a very pathetic nature, although it must be admitted that it is only on rare occasions that he introduces anything of a gloomy or sorrowful character. Probably the best of all his pieces, in this connection, is the one entitled " My Bonnie Bairn," which we herewith append. It is a very touching piece of poetry and will always be ranked as one of his finest inspirations. MY BONNIE BAIRN. In my auld hame we had a flower A bonnie bairnie sweet and fair, There's no a flower in yonder bower That wi' my bairnie could compare. There was nae gloom about our house His merrj' laugh was fu' o' glee; The welfare o' my bonnie bairn Was mair than worlds wealth to me. And aye he'd sing his wee bit sang, And o' he'd make my heart sae fain, When he would climb upon my knee And tell me that he was my ain. The bloom has faded frae his cheek The light has vanished frae his e'e. There is a want baith but and ben Our house nae mair is fu' o' glee. I'll ne'er forget the tender smile That flitted o'er his wee bit face. When death came on his silent wing. And clasp'd him in his cold embrace. I30 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. We laid him in the lonesome grave. We laid him doon wi' mickle care; 'Twas like to break my heart in twain, To leave my bonnie darling there. The silent tears unbidden came. The waefu' tears o' bitter woe. Ah! little, little, did I think. That death would lay my darling low. At midnight's lone and mirky hour, When wild the angry tempests rave My thoughts — they winna bide away — Frae my ain bairnie's wee bit grave. The lyrical productions of our author are all refined and musical. " The very language, as he uses it," said the Nezv York Scotsman, *' makes him tender, brave, superstitious, patriotic and charitable. It has a charm to him, and he casts its spell over his readers. In many points he resembles Burns, in the pathos of his love songs, in his sub- mission to and communion with the mysterious influences of nature, and in his tender regard for the humbler forms of life." Among his finest productions are " Home Recollections," "A Sabbath Morning in Scotland," " Sandy Gill," " Lammermoor," ** Turning the Key,'' " The Creelin'," " War and Peace," " Caledonian Games on Belle Isle," inscribed to J. B. Wilson, Esq., " Tam and Tib," " Nan o' Lockermacus," " The Second Sight," " Jean and Donald," " Craigie Castle," " The Lang Tailor o' Whitby," his epistle " To A. H. Wing- field, Esq." (the author of the beautiful ballad, " There's Crape on the Door") and " The Scott Centenary," a poem which has many admirers, and which has been extensively re-printed by the British and Canadian press. At the time when it was first published the Edinburgh Scots- man remarked that a single line in it, viz., "And Scotland lives in Bannockburn," contained a whole volume. THE SCOTT CENTENARY. A hundred years have rolled away, This morn brought in the natal day, Of one whose name shall live for aye. Beside flic clear and winding'Forth Was born the " Wizard of the North," The muses circled round'his bed And placed their mark upon his head; ANDREW WAN LESS. 131 And Nature sang a grand refrain As Genius claimed his wondrous brain, For every bird in bush or braite, Beside the silv'ry stream or lake, Sang blylhly on their leafy throne, In honor of the "great Unknown!" The thistle raised its drooping head, The lark forsook his heather bed, Shook from his wing the dcwdrop moist, And on the golden cloud rejoic'd; The classic Tweed took up the lay, The Yarrow sang by bank and brae. And Ettrick danc'd upon her way. The daisies by the crystal wells Smiled sweetly to the heather bells; And rugged craig and mountain dun Exulted he was Scotia's son! Time sped, and from that brilliant brain There issued many a martial strain; He sang of knight and baron bold, Of king and clown in days of old, Though dead and gone, and passed away- Forgotten in the mould'ring clay — We read, we trow, his magic brain Brings back the dead to life again! He sang of men who ne'er would yield In border fray or battle field. Yes! on the page of endless fame He wrote of many a deed and name; How patriot heroes dared to die For God, for right and liberty! Wc see the beacon on the hill, The slumb'ring earth no more is still, For borne upon the midnight gale The slogan's heard o'er hill and dale, The din of battle and the cry That echoed through the vaulted sky. As warriors fell and rose and reel'd. And died on Flodden's fatal field! The minstrel loved auld Scotland's hills, Her gow'ny braes and wimpling rills, He loved the land that gave him birth — A land beloved o'er all the earth; 132 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. There stood the brave in weal or woe, Who never crouched to foreign foe — Who stood in battle like a rock, And snapped in twain the t)Tant's yoke! O ! Scotland, thou art dear to me! Thou land of song and chivalry! There Scott and Burns and man}- more. Did pencil nature to the core — There Wallace held the foe in scorn, And Scotland lives in Bannockburn! And every patriot, far or near, In foreign land, or Scotia dear, In castle proud, or lowly cot, Reveres the name of Walter Scott. Mr. Wanless, from his very earliest years, has been strongly imbued with a love for the ancient traditions and folk-lore of his native land, and he has skilfully woven a few of the former into very tender ballads. Nearly all of his pieces are written in the Scottish dialect. He possesses an intimate knowledge of the Doric, and he uses it in all its purity and simplicity. Among the few pieces which he has composed in connection with American subjects, his poem on the late Gen. Ulysses S. Grant, was both timely and appropriate. When reason was banished, and treason arose, And brother 'gainst brother dealt death-dealing blows, And the words came as one from the lips of the brave — " The flag of our fathers forever must wave; " And a hero arose in the midst of our woe, " Forward! " he cried " we must vaquish the foe;" But there's gloom on the earth, and there's gloom in the skies. And the light burns dim in the room where he lies. The foe is advancing — every effort they strain, But back they are hurled again and again, And the shout of the Victor is heard in the air: " While Liberty lives we shall never despair ;" And the hero looks round on the death-striken field, " We must conquer or die, but we never will yield," But there's gloom on the earth, and there's gloom in the skies, And the light burns dim in the room where he lies. ANDREW WANLESS. 133 The sword's in the scabbard, the warfare is o'er, May the din of the battle be heard never more; And now through the length and the breadth of the land, May brother meet brother with heart and witl> hand; May the past be forgot and may bitterness cease, And the watchword be ever: "Come let us have peace!" But there's gloom on the earth, and there's gloom in the skies. And the light has gone out in the room where he lies. No sketch of Mr. Wanless and his writings would be complete with- out referring specially to his patriotic feelings and unconquerable love for the land that gave him birth. His muse has been used for no mercenary purposes, but simply, as he informs us in the preface to one of his published volumes, " To recall the scenes of our early years, to bring up in imagination the braw lads and bonnie lasses that we for- gathered with in the days of the lang syne, and attempt to describe, on this side of the Atlantic, the wimpling burns, the gowany braes, the bonnie glens, the broomy dells, and the heather-clad mountains of our native land: the land where Wallace and Bruce wielded the patriotic sword, and where Ramsay, Burns, Scott, Tannahill and many more sang the songs of love and liberty." Nor do the feelings of the gifted Bard become in any way changed while age begins to twine the white locks around his venerable forehead. Only a few weeks ago he com- posed the following : WHA DARE MIDDLE ME? Scotland! how glorious is the theme. That in the days by gone, Your patriot sons undaunted stood And battled for their own. Time after time the foe advanced Your rights to trample down, To blot your name forever out. And grasp your royal crown. Your sons could never bow the knee, Nor brook the' tyrant's chains, Nature had written on your hills — " Here freedom ever reigns." Sons of the brave! your hearts were one. That Scotland must be free, Now far and near the cry is heard — " Wha dares to middle me?" 134 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. Forward! see Scotland's gallant sons Dash on to meet the foe, Their strong right hand grasps freedom's sword And freedom guides the blow. Their bows are bent, their swords are keen, And with their matchless might, Strongly they stand to crush the wrong, And battle for the right. The battle rages fierce and fell, Till o'er the deadly fray. The welkin rings — " the victory's won! " Scotland has won the day. While heather blooms on Scotland's hills, And while her thistles wave. Freedom will flourish on her soil. And guard the warrior's grave! Every verse of this song burns with intense patriotism for the land of his birth, and it is entitled to stand side by side with Henry Scott Riddell's immortal song " Scotland Yet." The Scottish language is peculiarly adapted to touch and enoble the finer feelings of our nature. In view of this, and in conclusion, we quote from our author's writings the two following kindly and homely lyrics, the last of which, it may be stated, appeared in a late issue of the Detroit Free Press: ROBIN. I hae a bird, a bonnie bird. And Robin is its name, 'Twas sent to me, wi' kindly words, Frae my auld Scottish hame. And when it cam' unto my hand It looked sae dull and wae, Nae doot it miss'd the flow'ry glen. The burnie and the brae. There's mair than you, my bonnie bird, Hae cross'd the raging main, Wha mourn the blythc, the happy days, They'll never see again. Sweet bird! come sing a sang to me, Unmindfu' o' our ills; And let us think we're ance again 'Mang our ain heather hills. ANDREW WANLESS. 135 The joyfu' hours o' nameless bliss, O, come ye back to me; My love, my lost, again we meet Aneath the trysting-trec. O, sing to me, my bonnie bird. And ilka note o' thine Will conjure up the gladsome days- Tlie joys o' auld lang sync. COME HAME. My love, my beautiful, my own, I'm sitting a' alane; O, how I long to hear your step And welcome you again. There's neathing now looks bright to me. The sunshine's left my.ha', There's nae ane now to cheer my heart Since ye hae gane awa'. The sun's'ganc doon ayont the hill, And night steals slowly nigh — 'Tis gloomy'night, the weary winds Around me moan and sigh. My love! at midnight's silent hour I saw thee come to me, I saw thee in thy youthful bloom Come tripping o'er the lea. I woke to find it but a dream, A vision of the night — Come hamc, come hamc, my darling, come, Come hamc my heart's delight. O, come again, my life, my love. And fill my heart with glee. The whisp'ring winds no more will sigh When ye come back to me. ALEXANDER H. WINGFIELD. Over the harp, from earliest years belov'd, He threw his fingers hurriedl)^ and tones Of melancholy beaut)' died away, Upon its strings of sweetness. " In these days," writes Mr. Wingfield, " the notion prevails that poetry, like miracles, has ceased, and it requires a certain amount of courage for an individual unknown to fame to come forward and say, varying the memorable expression of a great painter, that he too is a poet. This is the age not only of mechanical invention, supposed to be the very antithesis of poetry, but — more dreadful still — of criticism; the terrors of which makes timorous poets pause. Homer and Milton stood in no dread of reviewers; though, to do justice to our own time, it must be added that they were at certain disadvantages for want of publishers. We are most of us conscious of a belief that poetry was to be looked for as a matter of course in days gone by, when shepherds piped by the banks of classic streams, and when scholars assembled in acndemic groves; or when in more recent times our own poets found inspiration by lake and mountain, around some ' Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain,* or in meditative ([uiet and solemn stillness of the country churchyard. But can poetry be born amid the noisy rattle of the loom, the birr of wheels, the clang of hammers, the screaming whistle and thundering rush of the locomotive.'" In answer to this we unhesitatingly reply yes, and in confirmation of our opinion we have only to point to the volume which Mr. AVingficld published a few years ago, a volume that is re])lcle with poems and lyrical pieces of a very high order of merit, and all of which were composed amidst the din and clatter of the Great Western Railway boiler shop at Hamilton, Ontario. There are, indeed, many excellent specimens both of Scottish and English verse in this volume, and each piece seems to have been composed with a special pui])Ose in view which necessitated their being carefully thought out before being committed to the world. Mr, Wingfield, however, ALEXANDER WINGFIELD. 137 is very modest in regard to tlie merit of his different poems. " If there be poetry in them," he says, "it is such as comes from homely, natural inspiration, unaided either by varied reading or literary leisure. As I have really felt, or believed, or imagined, so have I written; and whatever faults of expression there may be in my efforts, there is no failure in honesty of intention. Having neither read much nor travelled far, nor been able to put the world of nature and of history under contribution, I have found my subjects chiefly among the familiar scenes and every-day experiences of my own humble walk in life; taking such color and impression of them as residence in a busy city like Hamilton could not fail to present." His muse has thus dwelt on various subjects and to show the kindly nature of the man and his feelings toward even the smallest of God's creatures, we pie- sent our readers with his well-known address of welcome to the sparrows: Ye'rc welcome, wee sparrows, yc're welcome to me; Vou mak me as happy as e'er I can be ; When I hear you chirp, chirpin', an' see ye sae tame. You just aye look to me like kenn'd faces frae hamc. There are some canna bear ye, an' say that ye steal, An' fecht wi' your neebors at times like the deil; An' they hope ye may meet wi' a' sorts o' ill luck, But I like ye— ye're emblems of true British pluck. D'ye ever turn hame-sick at nicht wlien at rest (The lot of an exile is ne'er very blest); D'ye think o' the times ye've had fleein' aroun' Wi' the cronies you left, baith in kintra an' toon ? D'ye e'er min' the hedge-rows, whaur often at e'en. Ye hae woo'd yuur blithe mates near whaur Burns woo'd his Jean; An' ye heard the sweet sang o' the lark in tiie morn, As he rose up dew-winged frae his nest 'mang the corn? D'ye min' the green hawthorns an' red shinin' ha's, That you feasted on aft by the auld castle wa's ? I doubtna, wee birdies, ye whiles mourn like me, For the hame ye hae left far awa owre the sea. Ye gar me think o' days when a bairn at the schulc, I hae hunted an' chased you wi' hearty guid-will; When ye tlecd frae my steps away up on the trees, I hae staned you wi' vigor — I winna tell lees. I3S SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. I hae harriet your nests wi* the rest o' my chums, An' hae often enticed ye wi' wee bits of crums To come down frae your 3-oung ones, baith early an' late, An' then trapp'd ye wi' glee wi' three bricks and a slate. But those times are changed noo — altho', to my min', I have never seen happier anes e'er sin syne; For the wrangs I hae dune ye in life's early day. Fain, fain wud I noo wi' some kindness repay. I am wae when I think o' the lang winter days Ye'll be happin aroun' on your wee, frozen taes; Guid kens whaur ye'll get your bit pickin's ava. When the earth is laid under its mantle o' sna'. I'm no blest wi' owre much ; I've but little to spare ; Yet, there's naethin' I hae but wi' you I wud share ; If ye e'er fin' your way %vhaur my wee hoosie stan's. You are aye sure o' something at least frae my ban's. Thro' the cauld winter days may ye meet wi' nae harm ; May ye aye fin' a beild to jouk in frae ilk storm ; May the raven's Provider tak care of ye a'. Till the blithe simmer comes an' the •winter's awa. Mr. Wingfield expresses his sentiments in clear and chaste language, and while through many of his poems there runs a rich vein of innocent humor, or of manly independence which makes them enjoyable at all times, still, it is in his serious pieces we think that his poetical powers are disj^layed to the greatest advantage. All of these musings are simple and full of words of sympathy. They are written from the heart, and they appeal directly to the heart, and in no instance do we discover in their composition a mere straining after effect. Take his "Crape on the Door," for instance. It has truly been said that who- ever could compose lines like the follov/ing was capable of greater efforts, and we yet look for something from Mr. Wingfield that will place his name among the poets who have achieved a world-wide fame: CRAPE ON THE DOOR. There's a liitlc white cottage that Stan's 'mong the trees, Whaur llic huniming bird comes to sip sweets wi' the bees, Wliaur the bright morning-glories grow up o'er the caves. And Ihe.wce birdies nestle among the green leaves. But there's something around it to-day that seems sad — It has'na that look o' contentment it had; There is gloom whaur there used to be sunshine before; Its windows are darkened — there's crape on the door. ALEXANDER WING FIELD. 139 There is crape 011 the door — all is silent within; There are nae merry children there making a din; For the anc that was merriest aye e' them a' Is laid out in robes that look white as the sna'. Hut yestcrdiiy morn, when the sun shone so bright; Nae step bounded frec'er — nae heart was mair light; When the gloamin' cam' round, a' his playing was o'er, He was drowned in the Inirn — sae there's crape on the door. Nae mair will he skip like a lamb o'er the lea, Or pu' the wild flowers, or gang chasin' the bee; He'll be miss'd by the bairns when they come hame frae schule. For he met them ilk day coming down o'er the hill. Beside his wee coffin his lone mother kneels, And she breathes forth a prayer for the sorrow she feels; Her puir widowed heart has been scared to the core, For not lang^sinsyne there was crape on the door. Her sobs choke her utt'rance, though she strives, but in vain To stifle her grief, or her tears to restrain; Yet she lovingly murmurs, " I winna repine ; Thy will be done Father ; Thy will and not mine; Though my trials are great, yet I winna complain; For I ken that the Lord has but ta'en back His ain, To dwell wi' the angels above evermore Whaur there's nae sin nor sorrow, nor crape on the door." Among our author's other serious pieces, "The Last Farewell," «' The Widow's Wail," "Wee Tot," "Our Wee Jeannie " and "Not Lost, but Gone Before," are all ])oenis of a beautiful and touching nature, and prove that he is possessed of a tender and Christian heart. The last named piece was composed on the death of a favorite child, and as it has been considerably spoken of we reprint it here: NOT LOST, BUT GONE BEFORE. We've nae wee Lily noo, Maggie, We've nae wee Lily noo; Death's laid his cauld, damp, icy, han' Upon her bonnie broo, That broo whaur gowden curls played, Aboon her een o' blue. 'Twas destined sae to be, Maggie, 'Twas destined sae to be; That God should tak' awa the gift I40 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. He gied to you and me ; 'Twas hard to part wi't ; sorrow's a)'e A bitter thing to dree. She looked some like yoursel, Maggie, She looked some like yoursel ; How much I lo'ed her, nana but He Wha kens our hearts can tell. We will not murmur at His will. He doeth all things well. We'll miss her unco sair, Maggie, We'll miss her unco sair ; But she has gane whaur grief and pain Will never reach her mair ; Whaur flowerets bloom and shed perfume In Heaven's garden fair. We will not mourn her noo, Maggie, We will not mourn her noo; She isna lost, but gane before — Just hidden frae our view ; She's better afT than she could be, Were she still here wi' you. We'll meet wi' her again, Maggie, We'll meet wi' her again, When we hae passed thro' death's dark vale. And crossed o'er Jordon's plain ; 'Mang ither lammies in Christ's fauld We'll see our ain wee wean. Passing from Mr. Wingfield's serious pieces, we come upon many displaying a humorous sentiment, to which is not unfrequently com- bined a little well-directed satire. There is not a word or a line in any of these pieces, however, that could offend the taste or hurt the feelings of any one. This in itself is deserving of note. "That he has penned nothing," says the Hamilton Evening Tifnes, "that can lower or vulgarize life in any of its relations, nor even pandered to irreligion or sensuality, is something to feel honestly proud of, for, in these days of sensationism, even poets of mark not unfrequently sacrifice morality and purity in their craving for a certain kind of popular sympathy." A good specimen of his humorous writings is: ALEXANDER WING FIELD. 141 A SIIILLIN' OR TWA. Friendship has charms for tiie leal an' the true, There's naething can beat it the hale warl thro', But ye'll gey aften fin' that the best friend ava Is that white-headed callan a shillin' or twa'. Eh, man, it's a fine thing, a shillin' or twa, Ilech, man, it's a gran' thing, a shillin' or twa'. It keeps up your spirits, it adds to your merits, If ye but inherit a shillin' or twa. It's surprisin' how much you'll be thocht o' by men, You'll get credit for wisdom altho' ye hae nane, Tho' yc'r but a dunce ye'll be honored by a'. When they ken that ye hue a bit shillin' or twa. Eh, man, it's a line thing, a shillin' or twa, Hech, man, it's a gran' thing, a shillin' or twa, Ye'll ne'er ken what it means to want plenty of frien's Gin ye glamour their e'en wi' a shillin' or twa. But it alters the case when your pouches are toon. An' your credit's a' gane an' nae wab in the loom, Be sure then ye'll get the cauld shoulder frae a', If ye ask for the lend o' a shillin' or twa. Eh, man, it's a fine thing, a shillin' or twa, Hech, man, it's a gran' thing, a shillin' or twa. But there's no mony then that will haud out their han' An' say, "here, my man, there's a shillin' or twa." There are some that for siller wud swap their auld shoon, There are some that wud cheat for't it and ne'er ca't a sin, An' there are some sae devoid o' morality's law. Wud shake han's wi' the deil for a shillin' or twa. Eh, man, it's a fine thing, a shillin' or twa, Hech, man, it's a gran' thing, a shillin' or twa, To become rich an' great, an' hae Uunkeys to wait, When ye drive out in state affyour shillin' or twa. But we scorn the fause loon that for vain worldly pelf Wud wrang ither folks to get riches himself, Aye live an' let live, an' do justice by a', An' may you ne'er want for a shillin' or twa. Eh, man, it's a fine thing, a shillin' or twa, Hech, man, it's a gran' thing, a shillin' or twa, I've aften been scant o't, and weel kcn't the want o't. But now, Gudc be ihank't for't, I've a shiilin' or twa. 142 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. From a poet like Mr. Wingfield we naturally look for many pieces chronicling the deeds or extolling the virtues of his native land, and our expectations in this respect are largely realized. He is continually singing of her hills and glens, woods and streams, people, history and religion. While he says: Oh, Canada! I lo'e thee weal! Altho' nae son o' thine Within thy wide domain there beats Nae truer heart than mine. Yet the home of his infancy is ever in his thoughts, and it seems impossible for him to resist the temptation to write about her. Here is one of his numerous pieces on this subject: THE CALEDONIAN. There's a land where the heather and thistle wave, Where the foot of a slave ne'er trod, Where the blue bells bloom o'er her martyrs' grave And hallowed is that sod. There's a land whose sons are staunch and brave, Whose hills are lofty and grand, Whose shores are kissed by the blue sea wave, And Scotia is that land. 'Tis an honored place that same proud land, Tlie home of the Caledonian. There's a land whose bards have struck their lyres To none but the loftiest strains, Whose inspiring tones would call forth lire From the dullest coward's veins. There's a land where noble Wallace fell, The first in freedom's van. Whose name still sounds like a magic spell — And Scotia is that land. 'Tis teaming with heroes that mountain land, The home of the Caledonian. All other lands the palm must yield To Scotia's daughters fair; And in the tented battle-field Her sons are foremost there; Her tartan-plaided warriors Have climbed the steeps of fame; Their daring deeds the wide world o'er Have earned a deathless name. 'Tis a nation of heroes — den)' it who can. The home of the Caledonian. ALEXANDER WING FIELD. 143 The Scotsman need not blush to own The land lliat gave him birtli For her name is known from zone to zone As the noblest spot on earth. Should the foot of a foe e'er dare to tread On that little land of the free, The thistle would raise his stately head Saying " You mauna meddle wi' me." It's a sturdy plant that guards our land The pride of the Caledonian. Alexander H. Wingfield was born in 1828, at Blanlyre, Lanark- shire, Scotland, in a house situated a few doors from the one in which Dr. Livingston, the celebrated African traveller, first saw the light. His parents removed to Glasgow when he was six weeks old, and he received little or no education, as he was sent to work in a cotton factory before he had reached his tenth birthday. He may therefore claim, and deserves credit for being in all respects a self-made man. In 1847 he emigrated to America and settled in Auburn, N. Y., but three years later he went to Hamilton, Ont., where he worked as a mechanic for eighteen years on the Great Western Railway. For the past eleven years he has held a responsible position in the Canadian Customs Department. His name is now a familiar one throughout Canada. That his muse had lung been appreciated by the public may be surmised when we state that within ten days after the first copy of his book was ready the expense of the whole work was i)aid out of the sale of it, and the entire edition, consisting of fifteen hun- dred copies, was disposed of in the short space of stven weeks. The book is now out of ])rint, and stray copies are eagerly picked up at advanced prices wherever they are offered for sale. He does not seem to have composed much of late, and in concluding our sketch we would say to him in the words of his illustrious friend, Mr. Andrew Wanlass: "Though grief has racked you to, the core, Take up your harp — sing as in yore; Ye still liac monie joys in store — I hope and pray That crape may ne'er hang on your door For monie a day!" MALCOLM TAYLOR, Jr. I've scanned the actions of his daily life With ail the industrious malice of a foe ; And nothing meets mine eyes but deeds of honor. Malcolm Taylor, Jr., poet and dramatist, is a native of Dundee, where he was born in 1850. Coming to this country with the other members of his family in his tenth year, he was given a careful educa- tion, and his boyhood glided peacefully into manhood surrounded by all the pleasures and comforts of a happy and moral home. On com- pleting his studies he was sent to learn the plumbing trade, but this proving distasteful to him, he abandoned it and entered into com- mercial engagements which suited him better. There are few Scotsmen in this city better known or more respected than Malcolm Taylor, senior, the father of our poet. He is blessed with very fine musical qualities, and his singing of many of the old Scotch songs is a rare treat even to those persons who do not hail from the land of the mountain and the flood. Previous to his select- ing a home for his family in the new world he was precenter of one of the principal churches in Dundee, besides being leader for many years of the Dundee Choral Union. Our author at an early age gave ample evidence of possessing true poetic gifts. His mind, even at school, was completely wrajiped up in i)oetical matters, and his sole ambition at one time was to become a great poet. We have had the pleasure of reading a number of his early musings, and there is no doubt that they display genuine talent not only in their versification, but also in their ideas and general con- struction. They are bright and musical, and always of a i)lcasing character. Take the following one, for instance It was written in his fourteenth year and published in a well-known New York weekly newspaper: MALCOM TA YLOK, JR. 145 LOVE'S QUESTIONING. Do you love me? Tell — Does your hcarl swift beat And your bosom swell When I talk so sweet? Docs a sudden thrill Of estatic bliss Your whole body fill When our lips they kiss? Do you love me? Tell — In your memory Does there always dwell Pleasant thoughts of me? Do hours like days seem When I am not nigh? Of me do you dream When in sleep you lie ? Do you love me? Tell — Do you love sighs heave When I say farewell ? And then when I leave, Do you linger still The doorstep upon. Watching me until From sight I am gone ? Do you love me? Tell — When you hear the chime Of a marriage bell, Long you for the time When we too shall stand At the altar's side. Linking hand in hand. Having love's knot tied? Do you love me? Tell — Love mc fond and true? In your looks I spell. What tells mc you do; But, just to be heard, Whisper in my ear That one simple word I so long to hear. 146 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. Do you love me ? Tell — Why still are you dumb? Known the answer well, But yet let it come. Do you love me? Speak — Darling now confess! Ah! that blushing cheek! Your reply is — " Yes." Nor was it in his English compositions alone that Mr. Taylor, through his early efforts, gave promise of one day attaining a prominent position among the poets. He seems to have written many pieces in his mother tongue which obtained considerable popularity for him among his countrymen. Here is a little Scottish lyric which he com- posed in his fifteenth year and which proves that even at that age he possessed an intimate knowledge of the Doric : BONNIE GIRZIE O' GLENBRAE. Leeze me, lassie, but I lo'e thee, And my thochts run like a sang, As the burn adoon the corrie, Louping wi' sheer joy alang. Gin ye knew their sang by hairt, love. And would lilt the simple lay, Oh, how happy wad it mak' me, Bonnie Girzie o' Glenbrae. 'Mang the lave thee only lo'e I, And my hairt is like a bloom, As a gowan on the haugh-side, Bursting wi' love's pure perfume; Wad ye wear my modest posy On thy bosom, blest for aye. It would yield its inmost spirit, Bonnie Girzie o' Glenbrae. Wad ye sing my thochts, my dawtie, Yours wad lilt fond symphony; Wad yc wear my hairt-bloom ever, Yours wad fellow-blossom be; Sweet wi' joy and love enduring, Song and bloom wad blend alway, Liviii' niciody and fragrance — Bonnie Girzie o' Glenbrae. MALCOM TA YLOR, JR. I47 On comparing ihc above pieces with any of our author's more recent productions we will at once notice the advancement which he has made. He has certainly cultivated his talents very carefully and the result is that his muse is now vigorous, inspiring and scholarly. In addition to this there is a love of nature and a purity of feeling embodied in and adding a lustre to all of his later work that is not to be found in any of his earlier compositions. Take a poem entitled " Hyacinth," which he composed a few years ago and we will readily note the difference: In the body-bulb buried low, and hid From tlic glint of human eye, and sun, Like a lifeless corse 'neath a coirm-lid, Longing to rise, with freedom won, Lies tlie Hyacinth, awaiting the birth From a dormant state, which is as death, Till Nature's Christ comes on the earth. And resurrects it with living breath. As a vague, dim hint of a day to come. In time now looms, from the dark, dank mold, A tip of green, striving, slow and dumb. With feeble force its powers to unfold; And soon on the surface spread vernal arms. That embrace the air and caress the light. Till the centre stalk feels life's fond charms. And rises in majestic might. Then a cluster of stars shoot into view, Petaled Pleiades to gem the ground, And lend their sheen of tender hue To illume the varied scene around;' Whilst the eyes and lips of the budding head The smiles and breath of love give free, On the air the wealth of its soul to shed, To live in the mind eternally. Thus the poet's soul, innate and cold. Awaits the call of Nature's God To burst from its gyves of human mold. And peer above the insensate sod. First, looming up, one struggling thought Finds expression, as the hint of green; Then his mind, with ardent feelings fraught. Aspires to reach to heaven serene. 148 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. Soon his fancies teem to a budding head, And crown his brain, as a group of stars. Their lustre rare around to shed, To charm the sense in rhythmic bars; While his thoughts, like arms, stretch wide apart. The sum of love and life to embrace, And his lips and tongue give voice to his heart In a song that time cannot efface. Mr. Taylor revisited Scotland in 1874, and while there contributed numerous articles and poems to the NeiuYork Scotsman. One of the latter, a lengthy poem, entitled "Mountain Musings," appeared in serial form and was universally admired. Another lengthy descriptive poem which he composed in the Highlands, entitled " In the Wilder- ness," was published in Hutnan Nature, a well-known London literary magazine, and commanded a great deal of praise from the critics of the English metropolis. A brief excursion through Ayrshire further inspired his muse and called forth a very fine poem on Robert Burns, from which we make two extracts : Now let me, with my pen's weird wand, forsooth. Waive by the windings of his young life path, The petty trials he had, as each child hath, Till soon we see him as a reaper youth; When, bending low beside some winsome Ruth To bind with wheaten gyves the levelled swath. Or gathering up the golden aftermath. He tried to sing the love he felt in truth; Then woke the poet's spirit in his form. Moved was his hand to touch the latent chords That longed to give expression fair in words To what his heart felt in affection warm; And as he told his love in lilted line He wooed the willing Coila, muse divine. And now behold him. Fashion's pampered child! The Pet of wealth! The social board around His favored friends did reverence profound, While he, with his own songs, the time beguiled Till, with that Circe, Pleasure's draught grown wild Our laverock Rab soon had his sad rebound And, faulty, fell back to the common ground. To sink from sight, in poverty exiled; MALCOLM TA YLOJi, JR. 149 But though was smirched with shame in touching dross The form that housed liis soul, above mere pelf; Yet crushed not was the tjelter part of self; From human failings suflcring no loss His songs lived on and lingered, still sublime, Throuh all the echoing corridors of Time. In 1878 Mr. Taylor was united in marriage to Mrs. R. E, Scher- merhorn, an accomplished lady who had already won distinction for herself as the first lady attorney of the city of Rochester. During the following five years he resided at their magnificent house, Cascade, on the beautiful shore of Owasco Lake, in central New York. While located here he ventured into the dramatic field, and many of the plays which he has since written have met with phenomenal success. His "Auld Robin Gra}-," a dramatization of the celebrated ballad of that name, was pronounced by Mr. James H. Stoddart, the eminent actor, to be one of the finest Scotch pastoral plays that he had ever read. The above, with some of his other dramas, such as " The Afflicted Family," "Rags and Boules," and "Aar-u-a-goos " have been published, and are played with great success throughout the United States each season. Through the channel of his dramatic writings our author gradually drifted into the theatrical profession, and he now holds a prominent and resposible position in one of the best paying theatres in central New York. While cultivating the good graces of Thalia and Melpomene, however, he did not altogether forget his old love. While he may have neglected his muse for the time being, yet the following recently composed sonnets will prove that she still lingers within his reach willing to be wooed by him at all times: LOVE'S SUMMER. You ask me am I lonely? Not at all Though thick the dun October clouds may loom And wild winds cry around the wail of doom That summer's vernal foliage finds its fall, I mourn not, having thee. If, like a pall, The storm docs gather close about, in gloom To shroud me, livened by the June-like bloom That seems to spring up at thy cheery call. The earth, that otherwise would serve to load My heart with heaviness, at prospects sad, Now seems a very paradise, so glad My spirit is. With thee to walk the road, Though knowing that it led to regions dark, Still would I on such journey fain embark. I50 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. And vvh}'? Because the light from out thine eyes Makes shining bright the scene with sunny smiles, And thy rich laugh, like bird-trill, still beguiles The passing hour with music, while fast flies Each feathery warbler unto warmer skies, Each blush-rose that my word-warmth without wiles Brings into bloom upon thy cheek, denials To no great purpose, as fair flowers apprize Me that my love finds soil within thy breast; Hence in thy presence summer ever stays. Since smile, and laugh, and blush, always Are sun, and bird, and flower to me most blest, And this is why, in seasons dark or bright, I in thy company still find delight. Among Mr. Taylor's poems not already referred to, "A Four-Leaf Clover," " Six Kisses," and " The Violet's Death " are worthy of special mention on account of their meritorious character. The two latter are poems of considerable length, but they contain many noble passages, together with numerous lines of genuine poetry. His verses addressed to " Auld Kirk Alloway " are in excellent taste and will always be kindly remembered by Scotsmen in connection with this illustrious old ruin. We quote a few verses: The wild rose decks your broo in spring, Aroun' your form the ivies cling Like memories dear, while Unties sing Their leal love's praise, As Rab did his, meandering On Doon's green braes. * * * * Your wa's still stan', though roofless lang, And wi' carse, crumblin' cild nae Strang, Sin' syne j-our bell in peal has rang, Fu' mony a wight Has joined the dust frae whence he sprang. An' gane frae sight. » * * * As lang's the lays th^ ploughman sung To chords o' Coila's lyre, love-strung, Repeated are by human tongue, Fame to prolong, Ye will be known foremaist among The kirks o' song. I MALCOLM TAYLOR, JR. 151 When time is done, tlic poem divine, Ilk age a verse, ilk year a line, In nac ae stanza will there shine A brichter name. Than his, wha gicd ye, ruined shrine Your storied fame. Sac fear nac, though you're fallin' fast Ye will be to oblivion cast, For while the mind o' man does last. In comin' day Yc'II live in glory o' tlic past. Kirk Alloway! It will readily be seen from these specimens of the poetical writings of Mr. Taylor tliat he possesses all the qualifications of a very fine ])oet. He is just entering upon the prime of manhood, and we feel confident that if he would concentrate his powers upon some one sub- ject he would yet produce a poem worthy of his youthful ambition, and which would entitle him to rank among the most eminent of Scottish poets. ALEXANDER M'LACHLAN. Creative Genius ! from thy hand What shapes of order, beauty, rise, When waves thy potent, mystic wand To people ocean, earth and skies ! Alexander M'Lachlan holds a prominent position in the circle of Scottish bards who have made for themselves a home in the new world. A native of Johnston, in Renfrewshire, Scotland, he was born in the year 1820. His father, a mechanic to trade, was possessed of considerable poetic talent, and the son at an early age became strongly imbued with his spirit and soon established a reputation for himself in the neighborhood as a writer of rather intelligent verses. His educa- tion, however, amounted to very little, and it certainly speaks well for him now that he is in nearly all respects a self-educated man. As a boy he was fond of reading, and he early acquired a thorough acquaint- ance with history and general literature. His father died while return- ing from a visit to Canada, leaving a Avidow and four small children uni)rovided for. Alexander was first sent to work in a cotton factory, but soon left this occupation and became a tailor's apprentice. While a young man he took an active interest in the Chartist movement, and many of his early efforts in verse were full of sympathy and encourage- ment for those who were struggling for more freedom. In 1840 he emigrated to Canada and went to work on a farm. He was thus engaged for many years, during which time, however, he gave vent to his thoughts and reflections in poems of so beautiful and valuable a character that they stamped him as no ordinary man, and sent his name ringing throughout the Dominion. In 1855 he vv;)s induced to publish a small collection of his poems. It met with a ready sale and was followed in 1858 by another volume entitled "Lyrics," which was also accorded a favorable reception. Three years later appeared his " Emigrant and Other Poems," and in 1874 "Poems and Songs," a large 8vo volume, containing nearly all of his poetical writings up to that date. The opening poem in the last named volume is entitled ALEXANDER M'LACIILAN. 153 "God," and is probably llic fiiicbt i)icce of poetry which Mr. M'Lachlan has written. It at once gives us an idea of his powers as a poet, and, as one writer remarks, " is ecjual in grandeur and sub- limity to the best efforts of the greatest Anglo-Saxon or Celtic poets." We quote a few stanzas: God of the great old solemn woods, God of the desert solitudes, And trackless sea: God of the crowded city vast, God of the present and the past, Can man know Thee ? God of the blue sky overhead. Of the green earth on which we tread, Of time and space: God of the worlds which Time conceals, God of the worlds which Death reveals To all our race. From out thy wrath the earthquakes leap And shake the world's foundation deep, Till Nature groans: In agony the mountains call, And ocean bellows throughout all Her frightened zones. But when thy smile its glory sheds, The lilies lift their lovely heads, And the primrose rare: And the daisie decked with pearls Richer than the proudest earls On their mantles wear. These thy preachers of the wild-wood, Keep they not the heart of childhood Fresh within us still ? Spite of all our life's sad story, There are gleams of thee and glory In the daffodil. And old Nature's heart rejoices. And the rivers lift their voices, And the sounding sea: And the mountains old and hoary With their diadems of glory, Shout, Lord, to Thee! 154 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. The mysterious in nature seems to be a fascinating subject for our author, and one at which his muse loves to draw inspiration. On such occasions his writings are eloquent and profound and they display a large amount of sound philosophical reasoning. He is extremely earnest in purpose and no one can fail to observe the sincere longing with which his heart is filled for a knowledge of the unseen. There is a great deal more than poetry in his verses entitled " Mystery ": Mystery! mystery! All is a mystery, Mountain and valley, woodland and stream; Man's troubled history, Man's mortal destiny Are but a phase of the soul's troubled dream. Mystery! mystery! All is a mystery! Heart-throbs of anguish and joy's gentle dew, Fall from a fountain Beyond the great mountain. Whose summits forever are lost in the blue. Mystery! mystery! All is a mystery! The sigh of the night winds, the song of the waves: The visions that borrow Their brightness from sorrow, The tales which flowers tell us, the voices of graves. Mystery! mystery! All is a mystery! Ah, there is nothing we wholly see through! We are all weary. The night's long and dreary — Without hope of morning O what would we do? In another poem, entitled " Who Knows ?" we have verses similar to the following : From deep to deep, from doubt to doubt, While tlic night still deeper grows; Who knows the meaning of this life ? Wlicn a voice replied, Who knows ? Shall it always be a mystery ? Are there none to lift the veil ? Knows no one aught of the land wc left, Or the port lo which wc sail ? ALEXANDER M' LA CI/LAN. 155 Poor shipwrecked mariners driven about By every wind that blows; Is there a haven of rest at all ? And a voice replies, Who knows ? O why have we lonf(injrs infinite And aflections deep and high; And glorious dreams of immortal things. If they are but born to die? Are they but will-o'-wisps that gleam Where the deadly nightshade grows ? Do they end in dust and ashes all ? And the voice still cried, Who knows? No poet was ever blessed with a finer conception of the beauties of external nature, however, than the subject of our sketch. He has a happy faculty for describing rural scenes, and his poems entitled '' Spring," " Indian Summer," " Far in the Forest Shade," " The Song of the Sun " and "The Hall of Shadows " are replete with descriptive passages of the very highest order of merit. Mingling with his poetry is the rich perfume of buds and blossoms, the warble of the birds, the murmur of the brook, the hum of insects and the rustle of autumn leaves. He loves them all with the love of a poet, and his muse is ever ready and delights in proclaiming their beauties, whether in the field or the forest, the highway or the hillside. The following may be taken as a specimen of his descriptive pieces: MAY. O sing and rejoice! Give to gladness a voice, Shout a welcome to beautiful May! Rejoice with the flowers, And the birds 'mong the bowers, And away to the green woods away! O, blithe as the fawn Let us dance in the dawn Of this life-giving, glorious day! 'Tis briglit as the tirst Over Eden that burst — O, welcome, young, joy-giving May! The cataract's horn Has awakened the morn, Her tresses are dripping with dew 156 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. O hush thee, and hark! 'Tis her herald the lark That's singing afar in the blue, It's happ)' heart's rushing, In strains wildly gushing, That reach to the revelling earth: And sinks through the deeps Of the soul till it leaps Into raptures far deeper than mirth. All nature's in keeping! The live streams are leaping And laughing in gladness along; The great hills are heaving, The dark clouds are leaving, The valleys have burst into song. We'll range through the dells Of the bonnie blue bells. And sing with the streams on their way We'll lie in the shades Of the flower-covered glades, And hear what the primroses say. O crown me with flowers, 'Neath the green spreading bowers, With the gems and the jewels May brings; In the light of her eyes. And the depth of her dyes, We'll smile at the purple of kings. We'll throw off our years, With their sorrows and tears. And time will not number the hours We'll spend in the woods Where no sorrow intrudes. With the streams, and the birds, and the flowers. Home and the affections also claim a particular niche in our author's heart, and he has given us many very fine poems on these subjects. He begins one: " Where'er we may wander, Whate'er be our lot The heart's first affections, Still cling to the spot Where first a fond mother, With rapture has prest, Or sung us to slumber ^ In peace on her breast." ALEXANDER M'LACIILAN. I57 But the finest specimen of all, is his well-known poem entitled, " Old Hannah," a poem so real and yet so exquisite in construction and finish that no one but a true poet could have conceived and written it. OLD HANNAH. 'Tis Sabbath morn, and a holy balm Drops down on the heart like dew And the sunbeams gleam Like a blessed dream Afar on the mountains blue, Old Hannah's by her cottage door, In her faded widow's cap; She is sitting alone On the old gray stone, With the Bible in her lap. An oak is hanging above her head, And the burn is wimpling by; The primroses peep From their sylvan keep, And the lark is in the sky. Beneath that shade her children played, But they're all away with Death, And she sits alone On that old gray stone, To hear what the Spirit saith. Her years are o'er threescore and ten. And her eyes are waxing dim. But the page is bright With a living light, And her heart leaps up to Him Who pours the mystic harmony Which the soul can only hear: She is not alone On the old gray stone, Tho' no earthly friend is near. There's no one left to love her now; ■ But the eye that never sleeps Looks on her in love From the heavens above, And with quiet joy she weeps; For she feels the balm ol bliss is pour'd In her lone heart's deepest rut; And the widow lone On the old gray stone Has a peace the world knows not. 158 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. There are no weak of frivolous pieces to be found in Mr, M'Lach- lan's latest volume. There is life and energy and strength, and true poetry in all that he writes, and it proceeds from him naturally and gracefully at all times. He has had the highest encomiums passed on his powers as a poet by men who were well able to judge of his abilities. Says the Rev. Dr. Dewart: — "As long ago as 1864, in my ' Selections from Canadian Poets', 1 said of Mr. M'Lachlan: ' It is no empty laudation to call him the Burns of Canada. In racy humor, in natural pathos, in graphic portraiture of character, he will compare favorably with the great peasant bard ; while in moral grandeur and beauty he frequently strikes higher notes than ever echoed from the harp of Burns.' After nearly a quarter of a century I am prepared to stand by this estimate still." No notice of our author would be complete without referring to his lyrical pieces. These embrace many that are written in the Scottish dialect, and which have added considerably to his fame as a poet. There is a wealth of poetic feeling and language, simplicity and tenderness in such songs as " Lovely Alice," " My Love is Like the Lily Flower," and " Mary White," that is not to be met with in the Scottish song of to-day. We quote the following as a specimen of his Doric. The title has long since become a familiar proverb with the Scottish people : WE'RE A" JOHN TAMSON'S BAIRNS. O, come and listen to my sang, Nae matter wha ye be, For there's a human sympathy That sings to you and me; For as some Icindly soul has said — All underneath the starns, Despite of country, clime and creed, Are a' John Tamson's bairns. The higher that we sclim the tree Mair sweert are we to fa', And, spite o' fortune's heights and houghs, Death equal-aquals a'; And a' the great and mighty anes Wha slumber 'neath the cairns They ne'er forgot, though e'er so great, We're a' John Tamson's bairns. ALEXANDER M'LACIILAN. 159 Earth's heroes spring frac high and low, There's beauty in ilk place, There's nac inouupoly o' worth Amang the human race; And genius ne'er was o' a class, Hut, like the moon and starns, She sheds her kindly smile alike On a' Jolin Tamson's bairns. There's nae monopoly o' pride — For a' wi' Adam fell — I've seen a joskin sae transformed, He scarcely kent himsel'. The langer that the wise man lives, The mair he sees and learns, And aye the deeper care he takes Owre a' John Tamson's bairns. There's some distinction, ne'er a doubt, 'Tween Jock and Master John, And yet it's maistly in the dress, When everything is known; Where'er you meet him, rich or poor, The man o' sense and barns, By moral worth he measures a' Puir auld John Tamson's bairns. There's ne'er been country yet nor kin But has some weary flaw, And he's the likest God aboon Who loves them ane and a'; And after a' that's come and gane, What human heart but yearns, To meet at last in light and love, Wi' a' John Tamson's bairns. Among the poems not already referred to, "The Halls of Holy- rood," " Martha," " The Settler's Sabbath Day, ' " Napoleon on St. Helena," *' Wilson's Grave " and " Up and be a Hero " prove them- selves the work of a master poet. In each instance the diction is pure, the rhyme easy and flowing, and the ideas original and choice. " His ' Britannia' and ' Garibaldi,' " says Dr. Daniel Clark, "stir us as would the clarion notes of a bugle call on a battlefield. His ' Lang Heided Laddie' shows his quiet humour, versatility, and good- ntended sarcasm. His ' Balaclava' does not lose by comparison with i6o SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA, Macaulay's ' Lays of Ancient Rome,' or Aytoun's ' Historic Ballads of Scottish Chivalry.' " One other poem, which we are unable to quote on account of its length, deserves special mention, viz : " Old Adam." This is one of his most admired productions. The description of the old man, his peculiarities, sympathies and desires, are all graphically set forth, and form a picture which is at once interesting and true to life. " He was nae thing that stood apart Frae universal nature: But had a corner in his heart For every living creature." In conclusion we would allude to the fact that at a public meeting recently held in Toronto it was unanimously resolved, as a mark of respect to the genius of Mr. M'Lachlan, to purchase and present him with the valuable farm upon which he now resides. And surely the poet is worthy of such distinguished recognition at the hands of his admirers. The talents entrusted to his keeping have been nobly employed, and have yielded an abundant harvest. He has accom- plished the work he was sent to perform, and after he passes to his reward, his good works will keep his memory revered and honored among the sons of song on earth. WILLIAM MURRAY. I live not like the many of my kind ; Mine is a world of feelings and of fancies ; Fancies, whose rainbow-empire is the mind — Feelings, that realize their own romances. William Murray was born on the twenty-fifth of May, 1834, at Finlarig, Breadalbane, Perthshire, in an old-fashioned house close by the old castle of Finlarig, built by Black Duncan, head of the then house of Breadalbane. His father, Peter Murray, held the position of liead gardener to the Breadalbane estates for a period extending over thirty-five years. He was an intelligent, straightforward, God-fearing man, and to this day is kindly remembered by all who knew him. He early noticed the bright faculties with which his son was endowed, and he spared no expense in providing him with as careful and as complete an education as was to be procured in the Highlands of Scotland at the time. Shortly after finishing his studies our author resolved to strike out in the world on his own account, and emigrating to Canada found himself occupying a subordinate position in a mercantile establishment in Toronto just as he was entering upon the twenty- first year of his age. He has always been industrious and earnest, and fortune has showered her favors on him, as he is now well to do in every sense which that term implies. He has been connected for a great many years with the well-known and extensive dry goods house of Messrs. A. Murray & Co., Hamilton, Ontario. Mr. Murray's birth- place is situated in one of the most picturesque positions in the High- lands, and his muse takes a si)ecial delight in winging her way back and describing the magnificent and historical scenes amid which he first saw the light. In this connection his poem entitled " My Birthplace," and inscribed to Mr. Even MacColl, is perhaps the finest of all his productions. It contains numerous lines of true poetry, together with many beautiful similes, the diction is good and pure, while as a descriptive poem it will compare favorably with the work l62 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. of many of the author's brother bards. We make the following extracts from it : When first my eyes awoke to light, The Grampian hills were full in sight; The Dochart and the Lochay joined, Repose in deep Loch Tay to find. » * * * Not far beyond lies Fortingall The scene of many a bloody brawl; But chiefly, here the Roman shield Was driven shattered from the field: Here Caesars chivalry first felt The metal of the Highland celt, And with his finger in his mouth Enquired the shortest passage south! Now, rise with me to yonder hill, Watered by many a crystal rill. Covered by Scotia's darling heather. With here and there a hill bird's feather, And fox glove's mazy tangled knots. Holding its own until it rots, And, to the sportsman ever dear, The grouse and blackcock crouching near, The lark rejoicing up on high, The eagle swooping through the sky. But best of all to grazier's eye, The hardy black sheep passing by, Nibbling away with sharp white teeth Their perfumed provender, the heath. And never deem their journey high Till hidden in the misty sky. * * * * But worse than blameful would I be. Were human friends forgot by me — Those friends who cheered my early years, Increased my joys and soothed my fears. Who nursed me, taught me and caressed mc. And when I left them, sighed and blessed mc! However primitive their talk, Unstudied and untrained their walk — Altiiu" they wore the simple plaid Which their own thrifty hands had made. And were content with Highland bonnets, Higliland whiskey, Highland sonnets — WILLIAM MURRAY. 163 They were a noble race of men Whose like we ne'er shall see again — Their faults I hardly wish to hide, Their virtues I admire with pride. « * * • Yes, while I here, far from these scenes, May value all that money means, A something says, with thrilling tones, " In Scotland you must lay your bones," Another very fine poem by Mr. Murray is the one entitled " Rob Roy," written for the New York Scotsman some years ago. This is a com- position of considerable length, but it is well written, the interest is sustained throughout, and it conveys to us a graphic picture of the life and times of this celebrated Highland chieftain : As he proudly stood arrayed In his graceful kilt and plaid, With a power to be obeyed In his kingly face, The MacGregor looked the head Of a noble race. Noble race it truly was, Notwithstanding Saxon laws, And the chief who leads its cause Rules it heart and soul. See him! every breath he draws Claims supreme control. True, bold Rob, in hours of sleep, Sometimes captured Lowland sheep Which the owners couldn't keep. Lacking strength and skill; Or some cattle he might sweep From some Lowland hill. He believed that sheep and cattle Gave a kind of charm to battle, Which improved a hero's mettle And (which wasn't worse) While they helped his nerves to settle, They improved his purse. 'Twas the simple ancient plan , Taught by every genuine clan. i64 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. To recover from each man What the other lost; Nor did one or other scan Closely what it cost. Clansmen all, the story's told, Many years have come and rolled Since we first in Scotland old, With a boyish joy, Heard of all the doings bold Of the brave Rob Roy. Thank the Lord the times are changed; Every wrong has been avenged; On the side of right'^are ranged People, Crown and Law — All from each, no more estranged. Strength and glory draw. Celt and Saxon now are one, Fights and feuds are past and gone. And o'er Scotia's mountains lone Shedding peace and joy, Queen Victoria fills the throne Of the bold Rob Roy. Although frequently pressed by his friends to publish a collection of his poems in book form our author, thus far, has refrained from doing so. This is not the result of a want of confidence in himself or a fear as to what the verdict of the public might be at such a step. It is simply because he lacks ambition, or more properly speaking perhaps, is too unassuming in regard to his own merits. While he admits in a recent poetic epistle addressed to the writer that — " We rhymers richly relish praise. And when a nurse like you displays In such attire, The bairns which from our brains wc raise, We go on fire — ' still it is a well-known fact that, while he is the author of a sufficient number of poems to fill two good-sized volumes, many of his pieces have appeared in magazines and newspapers without his name or even his initials being attached to them. He has been WILLIAM MURRA Y. 1^.5 actively engaged in business for many years, but in the midst of this busy portion of his life he has had moments of genuine inspiration, moments in which an irresistible force has compelled him to lay bare his heart and feelings in poems, epistles and lyrical pieces of acknowl- edged merit. He writes in a graceful and easy style and his muse generally alights on subjects which are interesting as well as instruc- tive. His poems are skillfully worked out and contain thoughts and expressions which prove that he possesses a fine literary taste. His "Caledonians and the Romans," "Epistle from St. Andrew," "Our Ain Snug Little House," "Canada to Uncle Sam " and "The Scottish Plaid " are very creditable productions in all respects and will always be accorded a loyal welcome by admirers of the Scottish muse. 'I'he last-named piece contains no less than forty-six verses and illustrates the mastery which our author still retains over his native Doric : The plaid amang our auld forbears Was lo'ed owre a' their precious wares. Their dearest joys wad be but cares Withoot the plaid. And when the auld guidman was deid, 'Twas aye by a* the hoose agreed. That to his auldest son was fee'd Mis faither's plaid. Ah! gin auld plaids could speak or sing, Our lieids and hearts wad reel and ring To hear the thrillin' tales that cling To Scotia's plaid. To hear hoo Scottish men and maids, 'Mang Scotland's hills and glens and glades, Baith wrocht and focht wi' brains and blades In thae auld plaids. The star o' Scotland ne'er will set, If we will only ne'er forget The virtues in our sires, that met Aneath the plaid. Amang the Scottish sichts I've seen Was ane that touched baith heart and ccn; A shepherd comin' oure the green Wi' crook and plaid, And i' the plaid a limpin' lamb. That on the hill had lost its dam, And, like some trustfu' bairnie, cam, Row'd i' the plaid i66 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. Anither sicht I think I see, The saddest o' them a' to me — The Scottish martyrs gaun to dee r their auld plaids. But let's rejoice, the times are changed, The mart3TS hae been a' avenged — An English princess has arranged To wear the plaid. In addition to the poems referred to, Mr. Murray has written many pieces which gives us a glimpse of himself and his daily life. These evince true poetic talent and can be read with pleasure and profit by all. We can readily trace his own disposition and character, for instance, in the following verses : MY FRIEND. Reserve for me on earth The man to call my friend; In whom both mental worth And heavenly wisdom blend. The man who has a heart To sympathize with grief, And break misfortune's dart With counsel and relief. The man whose voice will never Unrighteousness defend. But scorneth to discover The weakness of a friend. The man who stamps to dust Vile slander ere it grows, And who is true and just Alike to friend and foes. The man who worlds can trace. And yet in whom we find, Combined with cultured grace, Humility of mind. The man who's not ashamed. Though lord of every school, However wise and famed. To own himself a fool. WILLIAM MURRAY. iCy Or, in a word, the man, Beneath affliction's rod, Or, liigh in fortune's van, Who glorifies his God. Standing apart, so to speak, from his other pieces, and beautiful in their workmanship and design, are the numerous religious poems and paraphrases which our author has composed from time to time. These form a cluster of fine spiritual thoughts, and serve to show that the seeds of piety which were implanted in his heart in youth-time have retained their possession and are now bearing good fruit. We (juote as a specimen of these religious musings the one entitled: RETURN A GENTLE ANSWER. A SERMON IN RHYME. " A soft answer turneth away wrath." — Proverbs. " Return not ill for ill," be thine To imitate thy Lord divine; Though wrathful lips provoke, let mine Return a gentle answer. The world may sneer: "perchance," it says, " Such softness suited earlier days. We now must study 'manlier' ways — " Return a scornful answer. Receive not lessons from the world, Its wrath but rises to be hurled Where bafHed pride's dark champion gnarled Receives his awful answer. The Master's lessons are the best, And they alone will stand the test When death, each mortal's final guest, Demands his solemn answer. " Reviled, He ne'er reviled again," Not even from dread Calvary's pain, Where innocence for guilt was slain, Escaped a vengeful answer. Is thy reward of little worth? Grasp if thou canst its glorious girth; Who are the heirs of this wide earth ? "The meek?" is Christ's own answer. 168 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. And " Blessed-God's own children!" those Who barter benefits for blows, And peace establish among foes: Their actions are their answer. When angry words arise, forbear To fan the flame of fury there, And show the scorner that you dare Return a gentle answer. Withhold the fuel from the flame, And soon its fierceness will turn tame; So wrath unfed by angry blame Will soon to reason answer. And haply he who was thy foe, Receiving winsome words for woe. Ashamed, with gratitude may glow To thee for thy kind answer. Meek, mild, yet manly in thy life. Assist to lessen sin and strife. Allay contention's tumults rife With th' oil of a soft answer. And on thy happy head shall fall The joy which shall belong to all Who at the blessed Master's call Are ready with their answer. Acrostics, as a general rule, are of little value to anyone, but our nuthor who seems to have a particular liking for this fantastic style of composition, has written a few which are worthy of perservation. Such, for instance, is the one TO WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE. On the occasion of his visit to the Earl and Countess of Breadalbanc, at Taymouth Castle, Oct. 1883. Welcome to Taymouth, grandest of grand men! I liken thcc to a Breadalbanc ben. Leaving the hillocks at thy feet below. Looking abroad beneath a crown of snow. In thcc Breadalbanc honors all who claim, A share in thine and Britain's matchless fame. Monarchs tlieir merits still may faintly plead. WILLI A Af MURRA Y. 169 England's great Gladstone is a king indeed. William the Norman conquered with the sword, A greater William conquers with a word, Resistless as the thunderbolt that cleaves The storm cloud which around Schihallion heaves. God bless thee, noble chanii)ioii of right! Lions nor Launcclots can withstand thy might. Angels in legions arc upon thy side, Demons and dastards from thy halberd hide. Scotland remembers whence thy brilliant blood, The Highlands claim thee from before the Hood. O'er all the rolling world thy fame resounds. Nor even can the bards define its bounds, Enjoy Breadalbane's famous house and grounds. Mr. Murray has been elected for a succession of years as one of the Bards of the Hamilton St. Andrew's Society, and is now senior Bard of the Caledonian Society. As such it becomes his pleasant duty each year to present to those associations original poems in connection with the anniversary of the birthday of Robert Burns, St. Andrew's day, etc. These compositions, of course, contain a great deal of what is merely of local interest, but there are also embodied in their lines many happy and patriotic allusions to Scotland which are especially pleasing to those who hail from the "Land of Cakes." Among the smallest poems which we have met with on the Ayrshire Bard is the following : A LINE ON BURNS. His like we ne'er again will find, Such kings have no successors; But of the treasures of his mind All nations are possessors; And while the vault of heaven glows And earth endures below it, So long resplendent lives and grows The fame of Scotland's poet. On December i, 1888, Mr. Murray addressed the following words of welcome to His Excellency, The Right Honorable Lord Stanley of Preston, Governor-General of Canada, on the occasion of his first visit to Hamilton, Ontario: I70 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. A WELCOME TO HIS EXCELLENCY. Welcome to Hamilton, Lord Stanley! First, Because you represent our Gracious Queen — The first and best of sovereigns — who has nursed, What Earth's old orb till now has never seen, A family of free nations, blest with all That loyal hearts can ask or love bestow; Ready to rally round her throne at call, And guard her empire 'gainst its fiercest foe. And, secondly, we welcome you because You are yourself entitled to esteem. As one of that great race whose lives were laws To knights and nobles, and whose glories gleam Not only in old England's mightiest wars. But also 'mong her Senate's brightest stars. In conclusion, we would state that while Mr. Murray has never tasted of matrimonial joys his lot in life is by no means an unhappy one. He enjoys a large circle of friends, is respected by all, and is ever ready to lend assistance wherever and whenever required. He is the author of many poems which deserve to be better known than they now are, and we hope that he will yet be induced to place a collection of his writings in a permanent form before the public. MAJOR-GEN. DONALD CRAIG McCALLUM. He drew his light from that he was amidst As doth a lamp from air which hath itself Matter of light, altho' it show it not. Donald Craig McCallum was a native of Jolinstone, in Ren- frewshire, and was born in 1815. His parents originally came from CanipbclUon in Argyleshire, and his father followed the occupation of a tailor. In 1832 the entire family emigrated to America and took up their residence at Rochester, N. V. Our author first mastered the tailoring trade, and then, for some reason, becoming dissatisfied with it, crossed over to Canada and went to work to learn the trade of a carpenter with a firm at Lundy's Lane. During the term of his apprenticeship we learn that " he attended night school and made great progress in geometry and mathematical studies generally. He gave much of his leisure time also to the study of architecture, and soon became a capable and skilful designer." Having completed his apprenticeship and studies he returned to Rochester, where he suc- cessfully conducted a business on his own account for a number of years. In 1851 he invented what is known as the "inflexible arch truss bridge," and was afterwards engaged in superintending the con- struction of various bridges and railroads. During the war he was made director and general manager of military railroads with the rank of Colonel, United States Army, and history will always shed a lustre on his name on account of the valuable services which he rendered to the nation at that period. We quote the following from Mr. John Laird Wilson's excellent biography of him : — " It had become evident to all that a great struggle was about to take place at Chattanooga. Stanton was anxious that there should be no failure, and that Grant should deal Bragg a final and crushing blow. To make matters more secure it was deemed advisable to reinforce Grant. The great cpies- tion, however, was how to get the troops transferred from the Rapidan in SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. to Stevenson, Ala., in time to be of service. It was a distance of twelve hundred miles. It was the opinion of General Halleck that the task was next to impossible — that the transfer of so many men with all the appurtenances of war could, certainly, not be accomplished in less than six weeks. McCallum was sent for and appealed to. The transfer, he thought, might be accomplished in seven days. Halleck pronounced it impossible. It could not be done ! McCallum made his conditions. He must have absolute control of the railroads and be permitted to seize engines and cars wherever he could hnd tliem. The conditions were granted. The trains were set in motion, and within the time specified the task was accomplished. As a feat of military railroading that transfer of the Eleventh and Twelfth corps of the Army of the Potomac stands unparalleled in history. McCal- lum's services on this occasion were rewarded with the rank of major- general. His services were equally conspicuous and equally valuable during the Sherman campaigns, and it is not too much to say that but for McCallum and his department the march to the sea might have proved a failure." One is scarcely prepared to believe after reading the above that General McCallum was a poet of no mean order of merit. Indeed, many of his poems are of a very high order of merit, and entitle him to an honorable niche among the more prominent of the minor Scottish bards. There is something manly and real and thoughtful in all that he has written, and his muse never alighted on anything which she did not beautify and make more valuable. In 1870 he issued a small volume of his poems, and this has long since been out of print. The volume opens with the following quotation from one of Mr. James Russell Lowell's beautiful poems : It may be glorious to write Thoughts that shall glad the two or three High souls like those far stars that come in sight Once in a century. But better far it is to speak One simple word wliich now and then Shall waivcn their free nature in the weak And friendless sons of men. To write some earnest verse or line, Which seeking not the praise of art, Shall make a clearer faith and manhood shine In the untutored heart. MAJORGEN. DONALD CRAIG MCCALLUM. 173 lM)lknving these lines are many very fine poems, not a few of which have already acquired considerable popularity. " llic Water Mill," for instance, is known in all English-speaking countries, and is no doubt the poem on which the author's reputation as a poet will last. The General was very proud of this production, and was freR. JOHN MASSIE. 113 And as a face smile lit, wakes up a smile, Or bright, contagious laughter glads the eye, Or joy gets joy, or cheerfulness, like oil. Lays all the troubled waters, making dry The cheek tear dewed; or skylark soaring high Lifts up man's heart, impelling him to sing; We watch the eagle's tlight and wish to Hy, And feel within, the spirit's quivering wing; So thy kind heart, love lit, lights every living tiling. Dr. Massie was born in Frazerburgh, Aberdeenshire, Scotland, on the eighth of April, 1833. llis father's name was also John, and his mother was Isabel Falconer, a native of Stnchen. The family emi- grated to Canada and settled m Kingston just as our author was enter- ing upon his fourth birthday. A few years later they went out into the wilderness of Canadian woods, settling on a " bush farm " in the then new township of Seymour, situated about twenty-five miles northwest from Belleville, liut previous to this there were trouble- some times in the province. The rebellion of 1837 broke out and Mr. Massie, the poet's father, who removed to Belleville in the autumn of 1837, where he remained for one year and nine months, was the first man to enlist in the militia at Belleville to help maintain law and order. When all was (juiet again and peace brooded over the land he returned to Kingston and devoted much of his spare time in aiding those who were anxious to learn vocal music. Among his more jirom- inent pupils was the Hon. Oliver Mowat, Premier of Ontario. On his leaving for his wild wood farm in the new settlement he was the recipient of many gratifying testimonials from his pupils and others. Our author at this time was about nine years of age, and soon had ample experience of tlie life of a Canadian pioneer in all its phases. '' The country was so wild," he writes, '* and roads so few that we had to follow a 'blaze,' /'. ^., a mark made on the trees, in order to reach the locality of our future home." Here, however, he gained that knowledge of the lives of the brave, and too often neglected, women who cheerfully accompany tiieir husbands into the wilds of the forests in a noble effort to secure independence and a home. Such women were no doubt in his thoughts — perhaps his own mother, who was a lovable, gentle, devoted woman of quiet patient industry and remark- ably strong common sense — when years afterwards in one of his poems he wrote the following truthful lines; 2f4 SCOTTISH POETS IJV AMERICA. The record of the buried lives Of helpful, hopeful, patient wives; Who thoughtful still of every need Of every creature's wants took heed, With cheerful true self-abnegation, Content with their laborious station, Heroic mothers of a nation. Dr. Massie remained with his parents until his twenty-sixth year, when he went to the village of Castleton as teacher of the public school. His own education had been acquired by what he terms odds and ends, after leaving Kingston. He had however absorbed knowledge from books, periodicals, newspapers, etc. When other lads were enjoying themselves in the usual youthful pleasures and games he was poring over Burns. Scott, Campbell, Cowley, Milton, Shaks- peare, Moore, etc., and storing his mind with his native country's his- tory and song. '' Robertson's History of Scotland," " Rollins' An- cient History," other histories and different works as he could obtain them, were all carefully read and studied over, but above all he loved Scotland's Bard — her Burns — and among both his early and later pro- ductions are several very able and readable pieces on the subject of his favorite poet: Praise to the Bard, whose mighty hand Has placed our loved, our native land. On fame's celestial height. To be through time's most distant page For every dim succeeding age A blazing beacon light. Who knits all human hearts as one And charms all lands beneath the sun With music from above; And all our minds with wisdom stored, And bound us with a golden cord Of sympathy and love. Who taught us independence true And rung the changes through and through His own immortal rhymes; And gathers as of kindred blood, In one fraternal brotherhood All peoples of all climes. DR. JOHN MASSIE. 215 Who taught the lords of lofty domes That worth may dwell in lowly homes And noble patriot pride, And points the preat Creator's plan Till man's humanity to man Shall stem oppression's tide. Shall drain the springs of sorrow dry, And wipe the tear from every eye, And raise the drooping soul; And all the brotherhood of man Shall bow to God's and nature's plan In one eternal whole. In the autumn of 1858 our author attended an examination of teachers at the High School of Colhorne and succeeded in securing a second-class county certificate, after which he taught school for a year very successfully, (juite a number of advance pupils attending his classes. The next year, however, owing to frequent and severe head- aches, he left teaching and returned home to the old farm, where he spent a year working, studying, and courting the muses. And this period we may say ended his youthful career or labors as a poet, for after teaching another year he began the study of medicine, and grad- uated in March, 1S65, at Queen's University, Kingston, with great credit. His college vacations produced a few stray |)icces, but his time was now too much occujjied with the actualities, trials and responsibilities of existence to allow even an api)roach to the state of mind and feel- ing which finds vent in poetic thought and expression; and for a period extending over many years thereafter he composed not a solitary line of poetry. Indeed it is only within the last few years that he has strung anew his old and long neglected harp, which vibrates now in mellowed and softer, yet richer tones. A number of small poems, odes, songs, addresses and fragmentary pieces have appeared in rapid succession from his pen of late, and so hearty has been the reception accorded to these that he is now seriously contemj^lating the publica- tion of a selection from his wrilinj.s in book form at an early date. They are certainly all worthy of the attention which has been bestowed upon them. Take the following piece as a specimen of the peculiar subjects on which liis muse sometimes alights, and the simple but expressive manner in which he places his thoughts before us: 2i6 SCOTTISH POETS IN AMERICA. ODE TO THE OWL. Hoot awa houlet alane on the tree Hout-awa bird! Are )'Ou hooting at me? — Or is it a change in the weather you bring, Or do you rejoice in the birth o' the spring. Or wailing the past sadly mourn o'er thy lot Till the depths o' the forest re-echo thy note ? When the music of birds and the humming of bees Are hushed on the breast of the evening breeze; When nature is laid on the lap of repose. And harmony reigns in the bosom of foes; When the world is asleep and the last ray of light Is swept from the earth by the besom of night, Thou art seen on the wing (though we cannot well see, For thy daylight is darkness, ours darkness to thee). Thou art seen on the wing, by the pale moonlight, To flit like a ghost on the shadow of night; Or, perched on a tree, art heard nightly to croon Thy sorrowful tale to the wandering^moon. Oh, child of the night! cease to echo along The mournful " to-whoo " of thy midnight song; Or the sprites of the night will assemble to hear, And the elves of the wood will be caught in a tear. Dost thou mourn in sad numbers a lover's disdain, And pour out thy passion in amorous stiain? Ah! surely thy notes are the language of care, Commingled with tenderness, love and despair! Mayhap the sole friend of thy bosom hath fled And left thee to mourn o'er the bones of the dead; Or the feathery brood that so often were prest With a motherly tenderness clo'^e to thy breast. Have fled thee ungrateful and left thee to][mourn O'er thy woes and thy sorrows alone and forlorn. Hoot awa houlet — thy song on the tree, Is woe to my soul, and is tears to my e'e, For my lot may be dark, and like thee I may mourn, O'er the joys of the past that can never return; Forsaken by friends and forgotton by foes, I may sink in the arms of unconcious repose; May read the last lesson_of life's rugged page, With no one to soothe in the sorrow of age. DR. JOHN MA SSI E. 217 Oil, child of tlie night, on thy sentinel tree; \VI13' not take a lesson of patience from thee! Why pine o'er the blights of ephemeral clay! Why weep o'er the transient woes of a day! For the' dark be my youth yet my end may be calm, And the evening of life bathe my sorrows in balm, And the spirit long pent in its casket of clay, Spread its pinions aloft, and go smiling away. " Wedded Love," " On the Visit of the Prince of Wales to Canada in i860" (one hundred and eighty lines), "The Old Maid's Com- plaint" and the epistle to Kingston's bard (Mr. Evan MacColl) are excellent poems on their several subjects, and display true poetic insi)iraiion in their composition. Nor can we omit to refer in the very higlicst terms to the Doctor's numerous lyrical pieces. These include "The Willow Tree," "Aggie's Tryst," "Will ye Gang to the Highland Hills," "Jenny's Resolve," "Annie's Awa," etc. Had he written nothing else, these alone would have entitled him to a jjrom- inent place among living Scottish poets. We (juote the last-named piece to show how eminently qualified he is for this style of compo- sition: ANNIE'S AWA. There's wae hearts for Annie; but less that she's gane, Than just lluu wc never may see her again; Frae the luinie o' her childhood, kind neighbors and a'. And the leal hearts that lo'ed her, she's far, far awa': Oh! Annie's awa', kind Annie's awa'; We'll ne'er see anither like Annie awa*. The lentless wee lammies now toyte o'er the lea, Wi' a waesome-likc face, and a pityfu' e'e; E'en Collie seems lost-like, " his back's to the wa'," Tlicy've a' lost a frien' in young .-Vnnie awa'; Sweet Annie awa', kind Annie awa'; We'll ne'er see anither like Annie awa'. The poor little birdies, sae wont to be gay, Now sit 'mang the branches, a' sangless and wae; Nae mair their saft warblings arc heard i' the shaw, Their wee hearts are burstin' for Annie awa": Young Annie awa', kind Annie awa'; We'll ne'er see anither like Annie awa'. 2i8 SCOTTISH POETS IK AMERICA. At kirk, and at bridals, nae mair can we see The light and the love o' her bonnie black e'e But the tear ma}- be seen, o' hearts broken in twa, And the calm o' deep sorrow for Annie awa'. Young Annie awa', kind Annie awa'; We'll ne'er see anither like Annie awa'. Ah! life's bl)-thest morning may darken ere noon, And the sun o' it's simmer gang wearily doon; The fairest o' flow'rets be mantled in snaw; O! Fortune! deal kindly wi' Annie awa": Young Annie awa', kind Annie awa'; We'll ne'er see anither like Annie awa', In April, 1866, our poet Doctor was united in marriage to Miss Ada J. Marvyn, niece and adopted daughter of the Rev. James Hughes and wife, of Colborne. She is a woman of good education and fine literary ability. One daughter, now seventeen, and one son, now twelve years of age, remain to them out of a family of five. The daughter, Edith Falconer Massie, seems to inherit her parents' literary talents, as she was awarded the first prize in 1S87 for an original work of fiction offered by the proprietor of the Montreal Witness. And so we leave our author happy in the enjoyment of a comfortable home and a large circle of friends. He is now in possession of that peace and leisure required for the exercising of his poetic gifts, and we look forward with sincere pleasure to the publication of a collection of his poems in book form. He certainly deserves to be successful in such an undertaking, and we have no hesitancy in predicting a favorable reception of his volume at the hands of the public and the press. NOW HEADY, PRICE S2.50. IN ONE LARGE 8vo. VOLUME, 400 PAGES, CLOTH, GILT TOP. CELEBRATF.D SONGS OP SCOTLAND, FROM KIiXG JAMES V to HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL, Edited with Memoirs. Notes, Glossary and an Index. — i:v— JOHN D. ROSS, A uthor of ^'■Scottish Poets In A inerica." EXTRACTS FROM PRESS NOTICES, ETC. * ♦ It is an excellent and very complete collection, printed In larce and \eg\\j\e type. The notes and biographical ineinorunda are valuable.— J\Vu' Ymi, Sun. * * It is a larj-'e and liaiidsomely iMHind Ijook of about 400 patr<'s and Is dedicated tf» General (Irant, with Ills pcrnilssion jriven in 188-t. Every lover of Scotch aontcs, and tills comprises every song-lover, should have a copy of this work.— JN'eir York Sutulnu New. * * This collection Includes the best songs from the time of James V to Henry Scott Kiddell— about four hiiniired double-column pages. It Is a very good and valuable selection, and if it has any faults they are not those of omission.— Jif/idii JJauthiiiKi ill the A'( ic I'o/A iro/Zi/. * ♦ There are something like TOO songs In the collection and it is needles* to ^ay that such a gathering which includes some of the latest song innker-; of the Scots country is calculated to rouse an enthuslam equal to that In^iilred by the gathering of the Clans. An important and novel feature i-^ the giving of a history of nearly everv song that is included. A table of Orst lines and a glossary are appended.— -Vi ir Yoii; Star. In adding anotlier to the long list of collections of Scottish Blred to bring together the largest possible numlter of pieces in a cheap form. • • His book Is to be praised for its comprehensiveness, its good Index, and the general adequacy of the historical and biographical notices.— A'eu) York Triliuitf. ♦ * It extends to about 400 large pages and embraces all, or nearly all, of the firlncipai pieces for which Scotland Is so famous. There are copious notes explanatory f)f the songs and descriptive of the lives of the authors. The whole forms a conveident and excellent collection of Scottish songs.— /{/•i"i/,7j/;( Eaoh'. "▼ * * Mr. Uoss' collection is a good one for popular reading, ami his Memoirs and Notes, as far as we have been able to examine them, leave but little to be desired. — Mail and Express. ' • There is room for Mr. Ross' book in America at least; for he has pat into one well printed book, with sufficient explanatory memoirs and notes, the bulk of what nils four volumes of Allen Cunningham's standard collection and two vols by Prof Aytoun. The book is printed in double column pages, in large, clear type, is bound in dark green cloth, and is dedicated to General Grant. * * Here are all the old familiar favorites that have traveled round the world and been sung in peasants' cottages and '*!"'?L^5i"'*^'..'i!^''*l^i"^ rooms half a century and more. Here, also, are those of the most "' " " """^ ' ' "" L'he inferred, noticeably complete.— BrnoMyn Citizen. * * It contains upwards of seven hundred of the most famous Scottish Song^ written from the time of James V to the present, a period of three hundred and fifty years. No song of any popularity has been omitted, and it is safe to say that so fine a collection of t.ue lyric poetry is nowhere else to be found. The lyrics of Scotland stand alone in iheir beauty, simplicity and true poetic expression. The printer, artist and binder have united to make this volume a gem. In their several departments tiiey have done weW.^Fralerhtnn (N. B.) Capital. To Mr. John D. Ross, the compiler of " Celebrated .-^ongs of Scotland," edited with memoirs and notes, and published in a handsome volume of nearly four hundred pages the American people owe a considerable debt of gratitude. He has culled, like a true editor, the choicest flowers from the poetic fields of four centuries. ♦ ♦ Mr. Ross prefaces the majority of his selections with admirable little sketches of their authors or remarks upon the subject matter of their verse. The book should have a place in the library of every American lover of poetry of the heart. Whittier loves it, and General Grant has stamped it with his se&l.—Sundatj Jnurnal {New York). ^ „ ^ New York, Jan. 1, 1887. Dear Mr. Ross : You have certainly conferred on me one of the choice pleasures of my life in my possession of your book. Celebrated Songs of Scotland. You have met my wisn and pursuit of many years, in this masterly collection and compilation, for now I have in one volume the rhymes, songs and sentiments that have exalted Scotland to the world's love. To me she has been from boyhood the home of song and heroism, and your book comes to me as a concentrated delight, and 1 can sincerely congratulate you on a success that does you credit as a worthy " Son of Scotland." Very respectfully yours, DANiEL "EDWARD RFAN. FROM JOHN C. WHITHER. Oak' Knoll, Danvers, Mass., 2d Mo. 28, 1887. John D. Rdss, Esq., Dear Friend :— Thy Admiraljle Collection of the Songs of Scotland came to Ames- bury in my absence. I have now had an opportunity to fully examine it, and do not hesitate to pronounce it the best and most complete book of the kind which has yet been published. It contains all the well-known songs which are to be found in other collections, and introduces us to song writers whose names had never reached us before. I have spent many happy hours over it, and it has deepened the admiration and love which I have ever felt for the Scottish singers. Rut for illness I should have sooner expressed the satisfaction which thy work has given me. I am, very truly, thy friend, JOHN G. WHITTIER. FROM JAMES KENNEDY. WILLIAM PAGAN, Jr., & SON, Publishers, 352 Pearl Street, NEW YORK CITY. C^^ Sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of price. UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY This book is DUE on the last date stamped below APR 1 51974 Form L-9 20»l-l,M2(8510) IISt1)l7l|J -flWWiTlliiiillllilliLflttM ^OS ANGELES #a PR 8693 A3R7 Ross - Scottish poets In America. P* r-JT MaMiMml . ^ i-\.ilF^k